The other two nodded in agreement. One of them, Doug Baugh, sat bolt upright and craned his neck to look around the car. “What was that?” he whispered, waggling the cigarette cemented to his rubbery lower lip. “You guys heard it too, didn’t you?”

“I did,” whined “Fat Larry” Hovi, trembling a little too fearfully. His acting wasn’t up to par and he couldn’t keep the giggle out of his voice. “Sounds like something back in the trees . . . coming closer. . . .” The giggle began to win out.

In the backseat, Bart Miller turned to look at his younger brother Del, and the boy replied with a grin of reassurance. “You weenies can cut it out now,” Bart reported to the front seat. “I already told you, he just doesn’t scare easy.”

Del, age eleven, beamed in the glow of his brother’s praise, but his own estimation of his courage was considerably less. He was acting, pure and simple: he only wished he was as stout-hearted as Bart bragged. Sure, he’d seen all the splatter flicks, the Living Dead movies. Sure he’d accumulated a collection of Fangoria despite Mom’s protests, and devoured every blood-soaked page without a tremor of uneasiness or disgust. But there was a difference between a strong stomach and a strong backbone.

He looked out the window at the gate. It was large and looming, bigger than when they first drove up, a tremendous thing of wrought iron and rusted hinges. The lock must have failed with age; it was now secured at the center bars by a log chain and Master Lock from the hardware store. That made it even worse, Del thought. It reinforced the warning that the gate itself implied: DO NOT ENTER. IN GOD’S NAME, DO NOT ENTER.

Stars pierced the night, he noticed, everywhere but beyond the gate. The trees there were creating the shade, he knew, but the effect was still the same. A land of complete darkness, of ever-night, a realm of evil, the gate to . . .

Don’t enter. In God’s name . . .

He lowered his eyes. Don’t think about it. You’re going and that’s it.

He wouldn’t do this for anyone else, not for a million bucks, not even for the fifty they were betting. Hell, who gave a shit what these stupid grits from Seymour thought of Isherwood and them? But a dare was a dare. Besides, he and Bart would show ’em that “Woodies” weren’t scared of no ghost stories, and they’d win some pocket money to boot.

He glanced back out the window. The gate was even larger than before, each bar as thick as his arm, and there were shadows moving in the woods beyond.

“Del, did you hear me?”