Skeleton Man Page 5

  But if there is no bridge, how are we going to get across the river?

  We’re right on the bank now, and the rabbit stops. It stands up to its full height, looking one way and then the other, as if confused. Did it expect a bridge here, too? What kind of spirit guide is the rabbit, anyhow?

  “What can we—” I start to say. But I don’t finish my question. The howl that rips apart the night air is so loud, so full of hunger, that it makes me spin around and fall to one knee.

  The creature is there, on top of the slope above us. He’s no more than a hundred yards away from us, and the light of the moon that shone so gently on me is stark and hard in the way it lights up the creature that looms there above me. He is taller than a tall man. He wears tattered buckskin clothing, clothing that hangs from him in shreds. But he has no need of clothing to warm his flesh, for whatever flesh he once had is gone. Shiny white bones can be seen through the rips in his buckskin shirt, and his head is a glistening skull.

  But even though he is a skeleton, he has eyes. His eyes are green and burn like strange flames, and there is a darkness about his teeth that I’m sure is dried blood. The creature turns his head, as if sniffing the air. Then he stares down toward us and he opens his mouth in a wide grin. He raises his arm and points down toward us. Correction, toward me. For when I look around for my guide, I realize that the rabbit has disappeared,

  “My niece,” the Skeleton Man cries, in a voice that is both scream and whisper, “I am coming for youuuuu!”

  I’m ready, more than ready, to wake up now.

  12

  Across the Log

  AS THE SKELETON Man starts down the hill toward me, he seems to have a hard time keeping his balance on the steep slope. Waving his long arms, he begins to slide. His bony feet are too slippery! He begins to fall and then, crashing through the brush and fallen limbs, he rolls right past me and splashes into the river.

  “We have to keep running,” says a voice next to me. I look down. It’s the rabbit.

  “Where were you?” I ask. I’m really upset that it deserted me.

  “I knew the creature would fall,” the rabbit says. “That is why I took us down this trail. But he has not been killed. He will climb out of the river again and follow us. Hurry, I have found the place where we can get across.”

  The rabbit starts up a trail I hadn’t noticed before. We climb higher and higher. A roaring sound is getting louder and louder. Then I realize what I am hearing, and I know where we are. We’re going up toward the top of the falls where the river is narrower. There is another bridge there in my time, one that a road goes over. But what will be there now?

  I am panting hard when we reach the top of the steep trail.

  “Oh no,” I say as I see what we have to cross.

  “Oh yes,” says the rabbit.

  I look hard at the rabbit, for it sounds as if it’s making fun of me. But all it does is keep pointing with its paw toward the place where we must go. There is nothing more than a dead tree that has fallen across the river, right over the falls. Even though the tree was tall enough to reach the other side, its trunk isn’t that thick. Going across will be like walking on a tightrope.

  The moonlight glistens on the white foam of the water striking the rocks far below. It is a long way down. I’ve heard that when you fall in a dream you always wake up before you hit the bottom. I don’t want to find out if this is true. I also have a feeling that this dream isn’t just any dream. If I get hurt in this dream, I think it won’t just be a scary memory when I wake up—if I wake up.

  I want to protest again, but there’s no time. The rabbit is already halfway across and I know that I have to follow. I’ve never been afraid of heights. After all, I’m the daughter of a Mohawk man who worked the high iron before he went into the banking business and met my mom. My dad and other Mohawks like him built places like the World Trade towers. But even though I’m not usually afraid of heights, I’ve never done anything like this before. Maybe, I think, I could crawl across. I stand there, not ready to put even one foot on that tree trunk.

  “Ayyyyy-aaaahhhh!”

  The scream is now so close that I am on the log before I have time to decide whether to go over it upright or on my stomach with my legs wrapped around it. I don’t walk across, I run! Maybe it is foolish to turn around to look, but when I do I see I was almost too slow. Skeleton Man is there, standing on the other bank, one bony foot already on the log. He holds out his arm and points at me.

  “My niece,” he whispers, “I am coming for you.”

  The rabbit nudges my leg with its paw.

  “Don’t run now,” the rabbit says. “Wait.”

  Skeleton Man is coming across the log now, taking one step at a time, his eyes boring into mine. I feel as if I’m being hypnotized, but I can’t let that happen. I know what I have to do. Another step and I still wait, another step, another, and now he is in the middle. I tear my eyes away from him, go down onto one knee, and push the end of the log as hard as I can.

  “Noooo!” Skeleton Man howls.

  But he is too late. The end of the log slips off the bank into the water, twists as the current catches it, and then goes tumbling over the falls, carrying Skeleton Man with it toward the sharp rocks below.

  I open my eyes before he hits the bottom. It was all a dream, the whole thing. I’m safe in my bed and it’s morning, and I feel great. I can see a crack of light coming in through the closed curtains. I jump out of bed and throw open the curtain, certain that I’ll see my mom’s autumn flower bed with its birdbaths and feeders, my old swing set, and the little willow tree Dad and I planted.

  But the morning sunlight doesn’t show me that at all. My heart sinks again as I see below me a dreary backyard where nothing wants to grow and the tall, bent-shouldered shape of my uncle walking toward his toolshed. I step back from the window before he can catch a glimpse of me and I sit down on the floor. Nothing has changed.

  I get up and go into the small bathroom. I try not to even think about the possibility of another camera being in there, but just in case, I keep a big towel wrapped around me as I wash up and get dressed.

  13

  Tomorrow

  AS I WALK into Ms. Shabbas’s classroom, she gives me a very big smile and mouths the words, “We’ll talk later.”

  I nod to her and smile. The door to my room was unlocked this morning after all, just like every other morning. Breakfast was waiting for me on the table. A blue bowl with cornflakes in it, a glass of milk, and a smaller glass of orange juice—all so neatly laid out that it looked like something in one of those old situation comedies about happy families that they rerun on cable. Except no mother and father. My so-called uncle was nowhere to be seen. I sat down just like a normal kid. Then I looked around furtively in every direction and shoved all of the food into my backpack.

  And now I’m safe in school. Everything is like it always is here. The only thing different is the workmen. They’re sloppy, leaving their tools all over the place. And here I am in my own classroom, a place so safe-feeling that it is unreal to me. I look around, blinking my eyes to make sure I’m not imagining it.

  Will Ms. Shabbas believe me when I tell her about my seeing those television monitors? Or about the camera I think may be hidden in my light fixture? Will that make me sound ultra-paranoid or what? I know she’s on my side and I want to tell her. But then I also know what the rabbit told me in my dream about my parents being buried and that I have to save them. If I tell Ms. Shabbas about the cameras, she’ll take me away and then I won’t be able to save them. Somehow I feel that I have to do it by myself.

  Today Ms. Shabbas doesn’t forget to sing. It’s that song about Annie that I sang myself to sleep with. “Tomorrow.” She looks right at me as she sings about how it is going to be better on the day after this one. I know she is telling me that she is still on my side, that I have to buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, not give up the ship. She loves songs and stories that have upbeat ending
s. Mention the Titanic to most people and they think of a tragic love story. Mention it to Ms. Shabbas and she will start belting out something from The Unsinkable Molly Brown. Molly, just like me. Except I am not named for some survivor of a shipwreck. I’m named Molly after Molly Brant, a Mohawk warrior woman from the eighteenth century. “Back during the American Revolution,” my mom told me, “one word from Molly Brant went farther than a thousand words from any white man. No one ever got the best of Molly Brant.”

  For some weird reason, Ms. Shabbas and her up-with-people singing helps me. Corny-but-sincere is her style, and it is just what I need this morning. I want to get out of my seat and walk up and hug her while she is singing. Instead I just give her a thumbs-up sign when she is done. She winks at me.

  But when the time comes for us to talk, I still don’t tell her anything. I need her to be on my side, and I’m too scared she won’t believe me. Nothing new, I say. Which is true. It’s just that now I know my so-called uncle has been keeping watch on me through a camera lens.

  “Will you be okay over the weekend, honey?”

  The weekend starts tonight. Every kid in America but me is looking forward to the weekend. I have a feeling that whatever awful thing he has in store for me is going to happen tomorrow. I swallow hard and make myself smile.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Should I come over and check in on you?”

  “If you have time.”

  “I’ll make time on Sunday.”

  And that is how we leave it. She will call my so-called uncle after school and let him know she is going to come over to visit on Sunday. She’s going to take me out for lunch and a visit to the park. If nothing else, it will let him know that someone is watching and that he won’t get away with it.

  But the small measure of relief I feel is short-lived. Maybe, I think, he doesn’t care if he gets away with it. If he is crazy or evil, maybe getting caught wouldn’t bother him. If he gets caught after doing whatever he plans to do to me, that won’t help me much, will it?

  Sunday. That leaves all of tonight and all of tomorrow and tomorrow night. Sunday may be too late for me.

  14

  Toolshed

  WHEN THE SCHOOL day ends, I hang back from the crowd of kids who head out the door. They’re happy about the weekend. For them the clock’s hands have been almost standing still, while for me they’ve been going double time. Like my brain is going around and around like a top that’s out of control. But it has kept circling back to one idea. It is a crazy one, but the only one I’ve been able to come up with.

  Like the kids, the workmen have been eager for the day to end, too. They’ve even left before us. That’s my first real break, that and the fact that they’ve left their toolboxes open again. Sure, they put a yellow ribbon across the hall in front of the library to keep people out. You know how easy it is to duck under a yellow ribbon? And though my backpack is a lot heavier when I get onto the bus, no one notices.

  When I get off the bus, I stand for a long time looking down the darkening road. I feel so scared. I should run away now. But where? And what good would it do me? Not only that, but for some reason I feel as if running away now won’t just affect me, but my whole family. My real family.

  Dinner is waiting on the table for me. It’s pizza, and it looks good and smells even better. And there’s an open bottle of Coca-Cola, too. My favorite drink. I sit down and look at the pizza and then I shake my head. I won’t eat any of this dinner, either.

  “What’s wrong?” My so-called uncle’s whispery voice comes suddenly from behind me and it makes me jump. I turn and see him in the doorway, standing with his back to me. “Feeling sick again?” he says. There is a tone to his voice that worries me. It isn’t concern; it’s sarcasm. It is like he is saying that he knows more than I do, that he knows what is going to happen and I don’t. I hope he is wrong.

  “I’m just tired,” I answer.

  I take my bag and go upstairs and go into the room and lock the door. I take a book out of my bag and try to read it. The letters of the words all look like strange insects crawling over the page. But time doesn’t crawl by. Before long it is dark outside. I turn out the light in the room and wait.

  His footsteps come up the stairs and pause for a long time, too long, in front of the door. When the snick of the outside lock comes, I start breathing again. I stuff the pillows under the covers to make it look like I’m in there. I crouch in the shadowiest corner by the window. I start counting the times I breathe in and out. I am up to three thousand four when I hear the sound of the door downstairs. Yes, I think. It’s just as I hoped. He’s keeping to the same routine he follows every night. He always spends time in that toolshed before he comes up and goes to bed. I peek out the lower corner window and see his shadowy shape cross the yard and the light go on in his toolshed.

  My feet don’t want to move. “Now,” I say to them. With small, timid steps I make my way over to my backpack, open it, and fish around for what I want, a heavy thing with a pistol grip. I pull it out. A power screwdriver. The door may be locked, but the hinges are on the inside.

  The whirring of the drill sounds terribly loud, even though I keep telling myself it isn’t. I stop everything and listen. I don’t hear anything and I continue. One screw, two, three. The screws are long and heavy, and I put each one into my pocket as it comes out. I have to get up on my toes to reach the top ones. I drop the fifth screw and it hits the floor with a loud thwack. Again I stop work and listen. But all I hear is silence. I start breathing once more.

  Finally the last screw is removed. I stand up and take the foot-long crowbar from my pack. I pry it between the jamb and the door. The door pops free with a soft thump. I grab hold and pull it toward me, and the locks slip out. Now that it is free on both sides, the door almost falls over, but I lean my shoulder against it and manage to prop it against the doorjamb. I slip out and pull my pack out after me. I can’t get the door exactly back into place where it was, but by leaning it a little I make it look like it is still closed.

  I should have looked out the window before I left the room to see if light was showing under the toolshed door. But it is too late for that now. I put the pack over my shoulder and then start down the stairs, stepping sideways on each stair to try to keep them from creaking. It takes me a year to reach the bottom.

  Now I’m only a few steps from the front door. But that is not where I am heading. I need evidence. I head for the room with the computer in it. There has to be something in there that I can take and use as proof, proof that my uncle isn’t who he says he is, proof that I really am in danger.

  The door is open again and that same light is shining from the computer screen. But I don’t focus on that. Instead I turn to the pile of glossy pages next to the keyboard. I turn one over and it almost makes my heart stop beating. It is a photo of my mother. And it is not an old picture but a recent one. How do I know that? Because she is wearing the same brand-new blouse she was wearing the last day I saw her and Dad go out the door. But she doesn’t look exactly the same as she did on that day. On that day she didn’t have her hands tied together and she wasn’t leaned back against the rough board wall of a shed and she didn’t have a piece of duct tape over her mouth.

  15

  Hard Evidence

  I STOP LOOKING at pictures after finding the one of my mother. Things are starting to make more sense and no sense at all. All I know is that I have to take the whole stack of pictures from his computer desk. I put them into the folder in my backpack. There’s other stuff on his desk, too. Lists of things that have to do with databases and hacking into computers like the one at the bank where Dad works. I grab that stuff and then add a handful of computer disks lying on the desk. I zip the pocket tight and put the backpack over my shoulder. Once I get rid of the tools it won’t be that heavy to carry. But I don’t take out the rest of the tools I’ve borrowed from school. Not yet. I kneel down and make sure that my sneakers are tied and double kno
tted. I’m not going to change my plan about getting to the outside phone booth near the park entrance where I can call Ms. Shabbas, but I am going to add one thing to it.

  I walk out the back door toward the toolshed. I’ve looked at that yard so many times from my window, but I’ve never been in it before. It is his place and he told me to stay away from it. Not that he needed to. Until now I’ve tried to avoid anyplace where he might be.

  There are decorative stones on the ground that used to be part of the abandoned overgrown garden. They are white and round and the size of golf balls. I pick up three of them. I’m a good runner, maybe the best in the school, but I’m no pitcher. I might miss on the first throw.

  But I don’t. The stone sails through my upstairs window with a crash that is as satisfying to me as it is loud. I don’t need to throw another stone. He’s heard it, and he comes out of the toolshed moving so fast that it scares me. He doesn’t move like an old man but like some kind of big cat. He looks in all directions and seems to be sniffing the air. But he doesn’t see me or smell me hiding behind the cedar bush next to the shed. He stares at the house and then lopes across the yard and goes inside.

  I’m counting under my breath as I dart into the toolshed. When I get to a hundred, I tell myself, I’ll turn and run no matter what. It is so clean and neat inside, the shelves are spotless, the tools hung on Peg-Boards. It’s mechanical. It doesn’t look as if a human being has ever been in here. Ten, eleven, twelve. I see that the back wall is at a funny angle. I try to push it and it moves like a door and then sticks. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I pull out the crowbar and pry it open. There’s a small room behind it with a dirt floor. But its not just dirt. In the middle of the floor is something that looks like a ring. Twenty-two, twenty-three. I kneel by the ring, brush dirt away, and see that it is connected to a trapdoor that is held shut by a hinged metal strap that fits over a thick metal staple. I pull out the pin that holds it shut. Then I take a deep breath and pull on the ring. The door is heavy, but it slowly begins to move. Dirt hisses off as I lift it. There’s another door, a metal grating fastened with a padlock. But I can look down through it into the dark room hollowed out like a cave under the toolshed.