Lightning; and thunder.
Ashes in the fireplace shifting into piles.
The wind rattling the pane and keening through the eaves.
The boys jumped, smiled nervously, and jumped again when the kitchen door pushed open and Bernie came out with a tray in her hands. She walked to the cardtable in the middle of the room and put the tray in the centre. There were three glasses filled with soda, a huge bowl of popcorn, and three chocolate candy bars.
None of the boys moved. They only watched as the babysitter frowned at the closed drapes, at the turned-around bench, and at Will still standing by the floorlamp in the corner. Her short brown hair seemed darker tonight, her eyes deeper, her nose sharper, and when she brushed her hands down the side of her dress, she seemed less like a friend than the guard Will had described.
“I thought,” she said, “you were going to watch the storm.”
“That’s dumb,” Stacey told her.
“Yeah,” Will agreed.
She turned to Jeremy then and waited for his answer.
He shrugged. He didn’t want to get her mad, didn’t want her to tell his mother and father he was being a pain again. Bernie was all right, and he wanted to keep her on his side. She had stayed with him twice before, and with Stacey and Will too, just after the big trouble started, and though she sometimes made him nervous the way she looked at him, the way she walked around the house without making a sound, he thought she was pretty okay, for a grownup.
“Sit,” she said, and pointed at the bench.
They did, sensing something in her manner that forestalled rebellion. Besides, they could smell the butter on the popcorn, see the bubbles in the soda, and the chocolate bars were the largest they had ever seen in their lives.
“We’re going to have a contest,” she told them, standing behind the table with her hands folded at her waist. “It’s going to be a lot of fun. The only thing is, you can’t be afraid.”
“Afraid?” Stacey said. “Who’s afraid?”
Bernie smiled slowly. “Aren’t you scared of the dark?”
Stacey laughed, Will sneered, Jeremy pulled on his ear.
She stared at them until Will giggled.
“Stace is scared of the ocean,” he said, taking a punch on the arm.
“Yeah? Well, you’re scared of the dark, you even still gotta nightlight.”
Jeremy kept silent—he was only scared of his parents.
“Good,” she said. “That’s fine, because the contest, you see, is a series of games that I pick for you to play.”
“Big deal,” said Will, poking Jeremy in the ribs.
“What is it, spin the bottle?” Stacey said, laughing until he saw the look on her face.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now pay attention, please. I want you to listen closely. Since you’re not afraid of the dark, I’ll pick something . . .” She looked to the ceiling, looked down, and touched the table. “If you get scared, you lose.”
“Jesus, Bernie,” Stacey said. “We’re not babies, you know.”
“I know,” she told him. “And that’s what I told your parents. You’re not babies anymore. You can take it. You’re tough.”
“Right,” Stacey said, Will nodded emphatically, and Jeremy said, “Take what?”
Bernie ignored him. “The rules are simple: I pick the games, nobody quits before the end, and for every game you win you get to keep a bar of this chocolate.”
“That’s not fair!” Stacey complained.
Bernie smiled. “Second place gets popcorn.”
“Hey!” said Will.
“And last place gets to sleep in the rain.”
Jeremy looked at his friends, looked at Bernie, and decided that this wasn’t going to be a good night after all.
She looked at her watch. “We’d better get started. I promised your parents we’d be done before they return. Are you ready?”
They each nodded, staring at the chocolate bars each weighing three pounds.
“In that case,” she said, in the thunder, in the lightning, while the wind knocked on the door, “the first game is:”
hide-and-seek
It was dark, so dark it was like living in a black cloud.
And it was quiet, except for the sound of his breathing.
Will Young closed his mouth and his eyes and wished he wasn’t so fat. His mother was always yelling at him for eating too much, and for sneaking food into his bedroom after he was supposed to be asleep. But he didn’t care. He enjoyed eating. It didn’t matter what there was in the cupboards or in the refrigerator as long as it was good—and there wasn’t much he didn’t like.
And he didn’t think he was really gross-and-ugly fat, not like his father was, with his belly showing even when his shirt was all buttoned. He just had a little extra here and there around his waist and his face, and that definitely didn’t stop him from being able to run, or climb, or crawl under the porch; at least his arms didn’t have all that flab hanging down, and at least his thighs didn’t rub together because there was no room between them.
Nevertheless, he wished now he was a little slimmer, because then he could squeeze a bit further back in the closet, maybe behind the golf bag that belonged to Jerry’s father. He didn’t think he’d have to stay here very long because Stacey said it was a dumb game and didn’t want to play and would probably deliberately get himself caught first. Jerry knew the house better than anyone, but Will thought he was scared of something and would probably head right for the cellar, the first place Bernie would look.
The huge closet in the upstairs hall, then, was almost perfect when he found it. Clothes and coats hanging from the rail, boxes and stuff stacked on the floor, and the door so snug no light came underneath it.
He reached out his hands and felt around him, trying to move things in front and move himself farther back, without making any noise. He breathed through his mouth. He froze whenever he heard footsteps passing outside.
And he finally reached the corner after moving the golf bag aside.
Perfect. Dark, but perfect. Bernie would have to declare him the winner of this game, no question about it.
He grinned, and rubbed his hands together.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, and listened to the muffled spill of thunder over the roof.
And heard something move on the other side of the closet.
He blinked and cocked his head, frowning as he listened as hard as he could and wondering what it was, or maybe it was his imagination.
A scratching, soft and slow, maybe it’s a rat or a bat or something that lives in the back of the closet and waits for dopes like him to play stupid baby games in the middle of a storm; a scratching, soft and slow, and something suddenly brushed quickly over his face. He almost yelled as he lashed out to knock it away, nearly yelled again when his fingers were caught, trapped in something that had round hard teeth. His free hand grabbed for it while he pushed deeper into the corner, grabbed and yanked, and something fell over his face.
He did yell, then, but the sound was muffled, all sound deadened as his feet kicked out and struck the golf bag, as his head slammed against the wall, as his hands tore and pulled and the thing dropped and tangled into his lap, and a coat hanger a moment later fell onto his chest.
Shit, he thought as he felt the jacket on his legs, the round buttons, the smooth lapels. Shit, you’re a jerk.
He shuddered and rolled his shoulders, wiped a hand over his eyes and felt the perspiration slick on his face. He dried himself with the jacket and pulled the golf bag back in front of him, proud that he’d fought the demons and hadn’t been killed.
Besides, this proved that he’d made a good choice. This proved he could be quiet.
Bernie, he knew then, would never find him now. She might open the door, but even the light from the hall wouldn’t reach him back here. And she sure wouldn’t come in, not with that dress on. He giggled, and quickly covered his mouth. He didn’t know her very well, only the two oth
er times he’d been over when she’d sat with Jeremy, but he knew she wouldn’t want to dirty that dress. She was very careful about it. He could see that. He could see how she stayed away from the walls, and held the skirt away from anything that might touch it and make it dirty.
She was weird, and not even Jeremy could tell him he was wrong. Weird, and always looking at them as if they were bugs or something. Sometimes She was fun, like with the spooky stories she’d tell them, but most of the time she just sat on the bench in the den and watched them. Like a guard. Like a dog. Until Mr. and Mrs. Kneale came home, and then she would put on her coat and leave without even saying goodnight.
Weird.
Really weird.
And a scratching in the corner.
A laugh outside as Stacey ran down the hall, telling his two friends he was caught but don’t give up, Bernie was a jerk, and they’d share the chocolate later.
Will smiled and nodded to himself. One down, one to go. All she had to do was find Jeremy and the game was all his. All that candy, all his.
His stomach growled.
Something scratched lightly in the corner, and he wished there wasn’t such a draft in here, tickling his neck and making him think there was something crawling through his hair. The wind outside had found a hole in the walls, had snuck around the windows, and now he was getting cold and the clothes were moving and rustling together, whispering to each other and scratching.
are you afraid of the dark?
A monster, he thought then, and squeezed his eyes closed, grateful for the coloured lights that swirled in small circles and the curtains of faint orange that drifted down from the top, disappeared and came back; there was a monster in the closet.
He shifted, and heard someone walking the hall outside the door.
Bernie, he called silently, go find Jeremy, I’m not here.
A monster in with him, but the candy bars were huge and all he had to do was wait until his best friend was found.
A coat hanger scraped on the metal pole overhead.
Besides, there’s no such things as monsters and I will not be afraid because I am hungry and I want that candy, he thought, his hands tight in fists, his eyes still closed.
Something thumped against the golf bag, and the clubs inside rattled.
No such thing. No such thing.
The bag quivered again, and he felt a weight press against the sole of his sneaker. And he sighed his relief, grinned and shook his head at how stupid he could be. It had been his foot all the time. He had unthinkingly stretched a leg out and had kicked the bag with his foot, so there was nothing to worry about, alone here in the dark.
scratching
Then he heard Jeremy running, probably from his bedroom, not the cellar after all, telling Will it was over, that he’d won the first game.
He sighed again, loudly, and nodded. He knew he would win. How could they have thought otherwise? Wasn’t he the champion hide-and-seeker in the whole school, if not the whole entire world? Couldn’t he do something wrong and then hide from his parents until they were nearly frantic with fear until he popped out and smiled and they forgot they were angry?
Shit, he was the champ. Bernie should have known.
A footstep by the door.
And a scratching inside.
He grinned and shifted, and took hold of the bag.
Someone turned the lock . . . turned the lock and walked away.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Bernie, it’s me!”
And he pushed the bag aside, and saw the red eyes staring at him.
The candy bars sat in the middle of the table, and Stacey stood as close as he dared, one eye on Bernie fussing with the logs in the fireplace, the other on the reward he would win the next time. Had Jeremy been last, it would have been different because Jerry was okay. But Will was a p-i-g hog and he didn’t think he could stand sitting here watching that pig scoff down all that chocolate.
Bernie rose and dusted her hands on the apron she wore around her waist.
Stacey decided he would win the next one, and let Jerry have the last. At least that way, Will-the-pig wouldn’t hog it all and make them look stupid besides.
“Are you ready?” she asked, standing on the hearth.
Jeremy looked toward the stairs that led to the first floor. “But we can’t,” he said. “We gotta wait for Will.”
“The hell with Will,” Stacey said with a sneer. “He’s got his dumb candy, now he’s just playing. We oughta let him stay wherever he is all night.”
“That’s not fair!”
“If that’s the way Will wants it,” Bernie said softly, “then that’s the way he’ll have it. If he’s not back before we finish the next game, he’ll forfeit his prize.”
“Yeah!” Stacey said. “Way t’go, Bernie.”
She smiled briefly, and he smiled back. She was really queer, but she had bigger tits even than his mother, and he didn’t think she knew that he’d been trying to look down her dress all night. He’d whispered that to Jerry while they were waiting for Will, and the dip had blushed. He really had blushed. Stacey figured the kid didn’t know anything about women, and wasn’t surprised. His old man was the strictest parent in the world, and wouldn’t even let him look at photography magazines. That was dumb. That was really and truly dumb.
“So,” he said, “when do we start?”
“Stace . . .”
“Aw, c’mon, huh? They’re gonna be back soon. We gotta get a move on.”
“Stacey’s right,” Bernie said. She reached into the apron pocket, then, and pulled out something wrapped in white cloth. Slowly, she pulled the corners aside, and he saw in her palm a massive red jewel. It caught the dim light and doubled it, seemed to quiver when thunder rumbled through the room.
“Wow,” he said.
“This,” she said, “was taken from a very rich man. He has the police looking for it. He’s given them one hour to find it or else.” She smiled without showing her teeth. “We’re going to play:”
cops and robbers
Stacey knew he had made a mistake. He should have found some place inside to hide the jewel, but had convinced himself that Jerry would have found it in less than ten minutes. After all, it was his house, and he knew all the good places where such a thing could be hidden.
But this was silly.
He stood on the patio, the wind tearing at his hair and lashing it in his face, making him squint, hunching his shoulders, making his arms tremble as he considered digging a hole in one of the potted plants and burying it there.
No. Once Jerry knew he’d left the house, that would be the first place he’d look. And there wasn’t time to dig a hole in the yard because the ground was still hard and he didn’t have any tools.
Dumb, Parsons, he told himself when the wind turned him around. Really and truly dumb.
Then a streak of cloud-smothered lightning illuminated the backyard, and he grinned so hard his cheeks began to ache.
The well. That stupid plaster well Mrs. Kneale had bought last summer. They were forbidden to go near it, to touch, even to breathe on it, which didn’t bother him because he thought it was stupid. What good was a well when it didn’t go anywhere? All Mr. Kneale had done was take it out of the station wagon with Jerry and his help, and carried it to the yard, plunked it down, and got himself a beer to celebrate. Mrs. Kneale had applauded like they’d moved the stupid damn Empire State Building, and after that she and Jerry’s father would sit on the patio and toss pennies at it, making wishes. She’d wanted Stacey to do it once, and he did because Jerry was his friend, but he’d felt dumb and he made Jerry swear later he wouldn’t tell a soul.
Then, in August, he’d had an idea.
Mr. Kneale was getting pretty good at pitching the coins in; he could even do it most times with his eyes closed. So one night, when they were supposed to have been over at Will’s, they snuck through the hole in the hedge and moved the well over. Just a few inches, not enough to notice.
&n
bsp; Mr. Kneale missed, moved his chair, and recovered his aim.
They moved the well again, back where it was, and sat on the other side of the hedge in Will’s yard and laughed themselves into hiccoughs when they heard the guy swearing.
They managed it twice more, until the night Jerry slipped on the damp grass and the well landed hard. One side cracked. A small split they didn’t think anyone would notice.
Mrs. Kneale did, and that stupid Jerry broke the minute she asked him if they’d been fooling around.
Stupidass Jerry. Him and his stupidass books and his posters and not even knowing what Bernie looked like without her clothes. Damn, but they’d gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble, especially when Stacey had let slip a fuck-word when his mother grabbed for his arm. Christ, that had put him in his room for a whole goddamned week.
The well, then. Jerry was still too scared to go near it, and wouldn’t dream that his old pal still had the nerve.
He hurried off the patio onto the grass, crouched over and running on his toes, stopping once when lightning put a shadow in front of him and it took him a moment to realize it was his own. A look back over his shoulder, the draperies were still closed, and he dove around the side of the well, out of the wind.
Buried lightning again, and the mutter of thunder, and he whirled around when he thought he heard something coming through the hedge.
Nothing. It was nothing.
The leaves husked and branches rattled, and grass crawled toward his legs, and all the houses he could see were perfectly dark. Holes in the night; mouths of black monsters that ate people after sunset.
“Fuck” he said into the wind. It made him feel better, because the wind was getting on his nerves. “Fuck, shit, damn, hell.” He smiled, and pulled the ruby out of his pocket, lifted his hand to drop it in the well when he stopped, frowned, and wondered just how stupid dumb Jerry really was. He just might think of the well, he just might, and if he looked inside with a flashlight he’d see it right away and get all the chocolate. Worse; he’d brag about it to every kid in the school, every day for a goddamned year. Worse yet, he’d prove he was such a good little boy that his parents would lift the grounding, and leave Stacey stuck in his room.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 13 Page 5