Fright Night

by Maren Stoffels

  Sandy kicks off his shoes and drops down onto his bed. We could have gotten separate rooms, but we’ve been living together for so long that we just left it that way. I see that he’s turning his own pass in his hand now. His eyes are gleaming. I bet he’s already coming up with ways to drive the Fright Nighters insane.

  I glance at the burn on his right hand. Sandy likes to tell girls a heroic story about rescuing someone from a burning house, but I know what really happened. I know Sandy’s stories and he knows mine.

  As I look at the pass again, I feel a wave of energy go through my body. The two of us know more than anyone what fear is. This job was made for us.

  SOFIA

  I brake in front of the corner house, number 12. The rental places in this neighborhood all look the same, green front doors with yellow glass. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but it’s a huge contrast with Quin’s street, where the houses are much bigger and fancier.

  Is Dylan’s mom home? I don’t see any movement through the downstairs window, and the curtains upstairs are closed. Cautiously, I take a few photos of the front yard and the house.

  I press the doorbell. Three notes ring through the hallway, and I feel my hands sweating. What kind of woman is Dylan’s mom? I just hope she thinks my gift’s a good idea, like Hester does.

  “Hey, there’s no one home, you know.”

  The voice makes me jump, and I turn around. A boy of about ten is standing in front of me, with a soccer ball in his hands.

  “Are you Dylan’s girlfriend?”

  I smile. “I’m just a friend.”

  “Dylan doesn’t live here anymore.” The boy bounces the ball a few times. “But we always used to play soccer together.”

  Then he looks at my camera. “You taking photos?”

  I nod. “I’m making a book for Dylan’s birthday. Can I take a picture of you too?”

  The boy nods and does a tough-guy pose for me. As I’m taking the photo, I hear someone call, “Sven!”

  “That’s me. Got to go. Dinner.” The boy waves. “Bye.”

  I look at the result. The photo’s perfect, with the street in the background. If I can keep this up, I’ll soon have a great gift for Dylan. The idea makes me happy, and I walk down the path beside Dylan’s house. It leads to an overgrown backyard full of stinging nettles.

  On a patio, there’s a rusty swing and a plastic picnic table with a big puddle on it from yesterday’s rainstorm. That’s another difference from Quin’s place, where they have a huge set of lounge furniture in the backyard.

  I take some pictures, but the results are as sad as it looks in real life. I place my hands on the glass of the patio doors and peer inside. I can see the living room and part of the kitchen. Should I take some photos through the glass? I lift my camera and immediately lower it. This is going too far—I’m not a paparazzo.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  I turn around. There’s an older gray-haired woman standing behind me, with a bunch of keys in her hand. Is she Dylan’s mom? He looks nothing like her.

  “I…I’m Sofia, a friend of Dylan’s.”

  “Aha.” The woman smiles when she hears his name. “My little guy. How’s he doing?”

  So it’s not his mom, but then who is she?

  “Gerda.” The woman holds out her hand. “I’m the neighbor. Trying to keep the place spick-and-span until Liane gets back.”

  So Dylan’s mom doesn’t live here anymore. Is she in the hospital?

  Gerda looks curiously at my camera. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m making a gift for Dylan. It’s his birthday soon. He has hardly any photos in his new bedroom, so I thought it might be nice to make a photo album full of different memories. Would you mind if I took a picture of you too?”

  The woman blushes. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  I take a couple of quick pictures, and I’m about to leave when Gerda nods at the house.

  “Want to take some pictures inside too?”

  I look up in surprise. “Am I allowed?”

  “Sure. For Dylan’s birthday, everything’s allowed.” Gerda puts a key in the back door and unlocks it.

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m in the kitchen. Under one of the magnets on the fridge, there’s a grocery list in Dylan’s handwriting.

  “Dylan could use a friend like you after everything that happened.” Gerda takes a bucket out of the sink cabinet and turns on the faucet. “It’s terrible, what he went through. All that time in bed—no child should have to suffer like that.”

  It’s a moment before the words really sink in.

  “Huh? Was Dylan sick?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  This doesn’t make sense. His mom is the one in the hospital, isn’t she?

  “I only met Dylan this year,” I say. “And he’s not much of a talker.”

  “That’s true enough. They’re similar like that.” Gerda points at my camera. “Go on, knock yourself out.”

  “Yeah…great. Thanks.”

  I’m trying to pull myself together, but it’s not easy. Why didn’t Dylan ever tell me anything? If I’m to believe Gerda, he was really sick. Was it the same sickness as his mom?

  I take photos of the round dining table with the three chairs, the piano, and the big sofa. The place looks spotless, like Gerda mops and polishes everything daily.

  “So you’re new around here?” I hear Gerda ask from the kitchen.

  “We moved here at the beginning of this school year.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Well, it’s fine now, but not so much at first,” I admit.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I felt pretty…”

  “Lonely?” Gerda comes out of the kitchen with the bucket in her hand. “I know the feeling. When I came to live here, I thought I was going crazy.”

  I smile. “Something like that, yes. But Dylan helped me. He spoke to me at our school dance. It was like he realized that I was really miserable.”

  “Takes after his mother. She did the same for me. Liane’s a pretty private person, but she always had time for a chat with me. Such a caring woman.”

  I run my fingers over the beads of my bracelet and look around. What else can I take photos of?

  Then I notice the windowsill. Half hidden behind the curtain, there’s a photo frame. I pull it out and find myself looking into the faces of a dark-haired woman—and Dylan. He must have been about ten, but I still recognize him. He’s not wearing glasses yet and he’s looking kind of awkwardly into the camera, like it’s the first time anyone’s ever taken a photo of him.

  Why didn’t Dylan bring this photo for his room? I’d have thought he’d want to have a photo of his mom.

  “Why don’t you take it with you?” I hear Gerda say behind me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’ll be fine.” She goes on cleaning.

  I take the photo from the frame and slip it into the inside pocket of my denim jacket before walking out into the hallway. There’s a big pile of mail on the doormat, all addressed to L. Dumont, Dylan’s mom. I sweep it up and am about to put the stack on the cupboard in the hallway when I spot a postcard.

  The blue lake on the front is close to where I used to live. When my friends and I had some free time, we often went swimming there.

  “Oh, that was their favorite vacation spot.” Gerda has appeared behind me again. “You should take that postcard for him too.”

  I nod and put it into my pocket with the photo. My gaze shifts to the stairs. Dylan’s bedroom must be up there.

  “I don’t know if Liane will like you going upstairs,” says Gerda. “That’s maybe a bit too private.”

  Fine by me. I already have the most important thing: a photo of Dylan and his mom
.

  Gerda opens the front door for me, and I wave goodbye. “Bye! And thanks for your help!”

  “You’re welcome. Come by another time. And say hello to Dylan for me, won’t you?”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  At home, I look at the photos on my camera. They’ve turned out well. I even cycled over to Dylan’s old elementary school to take photos of the schoolyard. He was probably at that school when he got sick. I’d like to ask Dylan about it, but there must be a reason why he hasn’t told me anything.

  I count the photos. There are lots of them, particularly when you include Hester’s selection. Dylan’s mom is smiling a bit cagily in the photo, the way Dylan sometimes does. He doesn’t often give a big grin, but when he does it’s like he’s saved that smile just for me.

  Then I take the postcard out of the inside pocket of my denim jacket, which is hanging on the back of my desk chair. I look at the lake on the front of the postcard again. It’s crazy to think we’ve both been there, but not together. I know why Dylan and his mom liked to go there. It’s such an awesome place.

  Who sent Dylan this card? When I turn it over, I have to read the words three times before they sink in. They just don’t go with that sunny vacation picture.

  ONE DAY I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.

  JUST BEFORE FRIGHT NIGHT

  MURDERER

  That was the time to say: I’m not doing it.

  I’m not going with you into the woods.

  If I’d done that, everything would have turned out differently.

  And you would still be alive.

  DYLAN

  Outside, it’s slowly getting dark. Not long now before Fright Night begins. Quin’s chattering is driving me crazy, so I’ve retreated to my own room. The comforter is still perfectly clean. I’ve slept in Quin’s room all week, as usual. I didn’t dare to sleep here, too scared of nightmares. But after tonight, everything is going to be different. Soon I’ll sleep in this room, on my own.

  I look down at the shorts I’m wearing. My crooked right leg looks even worse in shorts. Maybe I should wear something else tonight. I stand up to open my wardrobe, but then I notice that the door is ajar. As soon as I open the door, I see what the problem is: the sleeve of my only good shirt is sticking out.

  How did that happen? Hang on. It can’t have been Sofia, can it? I haven’t worn the thing for ages. Maybe Hester hung something in my wardrobe. I can’t imagine she did that, though. The first week I lived here, I got really stressed out because of all the changes, and Hester realized pretty quickly what was going on. When she asked what she could do to help me, I said I wanted to put away my own clothes.

  She burst out laughing and said, “Wish I had another son like you!” She didn’t mean anything by it, but it still sounded strange, a bit like she was trying to take Mom’s place.

  I look at the shirt. Maybe Quin wanted to borrow something from my wardrobe. But he has his own style—he likes loud prints and thinks my clothes are boring. Anyway, there are enough of my clothes in his room already.

  I take the shirt out of the wardrobe and think back to the school dance. That was the night I got to know Sofia, the night I finally dared to approach her. Quin was sick that night, so no one would go on about it forever and ever if my attempt was a failure.

  “Beautiful”—that was the first thing I said. I was talking about Sofia’s dress, and it sounded so dumb I could have bitten off my tongue. But Sofia just smiled.

  “I hate dresses,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  That made both of us laugh. When she stayed with me for the rest of the night, I felt invincible.

  I hold the shirt against me and close my eyes for a moment.

  “You ready? Time to go.” Quin is standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing now?”

  I quickly lower the shirt. “Nothing.”

  “You going to wear that tonight?”

  I shake my head. “Of course not.”

  “Nervous, huh?”

  “A bit,” I confess.

  “Because Sofia’s coming with us?”

  I sigh. Quin tries it every single day, no matter what I say or do.

  “No need to answer.” Quin grins. “I can see straight through you.”

  * * *

  —

  Dr. Savory looks at me with a question on her face. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

  She isn’t like the doctors I’ve met before. Dr. Savory has a sparkle in her eyes when she talks to me.

  I hesitate.

  “The doctor asked you a question, honey.” My mom is in her usual place behind the doctor. “And it won’t do anyone any good if you lie.”

  I tense all the muscles in my face and make what I call my poop face. I raise my arm a very short way off the mattress and then, panting, I let it fall.

  “My arms hurt,” I say quietly. “And my legs.”

  The doctor nods. “We’ll do some bloodwork, so we can rule out a few things.”

  More bloodwork? How many needles have I had in my arm? I’m like a pincushion.

  “It’ll be fine, honey,” I hear Mom’s soft voice say. “Just be brave.”

  * * *

  —

  When Quin closes my door behind him, his words linger in my room. Quin thinks he knows me better than anyone, but he only knows half the truth. Will he be hurt if he finds out? Maybe. I just don’t know if I can ever tell him about those memories.

  And what about Sofia? I haven’t known her nearly as long, but sometimes I feel so close to her. Like on Monday, when she suddenly threw her arms around me in Quin’s room. Although I really want her close, it’s better to keep her at a distance. The farther people are from me, the less they can see.

  I hang the shirt back up and close the wardrobe door. This time it shuts perfectly.

  KELLY

  “The safe word for Fright Night is ketchup.”

  There’s laughter around us, but the man who’s running the training course looks so serious that the laughter abruptly ceases.

  “If the Fright Nighters use that word, you have to stop immediately. Is that clear?”

  The trainer pauses to let the words sink in. There are a lot of us here. Fright Night is a big event, with more than a hundred people taking part. Most of the actors are students, a bit older than Sandy and me. But some of them are professional actors who do these kinds of events all the time.

  Soon we’ll all have makeup put on and they’re going to give us scary costumes. I can’t wait to see what I’m going to look like tonight.

  A girl in front of me puts up her hand. “And what do we do if they beg us to stop? Do we stop then too?”

  The trainer shakes his head. “That’s going to happen all the time. We’re here to scare people. It’s what they paid for, guys.”

  I glance at Sandy next to me. He has a slight smile on his face. He was one of the best in the training session. Even some of the professionals were impressed. The girl Sandy had to practice on turned white as a sheet. I actually forgot it was just Sandy.

  “If any of the Fright Nighters pass out or become unwell, use the walkie-talkie to call the first-aid station.” The trainer holds up a black device with a few knobs and an antenna. “Every group will have one.”

  “Why can’t we just use our cell phones?” someone asks.

  The trainer smiles. “That’d be a neat trick. There’s no signal anywhere in the woods.”

  SOFIA

  It’s busy at the stand where we have to sign in for Fright Night. I see Quin looking curiously at the sheet of paper listing the groups. I hope the two other Fright Nighters in our group are cool.

  “We’ve been put in a group with a guy called Martin de Vries and—”

  “That’s us,” I hear behind me. I tu
rn around to see the couple who were cycling in front of us.

  “Martin.” The boy gives me a firm handshake. He looks a bit older than us. He has a ginger beard, freckles, and must be at least a head taller than me. If it gets too scary later, I can always hide behind him.

  “Sofia,” I say.

  The girl gives me a softer handshake. Her eyes are friendly, and I have a sudden sense that I can trust her, like I’ve known her for a long time. The nerves I was just feeling have vanished.

  “Sofia,” I say with a relieved grin. These two seem to be okay.

  “Hi, Sofia.” The girl smiles. “I’m Nell.”

  DYLAN

  My right leg is starting to hurt. That has been happening a lot recently, whenever I have to stand for a long time. I look at Nell and Sofia, who appear to be getting along. They’re chatting away like they’ve been friends for years.

  Sofia seems less tense. On the bike she looked a bit pale, but now she’s more at ease. I smile when I see the bracelet on her wrist. Does she wear it every day? I was so nervous about the gift. It felt like I was giving her something silly and insignificant, but I really wanted to buy it with my own money, without being a burden on Hester and Johan.

  At the end of next week, it’s my turn for a birthday, the first one without Mom. Hester’s trying everything she can to give me a fun day, but her efforts are actually making it kind of awkward. I don’t need any cake or loads of visitors and gifts. What I’d really like to do is disappear and resurface the next day.

  “Last year there was a box with, like, twelve hundred crickets inside, and the Fright Nighters had to dig around in it with their hands,” I hear Martin say.

  “Seriously?” Sofia grimaces. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “I swear.”

  “Stop it.” Nell gives Martin a prod. “You’re just getting everyone all worked up.”

  “What? It’s true.”