by John Marsden
‘But Mum, it’s true, you can ask Stacey.’
‘Um, I just remembered, I’ve got to go,’ Stacey says suddenly and starts walking away up the drive.
‘The last three owners, is that what you said?’ your mum asks, as she reads the inscriptions on the crosses.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what were their names?’
‘I only know one of them. He was Mr Blenkinsop.’
‘Mr Blenkinsop.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Not Spotty? Or Tiddles? Or Bonza?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Your mother reads one of the inscriptions out loud: ‘Tiddles, good companion, great rat-catcher, died 7 November 1995, aged fifteen.’
‘Oh,’ you say.
‘Now, where’s that nice girl you just introduced me to?’ your mother says, straightening up. ‘Oh, she seems to have gone. What a pity.’
re you completely and utterly crazy? Are you out of your ever-loving mind? You want to sit down and write a letter at a time like this? You idiot! I’ll give you two choices here, and you’d better make a quick decision: you either go back and find a way to break the glass, or you can go straight to a psychiatrist. Which is it to be?
he rope’s starting to feel like it’s been specially treated with grease. You try to hang on but, with a sense of despair, you realise it’s impossible. You’re about fifty metres above a cold stone floor and you’re going to drop all the way down to it. Your whole life starts flashing in front of your eyes. Those early kindergarten days, playing doctors and nurses in the sand-pit and getting sand in your . . . And that’s all you have time to remember. The next moment you’ve lost your grip. You’re plummeting through the air like a Superman who’s swallowed Superglue. The only good news is that, as you fall, you knock Stacey and her father off the rope, too. There’s now three plummeting bodies heading for that hard stone floor. You’re about ten metres away from it now. You’re about nine metres away. Eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .
Then you hit. To be exact, you hit the arms of a nice big friendly policeman. He catches you very neatly. You lie in his arms like a baby, looking up at his face. Right now he’s about the best-looking human being you’ve ever seen.
‘Thank you,’ you say.
He puts you on your feet. Suddenly you remember Stacey and her dad and you look around swiftly. But there are no squashed mangled mutilated bodies on the floor, oozing blood and guts and squishy grey brain matter. There’s nothing to be seen at all! You can’t believe it!
‘Where are they?’ you ask wildly.
‘Where are who?’ the policeman asks.
You realise he hasn’t seen them! This is impossible!
‘The two people who fell off the rope when I did,’ you say. ‘You must have seen them!’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ he says, looking at you suspiciously. ‘All I saw was two bats flying out of the tower just as you fell.’
You can’t think of anything to say so, naturally, being one of those people who never shuts up, you say, ‘I can’t think of anything to say.’
‘Well, I can think of a few questions I want to ask you,’ he says. ‘Starting with: what do you think you’re doing, mucking around in this deserted church. Eh? Just what do you think you’re doing?’
To buy a bit of time you ask: ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘How did I know? How did I know? How did the whole district know? That bell hasn’t rung for twenty years!’
‘Oh,’ you say.
The policeman takes you home and tells your parents that you’ve broken into the church and disturbed everyone in the suburb by ringing the bell, and nearly killing yourself into the bargain. Your parents look at you with their best We’re-very-disappointed-in-you look and, after he’s gone, they give you a long talk about how you mustn’t be upset about moving to a new suburb.
You realise that they think you’ve gone all psycho because of leaving your friends behind at your old place! How embarrassing!
But you don’t bother trying to explain. Especially you don’t bother trying to explain about Stacey and her father—you know if you did that they’d have you in the loony bin in no time!
For as long as you live in that street, though, you always cross the road when you have to go past the abandoned church!
uddenly you feel an arm shaking you and you wake up and realise the whole thing was just a dream.
(Come on, you know happy endings are boring!)
tacey looks like she really wants to helicopter herself out of there, but there’s nowhere much to go, except past your mum. Behind you is the big old fence, three metres of rotting wood and rusty galvanised iron and viciously sharp nails. ‘Come on,’ you say, ‘I’ll introduce you.’
You walk towards your mother. ‘Oh, there you are dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Mum, this is Stacey,’ you say, turning to introduce your new friend. But to your amazement there’s no-one there! Just the fence and the long weeds and the three lonely white crosses.
Your mother’s ignoring you, as she walks towards the crosses. ‘What did you say, dear?’ she asks vaguely. ‘Look at these graves. So sad isn’t it. Those poor people.’
‘You . . . you mean you know about them?’ you ask. You’re finding it hard to concentrate on this conversation: you’re looking around desperately, trying to find Stacey.
‘Oh, didn’t we tell you? The last owners of this house were killed in a car accident, just down there at the corner, a few years ago. No-one’s lived here since. I think it put people off the house. Actually they had a daughter about your age . . . She died in the accident too. I think her name was . . . Tracey? No, that’s not it . . . it started with S . . .’
‘Stop, stop!’ you yell, with your hands over your ears. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
But at least you know now how Stacey disappeared so fast.
he men in white coats arrive almost immediately to take you away. You go without a struggle. When you arrive at the doctor’s office they strap you to a chair and leave you there. You can hear them talking outside, though. ‘What’s wrong with this one?’ someone asks.
‘A complete nutcase,’ they answer. ‘Like, we’re talking total loony here. We’re talking not just out of the tree but out of the entire forest.’
‘And so young,’ the first person says. ‘It’s tragic, really. Obviously destroyed by drugs.’
‘Drugs!’ you think. ‘Drugs! You’ve got to be kidding!’ The strongest drug you’ve ever had was Milo. Do these people seriously think you’ve been sniffing Milo? Shooting up on Milo?
Then the doctor comes in. He’s a little guy with frizzy hair, poppy eyes and a beard that looks like an undernourished pot plant. His hands are shaking; in fact he’s trembling all over with excitement.
‘So!’ he hisses. ‘What have we here? Very interesting! Obviously a severe psychotic delusional hyperalienation specimen. Now, who do you think you are? Michael Jackson? Lisa Simpson? The Shroud of Turin? Who?’
‘Shouldn’t that be “whom”?’ you ask.
‘Hah!’ he says. ‘Post-prandial neuro-aggressive pedantry! Fascinating! Tell me, how would you like to stay here a very long time? We have nice rooms, excellent recreational facilities, good food, and all you have to do is talk about yourself for hours every day. Would you like that?’
‘Would I have to go to school?’ you ask.
‘Oh no,’ he says, obviously shocked. ‘Certainly not. You’re far too ill for that.’
So you accept his invitation and spend a long and happy holiday in his institution. Gee, why wouldn’t you be happy? After all, the first friends you make there are Superman, Princess Diana and the Prime Minister of Australia. Well, at least, that’s who they say they are. And they wouldn’t be wrong about something as important as that . . . would they?
ust after you brush off the first little creature that settles on
your skin you feel that same horrible prickling sensation. Only this time it’s on your leg, and it’s quickly followed by a sharp bite. ‘Ow,’ you cry, getting your voice back. You swipe at the horrible black thing that’s clinging there and it flies away, but there’s a few drops of blood where it’s left its mark. Before you can react to that, there’s another one on your shoulder. You swing at that but then there’s another on your other leg, and one on your foot and one on the back of your neck. You’re screaming now as you hit at them, but there’s too many of them, they’re all over you nipping and biting and drawing blood. You can feel the blood running down your arms and legs and then there’s one on your face, and you can feel your blood running down your cheeks as you try to pull the horrible clinging thing off. You’re being viciously bitten all over. You can feel your skin being pulled off. They’re ripping it off like your skin is Elastoplast. One of them’s biting into your neck and you start to choke as blood trickles into your throat. The trickle turns into a flow: it’s like there’s litres of the stuff flooding down into you. Your screams become gurgles as you drown in your own blood. You feel a blackness coming over you. The last thought you have as you sink into a deep dark unconsciousness is, ‘Gee, I think I made a big mistake messing with Stacey.’
uddenly there’s the sound of quick footsteps and you spin around, terrified, thinking maybe it’s a vampire or something. But it’s not, just Stacey. She’s panting hard, out of breath. ‘I thought you mightn’t have been here,’ she says.
‘I thought you mightn’t turn up,’ you confess.
You stand there looking at each other. Stacey’s shivering. That could be the cold, but then again . . .
‘Well,’ she says, ‘guess we should get down there and see if there’s any action.
‘Sure,’ you say, ‘sounds like a good idea to me.’
But you still just stand there looking at each other.
Then you both start talking at the same time.
‘We could . . .’ you say.
‘Do you think we should . . .’ she says.
You stop again.
‘You go first,’ you say.
‘No, you go.’
‘Well,’ you say, ‘I was just going to say that it’s awfully cold . . .’
‘Yes, it is . . . And dark . . .’
‘Yes, I noticed that.’
‘Maybe we should . . .’
‘But on the other hand . . .’
ventually, with midnight looming, you realise. There isn’t going to be a Stacey. Stacey has wimped it. Stacey has piked out. Stacey is a scaredy-cat . . .
But then you think a bit further. OK, maybe she has wimped it. But there is another possibility. Maybe she left home to meet you but she never arrived! Suppose something happened to her on the way here! Suppose those evil spirits that she warned you about are out already, and they’ve grabbed her? On a night like this, anything’s possible.
You’re not sure what to do, but eventually you start to wander towards the street, wondering if you should go searching for her. Once again you’re regretting that you ever let yourself get talked into this. It’s totally nerve-racking.
In the distance a clock is striking midnight. You look around, trembling. Everything seems to have become very still suddenly. The wind stops blowing, the dogs stop barking, you can’t even hear the traffic from the distant highway. You think you hear something behind you maybe, but you’re scared to peep over your shoulder. Then—horror! There’s a scream that does come from behind you, very close behind. It’s a terrible bone-rattling spine-melting hair-blanching scream, a scream that tears the heart out of your chest and cuts your legs off at the knees. ‘Wah, wah, wah,’ you go. You try to make yourself move, but nothing in your body is working, except your heart, which has gone into over-drive. ‘I’m dead,’ you think.
ou’re not thinking of wimping out, are you?’ she says.
‘Oh no,’ you say. ‘Oh no no no no no no no no. No. Not me, no.’
‘Oh, good. Because for a moment there . . .’
‘Let’s go,’ you say, before you can have second thoughts. You want to seem tough and decisive. ‘Let’s make bubbles.’
‘Let’s make bubbles?’ What on earth does that mean? Why are you talking like this? You really want to be upstairs hiding under the bed. But too late now. The damage is done. You’re walking down the driveway, trying not to make any noise, and Stacey’s walking right there beside you. You go on past the sheds and head for the three little graves. You get about fifty metres away, to where you can almost see them through the trees, then you stop and look at Stacey.
‘What do you think?’ you whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispers back.
‘We’d better be careful.’
‘What’s the time?’
You peer at your watch in the dim moonlight.
‘Three minutes to twelve.’
‘Oh, yikes.’
You both start creeping forwards. You wonder why Stacey’s chosen this moment to start tap-dancing, then you realise it’s the sound of her teeth chattering. You’re in full view of the graves now. There’s a little mist blowing around them and a kind of white glow where the moonlight reflects off the crosses. Everything’s very quiet, nothing moving except the mist, but it seems colder here than anywhere else. It’s like this is a special little chill spot all of its own. Like the garden has its own refrigerator.
You and Stacey are getting in each other’s way, mainly because you’re trying to hide behind each other. You’re hugging like you’re old friends, and after all you only met that day. But then you forget about Stacey because, in the distance, you hear a clock start to chime, and you realise this is it, this is the witching hour, this is the first stroke of midnight.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Stacey mutters. Her teeth are doing their tap-dance right in your ear. It can’t be good for her braces. You want to ask her about that but you decide this mightn’t be the best time. The clock is striking for the tenth time. You’re about to agree with her about leaving. But it’s really too late now. With the clock striking for the last time you’re about to see the most frightening sight of your young life . . . or you’re about to realise you’ve wasted a lot of precious sleep time.
omehow you make yourself turn around. It’s not easy. There’s so much sweat pouring down your body that the ground’s getting muddy. But, with the same kind of courage that you showed on the Grade One camp when you owned up to being the Phantom Pisser, you make the big move.
And there before you is a horrible sight. A gruesome disgusting foul revolting sight. It’s some kind of corpse, and it’s standing there looking at you. Well, as much as anyone can look when they don’t have any eyes. Instead of eyes this figure has bony sockets in its face. Instead of a nose it has a hole. Instead of clothes it has mouldy rags hanging off its filthy rotten body. You can see shreds of flesh through the holes in the clothes. As you stand there, frozen in horror, it slowly opens its mouth. Out comes a long dark fat worm. It’s about a metre long. It drops to the ground and squirms away, wriggling and writhing. Then the corpse advances on you. You’re completely helpless. You open your mouth to scream, and that’s the last sound you ever make. The cold slimy fingers of the corpse close around your throat and slowly squeeze the life out of you. Everything goes black and you die. A few days later they have your funeral, and then you’re cremated and your ashes scattered to the four winds.
There’s only one question left to answer. If you’re dead, how come you’re managing to read this story right now?
he clock strikes for the twelfth time. At that moment you see a sight so horrifying that you feel you’re floating into the air. The only thing that keeps you on the ground is Stacey’s arm, gripping yours so tightly that she leaves bruises. You don’t even notice that. Your skin is prickling all over, like you’ve got ants covering every inch of you. You want to scream but there’s a lump in your throat so big that not even ice-cream could squeeze past it.
It’s the graves, of course; that’s where it’s happening. One grave in particular: the middle one. The ground over it is bulging like it’s pregnant. You can actually see the dirt sliding off it and the grass slowly uprooting. A split appears down the middle of it. A weird white light is shining out of the earth: a soft light, glowing around the edges. You think Stacey’s making some kind of noise but you can’t hear it exactly. It sounds like a wombat trying to snore with a peg on its nose. You don’t dare look at Stacey, though. All you can look at is the earth bulging and rising and opening like a big dark mouth. You know something’s going to come out of there, you don’t want to know what it is, but there’s no way in the world you can look away. And then it comes . . . the worst sight in the world. A hand slithers out of the hole, not a skeletal bony hand but a pink fleshy one, warm and alive, slithering across the ground like a disgusting family of worms. And out comes another one. And neither of them is attached to an arm. Or to anything.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.’
Half of that is you, half is Stacey. The hands are coming slowly across the ground towards you. You just have time to notice that a finger is completely missing from one hand before you turn and run, screaming, back towards the house. Stacey is stuck to you like a Siamese twin. You arrive at the house together, in a time you later calculate as 1.8 seconds for a distance of 80 metres. You cross the verandah, throw the kitchen door open, and fall into the house, still stuck to Stacey. You slam the door behind you, lock it, rip out the key, and rush round the room, checking the windows. Stacey is pulling tables and chairs against the door. For hours, the two of you huddle there in a state of terror. Every time there’s a noise outside, you clutch each other like you’re a librarian and she’s a book. When dawn finally appears you can hardly believe you’ve survived the night. Maybe your life will actually run on for a few more days yet.