ACT ONE

"Can you hear them? Can you hear the hounds of hell baying in the full moon's light? They're looking for you…"

Just a week ago, Dras ran like a sissy from a completely human and in no way supernatural or horrifying elderly woman. But his fears of the widow McDowell were long since forgotten, and now he and Rosalyn were making time for the kind of horror Dras was perfectly comfortable facing—the kind that stayed safely behind the glass of the Weldon family television.

He grinned, excitement brimming in his eyes, as the familiar opening monologue began. Canned sound effects of howling wolves played over organ music as the camera zoomed through a mist-enshrouded forest. The words Midnight Matinee dripped in bright, animated blood and Dras stuffed his face with another handful of popcorn.

Then he turned to his left. "Want some?"

Rosalyn sat beside him on the floor, leaning her back against the couch. She was clearly lost in thought and Dras tried to break the spell by bouncing a piece of popcorn off her nose.

"Hey!"

He crunched on another mouthful, gently shaking the bowl before her, as one might coax a kitten out of hiding with a ball of string. "Ooh 'ahnt ahny'hing?" he managed between chews.

"I'm fine," she answered, mindlessly staring at the screen as the image dissolved to a black and white mad scientist's laboratory, complete with beakers of bubbling fluid, dry ice, and cobweb-decorated stone walls. In the center of the stage, a coffin rested. The lid slowly creaked open and a portly bald man sporting a bushy mustache, dusty suit, gloves, and a magician's cape sat up with a moan.

"I'm your frightful host, Edmond Ghoulie, back from the dead to guide you through these monster infested territories in order to bring you another terror-filled film of yesteryear."

Dras ignored Rosalyn, his attention totally devoted to "Dead Ed" Ghoulie. The late-night horror show host was somewhere between a rotting corpse and a stage magician, his pancake makeup crinkling around his mascara, giving him a decomposing look. The scene cut to Dead Ed already in a standing position—to spare the poor overweight actor from awkwardly climbing out of his "grave" on camera—and with every syllable, the Ghoul gave a flourish of his cape, reaching out toward the camera with his black-gloved fingers.

"You're in for a truly petrifying treat tonight, kiddies. For tonight, you will bear witness to 1963's blood-soaked 'Crypt of Dracula' starring the late great vampire killer himself, Donald Cushing. Beware dear viewer, lest your heart grow faint at the horrors that await you, and try to remind yourself…it's only a movie."

Dras' grin grew wider still, his teeth beaming. Crackling music swelled as Crypt of Dracula began. "This is going to be so good," Dras muttered, digging around in his bowl of popcorn.

But when he took notice of his best friend's downcast expression, Dras' giddiness faded. Rosalyn was quiet tonight. True, she didn't share his enthusiasm for the local Saturday night horror host or his cheesy B-movies, but she at least enjoyed spending the night at Dras' house goofing around and talking about the trivial things of youth while his parents slept soundly upstairs.

But that was before her father committed suicide around a month ago.

"Wanna watch something else?" Dras asked quietly.

The subject was fresh and painful and he was careful to be supportive of Rosalyn without actually mentioning the tragedy in conversation. Suddenly, he felt like a heel for sitting next to her, scarfing down popcorn as innocent victims on the screen were eviscerated for his adolescent entertainment. Death had touched the Myers family—for real—and Rosalyn would never be the same. Here he was gleefully anticipating the grisly demise of the Count's victims.

Rosalyn snapped to, startled to remember she wasn't alone in the room with the ghost of her father. "What? No, no. You looked forward to this all week."

"We can still change it. Vampires are kind of boring, anyway."

Dras' parents made it a standing offer for Rosalyn to spend the night with their family, but following her father's death, Dras' mom nearly insisted the girl stay with them on the weekends at their home in Greensboro, nine miles away from Trysdale. Dras' dad was the pastor at The Good Church of the Faithful and Dras' mom believed that now, perhaps more than ever, Rosalyn needed "a good Christian influence" in her life. Dras agreed Rosalyn needed something, especially something that would get her away from home for awhile.

Rosalyn's mom was not taking the loss of her husband very well and had decided to cope by screwing the caps off liquor bottles and searching for solace inside. Rosalyn had a four-year-old sister, Annie, and the burden was upon her to take care of the little one while her mother descended into quick alcoholism. The Weldons always offered to baby-sit the preschooler, too, during Rosalyn's over-nights, hoping to decrease the risk of something happening to Annie during her mother's drinking binges, but Rosalyn's mother refused, as if sensing her parenting skills were being called into question. Nevertheless, the Weldons recognized that twelve years old was far too young to keep a family together and believed Rosalyn needed a break from time to time.

A break she didn't seem to be enjoying at the moment.

Morosely, Rosalyn began, "I talked to Peggy again yesterday."

Dras' hand froze inches from his face, buttered popcorn suspended before his gaping mouth. "You what? That crazy old lady in Trysdale?"

"She's not crazy," Rosalyn snapped defensively. "You haven't even talked to her."

"I don't want to, either." Dras shuddered and completed his popcorn's pilgrimage to his awaiting mouth. "Gives me the creeps."

"Do you know why she goes out to the North Woods, night after night?"

Dras shrugged. "Looking for her marbles?"

"Looking for her husband, goof. He died, you know. Peggy said that, when she was a little girl, people around here used to say that you could hear the voice of your dead loved ones in the North Woods."

Despite Dras' unbridled love for scary movies, he found the idea that something spooky like ghosts or the things Donald Cushing faced every Saturday night really existed simply hysterical. He demonstrated his amusement by laughing out loud, totally forgetting that his parents were asleep upstairs and would scold him dearly for staying up so late when they had church first thing in the morning.

Rosalyn raised an aggravated eyebrow, while Dras guffawed, popcorn bits dribbling down his chin.

"You're dumb," she commented.

"Aw, come on, Roz. Do you really believe that?"

He turned to see if she was going to join him in his laughter, but when he spotted the hurt and confused look on her face, her reason for wanting to believe the scary old lady became terrifyingly clear.

"Oh," he said, his giggles silenced. "You want to go out there, don't you? You think you might hear your dad?"

Rosalyn's eyes welled and she bit her lip, using the pain to force her emotion back. "Do you…do you think it'd work? Do you think the stories are true?"

Dras didn't answer and found that he'd lost his appetite and all hopes of enjoying Crypt of Dracula. Silence settled in the room and neither kid dared move. Even the TV's droning in the background seemed to fade as the darkness around them pressed in.

Dras' voice was barely above a whisper when he began, "Roz…"

"Hey, skeeve," a deeper echo startled Dras and he tossed his popcorn straight up in the air, bringing down a rain of fluffy kernels on his head.

Rosalyn and Dras swiveled to see Dras' seventeen-year-old brother Jeff enter through the kitchen, quietly closing the screen door behind him, lest it should slap shut and betray his crime. The hour was after midnight—way past the teenager's curfew—and Jeff was decked out in his usual black attire including long, dark coat, fingerless gloves, and his hair gelled to retain a messy "devil may care" quality.

At the sight of the older boy, Rosalyn instantly blushed and looked to her lap. Dras' brow cinched up. "Jeff, you jerk!"

Jeff chuckled savagely, enjoying the scare he got out of his little brother. Then he spotted rotund Dead Ed Ghoulie on the screen, relaying some fun "behind the scenes" facts from Midnight Matinee's latest creature feature. The teen rolled his eyes, "You know Mom hates you watching this crap."

Dras' grin curled in innocent devilry. "That's why I wait until she's asleep."

"I'm telling," Jeff folded his arms and cocked his head.

Dras turned away from his brother, gathered a piece of popcorn and dropped it in his mouth, victory in his grasp. "Go ahead. I'll just tell Dad where you hide your cigarettes."

Jeff huffed, rolling his eyes. "Gah, I hate you."

"Right back at you, Rebel Without a Clue."

Jeff headed for the stairs, prepared to sneak up to his room, but noticed Rosalyn.

"Hey, Roz."

Rosalyn glanced up, her face tight. "Hi, Jeff."

Dras either didn't notice that his best friend had a small crush on his older brother, or he was too grossed out to acknowledge the concept. Looking up at Jeff, he whined, "Where you been anyway?"

Jeff paused, tapping his finger on his chin and stared at the ceiling, as if recalling a long mental list. "Um…let me think. Well, first I went to Noneofyourbusiness and then we stopped off at Buttout for a soda."

Dras harrumphed and resumed his Crypt-watching. He was seriously tempted to holler for his father and get Jeff in trouble for sneaking in after curfew, but knew that he, too, would incur the wrath of Jack Weldon for staying up past his bedtime to watch his movie.

As much as he hated to, Dras kept quiet and let Jeff have his little triumph.

Jeff, seeing the defeat in his brother's eyes, snickered and moved up a couple of steps before Rosalyn called out.

"Jeff?"

Jeff and Dras froze in their brotherly bickering to regard her. Dark curiosity shadowed her bright brown eyes.

"What?" Jeff asked, his tone softening.

"Have you ever heard the stories about the North Woods?"

Jeff came back down the stairs and asked light-heartedly, "Which ones?"

"The ones about being able to hear your lost loved ones."

Jeff instantly stabbed Dras a reproachful glare, as if blaming him for not shutting down this line of thinking before now. "Rosalyn, they're just stories."

"Maybe not," she added hopefully. "It's worth a shot, right?"

Jeff moved into the living room and even went so far as to sit on the edge of the couch, engaging the conversation. In an understanding tone, he inquired, "What would you even want your dad to say?"

Dras flashed mad for a second, upset that his brother so acutely zeroed in on Rosalyn's plan, when it took him a fit of foolhardy laughter before he pieced it together.

"You know your dad loved you," Jeff told her sympathetically. "What more could we want to know from our parents?"

"I want to know why he died," Rosalyn declared. "I want to know why he did it."

Jeff nodded, thinking about her response. The whole night was becoming quite uncomfortable for Dras, and he hoped to see its end soon.

"Maybe," Jeff started. He paused, then continued, "Maybe there're some things we're better off not knowing. Maybe it should just be enough to know that he was proud of you and loved you."

"Maybe," Rosalyn repeated, though she didn't mean it. She turned away from Jeff coldly, shutting him out, and stared at Dead Ed Ghoulie—the grown man dressed up like a clown—making a fool of himself on public access.

Jeff stood, his long coat billowing, rudely flapping against Dras' face. The older boy didn't offer an apology to Rosalyn for saying what she didn't want to hear, and he certainly didn't offer an apology to his nerd brother for nearly knocking him out with his coat. Instead Jeff disappeared upstairs, leaving Dras and Rosalyn alone in the living room, the glow of the television flickering against their quiet and awkward faces.

To Be Continued Tomorrow...

Copyright © 2008 Greg Mitchell, All Rights Reserved