Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark
Page 9
‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you watching us?’ he tried again, his voice trembling.
‘I’m not watching, Grant. I’m waiting.’
‘Waiting? What for?’
‘I’m waiting for you.’
‘And then he pushed off,’ Grant told Nathan the next day. It was a Saturday, and they had decided to go climbing.
‘What was he doing?’
‘Trying to scare us, I s’pose.’
‘Do you think he’s crazy?’ whispered Nathan.
‘No,’ replied Grant firmly. ‘I’ve never seen him looking so good.’
The rock outcrop was a local phenomenon – huge sandstone crags, some with a sheer ascent. There were easy climbs and hard climbs, and right now the one Grant and Nathan were making for was one that was somewhere in between the two. Nathan enjoyed climbing and the boys worked well together, but for Grant it had become very special indeed. The challenge, the dwarfing rocks, the physicality, all shut out the terrible rows at home, the drunkenness and now the emptiness, with his mother weeping and, after the pub, staggering up the stairs to her lonely bedroom and sleepless nights.
‘Let’s get up Heather Ridge,’ he said suddenly. ‘We’ve never done that before.’
‘It’s tough,’ said Nathan.
‘We can do it.’
Roped together, they began to ascend, looking intently for handholds and footholds. Sweat began to pour down their faces in the fierce sunlight, but gradually the sky became overcast and there was a hint of thunder in the sultry heaviness.
‘You OK?’ asked Grant, who had taken the lead.
‘Sure. You?’
‘I’m fine – it’s just this weather. It’s like wading through treacle.’
They climbed on until they were just under the overhang, where they paused for a breather. It looked dauntingly steep, but Grant pulled himself over, leaving Nathan on the narrow ledge below. Struggling, panting a little, Grant knelt on the wiry grass and prepared to help Nathan up, but before he could do so he heard a quiet, friendly voice.
Mr Benson was smiling and leaning against a tree. He was dressed in brand-new slimline jeans, an open shirt and denim jacket. ‘Hello.’
‘Er –’
‘I know you enjoy climbing.’ He began to stroll over to Grant.
‘I – I didn’t think – you’d be here.’ Grant could have kicked himself for sounding so stupid.
‘I like to take an interest in your activities, Grant. It gives me something to do. Time hangs a bit heavy since I’ve been ill.’ He looked around him. ‘Like the air – like Nathan so secure on your rope.’
‘What’s going on?’ yelled Nathan from below.
‘Hang on,’ Grant shouted back.
Mr Benson chuckled. He was now centimetres away from Grant and there was something in his eyes – something different that instinctively convinced Grant that Nathan had been right. Mr Benson was crazy.
Mr Benson passed Grant and stared down at Nathan on his precarious ledge. ‘Pull him up.’
Slowly, rather unsteadily, Grant did as he was told, and soon Nathan was standing on Heather Ridge, looking up hypnotically into the intense eyes of Mr Benson. Stiffly, both boys tried to edge forward, but a voice they hardly recognized, low and angry and ferocious, told them to stop where they were and not to move.
‘You’ve got to listen now, haven’t you?’
They stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘You’ve got to listen now – for the first time in your lives.’
Nathan nodded, but Grant’s head didn’t move.
‘Still defying me, Grant?’
An image of his father flashed through his mind.
‘You’ve got no right —’
‘I’ve got every right. You prey on my mind – that’s why I’ve been following you – waiting for my opportunity. I’ve been through hell and back because of you, Grant. Even my wife left me. And then I got your cards. Not very nice cards, were they?’
‘A joke –’ Grant began.
‘That’s right,’ stuttered Nathan, his voice shrill and pleading. ‘It was only a joke.’
‘Poor taste.’
‘Yeah – we’re sorry.’
‘Very, very poor taste. But I’m going for a new image now, boys. Have you noticed my clothes?’
‘Nice,’ sniffed Nathan.
‘I shall be going back to school in my new clothes. And when I get back it’s all going to be different. But there’s just one little thing I need to do first.’
As if reading his mind, Nathan wailed, ‘We’ll see you at school, Mr Benson. And you’re right – it will be different. We’ll treat you with respect, won’t we, Grant?’
But Grant didn’t say anything.
Mr Benson smiled his mad smile. ‘I don’t think Grant will ever do that, will you, Grant? Despite my new image.’
There was a dreadful silence and then Grant began to laugh. A combination of fatigue and hysteria swept over him. All he could see was his father’s wimpish, sober face in Mr Benson’s new clothes.
‘Stop laughing, Grant,’ yelled Nathan.
But he couldn’t, and the sound of his raucous, almost sobbing merriment echoed around the rocks.
‘You’re not listening to me again, are you, Grant? You’re not listening to a word I say.’ The smile fixed on his face, Mr Benson moved like a panther, shoving them both in the chest and sending Nathan and Grant plunging over the abyss.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ said Jamie at last. ‘The story was about you.’
Grant was silent. ‘I was in hospital for over a year. Nathan died.’ Tears were pouring down his cheeks and he shivered uncontrollably in the cold night air.
‘What about Mr Benson?’
‘He’s in the nut-house.’
‘Will they ever let him out?’ asked April fearfully.
‘Maybe – one day.’ Grant looked towards the safety of the house and then back at the moor. Was that a figure walking towards him? He gazed at the white-faced group, huddled round the ashes of the fire. ‘Let’s go back,’ he said.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children’s fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masterspublished by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnthonyMasters
A Pocketful of Rye
Confessional
Finding Joe
Ghost Blades
Hidden Gods
Murder Is a Long Time Coming
The Men
The Seahorse
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark
I Want Him Dead
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
Werewolf Stories to tell in the Dark
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electron
ic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1994 by Puffin Books
Copyright © 1994 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
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The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448213146
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