Brian Keene - Urban Gothic

Dookie and the others seemed to mull over Leo’s sentiments, but Markus was adamant. “I ain’t going inside no haunted house,” he said. “No way. Fuck that noise.”

“How do you know it’s haunted?” Leo challenged him. “You ever see a ghost peeking out the window at you? Ever hear chains rattling around and shit? No? Neither have I. And neither has anyone else that we know of. It’s like Mr. Watkins said—nobody really knows what happens in there. All we know is that we’re told to stay away from it because people who go inside don’t come back out. And usually it’s the crackheads or dope slingers or homeless people, and who gives a fuck if they disappear, right? Except that this time, it ain’t them. It’s somebody who will be missed. At the very least, when word gets out that those white kids went missing and the last folks they encountered was us, what do you think is going to happen? We’re going to be the number-one suspects.”

Markus stared at the cracked pavement, frowning with concentration. Leo could tell that his friend was thinking it over.

“Maybe you’re right,” Chris admitted, “but that don’t change the fact that we still don’t know what’s in there. Sure, maybe it ain’t ghosts, but what if it’s some serial killer motherfucker, like that crazy dude killing people on Interstate 83? You see him on the news?”

“Can’t be him,” Jamal said. “Interstate 83 is a long way away. Down near Maryland and shit.”

Markus glanced up and appeared confused. “I thought 83 was the one that runs up through State College?”

“No,” Jamal corrected, “That’s 81. Interstate 83 runs from Baltimore up to Harrisburg.”

“Would y’all shut up?” Leo glared at them. “We’re getting sidetracked here. The point is, you’re right, Chris. We don’t know what’s in there. And we should. This is where we live. It’s our responsibility to find out. Who knows? Maybe it’s something as simple as a rotten floor, and folks have been falling through over the years. Or maybe it is a serial killer. Fact is, we won’t ever know unless we go look. But first we need guns.”

Mr. Watkins’s eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open and his cigarette tumbled to the ground.

“Guns,” he sputtered. “What the hell do you need guns for?”

“If I’m going in there,” Leo said, his tone the same as he used when talking to his little brother, “then I’m going in strapped. I’m not stupid. If the cops ever bother to show up, you think they’re going to walk inside that house without their guns?”

Sighing, Mr. Watkins pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, shook another one out, stuck it in his mouth, and then flicked his lighter. A moment later, he spat it out.

“Goddamn it, I lit the filter. Look what you made me do, talking all this nonsense about guns.”

Leo and the others said nothing. They simply watched him, waiting.

Mr. Watkins shook his head. “Listen. Let me call 911 one more time first. This time, I’ll report it as a fire. That should get them down here quicker.”

Leo eyed him doubtfully. Now that he’d decided on a course of action, he was eager to proceed. “How long’s that gonna take?”

Before Mr. Watkins could answer, Dookie interrupted. “Yo, I got it! Check this shit out. I know how to get them down here. We set the fucking house on fire. They’ll come in a hurry if we do that.”

Leo, Chris, Jamal, and Mr. Watkins stared at him without speaking. Markus reached out and slapped him hard on the back of his head.

“Owwww . . .” Pouting, Dookie rubbed his head and glared at his friend. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Markus slapped him again, softer this time. “We can’t set the house on fire, you stupid motherfucker. There’s people trapped inside of it. How we supposed to save them if the fucking thing is burning down?”

“Oh, yeah. Guess I didn’t think of that.”

“No shit.”

“You boys just wait here a minute.” Groaning, Mr. Watkins stood up and brushed off his pants. He went inside his house, and they waited. Leo heard him talking with Mrs. Watkins, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Judging by their tones, they were arguing about something. Then it grew quiet. A black Nissan with tinted windows and purple running lights rolled slowly past. The subwoofer in the car’s trunk rattled the windows of the nearby homes. It made a slow turn at the corner. The boys watched it fade from sight.

“You know what?” Dookie’s voice was low and thoughtful, and he looked up at the sky as he spoke. “I don’t want to die here.”

“We ain’t gonna die in there,” Jamal said. “We’re just gonna look around. Help those white kids out.”

“No, I don’t mean in there. I mean here , on this block. I don’t want to get all old and shit and never have gone farther than North Philly. Mr. Watkins was talking about the suburbs and stuff. I want to see it. Maybe it ain’t no different than here, but I want to find out for myself.”

None of the boys responded. Secretly, Leo harbored the same desires. He was positive that the rest of his friends did, as well. The farthest from home he’d ever been was six years ago, when he was ten. His mother had signed him and his brother up for a summer program, where inner-city kids went to live with a family out in the country for two weeks. Their adopted family, the Gracos, had been all right. Mr. Graco wrote comic books for a living, and his wife, Mara, was an insurance agent. They had two kids—Dane, who was Leo’s age, and Doug, who was about the age of Leo’s little brother. The Gracos lived in a big farm house with an even bigger yard, and lots of woods and fields around. It had scared Leo at first. He’d felt uncomfortable there, and although he had a good time that summer, he’d been grateful to return home. But sometimes, late at night, Leo would lie in bed and listen to the sounds of the city and think about that place so far out in the country and how quiet it had been. He wondered what it would be like to live there all the time, to not go through life scared, to not have to be constantly aware of his surroundings or worried about his loved ones. Of course, even people like the Graco family probably had things they were scared of. There were monsters everywhere. All you had to do was turn over their rocks, and you’d find them, hiding in the dark.

A few minutes later, Mr. Watkins emerged from his house. He had a plastic bag in one hand.

“Well?” Leo asked. “Did you call them again?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I called them alright.”

“What did they say?”

“They didn’t say anything. I couldn’t get through. All I got was a goddamned message telling me that all circuits were busy and I should try my call again later.”

“That’s fucked up,” Jamal said.

“Yes,” Mr. Watkins agreed, “it is.”

Leo turned away from them and faced the house at the end of the block. “Well, you all can do whatever you want. I’m going in.”

“We got to get some guns first,” Chris reminded him.

“Want to try Cheeto or Tawan? They can probably hook us up. Or maybe Terrell?”

“We’ll go see Terrell,” Leo said.

“You boys ain’t doing any such thing,” Mr. Watkins stepped down onto the sidewalk. The plastic bag rustled as he reached inside of it. Grinning, he pulled out his pistol. Then he handed the bag to Leo, who glanced inside and saw several flashlights.

“I’m going in there with you,” Mr. Watkins said, “and I’ll go first, because I’ve got the gun. The rest of you can carry the flashlights.”

“Well, shit,” Leo said, grinning, “why didn’t you say so?”

THIRTEEN

“Go,” Javier shouted. “Fucking run!”