chapter seventeen

Dirk and I tumble through cracked concrete and dirt and down into darkness and then—

WHOMP!

Hard ground.

There’s a heavy, wet smell in the air, like soil.

I rise, take a step, then pitch forward into something. Something alive. My mouth is open, ready to shriek, but it’s Dirk. He throws a big, dirty palm over my face.

“Shh . . .” he says, lifting a finger to his mouth. “These walls have ears—”

“WHAT? Ears?!” I scream as I spin, eyes darting, imagining the most horrific thing my mind can conjure: the fabled, long-lost . . .

WALL OF EARS

“No, dingus, not real ears,” Dirk says, nodding ahead. “Those. . . .”

I see Vine-Thingies, swaying, bobbing, moving curiously. One snakes toward us, like it’s curious.

“I think they’re listening to us,” Dirk whispers.

“They must know how cool our conversations are.”

Dirk jabs me with a quick elbow and nods ahead. Beyond the next cluster of vines, I see endless tunnels.

The only reason we can see at all is because the Vine-Thingies glow. They crawl along the tunnel walls, and their flowers hum with purple and green.

“All this neon reminds me of the laser tag joint,” I say. “Hey! Idea! After we get outta here, we should—”

“Not now!” Dirk growls, and he steps forward, brushing through a large, pulsating leaf. I follow closely behind.

We turn a corner and it’s like someone cranked up the lights on Space Mountain. This isn’t just one tunnel—it’s many tunnels that split and shoot off into forks and branches.

“Whatever carved these tunnels must’ve been real big,” Dirk says as we continue our trek.

Cool air rushes through the tunnel. I pull my hoodie tight.

“Must’ve done it recently, too,” Dirk adds, poking at the wall. “The soil’s wet.”

Every step on the soft earth squishes beneath our feet. It’s quiet, eerily quiet, until—

A spine-chilling SCREAM erupts!

I draw the Slicer. Dirk readies his fists. We burst around the next corner, ready for anything—

“STOP!” Quint says.

June holds up her armored hand. “Whoa, it’s us! Y’know—your friends!”

Fists and Slicer are lowered. “That could have been messy,” June says. “I almost blasted you.”

“I’m just happy you’re enjoying the Gift,” I say with a grin.

Quint points at my arm. “Jack,” he says. “You’re bleeding.”

He’s right—a small cut on my arm. Something scraped me as we came around the corner. My eye catches on a spike jutting from the wall.

“Hmm,” Dirk says as he plucks it out like a giant splinter.

Quint eyes it. “It’s a quill from the Hairy Eyeball Monster.” He gives the tunnel a once-over, then adds, “And there are lots of them.”

The spikey quills fill this section of the tunnel. Some are broken. Others have bits of monster flesh on the end, like they were ripped from the creature’s body.

“It’s like after the Vine-Thingies captured it, they didn’t just beat it up or eat it up,” June says.

Quint nods. “They dragged it through here.”

“But dragged to where?” I ask.

Dirk extends his arm, drops the quill, and it hits the dirt floor with a muffled thud. Then it rolls down the path like a runaway pencil.

“We’ve been going down this whole time,” Quint says.

June nods ahead. “Then we keep going down.”

The more we walk, the more the tunnel twists and turns. We’re on a winding, spiraling path down into the earth deep beneath Wakefield.

“My ears just popped,” I say. “Anyone got any Bubblicious?”

“Shh!” Dirk says. “Movement up ahead.”

We all stop to listen. At first, it sounds like slithering. Then it’s like clicking and clacking. . . .

I poke Dirk. “See, buddy! You remember Ghostbusters quotes. Your brain can’t be broken if you’re quoting Ghostbusters. In fact, that probably means you’re firing on all cylinders.”

“Nah,” Dirk grunts. “If I’m quoting movies like you dorks, my brain might be shattered.”

The clicking, clacking, slithering sound grows louder. And then something else.

“Moaning,” June says.

Quint shakes his head. “No. Wailing.”

The tunnel flattens out and I see light around the next curve. We’ve come to the end.

A curtain of tangled vines hangs over the gaping mouth of the passageway. Neon, spectral light glows beyond it.

“OK,” I say, looking at my buds. “Just gonna throw this out there. . . . We could turn around, and just forget we ever came down here. Go back to the tree house, get some peanut butter sandwiches going, maybe a little cartoon marathon?”

Dirk bravely brushes aside the draping vines. We step through the curtain, and part of me wishes we had gone back.

And not just because I love a good peanut butter sandwich cartoon marathon.

Because what we see before us . . .

It’s a graveyard.