Draugr by Arthur Slade Page B

. . . wasn’t it?”
    The shotgun fired.
    Something struck the cabin wall with the weight of a two-ton truck. Glass shattered.
    â€œWhat was that?” Angie asked, frightened.
    Before I could answer I heard Hugin just outside our window, growling low and hard as if he had a grip on some animal that he wouldn’t let go. Grandpa screamed. Hugin struggled, roaring and growling. Then he made a
yipping,
almost human, cry of pain.
    An object hit the house. Smaller than the first time.
    The shotgun fired again.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Michael asked.
    I was trying to sit up. Unsuccessfully. “I don’t know. But I have to find—”
    I was cut off by a scream.
    Grandpa was crying out, a long and painful wail that suddenly died. This was followed by a roar I knew wasn’t a dog or a man.
    I found I could move. I grabbed for the key to the door, knocking it to the floor.
    I saw Michael stand up. He struggled to take the few steps to the window.
    â€œDon’t!” I yelled.
    He looked at me.
    â€œYou don’t know what’s out there,” I said, then I scooped up the key and went to the door. “We . . . we need to arm ourselves. We need something to protect us.”
    It took a moment of fumbling to place the key in the lock. Then it wouldn’t budge. “Oh no . . . oh no,” I whispered.
    I twisted and twisted.
    With a clicking sound the key turned. I quickly rotated the knob and threw open the door.
    Michael and Angie followed me into the darkened living room.
    â€œWhat’s out there?” Michael asked. “Was it a bear? Did you see it?”
    â€œNo,” I answered. “But I think whatever—whoever—it is, it’s really big.”
    I found it hard to move. My body was still clumsy. My legs and arms were tingling.
    Michael went to the closet and found a bat. I took the hockey stick that was above the mantel and gave a steel poker to Angie. The stick felt too small in my hands. Who’d be scared of me?
    We went to the back door, stopped, and looked at each other. I breathed in, my first good breath of air. “Let’s do it,” I said.
    Michael turned the knob.

11
    There was one light in the backyard, high on a pole. It seemed to have only about forty watts of power, just enough brightness to turn everything into shadows. We took a few tentative steps outside.
    What I saw was enough to frighten me.
    A large section of the fence was broken; long, thick slabs of wood looked as if they had been snapped like toothpicks. Grass was uprooted all across the yard. Then I looked to my left. Part of the cabin was caved in, boards stuck out like broken bones. It was the spare room—where we had slept. And it looked like there was blood on the wall. A large, spattered, black pool.
    â€œIt’s a battlefield!” Michael exclaimed. “What happened?”
    â€œI don’t know. But we have to find Grandpa.” I clutched my hockey stick tighter and started out into the yard.
    â€œGrandpa! Grandpa!” we yelled.
    It was hard to make sense of the shapes around me. There was too much gloom and darkness. I squinted, wondering if I should take the time to find a flashlight. There had to be one in the house somewhere. But what if Grandpa was just a few feet away, lying on the ground?
    I stumbled across a groove in Grandfather’s tiny garden. It was as if something had been dragged along the earth, through the carrots and pea plants. Part of Grandpa’s plaid shirt was stuck to a rake.
    I picked up the tattered cloth. It was stained with a dark wet spot. I wasn’t sure if it was blood.
    My heart sped up. I followed the track, coming closer to the end of the yard.
    A few steps later I found his shotgun. The double barrel was bent upwards.
    Then I came to the edge of the fence. Boards and posts and wire were all broken and snapped, pointing inwards, like a bulldozer had slammed through it all. Just