Their pursuer was getting to its feet, standing, facing them. And for the first time Del noticed that he’d driven the stake clear through his target—the point even tented the front of its shabby coat. But then the glowering vampire jerked the coat open, and the boys saw with horror that the wooden shaft did not sprout from its breast as they’d hoped. Instead it jutted from the pasty flesh just below the pectoral muscle, missing the heart completely. “Good . . . try,” the thing said icily, taking hold of the stake’s point and pulling it the rest of the way through with a guttural growl. Then it held the table leg out, pointed it at Del. “You first,” it whispered, coming across the porch.

“Run, Cap!” Bart yelled, throwing himself between the two of them. But the stickman was too focused on the younger boy to pay him any heed. It simply batted him aside with the table leg, caught him just below the ear, and snapped his head around until his body had to follow. He spun across the porch and toppled down the garden steps.

Del went after him dizzily, nearly falling down the steps himself, fighting the tears from his eyes. He found Bart crumpled in the weeds like a much-abused doll. His arms and legs were akimbo. Blood flowed from his nostrils and lip. Del was frantic. Oh, jeez, what if he’s dead or hurt bad and I don’t remember how to check for a pulse even and Oh, God what am I gonna do? How did they do it on TV? He put a hand along his brother’s carotid. Oh, Lord, no . . . wait, there it is. Weak, but . . .

“Not dead,” came a hoarse voice. “Yet.”

The skeletal figure on the porch tossed the stake aside and began to descend the steps to the garden. Its stark features were twisted and feral, but there was no emotion at all in those empty, dead eyes. It pointed to him. “You,” it croaked as it came forward, and its tongue lolled obscenely. “You first.”

Del stood on numb, shaking legs and drew Bart’s chucks from his belt. He swung the sticks in a lethal figure eight. “Come and get me, asshole.”

A toothy smile. “Yes.”