Even so, against his better judgment, Mark climbed the fence, the iron crossbars hurting his feet because of his worn-out soles.

  “Here, take the shovel. I’ll find the grave,” Rudy said.

  “You mean you have one in mind?”

  “I do my research.” Which made it sound like this was nothing but a school project.

  He started off into the graveyard under a twisted canopy of trees. Ground fog swirled around him in his wake, like a ghostly sea. Mark took a deep breath and hurried after him, not really wanting to venture any deeper into the graveyard, but not wanting to be alone, either.

  Up ahead, Rudy’s flashlight beam bounced over the grounds of the cemetery, picking out marble headstones and vases stuffed with wilting flowers. Shadows danced with every step, like dark, scurrying animals, and the whole place smelled of fresh-turned earth. Mark tried to catch up with his brother, the gloom pressing in around him like cold tentacles in the mist, but Rudy was moving too fast.

  The graveyard was alive with unsettling sounds: the chirping of bugs, the hissing breath of the wind between headstones, the mysterious scratch, scratch, scratch, of something unseen, like undead fingers, scrabbling upward through raw dirt…. Mark shook his head, furious at his own imagination.

  He finally caught up with Rudy, who had come to an abrupt stop.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  They stood before a grave marked by an imposing statue of a mean-looking woman on a pedestal. Maybe it was just the moonlight, but Mark could swear the statue’s teeth were bared, and the woman’s fingers were splayed like claws.

  A plaque resting at the foot of the statue read:

  MADAME VORACIA THORNHILL

  1898–1962

  “Mine is yesterday, I know tomorrow”

  From the Egyptian Book of the Dead

  “Creepy,” said Mark.

  “Creepy and loaded,” Rudy said. “Mrs. Thornhill was married four times, and each of her husbands was filthy rich. They all died in suspicious ways. John Thornhill—the brother of her last husband—swore she was a murderess. He broke into Thornhill Manor one night and shot her dead.” Then Rudy lowered his voice. “After the shooting, John Thornhill was locked away in an asylum until the day he died—all the while saying his brother’s wife wasn’t human, that she was some kind of monster.”

  “Do you think…” Mark’s voice broke. “Do you think it was true?”

  Rudy shrugged. “Only in the way people can be monsters.” Then he grabbed the shovel and dug into the ground, pulling up a mound of moist earth. “Now hold that flashlight steady.”

  * * *

  It took over two hours.

  By that time, Rudy was exhausted. Mark tried to help a couple of times, but his older brother kept saying he was too slow and grabbed the shovel back. Soon sweat was dripping from Rudy’s forehead in spite of the cold, and his breathing was ragged and hoarse.

  “You’ll get your shoes,” Rudy said as he dug, “and I’ll have enough money to get away from here forever.”

  “Away where?”

  But Rudy didn’t share the details of his final destination.

  Then, just when it seemed Rudy was ready to give up, the shovel struck against something firm that resonated like the chamber of an instrument. Rudy scraped the dirt aside, revealing a smooth curve of dull, faded mahogany.

  “Pay dirt,” he said, which Mark noted was a weirdly appropriate expression.

  From then on, it went quickly. Rudy dug furiously, and in less than ten minutes he’d cleared enough dirt to expose Madame Thornhill’s coffin lid. It was scraped from Rudy’s frantic digging, but still impressive: a large custom casket, as solid as the day it was laid to rest.

  Rudy hunched down and gripped the lid with both hands. “Ready for the unveiling?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mark, the flashlight unsteady in his hands. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea—”

  “Too late now.” Rudy threw the coffin lid wide.

  Mark gasped.

  Madame Thornhill’s body was shriveled like a mummy; the eyes had collapsed in their sockets. Even her fancy gown was decaying.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that Madame Thornhill did not seem entirely human.

  For one thing, the dead woman’s hands were wrong. They were bent back at the wrist, with stubby fingers and sharp, curving fingernails. Mark had heard that a dead person’s fingernails kept growing sometimes—but not like these. These were the claws of an animal.

  But stranger still was her face.

  Madame Thornhill’s nose—well, it wasn’t really a nose, it was more like a snout, stretching her dry cheeks like taffy. Huge canine teeth poked between papery lips.

  “Rudy, let’s get out of here. Now!”

  But Rudy hadn’t seen the face and didn’t notice the claws. His attention was on a necklace glimmering with jewels. “Those are diamonds!” he said. “I knew it!”

  Mark didn’t care about the diamonds, the SportQuest Trainers, or anything anymore. He just wanted to get as far from Perpetual Rest as he could.

  “Rudy!”

  “Quiet! I’ve almost got the clasp.”

  The clasp came undone, but the moment it did, the heavy necklace slid right into a hole in the center of Mrs. Thornhill’s chest.

  Mark could only shudder.

  “Gross!” said Rudy. But it didn’t stop him from reaching into her shattered rib cage to fish the thing out. He found it quickly and lifted it up. The diamonds glimmered in the moonlight.

  “Okay, you got it,” said Mark. “Now can we get the hell out of here?”

  “Wait,” said Rudy, frowning, “I think there’s other stuff in there… whatever it is, it’s shiny.” Then he reached back into the dead woman’s dry, dusty rib cage.

  Mark realized what that shiny stuff must have been even before Rudy pulled it out.

  Rudy looked at what he had in his hands and puzzled over it. “Freaky,” he said. “These must be the bullets that killed her.”

  “Let me see them! Hurry!”

  Rudy reached up and handed Mark the bullets. It was just as Mark suspected. It hadn’t been ordinary bullets that had put this woman to rest.

  “Rudy, these are silver bullets!”

  “Really? Do you think they’re worth something?”

  Rudy still didn’t get the big picture, but to Mark it was as crystal clear as the full moon above them. You don’t waste silver bullets on human beings. Everyone knows they serve a very specific purpose.

  Mark dropped the bullets into his jacket pocket and desperately reached out to grab his brother’s hand.

  “Come out of there, Rudy! Come out now!”

  But Rudy took his time, admiring the diamond necklace in his hand. “Well,” he said proudly, “our work here is done.”

  Mark tried to warn his brother, but he was suddenly unable to speak, dry-mouthed with fear.

  Because Madame Thornhill was beginning to move.

  Rudy realized it a moment too late. He looked down and saw life returning to the creature’s sunken eyeballs, saw its upper lip twitch like a dog sniffing a steak. Rudy might have escaped if he’d scrambled away in the next instant, while Madame Thornhill’s old dead limbs were swelling and flexing with recovered life. But he just stood there, frozen in disbelief—

  And then the werewolf sprang at him with a snarl. Rudy went down under a flurry of teeth and claws, screaming. Mark saw nothing else, because he panicked and ran, dropping the flashlight. It bounced and fell into the open grave, throwing crazy shadows as Rudy fought for his life and lost, his screams quickly silenced.

  Rudy was dead.

  And the wolf was still hungry.

  Mark looked back only once and saw something he’d never forget, not if he lived to be a hundred, which right now seemed unlikely. It was Madame Thornhill in stark silhouette, with her head thrown back and teeth bared, howling with such fury it seemed to echo for miles. As Mark watched, the werewolf leaped forward. With the silver bullets removed from its insides, the dry, ruined flesh was rapidly repairing itself. Still shrouded in her shredded gown, Mrs. Thornhill sniffed the air for game.

  Her head swiveled toward him.

  Mark ran.

  There was nothing he could do for Rudy—he was dead. But maybe Mark could save himself. He knew he had only one chance to escape. Madame Thornhill might have been an ordinary woman without the light of a full moon, but now she was more animal than human—and there were things a human could do that a wolf couldn’t.

  Like climb a ten-foot fence.

  If Mark could make it to the edge of the cemetery and clear the fence before the werewolf caught him, he might survive! He had a head start of about thirty feet. But wolves are fast—you’d have to be a track star to outrun them.

  Or a basketball star.

  Mark tried to pretend he was on the court, driving the ball through the opposing line, blitzing toward the hoop with only seconds left on the clock. He tried not to think about the savage predator pounding toward him, its barbed teeth and wet tongue ready to gobble him down like raw hamburger. He could almost feel its hot breath on his shoulder, the sting of its razor claws. He ran, harder and faster than he ever had before.

  The fence was right in front of him now. Mark jumped and caught the iron bars, just as the back of his leg exploded in pain.

  The werewolf had clamped its jaws down on his left calf, but he couldn’t let the pain, or the sight of his own blood, weaken him. Mark kicked at the creature’s face with his other foot. It let go just long enough for Mark to pull himself up toward the top of the fence, ignoring the pain in his leg. The thing leapt at him again but fell back down, unable to reach him. Mark felt dizzy and sick, but forced himself to keep climbing. He wedged a foot between the bars, shoved himself upward, and pulled with all his strength.

  And then his foot got stuck.

  He twisted and turned, trying to work it free. He couldn’t. The bottom of his cheap, useless shoe had torn loose and was caught on a metal spur. In desperation Mark grabbed one of the iron prongs at the top of the fence and tried to hoist himself up with it.

  It broke loose in his hand.

  He fell.

  And hit the ground at the werewolf’s feet.

  The creature looked down at him, drooling, its eyes gleaming with hunger. The werewolf looked ridiculous in Madame Thornhill’s gown, but Mark wasn’t laughing. He groped in his jacket pocket for the silver bullets but had no idea what to do with them.

  Then the werewolf pounced.

  Mark saw a quick flash of teeth like shredder blades. Because it didn’t matter what he did now—no way would he live to see another sunrise—Mark did the only thing he could think of. He punched the werewolf.

  His fist hit Mrs. Thornhill in the chest and went deeper than he expected. Much deeper—because although the wolf was alive again, its wounds had not yet healed entirely. Mark’s fist went through the hole in the monster’s chest, and the werewolf shrieked like a dog in pain.

  Instead of devouring him, the werewolf froze like a statue and crashed to the ground.

  Mark realized why. In his clenched fist, now buried in the monster’s chest cavity, he was holding the silver bullets. He’d clutched the bullets instinctively, so hard that his knuckles hurt, as if a part of him knew they were his last hope.

  Gingerly, Mark opened his hand and pulled it free, leaving the bullets inside. The werewolf didn’t stir. It was dead. Again. Re-dead, instead of undead.

  He climbed the fence once more, this time much more carefully, and left Perpetual Rest Memorial Park.

  * * *

  They never found out how Rudy died, and because no one knew that Mark had been there, he didn’t have to explain.

  The official story was that Rudy had joined a gang of vandals who had snuck into the cemetery. There was a fight, and Rudy was stabbed. Then coyotes must have gotten to him. Another body was found nearby, quickly identified as the remains of Madame Voracia Thornhill—fully human once the full moon had set. No one could venture a guess as to how or why the body had been left at the cemetery fence.

  Their mom was heartbroken about Rudy’s death. But she’d be okay. She had always worried that Rudy would meet with an unhappy end. Rudy had always said he wanted out of here forever. Mark liked to think there was justice in the universe, because in a way, his brother got exactly what he had asked for.

  “You gotta be strong to make it in this world,” Rudy had told him. But you also had to be smart. Mark had made it out alive, and had even healed from a werewolf bite without anyone ever knowing.

  Mark never got his SportQuest Trainers, but he found he didn’t need them. That night in the cemetery had done wonders for his self-confidence. If Mark could outrun a charging werewolf, surely he could handle a basketball court.

  Besides, he’d checked next year’s calendar. Four of the games would be played during a full moon.

  Just try to stop him then.

  Yardwork

  As I step outside, a strange feeling tugs at my spine. Perhaps that’s what it feels like when you first step into a nightmare.

  Don’t be silly, Ariel, I tell myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  Today the wind has brought an unpleasant smell sweeping across the neighborhood. It’s tinged with a slight scent of fertilizer.

  The smell’s coming from Mr. Jackson’s house. Mr. Jackson used to live here a long time ago. I can vaguely remember his beautiful garden—nicest in the neighborhood. He had a family, but no one knows what happened to them. They left, then soon after he left, and the garden just died.

  For years that house has been an ugly blotch on our neighborhood. People would live there for only a few months before leaving, and then it became completely abandoned. Now it’s covered with graffiti and filled with broken, boarded-up windows. It bothered me to have a place like that next door, but like anything, I got used to it.

  Then last week, Mr. Jackson just came back, like he’d never left. Since then, I’ve been watching the house… and watching him. The house hasn’t changed—he hasn’t had anyone come to fix the windows or paint over the graffiti. All he does is work in his garden. The man sure does love that garden.

  Now, as I step outside, I can hear him back there. I can hear the skitch… brummp, skitch… brummp of his little trowel digging up the dirt and throwing it aside. He’s planting more flowers. Until Mr. Jackson came back, there weren’t any flowers in that garden. Nothing grew there but weeds that got filled with torn rags, Kleenex, and candy wrappers. Whatever the wind brought to our neighborhood got snagged in the thick growth of that abandoned backyard and stayed there.

  Until last week, that is. That was when Mr. Jackson showed up and began hacking those weeds, putting them into trash bags, and hauling them out to the curb. The weeds are all gone now, and bit by bit that wasteland of a yard is filling with flowers.

  “Don’t go bothering the man,” my mom had told me. But what she really means is, Stay away from him, because he’s not quite right. Leave him to his business, Ari. And maybe when his business is done, he’ll leave forever and they’ll tear that ugly house down.

  But Mom’s asleep on the couch now, so she doesn’t have to know, and I can’t resist the curiosity itching at my brain. It’s a few minutes after dark. A night chill has set in, and the sun is long gone, leaving a ribbon of blue on the horizon that’s fading fast. I stand at the edge of our property, peering at the upstairs windows of the old house. Boards have covered most of those windows for years now, and thick spiderwebs fill the space between the boards.

  Taking a deep breath, I cross over, through the gaping hole in the old wooden fence, into the world of Mr. Jackson. Here that dark and earthy fertilizer smell is stronger. There are no lights on in the house. I don’t think Mr. Jackson has had the electricity turned back on.

  He’s back there all right, doing his yardwork—I can see his shadow now as I make my way down the side of the house toward the backyard. I can see that shadow on hands and knees in the dirt.

  Skitch… brummp, skitch… brummp.

  Holding on to a rusty old drainpipe snaking down the edge of the house, I round the corner to see him in the light of the half-moon. He’s setting a fresh row of flowers in the growing garden. I can’t tell what they are, because all I can see is black and white.

  “Are those zinnias you’re planting?” I ask, remembering that my mom liked to grow zinnias.

  He doesn’t look up at me. Maybe he didn’t hear me—and good thing too. I’ve got no business here. I can just go back home, turn on the TV, and forget Mr. Jackson; no one would be the wiser. But then he speaks in a soft whisper of a voice that sounds filled with gravel and wrapped in cotton.

  “Marigolds,” he says. “Man-in-the-moon marigolds, they are.”

  Skitch… brummp. He plants one more, then finally turns to look at me. I don’t see his eyes, just dark shadows where they should be.

  “You’re the Harrison kid?” he asks.

  I nod, then say, “Yes,” figuring he can’t see my nod in the dark. “Ariel Harrison. But you can call me Ari.”

  “I see you lookin’ out your window at me,” he says. “Am I putting on a good show for you here?”

  “It’s not like that,” I try to explain. “I’ve just been wondering why you’re… I mean, look at the house. What’s so important about the yard when the house looks like hell?”

  “How would you know what hell looks like?” he asks me. Skitch… brummp. Dirt flies over his shoulder, and in goes another marigold.

  By now I’m feeling all tongue-twisted and bone cold, and fear is clawing at my gut. I grip that cold drainpipe as if it can give me some comfort, and it comes loose in my hands.

  Yelping, I lose my footing and fall to the ground, right into the bed of flowers.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, scrambling to my feet, wishing I was anywhere else in the world. When I look down, I shudder at the sight of the imprint I made in the flowers. The way the moon’s casting shadows tonight, I can see the shape of my whole body, as if I’m still lying there.