But his sense of well-being was short-lived. The sound of shattering glass and determined grunting announced that the intruder had gained entry into the wrecked vehicle. Jarrett was stunned by that kind of endurance, especially from someone suffering from a serious head wound. What did the maniac want? Money? Jewelry? He wondered what kind of sicko would rob a victim of a car accident.
Maybe the drunk was one of the people he’d signed up for the blood drive, and maybe he was out for revenge. Serious revenge— like murder. Choked by terror, Jarrett coughed and cleared his throat. “What do you want, man? What do you want?” he repeated with tension crackling in his voice.
There was no intelligible response, only incomprehensible utterances and low, threatening growls. Sensing that the psycho wanted something other than money, Jarrett lunged for the door handle. With the car upside down, the handle was above his head. He stretched his arm, but he was too late.
There was an explosion of pain in his side—blinding agony that dazed him. He initially thought he’d been stabbed deeply—like with a sword. But how would the crazy drunk suddenly get hold of a sword? Then a warm splash of blood hit Jarrett’s face and a sloshing sound began to fill his ears. Filled with dread, he gazed downward and recoiled. “No!” he bellowed when he realized that the drunk was clinging to him, his jaws moving up and down as he chewed deeper into the open wound on Jarrett’s side.
With horrifying clarity, Jarrett realized he hadn’t been stabbed at all. The crazy drunk was actually eating him alive!
“Holland!” There was urgency in Phoebe’s tone and Holland sat bolt upright.
“What’s wrong—did I oversleep? I didn’t hear the alarm go off.”
“You didn’t oversleep. Schools are closed until further notice. No one’s allowed out except medical personnel and law enforcement.”
“Whaaat?” Holland sat up and gawked at her mother. “What’s going on?”
“There were several attacks last night . . . horrible murders.”
“Vamps?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, something else. The news reports are stating that they think the people were attacked by animals.” Her mother paused, her eyes darting away.
“What is it, Mom?”
“One of the victims was a classmate of yours . . . that boy you were so crazy about.”
“Jarrett Sloan?” Holland asked. Phoebe nodded and Holland buried her face in her hands. Phoebe sat on the bed and rubbed a circle in the middle of Holland’s back.
Teary-eyed, Holland looked up. “Jarrett was so confused. So misguided. I’ve heard rumors that he’s been hanging out and partying with the bloodsuckers, and he’s been actually working for them.”
“If he was working for vampires, wouldn’t it be counterproductive for them to harm him?”
Holland shrugged. “Perhaps he no longer served a purpose. I don’t know. I feel so bad for Jarrett. He was never the same after Zac continually blood-sucked him last summer. I hate vampires; they’re all so evil and devious.”
Phoebe’s fingers absently grazed her neck, as if checking to see if her old puncture wounds were still there. Holland noticed the gesture. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to remind you of . . . you know . . . what Zac did to you.”
“I have no memory of Zac biting me, but I still feel guilty for trying to set you up with him.”
“You didn’t know he was a vampire; your heart was in the right place.”
“The thought of what could have happened to you makes me shudder.”
“Nothing would have happened to me—but Zac would have suffered a horrible death. Well . . . thanks to Jonas, he got what he deserved. Look, we survived Zac and that creepy vampire family, the Sullivans,” Holland reminded.
“Yes, we did,” Phoebe murmured. She narrowed her eyes in thought. “It doesn’t make sense for Jarrett to embrace vampires after all that Zac put him through.”
“I heard that Jarrett became sort of an outcast at school—kicked off the football team, scorned by his teammates and his peers. I know all too well how it feels to be an outsider. Maybe he was desperate to have friends and the vamps deceived him into believing that he belonged. God knows they’re masters of deception.”
Holland clicked on the TV in her room, but there was no picture or sound. She gave her mother a perplexed look. “Did you pay the cable bill?”
“Yeah, I saw the news report a few minutes ago, and my TV was just fine. I’ll check and see if it’s on the blink, too,” she said, rising from Holland’s bed. Holland slipped her feet into her slippers and trailed behind her mother. The TV in Phoebe’s room was as dark and silent as Holland’s.
“I don’t know what’s going on; I definitely paid the bill,” Phoebe said, aiming the remote and surfing through the channels. “I’ll call the cable company,” she said, tossing the remote in disgust.
While her mother was on a lengthy hold with the cable provider, Holland pulled the curtain aside and gazed out the front window, wondering if the neighbors’ cable was working okay. The sun was shining brightly. The streets were empty with no sounds of life. It looked like a peaceful day . . . too peaceful.
Craning her neck, she could see the mail carrier near the end of the block, going from house to house. She was relieved to see that Frombleton hadn’t been shut down completely. School would probably be back in session tomorrow, and intending to make good use of this unexpected downtime, Holland decided to work on another spell. Something powerful enough to completely change Jonas back to his former self.
She stepped away from the window, but something caught her eye. Peering through the window with squinted eyes, she was stunned at what she saw. “Mom!” she yelled. “Mom, come quick.”
Holding the phone, Phoebe hurried to the living room, and joined Holland at the window. “The mailman’s acting weird,” Holland said, pointing across the street. There was a trail of letters and small packages on the pavement and scattered on lawns. The mail carrier had made his way to the middle of the block, and was going door to door, lifting the lid of mailboxes, but instead of inserting mail, he tossed envelopes over his shoulder, and then angrily slammed the lid back down.
“Why’s he doing that?” Holland inquired in a whispered voice.
Phoebe scowled. “I have no idea.”
“It’s like he can’t remember the procedure for delivering mail and his forgetfulness is infuriating him.”
Moving on to the next few houses, the mail carrier was now directly across the street. His gait had become clumsy and unstable, and Holland gazed at her mother with furrowed brows. “Something’s really wrong with him, Mom; look at the way he’s walking.”
Mr. Marricone from across the street swung his door open and stood in the doorframe wearing a bathrobe and yelling at the mail carrier. The mail carrier turned around and trudged back to Mr. Marricone’s house, his slow movements and the way his head was hung low, suggested remorse.
Continuing ranting, it was apparent that Mr. Marricone didn’t want an apology. “What’s your problem, throwing mail all over the street? If you don’t like your job, then get another one! With everything that’s going on in this town, the last thing we need is a disgruntled postal worker,” Mr. Marricone bellowed in a voice that was loud enough for Holland and her mother to hear. He mouthed off some more in a lower register, and they couldn’t make out what he was saying.
With his mail sack slung haphazardly, the mail carrier suddenly lunged for Mr. Marricone, and grabbed his head with both hands.
Phoebe yelped in surprise. “My goodness; the postman’s head butting Mr. Marricone; I have to call the police!”
Holding Mr. Marricone’s face pressed against his, it appeared as if they were kissing really passionately. Mr. Marricone let out a loud, pained yowl, and Holland backed away from the window. “Hurry! Call the police! The mailman’s going nuts, and it looks like he’s biting Mr. Marricone’s face.”
CHAPTER 24
Phoebe looked at the phone in astonis
hment. “I’m getting a recorded message; it’s saying that my call will be picked up in five minutes. Can you believe that?”
“Maybe there’s a spike in calls . . . you know, like, maybe a lot of people are reporting the mailman’s behavior.”
There was another high-pitched yell—a female scream—that sent a chill up Holland’s spine. Phoebe was rattled so badly, she dropped the phone. Phoebe and Holland ran to the window and were horrified to see Mr. Marricone sprawled out on his porch, his robe splayed open, and there was a dark substance that looked suspiciously like blood pooling around his head.
The mail carrier had gotten inside the Marricone house, arguing with Ms. Marricone. If one didn’t know better, it would appear that their two silhouettes were engaged in a stirring ballroom dance. But, of course, they weren’t dancing. They were struggling. And Ms. Marricone was yelling for help.
“We have to do something,” Phoebe said, stooping down and picking up the phone. She jabbed the buttons again, and then scoffed in disbelief. “The line’s still busy! This is ridiculous.”
“Mr. Marricone’s bleeding badly. What should we do, Mom?”
“I don’t know,” Phoebe confessed, brushing her hair out of her face and with a quavering hand she tried the call again, but getting the same recorded message, she hit the END CALL button and shook her head.
The screams inside the Marricone residence died down, and the mail carrier stumbled out of the house, looking around as if wondering what to do next. Suddenly, old Ms. Jaworski, the nosiest neighbor on the block, came running out of her house, wielding a broom.
“What’s the matter with you, Patrick?” Ms. Jaworski demanded, calling the mail carrier by his first name. “What have you done to the Marricones? Have you lost your mind?” she shouted angrily.
“What did you do to Mr. Marricone?” she asked, pointing to Mr. Marricone’s collapsed, bleeding body.
Holland and Phoebe stood at the window, their eyes wide with astonishment as they watched the mail carrier bare his teeth and respond with guttural sounds and animal-like growls. Ms. Jaworski swung the handle of the broom. Packages spilled from the mail sack, and envelopes swirled and floated in the air as the enraged mail carrier snatched Ms. Jaworski by her graying hair. He pulled her face close to his open mouth, and Ms. Jaworski began to squawk—ungodly sounds that ran the range of surprise, fury, and pain.
“I think he’s biting her, Mom!” By now, Holland was standing on her tiptoes, trying to get a better look. Ms. Jaworski’s screams were torturous sounds, and Phoebe desperately began pressing 9-1-1, trying to get help.
“I’m still getting that damned recorded message,” she said bitterly.
From the houses across the street, Holland could see curtains fluttering open and shadowy images peeking through blinds. “Maybe there’s a way to contact the police department online,” Holland suggested in a fearful voice.
“Good idea. I’ll check.” Phoebe picked up her laptop from the coffee table.
An explosion of shattering glass caused Holland to jump.
“What was that?” Phoebe said in a strained voice.
“He smashed the Woodward family’s window, and I can’t believe it, but he’s climbing through the broken window, forcing his way into their house.”
“What’s the matter with you; get out of here!” someone in the Woodward household shrieked.
“Are you serious?” Phoebe rushed to the window and yanked the curtain closed. “Get away from the window; we don’t want him to know we’re in here.” She grabbed Holland’s hand. “Come on, hon; we’re staying in the basement until the police get here.”
Heading for the basement, Phoebe and Holland froze momentarily when they heard a fresh chorus of screams and roars. Phoebe pulled Holland along, and then opened the basement door. “Downstairs, Holland. Hurry!”
The basement was unfinished with exposed pipes, a cement floor, and concrete walls. Besides being the place where the washer and dryer were stored, the basement was also the stockpile area for everything from old furniture to dusty boxes filled with family pictures.
Holland and Phoebe sat huddled together on a three-legged sofa, both too shocked to speak. Holland’s mind was reeling with the unbelievably grotesque images she’d seen. “He bit them,” she murmured incredulously. “I saw the mailman bite Ms. Jaworski and Mr. Marricone, and they’re dead.”
“You don’t know that, Holland. They could both be unconscious . . . or dazed.”
He killed them! I couldn’t see what he was doing to Mrs. Marricone, but I think she’s dead, too. What would make a person go crazy like that?” Holland asked as she anxiously twisted her pajama top sleeve.
Phoebe had no response; all she could do was shake her head.
“Do you think it’s possible that it was the mailman and not wild animals that attacked those people last night?”
“Jesus, I hope not.”
Holland and Phoebe sat quietly for a few moments until they were jolted by the sudden and persistent sound of a car alarm. Holland stared at her mother with a gaping mouth. “What’s he doing now—deliberately knocking into someone’s car?”
The honking car horn created a domino effect, and a series of car alarms began to go off. Phoebe tightened her hand around Holland’s. “Where are the police—don’t they hear this commotion?”
There was the unmistakable siren wail of a burglar alarm, and Holland cringed. “He’s breaking into one house after another; we can’t sit on our hands down here in the basement,” Holland said, staring with frightened eyes at the small basement window on the other side of the room.
Phoebe wrapped an arm around Holland. “There’re bars on that window. We’re safe down here, hon.”
“But . . . but, suppose he gets in through the living room window, and you know . . . and comes down here looking for us?”
“I don’t think he’s gonna make it to our house. It seems like he’s following his mail route and I’m sure the police will be here before he works his way to our side of the street.”
“But suppose they don’t come.”
“They will!”
Holland shot her mother a look of terror as frightened shrieks and inarticulate shouting grew nearer; it sounded as if a number of people had poured out into the street.
“I need to know what’s going on.” Holland jumped up and dragged a stepladder over to the basement window that was rather high-up. Holland motioned for her mother to come take a look.
Stunned by what she’d seen, Holland took shaky steps down the ladder. Phoebe climbed up. She peeped out the miniscule window and cringed. “Oh, no!” she gasped.
Many of their neighbors from the opposite side of the street had run out of their homes in an attempt to get away from the raging mail carrier. Their neighborhood looked like Armageddon, with numerous injured people, many in their pajamas and bathrobes, holding up bloodied arms or cupping their bleeding faces and necks as they sought shelter inside cars and behind bushes and trees. Some were walking in dazed circles while others lay bloodied and crumpled out on their lawns and on the pavement.
The mail carrier was no longer in view, but judging from the sounds of breaking glass, alarms wailing, and people screaming, he was still on a biting rampage. Holland wondered if Jonas could possibly have anything to do with what was happening. No! There were others like Jonas, but they weren’t in Frombleton, and they certainly weren’t government workers, delivering mail. Jonas had described them as barely human creatures, not responsible citizens holding down jobs.
Furthermore, as recent as yesterday, the mailman had been perfectly okay. Holland remembered seeing him on her way to school—they’d exchanged hellos. Whatever had caused him to go berserk had nothing to do with Jonas. Yet, it seemed like such an odd coincidence—strange animal attacks last night and now this. She couldn’t shake the nagging doubt in her mind.
She hated to admit it, but the savage way the mailman grabbed Mr. Marricone and Ms. Jaworski reminded her of how
Jonas had attacked Headmistress Livingston when he rescued her from Stoneham. What would Jonas say when she told him that the mailman had stormed her street and had viciously bitten and possibly killed several neighbors? She needed to find out if he would be as shocked as her, or would there be a guilty silence between them.
Phoebe came down from the ladder, her face a grim mask. “It’s bedlam out there.”
“Do you have the house phone?” Holland asked her mother.
“No, it’s upstairs,” Phoebe said, shaking her head.
“My cell phone’s upstairs, too. I have to get it.” Holland turned around and her mother grabbed her by the arm.
“I’m not letting you risk your life to make a phone call. You are going to sit tight until the police have carted that maniac off to jail.”
“But . . . but, I really need to call Jonas,” she said in a pleading tone.
“No! You’re not thinking straight. You’re gonna sit tight and wait until the police arrive,” Phoebe said adamantly, her voice escalating. Holland was usually the voice of reason; she was usually the one nudging her mother in the right direction . . . but not today.
Their disagreement was interrupted by the welcomed sounds of sirens. “Thank God!” Phoebe said. “We can go upstairs now.”
Holland let out a breath of relief and raced up the stairs. Keeping pace, Phoebe was right behind her. At the top of the stairs, Holland sped to her bedroom and Phoebe hurried to the living room window.
Holland tried Jonas’s cell twice without success, and then called the main number of The Atwell. To her surprise, her call to the hotel went to voicemail. Did the hotel shut down, too? Wearing a confused expression, she wandered into the living room.
“What’s going on?” she said as she joined her mother at the window.
“It’s the strangest thing. The EMT guys were loading the injured people into the ambulance, and from what I could tell, the police seemed to be getting statements from the crowd. All of a sudden, two people broke out into a fight, and then someone else dove into the fray. All three ended up in handcuffs and thrown in a cruiser.”
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