SHUDDERVILLE TWO Read Online Free PDF Page A

were making a racket in a nearby tree. I picked up a fallen chestnut and flung it at them, and they scattered. I looked up at the attic window, and the fear ran up my legs and into my neck and congealed inside my face, especially around the eyes. At the same time, a ridiculous impulse to stay here forever burned in my brain. I was confused.
    As a math teacher, you have to admit three plus ten equals 13.
    Or T-H-I-R-T-E-N-E, depending on what kind of a moron you are.
    I carried a physicality inside me that was built over time by hard labor and fueled by resentment and envy. I was much stronger than I looked. I had faced death many times. I had embraced death. Now I willed myself not to be afraid and went back inside the house.
    The stairs creaked. The banister creaked. The walls creaked. I went directly to my room and rummaged through my duffel bag, aware of the girl’s presence hovering above me. I was sweating like a pig. I ran my hand over my chin. I’d forgotten to shave that morning.
    I hurried down the hallway toward the bathroom, where I locked the door with the chintzy little latch and took a quick shower. I needed to clear my mind and wash off the heat and humidity. I cranked the faucets until the pipes rattled. I stood under a mere trickle of water, running my hands over the knotty, bumpy, purple scars on my flesh. Before he left me for dead, Baldilocks had carved T-H-I-R-T-E-N-E on my chest. He couldn’t spell worth a damn. I don’t know what made me madder—the ugly scars he’d left on my flesh or the way he’d misspelled my age that day.
    I used to sleep like a baby, all twisted up in my sheets and breathing softly, just like the little girl in the attic. I used to think I was safe in my own home, and so I slept soundly, drunk on the fresh air wafting through my bedroom windows and sunk inside my own fluffy childhood dreamscape. My room used to smell of crayons and cookie crumbs, too. Just like any little kid’s room.
    But then Baldilocks got inside my head and turned me into a monster.
    And I blame him for everything.
    He opened up a sick need in me and ruined my life.
    And I’m going to get him.
    We’ve been crisscrossing the country—him running, me chasing.
    Baldilocks has been leaving me little messages in the classifieds for years.
    The duct tape was a nice touch.
    Killing morons is beneath you.
    Okay, I get it. The latest one looks just like me. Happy birthday!
    I’m 30 years old. My life ended on my 13th birthday. I was reborn a monster. I’ve been searching for the man who butchered my mother 17 years ago, and one of these days I was going to find him. And that would be a very bad day for him.
    *
    I was good at lying. I was even better at killing. I had mad skills. I could break into a room or a house or a heart. I could become invisible while standing right in front of you. All the best predators blended in. I could be anybody, and nobody.
    And now, while I shaved my face in the mirror, I was filled with an understanding of my energy and my destiny and my fate. I definitely belonged in this house.
    *
    After a shower and shave, I got dressed in clean clothes, rooted around in my duffel bag, found my hunting knife, checked on the whereabouts of Olive and Andy—they were still outside playing games—and went upstairs to the attic.
    The little girl heard me coming—I just knew it.
    I opened the door and stood on the threshold. Her eyes were closed, and she pretended to be sleeping, but I knew the truth—she was lying in wait for me. I cautiously approached the bed and said, “Hi. My name is Clay.” No more pretenses. I stood beside the bed and slipped the knife out of my pocket. I held it down by my side. “I know you can hear me,” I told her. “I’d like to know why you’re stuck up here all by yourself, hidden away in the attic, while your brother and sister get to play outside. They had pancakes this morning. Does that seem fair to you? What’s the story here?”
    I watched her