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“We’ve gone over this. You didn’t see anyone.”
“I did, dammit!”
“Let’s get you home.” Ashley tries to take his arm, but Vance shakes her off.
“I can walk home on my own, for God’s sake. Stop treating me like a fucking baby, Trish.”
Behind her, Henry gasps. Ashley’s reaction is even worse. Her eyes go wide, shimmering with hurt. That same pain slips into her voice as she says, “It’s me, Dad. Ashley. Mom’s no longer with us.”
Mr. Wallace stares at her a moment, confusion writ large on his face. The expression soon falls away, replaced by something approaching abject terror. He opens his mouth to speak, but Ashley shusheshim and tells him it’s okay. She reaches for him again, and this time Mr. Wallace lets her do it.
As they leave, Vance turns around to stare at the woods.
“I’m not lying,” he tells me. “Something is out here.”
“That’s enough, Dad. Let’s go back to the house.” Ashley pauses to give me an over-the-shoulder glance. “You, too, Ethan. I could use the help.”
TWELVE
While Ashley gets her father resettled in his room, I’m down the hall, making sure Henry gets back into bed. Not a problem, it turns out. Henry’s a far cry from how I acted when I was his age and bedtime rolled around. I’d wheedle and cajole and beg to stay up just five more minutes. Ironic, seeing how I now long for a full night’s sleep.
Henry, maybe anticipating a similar situation in his later years, simply crawls under the covers and grabs a book from the nightstand. He’s moved on to a different volume in the Goosebumps series,The Ghost Next Door.
“Won’t you get scared reading that before bed?” I say.
“No,” Henry says. “It’s just fiction. Also, I like reading about ghosts and monsters.”
“I had a friend who liked that, too. He was obsessed with ghosts.”
“Billy Barringer,” Henry says, the name sounding foreign coming from someone so young.
“How do you know about him?”
Henry pushes his glasses higher onto his nose. “My mom told me about him. She said he was a good kid who disappeared, which is why I should always tell her where I’m going.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that even Ashley has turned Billy’s story into a cautionary tale, yet I am. Surely Billy meant more to her than that. Or maybe she’s like Russ, limited in both memories and mournfulness. When it comes to Billy, maybe everyone is.
Everyone but me.
“Don’t stay up too late reading,” I say as I switch off the overhead light. “Sleep is important.”
When I reach the doorway, Henry stops me.
“Mr. Marsh, do you think I’m weird?”
I turn to face him, surprised by how young he looks half under the covers, bathed in the warm glow of his bedside lamp.
“Do you?” Henry prods when I don’t have a quick answer.
I cringe. The truth is that, yes, I think Henry is weird, but to tell him would be cruel. Then again, I don’t want to lie to the kid. Too much of childhood is spent being lied to by adults because they think it’ll spare your feelings.
“Does it matter if you are?” I say.
Henry nods. “A little.”
“To who?”
“Whom,” he says, correcting me. “And I guess the answer is other people.”