Free The Walls Have Eyes by Clare B. Dunkle Page A

brooding over them as they lay side by side on the weedy road. He could feel silent shapes watching them from the bushes. He jerked himself awake and sat up.
    Chip was on his feet, barking. Several pairs of eyes caught the light of the moon. Dark forms circled Martin’s little camp— three or four at least. Martin couldn’t make out what they were, but they were big, bigger than Chip, prowling on four legs and snuffling close to the ground.
    Chip’s barks had turned into a savage roar. But the glowing eyes refused to retreat. They shifted and winked and drew closer.
    Then Chip sprang over Martin, and the eyes rushed to meet him.
    Martin couldn’t see what happened, but he heard it. He heard crunching and tearing. He heard slobbering, choking breath. And over it all, he heard the sound of Mom sobbing, high and quick, like birdsong.
    One of the assailants got away. Its strident yelps of pain diminished in the distance. The other attackers didn’t escape. Martin thought he heard weak scrabbling coming from nearby,but the sighing wind drowned it out even as it brought to him the nauseating odor of blood.
    Chip came back. Worried growls bubbled out of him, low and muttering, like an old man’s mumbled complaints.
    â€œTris?” That was Dad, very quiet, as if other things might overhear him. But those other things weren’t listening anymore. Martin thought he could make out a lump on the dark ground before the evil old house, an addition to the eternal garage sale.
    â€œWalt!” That was Mom, a little breathless, and then the two shadows that were his parents locked together.
    â€œChip, how are you doing, boy?” he whispered. His hands found Chip’s ears in the dark, nervous and pricked, swiveling this way and that. Martin rubbed the soft fur around them.
    â€œMartin, are you all right?” Dad’s voice was stronger now.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “I think so. My leg’s asleep.”
    â€œIs the bot all right?”
    â€œHe’s just a little upset right now.”
    â€œMartin . . . are you sure that thing is safe?”
    Chip tucked his big head into Martin’s chest, and his growls changed to whimpers.
    â€œIf you mean, did he save our lives just now, then yeah, I guess he’s safe.”
    Mom’s hand reached out of the darkness to pat Chip’s ruff. “Good dog,” she murmured.
    They got no more sleep that night. At Dad’s suggestion, they sat back-to-back in order to keep watch in all directions. Chip sat up between Mom and Martin, snuffling the breeze to scent for enemies.
    Daylight brought a grisly scene and a loud buzzing of flies. Three huge dogs lay sprawled among the weeds and junk in front of the evil house. They had very short, smooth black-andtan coats that revealed their bulky muscles and lean flanks. All three were bigger than Chip.
    Strange injuries marked them. One had a long rip in its hide from breastbone to tail, as if someone had pulled on its zipper. Inside the tear was dark, greasy flesh. Another lay with its head turned around to face its tail, its round white eyes bulging out of its sockets in the manner of a tasteless joke.
    â€œWould you look at that!” Dad marveled.
    Chip wouldn’t. He didn’t come near the dead dogs. He skulked on the opposite side of the road, head and tail drooping. “Come here,” Martin coaxed. “You were a good dog. You should be proud.”
    But Chip was anything but proud.
    â€œThey would have killed us,” Mom said in a low voice. “Isn’t that right? We’d be looking like this right now.”
    Dad cleared his throat. “Maybe,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she’d asked for his opinion about a fishing tournament. “But my sense is that dogs wouldn’t kill in quite this fashion. More bite marks. More tearing, I think. Something that looked . . . more like steak.”
    Martin’s stomach churned. The