receded to its former position. The face was half-hidden again, the shadowy folds of its surrounding darkness part of the night itself.
“We’ll see.”
All at once the thing was gone, leaving only the cool night and a few stars peeking from behind scattering clouds.
His hand trembling, Grant brought the last of his whiskey up to his mouth and drank it.
C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE
“Wake up, Petee.”
Petee Wilkins was having the only good dream he ever had. He had it every once in a while and always enjoyed it. In it he and his best friend Bud were in the house they broke into on Sagett River Road, eating from a huge box of chocolates they had found in the kitchen. Petee had never seen a candy box so big, covered in gold foil and tied with a silky red ribbon. The card had said, “To Bonny, Please, please forgive me! Signed, Paul.” They had gotten a good laugh over that.
“Wonder what the old poop did!” Bud laughed, stuffing his face with what turned out to be chocolate-covered cherries. After a moment of bliss he cried, “Ugh!” and spat them out onto the kitchen table, which was huge and marble topped. “I
hate
chocolate-covered cherries!”
Petee laughed and then gagged, spitting out his own mouthful of candy, which he had actually been enjoying.
Bud started laughing, holding his stomach, and then Petee began to laugh, too.
“Funny!” Petee said.
Bud took the box of chocolates and dumped it out on the floor. Then he began to stomp on the candy, making chocolate mud.
After a moment Petee joined in, and then Bud said, “Come on!” and they tramped into the living room, leaving chocolate sneaker prints on the white rug.
There was much more to the dream, trashing the living room, throwing a side chair through the large screen TV—
But now Petee abruptly woke up.
“Oh, no—” he said, looking at the hovering, flapping, black thing above him with the oval white face.
“Now how can you say that, Petee?” Samhain asked.
“I thought you were gone for good,” Petee whimpered.
“Didn’t I tell you I might need you someday?”
“Sure. But I didn’t think . . .”
“That’s right, Petee, you didn’t think. But you don’t have to. I did you that favor back in . . . what was it? Junior high school?”
Petee nodded, wiping the back of his hand across his running nose. He sat up in bed and looked down at the covers, not at the thing.
“That’s right,” Samhain said, “I kept you from getting into big trouble when you and that idiot Ganley drowned the Manhauser’s cat. Oh, your father would have beat you to death if the police had been involved in that one, don’t you think?”
Petee would not look up. “Yeah,” he said, grudgingly.
“And what did you promise at the time? Didn’t you promise to do me a favor if I ever needed one?”
Eyes downcast, Petee nodded.
“Good. And now it’s time. Here’s what I want you to do, Petee . . .”
C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
Another Halloween.
The day dawned gray and bloodshot. Grant woke up in his lounge chair in the basement with a sour taste in his mouth. A finger of scotch lay pooled in the bottom of the Dewar’s bottle on the table next to the chair. The glass next to it was empty. The television volume was low, the movie on Turner Classic Movies a film noir with too much talking.
Grant got up, walked to the casement window and pushed the partially open short curtain all the way open. A mist of rainwater covered the storm window, and the sky through it was battleship gray–colored and low.
He could just make out a row of pumpkins, already carved into faces, frowns on one end slowly turning into smiles by the other, on the rail of his back neighbor’s deck. It was a yearly tradition.
He turned off the television, oddly missing the sound after it was off, and trudged up the stairs to the kitchen. He checked the back door, which was locked and bolted, and then the front.
Back in the kitchen, he made eggs and toast and a pot of
“We’ll see.”
All at once the thing was gone, leaving only the cool night and a few stars peeking from behind scattering clouds.
His hand trembling, Grant brought the last of his whiskey up to his mouth and drank it.
C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE
“Wake up, Petee.”
Petee Wilkins was having the only good dream he ever had. He had it every once in a while and always enjoyed it. In it he and his best friend Bud were in the house they broke into on Sagett River Road, eating from a huge box of chocolates they had found in the kitchen. Petee had never seen a candy box so big, covered in gold foil and tied with a silky red ribbon. The card had said, “To Bonny, Please, please forgive me! Signed, Paul.” They had gotten a good laugh over that.
“Wonder what the old poop did!” Bud laughed, stuffing his face with what turned out to be chocolate-covered cherries. After a moment of bliss he cried, “Ugh!” and spat them out onto the kitchen table, which was huge and marble topped. “I
hate
chocolate-covered cherries!”
Petee laughed and then gagged, spitting out his own mouthful of candy, which he had actually been enjoying.
Bud started laughing, holding his stomach, and then Petee began to laugh, too.
“Funny!” Petee said.
Bud took the box of chocolates and dumped it out on the floor. Then he began to stomp on the candy, making chocolate mud.
After a moment Petee joined in, and then Bud said, “Come on!” and they tramped into the living room, leaving chocolate sneaker prints on the white rug.
There was much more to the dream, trashing the living room, throwing a side chair through the large screen TV—
But now Petee abruptly woke up.
“Oh, no—” he said, looking at the hovering, flapping, black thing above him with the oval white face.
“Now how can you say that, Petee?” Samhain asked.
“I thought you were gone for good,” Petee whimpered.
“Didn’t I tell you I might need you someday?”
“Sure. But I didn’t think . . .”
“That’s right, Petee, you didn’t think. But you don’t have to. I did you that favor back in . . . what was it? Junior high school?”
Petee nodded, wiping the back of his hand across his running nose. He sat up in bed and looked down at the covers, not at the thing.
“That’s right,” Samhain said, “I kept you from getting into big trouble when you and that idiot Ganley drowned the Manhauser’s cat. Oh, your father would have beat you to death if the police had been involved in that one, don’t you think?”
Petee would not look up. “Yeah,” he said, grudgingly.
“And what did you promise at the time? Didn’t you promise to do me a favor if I ever needed one?”
Eyes downcast, Petee nodded.
“Good. And now it’s time. Here’s what I want you to do, Petee . . .”
C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
Another Halloween.
The day dawned gray and bloodshot. Grant woke up in his lounge chair in the basement with a sour taste in his mouth. A finger of scotch lay pooled in the bottom of the Dewar’s bottle on the table next to the chair. The glass next to it was empty. The television volume was low, the movie on Turner Classic Movies a film noir with too much talking.
Grant got up, walked to the casement window and pushed the partially open short curtain all the way open. A mist of rainwater covered the storm window, and the sky through it was battleship gray–colored and low.
He could just make out a row of pumpkins, already carved into faces, frowns on one end slowly turning into smiles by the other, on the rail of his back neighbor’s deck. It was a yearly tradition.
He turned off the television, oddly missing the sound after it was off, and trudged up the stairs to the kitchen. He checked the back door, which was locked and bolted, and then the front.
Back in the kitchen, he made eggs and toast and a pot of
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