Odd Prompts: Dead Grass

This week's prompt has a character in common with the story last week. This story takes place before that one.  ****

 “There!” Shelley pointed. 

Her brother saw it. The first firefly of the year. They were both sitting on the steps behind their house, looking down toward the woods at the end of their backyard. The boards of the step were still sun-warm under them, although the sunset was faded to a lemon smear on the sky behind them. It was a warm summer already, and they were just starting on it. 

Shelley was sitting near enough that he could feel the heat of her, as well, while the air cooled around them. Fireflies glimmered in abundance now. She had wrapped her arms around her knees, feet on the same step she used as a seat. He sprawled a bit more, his legs too long to let him crunch up that small. He looked down at her small blonde head. 

“Whatcha thinking, munchkin?” 

“Darke?” She didn’t look up at him, but he saw her hug her legs tighter. 

“Yeah?” She’d talk to him. Mom had asked him to see if he couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Shelley was being... odd, Mom said. She’d stood at the stove, dishtowel in one hand, and spoon in the other, biting her lip thoughtfully. Darke had shrugged one shoulder and let it go at that. Now, though, he was realizing what his mother had meant. Normal Shelley didn’t stop talking. This version of his youngest sister had said two words since he’d gotten off the bus that afternoon. 

“You know the Bukowski’s lawn is dead?” 

Darke blinked in surprise. Of all the things he’d expected out of her... she was ten. Why was she noticing the neighbors’ yards? Of course, this was Shelley. Who knew. 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, their step glows in the dark.” She turned her head and looked up at him, sideways, her braid laying over her cheek. 

She’d said that like it was important. Darke was still confused. “Wait. How do you know this? You can’t see their house from your window.” 

“Um,” She buried her face between her knees.

“‘Fess up, squirt.” He reached over and tugged her braid gently. “Better yet, show me.” 

That seemed to be the right thing to say. She bounced off the steps and into the yard, rather than back up onto the deck. She didn’t want to go through the house, then. Darke got up, then hesitated. He should tell their mother they were going... 

“C’mon!” Shelley hissed at him. 

Of course, she’d obviously been wandering after dark, without Mom knowing. Darke patted his pocket, confirming to himself he had his phone, then followed his sister. Shelley padded in front of him, barefoot, and silently through the gate at the side of the house. She paused there, looking back, to make sure he was with her, and then she cut through the back garden of Mrs. Winston’s house. Darke frowned, but he followed her. The Winston house was dark, not even the glow of a TV through the windows, but still. He didn’t want to get in trouble. 

Shelley angled down toward the back corner of the yard, weaving expertly through the tangled shrubs and other vegetation that cropped up at random in the Winston garden. At least their were paths mowed around them, and just enough light that Darke could keep up with her. In fact, that was more light than he’d expected... 

He looked up and saw the moon hovering just above the treetops. It was full and brilliant. Shelley made an impatient noise, and he snapped back to paying attention to her. She was poised next to a hedge. 

“You’ll have to crawl.” She muttered. 

He smiled in spite of himself. They’d played escape and evasion too many times in the woods for her to think whispers were a good idea. He made a hand gesture of assent, and saw the bright flash of a grin in response before she ducked under and through the hedge. 

Darke’s shoulders were a much tighter fit than his skinny kid sister. He popped out on the other side breathless and scratched. She hushed him with a hand signal before he could say anything, though. Her slender gingers gleamed in the moonlight as she signed for him to walk behind her. 

Here, she stayed in the shadows, creeping slowly up toward the back of the Bukowski house. Darke found himself tense and unsettled by the crunch of dry, crisp grass under their every step. It was the only sound in the night. Not even birds or insects were stirring here. 

He stopped, reaching out for her. With his hand on her shoulder, they stood still. She looked up at him, but he was looking around. There were no fireflies. He felt like every breath was heavy. 

She put her hand on his, drawing his attention, then pointed. 

The Bukowski house was nothing special. A ranch-style home, only one story, with small narrow windows high up on the walls. Darke remembered his mother pointing them out and saying that it would drive her nuts to have so little light in the house. His father had laughed and told her to think of the savings on curtains. You could do anything in there, Dad had waggled his eyebrows at his mother, whose eyes had crinkled in amusement. The neighbors would never see. 

Right at the moment, Darke was thinking about what that might mean. There were no lights. Like the Winston house, it felt oddly empty. Shelley was clinging to his hand. 

The back step, a low concrete thing dividing the house from the dead grass, was glowing green. It shed enough light that he could make out a glint of reflection in the grass next to it. Darke tried to let go of his sister’s hand, so he could leave her safely by the hedge, but she wouldn’t let him. 

Reluctantly, he towed her while he inched up to the house. The moon’s light was colder than sunshine. That’s why he was feeling a chill. He wasn’t scared. 

He stopped a few steps away from the house, because he’d seen two things. He was scared, now. Shelley was pressed up against his side, and he could feel her trembling. He didn’t think she could see the broken glasses lying in the dead grass. But he was sure she could tell the back door was open. Not a lot. But there was a thick black space where the doorjamb ended, and the doorknob was there. 

“Darke.” She sounded like she was choking. “Darke, take me home. I’m sorry I brought you.” 

“C’mon baby.” He wasn’t going anywhere near that house. Or back the way they had come. The Bukowski’s didn’t have a fence. “Climb on.” He stooped and she grabbed his shoulders, then he bounced her up onto a piggyback carry. 

He meant to walk, calmly. He didn’t mean to be running, but they were down the sidewalk and most of the way home before he realized that he was sprinting, and Shelley was strangling him with her arms wrapped around his throat. Headlights appeared on the road coming toward them, toward his house. 

Shelley whimpered in his ear. Darke forced himself into a walk. The headlights turned into their driveway, and then stopped before they got to the garage. 

“Dad’s home.” He told her. He was sure it was their father. Had to be. Who else could it be?

“Mmhmm.” His sister made a noise, burying her face in the back of his neck. But the stranglehold loosened. 

The car door opened, and in the light Darke saw his father’s face, looking at them with a puzzled expression. 

“Darke?” Dad peered at them over his glasses. “Shelley?” 

Mom opened the front door, and a flood of warm golden light spilled out on the porch and reached almost to them. “Where have you been?” 

“Shelley,” Darke swung her around, cradling her in his arms. He felt much older than his seventeen years, suddenly. “Go to Mom. Dad and I will deal with it.” 

Shelley clung to him for a second, then spilled out of his embrace in a welter of knees and elbows and ran for their mother, sobbing. 

“What on earth...?!” Dad exclaimed, taking the distance between them in two large strides. “What’s going on?” 

“Dad,” Darke took a deep breath, and felt a shudder run over his body. “I think something is very wrong at the Bukowski’s.” 

***

I was prompted this week by our very own minotaur, Orvan Taurus, with "The neighbors’ step glowed in the dark – and their lawn was dead."

I prompted Fiona Grey with "It was the most creative insult she’d ever heard." 

You can read all the prompt responses, and find out how to join the prompt challenge, over at More Odds than Ends.