Keep in a Cold, Dark Place

by Michael Stewart

  Chapter 29

  Headlights flashed down the county road and turned into their lane. The pickup truck jumped over the ruts. Its bumper screeched as it scraped on the ground when the truck bounced out of the tracks and onto the front yard grass.

  “Emmanuel!” Limpy shouted as the truck disappeared briefly behind the house, only to round the side and chase down Podge. The creature turned on the truck, which skidded to a stop. Podge scuffed at the ground like a bull preparing to charge. The truck engine revved. Limpy held her breath. Dirt kicked from the back wheels and Podge hurtled forward. They slammed together, Podge rolling up over the hood to crack the windshield. It toppled to the earth and darted away. The truck roared, the rear snaking as the driver struggled for control. It stuttered to a halt in front of the family.

  Two hands gripped the top of the steering wheel, but only a head of dark hair poked out over top. Emmanuel stretched his neck up so that Limpy could see it through the fractured windshield. He waved. Emmanuel’s father stared at them from the passenger seat—the man whose fear of the farm’s curse had kept him from ever setting foot on the soil. Until now.

  Emmanuel opened his door. The chupacabra regrouped and crept closer with Chup lagging behind. Limpy spared a moment to mourn that it was now like Ghost, a monster.

  “How do we kill these things, José?” her father called. “How?”

  But Mr. José shook his head and leaned out the window. “Nothing kills them.”

  “Everything can be killed,” Dylan said.

  “No, they like a dream, you can’t kill them, but you can . . . keep them in cold, dark place.”

  “How’d you stop them before? Twenty years ago, you were there, weren’t you?” Limpy asked.

  Mr. José’s shoulders slumped. “How big are they?”

  “One’s almost as big as Connor,” Emmanuel said.

  “Big.” Mr. José grimaced.

  “Yeah.” Limpy swallowed.

  “Los chupacabra were small twenty years ago.” He held up his hands so that the space between them was about the size of a soda bottle. “After they burned the stables, Señora and Señor Millar—those were the owners—they went loco. Didn’t care no more. He’d lost his farm. Family held each other and then picked up each chupacabra in their hands. The creatures shriveled in their grip.” He stopped and stared at his hands as if they might hold a clue.

  “That’s it?” Limpy asked. “Sounds like they gave up and the chupacabra shrank.”

  “Yeah?” Dylan said. “No magic words or anything?”

  “Are they going to shrivel if I catch one, Limpy?” her father asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  But what did she know? Would her plan work? Would someone be terribly hurt? As the chupacabra approached, she realized that they were all going to be hurt, if they did nothing.

  “It’s up to you then, Limp,” her father said and pointed. “She’s got a plan. She has her ma’s smarts.”

  It was the first time he’d ever referred to Limpy positively in the same sentence as her mother.

  Mr. José’s explanation hadn’t really helped, and she didn’t think telling everyone about how her plan came from a dream would help either. Emmanuel hopped out of the truck and Limpy swung back to him.

  “No.” She waved at Emmanuel to get back in. “Everyone in the truck.”

  No one argued with her, because the chupacabra broke into a sprint. As Connor drew his legs inside, talons raked the door and then hooked around the edge of the doorframe to haul it back open. Her father lashed out with swift kicks that dislodged the chupacabra so Connor could shut the door and hit the lock. Ghost leapt onto the windshield, claws chipping paint from the hood.

  “To the front of the farm,” Limpy screamed. “Drive. We need the freezer from the hall.”

  Emmanuel’s head dipped below the dashboard as his foot hit the gas and the truck lurched forward.

  “You steer!” he called. Limpy grabbed the wheel. The truck fishtailed and swerved.

  “Dunno what’s scarier, this or the chupacabra,” Dylan said. He hurdled the seat and took the wheel from Limpy. “Think I’d rather the chupacabra.”

  “Sometimes,” José said, “I’m happy to be blind.”

  Even tailed by the creatures, her father chuckled. Emmanuel slid over, giving Dylan full control. The truck skidded sideways, shaking Ghost from the hood, while the others loped behind. In a fluid movement, Dylan pulled in front of the house and then reversed so that the rear of the pickup pressed against the front door.

  Connor and Limpy’s father wasted no time, leaping out before the monsters reached them and diving inside the house, emerging with the freezer. The chitters of the chupacabra swelled. It was obvious that they would beat Connor and her father to the back of the truck.

  “Connor and Dad aren’t going to get it in fast enough,” Dylan said, shoving open the door.

  “No!” Limpy lunged for the back of Dylan’s shirt, but it was too late. He jumped out of the truck and tackled Ghost as it passed. His fists pummelled its skull. The other creatures pulled up short as if confused. Dylan and the chupacabra rolled twice, and then it broke free and limped away. Limpy rubbed her eyes.

  “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “What?” Mr. José asked. “Tell me what happened.”

  “My brother, he attacked the chupacabra and it shrank. I swear, I saw it actually . . . shrink.”

  “It’s his,” he replied.

  Before she could ask Mr. José what he meant, a fist slammed on the back window. Her brother and father were in the bed of the truck with the freezer.

  “Go!” And Limpy was steering again as the engine roared, knocking her family over so that they had to grip the sides of the truck bed. Dylan caught the tailgate and rode the rear bumper.

  “The barn,” she said to Emmanuel. “We’re going to the barn.” The tires spun out around the side of the house. But the chupacabra seemed to have guessed.

  “Brake!” she screamed.

  The truck skidded, flinging the freezer and everyone in the back against the cab so that their faces pressed against the rear window. In the glow of the headlights, the four chupacabra crouched on their hind legs. The size changes of the creatures were even more obvious with them lined up.

  The red one Dylan had tackled, Ghost, was half the size of the largest—the white Tufts. Yellow Chup was two-thirds Tuft’s size, and the blue Podge stood three-quarters. What had changed? What was happening? Mr. José had said once the stables burned, the prior owners had caught the chupacabra and they had shrivelled. They had faced them, sure, but if that was all it took then they would have won by now. She glanced back at Dylan, and the dull stare he usually had was replaced by fierce fire. Something had happened and she only needed to figure out what. She needed more time.

  “We’re going bowling,” she shouted. “Gas!”

  Everyone in the car, even Mr. José, screamed back, “No!”

  But Limpy didn’t care. She stomped on Emmanuel’s knee, forcing his foot against the gas pedal. Everyone braced, feet against the dashboard, hands gripping handles. Before the truck’s headlights, the chupacabra held firm, teeth bristling.

  Crash!

  The truck slammed into two of the chupacabra and they slipped beneath the bumper. The grill punched through the old wood of the barn, planks splintering as the cab came to a stop in front of the tractor.

  “Whatever you do, keep the chupacabra out of the barn,” Limpy told everyone as they recovered.

  The barn creaked, but she had known where to aim between two supporting posts. If her family survived, the barn could be repaired. If.

  Connor hauled the freezer out as Dylan defended him with a pitchfork, jabbing at the talons that swung at him through gaps. Memories of her mother’s needle scything through the walls threatened to overwhelm Limpy. A claw punched through a loose board, the tip nicking Connor’s neck. Dylan knocked it away, before
dashing out of range.

  With the freezer inside, Dylan backed the truck up a few feet, closing off the largest gap with the exception of a couple broken boards guarded by Emmanuel.

  When the truck shut off, the only sound was their breathing. Not a mouse stirred.

  “They do a better job than the cats,” her father said and everyone stared. “Killing the mice, I mean, the chupacabra, they’re good for that!” Her father reddened in the ensuing silence. “I was just making a joke . . . not saying that—”

  Suddenly, Connor began to laugh. It was an odd sound at first, like it didn’t know how to come out, strangled by a dozen years of silence, but when it did, it filled the barn. Dylan laughed, and their father laughed, and finally Limpy giggled uncontrollably while tears poured down their faces. Both Mr. José and Emmanuel stared on as the family came together in a great hug that Limpy never wanted to end. Warm bodies pressed. Her pop’s moustache tickled her cheek. Arms hooked under hers and carried Limpy.

  But end it did.

  She felt the creatures’ eyes on her and she imagined everyone else could, too.

  “Let’s get started,” she said and climbed into the loft. A moment later she was dumping twine and stacks of potato bags down at everyone’s feet. Some sacks had burns, others sopped with wet, but she’d need every stitch. For her plan to work, she’d need dozens, maybe even hundreds.

  “What should we do?” Emmanuel asked. Limpy realized everyone looked to her again.

  “Dylan, you and Dad keep the chupacabra out.” They nodded. “Connor and Emmanuel, dig the biggest hole you can manage at the bottom of the ladder in the cellar. Big. And get the freezer down there.”

  Connor smiled and opened his mouth as if he might actually speak, but then waved it off.

  “It’s okay, Connor, you talk when you’re ready,” Limpy said. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.”

  Connor and Emmanuel disappeared down the ladder. She showed Mr. José where to cut the bags so that they could lie flat. Then she began to stitch.

  The chupacabra seemed to be testing, searching for the weak points in the barn. First they tried the larger gaps, and then a talon poked through a knot in a board far on the other side of the barn. Her father cried out and swung a rake to bash it away. Boards groaned as the chupacabra pried at them. Nails popped. When Dylan needed reinforcements, he called out, and his father chased over.

  “What do you do?” Mr. José asked Limpy.

  “I’m going to bag the chupacabra,” she said, “and then we’re going to stitch them up like a giant sack of potatoes.” She heard the echo of her voice and it didn’t seem real, it wasn’t Limpy talking. It was the voice of a woman, hoarse and deep. Something hot surged in her, lending her badly needed energy. “And then we’re going to bury them.”

  Chapter 30

  On the eighth seam, Limpy’s fingers began to bleed. On the sixteenth, they hurt so much that she had to stop and stretch them. Never had she worked so quickly. Her breath went out fwit, and in fwoo, fwit fwoo, and it was another ten bags before she noticed that the tractor rumbled and the tiller blades turned near the largest of the gaps in the wall. Nothing could survive the tiller’s scything knives. By that time, her hands and wrists were tacky with blood. Her father stood nearby and shone a flashlight over her work. His eyes widened.

  A huge swathe of heavy burlap blanketed the ground and puddled in her lap. It formed a tube of fabric. Her fingers flashed, the needle wriggling in and out. She left bloody fingerprints as she grabbed the next sack from Mr. José.

  “Amazing, Limphetta,” her father said. “I’d help, but . . .” She knew what he was thinking. But he couldn’t. In his eyes, she noted something she’d never before seen—respect. It was odd, because she realized that the farm had given her a lot. Where else could she have learned to stitch so well? Where else would she have ever thought to create her twine and burlap landscapes? Perhaps her art had nothing to do with her circumstances and everything to with whether or not she decided to rise above them.

  Emmanuel shot up the ladder from the cellar. Dirt smeared his shirt, cheeks and forehead.

  “Limphetta,” Emmanuel said.

  “What, what is it?” Limpy asked. “Are they in the cellar?” She couldn’t think of anything worse than the chupacabra having broken into the cellar, but when he opened his cupped hands she knew worse was possible, always possible.

  Emmanuel lifted a green sphere.

  “Is this another of them?” he asked.

  Limpy went cold and nodded. “There hadn’t been a green one in the box,” she said. “That’s new.”

  Limpy shot to her feet and began to scan the barn for more of the eggs. As soon as she stepped outside of her father’s circle of light, she was blind. “We have to find them all, every last one.”

  The egg in Emmanuel’s palm started to rattle.

  “Go put that in the freezer. Don’t let it get away,” she ordered.

  “You keep stitching, I’ll search for eggs,” Emmanuel said.

  There was a crash high above.

  “The door at the peak of the barn,” she said, her fingers clenched. “Dad, is anyone up there?” She found it hard to imagine that the creatures had climbed to the door Dylan had used to spy on the henhouse.

  “None of us lot.” Her father shook his head and shone the light into the rafters. “Nah, can’t be,” he said, tracing something far above.

  “How deep is the hole?” she yelled to anyone who could check. The tractor rumbled, the tiller blades snicked as they whirled, and through it all she heard the steady chunks of Connor’s spade.

  “Up to Connor’s waist,” Emmanuel said, peeking down as he crossed the barn to search in another corner.

  “Take this, Dad,” she said, gathering the burlap and shoving it into his arms. “Take this. Nail it to the top of the hole to the ladder going down. I’ll finish this in the cellar.”

  Mr. José seemed to understand as he collected the unused sacks she’d need to keep stitching. Emmanuel was sprinting around the barn like he was on a desperate Easter egg hunt.

  “Just the one,” he croaked. “I only found one egg.” And Mr. José nodded as if he had expected this.

  “Put it in the freezer,” she said to Emmanuel before turning to Mr. José. “Why only one?”

  From his pocket, Mr. José pulled the silver egg. The same one she recalled from the store, but now a crack zigzagged across the shell. “Six,” he replied. “Six people, six eggs.”

  There was something she was still missing, something important, but a chupacabra dropped from above and flattened Mr. José to the ground. The silver egg fell to the planks and rolled. She stared at the golden chupacabra on Mr. José’s back. Chup.

  “Dad!” Emmanuel cried.

  Instead of fear stealing her nerve so that she shrank away from the creature’s trumpet of teeth, anger burbled in Limpy’s guts. She leaned toward it. “No, Chup,” she scolded, and it hissed defiance.

  On the ground, Mr. José winced and stretched out his hands toward the silver egg. A needle-sharp talon pierced the shell once and then again. They had to grab the egg before it hatched but, when she sidled toward it, Chup dug its claws into Mr. José’s back. He cried out.

  “No, Chup,” she said. “He hasn’t done anything to you, and neither have I.”

  Chup’s head turned to the side so that it stared at her with one eye.

  She pointed her finger at it.

  “I cuddled you. Fed you. I tried to help you.” The finger jabbed at it. With each remonstrance, Chup seemed to lose an inch in size, and a thin fuzz began to coat the scales.

  “Limphetta,” Mr. José croaked.

  Holes riddled the silver egg. It burst into fragments as the chupacabra chick came free. Fear ratcheted in Limpy, and a suddenly furless Chup grew a full foot.

  She didn’t understand, but maybe part of her did, because otherwise she’d never have done what she did next. Sack in hand, she leapt forward and slipped it over Chup�
��s head. It danced back and forth, and Mr. José squirmed free. He snatched the sacks and crawled to first scoop up the tiny, silver chupacabra, and then flipped through the hole as if he could see as well as any of them.

  Chup freed itself in a moment, but it was long enough for Limpy to take up her sewing and scramble to the cellar hatch.

  From the edge of the loft, Tufts, Podge and Ghost dropped to the floor around her. She was surrounded with everyone else trapped in the cellar below. This was it. Either her plan worked or they would all be stuck in a cold, dark place indeed.

  Chapter 31

  “Hurry, Limphetta!” Emmanuel shouted from the bottom of the ladder. Edges of the burlap bags tufted up from the nails that encircled the entry.

  The chupacabra had grown more still. Tufts towered over her, its weird circular jaws twice the size of her head. She feared the creature’s tusks wouldn’t even fit through the ladder hole, let alone inside the freezer. She whimpered. Podge shot forward, claw-tipped arms outstretched and ready to seize her. Limpy jumped through the hole and the claws whistled through empty space.

  The impact was crushing. At first she thought she’d broken every bone in her body. But the pain quickly subsided and she discovered that she was in a wrap of burlap and being lifted up by a half-dozen unseen hands. Connor’s shovel still chunked into the earth. She lay cradled in the burlap shroud and then was lowered into the hole. For her plan to work, the tube of burlap needed to envelop the whole freezer so that the chupacabra couldn’t escape. The tube now hung just at the chest’s top, flush with the ground. It wasn’t good enough. They had work to do.

  “Dylan,” her father shouted. “The pitchfork.”

  Overhead, chupacabra howled.

  “Connor and Emmanuel need to make the pit deeper. Dylan and Dad, you have to keep the chupacabra away, at least for now.” She estimated she’d need ten more sacks. She took up the needle and a sack from Mr. José.