“But what if it’s not?” asked Zoey. “I mean, what if it’s real? If she really did get taken?”
The question hung there. Behind us, a balloon popped, and a little girl screamed.
“Have you been out there since she went missing?” I asked. “Out to Loon Cove?”
Alex shook his head. “Not me.”
The girls both shook their heads.
“No way,” said Zoey. “I’m not going back there. Not ever again.”
THE BOOK OF MONSTERS
By Violet Hildreth and Iris Whose Last Name We Don’t Know Illustrations by Eric Hildreth 1978
MONSTERS ARE UNPREDICTABLE
Monsters aren’t like us. They don’t think the way we do. They don’t have the same sense of right and wrong. They are not empathetic. Many are void of emotion.
A monster lacks morals.
They don’t follow the same patterns and rules and moral codes that humans do. They live outside of all that.
Monsters are unpredictable. This is one of the things that makes them truly dangerous and must be remembered whenever you face one. You never know what move a monster is going to make next.
Monsters are full of surprises.
Vi
June 18, 1978
THE GLOWING HANDS of Vi’s Timex were both pointed up at twelve.
Midnight.
The hour when all unseen things wake up, come creeping out of the shadows.
She held still, listening, thinking that maybe, if she listened hard enough, she might be able to hear a far-off roar, the gnashing of teeth, or the snapping of twigs.
But there was only the disappointing chirping of crickets, the humming of the big lights outside the Inn, the soft flutter and thump of moths bumping against the lights.
She was by the rear door on the west side of the Inn, her back pressed against the cool brick. She felt like a shadow, a paper doll that could fold in on itself, become nearly invisible.
Eric and Iris were together, watching her, hunkered down along the back edge of the barn—if she looked, she could see their pale faces glowing in the inky blackness. They were lookouts. Their bikes were stashed behind the barn.
Iris seemed to have recovered from her episode at the movies earlier. She’d been quiet but had stopped crying, and by the time they made it to the Inn, she was laughing at stupid stuff Vi said and asking if Eric thought they could take out the rabbit when they got home.
Gran wasn’t expecting them back for at least another thirty minutes, and she’d be at home in the living room reading just like she always was when she waited up for them. She read a lot of magazines: Time, Newsweek, as well as psychiatric and medical journals. She also read novels （never horror, like Vi read, but books that Gran described as well-plotted; books that made her think）： her latest was Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.
Vi had given Eric and Iris strict instructions: If the lights in the carriage house where Miss Ev was sleeping went on, or if they saw Gran coming, or heard anything out of the ordinary, Eric would do his barred owl call. It was so convincing that real owls often called back in return.
Vi waited by the back door. Tick tock. Tick tock. Would Patty show?
Please, please, please, Vi prayed to the God of Miracles, make Patty come.
At last came the scrape of a dead bolt unlocking, and the area beside Vi flooded with light as Patty held the heavy door open, whispered, “Come on, hurry. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
The hallway was so bright and white it made Vi’s eyes hurt. She squinted as she ducked into the building and Patty closed the door behind her.