Don't Drink the Punch! by P.J. Night

Author:P.J. Night
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Spotlight

CHAPTER 11

Kayla burst into the kitchen. It was oddly quiet. Through the large window over the sink, she could glimpse the snow coming down. It looked like it had finally started to snow heavily.

She crossed the kitchen and went through the swinging door that led to the large, open pantry. Still not a soul to be seen. Where was everyone?

At the other end of the pantry was an open doorway that led into the large dining and living rooms. A man was leaning against the doorjamb with his back to her, probably chatting quietly with someone next to him that she couldn’t see. She could hear music playing. Not the same kind of music they were playing downstairs, but it was reassuring to see that people were in there.

She stepped across the pantry and stood behind the man. He was a large man; she had no idea whose dad he was, but he certainly took up most of the doorway.

“Excuse me?” she said tentatively. “Um, sir? Can I just squeeze by you?” Her voice came out sounding high and barely audible.

The man didn’t budge.

Kayla’s fear for her mother made her bolder than usual. “Sir, I just need to . . .” She put a firm hand on his arm and tried to guide him over to the side of the doorway, so she could squeeze past.

For a strange moment the man felt weightless. Then, with a sickening feeling, she realized he was falling. Falling over. Over to the side, in the direction she had nudged him ever so gently.

Kayla screamed, or tried to. Instead of a scream, a strangled, unearthly sound came out of her throat. The man toppled over like a tall tree beneath a woodsman’s ax. She tried to shriek again, several times, in rapid, gulping succession, but the sounds came out as mere squeaks, and then she couldn’t seem to make any sound at all. She stared in horror at the man lying on the carpet, the crystal punch cup in his hand, his eyes open but unseeing. For a moment she couldn’t take her eyes off the cup, which hadn’t broken on the thick carpet. With the red punch stain next to him, seeping under his face, which was turned to the side, he looked . . . dead. But he couldn’t be dead. He was still breathing, although it was barely noticeable.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, sir!” she tried to say, but no sound came out of her mouth. Her tongue felt thick and uncooperative, as though she’d just left the dentist after a major round of Novocain.

She raised her eyes to look around the room. She froze and staggered backward, nearly falling.

Eight or nine parents were in the room. Some were clustered around the table, which was filled with platters of food, drinks, and the large punch bowl in the center of it. Several others were standing around the outer area of the room, in little groups. No one was moving. No one was speaking. Everyone was still as a statue, frozen in mid-gesture.

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