the Halloween dance. One should always be leery of a set of directions that includes county route numbers instead of street names, and that says things like, "Pass by the Feed and Tractor store, then turn right at the first
paved
road." And "If you get to the falling-down barn with the old sign that says GUTHRIE'S POULTRY , you've gone too far."
Sure enough, Brian saw the GUTHRIE'S POULTRY sign. Sighing, he made a U-turn, hardly having to slow down at all since there was no other traffic in sight.
"This better be worth it," he muttered. He had to turn on the light again to see his watch. He hadn't figured out yet how to set the car's clock, which wasn't just off by the hour, like it was from a different time zone, but was wrong when it came to the minutes, too. The good thing about the car was that it was a red Camaro. Never mind that it was almost as old as Brian. Red Camaros are total chick magnets.
Seven thirty. He'd told Kyla he'd pick her up at a quarter after seven.
It was her own fault for living so far out in the sticks. Who'd have thought the school district extended this far into the wilderness?
Brian found the paved road and turned down it, his headlights sweeping over the stubble of the field. It was October 31, and in upstate New York, you couldn't count on there not being a killing frost by the end of October, so most of the farmers had finished their harvesting—reaping—whatever it was farmers did that meant the produce was all out of the fields and in those nice little containers at the supermarket.
Brian passed by the traffic sign that showed a curve in the road, almost missed the forty-five-miles-per-hour sign that was his next landmark, then turned into what appeared to be a narrow unpaved road—but which, if Kyla's directions could be trusted, was really a long, windy driveway.
Finally, he came to the house—saggy porch, mud-splattered old pickup of indeterminate color, propane tanks. Yup. He had arrived.
He seriously considered just tapping the horn, but since this was his first date with Kyla, he figured he'd better go to the door and ring the bell. When he'd been going out with Maranda, he'd once beeped for her, and her parents had been dead-set against him ever since.
You'd think, though, seeing as how he
was
late, that Kyla
might
have been waiting for him.
Brian got out of the car. He'd forgotten how cold it was. His breath smoked in the air as he climbed the porch stairs and rang the doorbell. If there wasn't at least a dusting of snow by morning, there would definitely be a frost.
The light went out in the window, which Brian hoped meant Kyla was about to come outside and not force him into a meeting with The Parents.
In the sky, a multitude of stars twinkled merrily but did nothing toward brightening the night.
Brian stamped his feet impatiently for warmth and just barely restrained himself from muttering out loud, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."
The door opened slowly and with a squeak.
A woman and a man stood there. In the light of the candle she held, Brian saw she had waist-length dark hair, and she was dressed in a long, black gown; the guy had hair that was slicked back, and he was wearing a black tuxedo and a black cape with red satin lining. The man rested his hand on the doorjamb, showing fingers with long, clawlike nails.
Brian took a step backward, startled—he told himself—by the fact that they weren't Kyla, and not by their pale faces and their fangs.
"Velcome to our house," the man said in a thick accent from somewhere between Hollywood and Transylvania. "Come in and let us drink your blood."
From inside the house Kyla's voice called out, "Brian? Don't let my parents freak you out. They aren't usually this weird."
Also sporting an accent of some kind or another, Mrs. Zolla said in a throaty voice, "Trick or treat."
How. Totally. Lame.
"Um," Brian said. "Yeah."
Even Maranda's family, which included six or seven kids younger than Maranda, didn't go this overboard
paved
road." And "If you get to the falling-down barn with the old sign that says GUTHRIE'S POULTRY , you've gone too far."
Sure enough, Brian saw the GUTHRIE'S POULTRY sign. Sighing, he made a U-turn, hardly having to slow down at all since there was no other traffic in sight.
"This better be worth it," he muttered. He had to turn on the light again to see his watch. He hadn't figured out yet how to set the car's clock, which wasn't just off by the hour, like it was from a different time zone, but was wrong when it came to the minutes, too. The good thing about the car was that it was a red Camaro. Never mind that it was almost as old as Brian. Red Camaros are total chick magnets.
Seven thirty. He'd told Kyla he'd pick her up at a quarter after seven.
It was her own fault for living so far out in the sticks. Who'd have thought the school district extended this far into the wilderness?
Brian found the paved road and turned down it, his headlights sweeping over the stubble of the field. It was October 31, and in upstate New York, you couldn't count on there not being a killing frost by the end of October, so most of the farmers had finished their harvesting—reaping—whatever it was farmers did that meant the produce was all out of the fields and in those nice little containers at the supermarket.
Brian passed by the traffic sign that showed a curve in the road, almost missed the forty-five-miles-per-hour sign that was his next landmark, then turned into what appeared to be a narrow unpaved road—but which, if Kyla's directions could be trusted, was really a long, windy driveway.
Finally, he came to the house—saggy porch, mud-splattered old pickup of indeterminate color, propane tanks. Yup. He had arrived.
He seriously considered just tapping the horn, but since this was his first date with Kyla, he figured he'd better go to the door and ring the bell. When he'd been going out with Maranda, he'd once beeped for her, and her parents had been dead-set against him ever since.
You'd think, though, seeing as how he
was
late, that Kyla
might
have been waiting for him.
Brian got out of the car. He'd forgotten how cold it was. His breath smoked in the air as he climbed the porch stairs and rang the doorbell. If there wasn't at least a dusting of snow by morning, there would definitely be a frost.
The light went out in the window, which Brian hoped meant Kyla was about to come outside and not force him into a meeting with The Parents.
In the sky, a multitude of stars twinkled merrily but did nothing toward brightening the night.
Brian stamped his feet impatiently for warmth and just barely restrained himself from muttering out loud, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."
The door opened slowly and with a squeak.
A woman and a man stood there. In the light of the candle she held, Brian saw she had waist-length dark hair, and she was dressed in a long, black gown; the guy had hair that was slicked back, and he was wearing a black tuxedo and a black cape with red satin lining. The man rested his hand on the doorjamb, showing fingers with long, clawlike nails.
Brian took a step backward, startled—he told himself—by the fact that they weren't Kyla, and not by their pale faces and their fangs.
"Velcome to our house," the man said in a thick accent from somewhere between Hollywood and Transylvania. "Come in and let us drink your blood."
From inside the house Kyla's voice called out, "Brian? Don't let my parents freak you out. They aren't usually this weird."
Also sporting an accent of some kind or another, Mrs. Zolla said in a throaty voice, "Trick or treat."
How. Totally. Lame.
"Um," Brian said. "Yeah."
Even Maranda's family, which included six or seven kids younger than Maranda, didn't go this overboard
Similar Books
Mystery Of The Sea Horse
Lee Falk
The Coal War
Upton Sinclair
Come To Me
LaVerne Thompson
Breaking Point
Lesley Choyce
Wolf Point
Edward Falco
Fallowblade
Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Seduce
Missy Johnson
