The Horror

by Rodman Philbrick

  “Who’s there?” called out a quavery voice.

  Oh, no. It was Katie.

  But that meant she could hear the ghost! Unlike Mom and Dad who never woke up no matter what happened.

  I didn’t know if it was good or bad that she could hear it, too.

  “Sally? Is that you?” she called out. “Are you all right?”

  I wanted to yell at her to go back to bed.

  Nothing good ever came of getting up in the night.

  “Sally?” Katie’s voice was drifting away.

  Oh, no! She was going downstairs.

  I had to stop her. I whipped off the blankets and started for the door.

  I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard the first scream.

  25

  The hallway was pitch-dark, as usual. The lights never worked on nights the old clock chimed.

  Another scream pierced the air.

  I hurried toward the stairs, feeling my way along.

  A strange light glowed from downstairs. Then something smashed into a wall and glass tinkled over the floor.

  Katie cried out and a second later there was the crash of something big falling.

  Another shattering sound, another scream.

  Furniture turned over and smashed. More glass broke. It was like the living room was turning itself upside down.

  I saw a vase lift itself off the shelf of knick-knacks and hurtle down toward Katie at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Get down, Katie!” I shouted.

  Always before I had been the target. It was weird seeing it from this angle.

  Peering around the banister, I could dimly see Katie cowering, dodging, trying to cover her head.

  A figurine left the shelf behind me, then a silver tray, and a blue glass candy dish.

  I gasped in surprise. From here I could see that none of this artillery was aimed directly at Katie. All the objects were shooting over her head toward something behind her.

  “Katie! Keep your head down!” I called out. “Lie flat on the floor!”

  Instantly she threw herself down.

  And then I could see something behind her—a tall figure, hooded and draped in black. Around the thing the air seemed denser, as if no light could penetrate.

  Oddly, this weird effect made the thing more horrible and easier to see at the same time. It was edged in black against the darkness.

  It raised one arm. The arm was impossibly long, stretching sticklike to the ceiling.

  A bright glint of metal caught my eyes. I gasped out loud.

  Was the thing made of steel?

  It moved and metal gleamed again.

  A silver candlestick! It was holding a heavy candlestick over its head—that was what made the arm appear so long.

  The black thing raised its other arm to grasp the candlestick with two hands.

  It glided toward Katie, who was lying face down on the floor. It reared back with the candlestick, poised to bash in her skull.

  I tried to shout a warning but it was too late. Much too late.

  26

  The scream tore out of my throat.

  Katie’s head jerked.

  The candlestick flashed in the dim light.

  And the bronze baby shoe suddenly flew off the shelf beside me.

  The heavy bronze baby shoe struck the shrouded creature with a solid THUNK!

  The creature squealed in pain. The candlestick dropped to the floor and the creature vanished into the shadows.

  Instantly everything was still.

  “Katie? Are you all right?” I asked, running down to her.

  “I’ve never been so terrified,” she said, hoarse from screaming. “I thought I was going to be killed.”

  “We better get upstairs,” I said, helping her up. “It might come back.”

  “What might come back?” she said.

  “The thing in the shadows.”

  Katie didn’t say anthing more until we got back to her bedroom door. Then she folded her arms and stared down at me, looking very stern—her baby-sitter look. “What thing in the shadows, Jason? What are you talking about?”

  “The old witch ghost,” I explained. “That’s what Bobby was throwing all the stuff at. He was trying to protect you from the old witch.”

  Katie shook her head. “Whaaat? I’ve swallowed a lot, Jason, but that’s going too far.”

  “Look,” I said. “I know you don’t want to believe me, but there are two ghosts haunting this house. They’re fighting over something—I don’t know what.”

  Katie gave me a long look. “Maybe it was you who was throwing all those things.”

  “You know it wasn’t me,” I said. “You heard the clock chime and the ghosts running through the hall. That’s what woke you up, right?”

  “I guess so,” she said.

  “That’s what happened to you up in the attic. The two ghosts were fighting and you got in the way.”

  Katie rubbed her head. “Maybe. I don’t really believe in ghosts, Jason, but just for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. What do you suggest?”

  I thought about it. “I suggest you go back to bed, lock your door, and don’t come out, no matter what.”

  27

  “I won’t sleep now,” said Katie. “I’ll just grab a blanket and sit up in Sally’s room.”

  That was my plan, too. But no way I could tell Katie I didn’t trust her to watch out for Sally. So I went back to bed, pulled the covers over my head, and tried to sleep.

  But it was no use. Questions bombarded me from every side.

  Why had the haunting become focused on Katie?

  Was Bobby an evil spirit trying to take over my little sister Sally and keep her with him forever? Or was he the spirit of a confused and unhappy little boy who had scary temper tantrums? Both, probably.

  Why did the old witch want to attack Katie? Why did Bobby, who violently disliked Katie, save her? Was it Bobby who saved her?

  These questions bounced around in my mind like crazy rubber balls.

  The room began to get light. I’d had no sleep and night was over, the sun was coming up. Maybe it was just as well.

  But the light was funny. Too blue to be sunlight.

  The mirror!

  I pulled the covers off my head and, sure enough, my closet mirror was glowing.

  The mist formed and out of it came an image: the attic stairs, shrouded in fog.

  I felt a tug. The bedclothes began to slip off me.

  Yikes! I grabbed the blanket with both hands.

  I absolutely positively wasn’t going into the attic by myself in the middle of the night. No way, no how.

  In the mirror the attic door opened wider. Sparkles danced in the inky blackness. The sparkles grew thicker and gleamier, like a curtain of fairy dust. The curtain parted. A small boy appeared in the doorway, sparkles swirling around him like stars. He was pale and sad, with huge, beseeching eyes.

  Then it happened. Something seemed to take control of my body. Like a sleepwalker I got out of bed.

  Something made me walk to the door, open it, and go down the dark hallway, toward the attic stairs.

  Part of me deep inside was screaming NO! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! GO BACK TO BED!

  But I couldn’t resist. My feet kept right on moving.

  The door to the attic stairway swung open soundlessly.

  I knew that whatever waited on the other side was dark and terrible. But warm light spilled from the stairway out into the hall, beckoning me.

  I started up the stairway into the attic. Soft light seemed to shine down from the attic.

  Fear was like a small stone lodged in my throat.

  My heart was quaking, but some irresistible force made me keep going, climbing to the top.

  I stepped into the attic and found myself in a room I had seen once before. A little boy’s bedroom decorated from the old days. Bobby’s room.

  It was bathed in soft yellow light, like sunlight.

  A child’s rocki
ng chair rocked gently in the corner. There was a small toy chest against the wall.

  Bobby wanted me to open it.

  I was kneeling in front of the chest, hands reaching for the lid, when the spell broke.

  I snapped back to myself, every sense alert.

  Something was wrong.

  Then I heard it. Stealthy footsteps coming up the attic stairs.

  The black-draped witch had followed me!

  A floorboard groaned.

  The heavy footsteps stopped.

  I pressed my ear to the door. The footsteps resumed, creeping quietly closer.

  There was only one thing to do. Wait until it got to the top, then whip open the door and shove it down the stairs.

  Nails scraped along the door.

  The moment had come.

  I took a deep breath and yanked open the door.

  A shape loomed, rising over me.

  Bracing myself, I reached for the thing and pushed.

  It grabbed me instead!

  Claws sunk into my arm, clutching me in a death grip!

  28

  It screamed. It?

  “Jason! What are you doing?”

  Katie?

  She was starting to fall. What had I done?

  I gripped her wrist and pulled. Katie fell forward into the attic.

  “I thought you were going to push me down the stairs,” she said, giddy with relief.

  Why had I been so sure she was the thing in the black cloak?

  But there was no time to think about this—the house was starting up again.

  The warm light dimmed. The child’s chair began rocking crazily.

  “Jason, what’s happening?” Katie asked, her voice rising.

  “Just hang on,” I said.

  A gale-force wind rushed up the stairs and began whipping around the walls of the little room. It snatched the breath from my mouth.

  Then the wind grabbed Katie and—WHAM!—flung her up against the wall.

  “I don’t think Bobby wants you here!” I shouted against the wind.

  The mysterious wind let up slightly and Katie pried herself from the wall. “I’m staying,” she vowed defiantly. “Nothing is going to make me leave. I’m going to help, no matter what!”

  Her jaw was clenched with determination, although her eyes darted wildly with fright as the wind slammed her once more against the wall. “No matter what!” she screamed again.

  All the wind rushed together to form an angry funnel in the center of the room. It was like a miniature, deadly tornado.

  We would both be dashed to pieces in its fury.

  The funnel traveled back and forth between us. It sounded like an engine at the highest pitch, ready to explode.

  “We want to help!” shouted Katie, her voice cracking with strain.

  Suddenly the funnel moved to the old toy chest near the rocking chair. The lid blew back and papers swirled into the air.

  And the wind was gone, just like that.

  Katie and I stared at each other, catching our breaths.

  A scrap of newspaper drifted to settle at my feet. I bent and picked it up. As I read, excitement stirred in the pit of my stomach.

  “Now we know,” I said wonderingly.

  “Know what?” Katie asked, craning her neck to see over my shoulder.

  “Who Bobby was,” I said. “And how he died.”

  29

  “Robert Wood, killed October 2, 1940, age five.”

  Katie looked up from the old newspaper with tears in her eyes. “Fifty-five years ago!” she said. “The poor kid has been haunting this house for fifty-five years, waiting for someone to rescue him!”

  I snatched the paper from her hand and read on. “‘Robert was killed instantly in a fall from the cherry tree outside his bedroom window. Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Wood, his parents, were on a European trip at the time and Robert had been left in the care of a nanny, Alice Everett.’”

  “The poor nanny,” said Katie. “How horrible I’d feel if anything happened to you or Sally while your parents were gone.”

  I shivered. She was right—the situations were pretty similar. Did that mean the time was ripe for another fatal accident?

  “‘The nanny,’” I read, “‘was beside herself with grief and there were signs the balance of her mind had been affected. Miss Everett, twenty years of age, kept repeating that the child’s teddy bear was missing. Oddly, this favorite toy had still not been found at the time of the child’s burial.’”

  Katie shuddered. “I wonder what happened to the poor woman?”

  We gathered up the other newspaper clippings that had blown around the floor. They were mostly repeats of the same story. One had a description of the teddy bear—brown with a mended ear.

  As I put the clippings away I noticed another piece of paper face down at the bottom of the box.

  “What’s that?” asked Katie.

  It was stuck in a corner of the box and didn’t want to come loose. I tugged gently, afraid to rip the old paper. “I think it’s a photo,” I said. “But I can’t see who’s in it.”

  “Here,” said Katie, nudging me aside. “Let me try.”

  Just then the paper came free, slipping easily into my fingers.

  “That must be Bobby with his mother,” exclaimed Katie when I turned over the photo.

  It showed a small boy and a pretty young woman in a wide-brimmed hat, which must have been fashionable at the time.

  “They don’t look very happy,” I said, noticing that both the boy and the woman had pretty grim expressions.

  “That was the style then,” said Katie knowingly. “People never smiled for the camera. Picture taking was serious business.”

  It was so sad, looking at the photo of a small boy who would never get any older and his pretty mother who would be so far away when he needed her.

  “What’s that?” said Katie suddenly.

  I heard it, too. Something small and furtive rolling along the floor.

  Then we saw it. A piece of chalk skittering over the floorboards.

  “That’s strange,” said Katie, reaching for the chalk.

  Before she could touch it the chalk swooped into the air.

  It flew over to the wall and began to write. Very slowly, in large, uneven, childlike letters, it spelled out:

  SAVE ME

  30

  SAVE ME.

  The childlike letters glowed for a moment and then faded away.

  “Look!” said Katie.

  I suddenly realized something had changed in the room. The little toy chest and the rocking chair were gone.

  Bobby’s old bedroom had vanished and we were back in the dusty old attic.

  The newspaper clippings were gone, too, but the old photograph remained in Katie’s hand.

  “How can we save a ghost?” asked Katie. “A ghost is already dead.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  I didn’t want to stay in that creepy attic a second longer.

  Downstairs in the hallway Katie studied the photo again. “Such a sweet little boy,” she said regretfully. “We must figure out a way to help him.”

  “Right now all I want to figure out is how to get a night’s sleep.”

  I went into the bedroom and shoved the bureau up against the door.

  Try to get in now, I thought. Just try.

  The next morning I came downstairs to find Katie pacing in the kitchen.

  Sally had already eaten her breakfast and I was ready for pancakes or whatever, but Katie waved her hand and said, “How can you think about food at a time like this?”

  “Easy,” I said. “I close my eyes and I see a huge plate of flapjacks.”

  “Help yourself to a bowl of cereal,” she suggested. “When you’re finished, I’ll tell you about my plan.”

  “Forget the cereal,” I said. “What plan?”

  Katie stared at me with bright eyes. “The tree,” she said. “We’ll chop down
the tree!”

  I slumped into a chair. What was she talking about? Had last night’s adventures unhinged her mind?

  “That’s where he died, right?” she said. “Remember the newspaper clipping? It said Bobby died falling from the cherry tree.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So?”

  “So if we chop it down, maybe that will free his spirit. The house won’t be haunted anymore.”

  I stared at her. There was something about this plan that bothered me but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Come on,” said Katie, urging me on. “Let’s do it now.”

  Reluctantly I agreed to help her. “We’ll need a chainsaw,” I suggested.

  “No way,” Katie said. “Too dangerous. Didn’t I see a Boy Scout hatchet in your room?”

  “You can’t chop down a tree with a hatchet,” I protested. “It’ll take forever.”

  “We can make a start,” Katie insisted. “Show Bobby we’re trying.”

  There was no arguing with her.

  I got the hatchet. It felt surprisingly heavy in my hand and got even heavier as I approached the backyard.

  Katie was waiting under the cherry tree, holding Sally by the hand. The branches spread high overhead, the leaves green and healthy.

  “You wait over there,” she said to Sally, leading her away from the tree.

  Sally stood there looking at us, solemn and silent, her bunny Winky dangling from her hand.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I said, hefting the hatchet. “Bobby seems to like this tree. It’s the only outside place that he goes.”

  “He’s drawn to it, of course,” said Katie impatiently. “It’s only natural since his spirit is trapped here. Perhaps even a small cut will be enough to set him free.”

  She stepped back briskly and nodded at me. “Go ahead.”

  With a sigh I raised my arm, aimed at a spot in the old bark and started to swing.

  I felt a sharp tug.

  “Hey!”

  The hatchet jerked out of my hand.

  It whirled up in the air like a boomerang, flashing end over end.

  And then it came back at us.

  The flying hatchet glinted in the sun. The blade was razor sharp—and it was heading right for Katie.

  “Look out!” I shouted. “Duck!”