“For a while, we thought you weren’t coming!” Grandpa shouted. “We expected you hours ago.”

“Flat tire,” Dad explained.

“Tired?” Grandpa wrapped his arms around Dad. “Well, then come in and sit down, son.”

Clark giggled. Mom shoved an elbow into his side. Grandpa and Grandma led us into the living room.

The room was enormous. Our whole house could probably fit inside it.

The walls were painted green. Drab green. I stared up at the ceiling. Up at an iron chandelier that held twelve candles, in a circle.

An enormous fireplace took up most of one wall.

The other walls were covered with black-and-white photographs. Yellowed with age.

Photographs everywhere. Of people I didn’t recognize. Probably dead relatives, I thought.

I glanced through a doorway into the next room. The dining room. It appeared to be as big as the living room. Just as dark. Just as dreary.

Clark and I sat down on a tattered green couch. I felt the old springs sag under my weight. Charley groaned and stretched out on the floor at our feet.

I glanced around the room. At the pictures. At the worn rug. At the shabby tables and chairs. The flickering light high above us made our shadows dance on the dark walls.

“This place is creepy,” Clark whispered. “And it really smells bad—worse than Grandma and Grandpa.”

I choked back a laugh. But Clark was right. The room smelled strange. Damp and sour.

Why do two old people want to live like this? I wondered. In this musty, dark house. Deep in the swamp.

“Would anyone like something to drink?” Grandma interrupted my thoughts. “How about a nice cup of tea?”

Clark and I shook our heads no.

Mom and Dad also said no. They sat opposite us. The stuffing in their chairs spilled out the backs.

“Well, you’re finally here!” Grandpa yelled to us. “It’s just great. So, tell me—how come you were late?”

“Grandpa,” Grandma shouted to him, “no more questions!” Then she turned to us. “After such a long trip, you must be starving. Come into the kitchen. I made my special chicken pot pie—just for you.”

We followed Grandma and Grandpa into the kitchen. It looked like all the other rooms. Dark and dingy.

But it didn’t smell as ancient as the other rooms. The tangy aroma of chicken pot pie floated through the air.

Grandma removed eight small pies from the oven. One for each of us—and a couple of extras in case we were starving, I guessed.

Grandma placed one on my plate, and I began to dig right in. I was starving.

As I lifted the fork to my mouth, Charley sprang up from his place on the floor and started to sniff.

He sniffed our chairs.

The counter.

The floor.

He leaped up to the table and sniffed.

“Charley, stop!” Dad ordered. “Down!”

Charley jumped from the table. Then he reared up in front of us—and curled his upper lip.

He let out a growl.

A low, menacing growl that erupted into loud barking.

Furious barking.

“What on earth is wrong with him?” Grandma demanded, frowning at the dog.

“I don’t know,” Dad told her. “He’s never done that before.”

“What is it, Charley?” I asked. I shoved my chair from the table and approached him.

Charley sniffed the air.

He barked.

He sniffed some more.

A chill of fear washed over me.

“What is it, boy? What do you smell?”

I grabbed Charley’s collar. Petted him. Tried to calm him down. But he jerked out of my grasp.

He barked even louder.

I reached for his collar again and tugged him toward me. His nails scraped the floor as he pulled away.

The more I tugged on his collar, the harder Charley fought. He swung his head sharply from side to side. And started to growl.

“Easy, boy,” I said softly. “Eeea—sy.”

Nothing worked.

Finally Clark helped me drag Charley into the living room—where he started to settle down.