“You gotta go gngghghghhhhh,” Dill said from somewhere over to the side, snorting like he was about to hock a loogie.
Peter looked up from his hands and knees, then froze. That single, grizzled tree in the middle of the field was just a few feet away. It didn’t grow up straight in the air. No, it jutted out over the ocean at an angle, like it was frozen midway in the act of falling.
And Dill had shimmied up on top of it, a leg and an arm dangling down on either side of the trunk.
“Dill,” Peter gasped. “Dill, please, get down from there.”
“What?” Dill asked without a care in the world.
“Dill, please, get down…I’m afraid you’ll fall, please, get down,” Peter whispered.
“What, you mean like this?” Dill teased, and kicked a leg out over empty space.
Peter gritted his teeth. “Please Dill, please, just get off of that tree.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez, you’re white as a ghost.”
Dill scooted down the tree trunk and got back on solid land. Beneath his feet, a tangle of roots were exposed at the edge of the cliff, like a humongous bird’s nest poking out of the dirt.
“There, you happy?”
“Let’s go,” Peter commanded.
“What about the beach? You wanna go see that?”
Peter thought about the grey water and the vomit-inducing drop down to the rocks below.
“No…let’s just go watch TV.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” Dill paused. “You think you can sneak me into your house?”
“Why?”
“Your granddad must have a sweet big screen TV, seein’ how rich he is.”
“I don’t think he has anything,” Peter said. “All we do is read books at night.”
Dill’s face dropped even further than the fall to the ocean. “Now I know he’s nuts. Looks like you’ll be spending a lot of time over at my house.”
14
Actually, Peter doubted that he would be spending much time at all over at Dill’s. One afternoon was enough to convince him of that.
The Bodinski house was mostly dark. All the lamps seemed to have burnt-out bulbs, and all the window shades were down. The furniture was mismatched and threadbare. The carpet was shaggy, with bits of mystery dirt that crunched underfoot when you walked on them. Empty cans of soda and bowls of stale potato chips sat on every available countertop. There was a faint smell of wet dog.
Dill was the youngest of five kids, so there was a lot of traffic through the house. And a lot of screaming for Dill’s sister Charlene to get off the phone or out of the bathroom.
Peter spent most of the time on Dill’s ratty couch, sandwiched between his friend and whatever relative happened to be bored enough to sit through part of the Sunday Monster Triple Feature.
Dill’s brother Woody had just turned fourteen, and was by far the most unpleasant. He watched about 20 seconds of IT CAME FROM BEYOND THE SWAMP before he started kicking Dill across Peter’s legs. Which meant he ended up kicking Peter a lot, too.
“Where’s the remote, Dillbert?”
Dill shrugged.
Peter knew that Dill hid the remote between the sofa cushions, but he didn’t say anything.
“If you make it too easy for them to change the channel,” Dill had explained an hour before, “they will.”
Woody kicked harder. “I SAID, WHERE’S THE REMOTE, DILLWEED?”
“Get up and change it if you want,” Dill yawned.
That was a little too much effort for Woody. He just sat there for another ten minutes, kicking Dill across Peter’s legs, before he got tired and went to go get something to eat out of the fridge.
“See what I mean about making it easy to change the channel?” Dill smiled like he was some wise kung fu master advising his not-so-smart student.
Peter bored easily with the cheesy black and white movies, so he tried to strike up a conversation. “Do you think the hobo will be back tonight, or – ”
“Shhh, this is the best part.”
By the time NIGHTMARE OF THE WOLF CREATURE came on, Peter was ready to leave.
“I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Meet you at the bus stop,” Dill agreed, never taking his eyes off the tube.
“Bus stop?”
“School starts tomorrow.”
Oh CRAP.
The real horror movie was ready to begin, Peter just knew it.
15
That night when Mom put Beth to bed, Peter went up to his room and got ready for the next day. He pulled out his old backpack from a cardboard moving box, checked to make sure he had enough pencils in his plastic case, and thumbed through his three-ring binder from last year. Still plenty of paper in it.
Then he sat on the ledge in front of the window and watched the garden through the evening darkness. There was just enough light from the house to be able to pick out the vague shapes of things in the gloom.
The wind was blowing now, and the corn rustled out in the field. He watched and he watched, but there was no sign of the hobo.
Maybe he really had just imagined it all.
His t-shirt was in the laundry, so even that evidence was gone.
Maybe Dill was right. Maybe it had been a lame-o version of Jesus’s mom on a grilled cheese sandwich. Except nobody would pay a thousand dollars for Peter’s miracle.
But that was wrong…he had seen it. He had felt the hand at his back. He knew the difference between dreams and reality, and that had been reality back there in the field.
Around 9 o’clock, Mom came into the room and sat on his bed. He was still on the window ledge.
“You nervous, kiddo?”
Not about school. More about hobos.
“Naw.”
She smiled. “You’ve had a great attitude about all of this, Peter. Well, most of it. I just wanted to say ‘thanks.’ You’ve…” Her eyes teared up a little bit. “You’ve made this a lot easier for me.”
Peter got embarrassed. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.”
“Well, thank you anyway. You set a good example for your little sister.” She got up and kissed Peter on the forehead. “Good night, Pete.”
She was almost out of the room when Peter blurted out, “Mom, is Grandfather rich?”
Mom stopped in the doorway. “Why do you ask that?”
“Dill said something about it.”
Mom grimaced. “Ah, the charming Mr. Bodinski.”
Peter ignored the comment. “Well, is he?”
“Kind of. Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…I don’t know. Grandfather has a certain amount tucked away, but…” She shrugged. “You won’t see it very often. My mother used to say that when he opened his wallet in January, a June bug would fly out.”
Mom leaned against the doorframe and got a faraway look in her eyes.
“For a long time I thought he just liked pinching pennies. Then for a lot of years I thought he was a cheapskate. I asked him one time why he didn’t spend more…” Her voice grew bitter. “Why he didn’t help us out more when we needed it. And he said something really weird.”
“What did he say?”
“He said blood money never helped anyone who ever touched it.”
Peter frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Pete. I’ve known him for over 30 years, and there’s a lot about him I don’t think I’ll ever understand. Like why we weren’t supposed to go into the garden.”
A prickle of fear crept up Peter’s neck.
I think I might know.
“But he’s letting us live here now, and that’s the important thing.” Mom smiled. “Go to sleep. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She left the room. Peter settled into the pillow on the ledge and thought about what she had just said.
Blood money…
He turned back to the garden.
And there was the hobo.
Peter froze. Every toe seemed to fill with ice, and his heart skipped a couple of beats.
The man was all in black (even his face, Peter thought), and it was dark outside, so it was really hard to make him out. And he was so far away, he was no bigger than a toy plastic army man. But he was out there. Every time he moved, Peter could see the black of his clothes against the dark green of the garden.
Peter debated if he should call his mom, or maybe Grandfather. That is, if he could even get his tight, dry throat to make a sound.
But then he’d just get into trouble for doing what he wasn’t supposed to do, right?
And who would believe him about those empty eye sockets, staring up at him out of a charred and ruined face?
Out in the garden, the hobo bent down and disappeared behind a row of plants.
Peter sat up and strained to see where he had gone.
Suddenly the hobo stood up in another part of the field, probably thirty feet away from where he had been only seconds before.
Wow, that’s weird, Peter thought. The guy had moved really fast, but there was no motion of the plants to give him away.
It was like he bent down and then just magically appeared in another part of the field.
That’s when the first hobo stood up again.
Peter almost wet his pajamas, just like Dill said last night.
Two of them. There were two of them in the garden.
And then a third hat appeared amongst the corn.
Three.
And then another…and another…and another.
Four…five…six…
Peter realized that his hands hurt. He looked down, and saw that his fingers were so tightly scrunched into fists that his nails were cutting into his palms. He relaxed. Relaxed his hands, anyway.
When he looked up, there were thirteen.
Different shapes and sizes, from short to tall, from skinny to…not fat, really. Wide. After seeing that hand as thin as a skeleton’s last night, Peter knew that none of them were fat.
But they were all dressed in black coats and black hats.
And though he couldn’t see them from this far away, Peter knew…knew that they all had charred, burned faces, and empty sockets for eyes.
Thirteen.
They strode out of the garden, walking towards the house.
Peter caught his breath. “Mom,” he forced out of his mouth, though it sounded like a strangled sigh. “Mom…”
Then they stopped. One of them raised his arm and a finger.
He was pointing at Peter’s window.
Peter almost somersaulted backwards, he tried to get off that window ledge so fast.
He tumbled to the floor, and hid with the wall as his cover. He waited…and waited…
What are they doing?
What if they’re walking towards the house?
I have to look…I HAVE TO LOOK…
Peter took a huge breath and forced himself to peek over the ledge and out the window.
They were leaving. They trudged single file away from the garden, towards where the decaying fence ended and the woods began.
One by one the forest shadows swallowed them.
All except the last one, who turned back towards the house.
He lifted one arm, and pointed towards Peter’s window.
And then he was gone, too.
16
“No WAY,” Dill shouted.
The two boys were standing at the bus stop. Even in the warm morning sun, Peter felt chilled to the bone.
“I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
Dill grinned. “That is totally wicked cool.”
“Wicked cool?! They went into the woods behind your house!” Peter pointed out.
Dill’s smile faded. “Oh crap.”
“YEAH.”
Dill regained his composure. “Well, as long as they didn’t point at my window.”
“I don’t know if they pointed at your window or not. I was hiding for half a minute, remember?”
“Well why the crap did you do that?”
“I was scared!”
“You live on the third floor! They can’t get to you! I live on the first floor – MY WHOLE HOUSE IS THE FIRST FLOOR! All they gotta do is come rip open the window and eat my brains, man!”
“Sorry!” Peter said defensively.
“Next time when there’s killer hobos and they’re pointing around, don’t quit looking, okay?! These are my brains we’re talking about!”
“You could sleep over at my house,” Peter offered.
“Is this the same house that your grandfather lives in?” Dill said sarcastically. “Cuz I’d rather take my chances with the killer hobos. Besides, we got bigger problems.”
“What?”
“The bus is coming.”
Sure enough, the school bus was approaching down the heavily wooded road. Within twenty seconds it reached the corner, and there was an awful squealing from the brakes as the yellow monster came to a halt.
Dill led the way up the steps and into the vehicle. Peter followed.
The bus driver was a rail-thin lady in jeans and some kind of rock n’ roll t-shirt. Her hair was still in rollers, and she wore bunny slippers.
“Siddown, Dill, and you too, kid,” she yelled at Peter.
“We’re goin’, we’re goin’,” Dill shot back.
The bus lurched forward down the road. Peter nearly fell on top of Dill as they made their way to the rear.
There were fewer than ten kids on the bus so far. A couple of mean ones, old and surly. A couple more were young and terrified. The rest looked dazed, yanked out of their summer vacations too soon. They yawned or slept fitfully, heads up against the windows.
Dill sat down about three seats to the back. Peter fell in beside him.
“That was Mrs. Petarchik,” Dill said, and pointed up to the front of the bus. “Don’t get her mad, she’s meeeeeaaaan.”
“Okay.”
“Now, today is all about survival,” Dill explained.
“From the hobos?”
“No, from school. I’m tellin’ ya, forget the hobos, we got bigger problems.”
17
The bus stopped again much further down the street and a little girl got on. She was a bit shorter than Peter, with lots of long, straight brown hair. She wore some sort of weird get-up like a skirt attached to a top, but not quite a dress, because there was a white ruffly blouse underneath it. Peter had seen The Sound Of Music, and this girl looked like the kids in that movie, except goofier, because at least in The Sound Of Music everybody was dressed goofy. Here on the bus, she was the only one wearing strange clothes.
And her eyes were kind of far apart. What with the eyes and the German dress, she looked a little weird.
She must have seen Peter looking at her, because her far-apart eyes lit up and she made a beeline for Peter and Dill.
“Oh man,” Dill whispered.
“What?”
“Keep your head down, dude.”
“Hiya, Dilllllllll,” the girl said as she climbed in the seat behind the boys.
“Hi, Mercy,” Dill said back, his eyes straight forward.
Mercy?
Peter looked at Dill questioningly.
Dill shook his head like Don’t say nothin’.
Mercy stood up and put her arms across the back of the seat so that she was almost hanging over on top of Peter and Dill. “Who’s your friend?”
Dill didn’t answer, so Peter stepped in.
“My name’s Peter.”
“Peeeeeteeeeeer,” Mercy drawled. “Are you new, Peeeeteeeeeeer?”
“Uh, yeah,” Peter frowned. There was a quiet wheeee…wheeeee…wheeeee noise coming from somewhere that he couldn’t place. He looked around, trying to see if it was the bus.
“That’s so nice. I like new people, Peeeeteeeeeer.”
Peter abandoned the search for the wheeeee sound and turned back to Mercy. “Uh, that’s good…why do you keep saying my
name ‘Peeeeteeeeeer’?”
Mercy looked at him blankly. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“‘Peter.’ That’s my name.”
“Uh-huh,” Mercy said.
“Not Peeeeteeeeeeer.”
“Uh-huh.” Mercy nodded.
“Just ‘Peter.’”
“Uh-huh.” Mercy smiled. “Okay, Peeeeteeeeeer.”
“You just did it again – ”
Dill put his hand on Peter’s arm and shook his head like Just let it go, man.
In the silence, with his head turned towards Dill and an ear aimed directly at Mercy, Peter realized that the wheeee wheeee wheeeee sound was coming from Mercy’s nose.
When she breathed in, wheeeeee.
When she breathed out, wheeeeee.
Peter pointed hesitantly. “Uh – ”
Dill kicked him.
“Ow! What’d you do that for?”
“Shut...UP,” Dill hissed.
“Do you like pennies, Peeeeteeeeeer?”
“Pennies?”
“I like pennies, Peeeeteeeeer. I collect them. I have three thousand, two hundred and seventeen at my house. Would you like to see them?”
“Uhhhh…no, I’m okay. I’ve seen pennies before.”
“Do you have a penny?” Mercy asked. “Huh? ‘Cause I could make it three thousand, two hundred and eighteen if you do.”
“Uhhhh…no. Not on me, sorry,” Peter said.
“That’s okay, maybe tomorrow, Peeeeteeeeeer. The earliest one I’ve got is 1911. It’s very old. I have a 1913, too, and a 1917, and I’ve been looking to fill in those other years, but it’s very difficult. I have a lot of 1920’s pennies, and…”
Dill put his head in his hands.
It was a long, long ride to the schoolyard.
18
When the bus stopped in the school parking lot, Peter and Dill jumped off it fast as they could. The other kids were slow and formed a traffic jam, trapping Mercy behind them.
“Peteeeeeer!” she wailed.
That was the last Peter heard of her as he and Dill raced across the asphalt.
“No running!” the bus driver yelled after them.
PETER AND THE VAMPIRES (Volume One) (PETER AND THE MONSTERS) Page 5
