Stonebird

by Mike Revell

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Yeah. Shall I put him in the recovery position?”

  “Don’t move him. Just stay calm and wait for the ambulance to arrive.”

  “But we’re in the middle of the road,” I say.

  “Stay where you are, Liam. If any cars come, signal them to stop.”

  “Okay.”

  Come on. Please come on.

  I scan the road both ways, desperate to see the flashing lights. My throat’s dry. I can see my breath clouding in the orange glow of the street lamps.

  “Are you still there?” says the woman.

  “Yeah. Please hurry up.”

  “An ambulance will be with you very shortly. Is Matt still breathing?”

  “Yes, I think so. Oh, hang on . . .”

  His chest isn’t moving.

  I reach down and hold a hand under his nose, but no air comes out.

  “No!” I say, panic crashing through me. “No, he’s not.”

  The voice in my ear turns into a buzz. I can’t hear the words. Matt’s stopped breathing and he’s going to die and it’s all my fault . . .

  I sit back and rub the sweat from my forehead, and that’s when I see the lights.

  Blue flashes in the distance, brighter than everything else around me.

  “I can see the ambulance,” I say, but my voice is dry and cracked.

  “It’s going to be okay,” says the operator.

  “Thank you.” My eyes are suddenly burning. “Thank you.”

  29

  One paramedic puts a yellow jacket over me and moves me out of the road while the other kneels over Matt.

  I try and hear what he’s saying, but my mind’s too foggy to make out the words.

  It’s going to be okay, I tell myself.

  He’s going to be all right.

  They slide a stretcher under Matt’s back and secure him with straps.

  That’s when my hand vibrates, and I almost drop Matt’s phone in shock. It’s his dad calling. I hesitate for a second, wanting to ignore it. But I can’t. There’s no ignoring this. I take a deep breath and answer.

  “Where are you?” says the voice on the other end of the line. “I thought you’d be—”

  “It’s not Matt, it’s Liam,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “There’s—there’s been an accident. We’re on School Street.”

  “What? What happened? Did you call an ambulance?”

  “Yeah, they’re here now.”

  Matt groans, and his eyes flicker open for a second, then drift closed.

  “I think he’s okay,” I say.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Soon bright headlights appear from the end of the road. The car pulls to a stop, and Matt’s dad leaps out and rushes over.

  “What happened?” he says. He crouches down and strokes Matt’s face. “My God, what happened?”

  I try to speak, but my throat clenches and the words don’t come out. But Gary doesn’t ask me again. He just peers at Matt and whispers, My son, over and over. My son, my son . . .

  Then Matt moves. His eyes blink open, and he takes a shuddering breath.

  “Dad,” he says, in this thick slurred voice.

  “Who did this to you?” says Gary. “What happened?”

  Matt’s bleary eyes move from his dad to me, still crouching beside him. This is it, I think. I’m going to jail. Matt’s mouth moves, trying to form words, and my stomach shrinks and I’m ready to run and—

  “Car,” says Matt.

  WHAT?

  “What?” says his dad.

  “A car,” says Matt. “Came out of nowhere. Knocked me into the wall, and—drove off. Disappeared around the bend.”

  I’m looking into Matt’s eyes. They’re locked onto mine, not moving, not even blinking, and I can see he knows he’s lying.

  “Are you sure?” says Gary. He frowns, looks at me. “Liam, did you see it too?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I say. “I just found him like this.”

  I know it’s not the truth, but it’s not really a lie either.

  “I’m so glad you were here,” Gary says as the paramedics shut the ambulance doors.

  I try not to meet his eyes. “Me too.”

  “I’ll talk to the paramedics,” he says. “They’ll probably have to phone the police. They’ll want to see Matt, I’m sure. They might want to talk to you too.” He looks at his watch, then adds, “Are you okay getting home? You’ve got a key?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s only up the road.”

  I hand him Matt’s phone and walk away quickly. I’m shivering now. I didn’t realize how cold it was. I shove my hands in my pockets to try to warm them up. The police! What am I going to do?

  The moon’s low and white, and I can see my breath clouding in its light.

  A sudden movement makes me stop.

  A dark shape flying across the hugeness of the sky, in the direction of the church.

  I shouldn’t go. I know I shouldn’t go. What I should do is go home. But I can’t bring myself to go back yet. I need to see Stonebird with my own eyes. I need to know for sure that it happened.

  My head throbs as I stumble toward the church.

  Every time I blink I see Matt’s unconscious blood-smeared face.

  What have I done?

  The road is quiet. Light from the houses and the street lamps and the moon makes the lane look gray-blue; makes it look like another world.

  You’re such an idiot, Liam . . .

  Telling stupid stories!

  Outside the church, the graveyard is thick with shadows.

  I try not to think about what’s under my feet as I wind my way between the headstones. I don’t normally get scared of the dark, but it’s hard not to here.

  By the old wooden door I stop and listen. I’m scared to go in because if it’s true, if it was Stonebird that did it, then what does that make me?

  After what feels like a million hours, I have to open the door.

  Inside, the church is quiet and still. Starlight lightly touches the pews and the pillars, but it’s so dark I have to feel my way to the entrance of the crypt. Images flash in my mind and I try to shut them out but I can’t. They just stick there. Blood and broken bones and huge terrified eyes.

  My neck tingles. There’s a crash behind me. I glance back, but there’s nothing there.

  I turn around again, and that’s when I scream.

  “No,” I say. “No . . . no . . .”

  Desperately, frantically I scramble back.

  Because he’s suddenly there.

  He’s not moving, but he’s there, right in front of me.

  As big as a tree, rearing up, bright eyes flickering. I need to run.

  But I’ve just seen something else and my legs are limp and all I can do is stand there.

  Stonebird’s massive clawed hands. They’re red.

  Matt’s blood.

  It can’t be anything else.

  “No,” I say again, but it comes out quiet, just a whimper that vanishes in the dark.

  Stonebird’s still not moving, but how did he get there how did he get there how did he get there?

  There was no noise, no nothing, and I was right here the whole time.

  “I didn’t mean for you to hurt him. I just wanted you to look after me.”

  Even if Matt is a bully, he still doesn’t deserve what he got tonight. Quickly I get to my feet and I race back down the aisle, not daring to take my eyes off the stone monster, because that’s what he is, he’s a monster. He’s got a kid’s blood on his hands.

  And it’s all my fault.

  30

  There are no lights on.

  That’s the first thing I notice.

  What time is it? My watch is broken. It must have smashed when I fell. But the night is dark and pinpricked with stars. Even Jess’s room is pitch black.

  Mom’s going to kill me . . .

 
; Every few seconds I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Stonebird. I didn’t hear him in the church, so I doubt I’ll hear him if he comes after me now. But there’s nothing there.

  I sneak across the drive, moving slowly so the gravel doesn’t crunch beneath my feet. Then I’m onto the big stone step by the front door.

  One more quick glance over my shoulder. Still not there.

  Maybe he’s stopped chasing me. Maybe he was never chasing me. But the way he appeared out of nowhere . . . his hands, the blood, the gleam in his eye . . .

  I grab my keys, squinting in the dark and jabbing at the door until they fit into the keyhole. The lock clicks as I turn it. The door creaks open, and the whole time I’m thinking, Pants pants pants, because it’s so loud, everything’s so loud. I’m just wondering why everything has to be at its loudest when you’re trying to be at your quietest when I tread on Mom’s foot and she lets out a yell loud enough to be heard in France.

  “Wha—?! Liam!” she hisses, jumping up from the chair she was asleep in. “What are you doing? Where have you been?”

  One more glance back as I close the door. I can’t help it.

  Nothing.

  “I was just—”

  “You had me so worried!” Mom says. She grabs my hands and pulls me into a hug. All around her there’s a strong smell of wine, and I wonder if she’s been crying, but I can’t see because she’s squeezing me tight and my face is pressed right up against her cardigan. “I heard about Matt. When you didn’t come home I went out looking for you but I couldn’t find you and—oh, Liam.”

  She holds me for a minute, then pulls away and leads me through to the living room. Daisy’s asleep on the sofa, legs stretched out as if she owns the place. Every now and then she twitches and yips and yaps.

  A sudden twinge of pain in my jaw makes me wince, and I clear my throat to try to cover it up.

  “Are you hurt?” Mom says.

  “No, I’m okay, Mom.”

  “Please talk to me,” she says, sitting down on the sofa. I slump down next to her. “What happened? Why are you back so late? Gary said you were coming straight home. Are you . . . ? Are you avoiding me?”

  “What? Why would I be avoiding you?”

  “Well,” she says. “Because of Grandma, maybe? I know it’s hard, seeing her like she is. God knows I understand. But I need you to know you can talk to me.”

  “No, Mom, it’s nothing to do with Grandma.”

  It’s a little bit of a lie, but I can’t exactly tell her the truth.

  The truth is I told a story with Mrs. Culpepper’s egg, and Stonebird came to life and acted out my words and attacked Matt and put him in the hospital. And now he’s got blood on his hands. And—and—if Stonebird’s got blood on his hands, then I’ve got blood on my hands too.

  There’s no difference between him and me.

  It’s got to stop. No more stories. No more Stonebird.

  “What?” says Mom. “What is it? You’re frowning.”

  “It’s all right, Mom. I just needed a walk. It’s all right. I’m sorry for not telling you where I was.”

  She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in her eyes as they fill up. Her lip trembles, and silently the tears trickle down her cheeks, so I hug her close, and she hugs me back, and for a while we just sit there hugging. Not saying a word. Just hugging.

  And in her dreams, Daisy wags her tail, thump thump thump thump.

  It’s not long before Mom falls asleep again.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper.

  I’m just about to go upstairs when it hits me.

  Claire.

  Just like that, it pops into my head.

  Why she sounded so familiar. Why January 16 is such an important date.

  I saw her grave outside the church when I was chasing Jess with Daisy. I’m sure I did. But there’s only one way to be certain.

  Glancing over quickly to make sure Mom’s still asleep, I sneak back out of the front door. I close it as quietly as possible, then jog up the lane and slip into the church grounds.

  The dark is thick around me now. There’s nothing to worry about, I tell myself, but every time a shadow moves, I flinch.

  It’s hard to read the tombstones, but I can just about make out the names.

  Ryan Brooks.

  Sophie Reynolds.

  And there—

  CLAIRE SMITH

  TAKEN TOO YOUNG

  SEPTEMBER 12, 1928–JANUARY 16, 1941.

  Reading it again makes my stomach clench. All this time I’ve thought the church was safe, but that’s not true. Because Claire Smith died on the day of the missing entry: January 16.

  Right around the time she was bullying Grandma.

  31

  Matt isn’t at school the next day.

  I sit down at my desk and glance at his, but it’s empty.

  Cheesy and Joe scowl at me from the back of the class.

  “Hey!” they hiss. “We heard what happened.”

  I look around, but Mrs. Culpepper’s busy wiping the board clean. Everyone else pretends to be working, but I know they’re listening in. They know about Stonebird . . . News in school travels faster than fish when you tap on their tank. There’s no such thing as a secret. If Cheesy and Joe know the truth, then soon the whole class will. I open my notebook and start scribbling to take my mind off them, but then I see the list again. At the bottom, it says, Stop Matt once and for all. I didn’t mean the words in a bad way, but reading them now makes me feel sick.

  “It’s your fault he got hit by that car,” says Cheesy.

  Car?

  I was right. They must have run before Stonebird got there.

  I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck. Part of me wants to shrink down and hide under the desk, even though I know they’ll just get worse if I do. But I’ve got to say something, or it’ll never stop.

  “You’re dead,” says Joe.

  “No,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “No,” I say, turning back to face them. “It’s not my fault. It’s your fault, for being scared of a stupid story. You ran off. You’re the ones who left him.”

  Their eyes bulge in their red faces, but I’m more surprised than they are. I can’t believe I just said that. The words just came out, but now I don’t know what to say, so I turn away quickly. They might not see that I’m shaking.

  “You what?” says Joe, scraping his chair back and bolting up.

  Mrs. Culpepper turns around at the noise. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” he says. He sits back down, breathing heavily.

  Cheesy and Joe can’t say anything to that. There’s nothing to say, because it’s true. Yeah, it was my fault Matt got attacked by Stonebird—but they think he got hit by a car. And if we’re living this weird lie, then they’re as guilty as I am.

  Mrs. Culpepper writes the timetable on the board, and what it says is this:

  9:30—Math

  10:30—English

  11:30—Geography

  1:30—Music

  2:30—History

  “Miss?” says a girl at the front of the class.

  “Yes, Himali, what is it?”

  “There isn’t any time for the magic egg.”

  “No, you’re quite right,” says Mrs. Culpepper.

  “Aren’t we going to be telling stories?”

  “Not today. We’re going to have a break from stories for a while.”

  Everyone groans. No more stories. I look away, thankful that they don’t know the truth. Mrs. Culpepper glances at me, then turns back to the board.

  The rest of the class might not know, but she does.

  She must do.

  32

  After school we go to visit Grandma.

  Her eyes flutter open when the nurse introduces us, then quickly close.

  “She’s very tired at the moment,” Mom says.

  Jess hugs Mom from the side as I walk up to Grandma’s bed and look down at her. Her light-bl
ue nightgown looks massive on her. It’s baggy all over. Her wrinkly white arms poke out like bones.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I say, but she doesn’t stir.

  Her breath is so quiet.

  The other day when Grandma said, I’ve killed before, it was easy to pretend it was just the demon in her. But Claire Smith died on January 16, and Grandma ripped out her diary entry from that day, and why would you do that if you didn’t have something to do with it?

  I realize I’m frowning at her, and try to cover it up by looking around the room.

  On the bedside cabinet there are three photos. The first one is Grandma and Granddad on a vacation in Hawaii. They’ve got pink-and-yellow-flower necklaces around their shoulders and these big, big smiles that mean they’re Truly Happy. You don’t see smiles that big very often. People on TV smile in shows and movies, but you can’t see the happiness behind their eyes. I’ve seen about a million photos in my life, and there are only a few with smiles like this.

  The second photo is of Mom. She’s holding a baby in her arms, and her face is chalky and there are bags under her eyes, but you can see she’s happy too. The baby is me.

  And the third photo is Jess. She’s grinning the kind of grin where her teeth stick right out like a monkey’s.

  Three photos, and all of them are so happy, in a room that’s quiet and colorless and nearly empty except for my tiny Grandma.

  “It’s okay,” says Mom, behind me. “We can come back later.”

  But I don’t move. I need to know. I need to find out if she really did kill Claire.

  Grandma turns over in bed and looks up at me. It’s funny how the only things that don’t get old and wrinkly are a person’s eyes. They’re so shiny. Brand-new, almost. Bright and marble-like, as blue as summer. But there’s something in them that lets you know they’re old. Or not old, exactly. Just that they’ve seen a lot of things.

  “How are you, dear?” Grandma’s voice creaks when she speaks, making every word sound as though it needs a walking stick.

  “I’m okay,” I lie.

  “You look a hundred miles away,” she says, and chuckles to herself. Every word comes out of her mouth so slowly, but her eyes are bright. “My mother used to say that about me, you know. We would walk to the beach up in Whitley Bay, and on a summer’s day the sea would lap at the shore and I would look out at it. Watching the mist rising. Watching the never-ending blue.”