The Fear Zone

by K. R. Alexander

  She doesn’t answer, just keeps walking.

  I don’t try asking her again.

  It doesn’t take long for us to reach the graveyard, especially not at the pace she’s setting.

  This, too, looks so much different in the day. Birds swoop through the skies and sing from tree branches. A few cars wind through the single paved road that curves through the entire graveyard—families paying their respects. April doesn’t bother taking the sidewalk or the road. She cuts straight across the grass, following the same path we took last night. Toward one of the small hills, this one topped with a gnarled tree.

  I don’t know what she’s looking for and a part of me doesn’t want to find it. I don’t like graveyards during the best of times, and after what happened last night—and with the scary way April’s acting—today isn’t the best of times. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. I want us to go back to her place and put on a comedy show or something and push all of this out of our minds.

  Halloween is over. Last night is over.

  I really, really want this to be over.

  I’m also wondering if I should have brought the baseball bat, because the way April looks at everything with fear in her eyes makes me think she doesn’t believe this is over by a long shot.

  “This can’t be right,” April mutters.

  We near the top of the hill. It’s definitely the one from last night—the same knobbly tree, the same faded tombstone. Only now …

  “What happened to the grave?” I ask.

  Because the grass here is green and lush and covered in red leaves. There’s no grinning jack-o’-lantern, and the grave itself is wiped clean. No sign of spray paint. No carved DO NOT DISTURB. No sign of anything.

  “Maybe we’re in the wrong place?” she says. She glances around. But from here, we can see the entire small graveyard, and it’s clear that we’re on the right hill. I don’t tell her that, though, because she’s already off. Down the hill and over to the next.

  This one has no tree. And no sign of a recently dug grave. This tombstone looks even more weathered than the last.

  April makes an aggravated noise in her throat and heads over to the next hill.

  We comb the graveyard for what feels like hours, but is probably only twenty minutes. We don’t find anything. Not a trace that anyone—including us—was here last night.

  April finally storms toward a bench and sits down. I follow her, but I don’t sit. I don’t know if she wants me close, or even around. She looks so upset.

  “April—”

  “What happened last night?” she interrupts. “What did we do last night?”

  She starts to cry.

  I sit down beside her and put my arm over her shoulders. She leans into me and cries harder.

  “What did we do?” she asks again, softer this time.

  “We went out because some high school kids tricked us,” I say tentatively. “They left a weird tin box as a prank and something probably went wrong because it wasn’t all that scary, and then we went home, and—”

  “No,” she says. “No, that wasn’t a prank. I know it. Last night, I saw something. In my room. In the closet. Watching us.”

  My skin immediately goes cold.

  “What?”

  She doesn’t answer. Just sniffs louder and cries harder, her whole body shaking against me.

  “April,” I say slowly, softly. “What do you mean, someone was in your room? Who? How?”

  She shakes her head against my chest.

  “I don’t know. I was so scared.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.”

  My mind races. Someone was in her room. Worse, in her closet. I was sleeping beside her closet. How did I not wake up? How had we not seen anything this morning? I mean, even if someone had crept in while we were away, they wouldn’t have been able to stay in the closet all night.

  “Maybe it was Freddy,” I say. “Maybe he put on a costume to scare us.”

  “No. No, it wasn’t him. It was …”

  She can’t finish her sentence.

  I hold her there and try to think of something comforting to say but I can’t find the words.

  “Maybe it was a nightmare,” I say. “You know, one of those waking ones. Maybe you just thought you were awake. I had that happen once. I thought there was a vampire in my closet and I hid under the covers for an hour before—”

  “It wasn’t a dream!” she yells. “And it wasn’t Freddy! I don’t know what it was, but I know … I know it had to do with what happened last night.”

  “Last night was just a stupid prank.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m trying,” I say. I really am. But I don’t know how she expects me to believe that there was, what? A monster in her closet? One that only she could see?

  She looks at me for a moment and I look away; I’m worried she can see my doubts behind my eyes.

  She stands up.

  “I hope you never understand,” she says solemnly. “You don’t want to know what fear like that feels like.”

  Then she turns and stomps off down the hill.

  I watch her go.

  It’s clear she doesn’t want me to follow.

  Deshaun doesn’t open up at all for the rest of the morning. Seriously, it’s like trying to talk to a brick wall. I keep trying to gently ask him what he dreamed about or what he thought happened in the graveyard, but the moment I even get close to the subject, he clams up. It’s frustrating. I want to talk to someone about the graveyard. I want to know what Deshaun dreamed, what scared him so much. Mainly because I can’t remember my dreams, and for some reason, that feels more dangerous than a nightmare.

  I also don’t want to go home.

  We toss the ball about for an hour and talk about everything except for what I think we should be talking about. It’s starting to annoy me, honestly. Not because Deshaun is being quiet. Not because he jumps at every gust of wind or snapped branch. But because he won’t let me help him. He’s standing twenty feet away, but we might as well be on different planets.

  I’m about to suggest we head in to grab a snack from a café when I see him.

  The boy from last night. Andres.

  He’s walking along the side of the field, hands in his pockets and head down, slouched over in a puffy coat and hat.

  Deshaun tosses the ball and it lands at my feet.

  “Hey!” I call out, waving. Andres jolts and looks up at me. It seems to take a moment for him to realize who we are. Then he smiles and jogs over.

  “Hey, guys,” he says when he nears.

  “Hey,” Deshaun says. He pauses, and his voice grows uncertain. “Where’s April?”

  Andres’s smile drops. “Home,” he says.

  He looks like he wants to say more, but stays silent.

  “Gotcha,” Deshaun says. “What are you up to?”

  Andres swallows hard. He glances behind himself. “Just getting some fresh air.”

  “Well, um,” I say. I don’t know why talking is so hard right now. “Did you want to hang out or something? I think we were going to go to the café.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he says quickly. “I’m just … I’m just going to head home.”

  We barely say goodbye before he turns away and walks off the field. Deshaun and I watch him go, and for the first time this morning, it actually feels like Deshaun and I are here together.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Deshaun asks.

  I turn from Andres and look toward the way he was coming from. My breath catches when I realize where he was.

  I don’t answer Deshaun, but I think I know.

  Andres was in the graveyard.

  I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that there was a terrifying clown in my closet or the fact that Andres doesn’t believe me. I mean, I know he didn’t say he doesn’t believe me, but I can tell he doesn’t. The troub
le is, I don’t think I’d believe it either if I hadn’t been the one seeing it. Just remembering the glowing eyes, the rumbling voice … I shudder.

  The clown was real.

  It followed me home from the graveyard, and now there isn’t even a trace of the weird tombstone or grave to prove it.

  My fear turns to anger in a heartbeat. I’ve only been angry at Andres a few times in the past, but this time it hits me like a burst of fire in my veins. He’s the one who dragged me out to the graveyard in the first place. He saw the writing on the tombstone and the creepy tin. He’s the reason all of this happened. And yet, he has the nerve to think I’m making something like this up?

  I storm away from the graveyard. I don’t know where I’m going but I just know I don’t want to be around Andres right now because if I am, I’ll say something mean. This is his fault. His fault.

  I know that the only reason I’m so angry is because I’m tired and terrified, but knowing that doesn’t make the rage inside me any less real.

  I walk through the downtown, the remnants of last night’s trick-or-treat strewn about everywhere. Long strands of toilet paper drape across cars from high schoolers playing pranks. Jack-o’-lanterns—some in one piece, some smashed to bits on the concrete—line every sidewalk. Ghosts and ghouls hang from the eaves overlooking storefronts and candy is scattered about like confetti. A few adults are outside, sweeping up the debris or slowly putting away décor. But for the most part, the downtown is empty. Sleepy. Just like always.

  Except, some stores have mannequins outside dressed in costumes, like witches and goblins and even … clowns.

  I slow down.

  A clown mannequin stands outside of the post office.

  I don’t remember there being a clown mannequin there yesterday.

  Or the day before.

  I would have noticed.

  It isn’t at all like the clown I saw in the graveyard or in my room. At least, I don’t think it is. But as I get closer, I start to feel cold. My feet are heavy, and I don’t want to walk anywhere closer to it.

  The trouble is, I can’t stop walking.

  The clown has giant poofy red hair and a painted smile from ear to ear and paint around his eyes. His costume is striped and satin and he wears giant red shoes and giant white gloves. Even though it’s a mannequin and even though I’m sure it is nothing at all like the clown I saw, something still hooks in my chest, a fear that tells me this is the clown from the graveyard.

  My feet lead me closer.

  I don’t want to go closer.

  I force myself to keep my eyes straight ahead as I pass by. The chill gets worse. I force myself to keep my breathing slow and calm and my footsteps measured, because it is sunny outside and nothing bad or scary happens when it is sunny outside.

  I walk past the clown.

  And its eyes

  follow

  me.

  I jolt and turn around. But the mannequin clown is staring straight ahead and its eyes are nothing more than paint and there’s absolutely no way it was staring at me. But I know it was watching me. I know it from the way my heart pounds and fear trickles down the back of my throat.

  I turn and hurry the rest of the way home.

  “Kyle, honey?” Mom calls out from the kitchen.

  It’s almost dinnertime, and I knew I couldn’t hold off on coming home any longer. I’d asked Deshaun if he wanted me to stay over again, pitching it as an opportunity to do a video game binge rather than a way to keep him from being afraid of his room, but he refused. Said he was too tired. And he looked it, too, but he also didn’t look like he wanted to be alone. After spending all day hanging out, I hadn’t gotten any closer to understanding why he was so upset and distant.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say. I take off my shoes and start heading up to my room.

  “Honey …” she says, and I know from the tone in her voice that something is wrong.

  And I know what that something is even before I hear his voice.

  “Where the heck were you?” Dad grumbles.

  My gut drops to my feet.

  It’s Saturday. Which means Dad is home from work. I’d forgotten. Or at least I’d wanted to forget. I’d wanted to just block him out of my mind altogether.

  Maybe I should have been more insistent about staying at Deshaun’s.

  “Out,” I say.

  Dad stomps into the entryway. His footsteps actually make the pictures rattle in their frames. Great. He’s already in a bad mood.

  “Don’t you talk to me like that,” he growls.

  I stare up at him. He’s gruff and covered in facial hair and his greasy hair is slicked back. He’s in his forties but he looks older than my grandpa. I don’t know why my mom is still married to him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I say. I do my best to pitch my voice to sound sincere. I don’t want to get into a screaming match with him right now. I have way too much other stuff on my mind.

  “I’ll show you sorry,” he says. He looks me up and down. “Go wash up and be back down in ten for dinner. You look terrible.”

  I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying that he looks worse than I do. I turn and head up the steps.

  Dad watches me as I go. Then he calls out when I’m halfway there.

  “Maybe I’ll have you clean out the snake tanks later.”

  My gut twists in anger. He knows I hate his snakes. He knows I can’t stand looking at them and really can’t stand living with them. Even if they are all locked up in the basement.

  “They’re your snakes,” I mutter beneath my breath.

  “What did you say?” Dad yells.

  I stop and turn. My chest is a mix of heat and acid, anger and fear. I hate him. So much. And I hate that no matter how much I hate him, it doesn’t change a thing. He’s still here. I’m still stuck with him.

  All it does is make it worse for me.

  I should just shut up and not talk. I should apologize and head up the stairs and wash up and maybe if I’m lucky we’ll pretend this never happened.

  He thunders up the steps so fast I don’t even have time to turn and face him. All I feel is his hand on the back of my neck as he grabs me. Then I’m weightless, just for a moment, before he drops me hard. I land on my feet, but I’m shaking.

  “Don’t you ever!” he yells, his breath reeking. “Don’t you ever speak back to me!”

  I hear my mom saying something below us. Dad pulls away.

  “Get to your room,” he commands. “And stay there. No dinner for you. Not until you learn how to speak to your elders.”

  He stomps back down the steps, pounding his fist against the wall as he goes. I don’t look back. I don’t wait on the steps either. Instead, I run up to my room as he storms down to the basement.

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear the moment he opens the basement door, I hear them hissing.

  And I swear they’re hissing for me.

  By dinnertime, I still haven’t heard from April. That worries me, and it also hurts. She doesn’t have a reason to be angry at me. I mean, would she believe me if I said I saw a zombie walrus walking around my bedroom? She’d think I’d eaten too much candy.

  Pride keeps me from texting her. But it doesn’t mean I feel good about it.

  Tomorrow, if she still hasn’t said anything, I’ll apologize. I hate having her mad at me.

  I’ve spent most of the day hanging out at home with my brothers, playing video games and watching my phone. After dinner, I try watching a movie to get my mind off of things. It doesn’t work.

  So I do what I usually do when I’m stressed out, which happens more than it should and is why I get headaches sometimes.

  I take a bubble bath.

  Cheesy, maybe, but I don’t really care. It helps. Mom buys the really nice bubble bath soap, so it smells good too. And we’ve got a really big tub.

  When the tub is full of hot water and the bubbles tower at least a foot over the rim, I hop in, trying not to yelp at how hot
it is.

  I close my eyes and sink down into the bath. I tune out the thud of footsteps as my brothers run around the house, chasing each other in a last-ditch effort to avoid bed. They’re almost all younger than me, and they’ve definitely eaten every single piece of candy they got yesterday. If anyone gets any sleep tonight, I’ll be amazed. I guess we just have to wait for the sugar crash.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll head over to April’s with donuts as my way of apologizing. Maybe she’ll come around and realize she was worked up over nothing.

  My thoughts drift.

  I didn’t expect to run into Kyle and Deshaun today. I’d barely seen Deshaun before, and had never seen Kyle. Now we were running into each other at the park. Weird.

  Did they go to the graveyard after I left? Did they learn that the unburied grave was no longer there? That something truly strange was going on? Probably not. They looked so happy, playing catch, like nothing was wrong. Like we hadn’t all met in a graveyard last night and been spooked half to death.

  The bath warms through my veins, makes my thoughts heavy and sluggish. I let myself drift …

  Something brushes my leg.

  I jolt. My eyes open.

  Is it my imagination, or did the bubbles move?

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I whisper to myself. I try to relax. The water is lukewarm. Huh. How did it already get so cool? Maybe I fell asleep?

  I sidle back down into the bubbles. Close my eyes.

  And something cold and rough rubs against my leg.

  I jerk. Water splashes over the side of the tub and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. What was that? It almost felt like there was something in the tub.

  “It’s just your imagination,” I tell myself.

  But just as I’m about to sink back into the tub for the third time

  the bubbles

  move.

  Fear freezes me as I understand.

  I am not alone in the tub.

  Something is there.

  At my feet.

  Something is there and I can’t move and as I open my mouth to call out for help

  it emerges.

  Slicing up through the bubbles.