Then the creature let go, and Brett felt himself sailing through the darkness.
Mercifully, his vision—already weak from the surrounding darkness—completely failed before he slammed into the basement wall, and although he felt his bones snap and heard his skull crack apart, he did not see the red explosion his impact made or hear the wet sounds of his brains splattering across the stone blocks.
TWELVE
Leo stood suddenly, hitched up his sagging pants, and addressed the others.
“Fuck this shit. I’m tired of just waiting around for something to happen. I’m going in there.”
His friends gaped at him. Mr. Watkins seemed bemused. He exhaled smoke and stared at Leo, as if unconvinced of his sincerity and waiting to see what Leo would do next.
“For real,” Leo said. “I ain’t playing. This is bullshit. What Mr. Watkins was saying? That shit is true. People down here don’t give a fuck anymore, and that’s a big part of the problem. And the cops don’t give a shit either. It’s our neighborhood. We need to deal with it. If not us, then who?”
“Go ahead,” Markus said. “My ass is staying right here and waiting for five-oh.”
Leo shook his head, disgusted. “Let me ask you something. How would you feel if it was us in there? How about if we took a drive out to Amish Country or some shit, and our car broke down, and we were trapped inside some old barn? Wouldn’t you want someone to help us?”
“Yeah,” Jamal said, “but they called us niggers, yo. I say the hell with them. They can rot, for all I care. You know what I’m saying?”
“True that,” Chris agreed. “All we were trying to do was help them.”
Dookie and Markus nodded.
Leo impatiently waved them off. “Man, they were scared. And it was only the one guy who called us that—the Poindexter-looking motherfucker. The others just ran away. In hindsight, I can’t say as I blame them. We were pretty pissed off after he called us that.”
“So why you want to help them?” Dookie asked.
“Because it’s the right thing to do. Don’t you get tired of people assuming we must be drug dealers, just because of where we live or how we look or dress? Don’t you get tired of not doing anything to change our situation? This is a chance to make a change—real change, not that bullshit the politicians go on and on about.”
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.”