The Children on the Hill(59)

Was the monster in there, watching, waiting?

I remembered playing hide-and-seek when we were kids, counting to fifty with my head buried in the living room couch cushions, rushing up the stairs to search for my sister: Ready or not, here I come!

I could see a yawning doorway and five little square windows, staggered.

I approached the tower, listening hard. No more sounds came from inside. No sound came from anywhere.

It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath.

There were two boards nailed up over the doorway and a sign: DANGER! TOWER CLOSED! NO TRESPASSING!

I shone my light inside, saw a metal spiral staircase, rusted through in places. On the cement floor were smashed bottles, a stained T-shirt, leaves and sticks and candy wrappers. The remnants of a small fire, which was complete idiocy—who would light a fire in there? Old dry wooden timbers jutted out, tied into the metal stairs. And all those old leaves and sticks would go up like a tinderbox.

ENTER AND DIE was written on the wall in red spray paint, with a pentagram drawn next to it. And beneath it, another message sprayed in white paint: Rattling Jane Was Here!

I smelled old crumbling cement. Earth. Stale beer. Urine.

And cigarette smoke. Faint, but recent.

I swallowed down the lump that was starting to form in my throat and carefully unshouldered my pack, opened it, and took out the little .38 Special, then shrugged the knapsack back on. I ducked under the warning boards crossing the doorway, the gun in my right hand, the flashlight in my left.

My boots crushed glass, and little sticks and leaves popped and crackled under my feet like tiny bones.

I tested the first metal step with my weight. It seemed solid. I stepped to the second, testing, then the third, which seemed to shift slightly beneath me.

All the spit in my mouth dried up.

I was sure I heard rustling from up above.

Not rustling, footsteps. Dragging, shuffling footsteps.

I shone my light up, saw only the rusting steps, how they’d come loose from some of the metal brackets that braced them to the wall.

Again I thought: This is stupid. I should turn back.

There was more graffiti on the stone walls: SUICIDE IS PAINLESS; MARK P SUCKS COCKS; THIS BUD’S FOR YOU with the outline of a marijuana leaf.

Then, in what looked like colored chalk, a drawing I recognized: a copy of Eric’s chimera from the cover of the monster book. A creature with the head of a lion and the body of a goat, a tail that ended with the head of a snake.

Written under it: The first thing you need to know is that monsters are real. They’re all around us, whether we can see them or not.

My sister had been here.

Was here right now.

I held my breath, listening.

I was about halfway up the stairs when I heard a noise from outside the tower. A thump and a huff, a little groan.

I nearly called out, demanded to know who was there, but I bit my lip, kept climbing.

The stairs shifted and creaked. Concrete rained down from a spot on the wall somewhere above me. I dropped the flashlight as I instinctively reached out to grab hold of the railing.

The flashlight hit the cement floor below with a crash, went out.

Shit, shit, shit!

Should I go up or down?

Up or down?

Tick tock, tick tock.

I felt it, a strong magnetic pull, one I hadn’t felt in a long, long time, drawing me up, up to the top of the tower.

To her.

I thought of Frankenstein, of the monster throwing the doctor off the top of the windmill, of the villagers with their torches.

Up I climbed, holding tight to the gun in my right hand, the rusted metal rail in my left. Bits of flaking metal stuck to my hand, jagged edges bit at my skin, but I did not let go.

Ready or not, here I come.

I saw the opening just above me, blue moonlight shining down. I took the last steps as quickly as I could. The element of surprise was gone: If there was anyone up there, they’d heard me. Knew I was coming.

Halfway through the opening, swiveling my head around, pointing the gun in an arching circle, I scanned the shadows for movement, for a figure crouching, lying in wait.

But there was nothing. No one.

I ascended the final steps, walked out onto the wood floor, which gave a little beneath me. The walls were worse up here, the stones coming loose as the mortar failed, the battlements crumbling: eighty years of rain and wind and snow taking their toll.

I searched frantically, walking in a slow and careful circle around the perimeter, testing the boards with each step. They felt spongy, rotten, but they held my weight.

The top floor was empty.

There must be something here, I told myself. Some sign. Some clue.

Another chalk drawing, perhaps?

A message telling me where to go next, like a game, a scavenger hunt.

I was nearly all the way around the circle when I spotted a rectangular object in a nest of leaves. A package? I moved closer, squinting in the darkness, trying to make out the details, wishing for my flashlight.

My breath caught in my throat. My whole body vibrated, ringing like the bell on top of the strongman carnival game. Even my teeth ached.

I knelt on the splintered, rotten wood, reached toward the gift—for surely it was a gift—left just for me.

I picked it up, this old familiar friend—more worn now, cracked and battered—but still, holding it in my hands felt like a homecoming, a reunion.

I ran my fingers over the cover, the title, struggling to make out the details in the dark.