Darkness Creeping: Twenty Twisted Tales

by Neal Shusterman

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  A minute later they were down in a basement, where Eugene revealed a regular arsenal of fireworks. He walked around, pointing things out to Duncan. “You got your Roman candles, you got your M-80s, you got your blockbusters—and none of those namby-pamby legal ones—this is the old-fashioned stuff. These Roman candles here will blow a hole in your face the size of a baseball. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “What about the blockbusters?”

  “You kiddin’ me?” He pointed to a collection of colorful cylinders, an inch in diameter and about two inches long. “Quarter stick of dynamite in each one—make a blast you can hear all the way to Jersey. Guaranteed to make a big splash with your friends.”

  “How much for the whole box?”

  Eugene raised an eyebrow. “How much you got?”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Brett. “I must be dead or something. Flushie actually got a C on the math final!”

  Duncan overheard the conversation. Mr. Carbuckle, the math teacher, wanted to talk to him about the test, but Duncan didn’t care. Carbuckle tossed out the lowest grade anyway, and this was definitely Duncan’s lowest grade.

  “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” asked Sandra, but Duncan just shrugged. “Maybe I just didn’t study.” He headed out into the hall, following Brett and his entourage of friends.

  Brett spotted him and put his head into a headlock—Brett’s idea of a friendly gesture. “Jeez, Flushie, you didn’t have to do that bad on my account.”

  “Least I could do for you, Brett,” said Duncan. “After all, you haven’t flushed me for a whole month.”

  As everyone laughed, Duncan reached into his backpack and pulled out a bundle of envelopes. “Listen, everybody. Since we’ll all be going to different high schools next year, I wanted to have a party for Fourth of July. You can see the fireworks from the roof of my building.”

  Duncan reached into his backpack and handed Brett the first invitation.

  The sports club on the top of the Cheshire Tower had a fifty-foot indoor swimming pool—not all that big, but big enough for the twenty-seventh floor of an apartment building. There were windows all around it, but most impressive was the big window at the deep end, just six inches above the waterline. There was no deck at the deep end, and anyone who could bob his head high enough would get a glorious view of the city from the pool.

  It had cost Duncan’s father a small fortune to rent out the entire pool for the Fourth of July. Duncan promised to work all summer to pay it off, and by the time school ended, he had already lined up some odd jobs tutoring math and walking an old lady’s five poodles. The work helped to pass the time from the end of school to the Fourth of July—two weeks that, to Duncan, seemed to stretch on forever.

  Then, on that long-awaited Saturday evening, his school-mates began to arrive in droves. Duncan couldn’t believe that they all came!

  “I never knew you had so many friends,” remarked his mother.

  “Yeah. It’s amazing what pizza can do,” said Duncan. And pizza there was. Everywhere. There was even one floating on a platter in the pool, looking like a jellyfish with pepperoni on it.

  “This is great, Duncan,” said Trevor—another flusher who had never said anything nice to him before. A girl named Melissa, who was famous for spreading vicious rumors about Duncan behind his back, scarfed down pizza and told him that he was the best.

  But there was one guest who was not having a good time. Sandra sat in her green party dress, alone on the edge of a chaise longue.

  “You didn’t tell me it was a pool party!” she said.

  “Sorry, I forgot,” Duncan lied. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t go swimming either.”

  Sandra smiled politely at his offer.

  “You could help me ref the water-volleyball game,” he suggested. Then he looked at his watch. It was already twenty minutes before nine, just the right time for the game. It would definitely be the best game ever.

  When it got dark, Independence Day exploded in the skies over Cheshire Tower like a revolution. Duncan helped his dad set up the volleyball net across the width of the pool, and everyone except Duncan and Sandra played.

  Brett, who was self-proclaimed captain of the deep-water team, hogged the ball and held several people underwater until they came up coughing. This strategy seemed to work, because they creamed them. It was 8:56.

  Duncan began to get just a bit edgy. “Rematch!” he called, but there were complaints that the sides weren’t fair, and people began hopping out of the pool. To Duncan, that was completely unacceptable.

  It was then that he slipped on the wet tiles of the deck. He didn’t fall in the pool, but the sight of old Flushie slipping was enough to plant a seed in everyone’s mind. It only took one suggestion from Brett for that seed to take root.

  “Taking up diving, Flushie?” razzed Brett. Everyone laughed, and Brett heaved himself out of the pool, heading around the deck toward Duncan. The others looked at one another and began smiling.

  “Sure, I’ll bet you could be an Olympic diver,” said Charlie, jumping out of the pool.

  And then Nate said what they were all thinking: “Let’s throw Duncan in the pool!” There was outrageous commotion in the water as everyone climbed out and headed toward him. Panicked, Duncan looked for his parents, but they were probably out on the sundeck watching the fireworks.

  Sandra saw what was happening and tried to stop it. But there were simply too many of them. Then she slipped, too, falling hard on her knees.

  “Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!” they chanted as they approached. The useless lifeguard pointed and blew his whistle, but nobody listened. Not now!thought Duncan, looking at his watch. It was exactly one minute until nine!

  Naturally, Brett was the first one to reach him, and the look on his face reminded Duncan why he had thrown this “party” to begin with. Brett looked like a lion about to devour an antelope. It was how he looked whenever he flushed Duncan.

  Brett grabbed Duncan hard. Duncan resisted, but then he felt hands all over him, lifting him off the ground, moving him closer to the water.

  “Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!”

  “No!” yelled Sandra, but she got tangled up in the mob as she tried to get them off Duncan.

  “Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!”

  They all heaved at once, and the force created enough momentum to take them all in, like a single beast with a dozen arms and legs.

  Far away a church bell began to chime out nine o’clock, and an odd sound echoed under the surface of the Cheshire Tower pool, like a submarine struck by a torpedo. The big window just above the deep end rattled violently.

  By the time everyone came up for air, it was clear something strange was going on. The water was moving all by itself.

  While the others floundered, wondering what was going on, Duncan swam with all his might to the nearest ladder, held on with all his strength, and watched.

  It didn’t happen the way he had imagined it. He had thought there would be a whirlpool spinning around and around, but there wasn’t. Instead, there was a wave in the deep end that rolled like the ocean surf but never got any closer. The water in front of that wave was dragged beneath the churning water like a powerful undertow.

  “Wow, a wave pool!” shouted Charlie.

  Nate, who was right underneath the big window at the deep end, was the first to find out exactly what was going on. First his head bobbed on top of the great rolling wave, then he was pulled beneath it. Without even having a chance to scream, he was pulled deep down in the pool, and before he knew what was happening, he was out in the cold night air, falling toward the taxicabs twenty-seven floors below.

  Everyone caught on quickly when Charlie disappeared, too. Then the screaming began. They all tried to fight the riptide pulling them to the deep end, but it was hopeless. One by one their screams were silenced, and they were pulled under as if into the mouth of a shark, then ejected from the b
uilding through a huge, jagged hole in the side of the pool.

  Duncan watched with a sense of power he hadn’t felt since the week before, when he had finished building the time bomb—the very bomb that had now blown a hole in both the pool and the outer wall of the building. It had been easier to build than any of his science projects. I’ll bet they heard that in Jersey, huh, Eugene?he thought when the blast first went off.

  The lifeguard and adults, who had rushed back to the pool, could do nothing but gawk and shriek as they watched kid after kid go under.

  Melissa went, dragging the volleyball net with her, followed by several others. It was then that Sandra came floating by, her green party dress rippling around her like a lily pad. Duncan could not let hergo. He had never intended for her to be in the water at all. He reached out his hand and she grabbed it—this time with no reservations. That in itself was something! He pulled her toward him and helped her hook her arms around the chrome pole of the pool ladder.

  Now do you see?he thought. Now do you see why I didn’t want you to swim? You’re the only one worth saving, Sandra. The only one!

  There was a roaring blast like the sound of a whale’s blowhole, and they both turned to see that the water level had dropped far enough to reveal the top lip of the gaping hole. The rolling wave was gone, and all that remained was the water pouring down a bottomless waterslide that spilled into the sky above Eighty-fourth Street.

  Brett bobbed past Duncan, holding out his grubby hand. He locked eyes with Duncan. This time, Brett’s eyes were the eyes of the antelope. “Help me,” he pleaded.

  Duncan held out his hand toward Brett, but instead of taking Brett’s hand, Duncan closed his fingers into a fist and gave Brett a thumbs-up.

  “Flush!” Duncan sneered. With that, the current caught Brett and pulled him into the hole, where he was permanently expelled.

  Duncan looked at Sandra, who was screaming and shivering as she clung to the ladder.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  He wanted to stop her from crying. He wanted to kiss her. Would she let him do that, knowing how strong he really was? Strong enough to beat his enemies—strong enough to win once and for all. Duncan took one hand from the ladder and moved it toward her trembling cheek.

  That’s all it took.

  His foot slipped from the rung, his hand slipped from the bar, and he was suddenly moving farther and farther away from Sandra. “Duncan!” she screamed. He tried to swim back to her, but it was too late. The current had him, and he felt himself being pulled toward the final flush of his life.

  Trevor was still in the pool, fighting a battle with the foaming white water—a battle he lost. Trevor went down, then at last the hole locked its sights onto Duncan, pulling him toward it like a tractor beam. Helpless, he stopped fighting its powerful gravity and accelerated toward the black hole. Then, as if in slow motion, it ejected him out into . . . city lights! All around, dazzling him! Wind, filling his ears, eyes, and mouth!

  Far below, the traffic had already come to a screeching halt. Honking horns, screaming bystanders, and bursts from the fireworks filled the night. Duncan took in the amazing view as he fell, and he let out a final cry of victory, for he knew that all the others had gone before him. At least that was something!

  As the ground raced up to meet him, Duncan threw out his arms and legs, riding the wind like a skydiver.

  And he held his breath.

  MONKEYS TONIGHT

  When my son was about three years old, we made the mistake of showing him The Wizard of Oz. It got to the scene with the flying monkeys, and he ran from the room in terror. From that moment on, he was terrified of monkeys. Shortly thereafter he had a dream that there were monkeys in the house, and he had us check, not just his room and the closet and under his bed, but in the garage, the backyard, and the refrigerator. We thought we had convinced him that the house was safe from a monkey invasion until he looked at the fireplace. We had been talking about Santa coming down the chimney, as it was close to Christmas, and he decided that if Santa could come down the chimney, then monkeys could as well. After that night, I just had to write a story about those monkeys. . . .

  MONKEYS TONIGHT

  My sister wakes up screaming at the top of her lungs—a sharp, shrill sound, like an alarm, or a teakettle boiling to death. The awful noise rips me out of the deepest of sleeps. I twist through space until I feel the blanket around me and the coldness of my feet. She screams again, and I pull the blanket over my head, trying to cram it into my ears.

  Then I hear the panicked footsteps of my parents as they race down the hall. I glance at the clock. It’s almost four in the morning.

  Mom and Dad bound into the room as Melinda empties her lungs again, even louder than before.

  “Shut her up!” I croak to my parents in a raspy night voice. Mom and Dad ignore me and race to Melinda’s bed. They shake her and shake her until she comes out of her nightmare. Her screaming fades into a whimper, but when she sees Mom and Dad above her, she begins to sob. Dad takes her into his arms as she cries.

  “I’ll get her some water,” says Mom.

  “Bring some for me,” I say, knowing that Mom doesn’t hear me. She never hears me when Smellinda is crying. Smellinda: that’s what I call her, because as far as I’m concerned, she stinks.

  “Can’t you shut her up?” I plead, trying to stretch the blanket over my freezing feet.

  “Ryan, just go back to sleep,” says Dad.

  Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to share a room with a human air-raid siren. There is something wrong when a twelve-year-old boy is forced to share a room with his eight-year-old sister. There ought to be a law against it.

  Dad picks up Melinda and rocks her gently. “What is it, honey?” he asks.

  “Monkeys,” whimpers Melinda.

  I groan and bury my head in my pillow as Mom brings water for Melinda and nothing for me. Why did I know it was going to be monkeys? It’s always monkeys.

  Monkeys. Of all the dumb things to be afraid of. I mean, there are plenty of reallyscary things to be afraid of, aren’t there? Mummies, and skeletons, and spooky graveyards, and vampires. But personally, it’s spiders that freak me out. Sometimes I imagine these big, three-foot-long spiders with hairy black legs the size of human arms. They drink your blood, spiders do. Well, not human blood—fly blood. But I suppose if spiders were big enough, they could go for human blood, too. Just the thought of them makes my skin crawl and my heart start to race. But monkeys ? Who in their right mind is scared of monkeys?

  Smellinda, that’s who.

  Dad holds her and walks back and forth on Melinda’s side of the room, full of dolls and rainbow wallpaper. It’s the side of the room my friends make fun of when they come over to visit, as if I had anything to say about it.

  “There are no monkeys in here,” Dad tells Melinda. “It was just a dream. Just your imagination.”

  “They came down the chimney,” she cries. I start to laugh to myself. A few weeks ago we saw a television show about how they transport zoo animals by plane. One of the animals they showed was a monkey. Ever since then, every time a plane flies by, Melinda is certain that a monkey is going to jump out of the plane like a hairy paratrooper and head straight for our chimney.

  “There are no monkeys in the room, sweet cakes,” says Mom, flicking on the light, blinding me. “See?”

  I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

  “The closet,” says my sister.

  Dad opens the closet to reveal clothes and a messy pile of toys.

  “The bathroom,” says Melinda.

  Dad steps into the bathroom, peeling back the shower curtain to reveal just a leaky faucet and a bathtub ring.

  “The kitchen,” insists Melinda.

  Dad carries her down the hallway, and I hear him and Mom inspect every inch of our house. Closets, cabinets, the oven, the fireplace—they even check under the furniture.

  Finally, ten minutes later, they come back
with Melinda happily asleep in Dad’s arms, satisfied that the house has been purged of the banana-eating menaces. They gently tuck her in, turn off the light, and go back to bed.

  Melinda, her nose stuffy from crying, snores away. Even after her monkey fit, she can sleep. But I’m not so lucky. I can hear everything around me. I hear the awful ticking of her Mickey Mouse clock. I hear the whap!as the paperboy throws newspapers on driveways long before the sun comes up. When I open my eyes I see shadows and get spooked. The shadows are like fat spiders, with legs stretching along the walls and floor. Darkness creeping, inch by inch toward my bed. I know that it’s only clothes piled in the corner, and stuffed animals on the shelves, and patterns cast by the window blind, but still, I see spiders. Once I’ve got the spider creeps, I know I won’t sleep for the rest of the night, no matter how much I want to.

  But there’s Melinda across the room, sleeping happily with her dolls and purple ponies and fluffy teddy bears. She sleeps peacefully, probably dreaming of a beautiful fairy-tale castle. And I silently wish for her dream castle to be invaded by baboons.

  On the drive to school in the morning, Melinda and I sit in the backseat. Melinda plays with Deep Space Barbie, who has blue hair and green skin. I just sit there like a zombie who didn’t get enough sleep. How I wish I could go back to bed!

  Mom drives, listening to the news, hoping to hear a traffic report. Instead, we hear a story about the zoo.

  Tragedy struck the Central Zoo yesterday,begins the reporter, when an angry gorilla apparently broke through its cage, grabbed a man, and ripped off—

  CLICK!

  Mom quickly turns off the radio, pretending she didn’t hear the reporter.

  Melinda looks at me with a face that’s turning almost as green as Deep Space Barbie. “Ripped off what?” she asks.

  “Probably ripped off his arms,” I tell her.

  “Ryan!” my mother warns.

  “Maybe his head, too. Gorillas are known to do that.”

  “Mommy, what do you think the gorilla ripped off?” Melinda asks tentatively.