Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection): Eighteen suspenseful short stories

by Susan May

  Slowly he eased open his eyes. Except for a small slit of light that shone beneath the door, he was immersed in blackness, so black it seemed to drain most of the air from the closet.

  Henry bent his head to his chest, pulled his legs closer in to his body, and wrapped his arms more firmly about his knees. He imagined himself a tiny ball; he figured the smaller he became, the harder he was to find. If he wished hard enough, maybe he’d disappear entirely. Just like a genie.

  But they always found him. Then they’d drag him out of his hiding place and throw him into the center of the room. He felt like a rag doll.

  Parker, at ten, was bigger than Clarissa, even though she was two years older. Still, Clarissa was the leader. Henry thought of her as the wicked Queen from Snow White. She was kind and sweet when his parents were there, but the minute they turned their backs it was as if she grew claws.

  They would call him names like “Spinning Stupid,” and “Dimwit Darling,” then laugh as if the names were the funniest things in the world.

  “We’re laughing with you,” Clarissa often said.

  Henry never laughed, and he never understood why they did.

  They would push him and spin him around, clutching at his body until he became dizzy and confused. It would only stop when he fell over and stumbled about, waving his arms before him in a mad attempt to steady himself.

  Though the hurt was bad—often he’d find black and blue marks on his skin—the shame of failing at such a simple task as hiding was an even greater pain and embarrassment.

  The crying was terrible, too.

  He would cry while hiding, knowing his fate. He would cry when they found him; he would cry when they hurt him, even though crying only seemed to encourage them. It was hard for him to prevent the tears.

  “Cry-baby loser. Boogeyman will choose you,” they’d then sing as they danced about him.

  Occasionally his mother would hear and, in her cross voice, scold them. “You two, leave him alone. Look after your baby brother.”

  While his mother was there, they’d apologize, and cuddle him until she left the room. Then the pinching and pushing started again. In frightening voices, they would tell him tales of the crybaby boogeyman who came for children who cried.

  “The crying brings him. He senses your weakness—an easy meal,” said Clarissa, with eyes wide and her hands raised, claw-like, above her head.

  “Yes, yes,” added Parker. “Weak children’s flesh is soft and juicy.”

  Clarissa chimed in. “If he catches you, he’ll take you back to his lair and eat you. Slowly. Bit by bit. First your body, and then your head, so you feel every bite. Until he gobbles down your brain.” Then Clarissa and Parker made munching noises and pretended to eat each other’s arms.

  The specter of a monster eating him alive made Henry cry even more. In case the crybaby boogeyman might hear him, he hoisted up his shirt and cried into it to muffle the sound. The more he cried, the more they laughed.

  Henry decided when he turned six he would tell them his days of playing hide-and-seek were over; that he was too old to play.

  He let out a long breath and listened. In the distance, he heard Clarissa and Parker searching, but the sounds were moving farther away.

  Should he make a run for a new hiding place? This cupboard was untested. There were so many rooms, and he was always so panicked he never found very good spots.

  No matter where he hid, they would probably still find him, he decided. A new place wasn’t what he needed. Bravery was what he needed… and to stop crying when they found him.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat in the cupboard, but the floor felt colder and harder. Little aches nagged at the cheeks of his bottom, and his arms and legs were beginning to complain. Stretching his arms above his head, he angled them back, pushing his palms flat against the smooth wall behind, his muscles grateful for the stretch.

  As his hands slid across the wall, he felt something. It was a raised ridge in the otherwise smooth interior. With his fingers, he followed the straight line. It ran for at least a foot, until it made a right angle turn and headed down to the floor. In his mind, he saw the outline as if his fingers had eyes.

  With a bit of wriggling, Henry turned himself around so he now kneeled before the wall. Placing his palm on the panel, he pushed his hand along the surface. It felt rough, like the old wooden fence down past the pond. The line, which now felt more like a crack, was as tall as him and as wide as the distance of his outstretched arms. The line ran down the other side, too. To his mind, it made a square, just like they’d learned at school.

  A door? That’s what it felt like.

  How could there be a door here, though, he wondered? This was the last room on this side of the house. Unless… unless it was the door to a secret room.

  A secret room would be brilliant, and it would make the perfect hiding place, he thought, excited at his discovery. He ran his hand all over the interior of the outline, but could find no doorknob. If he only had a flashlight, it would make things so much easier. Fingers were terrible for looking.

  He could open the closet door and let in some light, but that was a risk. Clarissa and Parker might be anywhere; for all he knew they were right outside the cupboard, just waiting to pounce.

  If he was ever caught not trying to hide, they delivered a “flicking” with a wet towel. Flickings hurt so bad. They always made him cry. He shivered at the thought of the crybaby boogeyman.

  The more he felt the wall, though, the more certain he was it was a door, even if it had no door knob. Perhaps it was like the dog-door in the kitchen, and all he needed to do was push hard against it to make it swing open.

  Leaning on one arm, he reached out with the other, and shoved as hard as he could at the bottom of the panel.

  Nothing happened.

  No movement at all.

  Maybe it wasn’t a door.

  He sat up and felt around the ridge again. It sure felt like a door, and he detected a faint movement of air coming through the crack. Something lay beyond, and the urge to discover the secret was irresistible.

  He changed his position, sitting up higher and pushing harder further up. That didn’t work either.

  Then he had an idea. What if he used his leg muscles just like he did on his swing, and thrust his legs forward as hard as he could?

  Henry lowered himself to the floor, so he lay on his back, with his head against the outside closet door. He imagined his muscles powering up just like the cartoon Road Runner as he coiled back his legs. He was about to let fly, when he heard the giggles. He froze.

  Clarissa and Parker were near. He stopped breathing so he could listen. Doors creaked open, then slammed shut. A chair scraped across the floor. Running feet. Muffled voices. They were close enough for him to hear Clarissa, in her singsong voice, call out, “Henry! Oh, little crybaby Henry! Where are you?”

  Then came the sound of shattering glass, immediately followed by loud, wild laughter. Henry’s legs, which were paused in mid-kick, dangled in the air as if he were riding a tricycle that had been suddenly pulled away from him. He couldn’t move and he’d run out of air. He exhaled, then dared to draw a deep breath.

  More over-loud laughter erupted, a warning of what awaited him when he was found. They’d broken something, but seemed unconcerned, which meant they’d eaten mischief for breakfast—his mother’s explanation for their naughty moods.

  Mischief days were awful, their games taking on an extra level of pain. They might tie his hands behind his back, or a place a bag over his head, or give him a pretend beating for his naughtiness.

  “It’s not pretend, if it hurts for real,” he once protested.

  “Of course it’s pretend,” Clarissa said, pinching his cheek so hard it left a red mark for the rest of the day. “We wouldn’t hurt you for real. You’re our little crybaby brother.”

  A little bird of fear fluttered in his chest, and he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. His mouth flew open
and he gulped in a lungful of the dusty closet air.

  He thought again about changing his hiding place. The image of the wet towel flicking gave him incentive. He would run—maybe he could get down the stairs and find his mother before they caught him.

  He tried to flip his body over in the confined space, but in his haste, he kicked out with his right leg and connected with the wall. There was a loud click, as he felt the panel give way and his foot push through into empty space.

  He’d opened the door!

  Quickly Henry wiggled through the opening, sliding on his bottom, and pushing himself along with his hands like an upside down lizard. Once through, the door sprung shut behind him with a loud clap, startling him. He waited a moment to see if they’d heard him, before rolling over onto his belly, and staying there until he caught his breath.

  The dust on the floor felt thick and soft like baby powder, but without the sweet, comforting smell. It coated his tongue with grit. A sudden urge to spit and cough rose in him. He clapped his hand over his mouth and counted.

  One … two … three … four …

  He told himself if he made it to the forgotten number, then maybe the cough might disappear as if the number had taken on magical powers.

  Five … six … seven …

  The cough held, caught in his throat.

  Eight … nine … two deep breaths …

  Ten … eleven.

  He felt his throat tighten as the cough went back down to his lungs. He had stopped it, and to his thinking, saved himself, for as he did, he heard the sound of the door of the main room opening. Instinctively, he wriggled his body further into the space, curling into his best safety-ball position.

  As he lay there, he looked around the room. To his left, light filtered through small, scattered holes in the wood-paneled exterior wall. It was enough to reveal he was in a small room—what type of room, he couldn’t tell.

  Beyond the closet door, the sounds of Clarissa and Parker searching the room were loud and too near. Any moment now they could open the closet door and discover the entrance to his hiding place. They might even already know about the room.

  He heard a click, followed by the closet door’s hinges whining as it was yanked open. Then he heard Clarissa’s voice, dripping with sweetness.

  “Are you in here, Henry boy? Come out. Come out.”

  His heart jumped into his mouth. Surely Clarissa must hear it beating? It sounded so loud to him… He pushed himself flatter into the floor and into the horrible dust. He didn’t care about the dirt or the smell, he just didn’t want to be found.

  Then Parker spoke, sounding annoyed. “He’s not in here, I told you. You always think you know where he is. I say he’s in the bathroom, behind the door, as usual … the stupid little cry-rat.”

  Clarissa sighed. “If he’s not there, I’ve had enough. I’m bored with looking for him today. I’m going for a ride before it gets dark.”

  Then the cupboard door slammed shut, and Henry began to breathe again, as the silence settled on him, bringing warm feelings of relief. He’d survived today’s game, and he was one day closer to his birthday and no more hide-and-seek.

  At the sound of their footsteps receding, he turned his attention back to the room. A little thrill shot through him. He instantly became a brave explorer in a darkened cave, searching for treasure.

  His eyes, now adjusted to the muted light, scanned the space around him. The room was long and thin, much smaller than his bedroom, with no windows. The floorboards wooden, not carpeted like all the other rooms and, where the light struggled through the cracks in the wall, there were thousands of dust threads hanging in the air. It couldn’t be an attic. They already had one of those; he didn’t think houses had two attics, and there was nothing stored here like in the one upstairs.

  It must be a secret room, hidden away a long time ago, so long ago it had been forgotten. How exciting to have stumbled upon his very own secret and mysterious place.

  Henry climbed to his feet, dusting at his clothes with his hands. He decided to measure the room the way his father measured distances—by watching his feet and counting steps. He moved to the beginning of the opposite wall, then took off down its length, his shoulder brushing along it. At eight steps he came to the end, bumping gently into the wall.

  Turning, he followed along this side, again counting as he went.

  Ten. Eleven. That number he couldn’t remember. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  That missing number annoyed him. He fixed his mind on the symbols for eleven and thirteen—and searched for the image of it. Where was it in his brain? He was thinking so hard he didn’t notice the chair and walked straight into it, falling face first into its dusty, plump cushion.

  Dust tickled the back of his throat, and he sneezed. Pushing back from it, he stood up. Then, leaning forward, he ran his hand over one of its arms. The material felt soft and spongy. The chair was bigger than he was, and wide, with oversized patterned cushions, upholstered with pink and red roses entwined with dark green leaves. There were no chairs like this in the house.

  Balancing on tiptoe, he turned and plopped himself into it. It felt cozy and warm, like a big, fluffy bath towel wrapped about him.

  Henry decided the chair belonged to the secret room, and because it belonged to the room, and the room was his discovery, this was now his chair. It would become his throne, because he was the king. There was a crown in his dress-up box, and the next time he came he would bring it with him, along with a flashlight.

  Now, as the king of England, his first task was to create rules for his subjects. He imagined them clapping and cheering around him as he took to his throne.

  First law: dessert can be eaten all day on Fridays. On Sundays, ice cream would be the only food. He’d think about the other days later.

  Second law: Clarissa and Parker may not enter the secret room, his kingdom—punishable by a flicking.

  Third law—

  Nothing came to him. He was starting to lose interest in making laws, because he felt a little sleepy. This chair was special and magical, and seemed to want him to snuggle in, as if offering a loving embrace. His mind drifted off to cotton candy and hot dogs and the appropriate days they should be eaten. His head felt funny, too, and he couldn’t match the days or remember his original laws, as if a hole in his head allowed his thoughts to leak out.

  A wonderful tingling crept up from his feet, moved through his legs, and travelled up his body, until every part of him felt filled with warm, soft sand. His head was heavy; his eyes so sleepy they begged him to let them close. Even though he wanted to stay awake and enjoy the chair, he was powerless to stop them closing, and they fluttered shut.

  In moments, he was asleep. The gas from the leaky valve, that had once fed a heater in the corner, swirled about him. If he could have seen it, he may have thought it was a ghost. A deadly ghost.

  His eyes flew open and, startled by the unfamiliar feelings and the dark, his body shot up and out of the chair. Unbalanced and unprepared, he fell to the floor with a loud thud. Wide awake now, he clambered to his feet, managing a few steps before he stopped and rubbed at his eyes.

  Everything was black. Where was the little stream of light from the wall that had been there before he fell asleep? He didn’t like the dark. He was scared the crybaby boogeyman might be near him.

  Maybe his eyes hadn’t opened yet? He blinked quickly. No, they were open. It had just turned dark.

  Stretching out his hands, he walked in the direction of the wall that had earlier fed the light. He knew which way, because it was to the right of the chair. Standing before it, the slightest whisper of a breeze filtered through and touched his face, but the light had gone.

  Suddenly he realized what had happened. He’d slept for so long the night had come. Then another thought crowded in. Dinner! He might have missed dinner. If he had, then his Mother would be cross, and he didn’t want that. His mother was his only protection against Clarissa and Parker, and the cr
ybaby boogeyman. He couldn’t have her cross, no matter what.

  Henry needed to get out of the room immediately.

  He turned his head left and right, gaining his bearings before inching his way in the dark toward the direction of the little trapdoor. The dark and the silence closed in on him. For the first time since he’d found the chair, he felt afraid.

  He became aware of a bitter taste in his mouth; the taste similar to a bad almond he once ate. It was horrible, and he wished he had some water to wash it away. He swished saliva about his mouth and swallowed, but still the taste stayed.

  As much as he loved his chair, he regretted coming in to the room. He imagined he would be punished for missing dinner, and then Clarissa and Parker would make fun of him for getting into trouble.

  Henry wanted to cry, but he didn’t dare. The crybaby boogeyman might hear him, and he was all alone and unprotected. He held back the tears, trying as hard as he could to suck them deep inside.

  Quickly he fell to his knees and crawled in the direction of the door. It took only a few shuffles forward before his left hand connected with the wall. He sat back on his haunches and felt around the wall for the outline of the door.

  There was nothing there.

  Was this even the right wall?

  Maybe the sleep had confused him? No, he felt certain this was the right wall. Feeling suddenly trapped, he started to panic, his breathe coming in short puffs. He couldn’t cry. He mustn’t cry. The door had to be here somewhere.

  Inching himself along, one hand on the floor, the other roaming the wall, he frantically searched.

  There it was! The tips of two fingers had found the crack. His heart gave a happy skip.

  “Hooray,” he shouted, sitting back and clapping his hands. Who cared who heard him now? In fact, he hoped someone heard him.

  Now he had to get it open. After several minutes of searching, he realized on this side of the door there was also no doorknob. He would need to kick it open, like before.