Doug stood and glared at him, and Larry would’ve sworn he was going to punch Tommy, who was smaller. He’d seen him do it to other guys and for a lot less—unlike Larry, Doug Baugh wasn’t one to bluster and stomp and cuss when he got pissed. He just hit someone. And he had that same look on his face right now. Go ahead, Larry silently urged, knock him on his ass so we can get out of here. But in time Doug just grinned and lit another cigarette and, once it was pasted to his bottom lip, started clambering up the wall. “Damn stickers,” was all he grunted before swinging over the top and vanishing to the other side.

“What do you see, Doug?” Larry called. “Doug?”

There was silence. No insects. No frogs. No Doug.

“Something’s wrong,” Larry fretted. “I knew this idea sucked. . . .”

“Quit screwing around, Baugh,” Tommy snapped, lighting up a cigarette that protruded through Tor’s grimacing lips. Smoke came out the open rubber nostrils. “Baugh?” He motioned to Larry. “Go see what’s keeping him, Fatso.”

“You gonna give me a boost? Bend over so I can step on your—”

“Oh, fuck it,” fumed Tommy, flipping away his smoke and handing the ax to Larry. “You want something done, goddamn it . . .” He tested the vines with a boot and started up, struggling as much as climbing, the mask doing more to hinder him than anything, and even catching on the stickers near the top. “Baugh,” he panted through rubber, “if you’re jackin’ with me, your ass is grass.”

He cleared the top of the wall and had to readjust his eyeholes to see. Only then did his gaze fall on the ghost pale, glowing face, floating there in the air not a few inches from his own, eyes wide and fangs gnashing. Tommy sucked air so hard the mask collapsed inward and his efforts to backpedal sent him tumbling back to the ground. Larry, having seen Tommy’s terrified reaction, was already in motion, ass to the wall and nose toward the road.

The apparition sat down on top of the wall, gagging with laughter, the tears washing the glow-in-the-dark paint from his face. Doug spat the plastic fangs into his hand and gloated, “Who’s the chickenshit, Tommy?” He bugged his eyes and trembled in imitation, then laughed all the harder. “Man, you better check your shorts.”

Larry was coming back from the road, saying “Baugh, you sonuvabitch, that wasn’t funny,” when Tommy grabbed Doug’s foot and yanked him off the wall. Doug dropped clumsily to the ground and was just as quickly hauled up by the lapels and slammed back into the brick. Tommy Whitten, the smallest, thinnest of the three, held him at bay and Doug made no move to retaliate.

He couldn’t. Not with a gun barrel stuck in his eye.

“Jesus, Tommy!” Larry gasped, stepping forward and then retreating just as quickly, unsure of what to do. “He didn’t mean it, man. Let him go.”