Creep Street

by John Marsden

  It’s amazing but no-one upstairs seems to have heard you. Before they get up and start asking embarrassing questions you and Stacey put the kitchen back in order.

  Then you look at her and say: ‘Well, do you want to go check it out?’

  She says: ‘I think we’d better.’

  ou climb faster and faster. The bell’s ringing so loudly now, so close to you, that it’s deafening. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to hear anything again. You try to remember: is that how the Hunchback of Notre Dame went deaf? But there’s no time to think about that. Stacey and her father are still right behind you. Then suddenly the noise stops. You realise why: it’s because you’re so close to the bell that you’re not swinging the rope now. So, you don’t hear the ringing any more, but you don’t hear anything else either. Your head feels numb.

  You jump off the rope onto a little platform that runs around the belltower. From it you can see the roofs of the houses far below. You don’t like heights at the best of times, and this is the worst of times. You run around the platform, getting as far away from Stacey and her dad as possible. But that’s not going to save you. Already Stacey’s father is getting off the rope. Now he’s coming towards you. His eyes are red and shining, his face is glistening with sweat, his mouth is open and his white pointy teeth are glinting and flashing. This is the most desperate situation you’ve ever been in, worse even than when you tried to stuff your baby brother down the toilet. This time you’re the one down the toilet.

  ‘Stop!’ you yell at Stacey’s father. At least you think that’s what you yell. You’re so deaf that you’re not sure what you said. And Stacey’s dad must be the same, because he shows no signs of having heard you. He’s reaching out for you, his long hairy arms aiming straight at your face. ‘I hope this is a dream,’ you think, but you know it’s not. Then he grabs you. You struggle as hard as you can, but he’s just too strong. You feel those pointy fangs biting hard into your neck, and a strange shaky feeling comes over you. It’s like your insides are being rearranged. Your blood seems to be getting hotter and hotter. Then you faint.

  Well, that was a long time ago. A few thousand years, give or take a century or two. Life’s pretty good these days. You live in a castle in Transylvania with a group of friends—Stacey and her father, for example. Every so often you go out for another meal. If you’re tired, you call the Blood Bank and have them come to you—they have a free home delivery service.

  Yes, it’s a good life. There’s only one problem. You just wish you could get rid of the ringing noise in your head that you’ve had for the last three thousand years.

  ou refuse Stacey’s kind invitation and hurry away, trying to ignore her contemptuous stare.

  That night you pull the wardrobe over in front of the door. You check the windows and windowsill, then lock the window. Then you get under the bed with your doona and pillow and put on your Walkman as loud as the batteries will let you, so that you can’t hear anything that happens outside. You lie there all night, shivering with fear. It’s a stormy night, and often the windows shake and the glass rattles with the strength of the wind. Every time it happens you think your life is about to end. You expect to see a group of ghostly figures come drifting in through the walls to surround the bed, dragging you out and hugging you with their cold clammy bony arms, inviting you to join them, deep in the dark earth . . . AAAAGGHHH! What was that? Oh. Just your teddy bear falling off the bed. You forget that you’re way too old for teddy bears and you clutch it like you’re drowning and it’s a lifesaver.

  In the morning you crawl out from under the bed feeling a little sore and cramped, and also feeling a little silly. How could you have believed all that rubbish Stacey told you? Ghosts, phooey! The room’s pretty stuffy because you didn’t let any fresh air in during the night. So you go over to the window to open it.

  And that’s when you see it.

  On the outside of the glass are scratch marks. What could have caused them? Surely not . . . human hands? Surely not . . . someone trying to get in? With your own hands shaking, you pull up the window. And there on the sill, old and yellowed and cracked where it was caught under the window sash, is something that definitely wasn’t there the night before: a single solitary human fingernail.

  K, better be warned, this isn’t going to be pretty. You can’t see anything around that would break the glass, so you do the only other possible thing: you put your head down and run straight at the window. There’s a huge crash and glass goes flying everywhere. Unfortunately you seem to have cut your head in the process because suddenly you realise that there’s blood flowing like a waterfall down your face. It pours down your shirt in torrents, then your jeans as well, completely saturating all your clothes. Within moments there’s a pool of it spreading across the floor. But nothing stops you. You wipe your eyes clear and grab the axe. You turn and run at Stacey’s dad, waving the axe above your head. You leap on top of him and start hacking him up into little bits. Now his blood’s flowing as freely as yours. Soon there’s blood lapping at your ankles. It’s all over the walls and the seats and the floor. It’s even dripping from the roof. Everything’s dripping red. When you’ve finished chopping him up you start on Stacey. Now you’re up to your knees in blood. But you don’t care! You’re laughing like a maniac. Everything’s red, as red as red can be. Ha ha ha! Blood blood blood! Beautiful glorious blood! The windows are covered in blood! The doors and the lights and the light switches and the pictures on the walls and the vase of red roses that used to be white . . . Blood blood blood blood! HA HA HA HA HAH . . . HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA . . . HAHA . . . HAAAAHAHAAAAAAAHA AAAAAAAAAA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BLOOD BLOOD . . . I LOVE IT BEAUTIFUL BLOOD HAHAHAHAHA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BLOOD . . . . . . . . . BLOOD . . . . I WANT MORE . . . . . . . MORE BLOOD . . . . . . . . . . . HAHAHAHHAHAHA HAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHA HAHAAHAHHAHAHA . . . . . . . .

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: We apologise for this breakdown in the story. The author is receiving treatment. We hope he will be well enough to resume work in a few months.

  His next three books will be Noddy Meets Big Ears, Noddy Gets a Chainsaw, Big Ears Becomes No Ears.

  We’re sure you’ll enjoy them. Thank you.

  o your amazement it actually works! And not just on the dogs. Sure they sit straight down and look at your mum patiently, as if they’re waiting for their next orders. But behind you Stacey and her mum have skidded to a halt and are lowering themselves to the ground! Then you feel your own leg muscles quivering and you feel an overwhelming urge to sit down too. No doubt about it, your mother is one powerful woman! You try to fight the urge but you can’t help yourself. Before you know it you’re sitting down. ‘Beg,’ your mother says to the dogs, and you and Stacey and her mum are up on haunches, whimpering, with your paws held out in front of you. So are the dogs. ‘Play dead,’ is the next order, and you’re all lying on the ground. Then: ‘Stay!’ and off she goes, leaving you all there, too scared of her to move.

  An hour later she comes back with a squad of police. Stacey, her mum and the dogs are taken into custody and marched away. You watch with relief. Safe at last. As they get put in the back of the police van one of the cops turns to you.

  ‘Gee,’ he says, ‘with a mother like that, I bet you eat a lot of vegetables!’

  ook,’ you say, ‘if you really don’t want to go ahead with this, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she says, but not like she means it.

  ‘Well,’ you say, ‘I was thinking, the fire’s still going in the living room, and I know where Mum’s got some marshmallows . . . if you wanted, maybe we could get warm in front of the fire and toast the marshmallows and swap a few stories . . .’

  She suddenly brightens right up. ‘Sounds real good to me,’ she says, turning and heading straight back towards the house. ‘There’s only one condition though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re not going to tell any ghost stories.’

  ou make your decision
. It’s probably the smartest one you ever made. Without looking around, you bolt for home. You trip over rocks and logs and garden gnomes but nothing can stop you. You’re a person with a mission, and the mission is the preservation of your life. At last, with bruised legs and panting chest and heaving lungs, you get back to the house. You race inside, lock and bolt the door behind you, pound up the stairs and into your bedroom, and disappear straight under the bed.

  You’re still there three weeks later. You don’t dare come out. It’s a strange new life that you’re leading but you gradually get used to it. Your parents regularly bring your meals and a change of clothing. Every day they make new attempts to get you out, but so far you haven’t felt any desire to emerge. Threats, bribes, counselling, guilt trips: none has worked. You like your dark little world where you feel secure and comfortable. You have your Walkman and some books to read and your Nintendo . . . what more do you need? You decide to stay there forever, happy and safe in your cave under the bed.

  he clock strikes for the twelfth time. Stacey and you are hugging so tightly it’d take a micro-surgeon to separate you. You can’t take your eyes off those graves. You just know something’s about to happen. It’s going to happen any moment now. Yes, here it comes: within seconds it will happen. You can feel the tension. You’re a very psychic person, everyone always says that, and you know when psychic things are about to happen.

  OK, so sometimes you get it wrong. Gradually you and Stacey release each other. You both feel a little stupid. You pat your hair down and smooth your shirt. ‘Well,’ you say, ‘that was fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure was,’ Stacey agrees. ‘When I think I could have been home, doing something boring like watching a video or eating homemade jam donuts, or listening to my Fat Women CD . . .’

  ‘Fat Women?’ you say joyfully. ‘Do you like the Fat Women? At my last school no-one liked them. It was terrible. I founded the fan club and I was the only member. This is fantastic! I can’t believe you like the Fat Women.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ she says.

  ‘OK,’ you say, ‘let’s go. Forget about standing out here getting cold and wet. Let’s go break out the donuts and hit the play button!’

  hese dogs must be tough, because they don’t even hesitate at the sound of your mother’s voice. They leap straight at you both, with their mad eyes staring and their tongues thirsting for blood. And there’s no doubt whose blood they’re thirsting for. It’s not tomato sauce that these guys like to have on their frankfurts. And what they call frankfurts, you hate to think.

  Of course there’s only one thing that savage dogs like better than raw meat. And what luck that you think of it just in time. You kick off both your shoes, nonchalantly flip them up into the air, catch them, then throw them as far away as possible. ‘Fetch,’ you cry. ‘Fetch!’

  The dogs turn on their heels and race away into the bushes to look for the shoes. You and your mother sprint away down the drive, as fast as you can travel, till you’ve outrun Stacey, her mother, and the two dogs. At last you’re away from that horrible place. You stop, panting and puffing, and collapse on the side of the road. When your mother finally gets her breath back she says, ‘I’ve only got one thing to say to you.’

  ‘Yes?’ you say, sitting up. It’s always nice to hear praise and, after all, you did save her life. So you look forward to basking in a few compliments.

  ‘Those shoes,’ she says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They cost eighty-nine dollars!’ she screeches. ‘Eighty-nine dollars! And you threw them away for a couple of dogs to play with!’

  You sigh and lie back in the long grass. There’s just no pleasing some people!

  nfortunately it doesn’t quite work out the way you hoped. You hang there for a few minutes more, but the gutter doesn’t rip off any further. You can’t see your fingers but you know they’re turning blue with cold. And you feel them gradually slipping, millimetre by millimetre. Looks like this is it, then. You’re too young to die, but dropping onto those steel spikes is not going to be good for your health. This is going to be too big for a couple of Panadol.

  You last about another three minutes, then your fingers finally refuse to hang on any longer. Whoooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooossssssssssssssss sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

  Down you go. Down down down. It’s a long way. Then up up up. Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeee.

  Up? Down? Up? Down? What is going on here? It takes you a while to figure it out. Then you realise. Your trampoline. The removalists parked it at the side of the house while your parents worked out where it should go. Lucky for you they parked it right under the attic window.

  Dropping from that great height means you go up and down an awful lot of times. It’s the longest trampoline ride you’ve ever taken. But you’re happy. Face it, you’d rather be doing this than be stuck on the palings as a human shish kebab!

  ogether you march back down there. You’re being as brave as you can. You get to the graves. And, to your utter amazement, everything’s normal. Impossible but true. The grass is back in the ground, the soil is in place, the grave is undisturbed. How can this be? You and Stacey tiptoe nervously over. The earth looks like it’s been there forever.

  Then you notice the old man. He’s leaning over the fence from next door, staring at you. You look back, then you remember your manners.

  ‘Er, hi,’ you say.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  ‘We’re just looking at the graves,’ you say.

  ‘I can see that,’ he replies.

  ‘Do you know who’s buried in this one?’ you ask. You’re pointing at the middle one, the one that opened up last night.

  ‘Sure I do,’ he says.

  You wait for him to say more, and finally he speaks.

  ‘It’s Fingers Spratt,’ he says.

  ‘Fingers?’ you ask nervously, dreading where this might be leading.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Fingers. Funny name isn’t it? You know why they called him that? It’s because he didn’t have all his fingers. He lost one in an accident with a mincer. And then he lost both hands, when he put them . . .’

  But you and Stacey don’t hear any more. You’re both running like crazy to get away from there. You don’t care where you go! Anywhere! The tip! The sewerage farm! School! Anywhere, just to get away from there!