In the summer of 1994, my older brother ran away from home. We found a type-written note, unsigned, left crumpled in the mailbox as if he almost forgot to inform us. “Gone away, gone a-bye, gone for good, please don’t cry. Sorry, Ma.” His advice went unheeded. Mom wept for months and rarely came up from the basement. Dad cooked sausage and eggs for breakfast until Andy’s face was no longer on the milk cartons. I never thought I’d miss store-brand Cheerios.

Earlier that year, Dad went off to “visit family” for 120 days, but he’d be back sooner for good behavior or restitution. Believe it or not, he was a model visitor and he was home in time for St. Patrick’s Day. While he was gone, Andy got it in his head that he’d get a job, that it was his turn to help provide for the family. Come April, he took a part-time job working for an older lady the next town over. Too far to walk, but he could ride a bike with ease. She paid him five dollars an hour for chores, and he stayed busy enough to bring home a C-note every week. Not a bad haul for a kid counting the days until he could proudly consider himself a teenager.

Before Andy took that job, we were inseparable. Irish twins, y’know? We shared a bedroom, a budding interest in thrash metal and horror movies, and we even shared the same group of friends. We were in the same classes, thanks to Mom deciding to hold him back until we could go to school together. We shared the same clothes (minus underwear), though Andy usually got them first before he could outgrow them. In certain situations, we even shared a name. I was Sam, he was Andy, but together we were Samdy. It started as a joke, from Dad packing us identical lunches and, having grown tired of accusations of favoritism, wrote Samdy on both sacks and let us take turns picking first. The lunches weren’t anything to write home about, often thin egg salad sandwiches wrapped in wax paper with no-name Fritos in a resealable bag. Resealable meant reusable, and at the end of the school day, Samdy dutifully brought home the sacks, wax and all.

 

Things changed when we saw a “help wanted” sign on the notice board at Angelo’s, the local quick shop. Usually we kept an eye peeled high for yard sales or missing pets (especially those that mentioned reward money), but this one was tacked to the barren bottom.

>Wanted: Young man to assist with landscaping and gardening. Duties include weeding, pest control, and planting seed. Experience not required or preferred. No telephone calls accepted, must apply in-person to Mrs. Chava at [address redacted].

I’ve often thought back to that day, and I wonder what would have happened if we went together. Maybe neither of us would have gotten the job, maybe I would have taken it first. Who knows, it might not have changed anything. Instead, Andy leaned in to read the fine print, then he jerked his head back while snatching the notice from the board and he bolted for the door.

I yelled after him. “What are you thinking? You hate bugs! You hate mowing the grass!” I don’t think he heard me. He ran home, jumped on his Huffy, and pedaled downhill without looking back. He came home that evening with dirt in his fingernails and his hair in a muss. Dad marveled at the matching silver certificates Andy was paid, a pair of Hamiltons that were quickly tucked into the deliriously optimistic tin box marked “college fund”. Samdy didn’t share a bedroom for grins and giggles.

Andy also came home with a small bandage on his wrist. Mom asked him what happened and he said, “I just scraped it moving a heavy planter. Don’t worry, Mrs. Chava fixed me up good. She used to be a nurse in a field hospital during the war.” Dad quickly changed the subject. His “vacation” to Canada in the early 70s was well known in town.

This new job started slowly, just a few hours a day, a few days a week after school, and a bit on the weekends. I’d spend my free time alone or out with one of our friends, often with Mike Hodger who lived a few houses down from us. Mike and I would listen to music in his living room or go to the park. Sometimes we’d even go to the library, but he rarely checked out any of the books he read. I think he was worried his older sister would call him a nerd or something cruder. They got along okay, but they weren’t Samdy.

Then again, Samdy didn’t really exist anymore. Andy changed almost as soon as he got that job, and he thrilled my parents not just with the money he brought in from his new employer, but the interest he suddenly took in reading. In school, he spent his lunch breaks with his face buried in some old book his new boss gave him while the rest of us debated Metallica v. Megadeth. At home, he took over the outdoor chores with aplomb, relieving Dad’s fear of another year tending the tomatoes and coaxing the carrots. If he wasn’t working in our yard or at his new job, he was quietly reading that book in our bedroom. No more arguments over the channel, no more delicately adjusting the antenna. Sometimes he wouldn’t even read it, he’d just lean in close and smell it. It was a little weird, but when I told Dad about it he shrugged it off, saying it probably smelled like fancy perfume and that I’d understand when I was older.

Money was always tight, but once a week, Mom would spring for the Sunday paper – actually on Sunday. Most other days, we’d be late on the news until she brought home The Hailer from work. Sundays meant sale fliers (Mom), full-color funnies (Samdy), and job announcements (Dad). Something for everyone, though Andy soon exclusively looked for the Tractor Supply ad, his attention geared toward aerators and fertilizer. We used to take turns on the crossword puzzle, but not anymore. I didn’t mind, he refused to use a pencil.

Mom was a secretary, Dad was often in-between stints. They didn’t have high hopes for us, at least not until Andy turned into Mr. Green Thumb. That year leading into summer brought the first dinnertime conversations I’d ever heard about career opportunities for the kids. Dad suggested his old boss could get Andy a spot as a caddy at the local golf course, a way to learn more about his new passion and maybe meet some of the “movers and shakers”. Mom seemed dubious but said nothing. Andy refused the suggestion, saying he was learning so much from Mrs. Chava. While he ate, his free hand rested on his precious book.

My opinion was not asked, but even at eleven years old, I knew there was no recruitment program for professional groundskeepers. I could see he had a passion for his new work, and though he managed to get cut, scraped, and bruised regularly, his employer-cum-nurse kept him patched up pretty well. At the time, I didn’t think much of it – what kids didn’t get banged up on a regular basis?

That night, before lights out, I asked Andy what he was reading.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “It’s about a guy who can claim a wonderful gift, but it requires a sacrifice and he’s not strong enough yet to get it.”

I asked him if I could see it, but he said it wasn’t written in English. Then he said, “Renny is teaching me how to read it.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“My boss, ya big dummy. She said I can call her Renny, that I’m mature enough to be a near-peer.” He blushed. An honest-to-God blush over a compliment from some old lady who paid him to pull weeds. Mike’s older sister would’ve had a field day.

“I thought you were her employee, not her student.”

“Like I said, it’s complicated. I spend most of my time in her greenhouse, reading to the plants. She said it helps them grow. There’s a big thingy hanging on the solid wall that opens up like a dartboard. It’s got the language and some pictures and translations and stuff.” He had shifted onto his stomach with his eyes forced shut, like he was trying to will himself asleep.

“What do you mean by solid wall?” I asked.

He sat up and gave me a look. “It’s a greenhouse, genius. The other walls are glass.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” The room was quiet with the sort of awkward silence that never used to rise between us.

“No, I’m sorry,” he eventually said. “It’s not just a job, it’s so much more. I think I’ve found my place in the world.”

“Aside from reading to the plants, what do you actually do?” I asked.

“I set traps for mice, rats, and other pests. I don’t have to kill them, Renny doesn’t make me. I sweep up the dirt in the greenhouse. It’s a special kind of dirt, so it’s my job to make sure it doesn’t get mixed up with the regular stuff. Sometimes I water the planters, but only when it’s been really dry.”

I yawned. “Sounds riveting.”

As if on cue, Mom leaned into the room and cut the lights. Nine P.M. on school nights. Ten on the weekends. Sure, it was a Sunday, but the day after was Memorial Day.

Mom must have forgotten.

 

Memorial Day means burgers and hotdogs. Rich kids had swimming pools, but we made do with water balloons and a tarp fashioned into a slip-n-slide. A bunch of us met up at Mike’s house, where Mr. Hodger ran the grill and Mrs. Hodger poured the punch. As the sun went down, the kids told ghost stories while the adults sipped beer and cocktails.

Most of the stories were timid. The killer with a hook for a hand, the call was coming from inside the house, the elevator had room for one more. One of the older kids, Becca Stanley, asked if we wanted to hear a real ghost story – one that happened in this very town. We took the bait.

“Okay,” she began. “There was a serial killer on the loose back in the 1960s, and he was killing people right here in town. He picked on winos and hobos, folks nobody would miss, until one day, the Avon lady knocked on his door. He couldn’t help it, he snatched her into his house and killed her. Hung her upside down by the ankles and drained her blood!” One of the younger kids gasped, drawing the eye of Mrs. Hodger. Becca hushed the audience and started again, this time more discreetly.

“He got caught because the last victim was well known, and all her friends got together to confront the killer. They chained him up and buried him alive so he would suffocate and lose his mind before he died. But there’s one thing they didn’t realize, you can’t –”

Becca was cut off by Mrs. Hodger. “That’s enough, dear, you’ll scare the little ones.” She passed out some sparklers and most of the group scattered to the wind.

“C’mon, Mom, it’s just a ghost story,” Mike said, pleading his case. Mike, Becca, Andy, and I were not swayed by sparklers. We wanted more horror.

“Sorry, sport,” she replied. “Best not tempt the devil. Here’s some matches for the sparklers.”

 

I followed Andy to work one day out of boredom and curiosity. School was out for summer, and our other friends were on vacation, stuck in remedial classes, or just too far away to visit. Sitting around the house on weekdays was tedious, so after I did my chores and rinsed off, I studied the county map Dad used for deliveries. Once I memorized where Mrs. Chava’s house should be, I pedaled off. Back before GPS, remembering how to get somewhere and back was crucial – getting lost was no bueno, especially when we were repeatedly told not to trust strangers.

The house was somewhere about halfway down a county road, outside of the town limits. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but when I saw a single mailbox and a gravel road that stretched back toward a wooded area, I started feeling uneasy. The day was lovely, not too warm, though there was a sour smell floating in the air, like roadkill left to bake in the sun. It dawned on me that riding back was a perfectly acceptable end to the mystery. After all, Andy came home from every shift with cold hard cash and a love of his work. Who cares if he had to read French poetry to plants or catch field mice?

I pushed on. I should have gone home, but I pushed on. And I knew it was wrong, because I pushed my bike quietly along the grass instead of riding down the gravel driveway. I was uninvited, an interloper, a pest.

Beyond the privacy offered by the trees, I was expecting a palatial chateau, but the house was nothing remarkable. It had a detached garage, and it was bigger than ours, but I was not blown away by its grandeur. I walked toward the garage, but I decided to turn back when the sour smell in the air grew stronger, almost overpowering. I turned around and came face to face with Mrs. Chava.

 

I don’t know why I pictured her as an old lady. She was an adult, sure, but like a teacher or a . . . well, a nurse, not some decrepit retiree waiting for the rapture. She must have just gotten out of the pool – she was wearing a bikini with a sheer little robe covering her shoulders. She lowered her sunglasses to size me up before speaking. “So what do we have here, then?” she asked.

“Oh, hi, uh, yeah. I just wanted to see my brother?” I found myself trying to look anywhere else but directly at her. She was somehow larger than life but also hard to take in, like a harsh painting.

Mrs. Chava laughed. “You must be Sam, I take it. Andy’s a bit busy cutting the grass.” She pointed to the other side of the lawn, and I could see him pushing the mower with a determined little smile on his face. Oddly, I didn’t hear the motor until just then. “Did you want to work for me as well? I could probably find something for you to get tangled up in.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving in the garage. I glanced over and saw Andy again. He had somehow made it across the lawn without me noticing. The smile was gone, and he was shaking his head while giving me the sternest look I’d ever seen. He looked angry and scared at the same time.

“Thank you, no,” I said. “My parents say I’ve got to focus on summer school so I don’t get left behind. I need to stay in the same class as my brother.” It was the first time I had consciously lied to an adult, and I was surprised by how easily it slid across my tongue. In school, I was a solid B student, and the closest I came to summer school was when I went with Dad one year to deliver the new math books.

“Such a shame I couldn’t woo you too. But, I’ve already got one helper, so I guess you’re off the hook this time. Tell you what, come on back when you’re a little older, maybe a little wiser, and I’m sure I’ll have something for you to dig into.” Then she pulled her shades down and winked at me!

“Th-thank you. I better go home now. Goodbye.” I quickly turned my bike around and pedaled hard without looking back. I was afraid if I did, she would have told me to stop and come back. Worse yet, I was afraid I would.

When Andy got home that evening, he didn’t say anything about my visit. I thought he was mad at me, so I didn’t dare bring it up. He came in, ate some leftover meatloaf, then took a shower and went to bed. He was out cold before I finished brushing my teeth. He was fast asleep with the lights still on, his book pressed between his cheek and pillow.

For all the time we spent together, we never talked about what happened that day.

 

I spent much of that summer away from family. Mom and Dad worked, or maybe I should say Mom worked while Dad looked for work. Andy stayed busy, both in our garden and at Mrs. Chava’s. He brought home cash that went first to the college fund, and later (I suspected) to the power bill. I didn’t complain. We spent July Fourth in the blissful comfort of air conditioning, and we watched “Predator” on video tape while eating hot fudge sundaes. Near as I could tell, this was living high on the hog.

In early August, the final nail in the Samdy coffin was driven home when Andy moved into the basement. It was madness – the basement had dirt floors for Pete’s sake. Mom said it was about that time anyway, while Dad shrugged and helped build makeshift plywood carpeting. Andy took his bed down there, and he took the desk. I was left with a half-empty room and a single nightstand in desperate need of staining.

One Saturday, while Dad and Andy were fishing, and Mom was out to lunch with her boss, I found myself in the delicate position of being a nosy sibling in an empty house. I snuck down to Andy’s room and opened that oddball book.

I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It was big, bigger than a paperback, but not terribly thick. There was a smell, but it wasn’t perfume, it was something else, something earthy. It felt like one volume of an encyclopedia, with a leathery cover and a strange symbol embossed on the front. The pages were thick and mostly dogeared, and the typeface was supplemented by hand written notes. The text and most of the notes were written in the same strange language, but some of the notes were in English. I can only recall a couple of the phrases. They seemed pretty harmless.

Additional fertilization required for bud emergence.

If ripe, do not cull completely, not at first.

Maybe it was a parable of sorts, a treatise of gardening told through the struggle and sacrifice Andy mentioned. Aside from the text and the notes, there were some strange diagrams and drawings.

The middle pages of the book folded out like one of the porno magazines Ben Cresky brought to school on the day he was expelled. Most concerning was a note written under one of the drawings in the centerfold. I recognized Andy’s penmanship immediately.

Spilt not’f væin.

The pidgin made little sense, but the picture was hauntingly simple. A stick-figure man held a knife in one hand and a scale in the other. Balanced on the scale were a flower and an upside-down skull. The stickman was smiling, but the crooked grin didn’t look happy.

I put the book back where I found it and spent the rest of the day uneasily distracting myself with daytime television. The shows weren’t great – soap operas, talk shows, and syndicated hits of yesteryear, but the commercials were worse. Personal injury attorneys, correspondence schools, and invention submission programs. In times like those, I put my faith in the big book.

The JC Penny fall edition was out, the cover showing a happy family frolicking in the cool air. They looked like millionaires with stylish hair, new clothes, and (worst of all) they even had a puppy. Mom cut our hair, I rarely got clothes that weren’t used, and a puppy might as well be a jet plane when one parent has a penchant for kiting checks.

That night, I dreamt of going into the basement. Andy was lying in his bed, but the plywood flooring had been pulled up and fenced around him like a crude crib. When I got to the edge of the plywood, he opened his mouth in a silent scream. The basement shook like an earthquake, and I woke when the walls collapsed around us. As I bolted awake, I felt two words seared into the back of my mind. Buried alive.

 

One rainy day in mid-August, I jogged out to collect the mail, and I was rewarded with bills, some junk mail, and a curious envelope with a wax seal. The seal was nothing too ornate, just the moon waning full (as our science teacher, Mr. Burke, would say). The envelope had no postage or postmark, and it was addressed to my parents. I had some idea who wrote it, but I achingly waited until Mom got home from work to confirm my suspicions. The envelope was so thick that I couldn’t read anything through it, even under the strongest light I could find. Like I said, I was nosy.

When Mom opened the letter, her jaw fell open in disbelief. There was cash – a lot of cash, more than I’d ever seen in person. We counted it later, $1,980 in crisp bills. Some of the notes were sequential, like they came straight from the mint, and as with every payday Andy brought home, these were silver certificates. Old money. When she finished reading the note, Mom let me look it over while she counted the cash. The letter was typewritten, but it was signed in brown ink at the bottom.

>Dear Mr. and Mrs. [Redacted],

>I am sorry that I have not yet had the opportunity to make your acquaintance. Andrew is a fine worker, and I humbly request you permit me to hire him full-time for the remainder of the summer. I am afraid I must attend to some private affairs, and my home is in need of a caretaker. I’ve taken the liberty of paying in advance, the daily rate for two weeks of live-in service, plus a stipend to cover any necessities. My pantry is well-stocked and my neighbors will come by regularly for welfare checks. Should you find this arrangement disagreeable, kindly have Andrew return this offering at his earliest convenience.

>I look forward to meeting you upon my re-emergence.

>Kind regards,

>R. Chava, R.N.

There was nothing to debate. Mom was sold before Dad got home, likely trusting himself only to nod in agreement for fear of slurring his speech. Andy came home just before sunset, sweaty and dirty, with fresh bandages on his fingers. He ate a cold chicken sandwich while Mom gave him the good news. We needed the money, and the ceremonial opening of the college fund was waived in lieu of direct deposit to Mom’s purse. I didn’t object – even then I was keenly aware of how money didn’t mean much until you needed it. For the first time, I thought about getting my own job to be more of a giver, less of a taker.

The next day, Andy rode off with a sleeping bag, fresh clothes with extra underwear, and a belly full of creamed chipped beef. It was his favorite breakfast, a rare treat in honor of his soon-to-be thirteenth birthday, which we’d miss on account of his extended employment contract. Mom was smiling at him during breakfast, while Dad nursed a coffee quietly and I pretended not to notice the precious book tucked under Andy’s shirt. Dad must have had a rough night, he didn’t even bother calling the meal “shit on a shingle”. Andy pedaled away just after eight in the morning. It was the last time we ever saw him.

 

Mom and Dad waited a few days before calling the police. They hoped he was running late, they hoped he would come home with a sheepish grin and overpayment for breach of contract. By Labor Day, there was no more wiggle room. Andy would be expected in school the next day, so a reluctant call was made to the non-emergency line at the sheriff’s department.

The sheriff himself came to the house. It was a small department in an underfunded community. Sheriff Milburn was no stranger to our home. He brought Dad here a couple of times after a “disagreement” at a local establishment, and he even took him away a few times. The deputy, Wilshire, came as well. He was Mike Hodger’s uncle, and while he wasn’t as charming as the sheriff, I hoped the two of them would have Andy home safe in no time.

After the interview, Sheriff Milburn went to the station to send out the notice to all regional law enforcement, and Deputy Wilshire drove to Mrs. Chava’s house to look around. I volunteered to go with the deputy, but I was overruled and placed on home detention. Now that the police were involved, Mom decided this would only end in Big Trouble. Hopefully just with Andy being brought home in the backseat of the patrol car.

About two hours after sunset, Deputy Wilshire came back to the house. He looked drained. “Ma’am,” he said, “I am so sorry to tell you this, but I checked that property high and low and I did not see your boy. I went into the house, the garage, and even looked in the woods out back, but there wasn’t a living soul on the premises.”

“Did you check the greenhouse?” I asked.

“I checked everywhere, kid, and I didn’t see nobody. The house looks like it’s been abandoned for some time. Front door wasn’t locked, rear door was missing. No car in the garage, no lights on. No nothing. Are you sure it’s the right address?”

“Yes, sir. I went there myself some time back and saw both my brother and Mrs. Chava. This was a couple of months ago, but everything seemed okay then.” I lied again, lacking the courage to tell my parents and the law just how “off” that encounter felt.

“We’ll keep looking. He couldn’t get far on a bike, and this Chava lady has no reason to go kidnapping her little worker. I promise you, ma’am,” he said, looking square at Mom with his best Official Business face, “this is our top priority.”

 

The next morning, Dad found the typed note in the mailbox. “Gone away, gone a-bye, gone for good, please don’t cry. Sorry, Ma.” It was tossed in the back of the box, and who knows how long it had been there. Andy could have run away just as soon as he left for his two-week assignment.

Later that night, I found another note under my pillow, and this one was hand written, the letters shaky and uneven. Haggard.

>Sam,

>I don’t know if you really came over that day. I can’t trust what she shows me during the day, even outside on the grounds. She gets inside your head and makes you see things. I don’t even know if you can read this note. I’m writing it with my eyes closed. She’s watching me, even when I’m home. I am familiar to her, and while I’m not sure what it means, I know it’s not good. Please don’t come looking for me. Please don’t go back to her house. I don’t know how you got away, but you did what I could not. Whatever you do, stay away from the greenhouse. She’s even more powerful inside it.

>You were right. I hate bugs. I never should have taken this fucking job.

>-Andy

I tried to cry but I couldn’t. I was sad, and I was afraid, but mostly I was angry. The night gave way to day, and I got out of bed without the benefit of a wink of sleep. My nerves were on edge, my temples hurt from gritting my teeth all night. I wanted payback. I wanted revenge. I wanted my brother back.

Despite my anger, not much happened for the next month or so. Mom worked during the day and cried through the night. Dad dried out enough to take over the housework while still finding time to hang fliers and call the sheriff regularly. I went to school, and while my body was present, my mind was thinking about cryptic books and strange encounters. I ended up in detention a few times, but my parents took no notice.

About a week before Halloween, Mike pulled me aside after school and told me his uncle had quit the sheriff’s department.

“What do you mean, he quit?”

“Well,” Mike said, “he sent the sheriff a note about following his dream of moving to Portugal. Then he was gone. But he’s never left the country, and my mom says he doesn’t even have a passport.”

“Woah,” I said, the certifiably safest response to that sort of news. “What do you think?”

Mike looked around before responding. “He’s been acting weird lately. He stopped coming by as often, and he used to have Sunday dinner with us every week. The few times I did see him, it looked like he wasn’t sleeping, and he was losing weight. I thought maybe he was sick. He had these bandages on his arm.”

Mike read my face. “Okay,” he said. “I think I already knew, but I needed to be sure. Your brother, my uncle. Who knows how many others.”

I told him about the letters. One from Andy to me, and the other from the mailbox. Mike thought it over before replying.

“There’s only one thing left to do,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We find her and stop her. Kill her if we have to.” His face took on a grim resolve that was equally funny and endearing.

“Yeah, okay. We’re just gonna fight some kind of supernatural monster that’s loaded with cash and who kills for sport. Us and what army?”

Mike just smiled at me.

 

On Halloween night, Dad walked me over to Mike’s house for team trick-or-treating. The only way Mom would let me leave the house was with a bodyguard and a whole lot of begging. My costume, simple as it was (think classic ghost sheet with a candy sack made from an old pillowcase), and my excitement seemed to put Dad at ease. When we walked inside and Mr. Hodger offered Dad a beer, it was clear this was going to work.

Twenty minutes later, Mike and I rolled out and met up with the living legend himself, Ben Cresky, he of the Playboy expulsion. We rode off to battle. I had a flashlight, a bible, and some holy water I borrowed from church. Mike wore his little league uniform, complete with glove and (most importantly) an aluminum bat. Ben had no costume, but he carried a heavy backpack full of clinking glass. I didn’t ask what was in it. Ben was bigger, older, and fearless. He was also a smoker, which is unheard of these days but wasn’t that uncommon back then. Besides, he looked old enough to smoke, or scary enough that no grownups would challenge him. What can I say, he had a reputation even before he got expelled.

On the ride over, I felt cautiously optimistic. I didn’t think Andy would be there, and I didn’t think Mike’s uncle would be there either, but I had a good feeling that we’d find something, and if it was something evil, we’d find a way to stop it.

“Ben, I don’t mean to pry, but what made you agree to join us?” I asked.

He didn’t reply right away. “After I got kicked out of school, I took a job at the diner. Bussing tables, washing dishes, nothing glamorous. I was killing time until I turn seventeen and can enlist in the Navy.” He flicked his dead butt in a perfect arc that danced away as it landed.

“I was earning tips in quarters, and the boss turned a blind eye when those tips went into the vending machine for Camels. One of the regulars at the diner was a retired sailor who would tell me stories about the service. One day he stopped coming in. I don’t know what happened to him – I’m pretty sure he’s not wrapped up in this, but when Mikey Hamhock over there told me your story, I had to see if the maps were true. Here there be dragons.” We rode the rest of the way in silence.

The sun was low as we arrived at the Chava residence. We left our bikes near the road and walked down through the grass. There was little chance of us being discovered – the area was somewhat rural, so there’d likely be no trick-or-treaters, and anyone who lived out this way would be more inclined to drive their kids into the town proper.

The place had changed. In the failing light, the house seemed abandoned, and the garage looked like it might fall over some day soon. The plan was simple enough. Mike and Ben would explore the area while I stood guard, ready to call out for visitors, ghouls, or gremlins. They said I’d be the lookout because I was younger and smaller, but that wasn’t the entire truth. I didn’t argue. The air was stale, bitter, faintly sour. Maybe the maps were right.

A few minutes after they entered the house, the boys came back. Ben was smoking while Mike looked around uneasily. “Nothing,” he said. “Looks like it’s been abandoned for a long time.”

Next came the garage, more of the same. “Guess this was a bust,” Ben said. “Want to call it a night?”

“Wait.” I wasn’t ready to give up. “Did you see anything in the greenhouse?”

“Sam, there wasn’t one.” Mike looked everywhere except my eyes.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s check out back. Andy told me he worked mostly in the greenhouse. He said it had one solid wall and three glass ones, so it must be back there. Something has to be back there.”

It took us a while to find it. Full dark was approaching, and my sad little flashlight would be no match for the night. Just before the rear property line gave way to forest, we stumbled upon a solid, windowless building roughly half the size of the garage. I was nearly split in two, with part of me wanting to run toward it, and the other part pleading with me to run away as fast as I could. I looked over to see Mike and even Ben must have had similar thoughts.

“I didn’t come this far to turn back now,” I said, walking to the double doors before I lost my nerve. It wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pulled.

“Settle down, hoss,” Ben said while taking off the backpack. He set it down in the grass and hustled over. “Take a step back, I got this.”

He didn’t have it, but when Mike stepped forward and added his heft, the doors creaked open. I felt a rush of cool air blow past, and that previously faint sour scent became overwhelming. At once I knew there was something dead inside.

The boys didn’t seem to smell anything. They practically pushed past each other to get inside, with Mike taking the lead, bat cocked at the ready. I hesitated for a couple of minutes before I followed. If Andy’s body was in there, I had to know. I had to see for myself.

 

We were standing in the greenhouse. The solid wall was unpainted, while the others (equally solid) bore murals of sunny skies and trees. No real plants were present, but a wide stone planter akin to a bathtub and packed with dirt was set near the far end. Mike and Ben were standing side-by-side before it.

On the other side, the “dartboard” Andy described was open. It was big, taking up most of the wall, and it was covered in strange symbols and crude drawings. Crude sexual drawings, women with large breasts and wide hips, like carvings of fertility goddesses seen in museum collections. Nude men were worshiping these goddesses, bowing before them, with a line of men sporting comically outsized erections before the golden goddess who dominated the center panel.

I pushed past the boys, who were staring in slack-jawed amazement at the artwork hanging on the “solid” wall. I had the sense Andy was buried in the potter, maybe even buried alive. I started scooping out dirt with my bare hands, pulling faster and faster until I brushed against something solid. My heart froze as the realization dawned on me. It was a face.

“Help me!” I shouted, but Mike and Ben were focused on the artwork, oblivious to my discovery. I brushed the dirt away from the face, expecting rotting flesh and maggots, but finding none. The pale face came into focus. It wasn’t Andy, it was a woman. It was her. Renny. Just before the last of the daylight faded from the greenhouse, no, the mausoleum, the crypt, her eyes opened and locked onto mine. A hand broke free from the dirt and grabbed hold of my throat. The dead face cracked a wicked smile, dark lips stretched over sharp teeth. I had time enough to hope it wouldn’t hurt too much.

 

I was no stranger to misdirection, no novice to deception. When Dad went to jail for passing bad checks, the signature on the line was his name, but the hand that wrote it was Mom’s. Dad took one for the team because it made sense. He knew Mom needed to keep her job, and he knew she could take care of Andy and me without breaking a sweat, whereas he’d be penniless and blackout drunk before the end of the first weekend. Shame on me for not recognizing a hustle.

The icy grip on my throat loosened as I registered a cracking sound. I looked over to see Ben had taken the baseball bat and smashed it into her arm, breaking at least one bone and possibly the elbow. The creature let out a shriek of agony and turned her furious gaze to Ben’s. Their eyes met as he lifted the bat again, this time aiming for her face. The other arm burst from the dirt and into his belly. She pulled him into the planter and sank her teeth into his neck.

There was no time to think, no time for debate. I grabbed Mike and pulled him outside while the creature was feeding. I tripped over Ben’s backpack, and the glass bottles inside clinked their objection to my sloppiness. Fucking legend, I thought while unzipping the bag. Inside were three molotov cocktails, wicked and ready to rock. There was also an unopened pack of cigarettes, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A transparent purple Bic lighter.

I lit two of the wicks and bolted for the crypt, hoping there was still time to save Ben, but knowing it was too late. His lifeless body fell to the floor as the creature climbed out of the planter-cum-coffin. I saw the malicious glee in her eyes and heard the broken bones of her arm snap back into place. She thought it was over, that she had won.

If this were a movie, I would have said some witty one-liner or had a conversation with this living dead thing, but instinct took over. I hurled one bottle at the open panels of the triptych on the far wall, which burst into flames. The creature turned toward it and shrieked in rage. While its eyes were off me, I held my breath and threw the other cocktail.

It smashed between her shoulder blades and sent her body ablaze. She screamed and writhed as she fell to the floor. I scooted backward where Mike caught me by the door and pulled me outside, finally snapped out of his trance. With the last wick lit, I chucked the final bottle through the open door of the mausoleum, setting the rest of it alight.

Mike and I watched together until the flames burned out. I have no idea how long it took, but it was pitch black when the last of the fire faded. Before we left, I opened the holy water and splashed it around the entrance to the tomb, quietly praying for the souls of the lost. My brother. Mike’s uncle. Our friend Ben. Even Mrs. Chava. I doubt she started life as an undead monster.

We told no one about that night. Who would believe us? Mike and I stayed close for years, and we even dated for a while before I went off to college (on an athletic scholarship if you’re curious). They say time heals all wounds, and they might be onto something. Mom eventually stopped crying in the basement. Dad eventually quit drinking for good.

I never forgot my brother. I wonder what kind of man he would have grown into. Would he still be an Andy? Or would he become Andrew, or even Drew? How would he feel knowing his little sister started going by Samantha when she grew out of her tomboy prison of hand-me-down clothes and homemade haircuts? Maybe we’d still be Samdy, if only on special occasions.

I have a family of my own these days, though my partner and I never tied the knot. I don’t let my kids wander off much on their own. Maybe I’m a helicopter parent, or maybe I’m just a bit scarred. Sometimes it pays off, though.

Just last week I saw my son walking over to a flier pinned to a bulletin board. Before he got close enough to read it, I jogged over and ripped it free, shoving it in my pocket without missing a beat. The paper was heavy, and the type-written words were punched firmly in place. I didn’t dare read it until after the kids were in bed, just before I burned it and started searching for a new apartment.

>Wanted: Young man to assist with renovation project. Duties include irrigation, pest control, and planting seed. Experience preferred, but special exceptions will be made for the right candidate. No need to seek me out, I’ll find you.