Paul Jenning's Spookiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  It’s weird how your mind plays tricks on you. I could swear that the lump is bigger than before. I could swear that it is growing.

  Aaaaaaaaargh. It is growing. I can see it wobbling and moving. I can’t take my eyes off it. I am hypnotised by it. A horrible, swelling growth on the wall.

  ‘Mum,’ I want to scream. But I am too frightened. The word is frozen in my throat.

  I am trembling with fear. I am too scared to run. And too scared to stay. Help. Help. Someone. Anyone. Please. Make the lump go away. Come and save me.

  I need help.

  It is wiggling. The ear is wiggling.

  The ear?

  Yes. Oh horrible, horrible, horrible. The lump is in the shape of an ear. A wiggling, disgusting, plaster ear on the wall. It is listening. Listening. Listening.

  It is the ear of the house. I bet it heard me tell Mum lies. It is the ear that hears all. Knows all. Understands all. Sneaky. Snaky. Snoopy. It is looking for liars.

  Well, listen, ear. Just see what you think of this. I take a deep breath. I fill up my lungs. I am terrified but I must be brave. I yell as loud as I can.

  ‘Nick off, ear.’

  The sound echoes around the empty rooms. But the ear does not nick off. It just wiggles a little bit. Like a worm on the end of a hook.

  4

  All is silent again. Tick, tick, tick. Rustle, rustle. Breathe in. Breathe out. Silently. Quiet.

  Wiggle, wiggle. There it goes again. Don’t annoy it. Don’t shout. Don’t even look. Pretend it is not there.

  The ghastly ear on the wall.

  Oh, oh, oh. No. It isn’t. Not another lump. It can’t be. I sneak a look through half-closed eyelids. Another foul lump is swelling out of the plaster. Yes, oh yuck. Another ear. A pair of ears wiggling on the wall. Stop, stop, stop.

  Be a dream. Be a nightmare. Don’t be real. Please don’t be real.

  I look at the wall. But the ears are still there. This is not a dream. This is real. The ears are still there in the wall. One of them has an earring. Just like mine but made of plaster. The ears are living, wriggling plaster.

  There is more movement. It is as if the plaster is growing a mole. Or bubbling like thick soup in a dark pot. Bits are boiling and growing.

  Oh, what’s this? A nose. And eyes. And a chin. A face grows like a flower opening on fast forward.

  A face in the wall. The plaster eyes roll around. The nose twitches. The mouth opens and closes but it says nothing. It is like the television with the sound turned down. The eyes stare at me. They see me hiding there under the covers, trying not to look.

  I have seen this face before. But where? Whose face is this?

  What can I do? I can’t stay here with the fiendish face. I will run for it. Down to the kitchen. I will wait in the kitchen until Mum and Dad come home.

  The face is still boiling and bubbling. What? It has grown glasses. They are just like mine but made of plaster.

  I stare at the face. It stares back at me. Blinking with plaster eyes.

  I know where I have seen this face before. I have seen it in the mirror.

  It is my face.

  I scream. I jump out of bed. I race along to the kitchen and slam the door. I fall panting to the floor. I am never going in that bedroom again.

  Oh Dad, Mum, Sophie, babysitter. Where are you? Come home, come home, come home.

  I can’t bear to look at the walls. Or go near them. So I sit on the floor with my back against the fridge. It is cold on the tile floor but I am going to stay there until someone comes home.

  I lean my head back on the fridge door and close my eyes. The metal is cold and hard against my head. And it is moving. Like worms crawling in my hair. For a moment I just sit there, frozen. Then I scream and scramble across the floor.

  The face has erupted in the door of the fridge. Only now it is a horrible, horrible steel face with shiny white skin and lips and eyes. Its glasses are also white steel.

  The face, my face is trying to talk. Its lips are moving but nothing is coming out. What is it trying to say?

  It is me. I know that it is me. It is my own conscience. Telling me not to tell lies.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I scream. ‘Leave me alone.’ I bolt into the lounge and crouch behind the sofa.

  But it has followed me.

  There it is on the window. Now the face is made of glass. I can see right through its dreadful, moving lips. Is it calling me a liar? What is it trying to say? What is it doing? Why is it after me? Why? Why? Why?

  I jump up and roar out of the room. I am running away from myself. No one can do that.

  5

  I bolt into Dad’s study. The walls are all made of wood. The face can’t get me here. I am safe.

  Outside the rain has stopped. The moon is playing hide and seek behind the clouds. How I wish I was on the moon. I stare up but then look away. Even the moon has a face.

  The moonlight shines on the dark wooden panels. The grain makes strange shapes like whirlpools in a rotting swamp. The lines begin to swirl and run like a crazy river.

  My heart starts to beat faster and faster. I can feel the blood running beneath my skin. Sheer terror is washing within me.

  The fearsome face has made itself in a panel. My awful reflection glares down at me through its wooden glasses. Its mouth opens and shuts without a sound. It is trying to say something. But what?

  It is no use running. The face can turn itself into plaster and steel and glass. And wood. There is no escape.

  A saying that I once heard is stirring in the back of my mind. What is it? I know. ‘The best form of defence is attack.’

  Could I attack the face? It might grab me and pull me into the wall. Never to be seen again. But I can’t keep running. If I go outside it might appear on a tree. Or the footpath. There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. No escape.

  I must beat it at its own game. Think, think, think. What is its weakness? It is my face. How can I outsmart it?

  I am breathing so heavily that my glasses start to fog up. I give them a wipe. I can’t see a thing without my glasses. If I lose them I am gone.

  The face still mouths silent words. And peers at me through its wooden glasses.

  Okay. It is risky. It is a chance. But I have to take it. On hands and knees I crawl towards the grained face in the wood. Behind the sofa. Along. I must keep my head down. I must get close without it knowing what I am up to.

  I crouch low behind the sofa like a cat waiting for a bird. I can’t see the face and it can’t see me. Unless it has moved.

  Now. Go, go, go.

  I fly at the face like an arrow from a bow.

  Snatch. Got them. Got them. I can’t believe it. I have grabbed the wooden glasses. The face is horrified. Its mouth opens in a silent scream. Its eyes are wide and staring. It rushes blindly around the walls. Like a rat running under a sheet it shoots across the floor.

  Its features change as it rushes to and fro. Glass, wood, plastic. It bubbles across the floor. Searching, searching, searching. Its mouth snaps and snarls. Its eyes gape and glare but without the glasses it cannot see. Oh, what will it do if it catches me?

  Flash. A blinding light fills the room. What? I blink in the glare. Oh yes, yes, yes. The power has come back on. I have light. Now maybe the fiendish face will go back where it came from.

  But no. In the light it is more fearsome than ever. More real. I am so scared. My knees are shaking so much that I can hardly move.

  Suddenly from the lounge room I hear voices. A woman’s voice. And a child’s. They are home. ‘Mum,’ I scream. ‘Mum, Mum, Mum.’ I race into the hall towards the lounge and the face follows my voice. But I don’t care. They are here. Help has arrived. I am saved.

  I rush into the lounge and then freeze. There are people there all right. But they won’t be any use to me. They are on the television. The television has come back on with the power. It is my favourite show – Round the Twist.

  6

  I run out of the room a
nd up the stairs. The face follows the sound of my thumping feet. Now it is made of carpet. A carpet face flowing up the stairs after my footsteps.

  I run into Mum and Dad’s room and slam the door.

  Fool. Fool. What a mistake. The face heard the door slam. It bulges out onto the door. Staring. Searching. It knows I am in the room. I climb carefully onto the bed and try to breathe quietly. It can’t find me. Not without the glasses. Not unless I make a noise. Don’t move. Don’t make the bed squeak.

  The face starts to search. Up and down each wall. Across the ceiling. Under the bed. Its lips are pulled down in an unhappy pout. It circles the bed like a shark around a boat. It knows where I am.

  ‘Listen,’ I yell, ‘I am sorry I told a lie. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?’

  This is weird. I am telling myself that I am sorry.

  The face suddenly smiles. It is happy. Its mouth is making silent words. What is it trying to say? One word. It is saying the same word over and over again.

  It is hard reading lips. But suddenly I know what the word is.

  ‘Glasses,’ I yell at the face.

  The face nods. Up and down with a limp smile.

  What is it about these glasses? I take my own glasses off and carefully put the wooden ones on my own face. Straightaway everything changes. The whole house is different. I can see through the walls and the ceiling. The house is a ghost house and I can see right through it.

  Wires and building materials. Nails. Rubbish. An old newspaper. A drink bottle left by the builders. A rat’s nest underneath the dressing-table. A rat scurries away through a hole in the wall.

  This is amazing. I can see into all the rooms from where I am standing. It is like X-ray vision.

  My mind starts to turn over. Somewhere in all this is the answer to a puzzle. The rat’s nest. I stare and stare at the rat’s nest. All of this started with rats scuttling around in the wall. I stare into the nest. Then I smile.

  So does the face. It is happy too.

  I do not know if the face is my conscience. Perhaps it is the best and the worst of me. It has chased me around and made me feel guilty. And now it has helped me out.

  I step down from the bed. I walk over to the grinning copy of myself and put the glasses on its cheeks. It blinks. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You can go now.’

  Slowly, slowly, with just the hint of a smile, the face melts back into the wall. I know that it is happy.

  Downstairs a door bangs. ‘Mum,’ I yell. ‘Dad. Sophie.’ I rush happily down the stairs.

  ‘The babysitter rang the cinema,’ says Mum. ‘Her car broke down. And the phones weren’t working. Are you okay?’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘You are not going to believe this.’

  They sit down and don’t say a thing while I tell them the story. I tell them everything and don’t leave out one little detail.

  I am right about one thing though. They do not believe me.

  ‘It was a dream,’ says Mum.

  ‘It was a lie,’ says Dad.

  They think I am still lying. They won’t believe me. ‘It’s the truth,’ I yell. ‘It is, it is, it is.’

  ‘There is one way to prove your story,’ says Dad. ‘We will move the dressing-table and see if there is a rat’s nest underneath. Then we will know for sure.’

  We all walk up to the bedroom and Dad tries to move the dressing-table. It is very heavy so all four of us join in and help. In the end we lift it into the middle of the room.

  There against the wall is a rat’s nest. There is no rat in it. It has run away because of all the noise. There is no rat. But there is a compass. Right there where the rat carried it.

  ‘Now do you believe me?’ I say.

  I look at Mum and Dad and Sophie. Their mouths just open and shut but no sound comes out.

  No sound at all.

  Think of the meanest thing you ever did.

  Okay. So why did you do it?

  You don’t know, do you? No one knows why they suddenly do something mean.

  Even your mum and your dad can be awful now and then. Or your lovely old grandma. Or the prime minister. Even the bishop in his church. Everyone is sneaky sometimes. Greedy sometimes. Rude sometimes. Selfish sometimes. No one is perfect. It is okay to be human.

  Sometimes, when I am bad-tempered, my mum will say, ‘Richard is not himself today.’

  And this makes me wonder. If you are not yourself, who are you?

  1

  On the day I found out, I was walking around the fairground without a worry in the world. I had no money but there was plenty to look at for nothing. The animal nursery. The man on stilts. The busker playing the violin. The man throwing fire-sticks into the air. All the stalls selling jewellery and scented candles. Little kids with their balloons. Mothers and fathers pushing prams.

  Yes. The best things in life are free.

  Except for show bags, the Ghost Train, the Sledgehammer, the Rocket to Mars, the Rotor, the Hall of Mirrors, and Bubbles Bo Bo.

  All of them cost five dollars each to get in. And I had no dollars. And no cents. I was broke.

  Actually, the Hall of Mirrors gave me the creeps. There was a little man sitting outside selling tickets. His name was Mr Image. He wore an old baseball cap and had a five o’clock shadow. And he had mean eyes. They seemed to see right into you. He made me shiver. But all the same, I wanted to go in. I wanted to have a look at myself in the Hall of Mirrors.

  But not as much as I wanted to have a look at Bubbles Bo Bo. She was a beautiful lady sitting in a bath full of bubbles with nothing on.

  Not a stitch on. That’s what all the kids at school reckoned anyway.

  I walked past her tent and pretended not to be gazing up at the painting outside. The one of Bubbles sitting in the bath with a bare leg held up in the air.

  You couldn’t see all the other bits. Bubbles was covered in bubbles, if you know what I mean.

  Suddenly I had an idea. A way to get to see Bubbles Bo Bo for nothing.

  I slowly walked up to the guy who was selling tickets. He was a rough-looking bloke with a whole heap of earrings and tattoos.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘But would you like someone to sweep up inside? For nothing.’

  He looked down at me with a big grin that grew bigger. And bigger. He threw back his head and started to laugh. He had long yellow teeth and he laughed so madly that I could see right inside his mouth. The dangling thing up the back was wobbling around like crazy. ‘Hey, Harry,’ he yelled. ‘Get a load of this kid. He’s trying to sneak a look at Bubbles by offering to sweep the floor.’

  My face started to burn. I didn’t know where to hide. Everyone in the world seemed to be grinning and looking at me.

  A toothless, skinny man hurried out and started to cackle like a chook. He doubled up, clutching his side and gasping, ‘Wants to sweep the floor – for nothing. Wants a free peek at Bubbles. Ha, ha ho, ho ha.’

  Oh, if only I could have vanished. If only I could have gone up in smoke. All the passers-by seemed to be watching me. Knowing what was inside my head. What a sleaze. That’s what they were all thinking.

  I started to stumble away. Trying to find somewhere to hide. Looking for a rock to crawl under.

  Suddenly I heard a voice.

  ‘You can sweep my floor. And I’ll pay you for it.’

  It was Mr Image. The man of mirrors.

  ‘Come back in the morning,’ he said. ‘At first light. I’ll pay you ten dollars to sweep the Hall of Mirrors.’

  A cold weight seemed to be sliding down my throat. Like an iceblock inside me it travelled down, down, down, until even my toes started to shiver.

  He smiled. A cold smile. As if no one was home behind those mean eyes.

  Everything inside me told me to run away. But I thought about the money. And Bubbles Bo Bo. And nodded my head.

  2

  The next morning I arrived at the fairground just as the sun was rising. All the show people were getting ready for the day. An ol
d man was washing down his elephant. Two guys in a truck were unloading packets of hot dogs. A kid about my age was taking the covers off the dodgem cars.

  I walked nervously over to the Hall of Mirrors. ‘Ah, Richard,’ said Mr Image, ‘you’ve come to work.’

  He handed me a bucket of water and a mop, and disappeared into the large gloomy tent. I followed him.

  ‘How did you know my—’ I started to say.

  Mr Image interrupted me in a voice like a wet whisper. ‘Use the mop,’ he said. ‘A broom raises dust and it gets on the mirrors.’

  He poured some liquid soap into the bucket and walked away. His feet made a rustling sound as if he was walking on dry leaves.

  The tent was filled with corridors that were lined with mirrors. Like a maze with openings shooting off here and there. It was gloomy, which was strange for a place filled with reflections.

  I started to clean up underneath a bent mirror. A fat, fat Richard copied my every move. I walked backwards and forwards, watching my image grow bigger and smaller.

  All of the mirrors gave weird reflections. Fat. Thin. Ugly. Bent. Upside down. Crinkled.

  I mopped and stared. Mopped and stared. It was lonely. It was quiet. It was creepy. Inside the Hall of Mirrors.

  The silent morning moved on. I seemed a million miles away from the show and all its life outside. I was alone but surrounded by dozens of people. Bent and horrible copies of myself mopping the floors all around me. Repulsive reflections holding their warped mops in twisted fingers.

  I shivered. Why had I taken this terrible job? I wanted to burst out of this tent and flee into the real world outside. But somewhere down there. In the gloom. Was Mr Image. Moving around like a rat in a cupboard. I was too scared to run out on him. He was the sort of person who would follow you. Not let go.

  Minutes ticked by. Or was it hours? It was hard to tell. My ugly companions mopped silently alongside me. They rested silently. Copied my every move without a sound.