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inside!” the figure screamed, waving hands in the air. “They’re right behind me!”
    Hal dropped the keys, grabbed his gun and whirled around.
    â€œFreeze!” he yelled, aiming the gun at the stranger.
    â€œGet inside,” the stranger cried, still sprinting straight at us.
    â€œFreeze, punk!”
    Our panicky visitor came to his senses and skidded to a stop about twenty feet away. He was a little on the short and scrawny side, with chin-length black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Everything he was wearing was black: military-style boots, pants and his jacket. I started to wonder if wearing black at night was a tradition in Rolling Hills.
    â€œPlease, please, please,” he pleaded breathlessly. “We’ve got to get inside. They’re right behind me.”
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Hal asked.
    â€œI’m Miles Van Helsing. I live down the street. Please, please, please, we’ve got to get inside.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” Hal said, glancing at me.
    â€œJust go inside,” I said. “I’ll explain inside!”
    Hal lowered the gun, grunted something, then turned back to the door.
    Miles immediately ran over to us. “Hurry!” he said, hopping from one foot to the other.
    â€œWho’s after you?” I asked, while Hal rooted through the keys.
    â€œHurry, hurry,” Miles said, glancing over his shoulder.
    Hal tried another key, but it didn’t work.
    â€œWho’s after you?” I asked again, but this time Hal found the right key and opened the door. Miles pushed past both of us and dashed inside.
    We followed him in, and Hal turned on the lights. We were standing in a narrow, rectangular room, with an old brown couch pushed against the opposite wall. A coffee table cluttered with newspapers and magazines was sitting in front of it. I noticed one of the newspapers was dated August 6, 1972, and there was a faded and curled Time magazine from 1967 with some kind of psychedelic rock band on the cover. Across from the couch, a small, ancient television was propped up on a knee-high table, its antennae reaching up in a V . Miles stood beside the television, peeking out of a small window that had a view of the backyard.
    â€œTurn the lights off!” Miles hissed, crouching down. “They’ll know we’re here.”
    â€œWhat’s he talking about?” Hal asked.
    â€œHe says there’s someone chasing him!” I shouted. At the other end of the room was a tall bookcase, so filled with books that the shelves were sagging. Beside it was a door that I figured led into the rest of the inn. I considered marching through it and leaving Miles and Hal behind, but I didn’t want to leave them unsupervised.
    â€œI’m out of here,” Hal mumbled, and he headed for the door outside. Apparently he didn’t have a problem leaving me behind.
    â€œNo! Don’t go! You’ve got to stop him,” Miles said, grabbing my shoulders. “Please, he’s in real danger.”
    â€œLook, I don’t have a sweet clue what’s going on right now. If you want to stop him, be my guest, but I’m staying out of it. You realize he’s got a shotgun, right?”
    â€œIt’s paranormal activity!” he cried, as Hal opened the door. “Humanoid creatures, three of them — very fast and very aggressive.”
    Either Hal didn’t hear him or didn’t believe him — or he just didn’t care — because he went out and slammed the door shut.
    â€œNo!” Miles croaked, rushing to the door and throwing it open. “Come back! Please! It’s paranormal activity!”
    Hal didn’t stop; he just kept clomping across the backyard, slowly disappearing into the darkness.
    â€œParanormal activity?” I asked.
    â€œHe could die out there.”
    â€œGo after him if you want.”
    Miles looked out at Hal, who was almost at the trees now, and