How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER TWENTY

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4TH
6:41 PM
BRADFORD PUBLIC LIBRARY PARKING LOT

The blast of cool air that hits me as we walk outside is like a refreshing slap in the face, helping me come down from the fear-induced adrenaline rush. I swallow down a gag as we head towards Ambrose's truck, repeating a mantra I've become way too familiar with.

I'm not going to throw up. I'm not going to throw up.

I distract myself by watching as Renny kicks the curb, running both hands through her short hair. She turns to Ambrose with wide eyes. "Do you believe it now, 'Brose? Tell me you saw that."

He nods, putting up a hand to stop her from ranting. "I saw it."

She sighs and leans against the passenger's door, closing her eyes. Watts tucks his small journal and our three torn-out pages into his back pocket— I'm glad one of us thought to salvage our work, because I don't think there's any way any of us is going back in there.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Ambrose says. "All of you."

Watts shrugs it off, managing a small smile. "It's pretty unbelievable."

Renny nods to our bikes, then juts her thumb towards the cargo bed. "Load up. Let's go somewhere. Somewhere to talk about what just happened that isn't where it just happened."

That's all the convincing I need. Ambrose helps Watts hoist our bikes into the back and Renny gets behind the wheel, clearly eager to, as she said earlier, get the hell out of here. Watts and I hop into the crew cab and Ambrose takes shotgun, tossing Renny the keys.

The drive is silent apart from the Nirvana tape Renny's turned on low, and Bradford is eerily empty even as we head into the center of town. Streetlights illuminate the empty roads and sidewalks, spotlighting a paper bag that blows across the road at a stop sign. A suburban tumbleweed, traversing the abandoned neighborhood.

But it isn't abandoned. Warm light shines behind curtained windows of old homes, and cars sit in their driveways instead of tearing down the highway away from here. The fact is, people aren't leaving. They're just locking their doors now, the way small towns never do, and waiting for the invisible threat to go away.

There's still almost two hours before the under-eighteen curfew, but I wouldn't be surprised if we're the only teenagers out tonight. I'm glad the people in charge are trying to help prevent more killings, but I think the four of us know that what they've done so far is pretty pointless. Posters about staying safe, police watching the pickups and drop-offs at school, the curfew—none of it will stop Bozzanath.

Renny pulls off the main road that goes through the town-center and into the busiest looking parking lot—which isn't saying much, since there are only about ten cars. It belongs to an old-fashioned-looking diner, one with a neon sign and chrome accents around the doors.

There's no way I'm eating anything, but I'm relieved to see through the windows that it looks fairly lively inside. I know being around the few people at the library didn't stop anything from happening, but the last thing I want right now is to be somewhere quiet or by myself.

We pile out of the truck and hurry through the chilly evening into the diner, which is decorated with black and white floors and cherry-red tables and chairs. I'm instantly soothed by the cheesy pop music tinning through the speakers, as well as the warm chatter coming from the occupied tables and a few distracted servers loitering at the host stand. Clattering dishes and sizzling food can be heard as the doors to the kitchen swing open for a waitress holding two plates of burgers and fries.