Sunblocked Summerhouse

by Mixi J Applebottom

  He wasn't sure how long he had been in the room—hours? A full day? It was impossible to tell anymore. His stomach was rumbling. When he looked out the window, it was just a solid darkness. The sun was blocked by clouds and fog. If it was daytime. There was an eerie glow.

  His heart was pounding and his hands were covered in sweat. He tried to turn the handle, but it was so slippery that his hand just flipped around it. He took a deep breath, wiped his hand on his shirt, and gently used the edge of the shirt to turn the handle. He was trying to turn it so carefully, and so slowly that the latch wouldn't even click. He didn't want the boy to know he was going out.

  The door opened silently. He peered out the tiny crack, the two inches that he had it open. He couldn't see very far in either direction, but the hallway seemed to be clear. Gently, he pulled the door a little further open. Again, there was nothing in the hallway. He turned and walked through the hall and nobody was there. He walked back towards the kitchen, where he knew Wynne and Gregory had been the last time he had seen them. Before he had seen the boy.

  The kitchen was empty other than there was a slight smell of fresh bread. He walked to the formal dining room where his backpack had previously sat. On the table, he could see mirror shards, a salt circle, and blood-red candles arranged in a pentagram. Had the boy done this?

  "Gregory?" he whispered.

  Then, to his astonishment, one of the candles lit on fire. As he backed up slowly, another one lit. Then another and another until all the candles were lit. He saw the chair directly in front of the candles slide back slowly, then scoot in towards the table. And another chair, the one on the right directly next to it, slid out just a smidge. It was as if two people had just sat at the table. The chairs themselves were utterly empty. He could feel a hum in the room. A humming buzz, and his ears started to hurt from the noise. It grew louder and he ran out of the room because the sound was unbearable. But just as he began to run, he glanced back in. For a second, he thought he saw Gregory sitting at the table. "Gregory!" he shouted and turned to go back. But the door slammed shut behind him. He was standing in the kitchen, heart throbbing. "Fuck." He reached for the handle, but it was locked.

  Before he could pull his hand away, there was an electric shock that ran up through the handle of the door into his fingertips, burning his hand and sliding up his arm and he could feel his heart gripped by the electricity. His eyes went wide and his mouth went slack. And he crumpled.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wynne carefully brought a plate of buttered toast to the table. She offered a slice to Gregory, but he was carefully lighting the candles one after another. She pulled out the chair and sat and then scooted a little closer. "Do you think this will make them go away?"

  "I sure hope so. I'd like to go home tonight,” said Gregory somberly. The candles were lit. Gregory ate a slice of toast with Wynne. The other slices of toast sat neatly, warm and steamy on a plate.

  "Shall we begin?" said Gregory.

  Wynne nodded. "I think the boy is ready."

  Calleo came from nowhere. His hair was on end and he was glaring at Wynne. He let out a hiss and then jumped into Gregory's lap, circling three times before he sat.

  Gregory took his right hand and gently scratched underneath the cat's chin. Wynne closed her eyes and started to hum. She was concentrating like a yogi master.

  Gregory began, "If you are here, knock two times." There was an immediate and loud thump as the door swung shut suddenly. But no second sound.

  "Is this the boy?" There was no response. Gregory wondered if this was ever going to work.

  Wynne let out another long, humming sound. She sounded focused.

  "Would you like some toast?" said Gregory hesitantly.

  A second later, one of the pieces of toast lifted into the air. Gregory clenched his fist, tension filling his body.

  A single bite was taken from the toast by whatever invisible creature held it, then it was set back on the plate with the others.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mike woke still slumped against the door. His arm was aching, and so was his chest.

  He looked around cautiously. "Hello?" He rubbed his eyes slowly. His head was pounding and there was a bright light at the back of his eyes, a throbbing ache that wouldn't settle. "Is anybody there?"

  Slowly, he stood up, carefully backing away from the door lest it electrocuted him again. Nobody replied. Even the slap of bare feet had gone silent.

  He wandered far away from the kitchen and the formal dining room. Slowly, he found his way back to the front door. He rattled the door handle, but it was still locked, with the deadbolt mangled in the doorframe.

  There didn't seem to be a way to unlock it. He tried to twist it, and a sharp tingle of electric pain ran up his arm into his shoulder.

  There was a large window to the left of the door. He stared out at and he could see his Jeep and Gregory's motorcycle. He wasn't sure the girl had a car, but if she did, he couldn't see it. Darkness had swallowed the outside and he could see nothing further. He turned and looked around the little entryway area. There was a small side table. In a fit of excitement, he picked it up and threw it at the window. The table bounced back, shattering on the floor. He took the busted table by one leg and slammed it on the floor until the spindle broke all the way off. He finally had a club. He strung his crucifix back around his neck. He beat the window with the club as hard as he could. But it was to no avail.

  He couldn't even crack the window, even scratch the window. It was as if the window was made out of steel. He'd have better luck digging through the drywall. And as soon as he thought it, he turned with his club and he smashed into the wall. The wall let out a soft groan. The house seemed to shift lightly under his feet as if it was readying itself for assault. But the wall itself only had the tiniest dent in the drywall. His frustration escalated. His body was drenched in sweat. He wasn't really fit enough to do so much physical labor.

  "What do you want from me!" he screamed, breathless and sweaty. The house seemed to shift slightly, groaning underneath him. Then the loud, electric hum from earlier. The rumbling buzzing purr tickling his brain. It sounded like twenty generators running in the same room. He covered his ears and dropped to the ground.

  Fear permeated the room. He could smell it, and it tasted like blood. He wondered if he was going to live here, or die here.

  He was starting to wonder if it was even possible to go home. Would this be eternity?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gregory nervously stared at the toast with the missing bite. Calleo was curled on his lap, glaring at his mistress. His white irises seemed even larger.

  He glanced back at Wynne. She was still sitting cross-legged on the chair, her hands on her knees. Her humming was loud, growing louder. Inhumanly loud.

  Gregory lifted his hands from the cat and placed them over his ears. "Wynne, please stop," he whimpered, his head pounding from the noise.

  Calleo turned around on his lap, then jumped on the table. He walked over to Wynne and lifted one paw. He set his tiny paw on her nose. Her eyes popped open, and the two stared at each other, eyes locked. Wynne seemed to relax. The sound that was coming out of her suddenly dropped to a trickle. Then she went silent.

  "Are you okay?" asked Gregory.

  Calleo put his paw down and hopped back on Gregory's lap. He circled twice and fell asleep.

  Wynne looked down awkwardly. When she finally looked back up at Gregory, she said, "I don't know."

  "Want to play with me?" the childish voice said. Both Gregory and Wynne looked up with a start. The boy was sitting on the table in front of them. His eyes were solid black and shiny like obsidian. His blond hair was shaggy and hanging down in front of his face, obscuring it just a little.

  He had no pupils, nothing. Just a shiny black orb inside his eye sockets. Gregory's heart jumped into his throat as he tried to swallow it back down.

  "Do you want to tell us what happened?" asked Wynne. Her
eyes were wide open, shock crawling on her skin.

  "No,” said the boy and he stood up. As he stood, his bones cracked. The angles seemed unnatural, inhuman. As if his bones must have snapped in a thousand different ways. He stretched his lanky body out. He had to have been only seven or eight years old. But he seemed longer than the average seven- or eight-year-old; his bones were sticking out of his thin skin. His skin seemed thin as paper, and he was slightly translucent. He was terrifying.

  "What do you want to play?" asked Gregory nervously.

  "You already played the devil’s game,” said the boy. Gregory flinched. How did he know?

  The boy stared at Gregory and cocked his head to one side. His neck and jaw made an unusual cracking sound as he moved. “Do you want to play with me?”

  Gregory nodded and said nothing else.

  But Wynne said, "Is it the guessing game?"

  The boy slowly turned his attention on Wynne. "Yes. We will play the guessing game. I'm sure that you will enjoy it." And he smiled, but his grin seemed overly large for his face and his teeth were black and sharpened. His pale skin accentuated his black eyes and teeth as if he had a mouthful of shark teeth replaced his human teeth, every single one of them sharpened to single points.

  "What happens if we win?" asked the girl, her fists clasped tightly. She was trying desperately to stay calm.

  "If you win, I'll let you go,” said the boy. His face was terribly smug.

  "No,” said Gregory. "I won't play if that's the prize."

  Wynne looked surprised at Gregory's quick thinking but trusting his lead, she followed him. "That's not a good prize,” she agreed.

  "What do you want?" said the boy, his tone flat and dead.

  "We want to be able to leave, and we want you to leave also,” said Gregory.

  "That's ridiculous. Why would I agree to that? I already have you. And I'm not going to leave." The boy leaned forward, his spine clicking loudly as he picked up more toast and started to crunch into it.

  "Then we’re not going to play," said Gregory calmly. He stood. "Wynne, I'm going to bed."

  "You will learn to respect me,” said the boy, his black glassy eyes staring into Gregory's head. Suddenly, his hand shot out like an arrow, landing promptly on Gregory's throat.

  The boy crushed his throat as the man let out a gurgle. "We will play," he said, his sharpened teeth clicking as he spoke.

  Gregory, even as he was being choked, shook his head slightly.

  But Wynne interrupted. "Why do you care? It's not like we're going to win, are we?"

  The boy's neck cracked and popped until he turned his head far past his shoulder to stare at her. His head was now fully on backwards. He smiled, showing his sharp, black teeth. "True." He let go of Gregory's throat.

  "Let us begin then," he said, plopping down on the table again and picking up the piece of toast and taking another bite.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mike carried the club with him throughout the house. He thumped on a couple of doors. Peered in a couple of bedrooms. But they looked generic and empty. Eventually, he found the boy's bedroom again. But as soon as he saw the kid drawings on the wall, he shut the door. He didn't want to go in there. Instead, he made his way to the kitchen. He carefully stayed away from the formal dining room.

  "I'm gonna make some tea and lie back down. Then I'm gonna wake up in my bed,” said Mike. The water boiled slowly while he thumped open all the cabinets looking for something to eat. He found a box of Lipton tea and dumped one of teabags into a purple mug that he found.

  He began muttering to himself again. "I'll drink tea and sleep. Wake up in my own bed. This is one screwed-up nightmare. But it's over. I'm gonna wake up in my own bed." He carried the tea back to the room that he had been hiding in. He shut the door and set the tea next to the bed on the nightstand and then the club on his pillow.

  It took an eternity to shove the dresser in front of the door. "Go to sleep. Wake up in my bed. This is what's going to happen. I'm absolutely sure," he said as soon as he finally got the dresser moved.

  He slowly drank the tea, and he felt a calm warmth pass through his body. He didn't have to be scared; this was just the most real nightmare he had ever had. But it was a nightmare and it would be over soon.

  He curled under the blanket, holding the club with both hands. He closed his eyes and he started to do his times tables.

  Two times two is four, three times three is nine, and in the way that he had fallen asleep every night for as long as he could remember, he finally started to doze.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  "What are the rules?" said Gregory.

  "You have to guess,” said the boy with a spiky black grin.

  "How many guesses?" asked Wynne.

  Gregory glared at her; for all he knew they could've had thousands of guesses until she asked that question. The boy also seemed surprised by the question. "Let's say three."

  "How many questions?" asked Gregory. For he knew he had to find out when the game ended, or it could go on eternally.

  "Ten, okay?” said Wynne. "We get three guesses per question, best out of that ten. That means if we get six right, then we win. We get to leave, and you also have to leave.”

  "No, you have to get all ten right,” said the boy.

  "No, best of ten," said Gregory.

  The ghost boy smirked, his head cocked. He was clearly replaying the conversation in his head. Finally, he sighed. "You still won't win. Best of ten, it's done."

  The boy smiled with his hideous black teeth. "What color socks did my dad have when I was six years old and it was my birthday?"

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When Mike awoke, he was still in the room with the dresser shoved across the door. The club was held in his hand, and the purple mug was still sitting on the nightstand.

  "Dammit," he said.

  He stretched his aching shoulders from the odd position he was in all night. Slowly, he shoved the dresser out of the way and opened the door.

  There was no sound in the house, no slap, slap of bare feet in the hallway. There was nothing.

  "Hello? Is anyone here?" shouted Mike, and his voice boomed down the hallway. Cautiously, he wandered, completely uncertain as to where to go. He got to the front door and tapped on the window again with the club, but it didn't scratch or crack. He didn't bother hitting it any harder. The broken remnants of the hallway table were still lying near the front door.

  Finally, he went to the one place he wasn't excited about going to. He went to the boy's room.

  "Little boy? Are you still here?" said Mike as he slowly pushed the door all the way open. One of the papers fell off the wall. He quickly went and picked it up; he didn't want to anger the boy by touching his stuff.

  In the drawing was the boy. He was drawn as a stick figure with black eyes and sharp teeth. Next to him was a pile of presents and on one of the tags was a crude number six. The party hats made it clear it was his birthday. Standing behind the boy was a woman, also a stick figure. And a man wearing a tie and yellow socks.

  Mike wrinkled his nose, wondering why this particular drawing had fallen down. He carefully reached up and pinned it back into place. "Hello?" he said again. "I put the picture of your birthday back up."

  "Could you give me a hint as to what you want me to do now?" said Mike. And then, with no further response, he tried to egg the boy on. "I'll play a game with you now!" he shouted.

  But there was no reply.

  And little did Mike know that he had the answer to the question that had just been posed to Wynne and Gregory.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Gregory said, "White socks."

  But at the same time, Wynne shouted, "Black socks."

  The boy shook with laughter. "One more guess and you are both wrong."

  Gregory looked over at Wynne. Then he glanced up at the boy. "How do we know that you aren't lying?"

  "Yeah, how can we be so sure that you're telling the truth
?" said Wynne.

  The boy frowned and continued to munch on his toast. "One of you already knows the truth."

  Wynne and Gregory looked critically at one another. Gregory opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it and wrinkled his brow.

  Then Wynne whispered, "Mike."

  "What is your third guess?" said the boy with a very smug look on his face.

  Both Wynne and Gregory stared at each other, completely uncertain as to what to do. Where was Mike? Wynne certainly hoped that it wasn't at the boy’s sixth birthday party.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mike stared at the drawing and then carefully hung it back on the wall. He had a disconcerting feeling that the boy had disappeared for a while. Disappeared where and how? He nervously said, "Hello?"

  But nobody answered. Not the boy, not Wynne, not Gregory.

  He glanced at the other drawings. Most of them were relatively the same, stick figures of what appeared to be the boy in different scenarios. Most of them would be considered happy pictures: pictures of presents, hanging out, the birthday party. A picture of him happily between his mother and father. Only the last three pictures were alarming. The final three pictures were hung low and tucked behind the bed practically. They were easy to see only when Mike walked farther into the room. One showed the boy being tied down. Another showed the stick figure that Mike had assumed was the mother holding a knife.

  The third one had enough use of the color red to make Mike understand what had happened. Not that it mattered, because he couldn't do anything about it one way or the other. The boy was a ghost.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Wynne asked Gregory, "What do you think we could possibly do? What should we guess?" Gregory nodded slowly. "If Mike can find the answer, so can we. Are we going to have the opportunity to seek them?" Gregory was whispering to Wynne, but he wasn't sure it mattered. What if the ghost could hear them at any level, even thoughts?