He laughs. “You’re pretty funny, Sweet Pea.”
Not even the thought of my stained teeth can wipe the smile off my face.
Chapter Nine
The Witching Hour
Dad’s usually a rule follower, but there are certain things, like scary movies (andAmerica’s Most Haunted), that he loves so much, he doesn’t want to keep them from me. Which is why Oscar and I are curled up beside my dad, watching a movie calledJaws. I keep pulling my T-shirt collar up over my eyes. Something about seeing the shark lurk through the filter of my threadbare T-shirt makes this slightly less scary.
“How is this even scary?” I shout over the dramatic music as the shark prepares to attack in the murky waters below an unsuspecting boat.
“I don’t know,” says Oscar as he takes the popcorn bowl from my dad. “It’s not even a real shark. Like, it is soobviously a fake shark. This movie is so old it might as well be in black and white, but—” He shrieks and jumps in his seat, sending the popcorn into the air.
“Oh my god, oh my god. What did I miss?” I ask, my hands safely covering my eyes as the music reaches an earsplitting pitch.
“What were you saying again?” Dad chuckles. “About this movie being old?”
Oscar huffs. “Well, it’s definitely old.”
“Still pretty scary, though,” says Dad as he plucks a piece of popcorn out of my hair and eats it. “Oscar, am I going to be in trouble with your mom for showing you a scary movie? Your mother is one heck of a lioness.”
“My brothers have scarred me for life, so I’m pretty sure you’re safe, Mr. DiMarco.” Oscar looks around. “Should I get the, uh, vacuum to clean all this up?”
Dad surveys the popcorn damage. “I really need a dog.” He shakes his head and crosses his foot over his knee, leaning back into the sofa. “We’ll leave it for the morning. Don’t want anyone to miss any of the good parts.”
“There are good parts in this movie?” I squeak.
Dad puts his arm around me and tugs me closer to him. “I’ve got a thing or two to teach you yet, Sweet Pea.”
I glance around at the popcorn all over the floor and our laps. Mom would freak out, but Mom’s not here.
Oscar and I lie in my room all tucked in, him on the air mattress purchased for the camping trip my mom refused to go on, because she has a fear of snakes (I wanted to be annoyed at her for that, but snakes freak me out pretty big-time too), and me in my bed. Well, my second bed.
There’s something about the way the shadows are cast against the wall in this room that makes the whole place feel haunted. I don’t actually think there are any ghosts here, but this room reminds me of a bad guy in a crummy disguise. Like, the kind you might see in a cartoon where the bad guy just puts on a fake mustache and a trench coat and somehow manages to fool everyone except me.
Oscar falls asleep first, and then I begin to drift, but only for a moment before my eyes shoot open and I gasp. There’s nothing worse than being shocked awake by the realization that you forgot your homework or to clean your cat’s litter box. (To be honest, I don’t know which of those is worse.)
I was supposed to go over to Miss Flora Mae’s today, and I 250 percent forgot. I slide out of bed and tiptoe around a sleeping Oscar. The clock on my bedside table says it’s nearly one in the morning—what Cliff VanWarren would call the witching hour. I suck in a deep breath as my bedroom door creaks shut behind me.
Down the hallway, a glowing blue light from the TV leaks out from under the door of Dad’s bedroom.Sometimes Mom would sleep on the couch because she couldn’t fall asleep with the TV on and Dad had a hard time falling asleep with it off. Mostly, they’d just set a timer, but now I wonder if Mom sleeping in the guest room wasn’t really about the TV.
A little farther down the hallway is Dad’s third bedroom. If I weren’t on a mission, I might just sneak in there and nose around, but I also kind of feel like if Dad hasn’t let me in there, maybe I’m not meant to see what’s behind the door.
Carefully, I slide out the front door before I have the chance to think too seriously about the fact that I’m sneaking out in the middle of the night. On the one hand, I feel pretty dang cool, but on the other hand, it kind of freaks me out. Like, what if I’m kidnapped and my parents just think I disappeared?
The streetlamp on the corner flickers before shutting off for the night. I check the mail, holding Miss Flora Mae’s key close to my chest as I run up her sidewalk and onto her shadowed porch.
I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters.
I’ve never bought into Oscar’s theories about Miss Flora Mae, but somehow the wind is howling louder than it should and the porch is creaking with every breath I takeand I can’t help but feel like I am definitely on an episode ofAmerica’s Most Hauntedand somewhere out there Cliff VanWarren is narrating my every move.
No matter how steady I make my hand, I can’t seem to get the key in the hole just right. “Come on,” I mutter, not willing to look over my shoulder behind me into the dark, whistling wind.
I may not believe in monsters, but I can think of about a billion other things I do believe in. Ghosts, aliens, wild animals, kidnappers...
The lock clicks, and short-lived relief washes over me as I step into an even deeper darkness. For a moment, I fumble around, sliding my hands up the walls, looking for a light switch. I run headfirst into what I hope is a lamp and not a dead body just chilling out in the middle of Miss Flora Mae’s house for no suspicious reason at all. I pat down the lamp/possible dead body until— “Aha! Let there be light!”
I clap my hand over my mouth, muffling my own scream as my eyes focus on the hissing cat resting on the mantel above the fireplace.
