by John Marsden
Why would you need help? you wonder. What’s she on about? But before you can ask those questions she’s walking away down the drive. If you want to try again you’ll have to be quick. But she seems kind of hard to get through to. Maybe you’d be better off exploring those sheds.
i, Stacey,’ you mumble, ‘how nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ she replies, through clenched teeth.
‘I told you they’d get on well,’ your mother says to Stacey’s mum. ‘Now why don’t you two go off and play together? We’ll be in the house having a cup of tea and catching up on old times.’
The two women walk happily into the house, chattering and laughing, and you’re left, standing there with Stacey.
‘Well,’ you say, ‘where do you want to play?’
She gives you a sickly sweet smile. ‘I know a nice place we can go.’
Against your better judgement you say: ‘OK.’
You follow her down the path. It gets pretty overgrown. You fight your way through the undergrowth, wondering why you’re doing this. But Stacey keeps going, not looking back. To your surprise you suddenly come to an old car in a small clearing. It’s up on blocks but it’s no wreck. It’s actually in quite good condition. It looks like a car from one of those American musicals: Saturday Night Fever or something. Pink, with big fins and bench seats. It sits there gleaming like a jewel.
‘Wow,’ you breathe.
‘You like it?’ Stacey asks.
‘Sure do.’
‘Hop in,’ she invites.
‘Whose is it?’ you ask.
‘Oh, just someone who used to live here,’ Stacey says vaguely.
You’re attracted to the car, but some instinct makes you hesitate. You’ve always been told not to get in cars with strange men, but what about with strange girls?
ith all the strength you can muster you slam the door. You slam it so hard that you’re surprised it doesn’t fall off its hinges. A few dark brown hairs sticking through the crack show you how close the creature came to getting through. You lean back against the wall, panting with relief. You’re safe, for the time being. You smile as you think about how you got away. You feel pretty good!
Twelve hours later you’re not feeling quite so good. Every time you put your eye to the keyhole you see his red eyes gleaming back at you, like laser beams. You can even hear his low grumbling growl, occasionally breaking into a hungry roar. From time to time he throws himself against the door, and you watch in terror as the old oak panels rock and shake. You don’t understand why no-one’s come to rescue you, but you start to realise that maybe no-one ever will.
The situation’s desperate and you need to do some creative thinking. How can you get out of this? Will you ever see your loved ones again? Will you ever breathe fresh air, see the stars at night, hear the birds chirping? Will you ever eat a Big Mac, listen to Triple J, or fail a Maths test? All of life’s big thrills are hanging in the balance. You search around the cellar for some escape, something you can use. You find only two possibilities. One’s a spoon that you think maybe you can use to tunnel out of there, like in the old war movies. The other’s a black-and-white TV. The TV seems to work, but you can’t think what you’re going to do with it.
ight in front of you is a statue of some kind, covered with a dustsheet. It seems like a human figure. ‘Hmm,’ you think, ‘looks interesting. Maybe it’s some incredibly rare sculpture, worth millions of dollars.’
You take a step forwards and go to pull the sheet off.
But just then there’s a movement under the sheet. Right where the hand of the statue would be, there’s a tiny movement.
‘Oh no,’ you think. ‘Oh no. I imagined that. I must have. Oh please, please, let me have imagined that.’
You look around at the trapdoor, hoping that a breeze from there might have moved the sheet. But the trapdoor is closed and the attic is completely still.
You turn back to the statue. You watch it for quite a while, but there’s no further movement. At last you persuade yourself that you must have imagined the whole thing. You decide for the second time that you’re going to pull off the dustsheet. Once again you take a step forwards. And once again there’s a movement.
Only this time it’s a violent movement.
The sheet is suddenly thrown off. Someone or something under the sheet throws it off. The sheet goes flying through the air.
You try to scream but the only sound that comes from your throat is the hacking noise you’d get from someone who’s been chain-smoking for thirty years. You don’t stop to see what was under the sheet. You turn and try to run for the trapdoor. But you trip over a roll of carpet and fall heavily to the floor. For a moment you’re winded and concussed, unable to get up. And then suddenly you feel a weight on your back and thin bony fingers tightening around your throat.
Panic gives you new strength. You throw the weight off and stumble to your feet. You stumble across the room towards the trapdoor. You don’t dare look back. But when you’re halfway to the trapdoor a frightening apparition jumps in front of you. It’s a dried human, a sultana human. Like someone who’s been dead a thousand years and has dried out till nothing’s left but the skin and the bones, only the skin’s all yellow and crackly and leathery and there are no eyes and . . .
You scream and race across to the window. You pick up a block of wood that’s lying there and smash the glass out of the frame. You plan to climb out and escape along the roof, but one glance through the broken glass makes you hesitate. The roof’s horribly steep and the rain has started, so it’ll be very slippery. Should you risk it or not? One thing’s for sure, you have to make a quick decision.
ook,’ you say, ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, but this seems a pretty cool house to me. Anyway, where do you live?’
‘I’ll show you,’ she says. She leads you to the front, into the street, and points away to your left. ‘There,’ she says.
‘Oh,’ you say. ‘There, huh?’
You’re looking at a church. It’s the only other old building on the street.
‘So is your father the minister?’ you ask.
She laughs. ‘No,’ she says. ‘My mother.’
‘Oh,’ you say, feeling a little silly.
‘Do you want to come and look?’
‘OK.’
You walk down there. The church is a big solid stone building with dark leadlight windows, and trees growing all around it. There’s a graveyard on the left hand side.
Stacey pushes open a side door made of heavy timber with black hinges. It squeaks and creaks and groans. She goes inside and you follow. It’s very quiet and gloomy in there. There’s a lot of dust around. You get the feeling that no-one comes here too often. You look round curiously.
Just at that moment there’s a huge blast of sound. The air is hit by the shock wave of sound. It almost lifts you off the ground. Your hair tries to pull itself out of your scalp by the roots. You grab Stacey.
‘W . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . w . . .’
‘I didn’t know you had a stammer,’ Stacey says.
‘I didn’t either,’ you say.
You start to realise that Stacey’s not too stressed and you feel a little embarrassed at the way you’ve been clutching her. You step away.
‘What is it?’ you ask.
‘It’s the organ,’ she says.
‘Oh,’ you say.
The music is now in full force, filling the church. It’s loud!
‘What’s the tune?’ you ask.
‘“The Death March”,’ she says.
‘Who’s playing it?’ you ask.
‘I am,’ she says.
Uh? What is this girl on about? You look at her in disbelief.
‘Are you off your head?’ you ask politely.
She gives a little smile. A strange secretive sinister little smile.
‘I am playing it, you know,’ she says, stepping slightly closer to yo
u.
In the dim light of the church you see two tiny red spots in her eyes, like reflectors on a bike. You don’t want to look away from her but you would love to check where the door is. Not that you’re worried exactly, but just to be on the safe side . . .
‘How can you be playing it?’ you ask Stacey.
‘I have the power,’ she whispers.
‘Um, you mean you’ve got a remote control?’ you ask.
She shakes her head slowly, still with that little smile playing around her lips.
Suddenly Stacey snaps her fingers and the music stops. The shock is just as great as the shock you got when it started. Stacey’s hands are reaching out towards you. You stare at them, almost hypnotised. Her hands are moving very slowly, like a pair of dancing snakes. Not that you’ve ever seen a pair of dancing snakes. Desperately you try to think. What can you do? This is weird. There’s a wooden cross right behind you. Should you grab it and threaten her? Or should you just run?
’ve already said hello to Stacey,’ you mumble. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
Your mother rolls her eyes, like you’ve been bad-mannered again. You can’t figure out why, but you’ve spotted some interesting-looking food and you head towards it. Chocolate eclairs, yum. ‘Just one, dear,’ your mother says. ‘Mrs Cunningham brought them. Isn’t that nice? Offer them to Stacey and her mother.’
‘Here, you wanna cake?’ you ask, nicking one for yourself, then pushing the plate in Stacey’s direction and grabbing a lamington at the same time. Stacey doesn’t have an eclair and neither does her mother, but your mum helps herself to one. You hesitate between your eclair and your lamington but you decide to go for the eclair. You bite into it. It tastes sweet but a bit funny. Kind of . . . like chalk dust has been mixed into it. Not a strong taste, so you ignore it and have another mouthful. But then suddenly you get a strange feeling. It’s like you’ve been turned to stone. You feel numb all over and you can’t move. You’re standing there like a statue, like a shop dummy, like the canteen lady at school when you want to buy a Drumstick. You try to speak but your mouth is paralysed. You can see your mother and she’s the same: frozen. She’s still got half the chocolate eclair in her mouth and her hand is at her mouth holding it. This is frighteningly weird: the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you. You can at least move your eyes and you turn them to Mrs Cunningham. For the first time you notice how shiny her eyes are, how sharp her teeth. As you look at her a little dribble of spit runs down her chin. She smiles at her daughter. ‘I think they’re ready for our purposes,’ she says.
Stacey gives a cackle.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’ll get the . . .’
You don’t quite hear the next word. Was it coffins? Oh surely not. It must have been coffee. They’re obviously about to offer you a cup of coffee to make up for the mistake with the chocolate eclairs.
Stacey leaves, but a minute later you hear a car engine start. And then she returns. She’s driving a long grey station wagon. It looks suspiciously like a hearse. She gets out and opens the back. It is a hearse. In the rear are two coffins. Stacey and her mother come and lift your mum and take her over and put her in one of them. Then they come back for you. You’re totally helpless as they lift you and carry you to the box. They lie you in it and close the lid! It’s horrifying. It’s completely black in there: the blackest place you’ve ever been. You can’t even scream. This is a nightmare. No, worse than a nightmare. Nightmares are only dreams. This is true.
You get driven for hours. At first the road is smooth, but the further you go the rougher it gets. At last, though, the car stops. You hear footsteps, then the back of the car opening, then the lid of the coffin gets opened. You blink hard in the bright light. Then you realise that you can actually blink! Maybe you’re getting some movement back at last! Stacey’s mother is standing there. ‘Get out,’ she says. To your surprise you find you can move, even though you’re sore and stiff. Soon you’re standing behind the car, with your mother beside you. You think: ‘This is our chance! Maybe we should make a break for it.’
ou try to get the door shut but you’re a split second too late. The great monster rips the door off its hinges and, with a roar of rage, comes storming into the cellar after you. You rush around frantically from wall to wall trying to escape his hot breath. It’s like a pinball game where you’re the ball and you go bouncing off the obstacles. You don’t get points here though; the only prize is getting to stay alive.
Then the end seems to have come. You’re trapped against the back wall and the bear-thing is coming straight at you. His mouth is open and he’s ready to bite. You feel his breath. It’s like a small cyclone. To make things worse he’s been eating a lot of garlic, mixed with cheese and sardines. This is one of the least favourite moments of your life. But suddenly your hand, groping behind you, feels something big and round. You grab it, pull it out and without even looking to see what it is, you throw it straight into his cavernous mouth. Turns out it’s a basketball. The creature hesitates. You watch with interest as he gulps it down in one huge swallow. Then he lets loose with a burp that scorches the wall black. While he’s doing that, you duck between his legs and race to the other side of the cellar. You grab an old gum boot and when he wheels around and comes at you again you heave that down his gullet as well. He swallows it with hardly a pause, and you follow it up with a cushion, a 1963 telephone directory, and a dartboard. In the next few minutes, as you race around the cellar with him lumbering after you, you feed him a can of paint, the other gum boot, a few pieces of firewood, and a book called So Much to Tell You. The book’s the only thing he seems to have trouble digesting. Everything else goes down without a pause. You’re getting desperate when your eye suddenly lights on a small can in one corner. It’s labelled 2-STROKE FUEL, and it gives you an idea. You grab it as you race past and you screw its lid off. The next time the creature has you cornered and is roaring straight at you, you chuck the whole can down his throat. Then you grab a box of matches, light one, and throw it down, too.
The explosion is a beauty. You know those gadgets they advertise on TV that shred, chop, mince and puree? Well, forget about them. The explosion shreds, chops, minces and purees the hairy beast better than any gadget. It’s such a blast that it has the side effect of blowing you out of the cellar, straight up the stairs and halfway down the corridor towards the front of the house. Your mother’s coming down the corridor towards you.
‘Oh dear,’ she says, ‘I wish you wouldn’t play in the cellar. Go outside for those sorts of games.’
And she walks on down the corridor as you lie there feeling your cuts and bruises. You’re covered in bits of the monster’s flesh and hair.
‘Hmm,’ you think. ‘I’ll never understand adults.’
alking as lightly as you can you start making your way through the attic. Little clouds of dust rise into the air as you tiptoe along. There’s something about this place that makes you want to tread carefully. Something that makes you feel very uncomfortable. Something that makes you feel you shouldn’t be here.
You’re nearly into the next room when suddenly you hear a sound. Some sounds might be OK up here maybe, like mouse sounds, or wind rattling the windows, or flies buzzing. But a human whisper? No. No, that definitely should not be here.
You’re frozen with fear, your teeth rattling so hard you’re afraid they’ll cut off your tongue. You’re glad there’s no mirror because you never want to see yourself looking this grey. You try to think, to make your mind work, but it’s locked up completely. It might never work again. If you’re dead, for example, it’ll stop working. And you very well might be dead in the next moment or two. You go to take a step back but then you hear the whisper again. You listen for the words. All too clearly you hear them.
‘All who trespass will die,’ it hisses. ‘All who trespass will die.’
‘E . . . E . . . E . . .. E . . .. E . . .. . . E!’ you say. You don’t know what it means, but it’s definitely comin
g out of your mouth.
‘Death to the trespasser,’ it says again. ‘Come to me, trespasser, and prepare to die.’
‘Yi . . . yi . . . yi . . . yi . . . yi.’
‘You have thirty seconds to live,’ says the voice.
And suddenly there’s something familiar about it. You’ve heard that voice before. Only normally it says things like, ‘You have thirty seconds to change channels before I kill you.’
‘DANNY, YOU ROTTEN CREEP,’ you yell.
Your big brother pops up from behind a tea chest, laughing his stupid head off.
‘Gotcha, gotcha,’ he chants. ‘Gotcha! What a good one! You should have seen your face!’
‘Very funny,’ you say coldly. ‘I hope you found that amusing.’
‘Yes, I did, actually. Ha ha ha!’
‘How’d you get in here, anyway?’ you ask, hoping to change the subject.
‘Over there.’ He points to a door you hadn’t noticed before. It looks a much easier way than coming through the trapdoor.
‘So do you want to check this place out?’
‘Oh yeah, nothing better to do. What a dump. Here, look at this.’
He starts rummaging through a box of old clothes. Seems like the moths have used it as a restaurant, and dust flies everywhere. You start sneezing so, to get away, you go down to the end of the attic. It’s a real mess there, just a lot of junk, and so dark it’s hard to make out too many details. But you check it out anyway.
The biggest thing is an old trunk, about the size of your kitchen table. It’s huge. Behind that is a heap of machinery. To the left of that is one of those old self-operating wind-up winches, with a thin cable still attached to it. And that gives you an idea. An idea that will let you pay back your sneaky irritating brother.
ait! Wait!’ you call. ‘Please, come back.’