Five
I ran through every room of the house,
calling for Father. But there was no answer—only the horror of silence. In his
study I saw that someone had smashed our computer monitor—and the computer, as
well. I put my hand on it—still warm. And that caused me to feel a little fear
for myself: Was the smasher still in the house?
Then I realized I’d forgotten to check the
attic. I crept up the stairs, alarmed to see that the stairway lights were on.
Trying to make no sound whatsoever, I slipped inside the door.
I saw no one. I checked the lock on the
attic room that housed my laboratory—a lock I had devised myself. I could tell
someone had tried to get it open—then, apparently, had given up. This was the
only good news since I’d arrived home.
I headed back downstairs. I closed the
front door—the brisk air had made the entire house chilly. I knew I had to call
the local police. But I had no hope—none—that
they would find out what had happened to Father.
But I made the call.
***
I hadn’t been wrong. Although the police
arrived pretty quickly, all they did was look around sort of helplessly.
One of the two officers even asked me,
“Did your father have a temper? Would he smash his own computer?”
I thought of all sorts of unkind things to
say. Said none of them. “No,” I said. “He was the kindest man …”
“And where were you while all this was
going on?” asked the other one.
“I was over at the middle school—at the
play …”
“Anyone see you there? Did you talk with
anyone?”
This was getting awkward. As I’ve said,
I’d made a habit of not being noticed. “I didn’t really talk much to anyone,” I
said. “I went by myself.” I paused. “But maybe the ticket-taker will remember?
And one of my teachers, Mr. W., nodded at me … And a classmate, Irv Washington, waved at me.”
“Nodded
at you? Waved at you?” an officer asked.
“Well, Mr. W.’s my English teacher—and Irv
...”
“Yes, you said he’s a classmate.” The
officer wrote some things down in his notepad. “I’ll check with them,” he said.
“Am I some kind of suspect?” I asked.
“Should you be?” he replied.
Well, this went on for a while, the
officers earnestly asking the questions while I tried, simultaneously, not to
believe they were somehow treating me like a suspect and not to
panic—or break down in anguish on the floor. Where is Father?
***
The officers were not about to let me stay
in the house. But there was no way I was going to go anywhere with them. So I did what all criminals do: I
lied.
“Let me get some things from my bedroom,”
I said. And then they did something that surely got them in trouble back at the
station: They let me go upstairs alone.
As a result, they never saw me again.
Our old house had once, apparently, had an
apartment on the top floor. And that apartment had a door that led outside, a
door that led to an old wooden stairway that descended all the way to the
ground. I’d never used it, mostly because I didn’t need to—but also because it
looked as if it would collapse if even an autumn leaf landed on its stairs.
I must have weighed less than a leaf
because it held me, all the way to the ground. I crept around to the front of
the house, where I could see through the window that the officers were still in
the front room, waiting.
While I had been upstairs, I had indeed
gathered a few things—some clothes, toiletries (you know). I’d shoved them all
in my backpack. Oh, and I’d also grabbed the money I’d been saving—a few
hundred dollars. I figured I would need it.
I felt a kind of supernatural calm through
all if this: I will find Father … he will be safe … everything will be all right
…
I was rehearsing these thoughts as I stepped
out onto the sidewalk, so I nearly
screamed when I heard a voice behind me.
“What’s going on?”
I whirled around. It was Dracula.
Sort of. It was John, still in his costume
from the play.
***
John quickly explained himself. He’d
wanted to see me after the show—had seen me slip outside—followed me home—he’d
seen the police cars—had waited to see what was wrong—had seen me creep around
the side of the house …
“So where are you going?” he asked as we hurried along in the dark on the sidewalk.
I hadn’t really thought about that—I’d
just wanted to get out of there.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
John didn’t say anything.
I asked him, “Got any ideas?”
“One,” he said. And off we went to his
house, only a few blocks away. I wondered if his parents would think it was
weird, my coming home with him. But he just said they’d be thrilled. He didn’t
really have any friends—and now it would look as if he did.
But then … the oddest … and then the most
frightening … news.
We entered his house—all lights on—no sign
of his parents. The place a wreck. We heard a noise in the back of the house.
We crept back to see.
And there, smashing dinnerware in the
kitchen, was a giant.
“What—?” whispered John.
I knew the answer. It was Blue Boyle.[i]
[i] Blue Boyle, once
one of Vickie’s elementary school classmates, seemed (as time went on) to
transform into some kind of monster. He very nearly killed her twice—on the
Lake Erie island, at Niagara Falls. (The two earlier volumes of Vickie’s Papers tell his story.)
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