Castles Read Online Free Page A

thoughts.
    I guess I needed to know.
    I didn't dare ask anyone to go with me. Between the three boys, there may have been enough courage to walk to the Bus, but not enough to go inside. I didn't even want to bring up the subject to Cade; he may have been manipulated to keep his mouth shut once, but I didn't think he'd do it again. Michael and Justin were just not man enough. They barely peeked in through the window when I told them what I saw.
    What was my curiosity? To know for sure if what I'd seen was a dead body or to satisfy the dream images? Maybe I could get them to stop or at least transform them into something more pleasant.
    I waited until Grandma was at the store and Mama was asleep on the couch. I knew the routine well enough to know when I could test the waters of supposed freedom. Grandma would take about an hour, and even if Mama woke up, she wouldn't question where I was. I guess she thought I was old enough to go to the neighbor's trailer and hang out, be back for dinner and all that.
    I really don't think she cared what I did.
    I crossed the desert at a slight trot, weaving between the bushes and cactus carefully. As the Bus loomed closer, I could sense anticipation swell inside me. My heart beat faster, the palms of my hands seemed tacky, sweat beaded on my forehead. I was scared, as well. Scared of finding a rotted body, of discovering something maybe a nine-year-old shouldn't see. And how was I to be sure the body in the Bus was or wasn't the man from my dreams? Did I have it in me to turn him over? Was his face even there?
    I stopped before reaching the Bus. The fear had eclipsed the anticipation and forced my body into inaction. It was something I hadn't expected. It was supposed to be simple—run to the Bus, satisfy my curiosity and get back before dinner.
    I know now the reason I finally stepped through the door of the Bus was something akin to what makes a person look for the dead body in a crash, keep their eyes open when they stumble across a beheading on the Internet or watch in stunned silence as massive destruction is spread across the news. In all of us, there is a morbid interest to see what death looks like, as if knowing will ease our internal fear of it somewhat. It's that need to temper our fear of the unknown that welcomes the open casket at a funeral. We hope to see serenity in death, a smile on the face of a loved one as they begin the process of decay.
    I am no different.
    When I stepped into the Bus the second time that summer, I was greeted not with a dank smell or that odd humid heat. I was not shown anything new in front; the dice were still there, the dust undisturbed except where I'd placed my hand days ago.
    From the back of the Bus, something stirred. It sounded like a small animal, but the more I listened, the less confident I was I could identify it. Surely a snake wouldn't make so much noise. A small mouse might, but it sounded louder. A coyote was too big. With those animals discounted, I was pretty much out of zoological knowledge.
    I peeked around the passenger seat, hoping the noise came from an animal I could easily outrun.
    The body was gone. In its place, writhing on the ground in what looked like pain was what I could only describe as a blackened leather tongue. It shifted back and forth on the floor of the Bus, a sick sucking sound coming from what looked like its mouth. In the brief moment my body couldn't move, I swear to this day the thing looked up at me and cried.
    I ran home, oblivious to the desert around me. I narrowly passed cactus, hopped over bushes, kicked rocks aside as I prayed the thing in the Bus wasn't behind me. There were people screaming inside my head, voices I recognized who berated me for going back. I heard them ask me what I hoped to learn, what I wanted to see. They chided me, as if a grand lesson in life had just been administered and I was incapable of understanding the implications.
    I reached the fence in time to see Grandma step into