

Peter Swift's Fright Files

Beware the Author #1

The Broken Thing

By Peter Swift

Copyright © 2011 by Peter Swift

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Though this book is copyrighted, the author, grants permission to distribute it free of charge and complete. In other words, give it, email it, send it, share it, but please don't change it! You may do so only for entertainment and noncommercial use. The file must be unchanged and include copyright and cover/title pages.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All associated art and logos are trademarks of Peter Swift.

Peter Swift claims moral ownership of this work.

_____________________________________________

Go haunt the official Fright Files website at:

www.frightfiles.com www.peterswiftbooks.com

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ISBN-13: 978-1-4657-6579-6

Release 1.0

October 2011

### Peter Swift's

## The Broken Thing

Cover by Craig Pirrall

www.craigpirrall.com

Interior art by Christopher Tupa

www.ctupa.com

Contents

Dedication

About This Book

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Visit Peter

#

To my mother, for a lifetime of love and support.

...and...

To my wife. Everything is for you, hon.

#  ABOUT THIS BOOK

Lend me your ear, friend. You don't really need two. This is the first book in the Fright Files: Beware the Author series. It is almost completely free. I don't want any money or donations. I only ask, in return, a favor.

'Tis a small favor. No signature in blood required. Nor magic words to chant, or secret deals in dark places. My request is simple: If you like this book, share the terror with a friend. Or better yet, lots of friends. Email them the book, or a link to my webpage where they can download it for themselves. Give it freely and happily with a gleam in your eye because you know you'll also be giving them a nightmare tonight. Add Peter Swift on Facebook or Twitter, and twit about Fright Files to your friends. Get the word out. You, dear reader, are the magic that will breathe life into these pages!

And, as icing on the cake, if you'd like to email me and tell me how much it terrified you, please do so at:

www.frightfiles.com

www.peterswiftbooks.com

# Prologue: The Author Arrives

From the shadows, as always, The Author watched the world drift past. His chauffeur guided the ancient black Cadillac down the winding country road that cut through Newhope—a disgusting little Vermont town that would be but a single stop on their way to a much farther destination. A destination at the end of a journey they had started long before Newhope, Vermont, or even America had ever existed.

On the outskirts of the town, they passed a school. A group of worthless junior high-school girls were crossing the quaint tree-lined street. One of them swung a red purse, and The Author couldn't help but notice how it resembled a bull's-eye on a target. He grinned and struck his silver corbra-headed cane against the back of the chauffeur's seat.

"Speed up, Arzkelik!" he hissed excitedly through sharp, yellowed teeth. The driver did as commanded, and The Author roared with raspy laughter as the front of the car approached the line of giggling girls.

There was no impact. The young girls looked around nervously—confused by the sudden cold wind and sense of dread that choked their laughter to silence—but they saw nothing. The Author's laughing subsided, and he tensed with a twinge of disappointment at the lack of a satisfying thud, or the strangled screams he had long ago forced from the throats of strangers.

"Always from the shadows," he said, his voice wistful. "For now."

He leaned heavily against the door, sulking as he gazed through the window. The blood red leather seat oozed a stale scent of past eons when he pressed into it. Beside him rested a tall black top-hat with a long embroidered black silk ribbon that matched his ancient silk suit.

"The boy!" he told the driver, and the car slowed, drifting unseen in the street. The Author pointed one of his long, gnarled claws at a boy running on the sidewalk. His smile returned, his eyes narrowed.

"Ah, now this child has promise, Arzkelik," he said, his eyes riveted to the boy. "Don't you agree?"

"Indeed, sir," the driver replied, his voice like dust from a forgotten tomb.

The Author wiped the back of a hand across wet, cracked, quivering lips. He hungrily watched the running boy. "Run, Steven. Oh yes, do run. Run as if your soul depended upon it. Perhaps it does."

# 1.

"Don't be such a killjoy, Stevie," Angie Lewis said as they walked home together after school. Since the third grade, Stevie and Angie had been best friends. "A quick stop at the library won't kill you. I want to see if they have the October issue of Tuneage Magazine. There's a new interview with ZombieRox!"

They both agreed that ZombieRox was the awesomest band in history.

"Tempting." Stevie hesitated, torn between what he'd promised his father, and some quality time in the fiction section at the library. Then he shook his head. "But if I don't rake the leaves before Dad gets home, he's gonna ground me for the weekend."

Angie fowned. "Yeah. And that means you'd miss trick-or-treating with me this Halloween and I'd hate your guts forever." She pulled up the sleeve of her black coat and checked her watch. It was pink with a black cartoon skull and crossbones on the face. She held it up to Stevie. "But look, it's only 3:20. Come to the library, hang for half an hour or so, and you'll still have plenty of time to buy me an ice cream and rake the yard before your dad gets home."

"Yeah, I guess," Stevie said. He really did want to go to the library. "Hey, what do you mean buy you an ice cream?"

Angie grinned and then turned her head, letting her shoulder length straight black hair hide her face. "Caught that, huh?"

They walked along Main Street toward the Newhope Public Library, talking about their classes and their day at school—which teachers were cool, and which ones were completely dorkish. Who Todd Carver's mystery girlfriend was. And why was Sarah Jennings so annoying, anyway?

Angie had a couple of inches on Stevie even though he turned twelve in July and her birthday was in September. A good looking boy, Stevie had short light brown hair and was athletic, but always a little bit on the small side.

Angie, meanwhile, was thin and a little taller than most of the other girls. She had a small face and an easy smile. Known to be a bit of a tomboy, and outspoken, too. She almost always got her way, and when she didn't, everyone knew it.

Stevie watched the ground while they walked, so he didn't see the lumbering bulk of Victor Plotts walking toward them.

"Uh, oh. Ogre alert," Angie said, and quickly pulled Stevie into Earl's Hardware Store. The place smelled like metal and lumber. "Plotts."

Stevie shifted into evasive action. Had they been spotted? They moved quickly, ducked down behind the display of chainsaws and leaf blowers in the front window, and watched for Victor to pass. There was a big sign that read October Special! 10% off! which provided extra cover they could peek around. The scent of metal, oil, and rubber was strong.

"Man, that guy hates me," Stevie said. "What's his deal? I never did anything to him except try to stay out of his way."

"Two reasons," Angie said. Victor's slouching mass meandered into view along the sidewalk. "One, you're smart, and he's not. Two, he's big, and you're not. Both of those factors make you an easy bully-magnet."

"He's so much bigger than me because he was held back for two years. A shame he isn't two years smarter, too!"

Angie laughed, but choked on it when Victor and his two flunkies stopped and turned toward the hardware store's glass door.

Stevie didn't breathe. Earl wouldn't let there be any trouble in his store, but Victor was just vicious enough to wait outside, knowing they'd have to leave sooner or later.

Victor looked at his reflection in the glass, pulled a black plastic comb from his back pocket, ran it through his greasy hair, and walked on.

"Comb all you want Victor. You're still ugly," Stevie said, and Angie nodded in agreement.

# 2.

The town library was ancient and creepy. The perfect place to read the scary stories Stevie liked so much. Long ago it had been a church, and then a schoolhouse, but when the town outgrew it, they converted the place into the Newhope Public Library. Additions were added, but the main reading area stayed the same old stone building, with its tall arched windows and vaulted ceiling. The windows were never opened and the place smelled faintly of stale vomit, wet fur, and old paper. Stevie didn't like to consider the cause of the first two odors.

Stevie stopped in front of the New Release shelf. He couldn't believe his eyes. He excitedly grabbed the book and sat down next to Angie at one of the long tables. She was already reading the ZombieRox interview.

"They have the new Swift book already!" Stevie whispered. "These things are so unbelievably scary."

"Love 'em. Don't tell me spoilers," Angie said. "I'll read it when you're finished. You gonna check it out?"

"Can't." Stevie looked disappointed. "My card is full-up. Can I put it on yours?"

Angie shook her head and said in rhythm, "I owe, I owe, the books they won't let go." Then she added in her normal voice, "I lost a CD I borrowed and have to pay for it."

"Harsh," Stevie said, then shrugged. "I'll come back after dinner, return some books, and get this. You can borrow it from me. Unless you plan on losing it."

Angie nodded with a grin that foreshadowed a zingy comeback, but just then her cell phone vibrated in her backpack. "Mom," she said, looking down at the screen. "I'll take it outside. Watch my bag. That's where I keep all the treasure."

Stevie smirked a whatever at her and then cracked open the book, the spine still fresh and new. He turned to chapter one and started reading. The story began with a bang—terror and mystery from the first page. He was so excited by the new story that he'd almost finished the first chapter by the time Angie returned.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll have to take a rain check on that ice cream," Angie said. "Mom wants to go to the mall and buy me new clothes. Who am I to argue?"

"Uh-huh," Stevie mumbled, not taking his eyes from the book.

"Don't stay too long," Angie said. "If you get grounded, I'll have to make you dead."

"Uh-huh," Stevie said again. He was lost in the story, and not really paying attention.

Angie grabbed his chin and twisted it up so Stevie was forced to look directly into her eyes, which she narrowed at him dangerously. She spoke very precisely, enunciating each word clearly. "You. Watch. Clock. Don't. Get. Grounded. Me. Kill. You."

"Okay already!" Stevie said. He smiled and turned back to the book. "Geesh, Mom."

Angie picked up her backpack. It accidentally slammed into the back of Stevie's head when she turned to leave.

Stevie hardly noticed.

# 3.

Two hours later, at the end of chapter eighteen, Stevie glanced up through the library's dusty windows. He saw the absence of sunshine and the blue-gray of twilight.

"Oh no! I'm late!" he said too loudly. A few annoyed patrons glared at him.

Stevie ran down the library steps and turned onto the sidewalk. He shot past Earl's Hardware, Kathy's Café, and the Good as New Secondhand Shop. The storefronts were all a blur, though, and he didn't notice them any more than he noticed the black Cadillac limousine keeping pace silently beside him. At one point, he felt a sensation that something was watching him, something terrible and wicked, but when he looked nothing was there. Just a figment of his imagination left over from his visit to the fiction section of the library, he guessed.

He checked his watch. Five-thirty! The yard should have been raked by now. He had promised his father he'd do it yesterday, but instead spent the afternoon playing video games.

"If it isn't done when I get home tomorrow," his father had told him, "you'll be grounded for the weekend."

"But Dad," Stevie had objected. "Saturday is Halloween!"

"Then you'd better make sure I come home to a clean yard tomorrow."

Hard to argue with that logic.

Halloween was Angie's favorite day of the year, and they planned to go together dressed as the two lead singers of ZombieRox. Angie would be Sissy Zombie, and Stevie was going to be her dead brother, Tox. If Stevie was grounded, how could Angie go by herself? Sissy and Tox were inseparable! Would anyone even know who she was?

She'll never forgive me, Stevie thought. And he was right. Not after all the work Angie had done on their costumes.

The row of small shops along Main Street gave way to homes of different colors—some with picket fences, some without. He zigzagged down a number of side streets and eventually came to the entrance of a small mountainside forest the townsfolk nicknamed The Grove, though the official name was Machooksis Woods, from the Mohican word for owl.

Stevie usually avoided The Grove when alone. Its tall trees and strange sounds gave him the creeps, but it shaved five minutes off of his trip home, and right now every second counted.

"Besides," he told himself as he ran. "It's not like I'm scared! I've been in The Grove a hundred times. With my friends. In the daytime."

He swallowed hard. It hadn't seemed like such a scary place when the shadows were softened by sunshine, and kids' laughter drowned out the creepy sounds. Today though, he was alone. But he was in a hurry and would be through the forest quickly, so he didn't hesitate to enter the dark trail.

Had he known what the shadows hid, he never would have gone.

The moment he entered it was like being swallowed up into a different world. The large pine, cedar, and spruce trees closed in around him, darkening the already dim light and blocking out any sounds from the street. Yet, it wasn't quiet. Unseen animals scurried, wind rustled the dry October leaves, and the trees creaked and popped, their thick trunks swaying gently. In the distance, he heard the hooting of an owl.

Anxious in the fading light and darkening shadows of the forest, Stevie ran even harder. The soft floor of The Grove was covered with loose dirt, dead leaves, and pine needles. Occasionally he stumbled over a rock or root from one of the many trees that lined the well-worn footpath, but generally it was smooth going. The worst part was the hilliness of it, and as he ran over the crest of the steepest of the hills, his lungs felt like they would burst.

Stevie slowed to a walk, his hands gripping his sides, his chest straining to take in as much of the sweet pine-scented air as possible with every breath.

He was walking slowly, thinking about his father and how he didn't try to make the man angry on purpose, when he saw the toy sitting on a cut stump a few feet below the path. He squinted to make sure he saw it right.

Why is that here? he wondered. Weird.

Stevie hesitated. He didn't really have time to mess around. Still, it looked old and out of place. Creepy.

"Angie would love it!" he said, and instantly made a decision. Carefully taking hold of a root that twisted over the edge of the trail, he slid down the steep drop-off and picked up the toy. Painted tin covered with old cloth, it was surprisingly cool to the touch. Almost cold.

"Oh, you are freaky!" he said to the incredibly disturbing thing. The toy looked like an old man with a cane, wearing a straw hat and red and white striped suit. Under his chin was a blue bowtie. The suit was cotton, but the rest of the toy was painted metal. The tin head was very flat and angular in shape, with the mouth and eyes painted on. The gaping, grinning mouth was outlined in red lips, almost like a clown. Some of the paint on one side of the face had been scraped or worn away, exposing a jagged metal scar. Only the triangular nose broke the plane of the face.

"You've gotta be an antique," Stevie said to the thing. "But in great shape. You couldn't have been sitting there long. Who do you belong to?" Even the suit, which should've been weathered badly if it had been in the forest for long, was clean and dry.

Stevie put it to his nose, took a whiff, and instantly wished he hadn't. "Whoa!" he said. "Did something crawl up inside you and die?"

That's exactly what it smelled like. Dead and rotting flesh.

Carefully, Stevie pulled himself back up the steep slope. He dropped the toy into the leg pocket of his cargo pants with his cell phone, and screamed.

The toy started to move!

# 4.

Stevie reached into his cargo pants and clutched his fingers around the squirming toy. Very cold, the thing wiggled and twisted in his clammy grip. Was it trying to get free? Or was something inside of it trying to get free? He ripped it from his pocket and pulled back his arm, about to throw the possessed thing down the steep hillside and into the uncharted depths of the forest below. At the last instant however, he heard the telltale sound of windup gears grinding together within the creepy figure.

Stevie laughed nervously at his own foolishness. His eyes watched the thing rocking in his hand like a turtle stuck on its back, and he set it down on a flat patch of ground.

"You're just a toy!" he said with relief.

The cane—which must have been the winding mechanism—spun like Charlie Chaplan's in those old black-and-white silent movies, and the toy wobble-walked in a tight circle. The bowtie twirled around like a propeller, and from inside came a scratchy-squeaky noise that might have been a laugh when the toy was new.

This was very possibly the most unsettling toy Stevie had ever seen. What kind of parent would give this thing to a child? No wonder it was left out in the middle of the forest!

"Creepy in all capitals," Stevie murmured. "Angie's gonna go nuts!"

But at the moment, Stevie had more pressing matters. Like getting home and raking the yard before it was too late. If it wasn't already too late. He jammed the toy back in his pocket with his cell phone and started to jog down the trail again.

Something sighed.

Stevie froze. He stopped and looked around, searching for what made the noise. Had he imagined it? Was it the wind? No, something had definitely sighed, but he couldn't tell from which direction. It was a loud sound, and seemed to come from all around him.

Then a scuffling noise like claws scraping rocks on the mountainside below. Something running through dead leaves. How could anything be running on that uneven ground? More importantly, why was it running toward him?

Stevie didn't wait around to find out.

As fast as he could he raced along the trail, hoping whatever it was wouldn't give chase. But he could hear it, keeping pace with him just below. Was it getting closer? He couldn't tell, but he thought so. What could possibly be keeping up with him on that severe incline? Certainly nothing human, and anything small in the forest would run away from him, not towards him. A bear wouldn't likely be able to move so quickly on the steep terrain, but rumors of cougars in Vermont made Stevie push even harder.

Then he heard another noise, this time directly in front of him. The loud screaming of dirt bike motorcycles cutting through the forest! He almost laughed with relief, until he saw the motorcycles come around a bend in the trail ahead of him.

Victor Plotts and his two henchmen.

Stevie recognized Victor's red helmet with a white skull and crossbones. He also knew Victor's motorbike. Stevie had the exact same one, though Stevie's was a few years newer.

"I'd be better off with a cougar," Stevie grumbled to himself, but at least those bikes were certain to scare anything away.

The worst combination of mean and stupid, Victor Plotts had zeroed in on Stevie since they had both started going to Newhope Middle School. Victor was big, not only because he was held back twice, but also because he was naturally built like an ape, and had the brains to match.

Although, Stevie thought, I suppose that's not being very fair to the apes.

Stevie stepped to the side of the trail and looked at the ground, hoping that Victor had better things to do. In true bully fashion, Victor evidently was willing to put aside his other plans and focus on Stevie. He gunned the throttle when he saw Stevie, and then twisted the bike sideways on the narrow trail and hammered the brakes. Leaves and dirt flew up into Stevie's face and onto his clothes. Victor's friends stopped behind him. They all turned off their motorcycles and leaned them against trees.

"Oh, look," Victor taunted, circling Stevie like a predator. "Somebody left a tiny pile of poo right here in the middle of the trail!" He pulled a finger through the dirt on Stevie's shirt, sniffed it, and scrunched up his face. "Eeew, smells worse than it looks."

"Victor, I'm just going home," Stevie said, still not looking at his tormentor. Victor had circled around behind him.

"Oh, he's just going home," Victor mimicked in squeaky tones. His friends snickered. "Nobody wants poo in the house."

"Your parents don't seem to mind," Stevie said. He knew it was stupid to mouth off to Victor, but he couldn't help it. Stevie was smart, but his brain and his mouth often worked independently of each other.

Victor gave Stevie a hard shove from behind. "What was that, pile of poo? Hey, I think that's your new nickname!" Victor's friends laughed, and he continued, "You know, Pile, nobody wants poo on the trail, either. Guess I'd be doin' my civic duty if I threw the poo off the trail."

"Civic doodie!" one of the background boys said, and high-fived the other.

From behind him, one hand grabbed Stevie's belt and the other pushed his shoulders over the edge of the trail. His weight shifted and he stared down over the edge of the steep drop at the rocks and trees below. Stevie swung from his belt dangerously, and his pants started to come down in the back. Victor almost dropped him, but then grabbed one of Stevie's ankles.

"Stop! Let me go!" Stevie pleaded. He thrashed around, knowing it wasn't a great idea to struggle against Victor and risk being dropped, but his panicked mind couldn't control his flailing limbs. "Please Victor! Quit it!"

"Pile's not so smart now. Whaddya think, guys?" Victor said. "Poo splat real good?"

One of Victor's friends laughed nervously, but the other one said, "Vic, c'mon man. Let the kid up. Just hit him or whatever and let's go."

There was a pause and Victor threw Stevie back onto the trail. "Hey now," Victor said, looking down at Stevie. "What's that in your pocket?"

Stevie didn't even argue. He reached into his pocket and pulled the toy out. "Here, take it."

"Gee, thanks Pile. Can I?" Victor asked sarcastically. He snatched the toy from Stevie's hands. "The baby's got a toy. That is one ugly toy, though. Just 'bout right for one ugly baby." He looked like he would throw it over the edge just to spite Stevie, but then he lifted the seat of his motorcycle and tossed it in the small compartment underneath.

"You got ten seconds, Pile" Victor said, pulling his motorbike from the tree and straddling the seat with a smug smile on his face.

Stevie, confused, looked at him.

"Nine," Victor said. "Eight. Six."

Stevie took off running. Behind him, the motorcycles roared to life.

# 5.

He was scarcely a hundred yards away when the screaming of the motorcycle engines erupted through the trees. They were on him in a second like cheetahs chasing down a turtle, but he had nowhere to go. To the left, a steep hill of rocks and trees rose above the path, and to the right, the path fell away into the tree-filled valley below.

They won't actually run me down, he thought. Will they?

He didn't think they would. Still, they smelled fear, and Stevie knew that fear to bullies was like blood to sharks. Once they smelled it, they went into a frenzy. And attacked. Why do the animals with the smallest brains always have the sharpest teeth?

So at the last second, he dropped to the ground and slid off the path to the right.

The ground disappeared. Time stopped for a second and he looked up at the trunks of the trees rising high above him. Then his body crashed against the mountainside and he rolled, bouncing painfully over rocks and roots. Eating pine needles and mud. He was out of control, and it was only through blind luck that he made it to the base of the slope without slamming into one of the many thick trees or large boulders.

He lay quietly for a moment on his back, staring up at the trees looming over him and wondering if he was dead. No, he thought. Being dead wouldn't hurt this much. The sound of the motorcycles paused, and then continued on and faded away until eventually there was only silence. He no longer heard animals anywhere around him, and the sweet smell of pine was gone. The smell of damp wood and decay filled the air now.

Stevie gritted his teeth in pain, rolled onto an elbow, and from there was able to stand. Then he saw the house.

Ages ago, it must have been grand and elegant, but Stevie could never imagine it as anything but wicked. Decades of neglect had left only a dark scarred shell. Many, many long years it waited empty and uncared for, but it was more than neglect that filled him with disgust of the place.

Had this ever been a house lived in by people? A family? Laughter? Somehow he knew it had not.

The main part of the house was gray stone and rose like a massive dark monument from the forest floor. The porch was also stone, with three granite arches supporting a roof that cast deep shadows over the entrance doors.

Covering the two story building (though it seemed impossibly large for only two stories), was a steeply slanted black slate roof. Centered on top of the roof sat a bronze tower encircled by a widow's walk.

Two windows perched on both sides of the black roofline like the eyes of an enormous beast. Stevie felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He could sense

someone—or something—watching him from behind the high, dark windows.

And yet, he wondered if that were accurate. He thought the evil was greater than whatever was inside the house. Rather the house itself was the source, and maybe even the forest surrounding the ancient, vile place. But it was more than just evil. It was angry. Furious. Jealous.

"Freaky," Stevie said in awe. The other words he couldn't say out loud. Not here. Something about the place gave it an overwhelming presence, as though it were a living thing rather than just a building. Was he afraid of being disrespectful?

He brushed the dirt from his clothes and pulled leaves and small twigs from his light brown hair. His pain from the fall was all but gone, but he was sure he'd be sore tomorrow. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the stone front of the horrible house—and especially the dark, high windows. Many windows framed in rotting wood lined the first and second floor, and a number of them were broken, but it was those two sitting high above the others and filled with black glass that held his attention. They really did look like eyes staring down at him.

There was something both terrifying and hypnotic about the house, and his feet started to move toward it seemingly on their own.

"What are you doing?" Stevie hissed at himself, needing to hear the sound of his own voice. "You have to get home!"

But still he kept walking toward the place. A marble fountain, now filled with dirty sludge and covered in weeds, sat in the middle of a circular driveway. The driveway wound along the steep slope Stevie had fallen down and, though overgrown with thick weeds and prickle-bushes, he knew that a driveway would eventually lead to a road.

The wind picked up and he heard a sound coming from the house. He stopped and listened.

Though only a low moan at first, it grew into a fiendish, wailing sound that could have been the wind gusting through the broken windows or the slatted bronze tower above the old mansion.

But he knew it wasn't.

It sounded like ReeetUUUrrrrrn.

Fear twisted his stomach, and his feet—still apparently acting on their own but with new motivation—turned and ran up the driveway away from the house. The prickly-bushes tore at his clothes and flesh as he broke through or dodged around anything that blocked his path. He didn't know what had made the sound, but he knew it was something impossibly old. Something waiting. Something that might be behind him and wouldn't need to push through trees or pickers or anything else. Something that could go right through whatever stood in its way!

He charged through a large hedge and fell into the street. There was a field across from him. A big, beautiful open field of cut grass that nothing could hide in, and he fled across it.

Now he looked back over his shoulder, fully expecting to see something long dead reaching out to grab him with worm-eaten fingers, but nothing was there. Just the dark depths of The Grove. He couldn't even see where he had pushed through the hedge. Whatever hole he had made closed up behind him.

Stevie knew one thing. Whatever was in that part of The Grove didn't want to be disturbed!

But it was too late.

# 6.

Stevie checked his watch when he turned onto his street. Six-thirty.

"Oh man, I'm dead," he said to himself. "Dad's gonna kill me!"

Unless his father had been held up at the hospital where he was a doctor, he'd be home, probably pacing, and very angry. Stevie would just have to take whatever punishment was coming his way, and hope that maybe he could play on his father's fondness for Angie to overrule the Halloween grounding.

"Yeah, right!" he snorted. If Dr. Barton said something, you could bet he stuck to it. That was just his way.

When Stevie came to his house, his heart sank and his shoulders slumped. Not only was his father's car parked in the garage next to Stevie's yellow motorcycle, but the rake and leaf blower were outside, and big bags of leaves sat on the driveway.

Dad raked the yard himself, Stevie thought. He must be beyond mad! I'm gonna be grounded until I graduate college!

Stevie took off his shoes at the entrance—another Barton family rule—and walked into the bathroom. He washed the dirt from his hands and his face as best he could.

"Stevie, get in here!" his father called from the dining room.

Stevie's seventeen year old sister Emily, and his father, sat at the table. They had nearly finished their dinner. A Friggin' Chickn' bag sat at the corner of the table, and greasy bones littered their plates.

When his father saw Stevie enter, his eyes grew stern. Dr. Barton was not a throw-things-around-the-room-yell-and-scream kind of father. Stevie sometimes wished he was. The flash in his father's eyes and his icy tone of voice could be far more terrifying.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Stevie said, sitting down at the table.

Dr. Barton's eyes softened a little with the apology, which surprised Stevie. Wasn't he furious about the leaves? "Son, I don't mind you going out to play after your chores are done—"

"Dad," Stevie interrupted. "I'm really sorry about not raking—"

Emily kicked Stevie hard under the table. He grunted in pain, and his eyes shot over to her. She made a subtle slashing motion at her neck with a drumstick bone, then put a finger to her lips.

"Stevie, that leaf blower is brand new. It's an expensive piece of equipment. How difficult would it be to put it back in the garage when you were finished?"

Stevie's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. They shot from his father, to his sister, and back to his father again. What was going on?

"Not... difficult," Stevie agreed, confused. It came out sounding more like a question than an answer.

"Furthermore," Dr. Barton continued. "If you're going to go out before dinner, I expect you back home by six o'clock. Those are our rules, and you know them. We eat together as a family, work permitting."

Stevie nodded.

"Why didn't you answer your phone? I tried to call."

Stevie's hands flew to his pocket. Oh no! His cell phone was gone!

"Aw, man. I fell. In The Grove. It must've come out of my pocket!"

"Well, after you eat, you'll go back and get it."

Stevie's heart filled with fear. No way was he going back into that place! "Dad, it's almost dark! I'll get it in the morning."

Stevie's father shook his head. "Thunderstorm is coming tonight. Your phone won't be much good for anything other than a paperweight come morning. Emily will go with you."

"Dad!" Emily protested. "I don't want to go there tonight!"

"Do you have a game tonight?"

"No, but—"

Dr. Barton smiled at Emily. "Well, I'm not going. And since it's not safe for Stevie to go alone, and since I'm the father, I volunteer you." With that, he smiled at his family, picked up his plate, and walked to the kitchen sink.

"You're lucky I love you, Wartface," Emily said. She smacked him lightly on top of the head.

"Did you rake the leaves, too, Em?"

"Yeah, I knew after his threats last night what would happen if he came home and you hadn't done it. Again. Who's got your back?"

"Thanks, Em," Stevie said, and meant it. Some kids hated their older sisters. He counted his lucky stars for Emily almost daily.

"Don't thank me yet," Emily said. "You owe me. Big time. Especially now. Those woods are scaaaaaaa-ry!"

You don't know the half of it! Stevie thought.

# 7.

The dark trees of The Grove rose up in front of them like an abandoned fortress. All it needed, Stevie thought, was a hand-painted sign with bright blood-red letters that said KEEP OUT! It felt good to have Em with him, though. If he'd been alone, he'd never be able to go in.

As they walked, Stevie told her about the toy he had found and the house in the valley below the trail.

"You fell all the way down the side of the mountain?" she asked. Concern spread across her face as she tilted her flashlight and looked over the edge of the trail and into the dark depths below. "You need to watch where you're going!"

"I was watching," Stevie said. "But I was being chased."

He explained the details of his encounter with Victor Plotts.

She frowned, thoughtful. Then she said, "That kid's a little punk. One day something bad is going to happen to him. Somebody'll do something about him. Maybe it should be you."

"Me?" Stevie exclaimed, shocked. "He's two years older than me, and a bazillion times bigger! What could I do?"

"He's all mouth. I bet you could take him."

"You're kidding, right?"

Emily didn't say anything. Her forehead crinkled up in thought.

Brother and sister crunched through the fallen leaves along the trail, their flashlights waving across the path in front of them. The lights helped illuminate the path, but made the darkness outside of their beams look even darker. Without any sun, it was even colder than before, and Stevie shivered.

Neither spoke as the trees closed in around them, the long branches reaching out over the trail like cold, searching fingers. Some trees, the perennials, still had life, but most were covered with dead leaves, or bare limbs and gray trunks. Stevie again noticed the scent of decay mixed with pine, slight now, but still there.

He wondered if Em could hear the sound of his heart beating. To him, it sounded like the canons firing in Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. Music with guns. Good stuff. But not when it came from inside your chest.

Em put an arm around Stevie's shoulder. "You're right, Stevie," she finally said. "You should just do your best to stay away from Victor. He's not worth it."

"I know, Em. I'm used to him. But the worst part is he stole the toy I found. I was gonna give it to Angie."

Emily puckered her lips and batted her eyelashes. It looked really grotesque in the flashlight's glow.

"For Aaaaaaaaaaannngiiiiie?" she asked, following it with lots of wet kissing sounds.

"Shut up. It isn't like that." He pushed her lightly and she stumbled forward, but caught herself.

"I know," Emily said, mussing his hair.

"It was this really old windup toy. Totally freakish." He explained to her about the toy, the way it moved and spun its cane. The mechanical laugh that sounded more like a scream. He told her how weird it looked, just standing there on the tree stump in the middle of the forest.

"You know, in Japan, they think that gods and spirits and junk live in the mountains and the forests, so when loggers cut down trees, they leave little gifts on the stumps. Toys or whatever. To make the gods happy."

"Really? Is that true?"

Emily shrugged. "Dunno. Read it somewhere, or someone told me. Or I saw it on television. Hey, maybe you'll get lucky and Victor will get what he deserves. A toy with a nice demon inside to haunt him."

Stevie shivered, his hairs standing up on the back of his neck again. He didn't want to think about demons in this place! He remembered the sigh, the sound of something chasing him—claws scratching on rocks—and the horrible house. If something was haunting The Grove, Stevie didn't think it was inside that old toy.

"Where'd you drop your phone, anyway?" Emily asked.

Stevie shook his head. "I think maybe it came out when I was running from Victor, or when I fell down the mountain. I know I had it when Victor stole the toy."

"Oh, hold on a sec. I'll call it." Emily pulled her cell from her pocket and called Stevie's phone.

"Won't work," Stevie said. "There's never any reception in The Grove. It's—"

In the distance, far below them, a phone rang. Emily lifted an eyebrow at him and smiled.

"Okay, okay," he said with a sheepish grin. "We must be getting close to where I went over the edge. Keep your eyes on the side of the trail."

They walked for a few more moments when Stevie said, "There!"

On the side of the trail was a place where the dirt and leaves and pine needles had been dug into, exposing the dark soil underneath. "I slid down here. Call again."

Emily did, and the ringing came from directly below them now.

"Crud!" Stevie said. "I'd hoped I'd lost it up here on the trail when I was running."

"Looks pretty steep," Emily said, her brow knitting again.

Stevie frowned down at the steep side of the mountain. "Trust me, it is. I know from experience."

"Well, I'm right behind you. I'll keep calling the phone until we find it."

Stevie nodded, hesitated, and slid down on the seat of his pants. He used his feet to control his decent. Now that he wasn't rolling uncontrollably, it wasn't really so bad.

The ringing was loud now. He was almost on top of the phone.

"Where is it?"

"Close now," Stevie said. Then he saw the screen illuminating the ground directly below him. Luckily, it was only a little way down the hill. He did not want to go all the way down to the house. "There it is!"

He slid to a stop next to the phone, looked at the screen.

"Got it!" he said loudly. The phone stopped ringing, and he turned back to Emily.

She wasn't there!

"Emily?" He was able to stand on the steep hill, barely, and turned around a few times with his flashlight searching for his sister. She was nowhere around. "Emily!"

Then his eyes fell on the dark silhouette of the house, still a good distance below. It was just a black shape nestled in the trees, but he saw a yellowish-green light coming from the entrance door. The light shimmered and waved, almost like liquid. Then the door slowly closed!

Stevie turned and scrambled back up the hill as fast as he could! His fingernails dug into the dirt and grabbed at the rocks, searching for anything he could grip to pull himself back up. Uncontrollable whimpers came from his chest as he worked.

Had something inside closed the door to keep Stevie out? Or had something left, closing the door behind it? Something making its way up the slope behind him?

He could feel it all around him now. A presence. Was it right there? Was it reaching up with dead hands, about to wrap maggot-infested fingers around his struggling ankles?

Finally he reached the top and rolled up over the edge and onto the trail, then jumped to his feet. He searched with his flashlight for Emily, but she wasn't here either.

"Emily!" he screamed. Tears stung his dirty cheeks. Desperately he called out to her. "Emily!"

Something moaned from the darkness behind the trees. A long, low, ghastly moan.

Stevie screamed, and terror too powerful to control overpowered him. He turned, and ran as fast as he could.

He could hear the thing chasing him, its feet crashing through the leaves and dead sticks on the trail! And it was getting closer!

# 8.

Stevie raced from The Grove and out onto the street. Suddenly, a breathless laughter sliced through the air. A horrible, shrill sound. The kind of laughter that can only come from a soulless sister playing a horrible joke on her little brother.

Stevie stopped and turned. Emily came out of the forest, hands on her sides, laughing so hard she nearly collapsed. She wiggled her fingers at him and made the moaning sound again, same as Stevie had heard, and then leaned on her knees for support.

"I hate you!" Stevie yelled at her, and she quit laughing. He was so mad he just wanted to jump on top of her and pound her face, but he couldn't actually imagine ever hitting Emily. Not for real. "You're a bad sister!"

Stevie turned and stomped angrily towards home. He couldn't believe she'd done such a horrible thing! But in an instant Emily had a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Tears streaked his face, but he wasn't crying any more. He glared at her.

"Hey, Stevie," Em said. "Hey, you're right. I'm really sorry. This weekend is Halloween, and I thought it would be funny." She grabbed him and hugged him tightly.

"It wasn't!" he said, squirming to get free, but she was five years older and too strong.

"I know," she said quietly. "I'm a jerk. Really, I'm sorry."

Stevie quit fighting and wrapped his arms around her. He knew she wouldn't let go until he did, and anyway, the anger had faded. "Bra-stuffer."

"How do you know?"

Slowly, they started walking home.

"Hey, Em?" Stevie said once he'd calmed down. "I think we're even for raking the leaves now, don't you?"

Emily smiled. "Yeah, I guess that was worth it."

* * *

Where is it?

Awakened from a surprisingly dreamless sleep, Stevie's eyes shot open. At least, he thought it was dreamless. And he was pretty sure he'd been asleep. Had he heard the voice? Or was his subconscious just reminding him of what Emily had said in the forest?

Something was wrong about what had happened in The Grove with his sister. Something nagging that, in his grogginess, he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Stevie's room flashed with bright, white light. Thunder boomed. The storm his father mentioned had arrived. The wind howled as it blew against the house, sending waves of rain slamming against his bedroom window with each gust.

Stevie sat at the edge of his bed, fixed his pajama top that had twisted around his body, and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. Again the lightning came, and a moment later, thunder. Sounded like a good storm. He slid his feet into his slippers and pulled his desk chair up to his window so he could watch the lightning.

His mother, a nurse, had to work second shift at the hospital tonight. He looked at the clock. Almost eleven. Was she home yet? He hoped so. He didn't like the idea of her driving home in this storm.

The house sat at the end of a long, winding driveway that was pretty, as long as you didn't have to shovel the snow off of it—something that Stevie and Emily had to do routinely during the frozen Vermont winters. Much of their yard was grass, but a number of large oak trees dotted their property. When Stevie's dad had the house built, he'd wanted to pull them out and build a straight driveway from the road, but his mom had put her foot down.

"If those beautiful old trees go, so do you," she'd said. She was joking, of course, but the trees had stayed and the driveway went around them.

Stevie was just about to check if his mother had made it home when another lightning bolt lit up the sky. When it did, his breath caught. Near the mailbox he thought he'd seen a shape in the driveway! Something dark and bent over. Was it some kind of animal? From this distance, and in the quick lightning flash, he hadn't seen it clearly. It had looked like an animal, but with long hair. A mane?

The lightning flashed again, and again he saw the figure. This time it was much closer, though. It stood perfectly still. Had it moved? No, there hadn't been enough time for it to get that far. Even if it ran. Maybe there was more than one.

Stevie leaned forward, his nose pressing against the glass. He squinted, trying to see the thing in the darkness, but it was impossible.

WHERE IS IT?

The voice pounded painfully through his mind, and his hands clutched at his head. It wasn't something he heard, but rather something he knew. With it came a sense of anger and frustration. Hatred!

Three quick flashes of lightning struck and thunder boomed at the exact same moment. The thing he'd been watching was now at the nearest bend in the driveway, standing between the largest of the oak trees and the house. Stevie clearly saw what it was. A young girl!

But not exactly a girl. She was a broken creature, twisted up like a rubber band. Her one leg supported her weight, and the other jutted from the knee in a useless direction. Bent sideways at the waist, her chest pointed up toward the sky while her stomach wrenched toward the ground. Her broken neck twisted from her shoulders at an unnatural angle, attached to a head that dangled limply. Snapped and shattered bones had torn through her pale, nearly translucent skin, and in places ripped through the thin, tattered nightdress that she wore. Dark stains covered her dress and surrounded the protruding bones. In the pale, flashing light Stevie couldn't see the color, but he knew the stains were red.

Her long, black, knotted hair hung over her face and fell to the ground. Stevie saw leaves and sticks and mud in the rat's nest of hair, and above one ear, her head was flat and caked with blood.

Bent and tangled arms twisted up in front of her, but it was the fingers that were most horrible of all. They came from her hands, each broken and pulled in different directions. They seemed to reach out for him.

RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN!

Stevie screamed, and screamed, and screamed again. His father and sister ran into the room almost instantly. As they did, the lightning flashed again, and the thing was still there, but they were focused on Stevie.

"Stevie, what's wrong?" his father asked, gripping Stevie's shoulders with both hands and giving him a firm shake.

He pointed, and his father and sister turned toward the window. He could still see the horrible creature dimly in the night, but just then, his mother's car came up the driveway toward the house. When she turned around the big oak tree where the girl had been standing, her headlights shined directly into Stevie's room. The lights caught the dark shape for an instant, but then Stevie, his sister, and father were momentarily blinded.

His mother's tires squealed on the driveway, followed by a loud crash!

# 9.

The car had swerved and struck the old oak tree.

Mr. Barton let go of Stevie's shoulders. "Your mother," he said, momentarily startled. Then he regained control.

"Stevie," he said urgently. "Come with me and we'll see if she's okay. Emily, grab the medical bag from my office. Hurry!"

Stevie threw on his sneakers and chased after his father. The man grabbed a flashlight from the table beside the door and ran barefoot into the pouring rain as Emily disappeared into the doctor's study.

Stevie nervously glanced into the darkness, but didn't see any sign of the broken girl. As he raced to the car, he wondered if the creature was watching him, hidden in the darkness and shadows. The rain pounded his face and hair and drenched his clothing instantly. It was loud as it beat against the ground and the house and the car. A constant static sound that made it impossible to hear if anything was sneaking up on them. Again, there was the odor of decay that he'd smelled in the forest. He moved closer and ran beside his father.

His mother was already standing by the door of the car. She held her hand to her head and was looking at the damage. The fender was a little crumpled and pressed up against the tree, and there was a dent on top of the hood, but otherwise the car was fine.

"Sit down!" the doctor said, sternly. "You're a nurse. You know better than to be up walking around after a head trauma!"

"Oh, relax, Henry." She smiled at him, but sat in the passenger's seat. The windshield wipers were thudding back and forth, so she reached over and turned them off. "I barely hit the tree. Just bumped my head slightly on the side window. What else did I hit? I didn't see it until the last moment."

Stevie's father shone the flashlight in front of the car. "Must've missed it," he said.

"No," she said, and shook her head. "It dented the hood."

"Well, whatever it was, it's gone now," Dr. Barton told her. "I only caught a glimpse. Dear or dog maybe."

"I guess," Stevie's mother said. She hesitated. "It just, well...."

"You okay, Mom?" Emily asked as she ran up to the side of the car. She handed Dr. Barton the medical bag he'd asked her to bring. "What did you see?"

"Pupils aren't dilated," Dr. Barton said as he shined a small penlight into his wife's eyes. "Probably no concussion." He stuck the penlight in his shirt pocket and ran a finger over the bump, pushing her soaking wet hair aside. She winced slightly. Then he peeled the back from a small cold pack and stuck it to her forehead.

"Mom, what did you see?" Stevie fearfully prodded, even though he already knew.

"Well," his mother said. "I could've sworn it was wearing clothes. Old, dirty clothes." She shook her head. "Maybe it was just the light. It all happened so fast!"

Mrs. Barton stood, and her husband put a supporting arm around her. "Honestly, Henry. I'm fine. Really!"

Doctor Barton frowned. "Let's go to work together tomorrow and I'll ask Kev down in radiology to do an x-ray. Just to make certain."

"Fine," Stevie's mom said. She chuckled. "You know, they say most accidents happen within five miles from home. Couldn't get much closer than this unless I ran into the house!" She turned off the ignition and headlights and locked the door. "Now, let's get these kids out of this storm."

Back inside, Stevie changed into clean, dry clothes, and then knocked on Emily's door.

"Come in!"

Emily lay on her stomach in bed reading a magazine. Her hair was all frizzy from drying it with a towel.

"Em, did you see what was on the driveway?"

She considered for a moment, and then shook her head. "Not really. I mean, I saw something, but as quick as it all happened, it was really just a blob. Did you? Is that why you screamed?"

Stevie's eyed dropped to the floor. He didn't tell her that yes, he did see it. He didn't say that it wasn't an animal. And he didn't share the most disturbing thought of all:

It came for me.

He knew he could talk to Emily, but he couldn't bring himself to actually say what he knew had happened.

"No," he said. "I just had a bad dream."

"Hey," Emily said, closing her magazine and sitting up. "I gave you quite a scare in The Grove tonight, didn't I? I'm sorry. My baddage. I shouldn't have done that." Stevie stood in awkward silence for a time before she continued. "With this storm, and mom's accident, I'm a little wigged out. Could I crash on the floor in your room tonight?"

Stevie looked up at her, a smile of relief that he unsuccessfully tried to hide flashed across his face. He wanted to thank her, because he knew she wasn't afraid of the storm. She was worried about him.

"Sure," he said. "If it'll make you feel better."

Emily smiled and pulled her sleeping bag down out of the closet. "I'm sure it will, Ratsmack."

Stevie raised an eybrow. "Ratsmack?"

* * *

Stevie watched the rain push against the glass. Emily lay on the floor beside his bed, listening to pop music on her mp3 player. She always fell asleep that way.

"Em," he said. Then again, louder. "Emily!"

"What's up?" she asked, pulling her earphones down around her neck. He heard the thumping bass of drums.

"You know anything about that old house in The Grove. Down near where I dropped my phone?"

"You mentioned that before, but there's no house down there," she said. "Not that I know of, anyway."

"Didn't you see it last night? It looked like a light was on."

"No, not from up on top where I was. The forest was totally dark!"

"No, I mean when we went down to find my phone. The house was right there." Then he realized what had been bothering him earlier about the trip with Emily. "Hey, how'd you get up the mountain so fast after we found my phone?"

Emily giggled. "I'm sorry! I never followed you down. I was wearing my new running shoes, you know. I didn't want to get them all yucky."

"You never followed me down?"

"Of course not. How could I? I mean, I would've come if you were in trouble, but you found the phone right away and then high-tailed it back up, so I just stayed put."

Stevie remembered the voice he heard when he found his phone. A quiet whisper that had been right next to him—that he had thought was Emily.

Where is it?

# 10.

"It was on the driveway," Stevie said, and stared at her dramatically. "On the driveway!"

Angie leaned up against the green metal locker next to Stevie's while he pulled out his books for the first two periods. She listened silently while he recited the events of the previous day since they'd parted ways at the library. Stevie spoke in quick, excited tones, often not breaking for silly little interruptions like periods or breathing. Unlike Emily, Stevie knew he could completely download on Angie.

"And then later I was talking to Em and asked her how she was able to get up the mountain so quickly after she said WHERE IS IT and she said she never followed me down the mountain so she couldn't have said that so who did say it? It was the thing on the driveway, I know it was! It followed us home from The Grove!"

"Yeah, I don't know, Stevie," Angie said cautiously. She looked down at the ground and shuffled her feet. She didn't sound convinced. "That's pretty intense."

Stevie turned to his friend. Was she serious? "What, you don't believe me?"

Angie bit her lower lip. "Of course I believe you! I mean, it's not that I think you're lying. But you were reading that totally scary book in the library, and you had a run-in with Victor, and then Em scared your pants off. Major trauma yesterday, right? Maybe it was just the stress playing tricks on your mind. Let's face it. You do have an active imagination."

"Active imagination?!" Stevie protested. "I can not believe you! I'd expect this from my parents. Maybe even Emily. But not you!"

He was angry for a moment, but then she smiled and he let his anger drop. Recently Angie had stopped dressing so much like a tomboy—more like a girl—and he found it harder to stay angry at her. Or say no when she wanted something. It weirded him out.

"Listen," she said. "I'm not saying it didn't happen and I'm not saying you're lying. I just want you to really think and make sure."

"I know what I saw, Anj. What I heard. It wasn't in my head. I wish it was."

"Well, then, I believe you. So what do you want to do—oh, man." Her eyes shifted over Stevie's shoulder, and he turned just as a giant, dirty fist slammed into the locker right next to him. Stevie jumped a foot straight up.

Victor gave him an ugly grin. "Hey there, Pile. Have a nice trip yesterday, Pile? You know, I was glad I didn't run you over. Don't want poo-stink on my bike."

Victor's two friends stood behind him again, ready to laugh at whatever he said.

"Better not breathe on it then," Angie said. She scrunched up her face and waved a hand in front of her nose. "Seriously, were you drinking out of the toilet again, Victor? Do I have to roll up a newspaper?"

"Woooooah!" one of Victor's friends said. "Pile's bodyguard made a laugher."

"A pretty good one, too!" the other one added. They both laughed.

Victor's face turned an angry shade of red. "You'd better keep a leash on her, Pile," he growled at Stevie. Stevie couldn't help but think that Angie was wrong about Victor's breath smelling like poo. It clearly smelled more like week old vomit. "She's like a dog chompin' on a bit to dig your grave!"

Angie stepped closer to Stevie. "Dogs don't chomp on bits, Victor. You'd think those extra two years in fifth grade would've taught you to keep your metaphors straight."

Victor looked confused. "My... meta-what?"

Angie burst out in loud laughter, and so did Victor's friends. Stevie's nerves kept him from laughing, thankfully.

Victor tried a different approach. "AngIE and StevIE," he said, strongly accenting the second syllable. "What a couple of girly names for a couple of girls."

"Oh, and Vicki sounds so manly," Angie shot back. "Doesn't it? Vicki?"

Victor's face turned from angry-red to impossible-purple. "You're lucky I don't hit girls, Lewis!"

"You're lucky I don't hit girls either, Vicki!"

Victor's friends both fell against the lockers, roaring with fits of uncontrollable laughter and slapping their hands against the metal doors. Stevie nervously searched the hall for a teacher, and Angie stared at Victor cooly, a slight, twisted smile on her face.

Victor's fists clenched and unclenched angrily, and then he turned his attention back to Stevie. Stevie knew this was inevitably coming.

"We'll talk later, Pile," he hissed, little pieces of spittle flying out from behind clenched teeth. "Count on it. You can thank your girlfriend for that!"

Victor turned and stomped off. As he went, he said to his flunkies, "Let's go!"

"Okay, Vicki," one of them said, and the two high-fived each other behind Victor's back.

Stevie closed his locker, took a deep breath, and said, "You know he's gonna kill me now, right?"

Angie nodded. "Yeah, sorry about that. At least now you'll know why."

# 11.

All morning in class, Stevie couldn't concentrate on his lessons. He couldn't pay attention, and when he tried, he couldn't understand what the teachers were talking about. Even basic concepts that would normally require no thought eluded him. His mind was working on too many other problems. Like getting beat up by Victor, or worse by that thing in the woods!

The night before had been so terrifying that even though he couldn't sleep, he could only think about what had happened, rather than why it had happened.

What exactly did it say to me? he now wondered. What does it want?

WHERE IS IT? RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN!

Remembering the power of that voice sent shivers through his body. What had he stolen? He hadn't gone inside the house, and the only thing he took was his phone, which he'd dropped earlier after Vicki... stole the toy.

The toy! Of course! That must be what the horrible creature wanted! But he didn't even have the toy. Victor had it. The spirit should go after him! Maybe it would. After all, the thing had left last night and not come back after his mother hit the tree.

Stevie and Angie had history class together just before lunch. Other years, History was the most boring subject. That was a generally agreed upon fact, what with all the dates and memorizing and constant monotone droning on blah, blah, blah of Mrs. Orskawitz. But this year was Mr. Stark's first year, and he was a great teacher. He had so much energy. Each class was like prime time entertainment.

And he was young. All the boys thought he was cool, and all the girls thought he was beautiful. Except for Angie, of course. She wasn't like the other girls when it came to things like boys.

Was she?

Halfway through Mr. Stark's class, Angie passed a note up to Stevie. It read:

# 12.

After the bell rang, a number of students stuck around to talk to Mr. Stark. Mostly girls, none were asking him about history, so Angie shooed them from the room. Some shot her nasty looks, but Angie didn't seem to mind, and she closed the door quickly in their faces.

"Nicely played," Mr. Stark said, sitting on the corner of his desk with an amused smile on his face. He gestured to a couple of chairs in the front row. "Your lack of etiquette has an air of urgency to it. What's up?"

Stevie swallowed and got right to it. "We were wondering if you knew anything about The Grove. Especially the old house."

Mr. Stark sucked in a deep breath and smiled. He looked cautious, and then a little sinister. "Oh, the murder house?"

"The murder house?!" Stevie and Angie said in unison, their jaws dropping open.

Mr. Stark nodded and winked. "Just wanted to get your attention. Yes, I know a bit about it. Why do you ask?"

Stevie said, "Well, I found it yesterday, and—"

"You didn't go inside, did you?" Mr. Stark asked, concern spreading a dark shadow across his face.

"No way!" Stevie pushed back in his chair. It scraped across the tile floor. "I was just wondering about it. Looks like it used to be a pretty nice place."

"Oh it was," Mr. Stark said. "Finest in town. Belonged to a wealthy man with business on Wall Street."

"So, what happened?" Stevie asked. "Why did you call it the murder house?"

"Because of the murder, of course!" Mr. Stark said, smiling a little at his joke. "The real name is Harcourt Manor, but you looked like you need some drama.

"It happened on Halloween night, back in 1942," Mr. Stark began.

"Halloween night!" Angie exclaimed. "How perfect is that?"

Mr. Stark nodded and continued. "Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt. Tragic incident. Mother and father slain with a sledgehammer while they slept. Beat to a pulp. Brains and blood and splinters of broken bone all over the walls and bed. Well, the whole room, really. I mean, they weren't just murdered. They were mutilated. Their eighteen year old daughter was in the house at the time."

Stevie thought about the broken, deformed creature he'd seen in his driveway. Was that one of the Harcourts? He remembered with horror the way it stood with its limbs out of place, jutting out in all weird directions. The way its torso twisted opposite—wrong—compared to the legs and neck. Was it a person pulverized with a sledgehammer?

"The girl," Stevie began. He tried to sound calm, but his voice came out a rough, high-pitched squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What about their daughter? Was she murdered, too?" Stevie swallowed. "With the sledgehammer?"

Mr. Stark took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth from his coat pocket. He shook his head. "No. She said she hadn't heard a thing. Of course, she would say that."

"She would?" Angie asked. "Why?"

"Well, she killed them!" Mr. Stark said, returning his glasses to his face. "At least, that's what most people believed at the time."

"She did it?" Angie asked, her jaw dropping. "She killed her parents?"

"Well, I shouldn't say that. There was never any conclusive proof, but she did stand trial. After the murder, the townspeople had done all they could to help the poor girl, believing she was a victim, but then one day the police began to question her. There were a number of—oddities—about the case that pointed them in her direction."

"Oddities?" Stevie asked. "Like what?"

"Well, first off, they found that the mother and father had both been drugged with massive amounts of a mild sedative to make them sleep heavily. The drug was purchased at the local pharmacy by Virginia—"

"That's the daughter?" Angie asked, riveted to the story.

Mr. Stark nodded. "Right. She claimed that her father asked her to pick it up, but the family doctor denied them taking any such medication.

"Secondly," he continued. "She was seen by the maid later carrying something wrapped in a stained cloth to an oil barrel the groundskeeper used to burn leaves. She doused whatever it was in gasoline, and then lit it on fire." He paused, and then asked Stevie, "Ever been behind that place?"

Stevie shook his head.

"There's a cliff behind the house formed by a glacier that cut through the mountain. A hundred feet of black, jagged rock straight down to the river below. Beside the river the police discovered the metal part of an old sledgehammer. The shaft, or handle, had been burned away, and the metal scrubbed clean."

"So she did it!" Stevie said. "They had her dead to rights!"

"Except she denied it," Mr. Stark said. He stood and started to erase the blackboard of the notes he'd made in class. "Well, at first she didn't comment, but soon Virginia pointed at the servant girl, accusing her of murdering her parents."

Mr. Stark shook his head. "In the end, the jury was not sufficiently convinced, and all charges were dropped. The population, however, was not so forgiving. Some even went so far as to accuse her of killing her baby sister two years earlier. Even though the family doctor swore that it was sudden-infant-death-syndrome, some say she smothered it while it slept!"

"Is she still alive?" Stevie asked, but he suspected he already knew the answer.

"She was murdered, too!" Mr. Stark said. He put the eraser down and slapped his hands together a few times to get rid of the chalk. "She lived alone in the house after the not guilty verdict. On the third night after her release, her uncle—in a drunken insane rage fueled by the loss of his dear sister—choked her and beat her with a baseball bat, and then threw her from the cliff behind the house. He said Virginia Harcourt wasn't his niece anymore."

"Disgusto!" Angie exclaimed, but she was obviously caught up and enjoying the thrilling story. Angie had a morbid side. "I've never heard any of this!"

"Well, America had just entered World War II, and everyone had bigger things to worry about. On top of that, the townsfolk wanted to keep it quiet. I'm a historian. It's my job to know. My father is the real expert, though. Local history is his gig."

Stevie thought about the girl he'd seen on his driveway, and shivered. It was Virginia Harcourt, mangled by the beating and the fall from the cliff! He knew it. But, what did she want? The toy? Why? Or was there something else? If she was innocent, maybe she wanted something that would clear her name! So that her broken spirit could rest in peace!

RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN! she'd said. Maybe the person that murdered her parents stole something from the house. Or maybe she simply meant her stolen good name, her innocence.

"Stevie, let's go!" Angie said excitedly. "I know what you're thinking. You have to find out if it's her or not!"

"Whoa!" Mr. Stark said, putting up his hands as if to physically stop them. "I don't want you kids going there. That place is dangerous. And who are you talking about?"

With Angie's prodding, Stevie retold a condensed version of his terrifying tale.

Mr. Stark shook his head and smiled. "Listen, kids, I don't go in for all this haunted house, ghosts and ghouls mumbo-jumbo. Don't get me wrong. I love a good spooky story as much as the next guy, but they're just that. Stories. History is full of ghosts, but not in a literal sense. I've never seen one, or read any scientifically verified data."

"But Mr. Stark," Stevie began.

"But!" Mr. Stark interrupted. "I make it a point to go out to that place every year or two anyway and see how it's holding up. While the town is willing to let it waste away forgotten, I have a professional interest. I'd like to see the structure maintained for its historical value. So far, however, I'm the only one."

"What about your dad?" Angie asked. "Doesn't he want to see it preserved?"

Mr. Stark's face went blank. "My father and I have conflicting opinions."

"So you'll go out with us?" Stevie asked hopefully. The more the merrier, he thought. Especially after what I've seen. And heard!

In fact, he didn't even want to go. Not in the least. But if this thing was going to pay midnight visits to his house on a regular basis, he'd rather take care of the problem as soon as possible.

Before it took care of him!

"Yeah, I'll go," Mr. Stark said. He thought for a moment and then must have made a decision. "You know, you really should talk to my father. He has some... unique ideas. Spirits and demons in the forest. Ghosts. Just don't take him too seriously." He laughed and slapped his desk. "Enough! Now beat it and let me eat some lunch, will ya? Let's meet at the Harcourt Manor driveway tomorrow around three. And bring some flashlights. There's no power in that house."

Stevie and Angie turned to go. As they left the classroom, Mr. Stark called after them. "Who knows? Maybe we'll see the ghost of Virginia Harcourt and her family. After all, tomorrow is Halloween!"

# 13.

"Let's go through The Grove," Angie said. "I wanna see what all the fuss is about."

Stevie stopped in his tracks. Angie went a few steps before she noticed he wasn't beside her, and then turned around.

The two friends were on their way home from school. Stevie's mom and dad both worked second shift at the hospital tonight, and Emily had a lacrosse game until late. Stevie had asked Em if Angie could hang out with him until she got home, and Emily said sure. She probably thought he was scared to be alone.

She thought right.

Unfortunately, they couldn't hang at Angie's house. It was off-limits to guests. Her mother was hosting the monthly Girl's Night, when her friends from high school all came over to talk.

"They're seriously lame," Angie said. "All they yap about is kids and soap operas and work. Occasionally someone from high school they saw at the grocery store that got fat. Boring with a capital BORE. Even my dad knows to clear out during their clambakes."

So when the subject of The Grove popped up, Stevie first thought she was joking, and then thought she was nuts.

"No way!" he said. He shivered and made a shivering noise, just to make it extra clear for Angie. "No way, no how, am I going back there today. I don't even want to go tomorrow with Mr. Stark, but I guess I have to."

"Come on," Angie said. "What's the big deal? We don't have to go down to the house. Let's just walk through, and you can point to it from the trail."

"You can't see it from the trail," Stevie countered. "It's hidden in the forest."

"Well, just point in the general direction."

"Look," Stevie said. "I know you're excited, but you didn't see that thing! It's evil! Anything that ugly has to be evil. Like Victor Plotts, but worse!"

"Oh, come on. Now I know you're exaggerating. Nothing is uglier than Victor Plotts!" She punched him on the shoulder.

"Forget it!" Stevie said, his voice somewhere between angry and panicked.

Angie studied him for a moment and then shrugged. "Okay. Chill. No need to have a conniption."

They went to the library and Stevie returned some of the books he'd checked out. They looked at magazines together for a while. Stevie thought about picking up the scary Peter Swift book he had started reading yesterday, but he wasn't at all in the mood for anything like that.

Angie finished reading the ZombieRox interview that she had started when her mother's phone call interrupted her. She highlighted the interesting parts to Stevie.

"Listen to this," she'd say, and then rattle off a fact like, "Did you know that Sissy Zombie was a cheerleader in high school, you know, before the accident that killed them at the secret military chemical plant?"

"That's just a story," Stevie said. "Part of their show."

"Duh!" She smacked him on the head with the magazine. "It's still way cool."

"Yeah," Stevie agreed, pushing aside his issue of Mystery Monthly and scooting up beside her. "Show me the pictures."

"Look," Angie said, pointing to a huge pool of dramatically lit noxious-looking green, bubbling ooze. A hazmat—hazardous materials—sticker was clearly visible on the side. "That's the vat of radioactive sludge they were pushed into."

Much of the info Stevie and Angie already knew. ZombieRox was their favorite band, after all. There were some interesting new tidbits, though.

When they were finished, they stepped out of the dark library and back into the sunlight. Stevie squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the bright light. A beautiful October day. The air was cool and dry, and the sky was clear blue and filled with big fluffy white clouds.

"Okay," Angie said. "Fun times at the library. I did what you wanted, now you have to do something for me." She smiled slyly and batted her big eyes at Stevie.

"No way, Anj," he said, knowing exactly what she was going to ask. "Seriously. Let's just go tomorrow. Besides, you heard Mr. Stark. That place is dangerous."

"We don't have to go inside the house," Angie said, looking away from him as she spoke. "I just want to cut through the forest. It's quicker, anyway."

"Yeah, right, ya big liar." Stevie shook his head. "Even if we aren't horribly mutilated by evil spirits, we might run into Victor Plotts again. After your help this morning," Stevie used his fingers to air-quote help, "he's just as dangerous as any ghost."

"You worry too much! You can hear those motorcycles coming a mile away. We'll just hide off the path until they pass."

"Forget it," Stevie said.

"Then I'm going home," Angie threatened. "For the pleasure of my company, those are my terms. Besides, if the thing came to your house anyway, what's the big deal of walking through The Grove? It obviously knows where to find you."

Stevie really didn't like the way she put that. While he didn't want to go through the forest, he didn't want to be at home alone tonight, either. Maybe Virginia Harcourt would come again, and if Angie wasn't there, he'd be alone! He couldn't even go to the high-school to watch his sister's lacrosse game. It was an away match out of town at their rival's school.

Stevie raised his face to the sky and exhaled loudly. The bright sun and blue skies with happy white clouds put his mind somewhat at ease. Besides, since his talk with Mr. Stark at lunchtime, he was still thinking about what the broken girl really wanted. Was she evil, or just a spirit that couldn't rest? Maybe she was asking him for help.

"Okay," he finally said. "As long as we stay on the trail."

# 14.

"Wow, it's cold," Angie said after they stepped into the shadow filled forest. She buttoned her black wool jacket and raised the pink hood of her hoodie that she wore underneath.

Some sunlight poked in through the trees, but not enough to warm the woods. It was dark, and noticeably colder than outside. Stevie zippered up his own brown leather aviator's jacket. It had a warm wool lining, and he flipped up the collar to protect his bare neck. He just had a light t-shirt on underneath.

Stevie and Angie walked side-by-side along the trail. In some places the trail narrowed, and he led the way until it opened up again. Occasionally, Angie would try to make casual conversation, but Stevie wasn't much in the mood for talking. For one thing, he was concentrating on watching the trail and listening for signs of danger.

But that was only part of the reason. He was a little angry at Angie for strong-arming him into coming back to the forest. She knew he didn't want to go, and she had forced him—more or less.

Suddenly there was a crash from beside them on the trail! Dry leaves rustled. Stevie froze, expecting the sound of claws scratching across rock. Then he shot his head around and looked over the edge. A squirrel was darting down the side of the hill with a big acorn in its mouth. It paused, cocked its head, and looked at them briefly before disappearing up a tree and into its drey.

"Oooo, scary!" Angie teased from behind him. She patted him on the back. "For a minute I thought he was gonna leap up and nibble us to death with those horrible, gnashing squirrel teeth!"

"Very funny," Stevie said, trying to hold in a laugh. But it was funny, and his laugh burst out through his nose, dislodging a string of snot, which made Angie start laughing. Soon Stevie forgot about being angry. In fact, the laughter buried much of his fear, and he almost enjoyed walking through the woods with his friend.

"I'm psyched for Halloween," he said. "The costumes you made are awesome. Maybe you should be a costume designer or something."

"Thanks," Angie replied. A dry leaf had drifted down into her collar, and she pulled it free. "After we meet Mr. Stark here tomorrow, we'll have to shoot right back to my house to get ready. Mom said she'd help us put the makeup on, but it'll take a while." Angie's mom was a cosmetologist, so Angie's Halloween makeup always looked professional.

"Sounds cool. Okay, we're almost there. Just around that bend." Stevie pointed to the turn in the trail Victor had come around yesterday. "Are your neighbor's having haunted houses again this year?""

Angie nodded. "Yeah, they're haunted house crazy on my block. It's awesome. I saw the party store deliver a dry ice machine and strobe lights to the Martins' place across the street yesterday. They go all out."

Laughing together with Angie really lifted Stevie's spirits. Even in the forest, now that the sun poked through the trees, and his friend walked beside him, the events of last night blurred and fell away. It almost seemed silly. Now he was more worried about Victor Plotts than specters lurking in the woods.

Angie said, "This haunted house isn't enough for you?" She gestured up ahead.

"It's different when it isn't real. Being scared is fun when you know you're safe. The house in The Grove—that's a different story."

They came to the same scuffed up area of the trail that Stevie had slid down the day before. Now he could see the motorcycle tracks in the dirt—the small squares left by the knobby wheels.

"House is down below," Stevie said.

Angie nodded, and started to climb down the slope.

"Whoa, hey, whoa!" Stevie yelled. "What are you doing?"

"Going to the house," Angie said, as though this had been the plan all along. She had a slick grin on her face. "Come on. It'll be fun. Besides, ghosts only come out at night, right?"

"You said we'd stay up here. That I'd just point to it."

"And you said I was a big liar!" Angie said. "Turns out you were right! Let's go. It'll be fun. Don't worry, I'll protect you."

Stevie's mood had shifted so dramatically that he was surprised to find himself thinking a little exploration actually did sound fun. Laughter really is the best medicine.

"Fine," he said. "We're not going inside, though."

"Of course!" Angie said. But as she turned and slid down the hill, Stevie wasn't sure if her response was a yes or no.

# 15.

When they approached the house, Stevie saw the front door was once more partially open. Was it inviting the two friends to enter? Angie noticed it, too.

"They even left the door open for us," Angie said. She slipped into an old fashioned southern accent. "Right neighborly of 'em!"

"Why don't we take a look in through the windows?" Stevie suggested, hoping that would satisfy Angie. His voice wavered, though he tried to hold it steady. Not wanting Angie to think that he was a complete chicken, he said, "Follow me."

"Bet that stuff growing in that fountain would make Ms. Flecher dizzy with excitement," Angie said when they walked past the disgusting marble fountain in the center of the circular driveway. Ms. Flecher was their science teacher, and neither Stevie nor Angie liked her very much.

"Can you really imagine Ms. Flecher dizzily excited about anything?" Stevie asked.

"Good point."

They walked around the house clockwise, starting from the entranceway and circling to the rear. This took some time. The mansion was even bigger than Stevie had realized, with a second wing jutting out from the back.

Angie gazed up at the bronze tower and the high dark windows that had so disturbed Stevie on his first visit. "This place is amazing. Can you imagine living in a house like this?"

Stevie shivered. "No way."

"I don't mean now, but when it was new. I bet it was the talk of the town."

"No way," Stevie repeated. "Can't you feel it? There's something wrong with this place."

"I think it's kinda cool. I bet this thing will still be here hundreds of years after our popsicle stick houses flake and fall apart."

Many of the windows, especially in the back of the structure, were high off the ground and the friends couldn't see inside. Others were broken, and shards of glass stuck out like teeth. One in the back even had a tree limb, untrimmed for decades, smash its way through the glass and grow into the second story of the house. The tree itself, a giant black and twisted thing, looked like it had since died.

Does everything that touches Harcourt Manor wither and die? Stevie wondered.

After returning to the front porch, they peered in through the windows there.

"It's been gutted," Stevie said. It was dark inside, but he could see a fireplace in an empty room. A filthy and stained Persian carpet was folded and pushed up against the wall, revealing black and white marble floors discolored by muck and grime.

"Gimme your flashlight," Angie said.

Stevie kept a small LED penlight on his keychain. He handed it over, and then turned back to the window.

"Nothing left inside," he said. "No furniture or decorations or anything."

"Maybe everything went to auction after Virginia died," Angie considered. "Or maybe people looted the place. Mr. Stark said the Harcourts were really wealthy."

Stevie couldn't help but think of the voice from the night before. RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN! He quickly pushed it from his mind and said, "Well, nothing's in there, so there's no point going inside."

A loud crash sounded to his right, and he spun around. Angie stood by the front door. It was wide open now, and she held the outside doorknob in her hand. The inside half must have pulled loose and fallen to the marble floor.

"Sorry," she said. "I guess that's why the door was open. Latch is busted."

Before Stevie could protest, Angie stepped inside.

"Angie," he hissed, moving over to the doorway and looking in at his friend. Her shadowy figure stood inside, waving the flashlight around the entrance foyer. A sweeping curved staircase led up to another level, and there were heavy wooden doors in all directions. They were all open. "You heard what Mr. Stark said. This place is dangerous. Those supports under the floors are probably full of rot."

Angie slammed her foot down a few times. Dust clouded around her shoe.

"Sounds solid enough. Come on. Let's look around." She didn't wait for Stevie to answer, and moved through the closest door on the right.

"Angie!" he called again, but she was gone. He hesitated a moment, nervously peering into the shadows in the corners of the room and the hallway at the top of the grand staircase. He didn't want to go into this place, and yet, how could he leave Angie alone?

Stevie squared his jaw, clenched his fists, and followed her through the door and into what appeared to be a study or library. The walls were dark wood paneling covered in mold—he could smell the musty dampness in the air. Recessed into the walls were many bookshelves, but they were all empty.

Quickly they moved through the house. The floors in all of the rooms except the entrance and tiled kitchen were wood, warped and rough from years of neglect and moisture, but still sturdy enough. Their footsteps on the boards echoed through the house with loud thud, thud, thuds.

They opened cabinets and drawers, peered into dark closets and up staircases, and knocked on the walls, searching for secret passages. Angie looked in every nook and cranny, while Stevie spent most of the time looking over his shoulder, certain that something would be sneaking up behind them.

They only had the one flashlight, so they stayed close together. Stevie wouldn't have it any other way.

"Wow," Angie said, as she slowly pushed open a door on the second floor. It made a long, creaking sound as it moved on hinges that hadn't been disturbed in years. "Virginia's room."

"How do you know?" Stevie started to ask from behind her, but when he saw inside, the words died on his lips.

Wide eyed, they entered. Like the rest of the place, this room was covered in many decades' worth of dust, dirt, and grime. Through the window pushed the gnarled branches from the massive black tree they'd seen outside. Vines, long dead, crawled from the branches and slithered like unmoving snakes around the room.

Unlike the other rooms, here the furnishings remained untouched. A chest of drawers and a dressing table with a large mirror stood to either side of the doorway. Small bottles of dried-up liquid—perfume maybe—sat on a silver tray on the dressing table. On the floor, a broken hand mirror and oval ivory hair brush lay beside a small overturned chair. Many dolls wearing faded and torn clothing were scattered around the room—seated on the floor or tables. Most of their bisque heads were cracked or broken.

But the most disturbing thing was the large four poster bed up against the far wall. The canopy was shredded, its remains hanging down from the wooden frame overhead. A large, dead vine had crawled from the tree branch and twisted around the canopy. Dark stains covered the center of the mattress, and on the headboard was written the word "Murderess!" It looked like it was written in blood!

"Whoa," Angie exclaimed, stepping into the room.

"I wonder if this is where her uncle killed her!" Stevie said.

"Yeah." Angie looked around the room in wide-eyed wonder. She gestured at the dressing table and overturned chair. "I mean, was she right here brushing her hair when her uncle burst in? Did he write that on the headboard in her blood?"

Stevie didn't know. He stepped in behind Angie and looked around the room. A gentle breeze pushed through the broken window, and the long scraps of the tattered canopy that hung on the frame over the bed waved in the ghostly air.

"This reminds me of every horror movie I've ever seen," Angie said.

"Yeah," Stevie agreed. "The kind where you're yelling at the actors not to go in that creepy room because you know something horrible is in there."

"They always go anyway," Angie said, walking cautiously towards a closet on the other side of the room.

"Just before they get hacked into tiny little bite-sized pieces," Stevie added.

The door creaked shut. Both friends turned and gasped. On the back of it, a plea was written in black letters over and over again, covering the entire door. At the top it was neat, written in an old-fashioned swirly script, but as it continued on, it grew sloppier and sloppier.

Forgive me for my trespasses! Forgive me for my trespasses! Forgive me for my trespasses!

"Anj, let's get out of here," Stevie said.

"In a sec," Angie said. "It was just the wind." She continued toward the closet, flashlight in hand, though sunlight came in through the window.

Suddenly a creaking sound came from underneath Angie's foot! Her heel sunk down into it, and she quickly jumped away. A floorboard had splintered and crumbled!

"Careful!" Stevie cried. Would the rest of the floor collapse and send them plummeting to the lower level? Maybe even down to the basement?

Angie turned around and knelt down. "Hold on, this piece is different from the rest."

Stevie carefully moved over and knelt down beside of her. The wood was charred slightly. He prodded carefully at the other floorboards, but they felt sturdy enough.

Angie pulled on the piece of broken floor, and the short board—only about a foot long—easily came free. An old photograph, yellowed and frayed around the edges, rested inside the small, hidden compartment below the floor.

Stevie reached in and pulled it out.

"Careful," Angie said. "It's probably really brittle."

Stevie nodded and laid it gingerly on the floor beside the hole.

The photograph was about five inches by seven and black and white. It showed a family sitting portrait style in 1940's style clothing. The family consisted of mother, father, daughter, and a baby cradled in the mother's arms. They all looked at the camera, except for the young daughter. She stared down at the baby, and her eyes looked completely white. Stevie supposed it could have been a reflection from the flash, though it didn't appear on anyone else in the picture.

"What is that?" Angie said, pointing to a shape on the wall behind the young girl. "A stain?"

Stevie leaned closer. At first he couldn't tell exactly what it was, but as he examined it, the form became clear. It wasn't a stain. It was a shadow. The girl's shadow!

But the shadows cast by the parents were small and vague in comparison. This one was tall as the ceiling and almost stood away from the figure of the girl. It had long arms with clawed, reaching hands.

Hands that reached for the baby!

# 16.

"I'm outta here," Stevie said. Any thoughts that Virginia Harcourt wasn't evil—that all she wanted was to clear her good name—instantly evaporated once he saw the photo of her shadow reaching toward the baby. She had killed her parents, and she had killed the baby, too!

"Right behind you," Angie agreed quietly, her voice a tight knot of apprehension.

They both stood and walked as quickly as they could back outside the house. Stevie pointed to the driveway and they ran. Angie followed him until they hit the road, where they crossed the street and turned toward Stevie's house. Neither of them spoke until they closed his front door, locked it, and slid the bolt across.

"That was—" Angie began.

"I know," Stevie finished. "Insane."

"If by insane you mean incredible!" Angie said. With a wild, excited look in her eyes, she clenched both fists in the air and fell back onto the couch. Stevie knew that look, and didn't like it at all. It meant trouble. "I can't wait to go back again tomorrow!"

Angie unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it to Stevie, and he took off his own and placed them in the coat closet under the stairs. Then he returned and dropped onto the sofa next to her.

"Seriously?" he asked.

"Heck yeah! That was the most exciting thing EVER! I felt like a real ghost hunter. Man, I wish I had some of that cool equipment, like EMF sensors and infrared cameras and stuff! I know we'd find something there."

"Should've been here last night," Stevie said. "You wouldn't need any of that stuff."

He was still pretty freaked out about the whole thing, but truth-be-told, Angie's excitement was contagious. It had been thrilling, and it wasn't like they'd actually seen anything else in the house.

He tried to think back and remember the picture. Had the shadow actually been a figure reaching for the baby? He remembered when he first looked at it, how it had looked like just a blob. Angie had even asked if it was a stain. Maybe it really was just a stain, and their minds had formed what they expected to see. Like looking for shapes in the clouds. Or those Rorschach ink blot tests psychologists use.

No way! Stevie thought. I know what I saw. The townspeople were right! Virginia Harcourt really had killed her baby sister!

Or something inside Virginia had done it. Maybe the same something that won't let her spirit rest.

Angie started speaking excitedly. "Tomorrow I'm bringing my camera and flashlights and I think my dad has an old tape recorder and—"

"My dad's got one we can borrow," Stevie said, getting into the moment.

"Sweet!" Angie jumped up. "Gonna raid your fridge."

"Have at it." Stevie watched her reflection in the big mirror over the television until she disappeared through the archway that led into the kitchen. Stevie's mother always decorated the mirror with holiday themes, and Halloween was no exception. Paper witches, skeletons, and ghosts danced around the edges, and a HAPPY HALLOWEEN banner was taped to the top. Jack-O-Lanterns wearing black witch hats smiled from the bottom right corner.

"Oh!" she called loudly from the other room. "I should bring Dad's old camera instead of mine! I heard film is better than digital for catching spirit orbs."

"I hope small lights on film are all we catch," Stevie called back, but his confidence was growing. With Angie talking about ghost hunting, it made sense to him to go in there and try to figure out a way to get rid of the thing, rather than wait at home for the broken girl to come visiting again.

In the distance, thunder rumbled and Stevie looked outside. Clouds were gathering again. Looked like another storm was approaching.

"Mr. Stark's is gonna be psyched about that picture!" Angie said. "Lucky I found it. Could be an important historical discovery. Maybe a paranormal one, too!"

"Lucky you found it?" Stevie asked. "I seem to remember being there, too."

"Well, yeah. But it was my foot that went through the floor. And you didn't even want to go inside!"

"That's true," Stevie said. He knew that Angie just wanted to look good to Mr. Stark.

"I should've brought it back with us," she said. "I hope rain doesn't go through the window and wreck it."

"I'm glad you didn't. I don't want to take anything else from Virginia Harcourt."

Angie's reflection reappeared in the mirror, and a moment later she was sitting on the couch with a plate of crackers and a few slices of American cheese.

"What do you want to do?" Stevie asked.

"Not want to, but have to. We've got homework for tomorrow and a test coming up, remember?"

Stevie scrunched up his face. "Yeah. And I thought Virginia Harcourt was scary."

Angie laughed. "When is Emily's game finished?"

"Not sure," Stevie said. "Kinda late. What about your mom's party?"

"Same time."

Angie handed Stevie a cheese-and-cracker and pulled some books from her backpack. Stevie shoved the snack in his mouth and joined her. They finished their homework, and then studied for about an hour and a half.

While they were working, the storm came in force. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed. Stevie wondered if Emily's game would be rained out. He found himself constantly looking out through the window toward the driveway, more than half expecting to see a dark, broken figure. He imagined it suddenly appearing, right up against the window. Staring at them with dead eyes and maggots crawling in and out through its mouth and nose and rotting flesh.

"Enough already!" Angie said. "My brain is full!"

"That's unusual," Stevie teased. "Your head is usually so empty."

"Ha ha, very funny. It's no wonder Plotts likes you so much," Angie joked, and then nodded to the Blu-ray player. "How about a little Haunting of Horror Hill?"

"Really?" Stevie asked. "You want to watch a scary movie? Haven't you had your fill of creepiness for the day?"

Angie shook her head. "That just put me in the mood!"

"Weirdo." Stevie smiled, dropped the cracker into his mouth, and started the movie. The Haunting of Horror Hill was there favorite scary movie. They must have watched it twenty times together.

When the movie was about half over, Stevie remembered something that Mr. Stark had told him.

"Hey," he said. "Mr. Stark said his father had some unusual ideas about ghosts and spirits and stuff in The Grove. Maybe we should talk to him."

"You wanna go over?"

Stevie pulled the white pages from a drawer in the end table and picked up the phone. "I was thinking we could just call him?"

"Yeah," Angie said. She took the remote and paused the movie. A woman's face filled the screen, frozen mid-scream. "That's a better plan."

Stevie turned on the phone and dialed. Angie scooted closer and put her head against his so she could hear, too. It rang four times, and then a man's gruff voice answered.

"Stark," was all he said.

#  17.

"Mr. Stark," Stevie began. He tried to sound as polite as possible. "My name is Steven Barton, and I'm a student of your son's at Newhope Middle School."

The man grunted but didn't say anything. When the silence was awkward, Stevie continued. "Mr. Stark—I mean your son—told me I should contact you. Said you might have some interesting ideas about the old house in The Grove. Harcourt Manor."

A funny sound came from the other end of the line, and then Mr. Stark said, "I'll bet he did! Is this some kind of a prank call? Make fun of the crazy old man?"

Stevie was surprised. He didn't know what Mr. Stark was talking about. "No, sir. Not at all."

There was a pause, and then the man must have made a decision and said, "Well, all right then. First thing's first. You call me Elijah. Haven't been Mr. Stark around these parts for some time. That title belongs to my son. Now, what do you want to know?"

"Well, I know the basic history of what happened there from Mr. Stark. Er, junior. But I was wondering if maybe you have some other ideas. Maybe your own thoughts on why Virginia Harcourt killed her parents, and what happened after."

"She got dead after," Elijah said, and snorted in amusement.

"I know, but I don't think it ended there. Do you?"

Again there was an awkward silence, but this time Stevie let it hang that way. After a moment, the man spoke.

"No," he said. "I don't. Suppose you tell me what's going on."

"You won't believe me," Stevie said. "It happened to me, and I'm not sure I believe it!"

"Tell me anyway," Elijah said.

Stevie told the man everything. The toy, the way something chased him just before Victor appeared, finding the house, the voice asking Where is it? when he and Emily went back for his phone, the visit by the creature that caused his mother to crash the car, and the trip to the house today.

Angie covered the receiver and whispered, "Tell him about the picture."

Stevie shook his head. He didn't know why, but he didn't feel he should share that information with the man.

"You went inside?" Elijah asked, surprised. He had a way of speaking that sounded old-fashioned and tired. "You ought not to have done that. That place is dangerous."

"Seemed pretty solid," Stevie said.

"Oh, it is. That's not what I'm talkin' about. You need to be careful in The Grove. No one believed me either, Steven, but that place is evil. Were it up to me, we would've burned the whole place down. Torch the forest and all. My son has some different ideas."

"He wants to preserve it," Stevie said, surprised by Elijah's drastic suggestion. "You don't?"

"No," was the man's only response.

Stevie sensed more than a little tension between Elijah and his son, Stevie's teacher.

"Why do you want the house destroyed?"

"Some say it was the girl and the murders that made it evil, but I don't think so. I think the evil in The Grove is ancient. It was there long before Mr. Harcourt ever built that monstrous place. That girl, Virginia, she was just a—well, she was like a sponge what soaked up the evil and then had no way of squeezin' it out."

"But why then?" Stevie asked. "Why that Halloween night, when the Harcourts had lived there for many years already? Why had it waited?"

"On Halloween, we humans let our imaginations run wild. We dress up, we scare each other, and we believe in that which—on other days—we don't even think about. Belief is a powerful tool that feeds evil. Makes it stronger.

"That night, feeding on the energies of Halloween, something horrible entered that house. Why that Halloween instead of the one before or after? Who can say? Perhaps the evil entered Harcourt Manor every Halloween before that night, and every Halloween since. Time is not always a straight line, especially in The Grove!"

Stevie told the man about what Emily had said. About how people in Japan believed in spirits that lived in the forests and the mountains, and how the lumberjacks would try to appease the spirits by leaving a toy or some small gift.

"And you think that toy you found might be what set this whole thing off, is what you're saying?" Elijah asked.

Stevie hesitated. It sounded silly when he said it to the man. "Well, I don't know."

"Son, if I were you, I would make sure that toy was—"

Suddenly, lightning struck and thunder boomed. The lights dimmed, and then went out. The house was thrown into complete darkness!

# 18.

"Hello?" Stevie asked frantically, but the power to the phone—like the rest of the house—was gone.

"Not liking this," Angie said. She stood and looked out through the front window. "Not liking this one bit."

Lightning flashed again, and at the same time—thunder. A deafening, heart-stopping crash! Then the booming died down into a long, low rumble, and they heard the scream.

It was quiet at first, as though from a great distance, but quickly it grew louder. A long, high-pitched, horrible, inhuman wail. It came directly toward the house, drawing nearer and nearer! Louder and louder! There was a pause, but then it started up again, and now it was almost deafening!

"It's her! The broken girl!" Stevie yelled, grabbing Angie's forearm tightly. "She's coming back. Hide!"

He pulled her through the darkness, stumbling around furniture and bumping into tables. A lamp crashed to the floor, but Stevie didn't stop. He started to run up the stairs.

No! A giant red flag went up in his mind. She saw me there last night. She knows that's my room!

He backtracked to the closet under the stairs where he'd hung their jackets. They ducked inside and hid on the floor under the hanging coats. Stevie pulled the door almost shut, but left it open just a crack so he could see out through the space.

The cry continued, growing louder and louder, and then suddenly, it stopped.

"Stevie, I'm scared," Angie said. Her voice shook and her hands trembled as they clenched at his arm painfully. The bravado they had both felt earlier—ghost hunting and confronting Virginia Harcourt—was forgotten.

Silence came from outside of the closet door. The only sounds he heard were his own breathing and heartbeat, and a quiet whimpering from Angie. Was she crying? He pried his arm free of her grasp and pressed a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, and then—yes, he felt her warm tears on his hand.

A dull thud came from somewhere outside the house, and he heard a door slowly creak open. It wasn't the front door. Maybe the kitchen door? Then footsteps. Slow, lumbering footsteps and a scraping on the floor that sounded like someone dragging something, or limping badly, and Stevie remembered the broken girl on the driveway. The way her one leg twisted out from the knee at a terrible, unnatural angle.

The sound was in the living room now, where moments before the two friends spoke on the phone with Mr. Stark. It drew nearer. Was it coming for them? Did it know right where they were?

Lightning flashed, and Stevie saw the figure. His breathing stopped completely.

Her silhouette walked toward them slowly. Her tangled hair draped limply over her shoulders. One leg supported all her weight as she dragged the other useless foot behind her.

Scrape.

Thud.

Scrape.

Thud.

SCRAPE!

THUD!

The sound stopped just outside the door. There was only silence. Stevie's lungs burned for lack of oxygen, but he couldn't breathe. Angie's muffled whimpering ceased. Nothing moved.

Then the door flew open! Angie screamed!

# 19.

The ghost screamed, too, and Angie screamed again, and so did Stevie! He pushed away from the door and into the back of the closet. He had nowhere to go, but he panicked and just pressed his body against the wall as hard as he could, trapping Angie behind him. The thing stood in the opening, a shadow within shadow. And then it spoke.

"Stevie?" Emily said. "Angie? What are you guys doing in the closet? You scared the Gatorade right outta me!"

The shadow turned and fumbled in a drawer. When it turned back, it had a flashlight aimed at them. "What's wrong with you two?"

"Emily!" Stevie said. He jumped up and hugged her. In the glow of the flashlight, Stevie saw Angie's tear streaked face. She laughed and hugged Emily, too.

"Ow!" Emily cried, trying to pry free of their grasp. "Ow, ow, ow! Get off you whackos!"

"We thought you were her!" Stevie said. "The ghost from The Grove!"

"What are you talking about?" She roughly pushed the flashlight into Stevie's hands and said, "Do I look like a ghost?" She sounded really annoyed and grabbed a hanger from the closet. "Geesh, a girl can't even hang up her coat before you kids start screamin' and jumpin' on her. Scared me nearly to death."

Stevie didn't even consider apologizing. He was so relieved that he stood stunned for a few moments. As Emily closed the closet door, he noticed that her hair was frizzy and tangled like it always was when wet, and she had a bandage wrapped around her knee. He pointed the flashlight down at her leg. Around the bandage he saw yellow and purplish bruises, and a number of scrapes and cuts.

"Em, what happened to your leg?" Angie asked. Her voice was a shaky whisper.

"Gimme a hand," Emily said, and wrapped an arm around her brother's shoulders, and another around Angie. "I got tripped and slammed down hard in the second quarter, and they had to stretcher me off the field. Coach and the doctor said I'll be fine, but man! It hurts!"

They walked her to the couch and set her down gently.

"So that's why you were limping," Stevie said, more to himself.

"Well, duh!" Emily said, and then her face softened. "I'm sorry, Stevie. I'm just upset about this, and the game. And to top it off, there's something wrong with a belt or something in my car. It made this horrible squealing noise all the way home and everyone felt like they needed to stare at me! Like they've never heard a loose belt before! I got out to check it, but there's nothing I could do. Except, evidently, get soaking wet in the storm!"

Stevie started laughing. He couldn't help it. It made perfect sense now. The screaming was the squealing of her car's belt. The hair that was wet and went frizzy from the storm. The lightning probably even made it worse. And the limp, which matched the ghost! He laughed uncontrollably, and Angie joined in.

"Real nice, barfbag!" Emily said. She took a pillow from the couch and hit them both with it. "Some brother you are!"

Stevie couldn't even stop laughing long enough to say I'm sorry.

# 20.

"No ghosts on a day like today!" Stevie said cheerily as the rays from the brightly shining sun warmed his face and eased his mind. The storm had blown clear in the night, and now not a cloud filled the sky.

Stevie had considered riding his motorcycle when he left, but thought maybe he'd hang out with Angie afterward and didn't want to be stuck pushing the thing around town. Now he was glad he hadn't brought it. It was such a nice day, and the sun on his face felt great.

The cool, October breeze pushed the sweet smell of pine through the air, mixed with the pleasant scent of smoke from a fireplace or a burning pile somewhere in the distance. It was cool, but not cold, and he was comfortable wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He brought his aviator's jacket, though, because he remembered how much cooler The Grove could be.

They had agreed to meet at the end of the driveway, and when he got there, Mr. Stark and Angie were leaning against the teacher's old, dented Chevy. Normal enough.

Except that Stevie could have sworn the driveway had been a hundred yards farther down the road. The lighthearted and excited thoughts of adventure were now crowded by a hint of apprehension.

"Heya Stevie," Mr. Stark said. He stepped away from the car and tapped Stevie's shoulder with his fist. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt under a gray nylon parka. His clothes made him look a lot younger. "Happy Halloween."

"Happy Halloween," Stevie said, confused eyes scanning the road.

"What's up?" Angie asked. "Lose your puppy?"

Stevie shook his head. "Wasn't the driveway more down the road?" he asked, nodding in the direction from which he'd come. "Yesterday?"

Angie shook her head. "You know, I thought it was up that ways a bit." She waved a thumb in the opposite direction. Pink knit fingerless gloves jutted out from her black jacket. Her hair was pulled up in an off-center ponytail. She shrugged. "Everything looks different in the morning."

"Yeah," Stevie said, unconvinced. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Let's get this party started," Mr. Stark said. "I have to document the condition of the place for the Newhope Township Historical Society, though I doubt they'll ever do anything about it. Too many people want to forget it ever existed. Still, I think it's an important part of our town's history, no matter how unpleasant it is. The building should be preserved for its architectural value alone!"

"Your dad sure doesn't think so," Angie volunteered. "Hey, Stevie, did you call him back this morning? To find out what he was gonna tell you? About the toy?"

Stevie nodded. "Tried, but he wasn't there." Stevie turned to Mr. Stark. "Why did you suggest talking to your father, anyway? He told us pretty much the opposite of everything you did."

"He said the whole Grove should be burned down," Angie added.

"Look," Mr. Stark said. "My father and I have had our differences for a lot of years, about a lot of different things. But when it comes to Harcourt Manor, there's one thing we both agree on. It's a dangerous place. My thoughts lean more towards rusty nails and rotten support beams than ghosts and things that go bump in the night, but the conclusion is the same."

"You thought he'd scare us off!" Stevie accused him, suddenly understanding. He was surprised, but not angry. "You didn't want us coming here!"

"I am your teacher. Keeping my students safe is part of the job description. Besides, a little fear is sometimes more efficient than a big fence."

Angie snorted. "You obviously don't know me so well."

Mr. Stark grabbed a clipboard and camera from the front seat of the car and pushed his way onto the overgrown driveway. Stevie and Angie followed.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been here in a long time," Mr. Stark said.

"I've been here twice this week," Stevie told him.

"Twice?" Mr. Stark asked, digging his foot into a thick vine of thorns. It was tough and springy though, and twisted around his leg. He held it in place while Angie and Stevie stepped past.

"My idea," Angie said. "I made Stevie come."

"Kicking and screaming, I might add," Stevie added.

Mr. Stark frowned. "I guess my father is losing his scary touch."

"We came here before we talked to your dad," Stevie said, stepping over a fallen, decaying tree. "He hasn't lost his touch. He's still pretty creepy."

Mr. looked seriously at his two students. "Seriously, you shouldn't be down there alone. The walls are stone and will probably stand another five hundred years, but that roof is slate and heavy. Last time I was here, I went up to the attic and looked at the beams under it. The supports are still good, but if one of those pieces slides off and cracks you in the head, it's all over. And that's just one example. Things just loosen up and come apart in a place like Harcourt Manor if nobody takes care of it."

Stevie offered a hand to Angie to help her over the fallen tree, but she just smirked at him and jumped over. She said, "Sorry Mr. Stark. I couldn't wait. But speaking of loose boards, wait until you see what we found under the floor in a hidden compartment!"

"A hidden compartment?" their teacher exclaimed. Now he sounded as excited as Angie.

While Angie told Mr. Stark about their adventure the day before, Stevie's apprehension grew. He felt eyes watching them, and not the eyes of the creatures in the forest wary of the three intruders. This was something else. Something that was hunter rather than prey. Something frigid and evil and full of anger. He thought about the broken girl.

"There it is," Mr. Stark said, pointing at the dark house some distance ahead of them. "Sure is a wonderfully ugly thing, isn't it?"

"I rather like it," Angie said. "It's got style."

Mr. Stark laughed. "Morbid, gothic style."

Angie shrugged. "I think that's what I like about it most."

Suddenly, Stevie didn't want to go. More than anything, he wanted to stay as far as possible from that horrible, dark place with the twisted past. He didn't care about the ghost or the doll or anything else. He just wanted to pretend he'd never laid eyes on it.

Run away, he thought. Just go. Tell them you're going home. Tell them you don't feel well. Tell them anything! Just get away from this house!

The others watched the treacherous terrain, but Stevie's eyes focused only on Harcourt Manor. The paint on the trim had long ago flaked away, leaving the exposed wood underneath to rot in some places, and simply age and petrify in others. Now, everything was either black or gray, from the roof to the porch to the windows to the door. Even the vines and vegetation that had grown along the walls had withered and died. Nothing that touched the place could live.

Something moved! First, a shape that disappeared behind the house, and a moment later, a shadow in one of the windows.

"Did you see that?" Stevie asked, gripping Mr. Stark's arm.

"What?" Angie said.

"Something moved. Behind the house, and then inside."

"Probably a squirrel," Mr. Stark said. Then he grinned evilly. "Or a rat."

"Eeeew," Angie exclaimed. She didn't like small fuzzy creatures of any variety, but especially rats.

"No, it was bigger than that," Stevie said.

Had it been his imagination? A tree's shadow? A reflection? Ragged, shredded drapes blowing in the gentle breeze?

No, it had been none of those things. He knew that as certainly as he knew they should not be in sight of this place. They should not be anywhere near Harcourt Manor.

It's a dead place, he thought. Full of dead things.

And he was right.

"I don't feel well," Stevie said, and suddenly the massive structure towered before them. A moment ago, it had been a fair distance away, but now it was right there in front of them. Had they really come to it so quickly? His palms were sweaty and he rubbed them on his jeans.

"What's wrong?" Angie asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You look queasy."

"My stomach," he said weakly. "My head."

Mr. Stark tore his eyes from the roofline of the house and walked back to Stevie. "You going to be okay?" he asked.

"It's this place," Angie said. She looked at Stevie with concern, and he knew she wasn't teasing him. "It bugs him."

"You want to go home?" Mr. Stark asked.

Yes! Yes! Yes! Stevie thought, but he looked at the eyes of his teacher and his best friend. He respected them both a great deal, and he didn't want them to think less of him.

"No," he said, and pointed to a large rock alongside the driveway. "But maybe I'll sit here for a minute."

"Sure thing. Come when you're ready," Mr. Stark said, and he and Angie walked toward the overgrown fountain. "I'll make some notes on the exterior, Angie. Then you can show me what you found inside." Mr. Stark paused at the fountain briefly, wrote something on his clipboard, and then continued to the side of the manor. Angie stepped up onto the porch.

Stevie watched. They must think I'm a huge baby, he thought, but he couldn't stop glancing over his shoulder at the gray-black trees behind him. In the distance he heard a murder of crows making their angry sound, and his mind drifted for only a moment to why a flock of crows was called a murder. He shivered.

As he sat, the feeling that something was watching from the forest grew and grew. Sitting on the rock left his back exposed to the depths of the woods. It would be so easy for something to sneak up behind him and tear him from his perch!

He stood and took a few steps toward the house. Angie was on the porch looking in the windows, and Mr. Stark studied the side of the house and wrote on his clipboard. Stevie watched them for a few moments, and then turned around and stared into the shadows of the forest. He searched the woods for any signs of danger.

What was in there? he wondered. Are you watching me? What do you want?

His eyes still scanned the dark forest when Angie's scream sliced through the air!

#  21.

Stevie whipped around just in time to see Angie's pink-gloved hand disappear through the front door. With a heavy thud, the door slammed shut.

Stevie ran toward the house, but Mr. Stark was closer. He dropped his clipboard on the porch and reached for the doorknob. The doorknob, Stevie thought. Hadn't Angie broken it yesterday?

"Angie!" Mr. Stark shouted. He twisted the knob, and when that didn't work, he slammed his shoulder against the door, trying to force it open.

Stevie was halfway to the porch when the door flew open again. Mr. Stark stumbled just inside the entrance and nearly fell. Glowing, broken fingers reached out from the darkness. Surprised, Mr. Stark tried to knock them away, but when his frantic swing touched the fingers, he screamed out in pain and his arm dropped limply to his side. The claw-like fingers wrapped around Mr. Stark's neck.

Stevie skidded to a stop. Angie was nowhere to be seen, but the broken girl from Stevie's driveway limped from the shadows. A loud howl came from her mouth, and as it did, she lifted Mr. Stark into the air! Stevie thought the creature would strangle him, but as he watched, Virginia Harcourt disappeared into Mr. Stark!

When the broken girl was gone, Mr. Stark dropped to his feet. He turned to Stevie and leveled dark eyes on him. His mouth opened, but when he spoke, Stevie didn't hear the words. Punching directly into his mind was the raspy voice of the broken girl.

RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN!

The thing inside of Mr. Stark slammed the door closed.

Stevie was unable to move. It felt like Virginia Harcourt had reached into his chest and wrapped her broken fingers around his heart. He turned and ran, but instead of running down the driveway from which they'd come—the path that would take him home—he ran toward the steep slope that he'd fallen down two days ago. Stevie's thoughts came surprisingly clearly. He knew what must be done, and while he was terrified, he didn't hesitate.

The key was the toy that Victor Plott's had stolen. It had to be!

Quickly, he checked his cell phone. No reception. Figures. Who would he call anyway? What would he say? Hello, please help me! My teacher was possessed by the ghost of Virginia Harcourt, and he kidnapped my best friend! No one would believe him. He barely believed it himself!

The difficult physical climb up the hill kept his fear in check.

"This... can't be... happening," Stevie grunted as he worked his way to the top. These things only happened in B-movies and scary books, right? How could this kind of horror really exist? Maybe I'm losing my mind!

A long, horrible wail erupted from the house, and Stevie knew that it wasn't his mind he would lose if he didn't hurry. What had that thing done to Mr. Stark? What would it do to Angie?

When he finally made it to the top, he turned up the path, ran full speed through The Grove, and eventually out into the streets of Newhope.

This was his battle. For some reason, Virginia Harcourt had chosen him.

"It's dark," Stevie said to himself. "Why is it so dark?" He checked his watch. Three thirty-seven, which was about what he expected. But when he ran past the First Union Bank, the clock on the sign showed seven forty-five. Many kids were out trick-or-treating in their costumes, carrying bags, molded plastic jack-o-lanterns, or the occasional pillowcase. All ages enjoyed the night, from teens dressed in horrible masks depicting violent deaths, to infants dressed as pumpkins or fluffy animals and carried by their adoring parents.

"This is wrong," Stevie muttered as he ran. "It should be daytime! There's no way so much time could have passed."

Stevie's mind flashed back to what Elijah Stark had said. Perhaps the evil entered the Harcourt house every Halloween before that night, and every Halloween since. Time is not always a straight line, especially in The Grove!

Stevie knew where Victor Plotts and all of his friends lived, mainly for survival purposes. Those were streets that under normal circumstances he did all he could to avoid. Tonight he was running into the mouth of the lion. He knew that if Victor found him first, he'd have no chance of getting the toy. His only chance was to steal it back!

Stevie followed the sidewalk up to Victor's house. It was completely dark. There was an empty bowl with a sign that said "Take One!" on the front step, and the occasional child would go to the front of the house, look in the bowl, and sadly walk away with slumped shoulders.

Stevie slowed to a walk to avoid suspicion and tried to blend in. A few of Victor's neighbors were outside watching the kids walk past in their costumes. Two women had flashlights and were keeping an eye on the festivities and the traffic.

"The Plotts never stay home for Halloween," one of the adults said. "They just put that bowl on the front step and take off. The mother told me she doesn't really like kids."

"Can't blame them, with that one they've got," the other woman said. "I saw him and his friends empty that candy bowl into a paper bag and then pedal off on their bikes!"

"My kids are afraid of them," the first lady said.

"My husband is afraid of them!" said the other, and they both laughed.

Stevie walked around behind the row of houses and was happy to find a small alleyway. The alleyway was dark, and he ducked into it, quickly breaking into a run. When he reached Victor's house, he turned and crossed the yard. The grass was high. It didn't look like it had been cut the entire summer. Empty aluminum cans and other trash were tangled in the weeds, and two large overflowing garbage cans stood in the shadows against the house.

Good place to keep out of sight Stevie thought, holding his breath and ducking behind the garbage cans. Probably the last place Victor would look. Just hope I don't have to touch anything. I'll need a tetanus shot!

From his hiding spot, Stevie saw some windows on the side of the house. They were partially open with just screens across, and he was sure he could get in that way. He didn't want to break into someone's house. He'd never done anything even remotely illegal before, but people's lives were at risk. People he loved. He was about to move a trashcan under one of the windows so he could stand on it and boost himself in when he saw Victor's motorcycle leaning up against the side of the house.

Could it be this easy? he wondered.

Staying in the shadows, he crept over to the yellow bike and grabbed the black plastic cushioned seat. It was the same make as his own motorcycle, so he knew how the seat opened.

It was that easy! Under the seat was the creepy toy. Victor must have forgotten all about it!

He grabbed it up quickly, and again it wiggled in his grip. The gears grinded and after a moment came the screeching laughter. He wondered briefly if it really were the mechanical parts making it feel alive, or something more sinister. Now it felt more like flesh under the striped suit. Like an animal trying to get away.

He jammed it deep inside his jacket to try and cover the sound, and then started back through the yard. He only ran two steps when a tempting thought occurred to him. He went back to the motorcycle, slammed down the seat, and with only the tiniest twinge of guilt, hopped on top.

"Well, Victor, you're gonna pound me sooner or later anyway," Stevie said aloud. "Might as well give you a good reason!"

He jumped on the kick-starter and the engine screamed to life! Stevie slammed the pedal down into first gear, popped the clutch, and twisted the accelerator. The front wheel went up as he raced the motorcycle up the driveway.

Victor Plotts stood on the sidewalk. He straddled his bmx bicycle and, despite not wearing a costume, held a bag of candy in a clenched fist.

He doesn't need a costume, Stevie thought. Plenty ugly already!

"I'll get you for this, Barton!" Victor yelled. He waved a fist helplessly as Stevie flew past him. Stevie gave him a quick two-fingered salute, and gunned it down the road toward The Grove. The engine screamed with force. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Victor giving chase, but there was no way he'd catch up on a bicycle.

Stevie rode hard and fast. He had a date that he couldn't miss. A date with the broken girl!

#  22.

He could see the trail, but just barely. Since the motorcycle didn't have a headlight, Stevie had jammed his penlight into his mouth. It helped a little, but not much.

He'd had to slow down considerably once he entered The Grove, but still rode as fast as he could. Once or twice he almost missed a turn and would've ended up flying over the edge or slamming into trees, but he managed to swing the bike around at the last moment as branches and overgrowth reached out and slapped at his arms.

No way was he going to let a little thing like gravity get in the way of rescuing his friends!

Eventually, he made it to the spot. He knew it on sight now, and didn't even have to look for the marks where he'd fallen. Stevie hammered on both front and rear brakes and the thick, knobby tires dug into the dirt of the trail.

"I sure hope this is the last time I have to do this!" He dropped the bike on its side and slid down the steep descent without a moment's hesitation.

Stevie was terrified, but somehow, his mind managed to separate the terror from the task. Until...

Stevie gasped when he caught sight of the house, and tried hard to stop. He dug his heels into the loose forest floor, but they wouldn't grip and he slid all the way to the bottom.

Inside the house, all of the lights had been turned on and shone warmly through the windows. Hadn't Mr. Stark told them that the power was disconnected long ago? It didn't really matter because Stevie knew there were no lights in the gutted and empty house! Or, at least, there shouldn't be.

He stood quietly trying to build up his courage and watched the place for a few moments.

Somewhere within the manor a radio switched on. Old-time swing music like Stevie sometimes heard at his grandparent's house cut through the air. Big band trombones, clarinets, and piano drifted through the air, accompanied by a lilting female voice:

Your heart burns for me,

And me alone.

Don't keep me waiting, my sweet.

Come home, come... home.

He pulled the toy from his pocket and looked at it. Here, light from the moon cut through the trees and gave Stevie a pale, soft glow to see by. The toy's face—scarred and wild—grinned up at him. It no longer moved (or had it struggled?) beneath his fingers.

"You understand, don't you?" Stevie said. "You're going home." Firm determination came through in his voice, and the sound of it gave him strength. He walked to the house.

Pushing through the last of the trees, Stevie stepped onto the driveway. The circular fountain which had been filled with sludge was now running smoothly. Clear water flowed into the pool below; rippling, it reflected the star-filled sky. As Stevie walked past, he noticed Japanese koi—large goldfish—swimming in the crystal clear water.

The front door opened easily under the pressure of his fingertips, and Stevie stepped quietly inside.

Light washed over him and the sound of the radio loudened, drifting down from the hallway at the top of the stairs. Stevie looked around, partially disbelieving what he saw. The other part of him, however, knew it would be just this way.

Harcourt Manor was no longer an empty, broken place. Had Stevie been transported back in time? Or had the mansion repaired itself, starting with the doorknob that Angie broke yesterday, but was undamaged today? As if to confirm this theory, the manor gave a tremendous shake, and from somewhere in its dark depths emitted a long, low groan.

The foyer, once barren and stained with decades of weather damage and neglect, was now elegantly decorated. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, bathing the entire room in warm yellow light. Plush chairs and sofas with red velvet cushions sat ready for guests that would wait in this area for their host or hostess to greet them. The Persian carpet that Stevie had seen pushed up against the wall was new and clean and centered on the floor. Around the edge of the room it gave way to reveal highly polished black and white marble tiles underneath. Paintings of distinguished people or stunning landscapes decorated the walls. On the landing halfway up the grand staircase stood a huge grandfather's clock, ticking away.

Could that clock be right? he wondered. The clock showed it was five minutes to midnight! He checked his own watch. Four o'clock, on the nose.

Even though the room was beautiful, it radiated a wrongness that filled Stevie's heart with fear. It was even more terrifying than the neglected old ruin they had visited before. This place was more than evil. It was alive.

His determination wavered but, hands shaking, he ascended the staircase and followed the loud music. He knew where it would lead him.

The broken girl's room.

As Stevie topped the stairs, the radio switched off, and he saw the doorway to Virginia's room. The door was open, and from it came a shimmering pale green light.

On the walls, electric lights that looked like candles flicked on and off as he walked down the carpeted hallway toward the door. He heard a strange sound coming from the room—a wet sound—and then that stopped too, and he continued in silence.

His breathing came hard as he stepped closer. Was his gasping really that loud, or did it just sound that way in his head? It sounded like someone was blowing up a basketball with a foot pump! No wonder the kids always found him when they played hide-and-seek.

The interior of the room came into view, and he froze. The room was almost unchanged. The torn canopy fluttered in the breeze from the broken window. The mirror and brush still lay scattered on the floor beside the overturned chair. MURDERESS was still written on the headboard. The large black branches and vines still pushed in through the broken window.

Except now there were many more than before, and Stevie saw that Angie was trapped inside of them! The branches and vines snaked through the shattered window, crawled around her body, and bound her arms and legs.

"Angie!"

Stevie ran into the room and started working to free her. The old wood and vines had torn through her jacket and held her suspended three feet above the floor. Barely conscious, she couldn't move a finger, let alone get free!

Angie's voice came quietly. "Stevie," was all she could say, and then her eyes weakly shifted behind him.

Stevie spun around just as the bedroom door slammed closed. Behind it stood Mr. Stark!

#  23.

Mr. Stark blocked the only exit and glared hungrily at Stevie. His head was down, and he stood in a twisted kind of way—just like the broken girl. A green aura—almost, but not quite like flame—burned around him. Like a transparent mask over Mr. Stark's face was the haunted, angry face of the broken girl. Virginia Harcourt's face.

"Return that which was STOLEN!" Mr. Stark shouted, his voice a horrible mixture of the man's own and the spirit's.

The grandfather's clock on the stairs chimed, and when the first chime struck, a glowing, oval shape formed in the dressing table mirror!

At first, it was a whirlpool. Stevie's reflection and that of the surrounding room rippled and swirled like liquid or smoke. But an instant later the light in the mirror—or was it the whole room?—shifted from green to purple to deep red. The swirling slowed, and in the mirror was a different place. A black place, filled by vile, fiendish, dead creatures. He saw that each of them held something. Charms. Necklaces. Bracelets.

Toys.

Stevie looked from the mirror, to the brush and scattered things on the floor, to the doll in his hand, and then up at Mr. Stark. The clock continued to chime.

"You're not supposed to be here!" Stevie shouted at the spirit. "Her uncle was right! Virginia Harcourt didn't kill her parents. You did. You just used her body, like you're using Mr. Stark now!"

"Return that which was STOLEN!" Mr. Stark growled.

"That's your place. Behind the mirror. With the other dead things!"

"RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN!" the Mr. Stark-Broken Girl thing screamed again.

"If I do, will you go back?" Stevie asked, nodding at the mirror.

Bong. Bong. With each chime of the clock the broken girl grew angrier. The creature took a step toward Stevie. "I must have it! NOW!"

"Take it then!" Stevie yelled. He threw the doll at the possessed Mr. Stark, who caught it effortlessly. "Take it and leave!"

"Leave?" The spirit threw back Mr. Stark's head. It let out a horrible, gurgling laugh. "Once I give this to her, I'll never have to leave!"

The creature's eyes focused behind Stevie, and it raised one of Mr. Stark's fingers at Angie.

"No," it hissed. "She will take this prison-doll and her spirit will leave! I will have her pretty, young body to live in forever! The last one was stolen so soon!"

Too late, Stevie understood. Angie would join the unfortunate creatures in the mirror, and the spirit inside of Mr. Stark would have her body to live in.

Forever.

#  24.

"No," Stevie said, quietly. He stepped back toward Angie, but there was nowhere to go.

The clock had almost struck its twelfth chime when the door to the bedroom flew open and slammed into Mr. Stark. He crashed to the floor, and instantly the green aura that burned around him extinguished.

An angry Victor Plotts burst into the room. "Found you, Pile! You're gonna pay for stealin' my... bike—"

Victor's voice trailed off abruptly as his eyes darted around the room, but he didn't have time to finish his sentence.

Mr. Stark lay motionless on the floor, but the broken, twisted form of Virginia Harcourt materialized and rose from his unconscious body. It let out a loud wail and flew straight at Victor. The force of the impact threw Victor from the room and slammed him against the hallway wall.

TOO LONG! TOO LONG I'VE WAITED!

Victor screamed and crumpled against the wall as the ghost's bony fingers wrapped around his neck and dissolved through his flesh. He screamed again and began to cry, punching and thrashing at the the spirit, but his arms went limp when they struck her.

Stevie knew what was happening. Soon she would be inside Victor, and then she would come for the toy. He had to act quickly.

He dove on top of the unconscious form of Mr. Stark and tore the toy from his fingers. As he did, the broken girl—halfway inside Victor—turned its head and screamed.

"NO!" it wailed. "THIEF! RETURN THAT WHICH—"

"Oh, I'll return it, all right!" Stevie screamed angrily.

The grandfather clock struck midnight's final chime, and Stevie saw the portal in the mirror slowly closing. He pulled back his arm and threw the doll into the mirror. It fell into the world on the other side of the glass.

NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The portal closed, and instantly the horrible wailing ceased, bathing the room in silence and darkness. The spirit was gone. The only sound was that of Victor crying.

"Angie!" Stevie shouted. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and ran to the tree. He tore at the limbs with his hands. The branches had turned brittle and now broke easily, but there were so many holding her suspended, and they were tight. He was afraid they would squeeze her to death. He broke them and twisted them away, but it was slow going.

Suddenly, another flashlight came on and Mr. Stark was beside of him, tearing at the branches and helping to free Angie. It took some time, but they finally managed to get her down.

She looked weak, but physically unharmed. "It was awful," she said, her voice a harsh whisper. "So slow... the tearing. This... was a brand new jacket!"

Stevie hugged his friend. "Is it gone?" he asked.

Mr. Stark pointed his flashlight at the mirror. Just glass. "I think so, but we need to get out of here. I need to..." His voice went silent, and he looked confused. He was visibly shaking and very upset.

Being possessed will do that to a guy! Stevie thought.

"What about Victor?" Stevie asked.

"Who?" Mr. Stark said.

"Victor Plotts was here," Stevie told him, remembering that Mr. Stark had been unconscious. "In the hall."

They shined flashlights into the hall, but Victor was gone. Then, as if on cue, they heard a motorcycle start somewhere above them.

"He'll probably ride until he runs out of gas," Angie said.

"Yeah," Stevie agreed. "And then hitchhike to California!"

"Angie, you okay to walk?" Mr. Stark asked. She stood, wobbly at first, but then nodded.

They walked back through the house, which had returned to its previously neglected condition, and out into the night. Mr. Stark was surprised to see how dark it had become, and Stevie told him it was after midnight.

"Oh no," Mr. Stark said. "I thought ghosts were frightening! Now I have to talk to worried, angry parents!"

#  25.

"You wanna finish watchin The Haunting of Horror Hill?" Stevie asked Angie the following weekend. His parents were working the evening shift again, and Emily was at another game, so he was glad to have his friend's company.

Angie shrugged. "Cool. You didn't get enough scares last weekend?"

"Pffff," he said, smirking. "After that, this movie is about as scary as kittens licking babies!"

Stevie's mom had taken down the Halloween decorations on the mirror and already replaced them with gobbling turkeys, cornucopias filled with fruits and vegetables, and a banner that read BE THANKFUL! in the browns, oranges, and yellows of the Thanksgiving season.

They turned out the lights and watched the movie. The camera panned across a dark scene. The walls of the house on the screen moved in and out like they were breathing. Blood dripped from the ceiling. It was a mindless fun movie that Angie and Stevie knew by heart.

Then, suddenly, the screen went to static.

"What the—" Stevie stood and moved toward the television, but froze. Reflected in the mirror, flickering in the white static, the silhouette of the broken girl stood in the archway of the kitchen.

Stevie whipped around. Angie looked at Stevie, shot up, and then turned to the kitchen. There was nothing there.

"Geeesh, Stevie! You gave me a heart attack! I thought—"

But from behind the couch came an uneven tinny grinding of small gears. A scuffling of small metal feet on the wooden floor.

A high pitched, broken laughter.

Or was it a scream?

# Epilogue

The large black limousine pulled out of Stevie's driveway just as his parents approached. Doctor and Mrs. Barton both thought they saw movement, a shadow, and maybe felt a chill, but neither said anything to the other.

The frail old man in the back of the limousine laughed wildly and struck his cane against the front seat.

"Go! Go!" he cried, between body-racking fits of gut-wrenching, cackling glee. He wiped the tears from his eyes and a black silk handkerchief across his clammy, moist brow. Eventually the laughing subsided, and he stared out across the passing landscape. A sign read: You Are Now Leaving Newhope. Underneath some teenager had spray-painted the words: Lucky you!

"Oh, Arzkelik," he said to his driver. "I do so love a happy ending!"

"Yes, sir," Arzkelik replied. "Shall I continue to our destination?"

The Author thought quietly for a time. So long, in fact, that Arzeklik supposed he'd fallen asleep.

"I had such fun!" The Author finally said. "And we have time to kill. Let's make a few stops along the way, shall we?"

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