December Park(104)

“You queers should really watch where you’re going,” Falconette shouted. “Shouldn’t drive in the middle of the street.”

The Fiero jumped the curb, nearly forcing me into the bushes. Gears shrieked and exhaust burned in the air. Falconette leaned on the horn, which had been modified to sound like the air horn of an eighteen-wheeler. It nearly sent me shooting out of my skin.

Shrieking with laughter, Falconette dumped the Fiero back down onto the roadway.

At that point, Michael pulled a risky move: he cut across the street directly in front of Falconette’s car. The sudden unexpected maneuver caused the driver to slam on the brakes. As Michael hopped up the opposite curb and joined me on the sidewalk, the Fiero fishtailed, leaving streaks of black rubber on the pavement. The burning scent of the car’s tires flooded my nostrils.

The rear of the car swung far enough to one side that I could easily see it slamming into one of the shop fronts. Yet somehow Falconette regained control, and the Fiero slowed and thumped like a crippled racehorse alongside the curb. Then I heard the distinct report of a blown tire.

Michael cried out in triumph.

“Here,” Peter yelled and cut sharply down an alleyway.

One by one, we all followed him.





By the time we reached December Park, we were all giddy and high-strung. We hid our bikes in the woods, then trudged through it to the clearing and Echo Base. It was June, and the floor of the clearing was lush with new grass. Ivy had sprouted out of the ground and snaked around the headless statues, keeping them well hidden and protected.

Scott went to the trash bag concealing the nylon beer cooler packed with our gear and untied it while Peter and I stood around and shared a cigarette.

Michael grabbed the concrete head with the pipe jutting from its neck and held it up to his face. “Where do you belong, big fella?” he said in a creepy singsong voice, as if he were talking to an infant or a small animal. Then he proceeded to croon a few bars of “I Ain’t Got Nobody.”

“Let’s stick together in pairs,” Scott said. He took the two big walkie-talkies from the beer cooler and handed one to Peter.

Peter glanced at Michael, who was now pretending to French kiss the decapitated concrete head, then turned to Scott. “I’ll go with Angie; you go with Mikey.”

“Wonderful.” Scott rolled his eyes and clipped the walkie-talkie to his waistband. He rifled around inside the beer cooler until he found one of Michael’s maps of Harting Farms. He unfolded the map and spread it out on the trunk of one of the statues.

Scott traced a line down the center of town. “You guys take this side. Michael and I will take the other. We don’t have to go far. Adrian doesn’t have a bike, so if he went anywhere, it’s probably within walking distance. When we’re done for the day, let’s meet back here.” He clicked on his walkie-talkie. “Keep these on the whole time. If we don’t go too far we shouldn’t be out of range.”

We retraced our steps back to our bikes. Out in December Park, some kids had gathered on the baseball diamond with gloves and a ball. Farther across the park, where Solomon’s Bend Road was veiled behind a curtain of walnut trees, a few younger kids flew kites under the guidance of their parents.

A terrible feeling squirmed around inside my guts. “Listen,” I said as we prepared to split up. “You guys be careful, okay? And stick together. Don’t separate.”

“Yes, mom,” Michael quipped.

“He’s right,” Peter said, bouncing an acorn off Michael’s forehead. “Quit being a prick.”

“Can’t,” Michael said. “It’s my nature.”

Scott straddled his bike and headed across December Park. Michael gave Peter and me the finger, then turned and went after him. They carved a serpentine path through the overgrown grass while gathering speed and blasted right through the baseball diamond, kicking up clouds of dust and eliciting a barrage of swears from the older kids. A moment later, they both vanished beneath the underpass.

“Where to first?” Peter said, adjusting the volume on the walkie-talkie.

I didn’t have to think about it. “The Werewolf House.”





Since that day Adrian and I had cowered in the basement shin-deep in fetid brown water, my perception of the Werewolf House had changed. It was no longer just a creepy old house at the far end of a vacant lot. It was something more sinister now.

As we rode through the field and stopped before the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property, I felt my eyes glued to the house. It was as if to take them from it—even for a second—was akin to turning my back on a growling lion ready to pounce. It was nothing more than a collection of sun-bleached boards held together by scores of rusted carpentry nails, but I felt—no, I knew—that its whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

“That door looks pretty sealed up,” Peter said.

“We went in through the back door.”

We set our bikes down in the grass. I walked through the opening in the fence, grass seed and small bugs adhering to my clothes, and headed around the back. Peter followed close behind me.

“I can’t believe you guys went in there,” he marveled, gazing up at the crumbling roof and the hornets’ nests that hung like Chinese lanterns from the eaves. Then he froze. “What if Keener and his friends are in there?”