Fright Files: The Broken Thing

by Peter Swift

  23.

  Mr. Stark blocked the only exit and glared hungrily at Stevie. His head was down, and he stood in a twisted kind of way—just like the broken girl. A green aura—almost, but not quite like flame—burned around him. Like a transparent mask over Mr. Stark's face was the haunted, angry face of the broken girl. Virginia Harcourt's face.

  "Return that which was STOLEN!" Mr. Stark shouted, his voice a horrible mixture of the man's own and the spirit’s.

  The grandfather's clock on the stairs chimed, and when the first chime struck, a glowing, oval shape formed in the dressing table mirror!

  At first, it was a whirlpool. Stevie's reflection and that of the surrounding room rippled and swirled like liquid or smoke. But an instant later the light in the mirror—or was it the whole room?—shifted from green to purple to deep red. The swirling slowed, and in the mirror was a different place. A black place, filled by vile, fiendish, dead creatures. He saw that each of them held something. Charms. Necklaces. Bracelets.

  Toys.

  Stevie looked from the mirror, to the brush and scattered things on the floor, to the doll in his hand, and then up at Mr. Stark. The clock continued to chime.

  "You're not supposed to be here!" Stevie shouted at the spirit. "Her uncle was right! Virginia Harcourt didn't kill her parents. You did. You just used her body, like you're using Mr. Stark now!"

  "Return that which was STOLEN!" Mr. Stark growled.

  "That's your place. Behind the mirror. With the other dead things!"

  "RETURN THAT WHICH WAS STOLEN!" the Mr. Stark-Broken Girl thing screamed again.

  "If I do, will you go back?" Stevie asked, nodding at the mirror.

  Bong. Bong. With each chime of the clock the broken girl grew angrier. The creature took a step toward Stevie. "I must have it! NOW!"

  "Take it then!" Stevie yelled. He threw the doll at the possessed Mr. Stark, who caught it effortlessly. "Take it and leave!"

  "Leave?" The spirit threw back Mr. Stark's head. It let out a horrible, gurgling laugh. "Once I give this to her, I'll never have to leave!"

  The creature's eyes focused behind Stevie, and it raised one of Mr. Stark's fingers at Angie.

  "No," it hissed. "She will take this prison-doll and her spirit will leave! I will have her pretty, young body to live in forever! The last one was stolen so soon!"

  Too late, Stevie understood. Angie would join the unfortunate creatures in the mirror, and the spirit inside of Mr. Stark would have her body to live in.

  Forever.

  24.

  "No," Stevie said, quietly. He stepped back toward Angie, but there was nowhere to go.

  The clock had almost struck its twelfth chime when the door to the bedroom flew open and slammed into Mr. Stark. He crashed to the floor, and instantly the green aura that burned around him extinguished.

  An angry Victor Plotts burst into the room. "Found you, Pile! You're gonna pay for stealin' my... bike—"

  Victor's voice trailed off abruptly as his eyes darted around the room, but he didn't have time to finish his sentence.

  Mr. Stark lay motionless on the floor, but the broken, twisted form of Virginia Harcourt materialized and rose from his unconscious body. It let out a loud wail and flew straight at Victor. The force of the impact threw Victor from the room and slammed him against the hallway wall.

  TOO LONG! TOO LONG I'VE WAITED!

  Victor screamed and crumpled against the wall as the ghost's bony fingers wrapped around his neck and dissolved through his flesh. He screamed again and began to cry, punching and thrashing at the the spirit, but his arms went limp when they struck her.

  Stevie knew what was happening. Soon she would be inside Victor, and then she would come for the toy. He had to act quickly.

  He dove on top of the unconscious form of Mr. Stark and tore the toy from his fingers. As he did, the broken girl—halfway inside Victor—turned its head and screamed.

  "NO!" it wailed. "THIEF! RETURN THAT WHICH—"

  "Oh, I'll return it, all right!" Stevie screamed angrily.

  The grandfather clock struck midnight's final chime, and Stevie saw the portal in the mirror slowly closing. He pulled back his arm and threw the doll into the mirror. It fell into the world on the other side of the glass.

  NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

  The portal closed, and instantly the horrible wailing ceased, bathing the room in silence and darkness. The spirit was gone. The only sound was that of Victor crying.

  "Angie!" Stevie shouted. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and ran to the tree. He tore at the limbs with his hands. The branches had turned brittle and now broke easily, but there were so many holding her suspended, and they were tight. He was afraid they would squeeze her to death. He broke them and twisted them away, but it was slow going.

  Suddenly, another flashlight came on and Mr. Stark was beside of him, tearing at the branches and helping to free Angie. It took some time, but they finally managed to get her down.

  She looked weak, but physically unharmed. "It was awful," she said, her voice a harsh whisper. "So slow... the tearing. This... was a brand new jacket!"

  Stevie hugged his friend. "Is it gone?" he asked.

  Mr. Stark pointed his flashlight at the mirror. Just glass. "I think so, but we need to get out of here. I need to..." His voice went silent, and he looked confused. He was visibly shaking and very upset.

  Being possessed will do that to a guy! Stevie thought.

  "What about Victor?" Stevie asked.

  "Who?" Mr. Stark said.

  "Victor Plotts was here," Stevie told him, remembering that Mr. Stark had been unconscious. "In the hall."

  They shined flashlights into the hall, but Victor was gone. Then, as if on cue, they heard a motorcycle start somewhere above them.

  "He'll probably ride until he runs out of gas," Angie said.

  "Yeah," Stevie agreed. "And then hitchhike to California!"

  "Angie, you okay to walk?" Mr. Stark asked. She stood, wobbly at first, but then nodded.

  They walked back through the house, which had returned to its previously neglected condition, and out into the night. Mr. Stark was surprised to see how dark it had become, and Stevie told him it was after midnight.

  "Oh no," Mr. Stark said. "I thought ghosts were frightening! Now I have to talk to worried, angry parents!"

  25.

  "You wanna finish watchin The Haunting of Horror Hill?" Stevie asked Angie the following weekend. His parents were working the evening shift again, and Emily was at another game, so he was glad to have his friend's company.

  Angie shrugged. "Cool. You didn't get enough scares last weekend?"

  "Pffff," he said, smirking. "After that, this movie is about as scary as kittens licking babies!"

  Stevie's mom had taken down the Halloween decorations on the mirror and already replaced them with gobbling turkeys, cornucopias filled with fruits and vegetables, and a banner that read BE THANKFUL! in the browns, oranges, and yellows of the Thanksgiving season.

  They turned out the lights and watched the movie. The camera panned across a dark scene. The walls of the house on the screen moved in and out like they were breathing. Blood dripped from the ceiling. It was a mindless fun movie that Angie and Stevie knew by heart.

  Then, suddenly, the screen went to static.

  "What the—" Stevie stood and moved toward the television, but froze. Reflected in the mirror, flickering in the white static, the silhouette of the broken girl stood in the archway of the kitchen.

  Stevie whipped around. Angie looked at Stevie, shot up, and then turned to the kitchen. There was nothing there.

  "Geeesh, Stevie! You gave me a heart attack! I thought—"

  But from behind the couch came an uneven tinny grinding of small gears. A scuffling of small metal feet on the wooden floor.

  A high pitched, broken laughter.

  Or was it a scream?

  Epilogue

  The large black limousine pulled out of S
tevie's driveway just as his parents approached. Doctor and Mrs. Barton both thought they saw movement, a shadow, and maybe felt a chill, but neither said anything to the other.

  The frail old man in the back of the limousine laughed wildly and struck his cane against the front seat.

  "Go! Go!" he cried, between body-racking fits of gut-wrenching, cackling glee. He wiped the tears from his eyes and a black silk handkerchief across his clammy, moist brow. Eventually the laughing subsided, and he stared out across the passing landscape. A sign read: You Are Now Leaving Newhope. Underneath some teenager had spray-painted the words: Lucky you!

  "Oh, Arzkelik," he said to his driver. "I do so love a happy ending!"

  "Yes, sir," Arzkelik replied. "Shall I continue to our destination?"

  The Author thought quietly for a time. So long, in fact, that Arzeklik supposed he'd fallen asleep.

  "I had such fun!" The Author finally said. "And we have time to kill. Let's make a few stops along the way, shall we?"

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