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Skeleton creek, p.8
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       Skeleton Creek, p.8

           Patrick Carman
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  No word yet from Sarah. Where is she?

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 11:00 P.M.

  The card game broke up early and I’m getting a bad case of the shakes. It’s dark outside. My window is a sheet of black in which I keep imagining Old Joe Bush’s face peering in, watching me, water dripping off his nose. Or is it blood? I can’t tell. It’s too dark out there.

  That’s one thing about a very small town: It’s extremely dark at night. There are only three streetlights and none of them are near my front door. The moon is also absent tonight, so I’m sure the woods will be especially dark.

  That is, if I make it to the woods. Getting out of the house is going to be a trick. Our house was built about a million years ago and it makes old house sounds, the kind that wake parents up. There are seven squeaky steps on the staircase alone. My hands are so clammy I keep having to stop writing and wipe them on my sheet.

  I’m not sure I can do this.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 12:10 A.M.

  Finally, an email.

  SARAHFINCHER.COM

  PASSWORD:

  MILTONARBOGAST

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 12:22 A.M.

  It appears that I’ll be sneaking out of the house tonight to see the one person my parents have forbidden me to associate with. The two of us will wander off into the woods at 1:00 in the morning and cut through a chain so we can break into a condemned structure before they burn it down. And, meanwhile, her camera will be feeding the footage back to her Web site so that if we don’t come back, the authorities can — what was her phrase? — oh, yeah — find our bodies.

  Has Sarah lost it?

  What am I doing?

  If I get caught, my parents won’t just move me to a new town, they’ll ground me for a hundred years and feed me boiled beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of my life.

  Even still, I almost wish I’d get caught. The alternative is definitely worse.

  The dredge at night. I’m not even there and I can already feel the haunted presence of a ghost dragging its leg in my direction, asking me questions I can’t answer. And this time, when the ghost of Old Joe Bush comes for me, I won’t be able to run away.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 12:30 A.M.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 12:33 A.M.

  I checked the site and saw her waving and now I have to go. I’m confused by this turn of events.

  My hands are shaking and I can hardly hold my pen. I know why I’m shaking so badly. It’s the same reason why I have to go to the dredge tonight. I think Old Joe Bush has snuck into my brain, because there’s a nightmare I keep having. Every night I have the nightmare, only I don’t tell anyone — I don’t even write it down — because it’s a really bad one. It’s the kind that if someone reads it, they think you’re crazy.

  Sarah is in the nightmare. We’re together on the dredge, going up the decaying stairs. When we reach the top she turns to me and leans in like she’s going to kiss me. I’m so surprised by this I lean back and lose my balance and I grab for her arm. The rotted railing breaks free behind me and I can’t let her go, even though I try. It’s like electricity is holding us together. We’re two magnets falling. We roll through the air and she lands beneath me. There is the sound of smashing bones and then I wake up.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 12:39 A.M.

  I just had to stop and think for a second.

  I remember struggling over the beginning of this story, rewriting it a dozen times.

  There was a moment not long ago when I thought: This is it. I’m dead.

  I remember how that opening set just the right tone. The reader would know that something bad had happened, but they wouldn’t know what it was. Things came easy after that, but were confusing, too. The Sarah nightmare bothered me.

  Now I feel as if I’m driving around at night in the middle of nowhere. I’ve lost my sense of direction. Did I have all the videos before? Have I been retracing my steps and she’s already gone? Maybe tonight is the last chapter of a story I’ve already lived through.

  I’m going to assume for the moment that the nightmare of Sarah crushed beneath me is just that — a nightmare — and that all of what I’ve been writing is real. I’m going to make this guess because if what I’ve been writing is not the truth, then my mind is trying to hide something from me. If I’ve been making all this up and something happened to Sarah and it’s my fault, then I won’t be able to live with myself.

  I’m going to stand up and put all my weight on my one good leg and start down the darkened hall toward the stairs. When I look over my shoulder, Old Joe Bush will be outside, staring through my bedroom window with the raven on his shoulder. He’ll be watching me leave so that he can go to the dredge ahead of me and wait for my arrival. He’s faster on one good leg than I am.

  When I reach the opening to the staircase, my heart will be pounding and I’ll look down and see that there is no light. It will be a long fall if I miss a step. My hand will be sweaty and it will slide when I hold the banister. I feel like I know this already, like I’ve done it all before.

  Words and sounds will tumble in my troubled mind.

  The Crossbones. Are you the alchemist? Daryl Bonner. Gladys with her shotgun. Old Joe Bush. Is that my dad’s name on the paper? A kiss. The sound of smashing bones.

  And hanging over it all will be the one word — gold. It’s all about the gold, I know it is. Someone killed Joe Bush for the gold and now Joe wants revenge. He won’t rest until he gets what he wants.

  It will be a slow journey through a quiet house and I have no choice but to leave. I have twenty minutes and it will take every bit to sneak out of here. I want to take this journal with me but I can’t. It will mean I’ve left the story behind for sure and returned to the real world. I’m leaving it folded into my sheets so they’ll find it in the morning if I’m not here.

  Please — if you find this — go to sarahfincher.com. Use the password tanginabarrons.

  There you’ll see what happens next to me and Sarah.

  I’ve got to go now.

  SARAHFINCHER.COM

  PASSWORD

  TANGINABARRONS

  SKELETON CREEK

  PRODUCTION TEAM:

  Patrick Carman

  Novel/Screenplay

  Jeffrey Townsend

  Director/Editor/Visual & Audio Effects

  Squire Broel

  Producer/Art Director

  Sarah Koenigsberg

  Production Manager/Director of Photography

  Amy Vories

  Lead Makeup/Hair

  Crystal Berry

  Makeup/Hair

  Peter Means

  Crew

  Ben Boehm

  Crew

  Joshua Pease

  Webmaster/Illustrator

  Actors:

  Amber Larsen

  Tom Rowley Jim

  Michaelson

  Ghost Performers:

  Jim Michaelson

  Peter Means

  Andrew Latta

  Music/Soundtrack:

  Portfolio Days

  Publicity Video:

  Peter Yenney

  Craft Services:

  Kept Man Productions

  SPECIAL THANKS TO:

  Rella Brown, Liaison for Oregon Parks

  and Recreation Department

  The City of Waitsburg

  Markeeta Little Wolf, Mayor

  Cynthia Croot

  Blake Nass

  Brian Senter

  Peter Rubie

  Jeremy Gonzalez

  David Levithan

  Christopher Stengel

  and everyone at Scholastic

  Copyright

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention:Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York,
NY 10012.

  Copyright © 2009 by Patrick Carman.

  Cover Design by Christopher Stengel

  Illustrations by Joshua Pease

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First Scholastic paperback printing, January 2010

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  eISBN: 978-0-545-28149-2

 


 

  Patrick Carman, Skeleton Creek

 


 

 
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