MY LEGS ACHED from walking. I’d never realized just how big the woods were on this side of Boggy Lake. Was Dawg trying to wear us down, so that when we finally stopped to sleep, there would be no fear of our waking until it was all over? I tried not to think such thoughts but couldn’t help myself. With each step we took, with each utterance Chester made about the spirit of evil being let loose at midnight, with each reflection of the moon I caught in Dawg’s eyes, I wondered . . . and I wondered . . . and I wondered.
“What do you suppose is happening to the Monroes?” I asked at one point. Chester just shook his head darkly, and I didn’t ask again.
After a time, he began telling stories of Saint George’s Day, not to frighten us, he assured me under his breath, but to check out Dawg’s reactions. There were none that were noticeable. Howie, seeing the lack of response in Dawg, reacted not out of fear but delight.
“Tell us more,” he’d say after Chester had finished each tale of twilight terror.
And so Chester would regale us with another.
Until: “It is near,” he said. And he fell silent. I believe he was referring to the midnight hour. But Dawg interpreted his remark differently.
“Yep,” Dawg said. “We’re going in the right direction this time. I can feel it. Pretty soon, we’ll be there.”
“I can’t wait,” Howie squealed enthusiastically, as if we’d been walking for three minutes rather than three hours.
Dawg sniffed at the ground. “If we just follow the bed of this stream,” he said, “we’ll be there right quick.”
We walked now on muddy ground, our paws sticking with each step. Covered with cockleburs and mud, I was beyond the point of caring, wanting only to stop and rest, stop and sleep for the night. . . even if it meant the worst. I was beginning to nod off, when I heard Howie’s excited voice cry out, “Look! Look, there in the mud!”
Chester, Dawg, and I rushed to Howie’s side. There were fresh footprints.
“The prints of darkness,” Howie said ominously.
“They were made by people,” Dawg said. “I wonder if that means... yep, I’ll bet it does. We’re almost there, just like I told ya. Come on, follow me!”
Once again, he bounded off. Howie, who was as endlessly full of energy as a rechargable battery, was quick to follow. Chester and I lagged behind.
By the time we caught up with them, they had found what Dawg had been looking for all this time. Through an opening in the trees, we made out a large house standing in an open field. Its spires were silhouetted against a purple sky; its windows were dark but for one, which quivered with a yellow light. It seemed like something from another time and place.
When he saw it, Chester gasped.
“I’ll bet you never thought you’d see that in the middle of the woods,” Dawg said. “Ain’t it a sight?”
“It looks like a castle,” said Howie.
“Or a cathedral,” I said.
We turned to Chester for his response, but there was none—none other than the look of sheer horror on his face, that is.
“Come on,” Dawg said, “let’s go closer.”
“No!” Chester cried.
“Aw, come on,” said Dawg, “don’t start that chicken stuff again.”
“It . . . it isn’t that,” Chester stuttered. He looked up at the sky. It had grown cloudier, but the light of the moon was still strong and full of power. “I’m tired, that’s all. I think maybe we should go back to camp. Do you know the way, Dawg?”
Dawg frowned. “Well, shore, but don’t you wanta see the house? We’ve come all this way.” He turned to Howie and yawned in spite of himself. “You wanta see it, don’t you, Howie?”
“He’s stalling,” Chester whispered to me. “We’ve got to get back to camp. We don’t have much time till midnight. And the last thing we want to do is go near that house. Anywhere but that house.”
