The Return of Skeleton Man
Joseph Bruchac
Illustrations by Sally Wern Comport
Contents
Cover
Prologue
Chapter 1
Arriving
Chapter 2
The Path
Chapter 3
Bad Memories
Chapter 4
My So-Called Uncle
Chapter 5
By the Lake
Chapter 6
Dark Corridors
Chapter 7
Down the Hallway
Chapter 8
The Lookout
Chapter 9
Skulls
Chapter 10
Walking the Field
Chapter 11
Snow
Chapter 12
Masks
Chapter 13
Darkness
Chapter 14
Help
Chapter 15
In the Cave
Chapter 16
The Cliff
Chapter 17
The Road
Chapter 18
The Blade
Chapter 19
Cat and Mouse
Chapter 20
By the Fire
Other Books by Joseph Bruchac
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
I hate sequels. I know that some kids love them, but not me. Once a story is over I’d just like it to be done with. Finis, as my teacher, Ms. Shabbas, puts it. But every time you go to a movie these days it seems like half the stuff showing is either sequels or sequels of sequels or even, like in those newer Star Wars films, prequels. All that ever gets better are the special effects. I ask you, though: After you’ve seen one planet blown up, what can you do to top that? I want to say “Give me a break!” to those producers and directors. “Do something new.”
The horror movies, of course, are the worst. Halloween Part 2006. Friday the 13th Times Infinity. It seems as if no matter what those sappy kids do to get rid of one of those mad-dog monsters like Freddy or Jason, he just comes back. You can shoot him, stab him, cut his head off, bury him, burn him, run him through a blender, make him into muffins, and nuke him in your microwave. It doesn’t matter. There he is again, all knifey and bloodthirsty and ready to throw more buckets of gore in the petrified protagonist’s face. You can even send Jason off to Hades and he’ll still reappear—to fight Freddy in outer space or something equally weird. Once again, give me a break.
You might think I’m saying that sequels are boring and unrealistic. Well, they are. That was pretty much the way I used to think about them. But I have to confess it is more than that for me now. What bothers me most about sequels now is not the thought that they’re unrealistic. It’s the fear that maybe they’re true. Maybe some monsters really are that hard to kill. Maybe, like poor old Jamie Lee Curtis, I’ll be going on with my life all la-la-la-la-la, everything is fiiine. Until I turn a corner and find him waiting for me.
1
Arriving
Look up there, Molly. That’s Sky Top Tower.” I shift my gaze up, way up. There, far in the distance, at the top of a huge cliff, is a tall stone tower. I can hardly believe it. Here we are, on a late-autumn day, speeding along the New York State Thruway in the midst of a twenty-first-century seventy-mile-per-hour stream of traffic, dodging Winnebagos (the trucks, not the Indians) and people more interested in their cell phone conversations than in staying in their own lane, and I’m staring at something that looks like it belongs in a Dracula movie.
“Wow,” I gasp. Then, just to show my parents how articulate I am, I say it again. “Wow!”
But I’m not the only one awed by the sight.
“Is that really where we’re going?” my mom asks in a tone that indicates she hopes the answer is yes.
In the rearview mirror I can see the big grin that spreads over my father’s face. He’d always loved to surprise us in the past, but over the last year or so, he’s been avoiding springing things on Mom and me unexpectedly, which is understandable considering the recent events we barely survived. I haven’t seen that wide a smile on his face for months. It makes me so happy that I wiggle in my seat like a puppy.
“Uh-huh,” Dad says in that slow, confident voice of his. “That’s where the conference is taking place.” He carefully checks his mirrors and puts on his blinker to move into the exit lane for New Paltz. “Well, not exactly in that tower. There’s a huge old Victorian hotel on that mountaintop, just below the tower, with 251 rooms.”
“Cool,” I say.
Dad nods. “Way cool, indeed, Molly girl. It’s called the Mohonk Mountain House, and when you are up there you feel like there’s no place else in the world. Totally isolated in the middle of a vast forest preserve.”
“Mohonk?” my mother asks. “Isn’t that where they had the Friends of the Indian conferences back in the 1880s, honey?”
I lean back to listen. It’s going to be one of those discussions between my mom and dad that’s as much a seminar as a conversation. Some people might find it boring, but my dad is a natural storyteller and my mom has this way of explaining historical events that just makes them come alive for me.
I hug myself as I listen and look out the window. My dad explains that two brothers, the Smileys, started building the Mohonk Mountain House back in 1869. It began as one building, but wings got added on and it just kept getting bigger and bigger. All kinds of major events have taken place at Mohonk, starting at the end of the nineteenth century with the Friends of the Indian—who did do a lot to make things better for native people—right up to the present day. In recent years the Smiley family has added many modern facilities, from videoconferencing rooms to an Olympic-size ice-skating rink. The Mountain House restaurants are famous, and people come to the hotel from all over the world for weekend getaways. It’s also a favorite place for business conferences like the seminars my father’s bank is sending him to. This is his second visit but the first time we are joining him.
Their discussion pauses only when we go through the tollbooth; then we are off the thruway. The tower is out of sight now. We’re heading into the town of New Paltz, one of those places that used to be surrounded by farms but is gradually sprawling out with development. There are the usual fast-food places and chain stores, but when we drive into the town itself it gets better.
“Ambience,” Mom says.
I know what she means. The buildings are old and the storefronts are all different here. They reflect the kind of stuff you see in places dominated by a big university like New Paltz—trendy little ethnic restaurants, colorful hand-painted signs, and small, unique stores.
“Walking and shopping later this weekend?” Mom says, turning back for a moment to look at me, her own smile almost as big as my dad’s was.
“Def!” I say. I can already picture Mom and me strolling down the streets, the warm autumn sun shining as we window-shop or have tea at that little place there, or check out that bookstore on the corner here.
It all seems too good to be true.
We’re through the town now, passing over a bridge across a little river and taking a winding road that leads up the mountain. The Smileys, whose descendants still run the place, loved nature. So they bought up thousands of acres of the Shawangunk Mountain range just to keep it wild. Then, in 1969, they turned sixty-four hundred acres of their land into the Mohonk Preserve—which surrounds the Mountain House—the biggest private nature preserve in all of New York State.
“Wow!” is going through my head again. The glaciers that sculpted the Shawangunk range made spectacular cliffs everywhere. The narrow road we’re following is windi
ng back and forth like a snake along the tops of those sheer drops. I catch a couple of glimpses of the town and the roads below, but most of the time all I can see is an endless expanse of evergreen forest. Hemlock and pine and cedar and spruce.
“Like going back into the past, isn’t it?” my dad says to us. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. My dad is Mr. Safe Driver. Both hands on the wheel. “Except for this little highway, it’s kind of what it was like a thousand years ago when it was just our people and the land here.”
“Not our people,” my mom says with a little smile. History being her thing, she can’t resist the opportunity to correct him. “This area was Lenape land, not Mohawk.”
“Well,” Dad says, “I’ll bet there were Mohawk tourists back then, too. Now, check this out. Got your passport ready, Molly?”
He nods his head toward the little building that appeared ahead of us as we rounded the turn. Of course they don’t ask us for passports. That’s just my dad being corny. Polite people ask where we’re going and then wave us through the gate after Dad says he’s going to the seminar.
“A gatehouse?” Mom says. “Where are we, Beverly Hills?”
“Better than that, small-town girl,” Dad replies.
I giggle. It’s fun to see Mom and Dad teasing each other like this.
“Just you wait,” Dad adds. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
And, just as he promised, when we get around the next corner I see exactly what he means. Rising ahead of us are wide lawns, little open-air structures scattered all over the place, stone walls, and gardens that even now, in late autumn, look amazing. But what is really mind-boggling is the actual Mountain House. A gigantic wooden building, it seems to rise up from the cliffs themselves. It is seven stories tall and it looks like something out of a gothic story. Porches sweep along the sides as it spreads out, just going on forever. Not only that, it is right next to a beautiful lake and mirrored by sheer cliffs on the other side of it. I feel as if we have driven into a fairy tale.
Dad pulls up in front. He stops and is about to get out to give his keys to the parking attendant. But I don’t give him a chance to do that. I throw my arms around his neck from the backseat and give him the biggest hug.
“This is going to be the best vacation ever,” I cry.
2
The Path
I thought this path through the woods would be a shortcut. Mistake number one, because I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere or else the path has grown twice as long after dark as it was when I first found it before dinner. I’m not sure how much farther I have to go, and I do not have a flashlight. Mistake number two. But the moon was really bright when I left the main lodge, and I was only going to walk a little ways in the moonlight before coming back. No way did I expect that the full moon was going to go behind the big bank of clouds that came rolling up over the white stones of the Shawangunk Mountains. No way was it going to get so dark that I could barely see my hand in front of my face. No way? Way.
That was my third mistake, thinking there was no way I could get in trouble here. There’s nothing threatening, nothing dangerous, nothing after me—except in my memory. It’s safe here at this old, well-cared-for resort on the mountaintop. Isn’t it?
I’m trying to move quietly. My steps, though, are far from quiet. Snow hasn’t come yet, even though a storm that might bring a dusting of snow to the high slopes has been forecast. The dry, fallen beech leaves rustle as I walk. Thick old trees loom overhead, making this more like a tunnel than a path. Cedar twigs and cones crunch underfoot. I don’t like making this much noise in the woods.
Be quiet, my father always says. Move slow. Calm yourself down.
So that is what I try to do. I take slower, more careful steps. I roll my feet, heel to toe, the way my father taught me. It works. I no longer sound like a three-legged moose. But now I can hear the pounding of my heart. It is so loud that it sounds like a drum. I am not calming myself down.
A song my homeroom teacher made up pops into my head:
There’s nothing more fearful than fear itself,
So hang your neuroses back up on the shelf.
You’ll just be more afraid the more that you fear,
So lift up your chin and smile, my dear.
Isn’t that a hideous song? But I actually find myself starting to sing it as I walk along. The moon has come out again. I can see the path ahead of me. I’m not sure how far away the big old hotel is, where my parents are waiting, but it can’t be that far. I’m feeling better. I sing a little louder. It’s like whistling in the dark to keep away something evil. Unless something evil likes the sound of whistling. Mistake number four.
I quickly shut my mouth. I stop walking. I’ve just heard the sound of something behind me. Not feet rustling through the leaves. Not the crackling of branches breaking as a heavy body thrusts its way through them. No, a far scarier sound than that. It is the dry tschick-a-tschick of bone against bone, accompanied by the wind-whistling sound of breath.
I turn to see a grinning skull face looming over me, its teeth dripping fresh blood. Long, bony hands reach out to grab me. I can’t get away. A heart-stopping scream tears the dark fabric of the night.
3
Bad Memories
I struggle to escape from the grip of Skeleton Man’s hand. But it won’t let go.
“Molly,” a familiar voice says. “It’s all right.”
That’s when I realize that the hand holding my shoulder is not all cold and made of bone. Its grasp is gentle. I realize that heart-stopping scream was my own. I open my eyes and look up into my mother’s concerned face.
I sit up and look around. It’s not night at all. I’m not in the woods but safe inside our suite of rooms. It’s only our third day here, but already it feels like home. Late-autumn sunlight is coming in through the window behind my mother’s head. It shines through her hair in a way that makes it look almost like an angel’s halo or the aura you see glowing around saints in old paintings. I take a deep, trembling breath and let it out. I’m remembering now. I was feeling tired after our rock climb and hike up through the Lemon Squeeze to the tower on Sky Top, so I decided to take a nap before dinner.
Mom puts her arms around me. “It was just a dream, honey,” she says.
I hug her back and sit up.
“I’m okay,” I say. I even manage to smile. Molly the warrior is regaining control. She’s confident, pushing the other Molly, the one who is a wounded wimp, way into the background, maybe even out of the picture entirely. Or at least that is how I make it look. I know how much it hurts Mom to see me upset.
But she isn’t ready to let it go yet. She studies my face. If my dad were here and not still deep in that afternoon discussion called, I kid you not, “Enron and the Perils of Accrual Accounting,” he would be holding our hands in his, making our own little circle of strength. It’s kind of a Mohawk Indian thing, that circle of strength idea. He learned it from his own grandparents when he was growing up on the reservation at Akwesasne, on the border between the United States and Canada.
“A circle,” my father always says, “is the oldest shape and the strongest.” His voice is deep and calm. “That’s why we dance in a circle, just as the Rabbit People taught us to dance. When we are together in a circle, we can all see each other’s faces. A real circle, a circle of love and caring and respect, can keep a family together. It can help you survive almost any threat.”
My dad has always tried to pass along to me as much of our Mohawk heritage as possible, including the old stories. I’ve talked with my parents about those stories a lot over the past year. I’m grateful my dad told them to me because I think the lessons I learned helped me survive what I went through. There are two lessons in particular that helped me.
The first is that there really are monsters. They may have different names these days and wear different masks than in ancient times, but they can still kill you. Knowing that monsters do exist can help you recognize danger b
efore it’s too late. You’ll realize you have to get out of the way and not just stand there like a fawn frozen in the middle of a four-lane highway while a semitrailer bears down on you at eighty miles an hour with its headlights blazing.
The second lesson is that even a child may be able to overcome or outwit a monster if she just keeps her wits about her and doesn’t panic. Be brave and the monster may fall. That was how it was with me.
What the old stories fail to mention is the panic that comes later. When it ended, I was a mess, despite having been a heroine in the papers and featured in a spot on CNN for two days in a row: GIRL SAVES PARENTS FROM KIDNAPPER WHO POSED AS UNCLE. (Then she falls apart.)
I suppose it wasn’t that bad. I am, after all, known for melodrama. It wasn’t like I couldn’t function on a day-to-day basis or that I got hysterical every time I heard a loud noise. It was the bad dreams. In those dreams, Skeleton Man came back to get me and there was no one there to help me, not even the rabbit.
What rabbit? I know some of you are probably asking that right now, as well as a lot of other questions. What is this crazy kid babbling about? Here I am, assuming you all know my story while I rattle on without making much sense.
That’s the problem with a sequel. You need to know the backstory. I won’t tell it all. But I’ll hit the high points like they do on some of those TV police shows.
Previously in Molly’s life I was just a normal sixth grader—if normal includes being Mohawk Indian and having a father with a Harvard MBA who works for a big bank and tells his daughter bloodcurdling old Indian tales. I have to tell you about one of those stories right now, because it is a big part of what happened to me.
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