Fright Files: The Broken Thing

by Peter Swift

22.

  He could see the trail, but just barely. Since the motorcycle didn't have a headlight, Stevie had jammed his penlight into his mouth. It helped a little, but not much.

  He'd had to slow down considerably once he entered The Grove, but still rode as fast as he could. Once or twice he almost missed a turn and would've ended up flying over the edge or slamming into trees, but he managed to swing the bike around at the last moment as branches and overgrowth reached out and slapped at his arms.

  No way was he going to let a little thing like gravity get in the way of rescuing his friends!

  Eventually, he made it to the spot. He knew it on sight now, and didn't even have to look for the marks where he'd fallen. Stevie hammered on both front and rear brakes and the thick, knobby tires dug into the dirt of the trail.

  "I sure hope this is the last time I have to do this!" He dropped the bike on its side and slid down the steep descent without a moment's hesitation.

  Stevie was terrified, but somehow, his mind managed to separate the terror from the task. Until...

  Stevie gasped when he caught sight of the house, and tried hard to stop. He dug his heels into the loose forest floor, but they wouldn't grip and he slid all the way to the bottom.

  Inside the house, all of the lights had been turned on and shone warmly through the windows. Hadn't Mr. Stark told them that the power was disconnected long ago? It didn't really matter because Stevie knew there were no lights in the gutted and empty house! Or, at least, there shouldn't be.

  He stood quietly trying to build up his courage and watched the place for a few moments.

  Somewhere within the manor a radio switched on. Old-time swing music like Stevie sometimes heard at his grandparent's house cut through the air. Big band trombones, clarinets, and piano drifted through the air, accompanied by a lilting female voice:

  Your heart burns for me,

  And me alone.

  Don't keep me waiting, my sweet.

  Come home, come... home.

  He pulled the toy from his pocket and looked at it. Here, light from the moon cut through the trees and gave Stevie a pale, soft glow to see by. The toy's face—scarred and wild—grinned up at him. It no longer moved (or had it struggled?) beneath his fingers.

  "You understand, don't you?" Stevie said. "You're going home." Firm determination came through in his voice, and the sound of it gave him strength. He walked to the house.

  Pushing through the last of the trees, Stevie stepped onto the driveway. The circular fountain which had been filled with sludge was now running smoothly. Clear water flowed into the pool below; rippling, it reflected the star-filled sky. As Stevie walked past, he noticed Japanese koi—large goldfish—swimming in the crystal clear water.

  The front door opened easily under the pressure of his fingertips, and Stevie stepped quietly inside.

  Light washed over him and the sound of the radio loudened, drifting down from the hallway at the top of the stairs. Stevie looked around, partially disbelieving what he saw. The other part of him, however, knew it would be just this way.

  Harcourt Manor was no longer an empty, broken place. Had Stevie been transported back in time? Or had the mansion repaired itself, starting with the doorknob that Angie broke yesterday, but was undamaged today? As if to confirm this theory, the manor gave a tremendous shake, and from somewhere in its dark depths emitted a long, low groan.

  The foyer, once barren and stained with decades of weather damage and neglect, was now elegantly decorated. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, bathing the entire room in warm yellow light. Plush chairs and sofas with red velvet cushions sat ready for guests that would wait in this area for their host or hostess to greet them. The Persian carpet that Stevie had seen pushed up against the wall was new and clean and centered on the floor. Around the edge of the room it gave way to reveal highly polished black and white marble tiles underneath. Paintings of distinguished people or stunning landscapes decorated the walls. On the landing halfway up the grand staircase stood a huge grandfather's clock, ticking away.

  Could that clock be right? he wondered. The clock showed it was five minutes to midnight! He checked his own watch. Four o'clock, on the nose.

  Even though the room was beautiful, it radiated a wrongness that filled Stevie's heart with fear. It was even more terrifying than the neglected old ruin they had visited before. This place was more than evil. It was alive.

  His determination wavered but, hands shaking, he ascended the staircase and followed the loud music. He knew where it would lead him.

  The broken girl's room.

  As Stevie topped the stairs, the radio switched off, and he saw the doorway to Virginia's room. The door was open, and from it came a shimmering pale green light.

  On the walls, electric lights that looked like candles flicked on and off as he walked down the carpeted hallway toward the door. He heard a strange sound coming from the room—a wet sound—and then that stopped too, and he continued in silence.

  His breathing came hard as he stepped closer. Was his gasping really that loud, or did it just sound that way in his head? It sounded like someone was blowing up a basketball with a foot pump! No wonder the kids always found him when they played hide-and-seek.

  The interior of the room came into view, and he froze. The room was almost unchanged. The torn canopy fluttered in the breeze from the broken window. The mirror and brush still lay scattered on the floor beside the overturned chair. MURDERESS was still written on the headboard. The large black branches and vines still pushed in through the broken window.

  Except now there were many more than before, and Stevie saw that Angie was trapped inside of them! The branches and vines snaked through the shattered window, crawled around her body, and bound her arms and legs.

  "Angie!"

  Stevie ran into the room and started working to free her. The old wood and vines had torn through her jacket and held her suspended three feet above the floor. Barely conscious, she couldn't move a finger, let alone get free!

  Angie's voice came quietly. "Stevie," was all she could say, and then her eyes weakly shifted behind him.

  Stevie spun around just as the bedroom door slammed closed. Behind it stood Mr. Stark!