How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15TH
6:33 AM
LAWRENCE DEMBENSKI'S HOUSE

Watts's grandfather lives on the outskirts of Bradford in a tall, narrow house that matches the tall, narrow man. He's already smiling when he opens the door, greeting Watts with an excited bellow of, "Walter!"

"Zayde, hi," Walter steps up to hug him. From behind their embrace, the warm smell of cinnamon wafts out of the doorway. "I hope it's okay I didn't call first."

"I like the surprise! And you brought company." His eyes look over us as he backs up, waving us inside. "Come in, come in. No point introducing ourselves out in the cold."

The four of us follow him inside, moving through the warm-colored entryway into the small, comfortably-cluttered kitchen. He moves to the oven, taking a second to open the door and peek inside.

"I've got gingersnaps in there," he explains. "I hope you kids have an appetite."

"These are my friends," Watts says, gesturing to us. "Diego, Ambrose, and Renny. We, uh, we're doing a project for school about Vanterbest. And I thought it'd be cool if I could photocopy some pictures from your old yearbook, since it was the first one and all. Do you still have it?"

His eyebrows raise, then he's squinting at us with a knowing smile. "It's Tuesday. You four should be in school, still, shouldn't you?"

Watts cringes, leaning against the beige counter. "Well... you know, with everything going on... we're not doing much in our classes. And we figured it'd be better to come over early, way before dark. Just to be safe."

His grandpa waves a hand, moving over to the empty cookie sheet on the table and scooping out a small ball of dough from the ceramic bowl next to it. "I won't tell," he says, placing the dough down before grabbing more. "Truth be, I'd rather have you here where I know you're safe, anyways. You all stay as long as you like. I know I have that yearbook, still—wouldn't have gotten rid of something like that. It's probably in the attic, in one of those boxes. I've got my hands full here, but you're free to go look for it."

"Thanks," Watts says, leaning over to snag a finger's worth of dough that he plops into his mouth.

His grandpa moves with a laugh, swatting his arm away too late. "It tastes better when it's not raw, Walter. Go on upstairs, they'll be done soon."

"We'll be careful," Watts promises, nodding for us to follow him out of the room. We trail him up a tight staircase to the second floor, where he opens one of the hall's dark wooden doors. The hinges squeak loudly as it opens, revealing another set of stairs. They creak with every step of ours, and the room smells old, like the antique stores Mom used to drag me to when I was a kid.

The attic is bigger than I expected, and neater, too. It's all wood, from the floors and walls to the two shelves on either side of the lone, round window. A few cardboard boxes sit on them, while others are scattered among the room, folded closed. Clouded sunlight leaks in from outside, highlighting the dust that dances in the air.

"I guess we can each start with a box," Watts suggests, walking over to one on the far end of the room. Renny and Ambrose each grab one from the shelves, and I take the one on the floor in front of the window.

"He's sweet," Renny says, waving away a poof of dust that flies up when she pulls apart the cardboard. "It's nice of him to let us look through his stuff."

"I just hope we can find it," Watts says, placing a thick book on the floor beside him. "And that if we do, it answers our questions."

If not, we're at another dead end. I get my box open and rummage around inside, but it's filled with a bowling ball, a few bowling gloves, and an empty carrying case.