'You scared?' Barry asked.
Timmy nodded. 'I' ve never been more scared in my life. But Doug is down there somewhere. We owe it to him. We owe it to ourselves. I… I need to prove to my dad that he was wrong.
Does that make sense?'
Barry glanced off into the distance. 'It makes perfect sense. More than you know.'
'I'll try to keep the ghoul distracted while you open the tunnels up. Don't let me down, okay?'
Barry turned back to him. His expression was grim. His fingers tightened around the BB pistol.
'I told you, man. We're friends for life. You can count on me.'
'Okay. Seriously, let's do this. Before it's too late.'
'Here.' Barry held out his pocketknife. 'You might need this.'
'Thanks.' Timmy stuffed the knife in his pocket and then stepped onto the ladder.
'Be careful,' Barry called.
Nodding, Timmy climbed down the rickety ladder.
'Here I come, Doug,' he whispered. 'Just hang on man, and please be all right.' He went slowly, carefully watching his footing. When he reached the bottom, he let' go of the rungs and tumbled once more into the darkness. Barry watched the hole swallow him up, until he could see him no more. Even his flashlight beam had vanished. Timmy was gone, into the monster's lair.
'Be careful,' he whispered. He didn't know if Timmy heard him or not. Barry turned toward homea monster's lair of its ownand wondered if either one of them would actually still be alive come dawn.
Chapter Fifteen
The first thing Timmy noticed was the stench. It hung thick in the air, like an invisible fog, and he could taste it in his mouth when he breathed. It was just like what they ' d smelled before, coming out of the holes around the cemetery, but it was much stronger now; highly concentrated. It burned his nose the way the smell of bleach did when his mother was doing laundry.
Make it a game, he thought. I'm Luke Skywalker, sneaking through the Death Star, trying to rescue the Princess.
He stumbled over a thick tree root jutting up from the soil and reached his hand out to steady himself. The tunnel' s walls were cold and damp, and covered with some type of slime. Timmy jerked his hand away and shined the flashlight on it. His fingers were webbed with something that resembled milky snot. Disgusted, he wiped them on his jeans before continuing.
The passageway wound into the darkness, and his meager flashlight beam did little to penetrate the gloom. And yet, Timmy had the distinct impression that he could actually see farther than he should be able to.
As his eyes adjusted, he realized why. It was the slime. The stuff was glowing barely noticeable, but giving off a faint, eerie radiance all the same. He wondered what it was. Living within twenty miles of both the Three Mile Island and Peachbottom nuclear power plants, Timmy was very conscious of radioactive waste, even at twelve. Several times over the last five years, there had been news stories about barrels of waste found dumped in creeks and streams, or off dirt logging roads way out in the wilderness. But this wasn 't anything like that. The substance coated everythingwalls, ceiling, and the parts of the floor not covered up with piles of loose soil. It had to be the ghoul. Maybe the creature exuded the slime from its pores. Maybe the stuff aided the ghoul in digging, or allowed it to see much better below ground. And maybe, the thought occurred to him, he didn't know nearly as much about ghouls as he' d assumed, and perhaps he should just turn around right now and go call the police. But then he thought of Doug, who 'd been let down by everyone in his life, except for Timmy and Barry. He couldn' t just abandon his friend down here. As scared as he was, he had no choice.
Timmy pressed ahead, feeling less like Tom Sawyer or Luke Skywalker and more like the very frightened twelveyearold boy that he was. He pulled out Barry' s pocketknife and opened the blade. He clutched it with one hand and held the flashlight in the other. Neither item made him feel more courageous. He wished his father were here with him. Timmy 's hate and anger were forgotten. He wanted the safety net he'd grown accustomed to over the yearsknowing that no matter how bad the danger was, his parents were always standing by, ready to take care of him. Shelter him. Keep him safe from the monsters. He remembered when he was little, and had been convinced there was a monster under his bed. He ' d cry out at night, and his father was always there, turning on the light and checking the closets and beneath the bed.
And now his father wasn't there.
Timmy went on. He'd never felt more alone. Even thinking of Katie didn't help. The passage was roughly circular, and varied in height and width. At some points, he had to duck his head or pull his arms tight against his sides to avoid brushing up against the walls. Other stretches were wide enough to walk comfortably in. He tried to guess in which direction he was traveling, but it was impossible to tell. Eventually, other tunnels began branching off the main passageway. He decided not to venture down them, for fear of becoming lost. His progress was slow. He kept the light trained on the floor, looking for signs of where Doug might be footprints, candy wrappers, blood, anything. He found nothing.
The maze of tunnels was silent. The only thing Timmy heard was the sound of his own panicked breathing. His mouth felt dry, and his pulse throbbed in his neck and temples. He felt a momentary urge to call out, to shout for Doug, just to break the stillness, and the thought frightened him even more.
Where are you, Doug? Please be okay. Just hang on a little bit longer. Biting his lip, Timmy forced himself not to cry.
The passage sloped downward, and Timmy followed it, deeper into the earth. The spoiled milk stench grew strongerand now there was another smell mixed with it. Rot. Decay. Death.
Barry rushed through the field. His wounds and pain were forgotten, and he urged himself on. Dewcovered weeds whipped at his legs, soaking his jeans and shoes. The crickets and other insects grew louder, disturbed by his passage. He went by the spot where he 'd left his book bag, but didn' t bother stopping to retrieve it. When he reached the road, he crouched close to the ground and stared at his house. All of the lights were still off, which meant anyone inside was probably sleeping. The car was still in the driveway, but that meant nothing. When his father had left earlier, he ' d departed on foot. Which meant he was probably in the cemetery somewhere. He hoped.
Swallowing nervously, Barry rushed across the road and into the yard, moving as quickly but silently as possible. He opened the screen door, silently willing the hinges not to creak, and then slowly turned the doorknob. Meeting no resistance, he stepped inside.
The house was quiet. He paused, listening. After a moment, he heard his mother's soft snoring coming from his parent' s bedroom. He was tempted to creep down the hall and peek, see if his father was lying next to her, but he decided not to chance it. Timmy was counting on him. He had to hurry.
He moved over to the hat rack hanging above the kitchen door. His father only had one hat, a faded, weatherbeaten Skoal cap that he sometimes wore. The rest of the rack was used for keys and umbrellas. Both the hat and the umbrellas were there, hanging from their pegs, as were his mother's keys. But his father's key ring was missing.
'Shit.' His voice was louder than he'd intended, and Barry jumped, frightening himself. It made sense, of course, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. His father would have taken the keys with him when he left, even if only to get inside the utility shed where he stored his emergency bottles of Wild Turkey. He should have thought of that when Timmy came up with this stupid plan.
Frustrated, Barry checked his parent's room after all. His mother slept soundly. His father' s side of the bed was still made up. Untouched. And with the car still sitting next to the garage, that meant there was only one possibility: his father was still in the graveyard, probably drunk, and Barry would have to find him, face him, and somehow get his keys.
He ran out of the house and prayed he could do it all in time. The horizon was tinged with a faint trace of bluishwhite. Not a lotjust a hint of the dawn' s impending arrival.
'Hang on, Timmy,' he panted. 'I'm coming.' Timmy traveled steadily downward. At times, the tunnel sloped so steeply that his feet slipped and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. In addition, the maze had become more bewildering than ever. When Timmy was seven, he 'd had a pet hamster named Milo that he'd won at the York Fair. He' d kept the hamster in his room and set up a Habitrail for him. Timmy had assumed that Milo would
