house over twenty years without some
murder going on. Leaving all their
belongings behind? Their cars? People
just don’t do that.”
“I thought you didn’t put names on
things you don’t understand?”
“Exactly,” Earl said. “Look, I don’t
mean to make you uneasy, but I see
you’ve got your kids with you there.
It’s not too late for you to go back into
town and get yourself a motel room.”
Ben relaxed as he realized Earl’s
angle. For some reason, Earl Sloane
didn’t want them here. All this talk of
ghosts and murder — well, that was
just a local razzing an out-of-towner.
Next the old kook would probably tell
him Haystack Rock was built by aliens.
Even the guy out on the highway could
be in on it. He wasn’t sure how, but
that seemed more plausible than being
attacked by this guy’s dead son.
“We’ll take our chances,” Ben said.
Earl dangled the key out in front
of him. “Be my guest, Pete. But don’t
say I didn’t warn you. Oh, and stay out
of the basement. That’s the owner’s
private area.”
Back in the car, Audrey turned to
him. “Well?”
“Let’s not bother Mr. Earl Sloane
for the rest of the week.”
Continued from Page 11
shotgun resting on his lap.
“7649 Carronade Lane,” Ben said
as he double-checked the slip of paper
he had written Rex’s directions on. “I
guess this is it?”
“Can we just go home?” Audrey
pleaded.
“But we’ve come all this way,” Ben
said, to which Sam added, “And what
if he’s still out there?,” which is what
they’d all really been thinking.
Ben tossed up the hood of his
yellow rain jacket and got out of the
station wagon. The man on the porch
stood with some difficulty. Ben noticed
that he walked with a severe limp run-
ning through his right leg and that he
used the shotgun barrel-down against
the porch as a makeshift cane.
“Evening,” Ben said.
“You must be the happy vaca-
tioners,” the man said. “Welcome to
the beach.”
“Pete Archer,” Ben said, slipping on
his alias for the first time out loud.
“Earl Sloane,” the man said. “I
guess you could say that I’m the care-
taker around here.”
“Earl,” Ben said. “I’m a little
confused here. This is 7649 Carron-
ade? I thought this was the Surf’s End
House?”
“Nah,” Earl said. “Surf’s End is
down at the other end of the block.”
Earl lifted the shotgun to point into the
darkness over Ben’s shoulder and Ben
instinctively flinched. “Easy there.”
Earl chuckled. “You passed it on your
way up. They must’ve just given you
my address because I have the key.”
Rex hadn’t said anything about a
caretaker, just that the key would be
under the mat, but Ben could only
shrug it off at this time of night. And
really, the place down the block had
looked a lot better cared for than this
dump. Apparently, Earl didn’t like to
bring his work home with him.
Earl disappeared into the house and
emerged some time later, key in hand.
“Holler if you need anything. Hope-
fully you’ll get a good night’s sleep. If
I do say, you look a little shaky, Pete.
Long drive from … ?”
“Spokane,” Ben lied. “Yeah,
long drive, bad weather, and we saw
something … strange.” Ben couldn’t
help but overshare. He’d been hold-
ing it together to keep the kids from
falling apart, but what he had seen had
spooked him to his core.
• • •
“Just north of town,” Ben contin-
ued. “We saw this hitchhiker. Well,
I guess I can’t say for sure he was a
hitchhiker, but it was pouring rain so
we slowed down. And his face—”
“Wrapped up in bandages?” Earl
interrupted.
Ben nodded. “How’d you know?”
Earl furrowed his brow and sighed
as he looked down at the porch. “That
would be my son, Billy,” he said. “He
must’ve sensed you’d be coming my
way. He’s always looking for a ride
home.”
“What happened to him?”
Earl shrugged and tapped his right
leg with the shotgun. “Tree got him,”
he said. “You log enough woods, tree’s
gonna get you. I took mine in the leg.
Poor Billy took his in the brain.”
“Jesus,” Ben said. “Shouldn’t he be
in a hospital?”
Earl raised his eyebrow and gave
Ben a puzzled look. “I don’t think you
get me, Pete. Billy’s been dead for a
number of years now. It just doesn’t
stop him from trying to make it home
every now and then.”
“Wait,” Ben said. “Are you telling
me he’s a ghost?”
Earl sighed again and rested heavier
on the shotgun. “I’m trying to tell you
that he’s dead. I don’t go putting names
to things I don’t understand.”
“Right,” Ben said. He was filled
with a sudden motivation to exit this
porch, but Earl still had the key. “So?
We’re done here?”
“Let’s see,” Earl said, shifting his
weight. “Check out time is noon next
Friday. Just put your dirty linens and
towels in the washer. No need to start
it. The phone only makes local calls.
And you were told about the murders?”
“Murders?”
“Well, technically the state police
call them disappearances, but come
on. Dogs disappear around here all the
time. Cats too. Three separate families
don’t just disappear from the same
Like he suspected, the Surf’s End
House hardly looked like the site
of multiple, ghastly murders: white
picket fence, sturdy gray shingles on a
good one-story skeleton, two bulbous
hydrangeas out front — not exactly the
kind of set-up to inspire fear and dread.
The yard was littered with flotsam —
buoys, glass floats, driftwood — as if
some tender tsunami had washed it all
across the tiny parcel and left it just so.
Inside, the large single room was
dressed in knotty pine, with a wood
stove in one corner. It was separated
from an open kitchen by a match-
ing pine bar. Down a short hallway
doorways for three bedrooms and a
bath popped open as the kids explored.
There was the expected coastal ephem-
era hanging on the walls: a few prints
of seascapes, pithy beach messages
done up in needlepoint. Quite a few
throw rugs and an assortment of plush
furniture softened the spank of the
hardwood floors. Built-in cabinets.
Even a color TV. In fact, it was all
quite tastefully done, except—
“What’s that smell?” Audrey asked.