Terrifying Tales to Tell at Night

by Stephen Jones

  “Do you think we should cook him something special, Daniel? Perhaps we could tempt him with a nice steak and kidney pie.”

  Henry literally took matters into his own hands. The round eye stared at the cold lamb, the slanted one examined the potatoes. Apparently the round eye won the decision. The larger fist grabbed, the smaller one tore, and the great teeth began to munch. Perhaps crunch would be a better word, because Henry was not a dainty eater. Meat, bones—all went into the gaping mouth, were crushed and swallowed in a little under five seconds. The doctor was delighted by this display of rapid consumption.

  “He’s got a healthy appetite. Gracious, Daniel, if this keeps up, he’ll eat us.”

  Rodney thought this more than likely and decided he would not like to be around when the supply of roast lamb ran out. Having eaten, Henry slept. First the slanted eye closed, then the round one—having swiveled in its socket as though to make sure all was well—also lowered its lid, and for a while there was peace. Then the wide mouth opened and a sound that was rather like a saw being driven through a hard piece of wood filled the kitchen. Henry not only slept—he snored.

  The doctor yawned and Daniel rubbed his eyes.

  “Well, Henry has set us a good example. Time we were all in bed. Daniel, do you suppose he will be comfortable there?”

  “Not like to wake up,” replied Daniel, with obvious deep sincerity. “If he not comfortable, can go back to lab-ora-tory.”

  The doctor rose. “Yes, you are right. Leave the door open for him.”

  As Rodney was taken upstairs and installed in a little dust-haunted room on the ground floor, he could not help wondering if it was wise to leave Henry all by himself. After some reflection he barricaded his door by wedging a chair-back under the handle, then lay down on top of the bed fully clothed.

  The old house was very quiet. The storm had long ago exhausted its rage and gone to sleep in the western sky. A full moon peered in through the undraped window and tinted the old furniture with silver light, forcing black slabs of shadow to lurk in corners and take on weird shapes. Rodney tried to keep awake, but what with one thing and another (he had had a tiring day), unconsciousness crept up on him like a soft-footed burglar.

  He was awakened by a crash. He lay perfectly still for some time, his heart thudding wildly, trying to dismiss the chilling thought that Henry was up and around. After a few minutes he heard the sound of disturbed broken glass, followed by a low wail that could have been made by an abandoned dog—or by a homemade monster that is not exactly dancing for joy.

  Curiosity and fear fought a hard battle. Curiosity—after much serious thought—won. Rodney crept to the door, removed the chair, then went out into the passage. The clatter of broken glass drew him toward a room that was situated a few yards away. Rodney saw the by-now-familiar neglect, the dust—and the smashed mirror that was scattered over the floor, each separate particle reflecting the bright moonlight, making them gleam like fallen stars. Henry was slumped against the wall, his grotesque face masked by shadow, his ridiculous hands held out as though in supplication. Rodney felt his fear ebb away as he advanced into the room, dimly realizing that Henry might be a monster, something designed and manufactured by Doctor Frankwell, but apparently he also had emotions. Was unhappy.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, not that there was much hope that Henry would understand him, although the R in his name did stand for Rapid-developer.

  The ungainly figure came out into the moonlight, the right hand pointing to the broken shards of mirror-glass, and a strangled sound escaped from the wide mouth. Rodney picked up the largest piece of glass and stared at it thoughtfully. He held it out and Henry shrank back with a muted cry.

  “It won’t hurt you. It was only an old mirror, and I don’t suppose the doctor will be angry that you broke it. He doesn’t appear to use this part of the house.”

  Henry’s large hand came out, pointed to the piece of mirror, then turned and indicated his own face. Understanding flooded Rodney’s mind with an all-revealing light.

  “You saw a reflection! It frightened you! Gosh, I expect it would. Look—that was you. See?”

  He held the piece of mirror above his head and tilted it until his own young face was reflected in the gleaming surface; then turned until it could be seen by the monster. Henry snatched the fragment of glass from him and stared at it intently. Suddenly he pointed to himself and made a growling sound.

  Rodney nodded violently. “You. It’s you—nothing to be frightened of.”

  Henry did not appear to be comforted by this information. He flung the piece of glass across the room and Rodney was surprised to see a solitary tear trickle down from the large eye, while a little moaning cry seeped out from between the sagging lips. He crashed both hands together and uttered his first word.

  “Ye-e-w . . .”

  Rodney nodded again. “It should be me, but you seem to have got the point. I say, you are bright.”

  Henry lurched forward. Taking long floor-shaking steps, he crossed the room and moved slowly into the passage, with Rodney following a few yards behind. Boy and monster descended the stairs to the basement, and here Henry continued to advance until he reached the laboratory door. A single push from his right fist sent it hurtling back and a terrible suspicion flared up in Rodney’s brain.

  He called out: “Doctor . . . Daniel . . . come quickly!”

  The doctor emerged from a room on the left, dressed in a long white nightgown and wearing a tasseled nightcap. He hurriedly put on his spectacles and peered at Rodney with some irritation.

  “Gracious me, what is all this noise about? I must have my eight-hours sleep. Absolutely essential.”

  “It’s Henry.” Rodney explained. “He saw his own reflection, and now I think he’s going to do something awful.”

  As though to confirm his words, there came from the laboratory a mighty crashing and thumping; a splintering of wood, a shattering of glass, all intermingled with loud roars of insensate rage.

  “What on earth has come over him?” the doctor asked, by now looking extremely agitated. “Heavens above, he’s ruining all my equipment. I will never be able to replace it. Daniel!”

  Daniel appeared from another room, looking rather ridiculous in a woolen vest and a long pair of underpants. He ruffled his hair, rubbed his eyes, then asked:

  “What’s wrong? Somebody making noise.”

  The doctor waved his hands frantically in the direction of the laboratory. “Henry’s gone berserk. Get in there and restrain him.”

  Daniel did not seem all that keen to obey this last instruction, but he dutifully went toward the laboratory, with the doctor and Rodney walking cautiously in his footsteps. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and motioned his employer forward.

  “All finished,” he said simply.

  Rodney looked fearfully over Doctor Frankwell’s shoulder and came to an immediate decision that Henry had done a thorough job. All the intricate equipment had been smashed, broken wires hung like dead snakes from walls and ceiling, and even the table had been shattered into jagged fragments. Only one item still remained intact, and that was the large metal box that had formerly given out a loud, buzzing noise. Henry was working on that now. He had it raised high above his head and was about to crash it down on to the floor.

  “Stop him!” the doctor shouted. “That is my charger. Thousands of volts of electricity are stored in there. The slightest jar and Henry will be blown to smithereens.”

  Everyone began shouting at once, trying to explain to Henry his predicament. He stood perfectly still, the charger clutched in his ill-assorted hands, and it seemed to Rodney that a light of dawning understanding gleamed in the round, large eye.

  “That,” the doctor said, pointing to the box, “bang when you drop. You—” He spread wide his hands. “—Finished. Over. Dead. No more.”

  Seconds passed, then Henry’s mouth opened and he uttered two more words. “Ye-e-w fin-ish-ed?”

&nb
sp; The doctor nodded. Daniel nodded. Rodney closed his eyes and dramatically pretended he was about to fall down. Henry seemed to get the message, for he nodded, too. When Daniel made a slight movement forward, though, he growled warningly. The doctor sighed.

  “Perhaps we had better leave him alone. Come to think of it, we would be in great danger should he drop that charger.”

  Rodney felt very sad as they trailed back along the passage, then took refuge on the stairs and waited for what they all knew must happen. The explosion was not very loud, just a muted booming noise, followed by a flash of bright light. The doctor and Daniel went back into the devastated laboratory, but Rodney remained on the stairs. Presently the two men came back. The doctor was dabbing at his eyes with a large pocket-handkerchief.

  “Nothing left,” he said. “All my work gone up in a flash. I will never have the heart to start again.”

  “Make hair restorer,” Daniel suggested. “Lots of men bald. Me bald.”

  Doctor Frankwell, suddenly, looked much happier.

  “I say, that’s not a bad idea. Make some money, too. Then I’ll be able to get this place done up. Thank you, Daniel.”

  Daniel grinned delightedly and produced another gem of wisdom.

  “Make hair—not men.”

  Later, when Rodney was cycling down a country lane, far away from that house of dust-coated furniture, he felt glad that Henry was no more. After all, there are enough monsters in the world, without homemade ones.

  THE SIDEWAYS LADY

  LYNDA E. RUCKER

  A FAMILY VANISHED, sixty years after the house’s previous occupants died under mysterious circumstances. An old house of ancient, unknown, and perhaps evil provenance. A specter known only, enigmatically, as “The Sideways Lady,” and a small town, caught in the grip of terror for more than a hundred years . . .

  Toby said, “We aren’t gripped by terror.”

  “Shut up,” Stevie said. She went on reading . . .

  What is known today as the Beaumont House was disassembled in England, brought to the small town of Ellington, Virginia, in the United States, and reassembled by a man who made his fortune in the railways around the turn of the twentieth century. His beloved wife wanted to live in a castle. The Beaumont House is not quite a castle, but it was then and still is today the biggest, most ostentatious house in town.

  Toby asked, “What’s ostentatious?”

  “Fancy.”

  At first the railway man and his wife entertained often at the house, holiday events that the whole town was invited to, parties, even a few balls. But after a year or so, and quite suddenly, everything stopped. The house was closed up; the man and his wife rarely left, and the next anyone heard of them, they were both found dead in the house of unknown causes.

  “What does that mean?” Toby asked again.

  “It means they don’t know what killed them.”

  “Rabies?” Toby suggested.

  He was obsessed with rabies these days, having seen something about it online, or in school.

  “People don’t just come down with rabies, Toby. It’s not like getting a cold. Now stop interrupting and let me finish reading you this.”

  The house stayed closed up for over sixty years, sinking into its own decay. But in the months before the arrival of the Beaumonts, in the late 1960s, it hummed with life again, workmen reviving and restoring the place. When the Beaumont family arrived, mother, father, and three teenage children, it seemed at first as though the place might truly return to its old, if brief, glory. Nat Beaumont was a state senator with a promising political career ahead of him—some said he’d be governor within a few years. His wife, Thelma, had been a teacher before marrying him and having children, and like the first couple who lived there, they opened the house up to parties and celebrations.

  But after a few months, the strangeness started again. People said Kathleen Beaumont, the oldest of the three teenagers, was behaving oddly. She told her friends at school that someone called the “Sideways Lady” had come to live in her house. One of her schoolmates reported that when a teacher reprimanded her for falling asleep in class, she said the Sideways Lady kept waking her up by trying to get into her bed.

  Not long after that, Kathleen’s parents pulled her out of school completely. They mentioned to a few people that they were taking her to see doctors, but the town went wild with rumors. Her friends said she claimed to have summoned a demon, and the story was that the family sought a priest to come in to exorcise, although the local clergy denied any knowledge of such a thing.

  And then, on Halloween night, 1969, the entire family went missing.

  There were no signs of violence or foul play. There was no sign of anything at all. Luggage, purses, money, identification, keys—anything you might take if you went on the run were left behind, plus there was no whiff of scandal that would have caused the family to take such a drastic step.

  The focus of law enforcement fell on the missing Nat Beaumont all the same, but despite a nationwide search, no trace of him or his family was ever found.

  In Ellington it was different. The rumors grew over the years that Kathleen had murdered them all: her parents and her younger brother and sister, Hugh and Sarah. But she was gone like the rest of them.

  Many say now that Kathleen’s demon-ridden spirit haunts the abandoned Beaumont House, luring unwary passersby to the same doom she took her family to.

  For now, it seems, the truth about the Beaumont House remains unknown unless True Hauntings decides to pay it a visit and unearth its secrets once and for all!

  Got a tip about a haunted house in your town? Send us the story, and maybe we’ll feature it on our website. We might even do a True Hauntings show about it! Thanks to Hannah B. for sending us this one, and remember, stay spooky!

  Toby said, “That show is dumb. It isn’t real.”

  Stevie tried not to show her little brother how exasperated she was with him. “But it’s our favorite!”

  “It’s your favorite.”

  “We can go check out the house and maybe send something about it to them, and maybe they’ll come and investigate it. Wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe they’d even put us on the show!”

  “If the stuff they say about ghosts in that show is real,” Toby said, “how come Mom never tries to contact us?”

  Stevie, who had been kneeling in front of him pasting cutout stars on the old overcoat he wore—a wizard’s cloak, she assured him—sat back on her heels. “Because,” she replied. “Mom is at peace. Ghosts haunt places because they aren’t at peace. Mom’s sad she left us, but she knows we’re okay so she doesn’t have to do any haunting. Anyway, she said she’d always be with us. Remember what she told us: Look for me in the moonlight and on the wind. And when we look up at the moon tonight we can think about her watching us.” She handed him a stick with shredded yellow and orange construction paper taped on the end of it. “There’s your wizard’s wand.”

  Toby looked at it dubiously. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s flames coming out of the wand!” She gave him a hug. “You look like a powerful magician,” she said. “It’s an awesome costume.” What he looked like really was a sad, anxious little boy swallowed up by his father’s cast-off overcoat.

  She felt she’d betrayed her mother because she didn’t dress up this year like she had at her old school, in the witch costume her mother had made her when she was Toby’s age and altered every year as she grew. She’d overheard kids saying twelve was too old to dress up for Halloween. It was hard, being the new kid in a new school, a new town. Of course, as it turned out, half of those kids did dress up after all. She’d sat through math, social studies, and science surrounded by zombies and cats and vampires and superheroes, feeling human and vulnerable.

  Halloween is witchy.

  That’s what their mother used to say. She had loved Halloween. For weeks beforehand, the house would be draped in orange and black. A skeleton might take up residence in the rocking ch
air before a front window. Fake tombstones sprouted in the front yard with funny epitaphs she took from a book by a man named Edward Gorey. G is for George smothered under a rug. Last year, the day after Halloween, some parents had come to talk to her. Apparently she’d gone too far, frightened their children. She’d had to invite the kids over for something innocuous, something ridiculous, cookies and Kool-Aid and showing them around, showing that it wasn’t really a Witch House and that nothing bad could hurt them. Stevie had never seen her mother as exhausted as she’d been at the end of that day. “No wonder I don’t hang out with the other parents,” she had said, tucked up in bed while Stevie brought her cups of tea. “God, they’re boring. Are they all like that?”

  “Pretty much,” Stevie replied. It was the reason she didn’t have a lot of friends either. That never bothered her, until her mother died and she and Toby had to leave the “Witch House” and their old town and everything from her old life behind, and she went from few friends to no friends in the new place.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she said to Toby now. “I’ll take you trick-or-treating, and when we’re done we’ll walk over to the Beaumont House. If you think it’s too weird or scary we won’t go inside, we’ll just look at it from the outside.”

  Toby still looked doubtful.

  She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear in a silly, growly voice. “We won’t stop until we have all the candy!” He giggled, and she said it again. “Alllllll the candy!”

  “Okay,” he agreed, still giggling.

  “Okay,” she said. “Wait here. I gotta get dressed. And then we’ll eat something and we’ll go.”

  Her witch dress was too short and too tight, but Stevie didn’t know how to sew or how to find someone who did to fix it. She guessed it was the last year she’d be wearing it. She could fit into it, barely, but it was kind of hard to breathe. Magic in every stitch of it, that’s what her mother always said. For my witchy baby girl.