Darkness Creeping (31 page)

Then the Dumpster shifted just a bit, and the dead Volkswagen Bug beneath it creaked a flat complaint.
Anything that crushes one of our lawn cars can’t be all bad,
thought Lucinda with a chuckle.

No, Lucinda decided, this thing was not evil—far from it. In fact, to Lucinda it seemed almost . . . friendly—certainly more friendly than anything else on their poor excuse for a lawn. And clearly it seemed to be waiting. Yes, happily waiting for something . . . but what?

Whistling to herself, Lucinda turned away. And as she strolled off to school, she thought about the great green metal box and the way it sat in anticipation, like a Christmas present waiting to be opened.

The neighbor’s fat tabby cat was sitting proudly on the hood of one of the lawn cars when Lucinda returned home that afternoon. The Dumpster hadn’t moved.

All day Lucinda hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind. It was as if the thing had fallen into her brain instead of onto their weed-choked lawn. In fact, she had actually looked forward to coming home, just so she could take a good look at it again. There was something noble about the way it stood there—like a silent monolith.

But it isn’t silent, is it?
Lucinda thought. There were noises coming from within its dark green depths—little scratches and creaks, like rats crawling around.
Is there something alive in there?
she wondered.
Is there anything in there at all, or is it just my imagination?

If it had been a Christmas present, Lucinda would have been able to shake it, feel its weight, and try to guess what it held. But there was no way she could lift a Dumpster.

Unable to stand not knowing what was inside, she ran to the porch, got several chairs, and stacked them one on top of the other. Then she climbed the rickety tower she had created and peered over the edge of the Dumpster.

As she had expected, it wasn’t empty, and the shock of what Lucinda saw nearly made her lose her balance and tumble back to the ground. But she held on, refusing to blink as she stared down into the Dumpster . . .

. . . at her father, who sat in his recliner, watching TV.

“Dad?” she shouted. “Dad, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, clicking the remote control with the speed of a semiautomatic weapon. “Get me the
TV Guide
, or you’re grounded!”

In another corner of the Dumpster sat Lucinda’s mother, with her entire vanity and makeup collection before her. She scowled at her own reflection, took a deep drag of her cigarette, and began to apply a fresh layer of makeup.

“Mom?”

“Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m having a bad hair day.” Cough, cough.

In the third corner of the Dumpster stood Itchy. There was a lever coming from the metal floor, and a button on the wall. Pull the lever, push the lever, press the button. Pull the lever, push the lever, press the button—Itchy was working away.

“Have you all gone crazy?” yelled Lucinda. “Don’t you know where you are?”

But it was clear that they didn’t. Her father thought he was in the living room, her mother thought she was in the bedroom, and Itchy, well, he thought he was king of the Tilt-A-Whirl. They all were in their own private little heaven, if you could call it that. This Dumpster—this terrible, wonderful Dumpster—wasn’t designed to haul away
things
—it was designed to haul away
people
!

“Well, are you coming inside or what?” asked her father.

Lucinda could have argued with them. And maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could have broken through their little trances and made them come out.

But if she tried hard enough, she could also keep herself from telling them anything at all.

That thought brought the tiniest grin to her face—a grin that widened as she leaped to the ground, into a tangle of weeds that cushioned her fall. Her smile continued to grow as she stepped into the house, and she broke into a full-fledged laughing fit as she raced into her room and began to bounce on her bed.

The Dumpster was taken away sometime during the night.

The following week, Garson McCall stopped by to apologize for being so rude on his first visit. The startled look on his face didn’t surprise Lucinda. She’d had many startled visitors during those first few days. One need only look at the carless, freshly planted lawn to know something had changed.

“Hi, Garson,” said Lucinda in a dark, sad tone that didn’t seem to match the brightness of the spotless house.

“Wow! What an overhaul!” exclaimed Garson as he stepped inside, his eyes bugging out at the new carpet and furniture.

Lucinda just shrugged.

A sixteen-year-old kid came bounding out of the kitchen to greet him, wearing a million-dollar smile that showed perfect teeth. “Hi, Garson, what’s up?” the boy asked.

“Itchy?” Garson murmured in disbelief.

“Ignatius,” the clean-cut boy corrected. “But my friends call me Nate.”

In the living room a man who looked like an athletic version of Mr. Pudlinger was sipping lemonade and reading
Parents
magazine. In the kitchen a woman who resembled Mrs. Pudlinger, with several coats of makeup peeled away, was baking a pie.

“Garson, would you like to stay for dinner?” asked the pleasant-looking woman. “We’re having T-bone steak and apple pie!”

“Sure,” said Garson.

Lucinda could practically see him drool, but the flat expression on her own face never changed. In fact, she didn’t know if she
could
change it anymore.

“I can’t believe these are the same people I saw last week!” whispered Garson excitedly.

“They’re not,” said Lucinda. “They’re replacements sent by the Customer Service Department.”

Garson laughed, as if Lucinda had made a joke, and Lucinda didn’t have the strength to convince him it was true.

“Listen, Garson,” she finally said. “I’d like to talk, but I can’t. I have to study.”

“Study?” Garson raised an eyebrow. “On a Saturday?”

“I have to get an A in math,” Lucinda replied.

“And science,” added the new Mrs. Pudlinger cheerfully.

“Don’t forget English and history,” Mr. Pudlinger sang out. “My daughter’s going to be a straight-A student, just like her brother!”

Lucinda sighed, feeling herself go weak at the knees. “
And
I have to be the star of the field-hockey team.
And
I have to keep my room spotlessly clean.
And
I have to do all my chores
perfectly
. . . or else.”

“Or else . . . what?” asked Garson.

Then Lucinda leaned in close, and with panic in her eyes, she desperately whispered in his ear, “Or else it comes back for me!”

Mrs. Pudlinger turned from her perfect pie. “Lucinda, dear,” she said with a smile that seemed just a bit too wide, “isn’t it your turn to take out the garbage?”

“Yes, Mother,” Lucinda replied woodenly.

Then Lucinda Pudlinger, dragging her feet across the floor like a zombie, took out the trash . . . being horribly careful not to let a single scrap of paper fall to the ground. Ever.

The Sand Trap had already claimed a neighbor’s dog. At least that was the rumor. They said the poor animal had gone down slowly, like it had been sucked into quicksand. It must have felt the same way a dinosaur felt when it got stuck in a tar pit and sank inch by inch into hot, black eternity.

Of course, nobody believed the rumor. Quicksand? On a beach? No such thing! No, that stuff was only in the Amazon or deep in the Congo—and anyone foolish enough to poke around in places like that deserved whatever they got.

But I believed it. People didn’t make up things like that—not unless they were particularly twisted. That’s what made me trek down that long strip of empty beach near my grandma’s old beach house. I had to check it out for myself.

I’d been living with Grandma almost four months now. It was my dad’s new girlfriend’s idea, and at first, I was just supposed to spend the summer.

“It’s for Philip’s own good,” she had said, sounding so caring, as if the real reason she wanted to get rid of me had anything to do with helping me. Anyway, she convinced my dad it was a last-ditch effort to keep me out of trouble. After all, ever since my dad and mom split, I had developed a special talent for getting rid of his girlfriends. Maybe my dad figured if I were out of the picture, that wouldn’t happen anymore.

Anyway, it worked. They spent the summer together in Europe, and I kept out of trouble—if you don’t count that first day, when I got mad and shattered a bunch of glass figurines in Grandma’s crafts shop.

In fact, I’ve done so well out here, my dad and his girlfriend decided to leave me in this lonely part of the world for good. Or at least it seems that way.

So, since it looks like I don’t have a choice, I’ve been trying to make the best of it, and I’ve actually grown to like the desolate beaches better than the crowded city I used to live in. Of course, the kids at school out here are kind of time-warped back a dozen years or so. But I can put up with that. After all, I have little mysteries to spice up my day—like pets disappearing in the Sand Trap.

The rumor about the dog had been going around school for a day or two before I actually decided to check it out. It was early on a Saturday morning, and as I left the house, a wall of storm clouds had stalled on the horizon. They seemed to be taunting the little beach community, sounding off dull thunder every now and then, but keeping their distance, like an army waiting to attack.

“You have no business going out on a day like this,” Grandma warned me. “The wind’ll blow you halfway to tomorrow.”

Of course, that didn’t stop me. Weather never did. And neither did warnings. Besides, I loved going out when it was cold and windy. I didn’t tell Grandma I was going to the Sand Trap though . . . or that I was taking a bucket.

As I trudged along the smooth shoreline, I breathed in the ocean spray that chilled me inside and out, then I opened my shirt and let the cold of the day fill my body with goose bumps. People didn’t understand why I liked to feel cold all the time. I couldn’t explain it, either.

A few hundred yards down the strand, I finally came to the weird, perfectly round patch of sand on the beach behind Grandma’s house. Everyone called it the Sand Trap because it was always a few inches lower, and a few shades lighter, than all the other sand around it. But what was really weird was that the Sand Trap washed away every day in high tide, then always came back to re-form itself—once again, perfectly round. And, when you looked down at it long enough, you could swear the sand was moving. But that was just an optical illusion—I was sure of it.

I stood before the Sand Trap for the longest time, building up my nerve to do what I had decided to do . . . and then I stepped into it.

Instantly I noticed that this sand was finer than the rest of the sand on the beach—and it was colder, too. But was it quicksand? I didn’t think so; after all, I didn’t start sinking.

And so I got down on my knees in the Sand Trap, and I stared into it until I could see the sand slowly start churning. Then I dug my hands into it and filled my bucket to the brim.

I had wanted some of that strange sand ever since I heard it existed, and now, at last, I was going to have some of it for my very own.