The Crossroads (22 page)

Zack pushed
the button on his watch to illuminate the dial.

“It's 9:52,” he said. “Just like the clock in the tower, hunh?”

“Yep,” Davy said. “Light her up!”

Zack held the box of matches.

“You do it,” he said.

“What?”

“You light it. I'm afraid.”

“Afraid of what, pardner?”

“I dunno. What if the stump explodes or something?”

“Kerosene don't explode. You're thinkin' gasoline.”

“You do it! Okay? Please?”

Davy shook his head. “Nope. It's up to you. You're the chosen one, Zack.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because this was too important to trust to anybody else. Light the match, Zack. It's time.”

“What do I tell Judy when she—”

“We'll worry about that later. Light 'er up!”

Zack's hands were shaking so much he rattled the matchbox. He finally worked the lid open, pulled out a wooden Blue Tip, and scratched it along the strike pad. The match sparked but wouldn't light.

“Try again,” urged Davy.

Zack snapped the match sharp and quick. The head flared to life and he flicked it at the stump. A small spot of blue flame erupted on the edge of a single clump of charcoal. Fire spread slowly at first, creeping across the briquettes, then—
whump!
The flames found the fuel-soaked wood.

“We're in business!” said Davy.

“Yeah.” Zack brought his arm up to shield his face from the fire's intense heat. “You think we poured in too much kerosene?”

“Nah. It'll settle down.”

A bell rang in the distance.

“Oh, no! Is that your father?”

“Dang. I reckon he finally figured out that we didn't follow him home. I'll go deal with him. You stay here.”

“What?”

“See you later, Zack. And thank you. Thank you kindly.”

“For what?”

“Doin' what needed to be done.” Davy ran down the hill to the highway.

“Wait!” Zack heard the fire roar behind him, heard a hiss when it boiled what little water remained inside the old lady's flower bucket. The white cross's knotty wood popped like corn in the microwave.

“Davy?”

The flames shot higher and filled the black sky with burning red stars.

“Davy!”

No one answered.

Davy was gone.

“Oh, my.”

The priest had never been inside the chapel before. It was a smallish room with four wooden pews facing a marble altar.

Gerda Spratling knelt in the front pew, dressed in a flowing white gown, her head covered by a bridal veil. A rack of fifty ruby votive candles flickered in front of her. But what amazed the priest most were the other statues.

Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Some were tiny. Others towered to six feet. They were everywhere. Standing on pedestals. Tucked into alcoves. All were carved to look like a handsome young man with slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes.

“Oh, my,” the priest mumbled again. He thought this must be Miss Spratling's private shrine to the young Elvis Presley.

“That's my Clint,” Gerda said, standing up from her cushioned kneeler. “The soul for whom we pray this night.”

Father Murphy reached for his handkerchief, dabbed at his damp brow.

“Clint was my fiancé,” Miss Spratling said. “I remain his eternal bride!”

The priest sponged more sweat. “How lovely.”

“Sharon?” Miss Spratling called out. “Get on your knees. Clint needs your prayers, too. Tonight he needs all our prayers!”

Judy raced
up Main Street.

She passed the town clock tower, still stuck at 9:52.

Ten minutes before ten, give or take a minute or two.

That was what Davy Wilcox had told Grandpa he'd seen. Back when he was a boy. Back when he was still alive.

Judy checked the dashboard clock.

10:10 p.m.

She couldn't believe what a terrible stepmother she was: She had sent Zack on a sleepover date with dead people.

The burning
stump exploded into a shower of sparks, which landed like a cannon blast on the plywood deck of the boys' pirate ship.

The tree fort crackled with fire.

Zipper barked.

“You're right. We need Davy.” Zack wove his way through the trees, down the slope to the highway. Zipper ran after him.

“There he is. See? In the cornfield.” The fire was now so bright it cast long, jagged shards of light all the way across the highway. “Davy?”

Zack's best friend was fifty—maybe a hundred—yards away, but Zack could see him.

“Davy? You gotta come back! The fire's out of control!”

In the distance, Davy turned slowly.

“Hurry! It's burning down the tree fort!”

Davy waved.

And then he disappeared. He didn't walk into the wall of cornstalks or hide behind a tree—he
disappeared
!

Zack stood frozen in shock.

He had never battled an out-of-control fire before.

He had never seen his best friend vanish into thin air, either.

In the
middle of the prayers, Miss Spratling sprang up.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” the priest asked.

“That horrible screaming!”

The priest looked insulted. “I was singing a hymn, Miss Spratling.”

Miss Spratling ignored him and hurried from the chapel—desperate to silence the screaming no one else could even hear.

Davy was
gone and the whole forest was about to burn down unless Zack did something fast.

He could run up to the house and roll out the garden hose. He could go into the garage and turn on the lawn sprinklers. He could run inside and grab a fire extinguisher.

Before he could decide what to do or where to run, the wind whipped up and sent another shower of sparks spewing out of the stump like an angry volcano. Now there were twenty small fires licking up the sides of trees, wilting the underbrush, heading for the house!

Some sparks landed close to the propane grill and a river of fire snaked its way toward the ten-gallon gas tank hanging off the side.

“Run, Zipper!” Zack screamed. “It's gonna explode!” He quickly scooped up his dog and dashed down the hill to the highway. When he reached the road, he kept running and headed for the graveyard. He had been safe there once before. He'd go there again and hide.

Hide from Dad and Judy and the firemen and—

The propane tank exploded.

Behind him, Zack heard metal ripping through the trees.

In a flash, the fire leapt out of the forest and shot across the backyard and started gorging itself on the house.

 

Zack cowered
behind a headstone. The sky over his house was glowing a bright orange. Explosions shook the ground. The fire had found the gasoline-powered lawn equipment in the garage.

Zack Jennings had never been in bigger trouble. He had burned down his father's house. He might burn down the whole neighborhood.

He saw Judy's car driving down Route 13. She was on her way home.

And she used to like me. I think she really did.

Zack was ready to run away from home forever; he just didn't know where to go or which way to run.

“Finish the job,” hissed a voice behind him.

It was the skinny preacher. The scary Bible campers were lined up behind him, but this time, they all looked pale and Zack could see blue veins rippling across their faces.

“Finish the job!” the children chanted, moving closer.

The preacher thumped his Bible. “Finish the job!”

Zack had to flee the graveyard before the ghosts grabbed him!

“Come on, Zip!”

They raced back down the hill to the highway and an old-fashioned convertible materialized out of the haze beneath the blinking stoplight in the crossroads.

The phantom car flew out of a smoky cloud and skidded to a stop. It appeared exactly the same way Davy had disappeared.

So did the shadow man.

The man with wavy hair who Zack had first seen slinking through his backyard on the night of the big storm. The shadow man stared up into the woods like he was searching for something, but all he found was fire.

“No!” Zack heard him scream before the man doubled over and clutched his belt like someone had just socked him in the gut. “Who did this to me?”

Zipper barked. The shadow man turned, saw them.

“You!” The man held his side and limped up the highway.

Zipper snarled, then dashed straight at the shadow man.

“Zipper!” Zack yelled. “Don't! Come back here!”

Zipper didn't listen; he nipped at the shadow man's ankles.

“Stupid dog! I'll cut off your ears!” The shadow man pulled out a knife and slashed at the air, but his wild flailing didn't scare Zipper, who kept lunging at his rolled-up pants cuffs.

“Zipper!” Zack heard sirens and blaring air horns as fire trucks raced up the road from town.

“Finish the job!”

The preacher and the creepy Bible campers were stumbling down the hill from the cemetery. Beyond them, behind the wrought iron fence, Zack saw other people he didn't recognize. Dead people.

“I'll get you, boy!” the shadow man screamed.

Zack was surrounded.

“Get in.”

He whipped around and saw the old lady's Cadillac idling in the middle of the highway. The chauffeur leaned out his window.

“Get in, boy. Now!”

The rear window scrolled down.

“Hop in, dearie,” the old lady said from the backseat, trying hard to smile. “We're your only hope. It appears that demon spirits everywhere are crawling out of their graves to get at you!”

“No,” Zack said.

“You shouldn't have torched my stump, kid!” Up the highway, the greasy-haired ghoul was limping toward them. “You're a Jennings, ain't you, boy? You and me got unfinished business!”

“Get in the car, boy!” said the old driver. “Hurry!”

Far in the distance Zack saw Judy reeling around underneath the blinking red beacon.

“Zack?” she cried out. “Where are you? Zack! Zack!” She sounded mad.

Madder than my real mom ever got.

Zack ran to the Cadillac. It seemed his only choice. He had to run away. The old lady had a car.

Miss Spratling yanked the door shut behind him. “Mr. Willoughby? Drive!”

The chauffeur piloted the car down the center of the highway. When they reached the crossroads, the man with the slicked-back hair was gone. Zipper looked fine. A little dazed and confused, but fine.

“My, my, my—isn't that your stepmother?” the old lady whispered. “Does she know how much you like to play with matches?”

Zack slid down so Judy couldn't see him but he could see her.

She was crying.

She isn't mad. She's crying!

Zack sprang up.

“Be still, boy!”

Zack went to pound on the tinted window, but the old woman caught his arm.

“I said be still!”

“Let me out, you old witch!”

Zack tugged on the door handle. It wouldn't budge.

“Let me out!”

“I will do no such thing. You, young man, must now pay for the sins of your fathers!”