“Fools!” Grandfather pointed at Peter again. “And then you make the most egregious blunder of all, and actually go and disturb them in their cursed sanctuary!”
“What’s a sanctuary?” Peter asked, trying to fake coolness like Dill.
“What’s an egre – egre – egret?” Dill asked.
“That’s a bird,” Peter whispered.
“What’s a bird got to do with dead hobos?” Dill whispered back.
“First off, they are not ‘hobos,’” Grandfather snapped. “They are a family called the Todenhorns, and they died over two hundred years ago.”
Peter and Dill stared.
“I think I liked hobos better,” Dill said.
31
“They were a family of questionable character, a father and his twelve sons who came here from Europe – some say ‘escaped’ here, possibly because of a murder one of the younger sons was rumored to have committed. Peter, your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather John Stephen Flannagan lived in this house at the time the Todenhorns arrived by boat and took a stake on the land, shortly after the American Revolution. ‘Took a stake’ – they did not pay, though the land legally belonged to John Stephen. He was a peaceable man, not inclined to confrontation. Besides, they built far enough from his house that he could keep his distance until the matter was resolved in court. A traveling judge made the circuit every five months, and the Todenhorns had arrived just after the judge’s last round. John Stephen was biding his time until he could get a legal notice of eviction, and then the elected lawman of the town could take over.
“Things were mostly unremarkable with his new neighbors until John noticed that the crops he tended were lighter than the previous year’s harvest. He had no proof, though he suspected the men were thieving from his gardens in the pitch black of night.
“He confronted the old man of the family once, out in the open field. He calmly told the father that he understood they might be in need of food, but John needed it to feed his own family. Since the Todenhorns had money for tools, surely they could afford to feed themselves. Or, if not, they should at least barter for John’s food – with meat they caught, or labor, or something.
“As John made his case, first one tall son walked up behind his father, then another, then another, until all thirteen men of the Todenhorn clan stood facing John Stephen. He was somewhat rattled by the display, but he finished speaking his peace nonetheless.
“The old man’s only reply was in heavily accented English: ‘This is from the land. It is our land. They give us the land. We take what we want. Not yours.’
“No one moved. John surmised the talks were over, and walked quickly back to his house. The brothers and father stood there, watching him go, and did not move until he had entered his home.
“They were an odd sort, and they kept mostly to themselves. Whatever else their faults, they were industrious – by their own hands they managed to clear the entire field of trees and build a house in the space of three weeks. They had a goodly sum of cash on hand to buy hammers and saws in town, which further fueled gossip of robbery and murder back in Germany, or the Netherlands, or wherever it was they came from.
“They were also hunters, or seemed to be, for they spent an inordinate amount of time in the woods. Hours at a time, and odd hours at that. John Stephen wrote in his diaries that he would see them trudging into the woods at dusk, lanterns blazing, and disappear into the trees.
“It was not until months later that a French trapper revealed the truth. He was in the woods gaming for beaver and fox pelts when he noticed a building back in the far reaches of the forest. He investigated and found what appeared to be a church, but one unlike any he had ever seen before. There were no crosses, no signs of Christianity…instead, there were animal skulls and bones, and strange bindings of plants and flowers that lined the walls. A wooden stump was the centerpiece of the building – the walls and floor had evidently been built up around it. On that stump was the evidence of dozens of knife marks, and perhaps what might have been burned sacrifices. Of animals or plants, the Frenchman could not say.
“In his state of amazement, he did not notice the man who entered the building behind him. He was young, with a scruffy beard and long overcoat. He carried an ax with him, and shouted in a strange, garbled language the Frenchman did not understand.
“‘I am sorry,’ the Frenchman said in his mother tongue, ‘I did not mean to trespass.’
“The stranger answered in broken French, ‘You are on holy ground. Leave before I kill you.’
“The Frenchman protested, ‘But there aren’t any crosses.’
“‘We follow the old gods, the gods of the forest and death,’ the man said, and suddenly rushed at the Frenchman with his ax. Now, the Frenchman was used to outwitting bears and wolves, so a man was not impossible to escape. He rushed over the rough benches and burst into the open, and fast as he could he ran to the town, where he spread the word about the family: they were pagans who believed in strange forces and spirits of nature.
“That was something the God-fearing people of the township could not stand. Stolen land and food could be abided, for awhile…but these were heathens with dark beliefs. For that, they would be forced to leave Duskerville township immediately.
“A delegation of five men gathered that afternoon to deliver an ultimatum to the Todenhorn clan: leave this place and never come back, or suffer the consequences. Though he would have been glad to have the thieves gone, Joseph Stephen begged the men to wait for the traveling magistrate.
“The men refused and went to the house. They banged on the door and demanded the family come out. John had refused to go, but he stood outside waiting. He wrote that he could hear angry voices on the wind, and then the sound of gunfire. Without waiting to see what had happened, he hurried inside and barricaded his family within. He didn’t know if it was the brothers or the townsmen who had fired, but he feared the worst.
“It turned out the clan shot first, and in doing so killed two of the men from the town. The three who lived claimed that the father and his eldest son had shot without provocation, but years later, one of the townsmen recanted, and said that it was a shoving match that escalated too fast.
“No matter – two men were dead. It was murder at worst, manslaughter at the very least. But rather than kill the entire group, the father and sons just stood and watched as the three survivors fled.
“Perhaps later the Todenhorns wished that they had finished them all off. The three men ran into town, screaming about the madmen by the forest, claiming they had hauled off the bodies to make sacrifices to their demon gods. By nightfall, a mob of fifty men passed by John Stephen’s house with torches and guns. John tried to reason with them, but the mayor assured him that justice would be done, that this was an ‘official’ undertaking of the town and that all the men had been deputized. John watched them go, and heard them murmuring about how many ropes and trees they would need that night.
“The mob descended on the house and found the bodies of the two dead men still outside, untouched.
“As the representative of the mob, the mayor yelled out that the entire family was to surrender themselves on charges of murder. The father yelled back an obscenity, followed by the oath, ‘The land is ours…we are of it, we will stay forever!’
“The mayor warned them that this was their last chance, but there was no further answer from the house.
“The townsmen claimed later that it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, but someone had obviously been preparing, because they had brought along gallons and gallons of kerosene. They doused the new wood of the house and lit it with their torches. Those same men claimed they had only been trying to smoke the family out, not kill them – and that may have been true. But the old man and his sons surprised them. Even as the flames climbed high into the night, and the roof collapsed down upon them, the Todenhorns refused to leave the house. People talked afterwards of the screams, but no one would
go in to save them. And absolutely no one came out.
“They searched the ashes in the morning and found thirteen charred bodies. They dug a giant hole right there on the cliff and buried them without so much as a prayer for God to be merciful to their souls. Maybe that’s the way the family would have wanted it…why would a pagan care if someone read a Bible over his grave?
“No one in the town talked about that night ever again…at least, not for years, and only then in hushed tones. Most of them just tried to forget that it had ever happened. It was over and done with, as far as they were concerned.
“But it wasn’t over. Not at all.”
32
“Two weeks after the fire, John Stephen noticed that he was again losing vegetables from his garden. He immediately felt bad and wondered if he had made a false accusation. Perhaps the family had not been stealing from him at all. In his diary he wrote that after the fifth straight day of his ripe plants being plucked clean, he stayed up with a shotgun to wait for the thief’s return.
“About midnight, a rustling in the garden roused him from sleep. He called out to the person to show himself, that he had a gun, but there was no answer. Stupidly, as he admitted, he ventured into the garden. It took him a minute, but he found his thief.
“Except the thief was a corpse, charred black as coal, with no eyes in his head.
“John Stephen dropped the gun in fright and ran for the house. The next morning he found his gun undisturbed and the field again picked clean of ripe vegetables.
“Perhaps embarrassed by his cowardly showing the night before, he warned his wife and three small children to stay indoors before he set out for the site of the burned-down house and the mass grave.
“What he found there chilled his soul. The giant hole looked as though it had been dug up…from the inside out. Footprints led from the grave to the house, to the remains of a wardrobe that had not been completely consumed by the fire. Inside hung a few blackened pants…but the most notable thing was that the wardrobe was otherwise empty. As though someone had taken the clothes out and gotten dressed.
“Cowardice be damned, John Stephen ran back to his family and moved them to his in-laws’ cabin two miles away. For seven weeks he kept vigil at night, waiting for God knows what…but it never came. The garden was picked bare, and he saw lanterns every so often in the nighttime woods, but nothing more. Eventually he moved his family back into the house and forbade them to go into the garden, or the field beyond it, ever again. He planted hedges of rose bushes as a barrier for his little ones, and ordered them never to step past the flowers.
“He told a few of the townsmen, but everyone just laughed at him and promptly forgot. No one wanted to remember anything about that horrible day, and John Stephen’s wild tales were an uncomfortable reminder.
“Then one day the townspeople realized that the Todenhorns’ pagan temple was still standing. Since it was an affront to their religion – and the one final reminder of their unbridled ‘justice’ – two men were elected to go into the woods, find the thing, and tear it down.
“They never returned.
“Two days later, a search party of five men went out looking for them. They never returned, either.
“No one had to point out that all seven of the missing men had been part of the mob that burned down the Todenhorns’ house. And since the rest of the men in town had been present that night, it was decided that the matter would best be dropped. No one ventured into the forest near the property again.
“And so it continued for 200 years,” Grandfather growled, “until a fool of a next-door neighbor child stole into the garden one autumn night and set fire to the dried-out husks of corn. The only things still left were the watermelons, but that was enough. Apparently the Todenhorns were waiting on them to ripen fully. Instead, they burst like mortars and woke me up in the middle of the night.”
“I didn’t know watermelons exploded!” Dill protested.
“QUIET!” Grandfather thundered – then sighed. “I knew they might come for restitution. There were precedents in our family’s records, when someone had wandered where they shouldn’t have. So I followed the instructions of my great-great-grand uncle. I bought a steer from a farmer in town, then delivered it unconscious to the edge of the garden at night. By the time I was back to the truck, I saw a shadowy figure with a lantern pour something over the animal, and it burst into flames. Tit for tat, I guess they saw it. Burn something of theirs, burn something of ours.”
“Ohhhhhh, so you’re not a hippo crib,” Dill realized.
Grandfather frowned. “What?”
“Nothing,” Peter said. “Well…why would they come after us? We didn’t steal any of their food this time.”
“And we didn’t blow up the watermelons, either,” Dill pointed out.
“But you entered their house of pagan worship, and no one who set out after it has ever returned. Except for you two. I have a feeling they won’t let that stand.”
Peter felt cold fingers creeping up his legs and back. “Well, what do we do?”
“They’re zombies,” Dill piped up. “We shoot ‘em in the head.”
“They’re not zombies,” Grandfather snarled. “Zombies are from Haiti and the West Indies.”
“Well what are they, then?” Dill snapped back.
“Dead men.”
Dill rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, zombies and dead guys, two totally different things.”
“What do we do?” Peter repeated.
Grandfather looked up at the sky. Red clouds glowed on the horizon, and the orange sun was dipping fast behind the trees.
He grabbed some of the sharp gardening tools on the table and handed them to Dill and Peter. Then he grabbed the pitchfork and hatchet for himself.
“Go inside…lock yourself in your room…and pray.”
Dill and Peter looked at him, bewildered.
“GIT!” Grandfather roared.
They turned and raced back to the house.
“I don’t think that’s much of a plan,” Dill muttered once they were inside.
33
The boys stood by the ledge in Peter’s room, arms braced on the pillows, their bodies leaning forward. They watched the sky outside the window turn deep violet. The shadow of the house stretched across the entire lawn, swallowing everything in its path. And the darkness in the forest kept getting deeper and deeper.
“Maybe nothing’ll happen,” Dill offered.
“Maybe,” Peter said without much hope.
“Maybe, you know, they’re just misunderstood. Cuz if somebody burned down my house and killed me, I’d be a little mad. I think I might chase people away, but I don’t think I’d come after them. ‘You’re gone, we’re cool,’ you know?”
“Would you have shot people?” Peter countered.
“Maybe they dropped the gun and it went off by accident.”
“Twice?”
“Happens in the movies.”
Peter pointed out the window. “So does this kind of stuff.”
“Yeah,” Dill agreed reluctantly.
“Do those movies usually have happy endings?”
“If one guy out of everybody not dying is a happy ending, then yeah. But we got two guys here, so one of us is going to have a very unhappy ending.”
“Three. Grandfather’s downstairs.”
“If he’s the only one that goes, that’d be a real happy ending for me.”
“Dill!”
“Sorry.” Dill sighed. “I gotta start watching more movies with happy endings.”
“Hey…I got a question,” Peter said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re so scared of my grandfather, but when he was shouting at us, you didn’t seem to care – you even talked back to him. I don’t get it.”
Dill shrugged. “I’m used to my whole family screaming at me all the time. When your grandfather’s screaming at me but not chasing me, I’m okay. When somebody’s quiet or when they’re chasing you, that�
��s when you gotta watch out.”
The entire lawn was in shadow now. Stars shone in the sky overhead. Darkness had fallen. And down near the forest’s edge, a figure in black stole out onto the grass.
Followed by another.
And another.
And another.
Peter’s heart skipped a beat every time another body ran out of the woods.
Thirteen skipped beats in all.
Dill gripped Peter’s arm so hard he bruised it.
“Pete…”
“Yeah?”
“If this doesn’t go so great, I just wanted to tell you…”
Dill paused. The dark figures were halfway across the lawn. Now the boys could see their jackets flapping behind them.
“You’ve been a good friend, too, Dill,” Peter finished.
“Huh? That’s not what I was going to say.”
“What, then?”
“I just wanted to tell you I’m really P.O.’d at you for making me go in the forest.”
Peter stared at Dill.
“But I forgive you,” Dill continued.
“Thanks,” Peter snapped.
The burned men were in the garden now.
The first one reached the rose bushes.
But no matter how close they were, their floppy black hats hid any trace of their faces.
They were all out of the garden now, and they split into two groups. One gang headed left around the house, and the other group headed right.
Then they disappeared. They were too close to the house to be seen.
They’re probably hugging the walls right now.
Will they come in through the kitchen, or the front door?
Or both?
There was the sound of the kitchen door creeeeeaaaaking open.
“Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh,” Dill whimpered.
From out in the front hall, there was a dull thudding on the door. Then the crashing of glass.
“I gotta pee, man,” Dill whined.
Peter turned towards Dill and hushed him. “You can’t pee, there’s not – ”
PETER AND THE VAMPIRES (Volume One) (PETER AND THE MONSTERS) Page 9
