“Don’t tell me you’re worried about aliens,” Everleigh said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Beacon retorted.
They’d googled Driftwood Harbor before the move. The only things they could find about the place were some old newspaper articles about a large object that had crashed in the water back in 1960-something-or-other. Of course, a bunch of weirdos on the Internet had insisted it was a UFO.
“It was probably just a deer,” their dad said.
“Or a bear,” Everleigh said casually. “I hear they have tons of them around here. Huge ones, too, with paws the size of dinner plates and claws like Wolverine.”
Beacon’s eyes widened.
“Leave your brother alone,” their dad said.
Just then, a white light beamed across the road. Beacon shielded his eyes as a pair of headlights rumbled toward them, the vehicle kicking up dust.
“Someone’s coming!” Beacon said.
“Boy, nothing gets past you,” Everleigh replied dryly.
Beacon didn’t even care about coming up with a good comeback—he was just happy help was on the way.
As the vehicle got closer, a crane and rigging equipment took shape in the moonlight. A tow truck. What were the odds of that?
The truck pulled to a stop next to their car. There were at least two inches of dust and grease on the windows, and the wheel wells were so rusted, it looked as if the car was disintegrating. Murray’s Auto Body was written on the side of the sun-faded, burnt-orange body. The driver leaned across the empty seats to look through the window. His cheeks were ruddy and deeply wrinkled, and a cigarette dangled from his lips, sending smoke curling into the air.
“Need a hitch?” he asked. Or at least that’s what Beacon thought he’d said. His accent reminded him of some of the Irish action movies his uncle Stanley liked to watch, where Beacon could only make out about one of every dozen words, and it was usually a cuss.
“Wow, perfect timing!” their dad said. He tripped over himself to thank the man, and ten minutes later, they were all crammed into the box of the tow truck as they rumbled toward the town—term used loosely. Beacon was grateful when they finally saw some signs of civilization. They rolled slowly past a harbor. The weathered pier didn’t look trustworthy enough to hold the weight of a toddler, let alone the dozens of boats anchored to it. If you could even call them boats. He saw tattered sails and broken masts and barnacles clinging to thick rope nets. Fishermen in chest waders and rubber boots stood in waist-deep, murky water, yelling at one another around a partially submerged tugboat with a big hole in its side.
A short while later, the tow truck lurched to a stop in front of a service shop. The domed, corrugated roof was sloping in the center and looked as if a strong breeze might knock it down.
They climbed out of the truck and followed the adults inside through the metal delivery bay doors. A van hovered on a platform in the middle of the room, and there was a giant puddle of oil underneath it. There were tools and gas cans and tins of nails everywhere. The smell of gasoline hung in the air.
Their dad and the mechanic fell into a discussion about the radiator, and the twins began wandering through the shop. Beacon was looking at some old pictures tacked to a corkboard when he heard Everleigh gasp. She had her hands cupped around her face and was peering out of a dirty window at the back of the shop. Beacon joined her and saw dozens and dozens of cars stretched out across a dusty lot, the metal shining dully under the orange light of a single lamppost. Before he could say anything, she was tumbling through the back door. He followed her out into the junkyard.
“I don’t think we should be out here,” Beacon said.
“Then go back,” Everleigh said.
She weaved through the makeshift aisles, peering into the cars with a grin tugging at her lips. She looked like she was in heaven. Beacon was pretty sure it was the first time he’d seen his sister smile since . . . he couldn’t even remember.
Maybe that’s why he couldn’t quite convince himself to tell her not to climb into the cars like she owned the place, as she was doing right now.
Beacon followed his sister’s path through the junkyard. Before he realized it, they were near the back of the lot, where the light of the lamppost struggled to reach. The aisles melted into darkness. The bodies of the cars were swallowed by jagged shadows. The light flickered, and Beacon once again thought of that movement in the woods. A crawly feeling roiled inside his gut.
“We should go back,” he said.
“Quit being such a wimp,” Everleigh said.
“I am not a wimp,” Beacon said defensively.
Everleigh gasped, and Beacon yelped.
“What, what is it?” he asked, whipping around.
“A 1968 Mercury Cougar,” Everleigh said, pointing at an old car. Beacon’s face melted into a scowl, and Everleigh laughed riotously, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, you should have seen your face!”
“You’re a real jer . . .” Beacon’s words trailed off, his eyes widening at something behind his sister. Three sets of gleaming eyes stared out of the darkness.
2
“Nice try,” Everleigh said. She turned around on a laugh, but her face froze as a body materialized from the darkness. She screamed, scrabbling back into Beacon.
Three kids stepped out of the shadows, wearing matching puffy gold-and-blue varsity jackets and strangely blank expressions.
“Sorry, we didn’t mean to scare you,” the girl said. Her hair was the kind of bright blond that almost looked white; the glossy curls bounced around her shoulders as she moved. “I’m Jane Middleton. And this is Perry Thompson and Nixon Sims.” She nodded at the two boys standing on either side of her. One was short with shoulders so wide Beacon couldn’t be sure he wasn’t wearing football pads under his jacket; his light hair stuck up in spikes all over his head. The other was tall and thin, with tight, wiry black curls that matched his dark skin.
“I’m Beacon McCullough,” Beacon said, then nudged his sister when she didn’t offer her name. “And this is my rude sister, Everleigh.”
Everleigh narrowed her eyes at the kids. “What were you doing out here in the dark?”
Before they could answer, the twins’ dad ran out into the yard. The mechanic stumbled behind him.
“What’s going on out here?” their dad asked breathlessly. “Is everyone okay? I heard a scream.”
Jane stepped forward stiffly, her hands clasped in front of her like a mannequin.
“I’m afraid we scared them. We cut through the junkyard to get to the church on the hill, where we hold our meetings.” She pointed up at a big stone church that loomed ominously out of the fog on a hilltop overlooking the ocean. “We don’t usually come across anyone.”