Paul Jenning's Spookiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  ‘Great,’ yelled Shifty. ‘A terrific idea. You go and get a blank tape. And I’ll find a small tape recorder.’

  A few minutes later Shifty came back holding a cassette tape. ‘I can’t find a blank tape,’ he said. ‘But this is an old tape with folk songs on it. We can tape the chicken noises over the top.’

  Mick put the tape in the recorder and pressed the RECORD button. Shifty started to cluck like a chicken.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Mick. ‘You sound just like the real thing.’ After a while he stopped the tape recorder. ‘That will do the trick. That should be enough clucking to scare anyone to death.’

  They put the mechanical chicken on the floor and started it up. Once again it ran around in circles and flapped its wings. But this time it clucked as well. ‘Fantastic,’ shouted Mick. ‘That tape sounds just like a chicken.’

  4

  That night Mick and Shifty crept down to Young and Jackson’s pub. They waited outside. At midnight the lights went out. The back door opened. The landlord came out carrying a rubbish bin. ‘This is it,’ said Mick. ‘This is where we give the poor sucker the fright of his life.’ He put the mechanical chicken on the footpath and hid behind a fence. The chicken ran out onto the road. It flapped its wings and clucked. Red paint dripped from its neck.

  The landlord just stood there holding the bin. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he groaned. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘The story is true. It’s the ghost of the headless chicken.’ His knees knocked together. His hands shook. He tried to run but he couldn’t. He was glued to the spot. The chicken kept running in circles, clucking loudly.

  Mick whispered to Shifty. ‘Let it go for a while. Give him a good scare. Then we might not have to come back again.’ The two crooks peeped around the fence. They laughed to themselves. They thought it was a great joke. The landlord was so scared he couldn’t move.

  After a while Mick stepped out onto the path. He pretended he was just walking along the street. The poor landlord saw him. ‘Look,’ the landlord managed to say. ‘The ghost of the headless chicken.’

  ‘Where?’ said Mick. ‘I can’t see anything.’ This was a trick he often used. He pretended not to see the chicken. Even though it was flapping and clucking right in front of him.

  The landlord leaned against the wall. His face was white. He looked as if he was going to faint. But before he did, something happened. The chicken started to sing. It ran around flapping its wings. And singing. It sang:

  ‘There was a wild colonial youth,

  Jack Doolan was his name;

  Of poor but honest parents

  He was born in Castlemaine.’

  ‘You fool, Shifty,’ yelled Mick. ‘You didn’t wipe all the folk songs off the tape.’

  Shifty put his head around the corner. The chicken went quiet for a second but it kept running around. Then it started up again:

  ‘“I’ll fight but I won’t surrender,” said

  The wild colonial boy.’

  The landlord stared at the chicken. Then he stared at Mick and Shifty. ‘A trick,’ he yelled. ‘A dirty, rotten trick.’

  He ran over to the mechanical chicken and picked it up. He saw it had wheels. He threw it on the ground with an angry roar. Then he turned to Mick and Shifty. The landlord was a big man. Very big. ‘I’ll teach you ratbags a lesson,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll get you for this.’

  Mick and Shifty turned and ran. They ran for their lives. Down the street they went. Faster and faster. But the landlord followed them. And after him came the chicken.

  The landlord started to slow down. He couldn’t keep up. But the chicken could. It passed him and followed Shifty and Mick down the street. It was flapping its wings and clucking its head off.

  The chase went on for quite a while but eventually the landlord gave up. He shook his fist at the two men and the chicken and turned round and went back towards Young and Jackson’s pub.

  Mick looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he puffed. ‘He’s gone back.’ Then Mick noticed the chicken. ‘Well, look at that. The stupid mechanical chicken has come after us. I thought it was supposed to run around in circles.’

  They both looked at the chicken. It was flapping its wings and moving up and down on its legs. ‘Hey,’ yelled Shifty. ‘When did you put those legs on the chicken? I didn’t know it had legs.’

  The headless chicken sat down on the footpath. Then it stood up. There was something underneath it. ‘An egg,’ screamed Shifty. ‘It’s laid an egg.’ His eyes almost popped out of his head. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He bent down to pick up the egg. But his fingers couldn’t grab it. He couldn’t pick it up. He could see right through it. The egg was transparent.

  ‘Ahgggg,’ he screamed. ‘It’s a ghost egg.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ shouted Mick. ‘I’m sick of this.’ He ran at the chicken and kicked at it. His leg passed though the chicken and he fell flat on his back. The chicken sat there clucking. It wasn’t hurt at all. They both stood there looking at it. The moon came out. This time it was Mick who screamed. ‘Ahgggg, I can see through it. And there’s no meshing inside it. It’s salt. That’s not our chicken. It’s the ghost. It’s the ghost of the real chicken.’

  For a second they just stood there. They were too scared to move. Then the chicken flapped up onto Mick’s shoulder. Little drops of blood fell from its headless neck. Both men screamed together. They turned and ran for their lives. Down the streets and through lanes they fled. And close behind followed the ghostly chicken.

  At last they reached the river. Shifty was puffing. He was out of breath. ‘Quick,’ he grunted. ‘Down here. Down these steps.’ They ran down some steps that led to the Yarra River. There was a rowboat at the bottom. The chicken was right behind them. They jumped into the little boat and floated out onto the river. Shifty took one oar and Mick took the other. Soon they were well out in the deep water.

  ‘It can’t follow us here,’ said Mick. ‘We’re safe now.’ But he was wrong. Sitting on the back of the boat, still clucking, was the ghost of the headless chicken. Mick stood up and started to scream.

  ‘Sit down, you fool,’ yelled Shifty. ‘You’re rocking the boat.’ The boat started to rock from side to side. Mick grabbed at the edge. And the little boat tipped over. Mick and Shifty disappeared under the cold, black water. Neither of them could swim.

  The landlord of the pub arrived home. On the footpath he found the mechanical chicken. Its battery had run out and it lay still on the footpath. He went over to the chicken and jumped up and down on it. Then he threw the broken pieces of wheels and wire into the bin.

  The next morning while he was walking by the river, the landlord found two dead men in the mud.

  5

  They say that if you go down to the Yarra River on a dark night, just near Young and Jackson’s pub, you see two ghostly men in a boat. They are rowing as fast as they can. They are scared out of their wits. Because in the back of the boat sit the ghosts of two headless chickens.

  One of the chickens is stuffed with salt and is clucking. The other chicken is singing ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’ at the top of its voice.

  The old box lay half buried in the sand. I wish that I had never seen it. I wish the storm hadn’t uncovered it. I wish we hadn’t dug it up. But it’s no good wishing. We did dig it up and we took the old chest home. And everything went wrong.

  ‘I wonder what’s in it?’ said Dad. He was like a big kid. He loved bringing home junk from the beach. Every day he would climb down our cliff and walk along the sand looking for stuff that had washed up.

  I looked at the box and shivered. I just had a feeling about it. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t like the other things Dad had brought from the beach. His other finds were all hanging off the walls and ceiling. We had empty cray pots, old buoys, fish nets, driftwood, bottles and other junk scattered about in every room. But this was different. This trunk had bad vibes.

  ‘Don’t open it,’ I said. ‘Let’s take it ba
ck.’

  ‘Whatever for, Kate? There could be something valuable inside.’

  ‘Like treasure,’ said my brother Matthew. ‘It could be full of jewels.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s take it back to the beach and leave it. There is something awful inside. I just know it.’

  Matthew looked at me. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit of a know-all, Kate. You couldn’t possibly know what is in that box.’

  ‘It’s old,’ said Dad, ‘and it’s waterproof. All the joins are covered in tar. Whatever is inside might still be in good nick.’ He picked up his hacksaw and began cutting away at the old, rusty padlock.

  I didn’t want to watch. I went outside and stared out to sea. The salt mist hung heavily in the air. Off-shore I could see two whales spouting in the swell.

  I heard a sudden call from the kitchen. ‘Got it. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Come and help,’ yelled Matthew. ‘Don’t be a sad sack, Kate. Come and help.’

  I went back into the kitchen and saw Dad and Matthew struggling away with a lever. The lock was off but the lid was stuck and they couldn’t get it open. I stood back and shook my head. I didn’t want to help.

  Then, slowly, with a creak and a groan it yielded. The lid began to lift. They both stared inside in silence.

  ‘Wow,’ said Matthew after a bit. ‘Look at that.’

  It wasn’t treasure. I could tell by the way he said ‘wow’ that it wasn’t that good.

  2

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ said Dad. ‘It’s clothes. It’s full of clothes.’ He reached in and started dumping them on the floor. Soon there was a big pile of them heaped up on the carpet.

  They weren’t just ordinary clothes. They were old. But there was something else as well. These were special outfits. One of them was covered in stars and moons. Another consisted of a frilly dress with tights. There was a top hat and a blade coat and heaps of other combinations.

  Dad picked up a pair of baggy trousers. Folded up inside them was a pair of enormous shoes and a long false nose. ‘Circus outfits,’ said Dad. ‘They are clothes from a circus.’ He seemed a bit disappointed. I think that secretly he had been hoping for treasure too.

  Matthew laid all of the clothes out in order on the floor. There was a knife-thrower’s outfit – it had a leather belt with places for the knives. There was a juggler’s costume and a clown’s. There was also a fortune teller’s outfit and two sets of tightrope walkers’ clothes. Altogether there were about fifteen different sets.

  I looked at the two tightrope walkers’ outfits – one was blue and one was red. They both consisted of tights and tops covered in silver stars. Matthew held the red outfit up to himself. ‘This would fit me,’ he said with a grin.

  A shiver went down my spine. ‘Don’t put it on,’ I told him.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘I just have a feeling,’ I said. ‘I think that it once belonged to someone mean. Someone awful. Someone cruel. Someone dead.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I won’t put it on. But what will we do with them all? And where did they come from?’

  ‘From a shipwreck,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll bet a ship with circus people in it was wrecked off the cliff. Years ago. This trunk has been buried in the sand ever since.’ He gave me a big grin. ‘It might not be treasure but it can still be useful. We’ll put one of the outfits on the scarecrow.’

  Dad pointed to the scarecrow at the bottom of our garden. Two crows and a starling were sitting on top of it. The birds actually seemed to like this old scarecrow. It had never worked. All it ever did was provide a handy seat for the crows.

  ‘Which outfit?’ said Matthew. ‘Will we have a clown scarecrow or what?’

  ‘The red tightrope walker,’ answered Dad. ‘Seeing Kate doesn’t like that costume we will put it on the scarecrow.’ Dad picked up the red tights and jacket and walked down the garden. He pulled off the old clothes and put the new ones on. It was the strangest scarecrow I had ever seen. It looked a bit like Superman. Matthew ran back inside and fetched the top hat. He banged it onto the scarecrow’s head. We all laughed.

  But the scarecrow didn’t laugh.

  ‘Its face seems different,’ I said.

  ‘It’s still smiling like before,’ said Matthew.

  ‘I know,’ I answered. ‘But it isn’t a nice smile any more. It seems to be leering. It seems to be leering at Dad. It doesn’t like Dad. It’s the clothes. The clothes don’t like Dad because he’s put them out here on the scarecrow.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Dad as we walked back to the house. ‘Whoever heard of clothes not liking anything?’ I turned and looked at the scarecrow. One of its hands was bunched up into a fist. It looked just as if it was threatening to punch someone. I had never noticed its hand bunched up like that before. I thought that it must have happened when Dad put the red tightrope walker’s outfit on it.

  Matthew fooled around with the other costumes all afternoon. He put on the clown’s baggy pants and long nose. He really did look funny and Dad and I couldn’t stop laughing. The pants kept falling down all the time and Matthew tripped over his own feet so many times that it’s a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He made a terrific clown. Good enough to be in a circus. Which was a bit strange really because normally Matthew is serious and not very funny at all.

  Next he put on the blue tightrope walker’s set of clothes. He went down to the back fence and walked along the top edge. It was a high paling fence and it was a bit wobbly. Matthew held out his arms to the side like plane wings and started to walk. He was great. He walked the whole length of the fence without falling off.

  ‘That was terrific,’ I yelled. I gave him a big clap.

  The scarecrow regarded us with its frozen grin.

  It didn’t clap.

  That was when I noticed how quiet the garden was. There was no noise at all. Not a rustle. Not even a bird call. I looked around and saw the crows sitting far off in some trees. The birds were too frightened to even come into the garden.

  ‘Those clothes have done wonders for the scarecrow,’ said a voice behind us. ‘The birds won’t come anywhere near it.’ It was Dad.

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ I answered. ‘I’m not going anywhere near it either.’ The scarecrow seemed to have its gaze fixed on Dad. It hated him. I knew that it hated him. ‘It’s proud,’ I said. ‘And it’s haughty. And it’s mean.’

  ‘And it’s only a scarecrow,’ added Dad. ‘I don’t care what it looks like as long as it keeps the birds off.’

  The crows started to caw. Long, mournful cries like lost babies in the night.

  3

  Matthew went inside and put on the knife-thrower’s outfit. The whole thing was made of leather covered in little scratch marks. When Dad wasn’t looking, Matthew took a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer and snuck off along the cliff. I knew that he was going to pretend to be a knife thrower in the circus.

  I looked out of the window at the scarecrow. It seemed to be closer to the house than it was before. It was on the edge of the vegetable patch instead of the middle. It was grinning horribly. It was staring straight at me. I went into my bedroom and hid behind the curtain. I peeked at it through a chink so that it couldn’t see my face. I felt a bit silly. Dad was right. It was only a scarecrow.

  And then my heart almost stopped. The scarecrow now stood on the edge of the lawn. It had moved forward about a metre while I was changing rooms. There was no one around outside. Dad was in the lounge watching the football on television.

  ‘It’s coming,’ I screamed. ‘It’s coming.’

  Dad rushed into the room. ‘What’s coming?’ he asked.

  ‘The scarecrow,’ I said. ‘It’s coming to get us. No. It’s coming to get you, Dad. It hates you. Look. It’s moved onto the lawn.’

  Dad peered out of the window. The scarecrow was back in the middle of the vegetable patch.

  ‘You’ve been watching too much television,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t want to hea
r any more nonsense about that scarecrow.’ A great roar erupted from the TV set. ‘A goal,’ said Dad. ‘And I missed it because of a scarecrow.’ He gave me a black look and rushed back into the lounge.

  A little later, Matthew’s face appeared at the window. He was holding his finger up to his lips. ‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘Come and watch this.’

  I followed Matthew along the cliff until we were out of sight of the house. He was still dressed in the knifethrower’s costume. He stopped at a large fencepost on the edge of the cliff. Then he turned and walked backwards twenty steps until he was about seven metres from the post. He took out the silver kitchen knife and suddenly threw it at the post. It spun like a propeller flashing silver in the sunshine. With a dull ‘thunk’ it dug into the post. It quivered silently in the still sea air.

  I didn’t like what I was seeing. I started to understand what was happening but I had to be sure. Matthew was grinning. His grin was almost as big as the scarecrow’s. ‘Do it again,’ I said. ‘Let’s see you do it again.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m an expert. I have natural talent.’ He fetched the knife and walked back another twenty paces. This time he turned his back to the post. ‘Watch this,’ he said. He held the knife by its blade and threw it over his shoulder. He threw the knife at the post without even looking. Once again the knife spun, glittering and humming in the air. Once again it thunked into the post, splintering the grey wood as its point found the target.

  Matthew smiled. A happy, boastful smile. ‘I’m a fantastic knife thrower,’ he said. ‘I never miss. Fancy that. I lived for fourteen years without knowing what a good knife thrower I am.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s the clothes. You are getting strange powers from the clothes. That outfit belonged to a knife thrower in a circus. Now he is dead and you are getting his skill from the outfit.’

  The smile fell from his face. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. I could tell that he didn’t like what I was saying.