Crazy Dangerous Read online

I went on downstairs. Into the kitchen. There was my brother, John. He was sitting by himself at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast with one hand and holding his iPhone in the other so he could read the latest news on his sports app.

  He glanced up at me, chewing his toast. “Hey. How you doing? How’s the bod?”

  “A little better, actually. Not as sore.”

  “You still look like garbage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You recover from last night?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That was pretty gnarly stuff, that girl screaming like that.”

  “Yeah, it was. Where is everyone?”

  “Mom and Dad had to go out. Their friend Mr. Boling died last night.”

  “Oh man, that’s too bad. He was, like, Dad’s best friend.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s sad. But the guy was really old and really sick. Dad said he was totally peaceful about it at the end. Just said he was ready to go home—and went. It’s the way it is, bro.”

  “Sure. I know that.”

  And I did know. People die. And it’s not like I was grief-stricken about it or anything. I mean, I didn’t know Mr. Boling all that well and, like John said, he was a really old guy and it was his time to go. Still, I remembered the weary look on my dad’s face last night, and I felt bad he had to lose his old friend. I knew he’d be sad about it.

  For a while the news about Mr. Boling pushed Jennifer out of my mind. I forgot about my dream completely—like I said, it was just a dream after all. I made myself some toast and then got over to church for the ten o’clock service.

  Mary—Dad’s assistant minister—had taken over the service for him so he could go be with the Boling family. Mary was a small, squat woman with short salt-and-pepper hair. She had a loud, high, happy-sounding voice. She was kind and cheerful and everyone liked her. I found her sort of comical sometimes—everything she said sounded like she was singing opera—but I liked her too.

  The church was crowded this morning. My brother and I squeezed into a pew near the front. I was a lector and had to get up and read one of the Scripture passages for the day.

  The service went on and I waited for my turn to read. As I did, I sort of got lost in my own thoughts—about Jennifer and Mr. Boling and Jeff Winger and all the stuff that had been happening this last couple of weeks. Then John stuck his elbow in my side and I realized it was my time. I jumped out of my pew and hurried up the aisle to the podium.

  I used to get nervous reading in front of everyone, but I didn’t much anymore. Most of the people in the church had known me my whole life, and it wasn’t like they were going to laugh at me if I made a mistake or anything. I was a little embarrassed about my bruised face, but I figured the whole town must have heard about what had happened by then. I had the Old Testament portion today and I started reading, “When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream . . . ,” and so on.

  When I was done, I got down and went back to my pew and sat next to John and the service continued.

  And as it did, my mind started to drift again.

  “We were like those who dream . . .”

  I started thinking about that. I started thinking about dreams in the Bible. The dream that told Abram about God’s plan for Israel. The dream that told Joseph there was going to be a famine in Egypt. The dream that told the wise men to go home by another way . . .

  My dreams were never like that. They never predicted the future or anything. Most of the time they didn’t even make any sense. All the same, I began thinking about the Bible dreams, and then I began thinking about the dream I had last night. How I was driving in the car where I wasn’t supposed to be. Looking for an escape route but seeing nothing outside except the scenery. Then that driver suddenly turning to look at me with his rat-demon face . . . about to say something . . .

  The congregation around me started to stand up to sing the next hymn. I stood up too—and as I did, something occurred to me. I stood there holding the hymnbook but staring into space. My lips parted, but I didn’t sing.

  I remembered the demon driver in the dream. He hadn’t been about to say something. He had said something.

  He had said: “See . . . ?”

  See what? I thought. What was there to see?

  I had been looking through the window for a way to escape—just as I had done when Jeff Winger and his thugs threw me into their Camaro and drove me up to the barn in real life. I had been looking out the window and there was nothing to see outside but scenery. Hills. Trees. A lake.

  “It’s a demon tree. A low-spreading oak over the tarn.”

  As Jennifer’s words sounded in my brain, I felt as if the church—the old stone church with its high gray walls, the colored banners between the tall windows, the choir singing and the people all around me singing along with them—all of it seemed to disappear, to fade away from my consciousness into a kind of surrounding darkness.

  In that darkness I stood alone in a single beam of light falling through the windows. And I heard—not the hymn people were singing—but Jennifer’s voice:

  “A tarn is like a lake. A flat, black, round lake under the spreading branches of the tree. The demons come out of it and they gather there. They write evil symbols on the walls. And they put a coffin under the tree.”

  A low spreading oak over a flat, black, round lake.

  I had seen that. Not just in my dream. In real life. I remembered now.

  It happened when Jeff and his thug pals had driven me up the hill to the barn that first time. I had been looking out the window of the red Camaro, trying to figure out where we were going, hoping for a way to escape. But there was nothing out there. Nothing but a hillside of grass and an oak tree spreading its branches over a flat, black, round lake.

  “The demons come out of it and they gather there. They write evil symbols on the walls. And they put a coffin under the tree.”

  It was real! The place Jennifer was talking about—it wasn’t just some kind of fantasy she was having because of her schizophrenia. It was a real place. I had seen it with my own eyes. Which meant maybe . . .

  “Something terrible is going to happen. Sunday.”

  Today.

  Maybe . . . , I thought, maybe that’s real too.

  15

  Something Terrible

  I blinked—and suddenly my surroundings came back to me. I was in church. In the pew, standing next to my brother with the hymnal in my hands. The high gray walls whooshed back into my consciousness. So did the colored banners and the tall windows with the sun pouring through. The people stood on every side of me, their voices rising as they sang the hymn:

  O young and fearless Prophet of ancient Galilee,

  Thy life is still a summons to serve humanity . . .

  But all I could think was: I gotta get out of here!

  I had to get back to that road, back to the place where I’d seen the tree and the lake—the tarn—that Jennifer had told me about. It wasn’t in her hallway. It wasn’t in her mind. It was just outside of town. And it was real.

  “Something terrible is going to happen. Sunday.”

  Today. Now.

  I tried to think. What should I do? Was there someone I could tell? My brother? The police? Was there someone to whom I could give a warning?

  But what warning? What would I tell them? That a crazy girl had seen demons in her hallway? That she was running around town afraid her doctors would take her brain out? Oh yeah, and by the way, she made a prophecy that might come true . . .

  “Something terrible . . .”

  I knew no one would believe me if I told them any of that. No one would believe that Jennifer had seen anything but a schizophrenic hallucination. Even I didn’t believe it. Not really. I just felt a need—an urgent need—to get out of there, to get to the road where I’d seen the tree and the tarn and find out . . . what was going to happen next.

  It would be nothing, I told myself. Of course. It was al
l just some silly coincidence. Jennifer had seen the oak and the lake and they had gotten tangled up in her hallucinations, that’s all—the way my thoughts and worries had gotten tangled up in my dreams.

  But now another memory came back to me. I remembered when I saw Jennifer in the woods—that day I was biking home from the barn, that day I got into the fight with Jeff. I remember I asked her what she was doing there.

  “I’m looking for the devil,” she said to me.

  I didn’t know what it meant then. Really, I didn’t know what it meant now. I just knew that when I remembered it, my throat went dry. My feeling of urgency increased. I had to get out of there. I had to go to the lake . . .

  Now the hymn was ending. Now Mary was carrying the Bible down the aisle in order to read from one of the four Gospels. She came to a stop right next to me. She opened the book and started reading.

  “Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany . . .”

  She always read the Gospel passage in an especially loud, trumpeting sort of voice. It practically rang in my ears.

  “There they gave a dinner for him . . .”

  I couldn’t leave the church now. I couldn’t just push past Mary in the middle of the Gospel reading and take off up the aisle. I swallowed hard—or tried to. Now the reading was over. Mary was marching back up the aisle toward the altar. Taking her place behind the high pulpit to deliver her sermon. What could I do? I couldn’t walk out on her sermon either. Not for this. Not because I happened to remember a tree that looked like the tree in Jennifer’s visions . . .

  “Something terrible is going to happen.”

  “Something terrible is going to happen,” said Mary from the pulpit.

  “What?” I said, astounded that Mary’s ringing voice had echoed Jennifer, had echoed my thoughts.

  People in the pews looked back to see who had spoken. My brother whispered, “Keep it down, dumbo.”

  I stared up at him in stupid silence. I turned back to Mary and stared up at her.

  “Jesus knows this,” Mary went on, “and that’s why he speaks as he does in the Gospel today . . .”

  I felt like I was in a dream. Mary’s words were just part of her sermon. But still, they echoed my thoughts, they echoed Jennifer’s prediction, and they struck me as a message, a sign of some sort.

  Was I crazy too? Or was someone trying to tell me something?

  I really had to get out of here. I had to get to the tree, to the tarn.

  The sermon seemed to go on forever. I couldn’t listen to it. I couldn’t think of anything except Jennifer’s desperate voice:

  “Something terrible . . .”

  Finally, Mary was finished. She leaned into the pulpit microphone. She said a heartfelt “Amen.”

  “I gotta go,” I said to John.

  I guess John must’ve thought I was slipping out to use the bathroom. He didn’t say anything as I ducked into the aisle and hurried to the back door—and out.

  It was a cold day. A strong wind was blowing. Gray clouds moved quickly over a bright blue sky, dragging their shadows across the ground. I felt the force of the wind in my hair and against my cheek as I pushed my aching legs and ran top-speed over the green church lawn to my house—then around the side of the house to the port where I kept my bike.

  Moments later I was pedaling as hard as I could through a powerful headwind. Glad to feel my body finally working better, healing. Making my way to the edge of town, down the country lane, to the base of the hill where the broken road led up into the countryside.

  I felt strange and guilty being out on the road at a time when I was usually in church. As I traveled I started to think that maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe I was acting as crazy as Jennifer. Or maybe—maybe I felt so bad about standing around helplessly while the police carried Jennifer away last night that I’d invented this whole situation—this dream, this sense of urgency—to make myself feel better, to make myself feel like at least I was doing something to help her.

  But it didn’t matter now. No matter what, I had to get to that tree. I had to get to the tarn. I had to see whether there was really a coffin there, whether there was really something terrible about to happen—and if so, whether or not I could stop it.

  I reached the hill and started up the road. I hadn’t been there since Jeff Winger and his boys beat me up. And you know what? I wasn’t happy to be there now. I was afraid I might run into Jeff—or Harry Mac or Ed P. What would happen if they saw me in the middle of nowhere like this without Jennifer’s brother, Mark, to protect me?

  The wind pounded me as I pedaled hard up the long, winding incline, grunting with the effort. I scanned the scenery all around me. The rolling hills of grass. The stands of trees. Farmhouses and barns here and there—most of them standing empty and dark and abandoned.

  I told myself I was going to feel awfully stupid once I saw that there was nothing to worry about. How was I going to explain to my brother why I had gone running out of church like that?

  Then I saw it. Just as I remembered. A low oak stretching its branches out so far that it was wider than it was tall. And underneath it . . .

  “A flat, black, round lake.”

  A tarn, just as Jennifer had said.

  I laid my bike down by the side of the road and started up the grassy slope on foot. I couldn’t run the whole way. I was too tired from pedaling. But I jogged as far as I could and then walked quickly, passing first through a thicket of trees and then into the open grasslands of the hill.

  It was a weird scene out there. I was all alone. No one in sight anywhere as far as I could see. The sky looked huge and the clouds seemed to fly through it as if in a fast-motion film. The sun dimmed and grew bright again as the clouds passed. The grass bent in the wind, and the wind whispered through the trees behind me and rattled their bare branches. The whole place seemed somehow alive.

  Up ahead, I could see the low oak bow and sway and rattle in the wind.

  “It’s a demon tree.”

  That’s what Jennifer had told me.

  “The demons come out of the tarn and they gather there. They write evil symbols on the walls. And they put a coffin under the tree.”

  I looked around over the empty hill. I didn’t see any demons. I didn’t see any coffin either. But I could see the lake now more clearly as I got closer. A small, round lake, as Jennifer had said—little more than a big puddle really. I could see its flat surface riffled by the wind, the little waves moving steadily across the surface, as if something were underneath the water, agitating the waves, rising, about to break through . . .

  “They put a coffin under the tree. The thing in the coffin was dead. And then it reached for me. It had skeleton fingers.”

  As I remembered Jennifer’s words—as I moved up the hill toward the tree and the lake—I started to get really nervous. I had this sense that something was behind me, following me, reaching for me from behind with its skeleton fingers . . .

  I whipped around to check, still moving backward up the hill.

  Nothing was there, of course. Just the empty slope. The waving grass. The waving trees at the bottom. The shadows passing over as the clouds raced by above.

  Do right. Fear nothing.

  I turned and ran up the slope.

  I reached the oak at the crest. The wind pushed through it from behind, making its wide branches sway forward almost as if they would surround and take hold of me. I bent forward, my hands on my knees, my head down, trying to catch my breath after the climb. I looked into the riffling lake where the water rose and fell.

  No demons in sight, that was for sure. No coffin. Nothing “terrible” seemed to be about to happen. I was just being silly. Following the visions of a schizophrenic. Following my dreams as if they were real. I was just trying to make myself feel better about the fact that there was nothing I could do to help Jennifer.

  I straightened. And then I saw the old barn.

  It had been hidden behind the oak, down the far slo
pe of the hill, out of sight from below. I saw it now through the moving branches.

  I stepped around the tree and peered down the slope. I felt something twist inside me as I got my first good look at the barn.

  It was not a pleasant place to look at. It was old, empty, abandoned. The paint had long since worn away, and the boards were rotten and splintery. The barn’s door was closed, a wooden bolt holding it in place. But the wind made the door buck and knock as if someone—or something—were pushing on it from behind.

  I looked around me. The emptiness of the hill seemed chaotic with the racing shadows of the clouds. It was an eerie, lonely place to be and I wanted to get out of there fast—now. I told myself: I’ve done my job. I’ve checked things out. Nothing terrible is happening. After all, Jennifer hadn’t mentioned the barn in her vision. Just the tree and the lake.

  But even as I told myself to turn around and run back to my bike, I started moving down the far slope of the hill toward the barn.

  Do right. Fear nothing.

  The closer I got to the place, the spookier it looked. Big. Dark. Empty. And it seemed to expand and shudder with the wind. The door kept knocking against its bolt, straining against its hinges. The closer I got, the more I expected the door to burst open and something—Jennifer’s demons, maybe—to come rushing out at me.

  I reached the barn. Again, I had that feeling that someone—something—was creeping up behind me. Again, I looked around. Again, I saw nothing.

  I turned back to the door and put my hands on the bolt. Felt the door moving and straining against my hand like a living thing.

  I lifted the bolt. I pulled the big door open. The barn yawned wide and dark in front of me.

  There was the coffin.

  I wasn’t nervous anymore. I was scared out of my wits. My stomach was in knots. I had to use all my willpower to keep from running away.

  It’s not really a coffin, I told myself. It’s just a crate. It’s just an old crate in an empty barn.

  And that was true. It wasn’t shaped like a coffin. It just looked like an old shipping crate or something.