The Tanglewood Terror Read Free Page A

house now?” Brian asked when I got in.
    “Um …” I’d forgotten all about it. “Not now. The Patriots game is about to start.”
    “You promised!” he said, which wasn’t true. I said
maybe
we would go. I meant no.
    “Oh, take him,” said Mom, who was on her way downstairs with a basket of laundry. “He never gets to do anything
he
wants to do.”
    “But the game is about to start,” I said. Besides that, did she think that yesterday’s bug hunt was my idea?
    “Well, the sooner you go, the sooner you can get back and watch it.”
    So we got on our bikes and headed toward downtown but barely got to the end of the street before Allan waved us down. Allan had just moved to Tanglewood that summer. He was about halfway between Brian and me in age and always wanted to hang out with us.
    “Want to play HORSE?” he asked us. He had a basketball hoop nailed over the garage door and spent a lot of time practicing by himself. I’d played a couple of games with him, but his driveway was slanted and I got tired of uphill layups really fast.
    “We can’t right now,” I told him.
    “We’re going to the haunted house!” Brian added.
    “Ooh, a haunted house. Can I come?” he asked.
    “All right, but hurry up,” I said. He ran inside with his ball, and Brian and I were left standing out there for ten minutes while he got permission. I hoped the Broncos won the coin toss, because I’d miss at least the first drive.
    “Let’s race,” I said when he was finally out with his bike. Before either he or Brian could say no, I took off and pedaled like mad. I got pretty winded halfway but still beat them both by five minutes.
    When I caught sight of the orange banner with ghoulish black letters, I felt a little knot in my stomach. It’s a pretty plain-looking building, but it is really old. There used to be a colonial village called Keatston where Tanglewood is now, and that was the Keatston Meetinghouse. It’s a museum most of the year, but they turn it into a haunted house every October to raise money. I felt the knot in my stomach for two reasons. One was what happened to me there once, and the other was what happened to the village of Keatston.
    Brian and Allan were still pedaling up Keatston Street. The main road through town was named for that village. I decided to go ahead and buy tickets for all of us to speed things up.
    “We close at four,” the woman at the front door told me. She wouldn’t take my money. I glanced at my watch and saw it was three-fifty.
    “Come on. One last group?”
    “Well, make it quick. We all want to see the game.”
    I paid for three tickets and turned back to see what Brian and Allan were doing. Their bikes were locked up, but they were talking to someone.
    “Hey, Parrish!” he shouted, and waved. It was Tom. He was also on the football team, and one of my oldest friends.
    “Hey, Chains!” I went closer so we didn’t have to keep shouting at each other. His last name is Beauchesne, pronounced “Bo-chains,” so everyone calls him Chains.
    “Your brother was telling me about your pig pal,” he said.
    “I have a job taking care of her,” I told him.
    “I guess you got a date to the fall dance all lined up too.”
    “Yeah, very funny,” I said. “We better get going.” I pointed at the haunted house with my thumb. “I want to get home to watch the game.”
    “Yeah, I’m watching it at Papa’s Pizza. Don’t get too scared in the haunted house, Parrish.”
    Allan snickered.
    “Later, Chains,” I said, pushing Brian and Allan toward the door of the haunted house before Tom could say another word.
    Four years ago Dad took Tom and me to the haunted house. Brian was still too young for it. They had a witch that year—this woman with stringy hair and big clusters of warts on her face. I saw her in the shadows up ahead, shuffling across the corridor and disappearing into hidden doorways in the maze we had to walk through. There were also skeletons and spiders and