Table of Contents
Front Matter
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Authors
“The Brothers Washburn are masters at writing for young adults. Every character is believable, every description is vivid, and every moment is a surprise. The story was the perfect mix of frightening and intriguing that made it impossible to put down.”
—Celese Sanders, columnist, The Daily Independent & Taft Midway Driller
“[The Brothers Washburn] know their way around horror stories and suspense fiction . . . Books like this will spur young readers to become enchanted with the whole realm of literature. Parents and teachers alert!”
—Grady Harp, Top 50 Amazon Reviewer
“The Brothers Washburn quickly draw the reader into their horrific realm . . . Pitch Green is a zestful new entry in the Stephen King, blood-and-squishy-eyeballs school of horror.”
—Elaine Lovitt, Top 100 Amazon Reviewer
“Pitch Green is a very fast paced YA horror story that will keep you on the edge of your seat, you will not want to put it down.”—Jody Joy, Jody’s Book Reviews
“Pitch Green is full of not only horror but a mystery aspect that leaves you glued to the pages.”
—Kayla Shirley, Kayla’s Place
“If you love a scary story, Pitch Green is sure to satisfy. . . . I would recommend Pitch Green to any fan of YA horror.”
—Alice Anderson, editor, Bella Online
“Although this is basically geared towards young adults, I admit I got the heebie jeebies and goosebumps reading it . . .”
—Jennifer Jordan, Gimme The Scoop Reviews
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013933677
ISBN 1939967600
ISBN 978-1-939967-60-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2013 by Berk & Andy Washburn
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior return permission of the publisher.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy or copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
First Hardcover Edition: March 2013
First Paperback Edition: March 2013
For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected]. For a complete list of our wholesalers and distributors, please visit our website at www.jollyfishpress.com.
For information, address Jolly Fish Press, PO Box 1773, Provo, UT 84603-1773.
a novel by
The Brothers Washburn
To Carolyn and Delores, our lovely wives. We can never thank you enough.
A dry Death Valley wind blew through town, sucking life out of everything it touched. The wind was unusually cold for the Mojave Desert on the last day of October. It did little to disperse the heavy sulfur fumes that caught in the throats of all living creatures—except one, which lay crouched under thick oleander bushes, camouflaged and out of sight. Dark olive-colored vapors wafted from its nostrils and mouth as it carefully watched the potential prey passing within yards, laughing and waving their weak flashlight beams back and forth.
Its prey didn’t often come this close. There was a Frankenstein wearing thick shoes, a goblin with a dark ocher cast to its face, a witch with a long, warted nose, and a half dozen or so other creatures. And then, it saw its target, straggling far behind the others: A small ghost!
Cammy struggled to keep all the kids together the best she could. No one had actually put her in charge, but at eleven years old, she was the oldest in the group of trick-or-treaters, and felt they were her responsibility. Well, she was the second oldest. Cal was the oldest at eleven and a half, but he was determined to get as much candy as he could and was no help at all.
“Everyone keep close. Do not run ahead,” Cammy called using her best authoritative, mother-like voice.
Some kids had already run on to the next lighted house down at the corner. Most were just scurrying by the forbidding, old Searles Mansion, which they had to pass on their way to the next street. The coarse pavement beneath Cammy’s feet seemed to extend into the blackness of the mansion’s desolate landscaping. Streets in this part of town had no sidewalks or curbs, just rough, oiled roads that phased into dry, bare-dirt yards on either side.
Of course, no one had grass. This was Trona, California, an isolated, mining town halfway between Death Valley and nowhere. Cammy had been born and raised here, but still, she longed for greenery. Neither grass nor anything else she wanted in a yard would grow here. While there was an abundance of poisonous oleanders and salt cedars with stringy, dark needles instead of leaves, both were imports and only added to the feeling of barren desolation. Occasionally, Cammy saw a miserable looking tree with real leaves barely hanging on for life, or a small, bleak cactus garden. But that was all the green she could find in Trona.
The homes around the old mansion were especially dismal. All were small, dilapidated, and wind-beaten. Some were abandoned. Slowing slightly, Cammy peered through the dark at the enormous mansion, the largest home in town. Some said it had been built by the town’s original settler, John Searles. Others whispered it was the site of many gruesome murders and had been abandoned for over seventy years.
In the starlight, the stone façade on the three-story building appeared a pale army-drab green, like the skin of a rotting corpse. To Cammy, the empty windows resembled dead, vacant eyes, and the immense oak double front doors loomed ominously like a large, gaping mouth.
The mansion was rumored to be haunted, but Cammy didn’t believe in that kind of stuff. Still, the night was black with no moon in the sky, and a chill ran down her spine as she walked by. From the corner of her eye, Cammy saw what looked like two angry red eyes reflecting her flashlight. The eyes blazed for an instant, and then disappeared. Cammy kept glancing nervously at the mansion, but saw nothing. She was glad to hurry on.
Turning to look behind her, Cammy saw six-year-old Hughie lagging again. Hughie had insisted on wearing the classic white, bed-sheet ghost costume. She had heard his folks say they would buy him a ghost costume at the store, complete with a plastic Casper mask, but that was not good enough for Hughie. He had insisted on the white sheet-ghost costume he saw in every cartoon about Halloween.
Except, Cammy thought, in real life, it doesn’t work as neatly as it does in the cartoons.
Holding out a candy bag was awkward with both hands hidden under the sheet, and the eyeholes had been hard for Hughie’s mom to place. Cammy thought the eyeholes in Hughie’s sheet were cut too far apart. She didn’t think he could see out both holes at the same time. But in the end, it didn’t matter, because there was no way to keep the s
heet in place. It slipped all over with Hughie’s every movement, and he complained that most of the time he couldn’t see out of either eyehole.
“Come on, Hughie, will you please keep up?” For most of the evening, Cammy had been scolding him for dawdling.
“I’m trying,” he whined and began to walk faster, but he stepped on one end of his sheet costume and tripped forward. He tried to put out his hands to catch himself, but the sheet got in the way. He fell flat on his face in the middle of the road, his small flashlight blinking out, rolling away.
Cammy sighed in frustration as she glanced back and forth from Hughie lying prone in the street behind her to the other kids, who had already moved on to the next street ahead.
Just wait, just a second more and it would strike. Its prey was now in the dark, and the other lights were moving away. Slinking low to the ground, it crept closer to the small ghost.
“Cal!” Cammy hollered. “Hughie fell.”
Cal was Hughie’s older brother and Cammy’s next-door neighbor. Cammy felt Cal should take more responsibility, if only for his own siblings.
“If you can’t keep up, wearing that stupid sheet, Hughie, then just go back and wait with Dad in the car,” Cal yelled over his shoulder as he rounded the corner.
Cammy sighed. Someone should go back to help Hughie. “It should be Cal,” she grumbled to herself. She usually thought of Cal as her best friend, but sometimes boys were so immature.
Unexpectedly, a cold gust of wind blasted her with sand, blowing her a step or two sideways. Hugging herself in the chilly night air, she regretted her choice of costume—Robin Hood. While Cammy often fantasized herself as a brave warrior protecting the innocent, the costume was not warm. She had not anticipated the penetrating, bitter wind.
Before she could move in Hughie’s direction, she was shocked by the squeal of skidding car tires. She whirled around to see little Ruthie, the youngest in the group at four, running out into the street in the path of an oncoming car.
Cammy held her breath as she watched Ruthie stand frozen in the middle of the street, the white, burning headlights bearing down on her. Ruthie carried a small broom as part of her little witch costume and pointed it at the car, as if casting a spell.
Its lips slowly split apart to reveal dank, green fangs, dripping putrid ooze. The dark vapors now came from its mouth in quick, short puffs as its back arched and muscles tensed.
The car screeched to a stop just as its front bumper touched the end of the broom. If Ruthie had cast a spell, it apparently worked. Cammy ran up to the corner where Ruthie stood in the intersection and scooped her up in her arms.
“Hey, you kids, watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled as Cammy carried the small girl around the corner to where the rest of her little trick-or-treaters huddled. She set Ruthie down with the others and trudged over to the car to apologize.
Hughie slowly gathered himself up onto his hands and knees. He’d heard his nose crunch when he hit the road, and there was a sharp pain throbbing in his left eye. Blood flowed freely from his nose and splattered down the inside of his ghost costume. Cold and hurting, he was no longer excited about trick-or-treating. He just wanted to go home. But most of all, he didn’t want the other kids to see him cry. Holding himself still, he desperately tried to stifle his sobs as hot tears ran down his face. Lost in his misery, he was oblivious to his surroundings, not hearing or seeing a thing.
It saw its chance. The lights had finally moved away. In two soundless bounds, it was there. Crunch. Crack. Snap. Then it was gone, taking its quivering prey with it.
After apologizing to the driver, Cammy rushed back to where the other kids were waiting to check on Ruthie, who was okay, but shaken up. Cal was already three houses further down the new street collecting candy as fast as he could. Shaking her head in exasperation, Cammy picked up the little witch and gave her a big hug, rewarded at last with a wobbly smile. She handed Ruthie over to Ann, who was dressed as a fairy princess, and finally turned back to help little Hughie.
When she came around the corner again, Hughie was gone. She strode down the street to where he had fallen, searching in all directions. He was nowhere to be seen, but his bag of candy was still lying in the street. She picked up Hughie’s broken flashlight and called loudly to Cal, who reluctantly came back.
“What!” he said angrily.
“Hughie’s gone,” Cammy replied, hands on her hips.
“The big crybaby! He just took his spoiled, little self back to the car, like I told him to,” Cal retorted, furious that his candy collecting had been rudely interrupted. “Dumb sheet-ghost costume anyway. I told him it wasn’t cool.” With that, Cal was off again, heading around the corner for more precious candy.
Cammy looked up and down the street. Hughie would not have walked out into the desert. He could have gone in only three other directions: around the corner with the other kids, back in the direction where his dad was waiting, or into the front yard of the Searles Mansion. Since Hughie wasn’t with the others—and since no one would ever go into that front yard at night—he must have gone back to the car, like Cal said.
Cammy turned her back to the mansion, relieved to move away, and hurried to catch up with the other kids before someone else wandered into the street. She tucked Hughie’s candy bag into her own for safekeeping. He’d want it when she saw him afterward.
Eight weeks later, Hughie’s picture appeared on milk cartons across southern California, and while his picture was published all over the state, his actual face was never seen again.
seven years later
I
Cal lay in a long black box barely large enough to hold him. He felt claustrophobic. A senior in high school, he was a starting linebacker on the Trona Tornados high school football team. At six-foot-four, two hundred and ten pounds, he barely fit into this casket-like box. Cal’s friends had put the casket together as a joke, and Cal had agreed to be the punch line—there wasn’t normally a lot to do in Trona, unless you used your imagination.
The local graveyard on the north side of town, not far from the high school, had become a favorite late-night parking place for high school couples. Cal’s friends had decided it would be really funny if they made a casket, set it up in the graveyard, and had Cal slowly open the lid, crawl out with his face all made up, and plod Frankenstein-style toward the parked cars. All the guys on the football team were in on the joke—they had brought their girlfriends to the graveyard, waiting for the prearranged signal so they could play along with the prank.
But Cal was growing impatient—he barely fit into the box, the air was getting thick, and to top it off, he had to fart. Usually not one to hold it in—except in polite company—Cal did not want to let it rip now, compressed in the box as he was. For the first time that night, he regretted being the one playing the zombie, although he was the perfect choice since his girlfriend refused to go out and park. Camm, who everyone said was his girlfriend, insisted she was just a good friend, not a girlfriend. And that was the rub. She would go to dances and activities with Cal, even hold his hand, but that was as far as it went.
Cal sighed. He wouldn’t mind if his relationship with Camm were more romantic. She’d grown tall, slim, and pretty with wild auburn hair and flashing green eyes. Her wit was as sharp as a tack, and her laugh infectious. Cal loved being with her.
He had been attracted to Camm for as long as he could remember, but she had made it clear she only wanted to be friends. Once, after he tried stealing a wet kiss, she had socked him hard where she knew she could dampen any possible amorous intentions. He was a loyal, but cautious, friend ever since.
Cal had no idea how to win Camm’s trust and affection, and he would have been happy to find another girlfriend. He was friendly with everyone at school, well-liked by all. But in their small community where everyone knew everyone, the other girls were unwilling to trespass on what they considered Camm’s territory. Cal was therefore stuck with the best friend a boy would eve
r want, but nothing more. He sighed again.
He’d told Camm about the zombie joke, and she’d reacted with outrage. Cal wasn’t surprised. Camm must be trapped forever in that night when his little brother disappeared—no one had any clue as to what might have happened to him.
Cal winced at the thought of Hughie. He and Camm became closer as a result of the tragedy. They both felt guilty, but while Camm dealt with her guilt by being everyone’s mother, Cal dealt with his by pushing it aside, so he didn’t have to think about it. He did not understand why Camm could not break free of the nightmare.
Since that Halloween night, she hated anything dealing with the supernatural or death. She no longer celebrated Halloween, did not go to horror movies, and did not like to be frightened. If Cal startled her, she’d cock back and slug him as hard as she could. He’d been careful not to startle her for a long time, especially once he had taught her the basics of boxing. She threw a serious punch.
Cal sighed for the third time, trying not to think about the methane cloud in his lower intestines threatening against his will to turn into a full-blown thunderstorm.
Every night it was released at midnight, except when it had special feeding needs and was released at first dark. Tonight, it was released early with an overwhelming hunger to feed, a hunger for human flesh. Smelling fresh meat nearby, it followed the scent, but soon decided there were too many humans gathered together for a safe hunt. It preferred one-on-one attacks on unsuspecting prey—quick kills. Looking for solitary prey, it turned back, following other scents.
Camm was alone, parked in her old 1972 Volkswagen Super Beetle outside the Searles Mansion. She came here from time to time to rethink the night Hughie disappeared. She couldn’t forgive herself for not having gone back sooner to get him, and for not staying to look for him when she first discovered he was missing.
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