Дебора Хоу - Nighty-Nightmare

Dawg turned back. “You guys coming or are you going to flap yer yaps all night?” he yelled. The moonlight made the ribbon of drool hanging from his lower lip glisten. It reminded me of Spud’s knife shining in the light of the Monroes’ campfire.

But then I noticed once again the vacant look in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Chester,” I said. “It’s difficult to imagine Dawg as being capable of what you’re suggesting.”

When we were still lost three hours later, it had gotten easier.

Chapter 5

Nighty-Nightmare

MY LEGS ACHED from walking. I’d never realized just how big the woods were on this side of Boggy Lake. Was Dawg trying to wear us down, so that when we finally stopped to sleep, there would be no fear of our waking until it was all over? I tried not to think such thoughts but couldn’t help myself. With each step we took, with each utterance Chester made about the spirit of evil being let loose at midnight, with each reflection of the moon I caught in Dawg’s eyes, I wondered … and I wondered … and I wondered.

“What do you suppose is happening to the Monroes?” I asked at one point. Chester just shook his head darkly, and I didn’t ask again.

After a time, he began telling stories of Saint George’s Day, not to frighten us, he assured me under his breath, but to check out Dawg’s reactions. There were none that were noticeable. Howie, seeing the lack of response in Dawg, reacted not out of fear but delight.

“Tell us more,” he’d say after Chester had finished each tale of twilight terror.

And so Chester would regale us with another.

And another.

Until: “It is near,” he said. And he fell silent.

I believe he was referring to the midnight hour. But Dawg interpreted his remark differently.

“Yep,” Dawg said. “We’re going in the right direction this time. I can feel it. Pretty soon, we’ll be there.”

“I can’t wait,” Howie squealed enthusiastically, as if we’d been walking for three minutes rather than three hours.

Dawg sniffed at the ground. “If we just follow the bed of this stream,” he said, “we’ll be there right quick.”

We walked now on muddy ground, our paws sticking with each step. Covered with cockleburs and mud, I was beyond the point of caring, wanting only to stop and rest, stop and sleep for the night … even if it meant the worst. I was beginning to nod off, when I heard Howie’s excited voice cry out, “Look! Look, there in the mud!”

Chester, Dawg, and I rushed to Howie’s side. There were fresh footprints.

“The prints of darkness,” Howie said ominously.

“They were made by people,” Dawg said. “I wonder if that means … yep, I’ll bet it does. We’re almost there, just like I told ya. Come on, follow me!”

Once again, he bounded off. Howie, who was as endlessly full of energy as a rechargable battery, was quick to follow. Chester and I lagged behind.

By the time we caught up with them, they had found what Dawg had been looking for all this time. Through an opening in the trees, we made out a large house standing in an open field. Its spires were silhouetted against a purple sky; its windows were dark but for one, which quivered with a yellow light. It seemed like something from another time and place.

When he saw it, Chester gasped.

“I’ll bet you never thought you’d see that in the middle of the woods,” Dawg said. “Ain’t it a sight?”

“It looks like a castle,” said Howie.

“Or a cathedral,” I said.

We turned to Chester for his response, but there was none—none other than the look of sheer horror on his face, that is.

“Come on,” Dawg said, “let’s go closer.”

“No!” Chester cried.

“Aw, come on,” said Dawg, “don’t start that chicken stuff again.”

“It … it isn’t that,” Chester stuttered. He looked up at the sky. It had grown cloudier, but the light of the moon was still strong and full of power. “I’m tired, that’s all. I think maybe we should go back to camp. Do you know the way, Dawg?”

Dawg frowned. “Well, shore, but don’t you wanta see the house? We’ve come all this way.” He turned to Howie and yawned in spite of himself. “You wanta see it, don’t you, Howie?”

“He’s stalling,” Chester whispered to me. “We’ve got to get back to camp. We don’t have much time till midnight. And the last thing we want to do is go near that house. Anywhere but that house.”

“Why?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” But Chester couldn’t answer, because Dawg and Howie were looking to us for a decision.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat,” Chester said. “What do you say we try to get some rest? Then we can go see the house, and then go back to camp.”

Dawg yawned again. “Well, okay,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind setting down these weary bones for a spell. It looks like there’s some shelter over there under those leaves. Is this all right with you, little fella?”

Howie stretched his mouth wide, trying to make his yawn as big as Dawg’s, I think. “Sure,” he said.

As we settled in, I tried not to be hurt by the fact that Howie cuddled up to Dawg’s side instead of mine. Chester didn’t allow me any time for hurt feelings, however. “As soon as Dawg is asleep,” he whispered, “we grab Howie and run.”

“Nighty-night,” he said to Dawg and Howie, who were curled up several feet away from us.

“Nighty-night,” Howie said.

Dawg grumbled something I couldn’t make out. It might have been “nighty-night,” but garbled in some unidentifiable, macho way.

Well, I thought, as I looked up through the leaves at the broken pattern of stars and clouds above me, here I am: middle-aged and having an adventure. It wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind when Mr. Monroe had suggested an overnight camping trip, but I was sleeping under the stars and there was no denying that an adventure was what I was having. I wondered about Mr. Monroe then. What kind of adventure was he having? I shuddered as I thought about it and wondered how long it would take for Dawg to go to sleep.

Looking in his direction, I saw his eyes shining in the dark. It seemed the moon was forever reflected in them. He blinked when he saw me looking at him. I swallowed hard.

“Having trouble sleeping?” I asked.

“I always do,” he said. “This ol’ body of mine’s got so many breaks and bruises in it that something’s always aching. Don’t worry about me, I’ll just rest while you all sleep. I don’t mind.”

“Great,” Chester muttered. Then to Dawg, he said, “Would anything help you sleep?”

Dawg thought for a moment. “A doggie-bone softened in warm milk,” he said at last. I was ready to forgive him anything when he said it, but then it occurred to me that even Al Capone, the most notorious gangster of them all, probably liked his milk and cookies now and again.

“Well, we’re a little short on milk,” Chester said. “How about a lullaby? Harold, sing him the song about Dinah in the kitchen. Soft and low, Harold. Soft and low.”

I was about to open my mouth in song, when the words froze in my throat. There was someone out there. I heard the crackling of branches, voices whispering in the dark. “Chester, did you hear?” I hissed.

“Of course,” Chester said. “The evil spirits are waking to the devil’s alarm. Midnight is upon us. The sooner we get this clown to sleep, the better. Sing, Harold.”

I opened my mouth again, but was stopped this time by Dawg. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “what would help me to sleep better than a song is a story.”

“Yeah,” Howie said, “that’s what we need. A story. Just think, if we were back at the campfire with the Monroes, we’d be telling ghost stories. Tell us a ghost story, Pop.”