“There’s nothing to do in Pitts Landing,” Michael Warner said, his hands shoved into the pockets of his faded denim cutoffs.

“Yeah. Pitts Landing is the pits,” Greg Banks said.

Doug Arthur and Shari Walker muttered their agreement.

Pitts Landing Is The Pits. That was the town slogan, according to Greg and his three friends. Actually, Pitts Landing wasn’t much different from a lot of small towns with quiet streets of shady lawns and comfortable old houses.

But here it was, a balmy fall afternoon, and the four friends were hanging around Greg’s driveway, kicking at the gravel, wondering what to do for fun and excitement.

“Let’s go to Grover’s and see if the new comic books have come in,” Doug suggested.

“We don’t have any money, Bird,” Greg told him.

Everyone called Doug “Bird”, because he looked a lot like a bird. A better nickname might have been “Stork”. He had long, skinny legs and took long, storklike steps. Under his thick tuft of brown hair, which he seldom brushed, he had small, birdlike brown eyes and a long nose that curved like a beak. Doug didn’t really like being called Bird, but he was used to it.

“We can still look at the comics,” Bird insisted.

“Until Grover starts yelling at you,” Shari said. She puffed out her cheeks and did a pretty good imitation of the gruff store owner: “Are you paying or staying?”

“He thinks he’s cool,” Greg said, laughing at her imitation. “He’s such a jerk.”

“I think the new X-Force is coming in this week,” Bird said.

“You should join the X-Force,” Greg said, giving his pal a playful shove. “You could be Bird Man. You’d be great!”

“We should all join the X-Force,” Michael said. “If we were superheroes, maybe we’d have something to do.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Shari quickly replied. “There’s no crime to fight in Pitts Landing.”

“We could fight crabgrass,” Bird suggested. He was the joker in the group.

The others laughed. The four of them had been friends for a long time. Greg and Shari lived next door to each other, and their parents were best friends. Bird and Michael lived on the next block.

“How about a baseball game?” Michael suggested. “We could go down to the playground.”

“No way,” Shari said. “You can’t play with only four people.” She pushed back a strand of her crimped black hair that had fallen over her face. She was wearing an oversized yellow sweatshirt over bright green leggings.

“Maybe we’ll find some other kids there,” Michael said, picking up a handful of gravel from the drive and letting it sift through his chubby fingers. Michael had short red hair, blue eyes, and a face full of freckles. He wasn’t exactly fat, but no one would ever call him skinny.

“Come on, let’s play baseball,” Bird urged. “I need the practice. My Little League starts in a couple of days.”

“Little League? In the fall?” Shari asked.

“It’s a new fall league. The first game is Tuesday after school,” Bird explained.

“Hey—we’ll come watch you,” Greg said.

“We’ll come watch you strike out,” Shari added. Her hobby was teasing Bird.

“What position are you playing?” Greg asked.

“Backstop,” Michael cracked.

No one laughed. Michael’s jokes always fell flat.

Bird shrugged. “Probably the outfield. How come you’re not playing, Greg?”

With his big shoulders and muscular arms and legs, Greg was the natural athlete of the group. He was blond and good-looking, with flashing gray-green eyes and a wide, friendly smile.

“My brother, Terry, was supposed to go sign me up, but he forgot,” Greg said, making a disgusted face.

“Where is Terry?” Shari asked. She had a tiny crush on Greg’s older brother.

“He got a job Saturdays and after school. At the Dairy Freeze,” Greg told her.

“Let’s go to the Dairy Freeze!” Michael exclaimed enthusiastically.

“We don’t have any money—remember?” Bird said glumly.

“Terry’ll give us free cones,” Michael said, turning a hopeful gaze on Greg.

“Yeah. Free cones. But no ice cream in them,” Greg told him. “You know what a straight arrow my brother is.”

“This is boring,” Shari complained, watching a robin hop across the sidewalk. “It’s boring standing around talking about how bored we are.”

“We could sit down and talk about how bored we are,” Bird suggested, twisting his mouth into the goofy half smile he always wore when he was making a dumb joke.

“Let’s take a walk or a jog or something,” Shari insisted. She made her way across the lawn and began walking, balancing her white high-tops on the edge of the curb, waving her arms like a high-wire performer.

The boys followed, imitating her in an impromptu game of follow the leader, all of them balancing on the curb edge as they walked.

A curious cocker spaniel came bursting out of the neighbors’ hedge, yapping excitedly. Shari stopped to pet him. The dog, its stub of a tail wagging furiously, licked her hand a few times. Then the dog lost interest and disappeared back into the hedge.

The four friends continued down the block, playfully trying to knock each other off the curb as they walked. They crossed the street and continued on past the school. A couple of guys were shooting baskets, and some little kids played kick ball on the practice baseball diamond, but no one they knew.

The road curved away from the school. They followed it past familiar houses. Then, just beyond a small wooded area, they stopped and looked up a sloping lawn, the grass uncut for weeks, tall weeds poking out everywhere, the shrubs ragged and overgrown.

At the top of the lawn, nearly hidden in the shadows of enormous old oak trees, sprawled a large ramshackle house. The house, anyone could see, had once been grand. It was gray shingled, three stories tall, with a wraparound screened porch, a sloping red roof, and tall chimneys on either end. But the broken windows on the second floor, the cracked, weather-stained shingles, the bare spots on the roof, and the shutters hanging loosely beside the dust-smeared windows were evidence of the house’s neglect.

Everyone in Pitts Landing knew it as the Coffman house. Coffman was the name painted on the mailbox that tilted on its broken pole over the front walk.

But the house had been deserted for years—ever since Greg and his friends could remember.

And people liked to tell weird stories about the house: ghost stories and wild tales about murders and ghastly things that happened there. Most likely, none of them were true.

“Hey—I know what we can do for excitement,” Michael said, staring up at the house bathed in shadows.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Greg asked warily.

“Let’s go into the Coffman house,” Michael said, starting to make his way across the weed-choked lawn.

“Whoa. Are you crazy?” Greg called, hurrying to catch up to him.

“Let’s go in,” Michael said, his blue eyes catching the light of the late afternoon sun filtering down through the tall oak trees. “We wanted an adventure. Something a little exciting, right? Come on—let’s check it out.”

Greg hesitated and stared up at the house. A cold chill ran down his back.

Before he could reply, a dark form leaped up from the shadows of the tall weeds and attacked him!