The Fear Zone

by K. R. Alexander

  “How’s it going?” I ask when he finally sits down.

  “Um, okay,” he replies.

  For a very awkward moment we just sit there, staring at the counter.

  “Were you, um, going to get something?” I ask.

  He practically jumps in his seat when I talk, like I’ve surprised him, or he was zoned out and somewhere else entirely.

  “Oh yeah,” he says distractedly. He heads over to the counter and waits in line to order.

  I try not to look at him. He seems about as stressed and tired as I am. Maybe he’s having nightmares as well. Should I ask him? I mean, I barely know the guy. That seems weird, right? The waiter comes over and sets down my hot cocoa and sandwich, and I thank him distractedly. Kyle just looks so … lost.

  I’m so busy not-looking at him that I only see the movement outside the window from the corner of my eye.

  A gray fin, just beyond the roof of a car.

  I glance over. But no, it’s just someone wearing a gray beanie. It’s not even pointy. What in the world is wrong with me?

  “You okay?” Kyle asks. He sits down with a to-go coffee. Black. He must really not be sleeping well.

  “Yeah. Just, um, thought I saw something.”

  He nods and sips his coffee and I take my cocoa but I don’t eat my sandwich. Even though my stomach is grumbling, it feels weird to eat in front of him, and I know it’s stupid, but I can’t force it away. He looks hungry. And very, very tired.

  “How’ve you been sleeping?” he asks.

  I half choke on the cocoa. Hot. Too hot. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Kyle doesn’t laugh, though. He barely even seems to be in the same room as me.

  “Okay,” I lie.

  “Good,” he replies. “Good. Me too. Yeah. Just fine.”

  He looks away again.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just fine,” he repeats. He pushes himself up to standing. “I gotta run, though.”

  “Yeah.” He starts heading to the door. “Hey,” I call out. He pauses.

  “What?”

  “Can I get your number?”

  I don’t know what makes me ask, but with April mad at me and these weird nightmares, I don’t know … I guess I feel like I should stay in touch with those of us who were in the graveyard Friday night. Well, everyone except for Caroline.

  Kyle actually blushes.

  “Sure,” he says, and steps over to type it in my phone.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Oh, um, hey. Do you want this?”

  I hold out half of my panini.

  “Oh no, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m not going to eat it and I feel bad trashing it.”

  He looks at the sandwich. I swear I hear his stomach rumble. I pretend not to hear it.

  “I guess … if you insist.”

  “I do.” This is easily the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had, but I hand over the panini and he takes a bite. And smiles.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “Of course. Catch you later.”

  He nods and heads toward the door.

  Despite everything, when I watch him walk away, I realize I am smiling too.

  I shouldn’t have given Andres my number.

  I shouldn’t be talking to anyone right now.

  I feel like I’m losing my mind, and the fewer people I talk to, the fewer chances anyone has of finding out about it.

  I don’t really know where I’m going. I’d hoped to spend the afternoon at the café, maybe reading, maybe just staring out the window, but with Andres there, there’s no way I can just hang. I’d say something. He’d ask something. And then he’d learn that I’ve been hallucinating things and, I don’t know, never want to talk to me again.

  A part of me wants to text Deshaun, but I can’t risk that either. He knows me too well.

  “Stupid,” I hiss to myself, when my phone buzzes. Andres. Just sending me his number.

  I shouldn’t have asked him how he was sleeping. I’m too tired. I need to, I don’t know, go take a nap somewhere. Somewhere I won’t find anyone. Not Andres. Not Deshaun. Especially not my dad.

  I don’t even realize where I’m heading until my feet crunch on the dry leaves.

  I halt. My blood goes cold.

  Somehow, without even thinking about it, I’ve ended up at the graveyard.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Clouds have somehow covered the sky, making everything cold and gray. From here, I can’t see anyone else amid the graves. Just me. Why did I come here? Of all places, why here?

  “What are you doing here?”

  I nearly jump out of my skin.

  It’s April.

  I try to gather my wits, but it’s hard. My brain is barely functioning right now.

  “I could ask you the same,” I reply. Smooth.

  She shrugs. Not like she’s brushing off the statement, but like she’s uncomfortable. Like she doesn’t want to be here either.

  “I don’t know,” she finally admits. “I just … showed up, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply.

  “And you never answered.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. It’s already gone cold. I finished the panini a block ago.

  “Same, I guess. Just didn’t want to be home.”

  “Same.”

  We stand there in silence for a few moments. No one drives past on the road behind us. No one drives through the cemetery. It honestly feels like she and I are the only ones in the whole world right now.

  It honestly feels like the whole world has ceased to exist.

  Just the graveyard, pulling us forward for reasons I can’t explain.

  I look over to her. Really look. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her tan skin is pale. She looks like she has a cold. Just like me. Just like Andres. Just like Deshaun.

  What in the world is going on?

  “Why did you come out Friday night?” she asks. “You didn’t get a note, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “No. I guess I just wanted to make sure Deshaun was okay. He’s … not having the best time with high school. Figured if kids were pulling a prank on him, I wanted to have his back, you know?”

  She nods, but doesn’t take her eyes off the graves.

  “You didn’t need to be a part of this,” she whispers to herself.

  “What?”

  “Oh, um …” She shakes her head and looks at me.

  My phone buzzes. Andres again. Asking if I want to grab coffee after school tomorrow.

  April glances over at my phone.

  “You have his number?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I shove my phone back in my pocket. My fingers brush against a piece of paper. Probably my receipt from the café. “Ran into him a little bit ago. Why?”

  The way she looks makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Seems like something.”

  “It’s nothing. We just aren’t talking right now, okay?”

  “Does it have to do with the graveyard?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask it.

  “Have you been having nightmares?” she demands, her voice unusually shrill.

  “No,” I say immediately. “Why?”

  The look she gives me makes me wish I hadn’t lied. She looks like she’s lost in the middle of the sea.

  “It’s nothing,” she says once more. She burrows deeper in her coat. “I’m going home. Too cold. Enjoy the tombstones.”

  I watch her go.

  I should call out to her. Tell her I was lying about not having nightmares. Tell her that I didn’t just come to the graveyard because of Deshaun. That I felt a pull. That I knew it was where I was supposed to be.

  I don’t say a thing.

  I clench my phone. It buzzes again. Andres.

  Then there’s another sensation. Something moving across my knuckles. Something is in
my pocket, and that something is alive!

  I yelp.

  Yank out my hand.

  And out coils a snake.

  Long and thin and banded with green, like a great, cold spaghetti noodle. It drops to the ground and I leap back. I swear it raises its head and looks at me. Like it knows I’m afraid. Like it knows it doesn’t belong.

  Then it sinuously slides into the grass, leaving behind something that at first I think must be the receipt from the café.

  Only it’s not.

  It’s a note.

  Written on the same orange paper as the one Deshaun received. And I know it wasn’t in my pocket this morning.

  I stare at it for a long while.

  And once I’m certain that the snake is long gone, I bend over and pick up the note with trembling hands.

  Written on the other side in black paint are the words:

  Freddy and Mom must still be out running errands or something, because the house is completely empty when I get there. Completely empty, and completely cold.

  I know my mom keeps the heat low during the autumn months because she doesn’t want to rack up the electricity bills, but this feels colder than usual. Colder than outside. The moment I walk into the house, I feel like I’m stepping into a refrigerator.

  A very dark, very quiet refrigerator.

  Suddenly, I think that maybe coming back home was a mistake. Even if staying out in the graveyard with Kyle was frustrating, at least there I had someone else to keep me safe. Maybe I should call Andres …

  “Get ahold of yourself,” I whisper. “It’s the middle of the day and you are not calling Andres because you’re scared of your own house.”

  Admittedly, saying that out loud makes me feel a little better. Not much, but a little. I may not know what’s going on, but I’m not going to let it make me scared of my own home. Just as I’m not going to let myself become so scared and weak that I call Andres to keep me company. I’m still angry with him, and I’m not going to stop until he apologizes. Or says that he truly believes me.

  I go into the kitchen and grab a glass of orange juice when I hear it.

  A squeak.

  A footstep.

  Right above my head. Which means …

  It’s coming

  from

  my

  room.

  I freeze.

  Strain my ears.

  Maybe I was just hearing things. Maybe it was just the house creaking. It’s an old house. Old houses do that sometimes.

  I drop the glass. It falls to the counter and shatters, spilling orange juice all over.

  What do I do?

  I reach for my phone. Should I call Mom? Should I call Andres? The cops?

  There is someone in my house.

  In my room!

  “April?”

  My fear drops in a moment. I know that voice.

  “Freddy?” I call out.

  What is Freddy doing home without Mom? And what is he doing in my room?

  I look at the spilled orange juice and broken glass. I should clean it up before Mom comes down or Freddy gets hurt. Then Freddy calls out again.

  “April, where are you?”

  “Down here, buddy!” I call out.

  “April?”

  He sounds scared. Maybe he hurt himself playing?

  “Coming, buddy!” I say.

  I run up the stairs, partially wondering where Mom is and partially wondering what has Freddy so scared. When I reach my room, those thoughts drop from my mind.

  Freddy isn’t in here.

  “Freddy?” I call out.

  I stand in my doorway and look around. At my unmade bed. At the pile of blankets Andres slept in the other night. At the closed closet door.

  Wait.

  I thought I’d opened that before leaving. Just to make sure there wasn’t anything lingering inside. Just because, in the light of day, it didn’t seem as scary. Now I stare at the door and fear hammers in my chest.

  It could be hiding anything.

  “Freddy?” I ask again, much quieter this time.

  No answer.

  Suddenly, I’m reminded of just how quiet the house is. Just how cold. Shivers race over my skin.

  I step toward the closet.

  Reach out a hand.

  “Freddy?” I whisper. My voice squeaks.

  I grab the doorknob and twist. My heart thuds so loudly I don’t even hear it squeak open.

  What I see makes my heart stop.

  The closet is empty.

  No clown.

  No Freddy.

  No one at all.

  No one. Just a tiny tin box sitting open on the floor, a scrap of paper inside with two bold words written on it.

  My room looks like some sort of supernatural battlefield, but not one part of me thinks it’s going to keep the ghost away.

  I went to the library as soon as it opened and spent hours looking through books, trying to find something—anything—that could help me. But most of the books on magic were recent and only had stupid love spells and charms that were so cheesy there was no way they would actually work. I needed something serious. Something tried and tested. These were definitely just fluff.

  The movies and stories all lied. In stories, the haunted kid always finds the answers he needs in the library. That’s where all the answers in the world are, right? So what does it mean that I couldn’t find anything? What was I supposed to do? Try to find something online? Please. I’d have better luck finding something serious in a book on “easy charms for the serious homemaker.”

  Instead, I turned to my other books. The fantasies and supernatural thrillers. They, at least, provided some sort of insight into how to fend off ghosts.

  Now, with darkness closing in, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.

  I stand at the edge of my room and survey my work.

  The circle of salt clearly didn’t work, so I ran to a local touristy shop and grabbed a bunch of cheap quartz crystal pieces. They ring my bed, along with a line of Himalayan pink salt that was double the price of normal table salt and better be worth it. I also have little note cards scribbled with runes and magical symbols, as well as protective images from everything I could think of. Crosses and Stars of David and pentacles and hamsas. There are votive candles to saints and angels at the four corners of my room. More crystals and salt lining the base of my windows and doors. Pages and pages of mantras and protective charms for me to recite (because okay, yes, I did print some stuff from online). A Bible under my pillow. A wooden stake on top of my headboard. Even some holy water in a small dish on my nightstand, which I grabbed from the oldest church in town I could find. (I wanted to ask the priest if he knew how to fight off ghosts, but, again, I’ve seen the movies—adults never trust kids when they say they’re fighting evil.)

  And yet, even with everything I can think of protecting me, it doesn’t seem like enough.

  I want to invite Kyle over. But even though I’ve reached out a few times, he said he was busy, and besides, tonight is a school night, and even though my parents love him, there’s no way they’d let him stay over when I have school the next morning.

  That, and I have no doubt that he would laugh at me. Even I think this looks ridiculous, and I’m depending on it to save my life.

  I hear my parents call out that it’s dinnertime.

  I give my room one last look and close the door, locking it behind me with a skeleton key.

  I don’t know what I dread more—heading to dinner or going to bed after. I’ve tried to avoid home all day, but there’s no more putting it off. I know that my dad will be home. And I know that it won’t be a happy dinner. Just like the rest of them.

  Mom is leaning against the kitchen counter when I get in, a glass of wine in hand, and she stares nervously at the man sitting at our dining room table. I know that look. He’s been drinking all day.

  Dad barely looks up from his pasta when I come in. I see he’s taken most of the garlic bread as well.
There are three bottles of beer on the table beside his heaping plate, and only one of them is full. Even that is only half.

  Mom nods to the meal with a nervous smile. The table is set with spaghetti and sauce, garlic bread, and bagged salad. An attempt at a wholesome family meal. My mind races. I’m in no mood to pretend to be a family tonight.

  I load up my plate silently. She sits down and starts doing the same.

  I don’t sit down.

  “I have a lot of homework to do,” I lie. “I think I’ll eat in my room and work—”

  “You sit down!” Dad roars. He slams his fist on the table, making plates and silverware shake. Then he stares straight at me, his eyes narrowed and angry. Like always. “Your mother made you a meal, and you will not disrespect her by leaving.”

  My mouth goes sour. I want to throw a chair at him, to tell him that he is no person to speak about respect. I don’t give in to my anger, though. I don’t throw a chair or yell back. I swallow all of my pride and look to my mom, who stares at me with apologies and fear laced through her expression. I know she’s torn. Just as I know she’ll never speak out against my father. She’s too afraid.

  The entire room is still. Tense. Waiting for me to decide what to do.

  I sit down at the table across from my father.

  The tension cuts. I practically hear my mom sigh. But it’s not like we suddenly become a happy family—Dad goes back to eating his pasta silently, barely looking at me, but when he does, it’s with venom in his eyes.

  And then I hear it.

  At first, I think it’s the sink running.

  A low, slinking hiss.

  It takes a moment for me to realize the rest of the world has gone silent.

  I glance up.

  Mom is paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. Not blinking. Not moving. Staring at Dad, who also doesn’t move a muscle.

  What in the world?

  The hissing grows louder, and I realize it’s coming not from the faucet, but from Dad. He hunches over his plate, his eyes looking down at the half-eaten pasta, his fork twined with noodles. His mouth is slightly open.

  And that’s where the hissing comes from.

  “Dad?” I whisper. “What—?”

  Something moves in his mouth.