Haunted Houses

by Robert D. San Souci

  After three burgers washed down with double-choc malts at the drive-in, Uncle Jack stopped at the gas station on the way to Stuartville’s small movie house.

  While his uncle was pumping gas and Jamie was buying candy in the mini mart, Blake sat in the Jeep, absently staring out his rolled-down window.

  A grimy black Ford SUV pulled into the area on the other side of the row of gas pumps. Two guys climbed out. One swiped his credit card and began filling the tank; Blake recognized Body Builder right away. Flab used a squeegee to wash the windshield. A third, younger than the others, climbed out of the backseat and went into the mini mart. Punk, Blake nicknamed him.

  A shudder ran through Blake like iced electricity. He was vaguely aware that his uncle had finished filling their own vehicle and had gone to find Jamie. He kept his eyes on the two older men. Suddenly someone demanded, “What’re you lookin’ at, weirdo?”

  Blake spun around and came face-to-face with the crew-cut Punk.

  “Noth—” Blake said, too startled to get the whole word out.

  “Me and my buddies don’t like being stared at—especially by weirdos.”

  “I wasn’t—” Blake said, retreating deeper into the car. He could see the guy’s friends watching from the other side of the pumping station island.

  “Problem?” asked Uncle Jack, returning with Jamie in tow.

  “Nah,” said the young guy, moving away toward the SUV.

  “Well, move along. Jamie, into the car. I don’t want to miss the opening credits of Creature.” Blake, staring straight ahead, was aware of three sets of eyes watching him and the Jeep as they pulled out of the station.

  “What was that all about?” Uncle John asked.

  “They’re the guys I saw in my vision,” the boy answered, finally turning to look back. The SUV was gone. “The ones who did what they did to the Allards.”

  “I could believe it: They’re bad news. But no one’s going to believe your vision, Blake. Stay out of this, and here’s rule number two: Don’t talk to—don’t even look cross-eyed at—those guys if you ever spot them again. Promise.”

  “Yeah,” Blake agreed.

  “And, Jamie—”

  “I know, that goes for me, too,” Jamie said, sounding bored. “I don’t care.”

  Jamie and Uncle Jack loved the double feature, but Blake couldn’t get the encounter at the gas station out of his mind. And he was haunted later by dreams of blazing eyes and slavering fangs and screams, so he awoke as tired as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  The next morning, after much inner debate, Blake decided to take action. Closing his bedroom door, he pulled his cell phone from the bottom of his overnight case. He’d found the sheriff’s number in the phone book. Since his dad had insisted that the family cells have blocked numbers, he felt he could make his call safely, anonymously.

  His hand shook as he punched in the number. A woman’s voice assured him that he had reached the sheriff’s office and asked how she could direct his call.

  “I want to talk to the sheriff,” he said, trying to deepen his voice.

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “Not exactly. Kinda. Could I just talk to the sheriff?”

  “What is this in regard to?”

  “The Allard killings. Them and their dog,” Blake blurted out.

  “Please hold the line.”

  A moment later, an impatient male voice cut in. “Who is this, and what do you know?”

  “I can’t give you my name.”

  A waiting silence.

  “I know who did it—killed the Allards and their dog.” Another silence. Waiting.

  “Three guys.” He described them from his vision and from the gas station.

  “Their names?”

  “I don’t know. But they hang around town a lot.”

  “And you know they committed this crime how?”

  “I’m a psychic. I have ESP. I’ve helped other police departments solve crimes before,” he said, rushing through the story he’d prepared.

  “Uh-huh. And what law enforcement agencies were those?”

  “I signed papers that say I can’t tell,” he said. He’d remembered something like that from a movie he’d seen.

  There was a long sigh on the other end of the phone. To Blake, it sounded somewhere between tired and angry. Then the sheriff said, “Young man, you are wasting my time and the taxpayers’ money. I don’t know what your beef is with the guys you were describing—and I know who they are, whether you give me their names or not—but we’ve checked them out. They were nowhere near the scene of the crime. We’ve got half a dozen witnesses say they were in Eureka that night.”

  “They’re lying—” Blake protested.

  “Only one liar,” said the sheriff, “and it isn’t the witnesses.”

  The phone went dead.

  Well, Blake thought. Didn’t Uncle Jack warn me?

  He didn’t know what to do next. Maybe there’s nothing to do, he concluded. They were within a few days of returning home, their visit nearly over. He made up his mind: Let it go.

  But the issue wouldn’t let go of him. His dreams were plagued with images of Marco, morphing from friendly to ferocious, and three figures chasing him across a nightmare version of the Allards’ property.

  Then, on the Friday before he and Jamie were to fly home, they spent the afternoon with Uncle Jack. He’d finished the first draft of his new book and needed downtime before he began revising it.

  So they had a picnic in the park at the edge of town. While his uncle and brother tossed a baseball, Blake headed through the trees toward the duck pond. He’d collected some scraps from lunch to feed them.

  But when he was almost there, a fistful of his shirt was suddenly grabbed by a meaty hand. He was jerked around to see Body Builder. Flabby and Punk weren’t far away, leaning against the trunk of an oak.

  “Just wanted to say hi. We’ve been looking for you,” Body Builder said as Blake tried to squirm free. “Seems some kid was trying to make trouble for us with the sheriff.”

  “I didn’t—I don’t . . .” Blake began.

  “I don’t believe in coincidence,” said the guy. “You checking us out one night and the sheriff getting an anonymous call from a kid the next day is just too big a coincidence for me to buy.” He hauled Blake so close the boy nearly gagged on his onion-and-garlic breath; he was aware of the other two drawing close to flank their leader.

  “My uncle—”

  His captor shook him like a rag doll. “Quiet! What we want to know is: What do you think you know, little man?”

  “You did it!” Blake screamed. He twisted violently and felt several buttons pop off his shirt. Then cloth ripped, and he was running away, leaving a piece of his shirt in the man’s fist.

  Blake ran blindly back toward the picnic area. He expected to hear the sounds of pursuit, but all he heard was Body Builder’s taunt, “You can run, but you can’t hide. You’re toast, little man.”

  “What happened to you?” his uncle asked, when he stopped to catch his breath after charging across the meadow to where Uncle Jack and Jamie were still playing catch.

  “Those . . . those guys. From the gas station. After me.” He waved vaguely toward the clump of trees.

  His uncle shaded his eyes and took a long look. “There’s no one there.”

  “They were. They’ve been looking for me: One said so. He tore my shirt.”

  “Why are they on your case?”

  “Just because I was staring at them. Maybe they think I know something.”

  “I’m going to call the sheriff as soon as we get home,” Uncle Jack said.

  Blake was relieved. He’d figured his uncle would insist on going to the sheriff’s office in person, where the sheriff would have recognized his voice as the troublemaking kid who claimed to be a psychic. Then his uncle would find out about his broken promise.

  All the way back to Ridge Road, he stayed in the backseat, watching to see if they were bein
g followed. Once or twice he thought he saw the black SUV behind them, but he couldn’t be sure.

  When their uncle finished talking to the sheriff, all he said was “They’re going to keep an eye on things.”

  That Saturday, Blake sat on the porch reading a laugh-out-loud fantasy novel by Terry Pratchett, one of his uncle’s favorite authors, whom Blake had become addicted to. His uncle was upstairs composing one of his “long-winded” e-mails to a writer friend. Jamie had wanted to make one last hike to visit the creek, and his uncle had given permission. Suddenly, there was a squeal of brakes, a sickening thump, and the howling of an animal in pain. Startled, Blake shot to his feet, the copy of The Color of Magic slipping to the floor. He shaded his eyes against the noonday glare and saw a gray pickup stopped in the road just below. A man climbed out and knelt beside a golden brown heap beside the left front tire. A woman, wringing her hands, was alternately looking down at what was on the ground and looking all around, as if for help.

  In an instant, Blake realized what had happened. One of his uncle’s retrievers, Alphonse, had been hit. Now he could see the other two dogs nervously circling just beyond the two people.

  Uncle Jack hurtled through the front door a moment later. “What—” he began.

  “They hit Alphonse,” Blake shouted over his shoulder. He was running toward the road, with his uncle right behind.

  The retriever was in great pain, but clearly very much alive.

  “They just ran out in front of me,” the man explained. But Uncle Jack was too concerned with the dog to pay attention.

  The woman had started to cry. Blake wanted to help but couldn’t think how. “We’ve got to get him to the vet, fast!” said Uncle Jack.

  “Put him in the back of the truck. You can stay with him. The pet emergency hospital is just down the road.”

  Gently, Uncle Jack, with the other man’s help, put Alphonse, shuddering and whining and very frightened, in the bed of the truck. Then Uncle Jack climbed in. He yelled to Blake, “Put the other dogs in the house. Then go check on Jamie. Be sure he’s all right. I want both of you back at the house pronto.”

  The man and the woman got into the cab of the truck, slammed the doors shut, and the pickup roared down the road.

  When the vehicle raced around a bend in the road, Blake, still in shock from the accident, called to Gaston and Sheila. The two dogs followed him into the house. Once they were settled, he set off for the creek to find his brother.

  The woods were so peaceful compared to the scene he’d just witnessed that he decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a few minutes and calm down.

  When he told Jamie what had happened, the younger boy said, “I hope Alphonse doesn’t die. That would be awful after what happened to Marco.” They were sitting on a fallen log, tossing stones into the water. Suddenly, Jamie asked, “Do you think they’ll ever get those guys for what they did to the Allards?”

  “I hope so,” Blake said, sending a stone skipping across the water with such force that it buried itself in some ferns on the other side of the stream.

  “What about Marco? Do you think he’ll always have to stay there, hanging out, waiting for the Allards?” Jamie fully believed Blake had seen the ghost dog.

  His brother shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe he’ll realize they’re not coming back and go wherever dog ghosts go. Or maybe he’ll just stay around, getting angrier and meaner and stronger, until he can really hurt someone.”

  “But Marco was so friendly.”

  “Not the one in my dreams. I mean, some of the times he seemed like the dog we knew—but then he’d change into something scary, like a monster.” Blake shuddered. He skimmed one last rock and then said, “We’d better start back.”

  They were so busy talking when they left the woods they didn’t register anything wrong until three figures rose up from lounge chairs on the redwood deck at the back of their uncle’s house.

  “It’s them,” said Blake. He put his hand reassuringly on his brother’s shoulder.

  Body Builder, Flab, and Punk came to the edge of the deck, pausing where broad steps dropped down to the gravel path that led to the two boys.

  “Where’s Uncle Jack?” Jamie asked in a frightened whisper.

  “Not back yet, I guess.” Blake never took his eyes off the men, who remained in place.

  Then Body Builder said, “Come on up, guys. We need to powwow a little.”

  Keeping his voice very low, Blake told his brother, “When I count to three, you run for the creek and try to hide. I’m going to run to the Allard place. I don’t think they’ll follow you. It’s me they’re worried about.”

  Jamie started to protest, but Blake said, “Just do it. One, two . . .”

  Now the men were descending the steps, slowly, their eyes locked on the frightened boys.

  “THREE!” shouted Blake. He saw Jamie break for the shelter of the woods they had just left, while he bolted for the narrow path to the Allard place. Once there, he hoped to flag down a car and get some help.

  He had guessed right: The men ignored Jamie and came pounding after him. He followed the twisty path at breakneck speed—thankful that he’d traveled it often enough to know its turns and bends and where low-hanging tree branches waited to ambush the unwary. He could hear his pursuers crashing along behind him, alternately shouting encouragement to each other and warning him what they were going to do when they caught him. The threats made him run faster than ever.

  The shadows under the trees were deepening as the afternoon waned. Blake felt a little safer in the gathering dusk. There was another bellow behind him and a lot of cursing. He guessed someone had run into a low branch or caught a foot in one of the leaf-filled holes that lay like mini pitfalls for the careless. He began to think he might make it to safety, after all. A few moments later, he flung himself out of the trees and onto the sweep of lawn that led to the house and the dog house.

  As he charged up the hill to circle the house and head for the road beyond, he was reminded of his first nightmare. It was too much like this moment. A second later, the two older men burst from the tree line, while Punk came limping behind.

  Blake thought he had enough lead, but a rock whizzed by his head an instant later. He guessed they weren’t shooting to avoid attracting attention. A second stone hit him squarely between the shoulder blades. The impact knocked the wind out of him and sent him tumbling onto the grass. He was gasping for breath, sprawled full-length so near Marco’s dog house that one outflung hand rested beside the door.

  Too stunned to do more than fight for breath, Blake heard the three men approaching. They were laughing, and Body Builder was saying to the others, “Good thing I haven’t lost my pitching arm, right?”

  Then they hauled Blake into a sitting position. He was still having trouble breathing. “Lean him against the doghouse,” said Body Builder. He and Flab propped the boy against the side. Punk was sitting cross-legged on the grass, rubbing a sore ankle.

  The older men hunkered down on either side of Blake, sitting on their heels. Body Builder slapped the boy lightly, asking, “Coming around, little man?”

  Blake weakly tried to bat the other’s hand aside, but the guy ignored him and slapped harder. “Time to tell me a few things before I really lose my temper.” He gave another slap for emphasis.

  Then Punk began to shriek. The others could see around the corner of the dog house to where the youngest hood was scrambling backward on his hands and haunches with a look of horror fixed on the dog house entrance.

  There was a sudden explosion of darkness from the interior. It was a giant black dog, moving with incredible swiftness. His eyes were on fire; a fringe of flame danced across his muzzle. The monster clamped its jaws on Punk’s neck. The unfortunate burst into flame. A moment later, there was just a pile of ash being churned by the evening breeze.

  Body Builder and Flab didn’t hesitate. They took off running toward the road, but the dog was on Flab in two bounds. Screaming, the man flamed ou
t of existence. For an instant, it looked like Body Builder might get away. Then the dog slammed into him, gripping his back. Terrified, Blake watched as the man’s skin turned to what looked like charred leather. Body Builder shriveled to half his size before he burst into flames like his buddies.

  Blake tried to run away, but he was still so stunned by everything, he could only struggle to his feet, using the dog house for support.

  The monster hound turned its fiery eyes on him. It began loping toward him with an evil, almost human grin, as if it knew the boy couldn’t escape. Blake wondered again if the creature was so filled with blazing hatred that any living person was an enemy.

  The quaking boy could feel the heat radiating from the dog. Under the immense pads of its feet, the grass crisped and burned, leaving puffs of smoke behind.

  Blake edged to the corner of the dog house, took a shaky step away, and realized that, without the support, his legs were not going to hold him up. Like a broken doll, he collapsed on the lawn.

  The devil from his dreams was almost upon him. Uselessly, he held up one hand, palm out, feeling the skin start to heat even as he said, “No, Marco. Good Marco. It’s me, Blake.”

  Unexpectedly, the dog stood still, cocked its head to one side, as if puzzled, and regarded Blake closely. After a moment the creature gave a curious whine. Then, to Blake’s astonishment, it began to change, the fearsome bulk dwindling to the shape and size of Marco as he had been in life. The fire left his eyes; they became the gentle, liquid brown eyes of the old Marco.

  When the transformation was complete, Blake stretched out a tentative hand toward the ghost dog. Marco came to him. The boy reached down and imagined he was petting him as he had always done, even though his hand moved through empty air. But the dog seemed to sense something. There was no fire now, only a soft coolness that soothed his burned palm.

  Then Marco’s ears pricked up, as though he’d heard one of those dog whistles too high-pitched for human ears. A minute later, Marco was charging up the hill toward the house. But the closer he got, the fainter his shape became. Long before he reached the front porch steps, he had vanished completely.