As was traditional upon Halloween, Ben’s parents sat silently together in darkness, the television turned down as low as possible. They barely batted an eyelid when Ben, who had complained nonstop of headaches since they had come home, had gone upstairs earlier than usual. Now he was lying on his bed, the pumpkin head perched on the windowsill, watching the candle flicker within eyes that followed him around the room.
He had been relieved to find neither parent home after the bike ride, so sneaking the pumpkin into the house had been effortless. It was a magnificent specimen; its face was already carved into a scowling grimace, perched atop a plaid shirt stuffed with straw, large gardening gloves for hands. Ben bit deep into a chocolate bar; tomorrow he would get rid of it, but for now he just wanted to bask in the orangey glow of his rebellion.
At some point he fell asleep dreaming of pumpkins.
The voice in his dream was soft, like grass or velvet. Whispering, demanding to be returned. Slowly Ben awoke. It was still dark outside, the only light emanating from the moon. The voice was behind him, next to the window. Ben rolled over, the hairs on his arms rising, pulling the duvet up to his chin as he turned.
“So, how’re we going to resolve this relocation situation you’ve gotten me into?” the pumpkin whispered.
“You … you’re alive … you can talk.”
“If I still had shoulders, I would be shrugging about now, kid. Trust me, I’m as confused as you, but here I am tolerating your snoring. Now time to take me home, capice?”
“It’s the middle of the night, I…you’re a pumpkin…” Ben, plagued by confusion, rubbed his eyes; maybe the sugar he had eaten was causing hallucinations. He looked back. The pumpkin was silent, unmoving. Slowly Ben crept forward. This was just a stupid dream; a pumpkin couldn’t talk. He got as close as he dared to the carved face. It was just a trick, nothing more.
He reached out a trembling finger.
“Boo!”
Ben’s scream awoke the household.
When his father burst into the room it was to find Ben on the floor, his face flushed, his eyes panicked.
“Benjamin, its 2am. What on earth caused you to yell out like that?”
“Sorry, bad dream. I…I’m okay.”
Ben watched his father survey his room. Thankfully the pumpkin, now inside a pillowcase, a pair of socks stuffed into its mouth and thrown into the gloom under his bed, remained silent.
He just needed to figure out what to do next.
The next morning the lumpy pillowcase was thankfully still under the bed. Ben was pondering how best to sneak it out undetected when his mother shouted up that his breakfast was ready. His father’s subsequent offer of a lift to school all but dashed any hopes of retrieving the pumpkin. To compound his misery Ben found himself subjected to another of his father’s lectures, this time on the importance of sleeping through the night.
School that day was torture. Ben was unable to focus on anything other than the thought of the pumpkin yelling at the top of its voice. Being discovered by his mother, the police being summoned, his crime leading to a life in imprisonment.
He barely stopped himself from vaulting over his desk and down the corridor when the school bell finally rang. He tried to reassure himself it was all just a strange dream. Yet he found himself jogging home, rucksack bouncing on his back. Thankfully the house was empty, with a note from his mother that she was popping over for a coffee with Linda from number 37. Ben darted upstairs. The pillowcase was still lurking in the gloom amidst the cacophony of dust, forgotten toys and dirty clothing.
Carefully he tipped the pumpkin out onto the floor. The bundled pair of socks was still in its mouth. Ben gently teased the clothing from its maw.
The pumpkin coughed, “Hey kid that wasn’t polite. I mean technically this is pumpkin-napping!”
“So I wasn’t dreaming?” Ben slumped down on his haunches; the pumpkin seemed to be watching him intently.
“Dreaming? No, and might I add one should treat their hostages with a bit more respect. So, when am I going back?”
“I…sorry I don’t see how I can. I mean my parents will be home soon.”
“Look, if you don’t return me, well rest assured I’d yell until your parents find me. We both know that’s something you don’t want. So shall we get a wriggle on?”
When his parents returned from work it was to find Ben at the stove, a large pot of pumpkin soup bubbling away. As delighted as they were with this unexpected culinary surprise they had to fight the urge not to comment on the state of the kitchen. For every surface was cluttered with an assortment of knives, pans, and a pulp-smeared food processor.
His dad ruffled Ben’s hair. “Smells good son. Take it you won the fight, eh!” He gestured at the pumpkin-smeared chaos around them.
Ben laughed hesitantly.
Late that night, his belly full of pumpkin soup, Ben climbed into bed, pulling the duvet up under his chin. Through the open curtains he watched the moon emerge out from behind the clouds, bathing the world in a luminous white glow.
And if Ben’s gaze had looked downward out of his window he would have seen the headless scarecrow hopping across the lawn. Arms swaying with each leap it took toward the front door.
CHELSEA’S HEART RACED with each step she took toward the woods. Until last night, she had never been afraid to cut through them on her way to school, but today her mind was filled with dread.
Chelsea was only thirteen, but was never one to fear the unknown or the supernatural. In fact, she had embraced it. Her favorite books involved vampires, werewolves, and alien abductions. She couldn’t get enough of paranormal TV shows, those searching for Bigfoot, or anything to do with the spirit world. The Walking Dead was by far her favorite show. Her mother let her watch all the old horror classics, like Friday the 13th, Halloween, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Nightmare on Elm Street. They had even watched The Exorcist together on Halloween last year. None of that scared her, but the shadow man did.
She tried to block the image of him from her mind, but it haunted her still.
Chelsea remembered what happened to her like a movie in her mind, perpetually rewinding and replaying over and over again. She had been up late watching TV, waiting for her mother to get home from work when she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck like she was being watched. Within seconds the air turned so chill she could see faint wisps of her own breath. When she reached for a blanket, she saw it—him.
It startled her. She let out a hushed scream and looked away. She and her mother lived alone. It was Sunday and she had been home all day without any visitors. The windows were always locked and the only door to the small two-bedroom trailer was on the opposite side of the couch, in full view where she sat. It wasn’t an intruder. Not the traditional kind at least.
It must have been her tired mind playing tricks on her, she thought, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone. She tried to focus on the TV, to block out her imagination, but the chill remained. Her heart thumped in her chest as she tried to reason other possibilities. She pulled the blanket up tight around her and forced a glance back toward the hallway.
He was still there.
Chelsea shoved her face into the blanket and screamed. She had seen countless body parts hacked off people. Had seen little girls possessed by demons, and had watched with sublime fascination as zombies ate people alive. Not once had she ever been afraid. But this was different. This was real.
She screamed into the blanket until her courage returned. She looked again. This time, she froze in terror.
All she saw was the outline of a human form filled with ethereal darkness, blacker than the shadows around it. It had no features, just the outline of a man wearing a fedora hat. It had no weapons that she could tell. It wasn’t moving toward her or threatening her. It didn’t speak. It didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t sure why she was so afraid, only that it emanated a debased evil beyond measure.
This time she co
uldn’t move or scream. It was just like how the people who had been abducted by aliens had described. Awake and alert, but powerless to do anything. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might explode.
Headlights flashed through the window behind her, and the shadow man was gone. She tore off the blanket and ran through the door, nearly knocking the screen off its hinges. She ran screaming and crying as her mother got out of her car. It took several minutes before her mother could calm her down long enough to get anything out of her.
She begged and pleaded with her mother not to make her go back in the house. It wasn’t until her mother had done a complete sweep of the house with all of the lights on that she agreed to go back inside.
She slept with her mother last night, but didn’t get a wink of sleep, nor dared open her eyes.
A loud car horn brought her back from her reverie and nearly tore her out of her own skin. As she recalled the harrowing event in her mind, she hadn’t realized that she had stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the road. As she walked toward the curb she glanced at her watch. She could take the road but she would be late for school. One more tardy and she would be suspended. Worse, her mother would take away her TV and books.
Chelsea took off into the woods like she had done hundreds of times before, but this time she didn’t stop to throw sticks or rocks. This time she didn’t pick flowers, play with bugs, or chase the bunnies. She didn’t climb a tree or do any exploring.
This time, she ran.
She ran as fast as her little legs would take her. The running helped staunch her fear. The adrenaline fueled her courage. The eerie sounds of the forest were replaced with the wheezing of her chest and her heart pounding in her ears. She ran until she could run no more.
Her endurance evaporated. She stumbled to a stop and removed her backpack, placing her hands on her knees. She sucked in air like a fish out of water. With her mind clear she began to recall the things her mother had told her the night before. How she must have let her wild imagination get the best of her. How the shadows had fooled her completely. She reminded her that she was a teenager and too old to believe in the bogyman. She remembered her mother laughing at her too.
Chelsea chuckled to herself. She looked behind her. On the trail and in the trees was nothing that didn’t belong. She couldn’t believe how silly and irrational she was being. Her? Afraid? She couldn’t wait to tell Amy about all of this. She smiled and turned to pick up her backpack.
She saw him again, standing next to a tree just ten feet away.
No one heard her scream.
Chelsea never did make it to school that day, nor did they ever find her body.
THE RED-BRICK HOUSE had once been a beacon of hope in the small coastal town, a sanctuary for forgotten babes. But now the orphanage was an eyesore, a filthy ruin with rotting timbers and dishevelled gardens.
The two young boys surveyed the house with greedy anticipation. It stood high on the hill overlooking the town, beckoning the innocent like a colourful playset entices toddlers at the park. The setting sun disappeared behind the weather-worn turret, washing the stone in a deep orange glow.
“Why don’t they rip it down?”
The younger of the two boys looked nervously up and down the street, his eyes wide as they settled on the grey slate roof.
“My dad told me that no-one dares go near it, not even to demolish it.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, Jack, it’s just a house. Why is he so scared of a stupid, old house?”
“There are stories about this place; Dad said they don’t like to talk about it.”
Laughing, the older boy picked up a stone from the gravel path. Pulling back his arm he launched the nugget of rock at one of the higher windows.
“Stop it, Callum!”
Wiping sweaty palms down the front of his trouser leg, Jack tugged at his friend’s arm, his earlier swagger diminishing.
“So what stories did your dad tell ya?”
Jack took a step backwards, nibbling at his lip as his gaze travelled over the front porch and blackened window frames.
“A woman lived here, long time ago. They tried to burn her out, but she cursed them all before they could finish her off.”
“Cursed them! That’s hogwash. Your dad told you that stuff to keep you from breaking in.”
“No! It’s true. Why would my dad lie?”
“Because the olds don’t know how to have fun. Come on, let’s take a look inside.”
Callum shot off towards the wire fence. The metal boundary circled the property, and its gardens, a row of razor-sharp teeth ran along the top making it impossible to climb over without risking mutilation.
“Callum, stop it. They put the fences up.”
“That’s the third time you’ve said they like it’s some secret club. Who are they?”
“I don’t know; it’s just what my dad—”
Callum raised his pudgy hand, cutting his friend off mid-sentence. “Ever thought that your dad tells you this tosh to keep you at home?”
“He wouldn’t do that!”
“Course he would. He ain’t like my dad who never bothers about where I am. Your dad likes you! He wants to keep you soft, so you don’t mix with the likes of me.”
“That’s not true!” Jack shouted as his eyes filled with tears. “I’m not soft.”
“Fair enough. Don’t get your undies in a twist.”
They stood for a moment, locked in a stare that only best friends recover from.
“It’s all a load of rubbish,” Callum said, breaking the silence. “Come on before it gets too dark to explore.”
“I’m not sure about this, Callum. What if this stuff is real? They said it was a legend that the old townsfolk were too scared to write in the history books. Those fences weren’t put up to keep people out of the house; they were put there to keep her in.”
Callum strolled over to where Jack stood with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Are you telling me that this chick is still inside?”
Jack’s shoulders gave the briefest of shrugs.
The sun had set, and as darkness crept across the sky, the streetlights flickered on. The pale light shone in the eyes of both boys as they stared at the house beyond the fence.
“It would be pretty cool to see an old skeleton, don’t you think?” Callum nudged his friend with his elbow and beckoned for him to follow. At the rear of the property, they found a weakness in the chinks of metal.
“Looks like we ain’t the first to take a look around.” Callum’s wide grin looked wild in the shadows. “Maybe she got them, and there’s a pile of bodies in there.” His throaty laugh echoed across the overgrown shrubs as he pushed through the barrier.
“I’m not coming,” hissed Jack, hanging back from the railing. “I don’t want to see inside.”
Callum shrugged his shoulders and walked across the garden, his outline disappearing as the night sky enveloped him.
A gust of wind tickled Jack’s face as the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. He rubbed his arms to release the bumps that chased up and down his skin.
From his position, Jack could see the gaping holes of the lower windows. The glass had long since gone, leaving the lower levels open to the elements. Brambles overran the property, winding themselves around the frames and invading the cracks in the wall.
The glass was still intact in the higher windows, and as Jack stared at the largest picture window, he caught sight of a face staring back at him. He was amazed that Callum had gone so deep into the house, but as his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he realised it wasn’t his friend who watched him.
Pale as the moon that hung low in the sky, her paper-thin skin stretched taut over her cheekbones. Her lank grey hair hung in wisps around her shoulders. Eyes as black as obsidian watched him as he backed away from the fence. His heart threatened to burst through his ribcage as the wind picked up again, carrying the faint tang of the ocean. Whispers invaded his head as he
spun around to face the crowd that now assembled behind him.
“Child killer! Child killer!” they ranted, burning torches held aloft.
Jack could hear the woman’s cruel, empty laugh from her secluded spot in the house. He blinked through the tears that now coursed down his cheeks. The crowd drifted in and out of his sight, like a mirage on a sunny day.
“Come closer,” she beckoned.
The mob swarmed forward, their ghostly forms passing through Jack, as they headed up the front steps.
As the ghostly spectres flung open the door, the screaming began. Jack clamped his hands over his ears as the shrieks grew louder.
“Feast my darlings,” the woman sang above the din.
Jack watched in terror as the feral children, hungry for flesh, ripped into the townsfolk, drinking their blood and shredding their flesh. Their dead eyes showing no emotion. They had been trapped in the house on the hill for centuries, and now they were free.
As the horror unfolded, Jack cried out in dismay when he saw Callum standing in the doorway.
“Run, Callum!” Without thinking, Jack burst through the hole in the metal fencing and sprinted across the uneven ground towards the house. Grabbing his arm, he propelled his friend away from the massacre that raged within the walls.
“What the hell…” Callum yanked his arm away and swatted Jack around the ear. “You nearly gave me a heart attack running at me like that.”
“But we need to get away.” Jack gulped in air as he continued to back away from the dead bodies. “Before she comes downstairs.”
“Before who comes downstairs? Jack, you ain’t making any sense. The house is empty, not even a leg bone left in there.”
Blinking away the tears, he stared into the inky interior of the house. The murdered townsfolk were gone; their anguished cries replaced with the chimes of the town clock a mile away.
“But there were children and men with torches…”
Callum laughed and punched his friend playfully on the arm. “Yeah sure, I think you need to stop listening to your dad’s stories.”
In Creeps The Night Page 17