by Dalya Moon
Chapter Three
I'm gaping up at the silently-preaching man on the old television screen embedded in the sculpture when something moves. “Holy crap,” I say out loud, in awe that the artists have integrated working robotics. However, it wasn't the sculpture's shoulder of rusty kettles and curling irons that moved. The statue remains welded still, only its preacher man face moving.
The movement was a big crow, who now lifts out a shiny black wing, grooms a feather, and tucks the wing back down.
We study each other, the crow and I. The man on the television screen gets closer to the camera, until his mouth fills the small screen, his teeth angrily biting at his words. Still no sound comes from the television, but the statue itself creaks and groans under the bird's weight.
“Get off there, stupid, you're wrecking it,” I say to the bird.
The bird raises its wings and jumps up and down. An alarm clock embedded in the chest of the man turns on, with red LED numbers showing the time as 7:77.
No firecrackers have gone off for several minutes, and the silence of the night wraps around me. A breeze fans the flames of the jack-o-lanterns, enraging their faces.
All the dogs in the neighborhood begin barking, and something nearby lets out an unearthly howl. I whip around to see a small ghost—a child in a sheet—running toward me. The eyes have shifted around, and the little ghost collides with me, sending me to the lawn.
I pause, on my knees, in front of the sculpture. The preacher man on the screen has turned, so the back of his head fills the screen. The crow on the sculpture's shoulder raises both wings, but doesn't fly away.
I turn to check on the little ghost, but he or she has already gotten up and is scurrying away, shoes slapping on the pavement. The dogs all stop barking simultaneously.
A car drives down the street behind me, the windows rolled down to share music and laughter with the neighborhood. The car sound fades, and I'm kneeling before lawn art, letting my imagination get the better of me.
My camera! I zip open my bag in a panic, worried I broke something in the collision or fall, but everything seems undamaged. I take out my digital, remove the lens cap, and take some photos from a low angle under the creepy TV-man sculpture. The light is dim, so I take several while holding my breath, using my elbows on the lawn to keep steady.
The crow doesn't fly away, but then again, he's not doing anything that isn't normal crow behavior. Stop being paranoid, I tell myself as I stand and dust the grass off my black suit.
“Seeya, crow,” I say as I walk away.
The streetlight ahead of me blinks off just before I reach the comfort of its circle of light. So does the next one, and the next. I cross the street, but lights keep blinking off, no matter where I go. The carved pumpkins, with their maniacal grins, get brighter.
I swear the crow is following me, but when I turn around, I can't pick it out in the darkness. More firecrackers go off in the distance as I walk past a tree covered in fifty dollars' worth of toilet paper.
Besides setting off firecrackers, I've never done any classic Halloween pranks, like throwing eggs or putting flaming bags of dog poo on porches. Toilet paper in the tree looks ethereal at night, like snow, though the neighborhood does have a vaguely post-apocalyptic aura right now.
I think the TV-man sculpture got to me, because I keep seeing the preaching man's face when I blink. A jittery, snaky feeling starts in my legs.
I walked into a murder scene today. I should probably talk to a counselor or something. The snaky feeling gets into my hips and I walk a little faster.
The witch is coming for me, I think. The crow comes out of the dark, swooping across my shoulder, its wing clipping my cheek. My ear stings, and when I pull my hand away, there are drops of dark blood on my fingers.
Firecrackers pop and sputter again, closer this time, and I break into a run. I'm three blocks from my house. Pulling my keys out of my pocket to save seconds, I run as fast as I can. When I get to the front of the house, I don't bother with the little gate in the pergola, but leap over Gran's rose bushes.
On the front step, I can't get the key in the keyhole. My hand shakes and moves stupidly, as though frozen solid. My pulse throttles up my throat. A thousand beady eyes are closing in. The wind rises up behind me, like the beating of a thousand wings.
I'm almost in tears by the time I get the key in and the door open. I enter quietly, even though nobody's home. Gran and Rudy are out of town at a casino for the night. I collapse against the door on the inside of my warm, safe house. Peering out the peephole, I see nothing—not a single crow, let alone a murder of them. Now I feel ridiculous.
I shuffle down to hall to the bathroom, squeezing my eyes shut until the light is on. The sight of something black on my face makes me gasp, but it's just my costume's mustache. I take off the little patch of fake hair and throw it in the garbage. My ear is still bleeding from the crow's attack, but the wound is barely a scratch.
The antique clock back in the living room sounds twelve reverberating gongs, and I sigh with relief that Halloween is over.
There will be no more sexy girl legs at school tomorrow, but the sun will come up and burn away the memory of this night. I close my eyes, turn off the bathroom light, and dash away from the mirror, holding my breath until I get to my room and safely on top of my bed. I'm in my familiar space, with the striped wallpaper and the quilted patchwork bed cover Gran made from some of my childhood clothes and other scraps, mostly denim and corduroy. Sure, I'm nearly an adult, and I'm not a tiny guy, but the walk home was freaky, and I think everyone turns into a little kid again when they're scared.
I take off my Charlie Chaplin suit and lay it across the wooden chair next to my bed. I bought the jacket and pants at a thrift store with James, and it was only ten dollars, but it's a good-looking suit. I hope nobody died in it.
Eyes closed, I burrow down in my covers. Of all the nights for Gran to be away, she had to pick tonight. I hope her fiance is showing her a good time, at least. I hope she's eating a lot, because she's still too skinny.
Tomorrow's a new day.
I'm way too tense to sleep.
I get out of bed and click on my computer monitor, stinging my eyes and bathing my room in a blue glow. I actually have two monitors, side-by-side. James got them from his dad's office when they were upgrading all their systems. It took some fiddling around with my graphics card, but now I can play a game in the main screen, the bigger one, and have email and other chat screens open in the second monitor.
My computer setup is perfect, though it doesn't leave much space on my antique desk for textbooks. I run my fingers appreciatively over the wooden surface, remembering my grandfather sanding and refinishing the wood. The desk was a garage-sale find, and cheap because it had been left in a barn for years, under a bird's nest. Grandpa cleaned off the bird crap and the weathered shellac, bringing it down to the wood and back to life again. This was not long after I came to live with him and Gran, and not long before he got sick.
I bring my fingers to my mouth, kiss them, and press them to the desk. I love you Grandpa, and I hope you're doing a lot of bowling up there in heaven.
For an instant I think of another old man, Newt, lying in blood today. I push the thought away. If you don't bring memories out and examine them, eventually they stop visiting you.
A game. I'll take my mind off other things with a game. After logging in to the server, I start playing a new quest, somewhat amused that everything has a Halloween theme tonight. The zombies and skeletons jumping out of shadows, however, are not so amusing. After a few minutes, my heart is pounding. Am I enjoying this? Am I paying a monthly membership fee for the privilege of being terrorized by pale, eyebrow-less monsters?
What's that sound? I click off the speakers to make sure the scratching isn't coming from the game. The sound is irritating, like squeaky chalk on a chalkboard. It must be a branch on the outside of my window. Or is that a branch? A fear starts in my stomach and works u
p to a thought in my brain, chilling my blood. There are no branches near my window.
My heart goes double-time, and just when I think I can't be more freaked out, a pain-faced ghoul jumps out at me on the screen. Swearing, I turn off the monitor. My bedroom is dark, and all I see is the after-image of the computer monitor and the game's monsters.
Something scratches again. The noise is definitely outside the house, on the other side of my bedroom window. Where there is no tree branch.
I reach for the lamp next to my bed. The room flashes and crackles like a firecracker, white-hot, then all is drenched in darkness. The light bulb, an old incandescent one, not a fluorescent, has dramatically burned out.
Scratch, scratch at the window.
Maybe the tree in the back yard has grown and I haven't noticed until now.
Scratch, scratch.
I jump back into bed, pull the blankets over my head, and wish the sound away. My so-called defensive power involves bees, so could I summon a bee to protect me now? What would a bee do?
Julie's voice echoes in my head, telling me to be a man.
On the count of three, I tell myself. One ...
Scratch, scratch.
Two ...
Scratch.
Three!
I jump up and throw the covers away, forcing myself to look at the window. A crow. My jumping up must scare the hell out of the crow, because it opens its wings and falls away.
Where'd he go? I open the window—just an inch—and listen.
Sternly, I ask the night air, “What do you want?”
The crow flaps up again and perches on the windowsill. He looks annoyed, the way he's bobbing his little head and jerking his wings. Now that I've got his attention, I tell the crow to do something anatomically impossible to itself.
It opens its mouth silently, as though shocked.
Now that my heart is no longer paddling its way up my throat, I notice the bird has something on its leg. Is that one of those tracker things scientists put on birds?
The crow pulls at the thing, which is a curled piece of paper about the shape of the fortune from a fortune cookie. I open the window an inch more and put two fingers out. To my absolute shock, the bird passes me the paper.
“Is this from Hogwarts?” I ask, my spirits soaring with insane hope.
“CAW,” says the crow.
I unfurl the note. When I look up again, the crow is gone.
The moon is only partly full, but bright enough for me to read by if I'm at the window. The note is written with loopy, beautiful handwriting.
The note delivered to me by the crow says: Zan, you must solve my murder. - Newt.
So much for sleeping tonight.
Chapter Four
In the morning, the note doesn't seem any less terrifying or unbelievable. A murdered man sent me a note from beyond the grave, asking me to solve his murder.
Why me? Am I supposed to use my belly button power to solve crimes? My gift only works on girls, so what are the odds a girl I know killed Newt?
I read the note again: Zan, you must solve my murder. - Newt.
Again, though, why me? Isn't it enough that I'm not using my visions for blackmail or illicit financial gain? Now I have to do actual good? What am I, Spiderman? This is not good. My life is horrible. Wait, what's that smell?
Bacon! Yay, bacon!
People are talking in the kitchen. Gran and Rudy. There's life's funny little karmic balancing at work. Yes, there's bacon, but it's because Gran's fiance, Rudy, is over.
I go out to the kitchen, intending to ask them why they're here and not enjoying a buffet breakfast at the casino.
“Good morning, Rudy,” I say cordially, the way Gran would want me to.
“Danny-boy,” he says, and when I give him a dirty look, he corrects his pronunciation, “Zanny-boy.”
Gran doesn't turn from the stove, where she's flipping pancakes, her black and white hair pulled back into a tight bun. She's wearing a satin robe with a floral pattern of big, purple and red flowers mixed with hummingbirds. Gran's name is Flora, and either she loves clothes and furnishings with floral patterns, or people think she does and keep giving them to her.
I grab for some crunchy bacon from the plate on the counter, but Rudy whacks me on the hand. My karate training kicks in and I take a defensive stance, arms up in front of me.
Rudy doesn't even twitch. “Manners,” he says calmly.
Even though we've been getting along well enough lately, right about now I'd be worried about punching him in his jowly face if we'd been covering more punching at my Intro to Karate classes. I suspect our teacher may be a pacifist.
Ignoring any signs of conflict, Gran hums to herself and brings the stack of pancakes over to the table.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Your grandmother didn't like the room I booked,” Rudy says. “We drove all the way back last night, got here at about two.”
“You were conked right out!” Gran says. “I tried to wake you to get my goodnight kiss, but you were dead to the world.”
“Buddy!” Rudy says to my cat. Mibs jumps up on Rudy's lap, enjoying a chin rub and flicking his tail with joy.
Traitor.
“What do I owe you for the groceries?” Gran asks Rudy. Even though they're engaged to be married, so far they're planning to keep their separate houses, and I guess separate finances too. Makes me wonder why they'd even bother getting married, but what do I know.
The three of us sit at the table, and Rudy tells Gran, “Don't worry about it. Breakfast is on me! I've got way too much money to ever spend in one lifetime. Make sure Zan gets a big glass of that juice. He's a growing boy.”
Something about his bravado provokes a contrary suspicion. He's lying. I've always had the feeling Rudy's got something to hide, and this must be it: he's broke. He's probably got three mortgages on his house, and only once he's married to Gran, the truth will come out.
Gran asks me if the pancakes are to my liking, and I tell her they are. Her special pancakes are made with cornmeal, and they're my favorite food in the world, with crispy bacon a close second.
Gran is the most wonderful person you could ever hope to know. She never lets anything get her down—not being saddled with her grandson to raise, not losing her husband to stomach cancer, and certainly not little things like a flood the basement.
Last year, the pipe broke and we discovered four feet of water in the pantry downstairs. I was in a panic, but Gran took one look, then calmly instructed me to inflate the camping boat and row over to get her a jar of pickles while she called the plumber.
I feel bad that I didn't call Gran yesterday to tell her about discovering the dead man at the pawn shop, but I didn't want to worry her. She's on a gluten-free diet now to help with her digestive problems, but the doctors said she should avoid stress. That's one of the main reasons I haven't told her about my strange power, and why I'm not going to tell her about the eerie note in my pocket.
The second reason is I don't trust her to not tell Rudy. She tells him everything, and he's so attentive to her, as though he's compiling data. I truly love my grandmother, but her stories about the gardening club are not that interesting.
The third reason is I don't want to get dragged into church to have my demons exorcised. Actually, that should probably be my top reason.
* * *
At school, I show the tiny little note to James and Julie, asking what they think I should do.
“Offer your psychic skills to Officer Weirdo. Uh, Detective Wrong,” Julie says. “You guys could team up. You'd be the good cop, of course. She's more of a bad cop type, I think.”
“No way,” James says. “You'll be taken to a special room for questioning, they'll stick a needle in your arm, and the next thing you know, you're on an operating table at a secret government underground lab, having your brain sectioned.”
Julie rolls her eyes. “He's not E.T. And we're not living in an '80s movie.”
&
nbsp; James ruffles his spiky black hair—a shorter version of his sister's hair—and makes a very sad face, his big blue eyes even bigger. “E.T. go home. E.T. no get chopped into sushi.”
“Thanks, guys, for your well-meaning but unhelpful input,” I say. “I was thinking my first order of business would be to check into the Secret Town of any girl who's been acting suspicious. Maybe I'll get some leads.”
“No shit,” James says. “You have a plan? If you put this kind of effort into school work, you could get a scholarship. If you put this effort into girls, you could have … three girlfriends.”
Ignoring her brother, Julie says, “I know! You could go to the office and find out if anyone missed school yesterday or today.”
“Right, I bet they'll just tell me that information. Are you sure neither one of you is a computer hacker?”
James whistles and looks around innocently.
“No way!” I say.
“No, I'm not a hacker,” he says sheepishly. “I just wanted to do that whistle thing. Pretty funny, huh?”
“Not funny,” I say.
“I'd give it a five,” Julie says. “Out of ten.”
“So who's coming with me to the office?”
This time, Julie whistles.
* * *
Sitting in class, I formulate a plan to visit the school's office during the lunch break. Chasing down my first lead, I think to myself proudly. In fact, this detective thing is so exciting, I barely hear a word spoken by a teacher at any of my morning classes.
All I'm listening for is chatter—intel, as they'd call it on a spy show—from other students. Some guys are talking about a couple of idiots in the tenth grade who are planning to make moonshine using stolen lab equipment from the Chemistry room. Good luck with that, I think, since the kids at the heart of this potential scandal could barely make juice if given water and packets of Kool-Aid.
