d already succeeded in pulling his pajamas down while he slept. Frightened and disoriented, he'd jerked away from her and glanced around his bedroom, wondering how she'd got in.
Then he saw. Though he' d invested his meager savings in a lock for the door, he'd forgotten to lock his window. It hung open and the screen was missing. Drunk as she was, his mother had managed to remove the screen. Then she 'd crawled inside while he'd slept, exhausted from the day's traumatic events.
She reached for him again. Doug fought her off, managing to get his pajama bottoms back up while she sat on the floor and cried. Then he comforted her, holding her close and whispering consoling words until she passed out, drooling on his shoulder. As soon as she began snoring, he ' d slipped out from beneath her, got dressed, and left. It was a quarter till midnight.
With any luck, Timmy would still be awake, probably reading comic books under the covers with a flashlight. Doug could bang on his window and spend the night. Bowman' s Woods were different at night. Scary. The tree limbs seemed to reach out over the road, grasping for him. The darkness between their trunks was a solid thing, and strange noises came from within its shadowy confines. Night sounds: snapping twigs, rustling leaves, a chirping chorus of crickets, something that could have been an owl or laughter.
Shivering, Doug pedaled faster.
To his left, another twig snapped, as if something were following him. Then another. The faster he went, the faster the snapping sounds increased. His mind conjured up images of Jason and Michael Myers and every other movie maniac he'd had the misfortune to see. What if Pat' s killer was in the woods right now, watching him, lying in wait? After all, it had been him and Timmy that had discovered Pat's carand Pat himself.
He increased his speed yet again, and the wind ruffled his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead. His pedals beat a steady rhythm, clanking against the bike' s faulty kickstand. He 'd been meaning to get it fixed, maybe have Timmy's father install a new one, but he hadn' t yet come up with the money to get it, since most of his savings went toward candy and video games.
Eventually, the snapping sounds faded. Doug chided himself for being silly. It had probably just been a deer or a squirrel.
Somewhere deep inside the forest, a whippoorwill called outa mournful, lonely sound.
Doug had heard the old wives' tales about them if you heard a whippoorwill late at night or just before dawn, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die. As the bird sang out again, Doug hoped those stories weren' t true. There were enough people dead. He didn 't need any more.
Sometimes he thought about dying. What it would be like. If it would hurt. If anything happened afterward, like Reverend Moore promised, or if there was nothing but oblivion.
Of the two choices, he preferred oblivion. Sleep was good. Doug enjoyed sleeping. It was the only time he didn 't have to think; didn't have to feel. Doug reached the intersection with Anson Road and paused to catch his breath. With relief, he noticed that the Graco' s living room light was on, which meant that at least one of Timmy 's parents were still awake, and maybe Timmy, as well. Both vehicles were in the driveway. Everyone was home the whole family.
Family.
Doug wished he had one. He spent his time alone daydreaming about when his father had still been around. He often wished that he' d appreciated those times more while they lasted. His parents had seemed happy, at least to him. And they seemed to be happy with him, as well. His Dad said, 'I love you.' They did stuff together. Talked about things. His father had never called him fat boy or tubolard or faggot, like the kids at school or Barry 's father did.
The last month he was with them, things changed.
Subtly. Doug hadn' t seen it at the time, but it was clear in hindsight. His father had seemed withdrawn.
Distant. Irritable. At first, Doug had figured it had something to do with his mother losing her job. But the uncharacteristic behavior continued. Those last few weeks, Doug and his mother ate dinner alone. His dad didn 't come home after workdidn't come home at all, sometimes. Spent the night somewhere else. He never said where, at least to Doug. He' d heard his parents arguing about it, but at the time, he hadn 't understood what was going on and was too afraid to ask. He thought maybe it was something that he'd done.
And then, one night, his father didn' t come home again, and the next morning, he was still gone. He never came back. Never said goodbye. Never explained it to Doug or told him where he was going or that he loved him one last time.
He was just… gone.
His father abandoned him for a waitress that Doug had never met. Worse, his father had left him alone with his mother, knowing full well what she was capable of. Ever since then, Doug had felt hollow and empty. Dead.
So maybe oblivion wasn't such a bad alternative after all, if he was already dead inside anyway.
At twelve, Doug felt eighty.
He hopped off his bike and pushed it up the Graco' s driveway, trying his best to be quiet. The chain rattled softly and the spokes clicked. He gently laid the bike down in the yard and then crept around back. The grass brushed against his shoes, the dew soaking his feet. The breeze picked up for a moment, and Mrs. Graco 's wind chimes rang in the silence. Doug willed them to be quiet, and the wind died down again. He started toward Timmy's window, tripped over a stick, and froze, waiting to see if he'd been heard. He noticed that Timmy' s bedroom window was dark, as were the rest of the lights in the house except for the living room, its soft yellow glow peeking out from beneath the shades.
Doug paused, wondering what to do next. Somebody was obviously awake, but it probably wasn't Timmy. Even if Timmy was still up, his parents didn' t know about it because his light was out. If he knocked on Timmy ' s window, he risked the possibility that whoever was still awake might hear him.
If Mr. or Mrs. Graco caught him, not only would Timmy get in trouble, but they ' d also insist on either calling his mother or taking him back home themselves. No way was he going back home tonight.
He crept back around the side of the house and sneaked up to the living room' s large picture window. Pressing his nose against the glass, Doug peeked through a space in the shades. Timmy 's father was sitting on the couch. A halfempty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the end table next to him. Doug' s eyes widened with surprise. Mr. Graco rarely drank, especially on weeknights. But what shocked him the most wasn ' t the alcohol. It was the look of absolute anguish etched into Randy Graco 's face. Timmy' s father was weeping; large, fat tears that made his cheeks shiny and wet. His eyes were red and his body shook each time he sobbed. Doug had never seen him show so much emotion not even at Dane Graco' s funeral. He looked scarred. Tortured. In a weird way, it almost looked like he was laughing instead of crying, since there was no sound. But the haunted look in his eyes was a dead giveaway that this was a man in pain.
Doug backed away from the window. It felt wrong, somehow, spying on his best friend's father at such a private and darkly intimate moment. Something was definitely wrong, but whatever it was, Doug would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. There was no way he could risk waking Timmy now. And going to Barry 's house was obviously out of the question. He couldn't go home. He couldn' t spend the night with friends. And so, he was left with only one option.
The Dugout.
Sighing, Doug collected his bike. He coasted down the driveway and onto Anson Road.
When he was out of earshot, he began pedaling again. He slowed as he reached the cemetery. Even though they 'd played there after dark often enough, it was still spooky at night. Spookier than even Bowman' s Woods. Especially when he was alone. Light wisps of mist curled around the bases of the tombstones and trees. The moon seemed frozen overhead, bright and full, offering radiance, but no warmth. Unlike Bowman ' s Woods and the rest of the countryside, the graveyard was quiet. No crickets chirped. No birds sang. Not even an owl or a whippoorwill. It was weird, as if Mother Nature were holding her breath.
The cemetery felt empty.
Despite the humidity in the air, Doug shivered.
He slogged up the hill, out of breath, hot and sweating hard. The bike seemed heavier than normal, and he wished that he had the leg strength to pedal it uphill, rather than push it. He avoided going anywhere near Barry ' s house, and instead, turned off the road and into the old portion of the graveyard.
Even though it was still uphill, the going seemed easier. The ground was softer, and the wet dew soaked
