The Most Frightening Story Ever Told

by Philip Kerr

“His hand,” said Elizabeth. “It’s as cold as ice.”

  “Look at his eyes,” whispered Mercedes. “The way they’re staring straight ahead. It’s like they’re made of glass.”

  “It was exactly the same with my late father,” said Elizabeth. “We found him just like this. With a look of extreme horror on his face. As if he’d seen something truly fiendish and ghastly.” She took out her handkerchief and bit the corner for a moment. “I fear we shall never see dear Mr. Rapscallion like himself again.” And she started to weep. “Now I shall never be able to make him understand how much I love him. Poor Mr. Rapscallion. He looks quite dumbstruck.”

  Mr. Rapscallion stood up. Which gave everyone, including Billy, a bit of a shock.

  “Of course I’m dumbstruck,” he said. “I had no idea you felt that way, Elizabeth, my dear. I feel the same about you. But enough of that for now. Yes, I’m horrified. But not for the reason you think. And I have seen something really ghastly.”

  “What happened?” asked Billy. “Tell us.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “I read the story, that’s what happened. I thought I had better read it before the actual contest. Just so that I could be sure that it wouldn’t actually injure anyone, or put one of those horrible kids into a loony bin. And guess what? The scariest story ever written? It isn’t in the least bit scary.”

  “What?” said Elizabeth. “But that’s impossible. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” insisted Mr. Rapscallion. “I own a bookshop that specializes in ghost and horror fiction, don’t I? After thirty years I think I know what’s a scary story and what isn’t. And this isn’t. Maybe it was scary, back in 1816. Or in 1820. But it isn’t anymore. Not really. After the creaking door noise and the sound of someone banging on the floor, which is still a bit creepy, that’s about it for freaking you out with fear.” Mr. Rapscallion pulled a face. “The fact is, I actually fell asleep while I was reading it.”

  “But what about the poor boys of the workhouse in All Hallows Barking by the Tower?” asked Elizabeth. “What about my poor father?”

  Mr. Rapscallion thought for a moment.

  “Elizabeth, exactly how old was your dear father when he passed away?” Mr. Rapscallion asked her.

  “He was one hundred and five,” she said. “Give or take a few weeks.”

  Mr. Rapscallion groaned. And so did Mercedes McBatty. And so did Billy.

  “Are you kidding me?” said Mercedes.

  “One hundred and five?” said Mr. Rapscallion. “So it’s just as likely that he died of extreme old age as it is from his having read the scariest story ever written.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” admitted Elizabeth. “But Daddy was always a man who was in excellent health.”

  “Since he lived to such a ripe old age, I don’t doubt it,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

  “I expect he was the healthiest man in the cemetery, when he died,” said Mercedes.

  “And the events at the workhouse in All Hallows Barking by the Tower, in London,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “I don’t suppose there could be another explanation for what happened back in 1820, could there?”

  “Yeah, how old were those kids?” said Mercedes.

  “It was almost two hundred years ago,” said Elizabeth. “And if there was another explanation, I never heard of one.”

  “I think I might just have thought of a possible explanation,” said Billy. “Maybe they were just pretending. They were pretending to go mad just so that they could get out of the workhouse. From what I’ve read, in Oliver Twist, for example, most boys wanted to escape from those places really badly. So maybe that’s what they did. They faked it just to get out of there.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Billy’s right. That’s exactly what must have happened. They faked it to get out of there. Brilliant. Devious but brilliant.”

  “I must say I never thought of that,” confessed Elizabeth. “But it does make a lot of sense when you think about it.”

  Mr. Rapscallion sighed loudly. “Billy. Ladies. I don’t mind admitting to you all right now that I’m scared. Really scared. In fact, I’m terrified. I’m terrified because in two days’ time I have to read a story to a bunch of kids who are expecting to be scared witless. Only they’re not going to be scared in the least. In fact, they’re probably going to laugh. They’re going to come out of my shop laughing and I’m going to look like an idiot. That is always supposing that they don’t take it out on the shop and try to destroy it, like they did before. Well, three of them, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t know what to say. I feel awful. It’s all my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “It’s mine. I should have read the story before I went and told the world’s press all about it.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Billy.

  “You could cancel the contest,” said Elizabeth. “In the terms and conditions and all that small print and very small print there must be something that gives you the right to pull out.”

  “I’m not a quitter,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Mercedes.

  “Draw the last name, ham up the story in the telling and hope for the best,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “Couldn’t you read them a different story?” suggested Mercedes. “You must know plenty of good ones that would scare those kids.”

  “Yes,” said Billy. “You could read them ‘The Pocket Handkerchief.’ Or ‘New Shoes.’ One of those scary stories might do the trick.”

  “Nope,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “That would be cheating. I won’t fix a problem by cheating kids.”

  He started to laugh his mad, careering laugh, which sounded like a car that was out of control. It was Mr. Rapscallion’s way of cheering himself up.

  “Even if they are the kind of awful kids who belong in a zoo.”

  The shoebox used for the draw in the Haunted House of Books was no longer big enough. So many sales receipts containing the names and addresses of children who wanted a chance to hear the scary story and to win a thousand dollars had been stuffed inside it that they were now spilling onto the shop floor.

  Next door to the Haunted House of Books was a shop selling washing machines. The man who owned the shop, Mr. Thornhill, gave Mr. Rapscallion a large box that had once contained a tumble dryer, so that all of the names and addresses could now fit comfortably inside it. But by the time of the last draw, even this bigger box was full. In fact, it was so full it looked like there might actually have been a tumble dryer hidden underneath the top layer of paper. Or some kind of surprise for a children’s party.

  Billy looked at the box full of names and addresses without much optimism that his was going to be the fifth and last name chosen. At the same time he felt glad for Mr. Rapscallion, because with so many sales receipts in the box, it was clear that the scary story contest had probably restored the fortunes of the Haunted House of Books.

  That became even more obvious when the very last book in the Haunted House of Books was sold three whole hours ahead of the scheduled time for the draw. Which, of course, meant that no one else could enter. Since most of the world’s press were already there in preparation for the last draw, Mr. Rapscallion decided to bring the time of the final draw forward.

  And he was just about to pick the last name from the box when there was a dreadful commotion in the shop: a man and his son who had just arrived in Hitchcock after having flown all the way from Japan to take part in the contest now stood weeping loudly by the front door. Both of them.

  Mr. Rapscallion tried to explain to the man—who was called Hideo—that his son Mikimoto could only take part if he bought a book, but that there were no books left to buy.

  It was Billy who solved the problem. Despite the fact it meant that he was shortening his own chances of winning the draw by one, Billy s
elflessly went out to the garbage bin down the street, retrieved a copy of Ken Biro’s book thrown away by another customer and sneaked it back into the shop so that Mr. Rapscallion could resell it to the visibly delighted Hideo.

  As soon as Mikimoto’s name was on the very last sales receipt, Mr. Rapscallion rolled up his sleeve, showed off his empty hand like a magician in case there should be any suggestion of a fix and, with flashbulbs going off all around him, plunged his arm into the deepest depths of the paper-filled box.

  There it stayed for several seconds while he made a big show of fishing around for a piece of paper with a fifth name.

  Billy closed his eyes. Elizabeth took hold of one of his hands. And Mercedes took hold of the other.

  Finally Mr. Rapscallion’s arm, which had a tattoo of a ship’s anchor on it, came out holding one sales receipt. He held it up for all to see and then opened it up to read the name.

  “And the fifth child to hear the scariest story in the world will be…”

  There was an electric hush in the shop. Cameras started flashing. Mr. Rapscallion grinned.

  “Billy Shivers! 320 Sycamore, Southeast Hitchcock!”

  Billy leaped for joy and was promptly hugged by Elizabeth and then by Mercedes.

  “Now all I have to do is to persuade my dad to come through with those consent forms,” said the boy. “Not to mention asking him to put in an appearance.”

  “Well done, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

  “You take my advice you’ll get out of here for a while,” murmured Mercedes as she hugged Billy to her shoulder. “That is, unless you want the press asking all sorts of nosy questions about you.”

  “Mercedes is right, Billy,” said Elizabeth. “Just look at all those awful things they’ve already written about poor Mr. Leapy.”

  Billy nodded. He could see they were right. It was time to make himself scarce.

  “Just a minute,” said a voice that sounded like a piece of gnarled wood. “Isn’t Billy Shivers the kid who works in this shop?”

  It was Hugh Crane, the local lawyer and tycoon. He walked into the shop, the lenses in his blue-tinted glasses shining like two tiny fishing holes cut in an ice floe. Under the surface of the blue glass, Hugh Crane’s white eyes were two hungry polar bears. His bald head had been recently polished and shone like a cue ball. Everyone in the Haunted House of Books went silent.

  “It seems to me,” said Crane in his crusty old voice, “that this can hardly be called a fair draw if one of the people who works in this bookshop of yours, Mr. Rapscallion, is allowed to enter it. And not merely to enter, but to win one of the five places to hear the scary story. I should think that any one of these people who’ve paid good money to have their name in this draw would feel rightly aggrieved to discover something like that. In fact, they might even feel inclined to take legal advice—my legal advice, perhaps, since I am also the most important lawyer in town. And my advice would be that they should band together and sue you and this preposterous bookshop of yours for a million dollars. Yes sir. That’s what I’d do if I’d been dumb enough to put my name and address on one of those sales receipts and put it in that box.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “You’re trying to get the Haunted House of Books for yourself in order that you can turn it into some stupid shop selling very expensive shampoo. Well, you won’t do it.”

  “Won’t I? We’ll see about that. But we’re straying from the subject here, Mr. Rapscallion. Why don’t you simply answer the very serious charge I’ve just put to you in front of all these people? That Billy Shivers works for you. And is therefore disqualified from entering the contest. Answer that, if you can, sir.”

  Mr. Rapscallion shook his head. “As a matter of fact, Billy’s an unpaid volunteer,” he said. “An intern. I pay him no salary and I flatter myself that he helps out around here because of his great love of books and me and this shop.” He raised his voice above the clamor of reporters’ questions. “Which means, according to the terms and conditions and all the very small print on the sign in the window, that perhaps you ought to have read, Mr. Crane, before you go around accusing people of cheating, that Billy’s free to enter the contest like anyone else. Isn’t that right, Billy?”

  But, keen to avoid the crush of television cameras, reporters and photographers, Billy had wisely disappeared.

  “I can vouch for that,” said Mercedes. “And I’m sure the bookshop accounts will bear out what Mr. Rapscallion says. Billy is not an employee of the Haunted House of Books.”

  Mr. Rapscallion reached under the counter and produced a heavy-looking ledger. “I have the shop’s accounts right here. These will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the only person who gets paid by this shop is me.”

  Hugh Crane growled irritably.

  “Since you are here, Mr. Crane,” said Mr. Rapscallion, “perhaps this would be a good time for me to pay you back the money I owe you. Just so that you don’t ever have to come in here again. In fact, for that reason alone, I insist on it.”

  Mr. Rapscallion put his hand into his coat and took out a thick wad of banknotes that he handed to Crane, who counted them crossly and thrust them into his hip pocket.

  “What about the interest on the loan?” he demanded. “What about that?”

  “Whatever you think is right, Mr. Crane,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “There’s the cash register. Please. Help yourself. It’s full of money.”

  Hugh Crane went over to the cash register and stood squarely in front of it.

  “Help myself, eh?” Crane chuckled meanly.

  “By all means. Whatever you think is the right amount, Mr. Crane.”

  “And it’s full of money, you say?”

  “Full of money.”

  “Well then, how about I take all of it?” said Crane. “I might think that’s right, for the length of time this loan has been in existence. Yes, indeed. I might think that every dollar and cent in this here cash register would be a fair sum for you to pay, Rexford, after all this time.”

  “Take whatever you can get,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Be my guest.”

  Crane pointed at the world’s press, who were watching closely. “You heard him. All of you are witnesses. Whatever I can get. He said it.”

  And, so saying, he hit one of the keys on the Brown Bomber.

  The drawer of the Brown Bomber shot out like a bullet and hit Hugh Crane squarely in the chest. The impact carried him flying across the shop and out of the door, which, fortunately for him, was open.

  Several people cheered and clapped their hands, as it was clear to everyone that in common with a great many lawyers and tycoons, Hugh Crane probably had it coming. And, in fact, he was never seen again.

  The night before the day of the reading, Mr. Rapscallion was feeling very nervous and a little bit depressed about what would happen the next day.

  So he telephoned his psychiatrist, Dr. Stundenweise, for some mental health advice.

  “I feel very tense, Dr. Stundenweise,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Tense. Like something awful is going to happen. Very tense. If only there was some way of getting this feeling out of my system. Then I might be able to relax. And stop feeling so tense. And if I could relax, then I might not be so anxious about reading the story tomorrow. And who knows? If I can relax, then I might even be able to make the scary story sound a lot more scary than it seems to me right now.”

  Dr. Stundenweise, who was from Austria and spoke with a strong Austrian accent, gave Mr. Rapscallion the same useful shrink-wrapped advice he always gave him:

  “When you’re feeling blue, this is what you do; you write a little song, which might just fix what’s wrong. Music soothes the savage breast, and gives your anxious mind a rest, from everything that ails and bothers; and, my fee is fifty dollars.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Why didn’t I think of that before? That’s what I did when those hooligans destroyed my mummy. That’s what I’ll do now. I’ll write
a little song. Thanks a lot, Dr. Stundenweise.”

  So Mr. Rapscallion went to the piano and spent the whole night with pencils and music paper, composing a new song to help get himself into the best frame of mind for what was to come.

  The next morning Elizabeth and Mercedes found Mr. Rapscallion asleep, with his head resting on the piano lid. Mercedes thought he looked a bit like Beethoven after a hard night on the staves, and so she took a picture of him with one of her cameras.

  The camera flash awoke Mr. Rapscallion, who yawned and stretched for a while. And after a reviving cup of coffee and a muffin, he sang his new song to the two young ladies.

  “Scaring the Kids,” a song by Rexford Rapscallion

  If there was one thing I did enjoy

  When I was just a little boy

  It was my dad telling me a story

  About something very gory

  And a creature who was vile.

  When I shrieked it made him smile,

  Yes, it’s fun scaring the kids.

  Now, a tale about a ghost

  Was the thing I loved the most.

  My dad was quite a storyteller

  For a nervous little fellow.

  He might sound a crazy coot,

  Because my screaming made him hoot

  But, you know, it’s fun scaring the kids.

  Please don’t ever look under the bed,

  Or check out things that go bump in the night.

  They can really mess with your head

  And give you a terrible fright.

  At six I wanted to see a ghost.

  At ten what I wanted most

  Was a haunted house to call my home.

  And while it might sound gruesome,

  My parents did the next best thing,

  And hung up some sheets with bits of string,

  To have some fun scaring the kids.

  I’m older now but just the same

  When I hear a kid exclaim

  I’m spooked, I get a kick.

  Please don’t think me sick

  If I hide and then say “Boo!”

  For me it’s like a how d’you do,