The Dead House!

~Ch 15 Just Dead~

"They're going to kill us!" Sam cried.
I watched them move forward in silence. Sam and I had backed up to the window. I looked around the dark room for an escape route. But there was nowhere to run.
"Karen—you seemed so nice," I said. The words just tumbled out. I hadn't thought before I said them.
Her eyes glowed a little brighter. "I was nice," she said in a glum monotone, "until I moved here."
"We were all nice," George Carpenter said in the same low monotone. "But now we're dead."
"Let us go!" Sam cried, raising his hands in front of him as if to shield himself.
"Please—let us go."
They laughed again, the dry, hoarse laughter. Dead laughter.
"Don't be scared, Lily," Karen said. "Soon you'll be with us. That's why they invited you to this house."
"Huh? I don't understand," I cried, my voice shaking.
"This is the Dead House. This is where everyone lives when they first arrive in Duskwood. When they're still alive."
This seemed to strike the others as funny. They all snickered and laughed.
"But our great-uncle—" Sam started.
Karen shook her head, her eyes glowing with amusement. "No. Sorry, Sam. No great-uncle. It was just a trick to bring you here. Once every year, someone new has to move here. Other years, it was us. We lived in this house—until we died. This year, it's your turn."
"We need new blood," Jerry Franklin said, his eyes glowing red in the dim light. "Once a year, you see, we need new blood."
Moving forward in silence, they hovered over Sam and me.
I took a deep breath. A last breath, perhaps. And shut my eyes.
And then I heard the knock on the door.
A loud knock, repeated several times.
I opened my eyes. The ghostly kids all vanished.
The air smelled sour.
Sam and I stared at each other, dazed, as the loud knocking started again.
"It's Mom and Dad!" Sam cried.
We both ran to the door. Sam stumbled over the coffee table in the dark, so I got to the door first.
"Mom! Dad!" I cried, pulling open the door. "Where have you been?"

I reached out my arms to hug them both—and stopped with my arms in the air. My mouth dropped open and I uttered a silent cry.
"Mr. Willingston!" Sam exclaimed, coming up beside me. "We thought—"
"Oh, Mr. Willingston, I'm so glad to see you!" I cried happily, pushing open the screen door for him.
"Kids—you're okay?" he asked, eyeing us both, his handsome face tight with worry. "Oh, thank God!" he cried. "I got here in time!"
"Mr. Willingston—" I started, feeling so relieved, I had tears in my eyes. "I—"
He grabbed my arm. "There's no time to talk," he said, looking behind him to the street. I could see his car in the driveway. The engine was running. Only the parking lights were on. "I've got to get you kids out of here while there's still time."
Sam and I started to follow him, then hesitated.
What if Mr. Willingston was one of them?
"Hurry," Mr. Willingston urged, holding open the screen door, gazing nervously out into the darkness.
"I think we're in terrible danger."
"But—" I started, staring into his frightened eyes, trying to decide if we could trust him.
"I was at the party with your parents," Mr. Willingston said. "All of a sudden, they formed a circle. Everyone. Around your parents and me. They—they started to close in on us."
Just like when the kids started to close in on Sam and me, I thought.
"We broke through them and ran," Mr. Willingston said, glancing to the driveway behind him. "Somehow the three of us got away. Hurry. We've all got to get away from here—now!"
"Sam, let's go," I urged. Then I turned to Mr. Willingston. "Where are Mom and Dad?"
"Come on. I'll show you. They're safe for now. But I don't know for how long."
We followed him out of the house and down the driveway to his car. The clouds had parted. A sliver of moon shone low in a pale, early morning sky.
"There's something wrong with this whole town," Mr. Willingston said, holding the front passenger door open for me as Sam climbed into the back.
I slumped gratefully into the seat, and he slammed the door shut. "I know," I said, as he slid behind the wheel. "Sam and I. We both—"
"We've got to get as far away as we can before they catch up with us," Mr. Willingston said, backing down the drive quickly, the tires sliding and squealing as he pulled onto the street.
"Yes," I agreed. "Thank goodness you came. My house—it's filled with kids. Dead kids and—"
"So you've seen them," Mr. Willingston said softly, his eyes wide with fear. He pushed down harder on the gas pedal.
As I looked out into the purple darkness, a low, orange sun began to show over the green treetops. "Where are our parents?" I asked anxiously.
"There's a kind of outdoor theater next to the cemetery," Mr. Willingston said, staring straight ahead through the windshield, his eyes narrow, his expression tense. "It's built right into the ground, and it's hidden by a big tree. I left them there. I told them not to move. I think they'll be safe. I don't think anyone'll think to look there."
"We've seen it," Sam said. A bright light suddenly flashed on in the backseat. "What's that?" Mr. Willingston asked, looking into the rearview mirror.
"My flashlight," Sam answered, clicking it off. "I brought it just in case. But the sun will be up soon. I probably won't need it."
Mr. Willingston hit the brake and pulled the car to the side of the road. We were at the edge of the cemetery. I climbed quickly out of the car, eager to see my parents. The sky was still dark, streaked with violet now. The sun was a dark orange balloon just barely poking over the trees. Across the street, beyond the jagged rows of gravestones, I could see the dark outline of the leaning tree that hid the mysterious amphitheater.
"Hurry," Mr. Willingston urged, closing his car door quietly. "I'm sure your parents are desperate to see you."
We headed across the street, half-walking, half-jogging, Sam swinging the flashlight in one hand.
Suddenly, at the edge of the cemetery grass, Sam stopped. "Petey!" he cried.
I followed his gaze, and saw our white terrier walking slowly along a slope of gravestones.
"Petey!" Sam yelled again, and began running to the dog.
My heart sank. I hadn't had a chance to tell Sam what Ray had revealed to me about Petey. "No—Sam!" I called.
Mr. Willingston looked very alarmed. "We don't have time. We have to hurry," he said to me. Then he began shouting for Sam to come back.
"I'll go get him," I said, and took off, running as fast as I could along the rows of graves, calling to my brother. "Sam! Sam, wait up! Don't! Don't go after him! Sam—Petey is dead!"
Sam had been gaining on the dog, which was ambling along, sniffing the ground, not looking up, not paying any attention to Sam. Then suddenly, Sam tripped over a low grave marker.
He cried out as he fell, and the flashlight flew out of his hand and clattered against a gravestone.
I quickly caught up with him. "Sam—are you okay?"
He was lying on his stomach, staring straight ahead.
"Sam—answer me. Are you okay?"
I grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to pull him up, but he kept staring straight ahead, his mouth open, his eyes wide. "Sam?"
"Look," he said finally.
I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Sam wasn't knocked out or something. "Look," he repeated, and pointed to the gravestone he had tripped over.
I turned and squinted at the grave. I read the inscription, silently mouthing the
words as I read:
COMPTON WILLINGSTON. R.I.P. 1950-1980.
My head began to spin. I felt dizzy. I steadied myself, holding onto Sam.

COMPTON WILLINGSTON.
It wasn't his father or his grandfather. He had told us he was the only Compton in his family.
So Mr. Willingston was dead, too.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Dead as everyone else.
He was one of them. One of the dead ones.
Sam and I stared at each other in the purple darkness. Surrounded. Surrounded by the dead.
Now what? I asked myself. Now what?