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cardboard box toppled over onto his feet.
Papers spilled out and Luke bent down, casting the beam of light across the mess. Dozens of names handwritten in pencil lined the sheets. Next to each name was a date. I reached down and picked up the first sheet I touched. It was a newer one, dated November 5th … two days ago.
“James McDonald, age six. Margaret Elizabeth Cunningham, age fifty-four. Sadie Calbert, age twenty-two,” Luke read aloud. He inhaled sharply and began stuffing the papers back into the box. “These are … I think these are death records.”
“I can beat that,” Mike chimed in. “Check this out.”
Luke turned his light in Mike’s direction, slowly scanning it upward until a sign came into view: Purity Springs. Population 152 . He moved the sign aside; another one, nearly identical, was behind it. “ ‘Purity Springs. Population 151,’ ” Luke read before shuffling yet another sign aside.
“And looky here,” Mike said. “This one looks pretty new, not a scratch on it. Says ‘Population 149.’ That’s messed up.”
Luke shook his head, grumbling something incoherent under his breath. I stepped aside, forcing myself to focus on the search for gas as opposed to the archaic death records scattered across the floor.
My mind flashed back to the grave we’d passed on the way here. It was new, and I couldn’t help but think there was a sign hanging on the side of the road somewhere that read Purity Springs. Population 148.
“Finally,” Luke called out from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t see his body, but I could hear the sound of his knuckles rapping against the thick plastic of what I prayed was a gas can.
I used the light from my phone to scan the shed and found Luke in the back corner. He shook the can, its contents barely sloshing around.
“Crap,” he ground out.
“What?” I asked. “It’s gas, right?”
”Oh yeah, it’s gas.” Luke sighed as he unscrewed the cap and took a whiff to be sure. “But from the weight, my guess is it’s almost empty. Doubt we’d have enough to get that leaf blower over there started, never mind a car.”
Mike took the canister from Luke’s hands and gave it one hard shake. “You’re right, it’s empty,” he said, then dropped the canister to his feet. “Town with no people. Gas station with no phone. Now a maintenance shed with no gas. What kind of messed-up place is this?”
The kind that scares the crap out of me , I thought to myself as I sank to my knees and prayed they were both wrong, that there was enough gas not only to start the car, but to get us far away from Purity Springs.
FOUR
We hurried back through the cemetery, weaving around the graves and keeping our voices to a whisper. Between the death records, the messed-up population signs, and the ghost candle, none of us wanted to stick around there any longer than necessary.
The edge of the neighborhood we’d passed through earlier came in to view and I exhaled a breath of relief, excited at the prospect of getting help. I wanted to get back on the road. At this point, I didn’t care if we headed to the concert or back to Mrs. Hooper’s pot roast. I’d be grateful either way.
“Which street? Which house?” Mike asked. The streetlights cast enough light for me to catch the flicker of indecision in his eyes. I knew what he was thinking: it didn’t matter. It was a total crapshoot either way.
I stared down the street in front of me. Black mailboxes lined the side of the road, and perfectly straight brick walkways led to the front doors. Also black. I counted twelve houses on that street, then turned in a half-circle and counted twelve more on the street to my right. I didn’t bother to check the last one; my guess was there were twelve, eerily identical houses lining that street as well.
Apparently, in this town, your choices were limited. You either got the standard three-bedroom white cape with the black shutters and a black front door, or the standard