Creep Street

by John Marsden

She does stop but she doesn’t turn round. Just stands there. But you’re the kind of person who doesn’t give up easily. You run down the driveway and face up to her again.

  ‘What is going on?’ you beg her. ‘What is the problem? Is there something strange about this house? I’ve got to know.’

  She looks at you for about ten minutes. Well, that’s what it seems like. Then she comes to a decision.

  ‘Follow me,’ she says. She turns and marches off down the driveway. You hesitate, then go after her. She doesn’t even look around. She goes straight to the old sheds. She goes past the old sheds. You just keep right on following her, down the path. When she gets to the back fence you wonder if you’re going to end up in the next suburb. But at the fence she turns and goes left. You’re still following. Then, looking ahead, you see what she’s heading for. Ahead of you both, in the corner of the yard, are three white crosses. You walk up to them. ‘What . . . what are they?’ you ask nervously.

  ‘They’re graves,’ she says.

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ you say. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t have worked that out for myself. Graves, eh? Well, well, well. White crosses in the ground with names on them and now you tell me they’re graves. Gee, I could have sworn they were peanut M&Ms.’

  She gives you a cold stare, straight from the South Pole. ‘I don’t like sarcasm,’ she says. And walks away. Again.

  ou leap back a step and grab the cross. It’s heavy, and it’s fixed to the floor. ‘Leave that alone!’ Stacey screams. She jumps at you, right at your face, her hands trying to tear your skin off. For the first time you notice her long fingernails, like the claws of a bird. She scratches you: long stinging scratches that burn your face. But the force of her jump has left her off-balance. Desperately you grab at the cross again and, using all the strength you can muster, you rip it out of the floor. You suddenly realise that it was upside down, so you reverse it. Stacey’s turning and coming back at you—and then she sees you holding the cross the right way up.

  ‘AAAAGGHHH!’ she screams, and covers her face with her hands.

  ‘Back!’ you cry, confident now that you have the upper hand.

  She’s cowering on the floor, sweat dripping from every pore of her body. Suddenly, you notice that her skin seems to be changing right in front of you. It’s bubbling and boiling like hot mud. Then it erupts! You realise you’re looking at the worst case of acne you’ve ever seen. This is unbelievable! This is a girl with a problem. She looks like the ‘before’ model in a Clearasil ad. But, worse than that, things are coming out of the boils on her skin. Horrible black crawling things. They look like deformed spiders. The cross might be working with Stacey but it’s not working with the spiders. They’re coming straight at you. Stacey is lying on the floor writhing like she’s inventing a strange new dance. You glance around desperately. To your left there’s a can of Mortein. But you’re not sure if you want to use that. Maybe it wouldn’t be too good for the environment. And, anyway, it would take a while to work. Maybe you should just use your Doc Martens and stamp all over the horrible little critters.

  ou open the door of the car and climb gingerly in. It’s quiet in there, quiet and warm, and the seats are surprisingly soft. The door seems to close by itself. You feel a little nervous and look through the window for Stacey but you can’t see her. Still, this car’s so comfortable that you’re not too bothered about Stacey. It’s like you can’t be bothered about anything really. You feel quite sleepy. It’s strange, because a few moments ago you were so full of energy. You lie back on the soft leather seat and close your eyes. Gee, it’s nice. It’s tempting to go to sleep. But something in you struggles to stay awake. It’s like you have a sixth sense, and it’s warning you of danger. Danger? What danger could there possibly be in this beautiful car?

  uick, Mum,’ you yell. You grab her by the arm and drag her with you. ‘Quick, run!’

  She stumbles along with you. You haven’t had time to look around, but you seem to be going down the drive of an old castle. It looms above you like a grey mountain peak. You’ve got a good start on Stacey and her mother but, as you come to the first bend in the road, you hear their feet pounding along behind you. They seem to be gaining already. You go around the bend, running as fast as you can, but suddenly you and your mum pull up with a screech of shoe-leather. You stop so fast there’s smoke coming from your soles, and the smell of burning leather. The reason? Standing there on the road, in the middle of the road, right there in front of you, are two huge dogs. They’re as big as small horses. They’re panting with delight at the sight of you, and something tells you they’re not vegetarians. They look like they’ve had teeth transplants from crocodiles. This is big trouble. These two dogs are about to leap at your throats and tear them out. ‘What are we going to do?’ you and your mother scream simultaneously. Then, with the next breath, you both yell: ‘I know!’

  You look at your mother and she looks at you. Whose idea are you going to go with? You’d better make a quick decision!

  ou let Stacey go, and you walk down the driveway to the sheds. The sheds are pretty wrecked too but they’re still twice the size of your previous house. They’re covered in cobwebs: looks like no-one’s been in there for twenty years. You clear away as many of the cobwebs as you can, but it’s not easy. Heaps of them cling to you. But you push the old green door open and squeeze into the room.

  Right away you see a terrifying sight. There’s a human figure standing there, dressed in white lace and staring straight at you. You scream and turn to run. Then you realise you’re looking at a mirror. Those cobwebs sure have stuck to your clothes. They’re trailing behind you like a wedding dress.

  You walk through to the next room. There’s another mirror here, because you see yourself once again standing facing you, and draped in cobwebs. Then you notice something funny. The you that is looking at you seems a bit different. In the dim light you peer harder, trying to work out what it is. Then you realise. The person’s got no skin. No skin and no flesh! Apart from that, no problem. Perfectly normal. Just no skin and no flesh, that’s all. No skin! No flesh! That’s not a mirror you’re looking in! There’s a skeleton right there, dressed in nothing but cobwebs! Oh no! This can’t be happening! This is your worst nightmare, ever! This is worse than your worst nightmare. You’ve never actually had a nightmare this bad!

  It’s hard to move. You feel like you’re Superglued to the floor. You wish you’d asked Stacey to come with you after all. You wish someone would come running to help you. But as you stand there, your heart racing, your legs paralysed, your eyes staring, you realise there’s not much chance of help. Your parents are hard at work in the new house, Stacey could be anywhere in the street by now: it might be all up to you. You’ve never felt so totally alone in your whole life.

  isten,’ you say, ‘don’t take this personally, but I don’t trust you, OK? I think you’re a stupid boring dickhead who wouldn’t know a kangaroo from a kookaburra. But don’t take it personally.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ she says. ‘And look, I don’t want to offend you, but I think you’re a pathetic useless heap of possum poo. But please don’t be offended.’

  Now that you understand each other you decide you’re going to be good friends.

  ‘So what is it about this car?’ you ask.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘this car is haunted.’

  ‘The car is haunted! What are you talking about?’

  ‘It was used in an old Elvis Presley movie.’

  ‘So? That doesn’t mean it’s haunted.’

  ‘Get in,’ she says.

  Reluctantly, wondering if you’re doing the right thing and fairly sure you’re not, you get in the car. Stacey gets in after you.

  ‘I don’t think this is what Mum meant when she said to go and play,’ you say.

  ‘Shhhh,’ she says. ‘You have
to concentrate. Hold my hand and watch the speedo.’

  Watch the speedo! This girl is definitely crazy. But you don’t want to upset her in case she becomes a complete maniac. So you grab her hand and stare straight at the speedo.

  And gradually something strange does start to happen. The car seems to be filling with a pink glow, a soft pink cloud. It starts shaking slightly, and the needle in the speedo is quivering. You hold Stacey’s hand a little tighter. ‘What’s happening?’ you ask, but she doesn’t answer. Now the car is definitely rocking from side to side. You’re getting scared but what can you do? To your shock the little overhead light suddenly comes on but, before you can react, the radio comes on as well. You could swear Stacey didn’t touch it, and you know you didn’t, but it’s definitely working. It’s playing a song, pretty loud . . .

  Are you lonesome tonight,

  Do you miss me tonight . . .?

  As the song plays, you feel that there’s someone else in the car. Someone really big. You peep over your shoulder into the back seat and, to your amazement, there is someone gradually taking shape! He’s tall and fat and he’s dressed in a pink jumpsuit. He’s holding something and, yes, it’s a microphone. And he’s singing into it. The song that you thought was coming from the radio is coming from him! Wow, is this ever weird! And what’s really weird is that this guy looks familiar. Who could he be? Those sideburns, those dark glasses, that deep crooning voice. Could it be . . . is it possible . . . yes it is! It’s HIM!

  You’re weak with fear and excitement, but you know it’s time to make a decision. What are you going to do? Stay in this amazing car, or save your bacon by getting out of there? You look at Stacey but she’s really lost. Her eyes are shut and she’s singing along with ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’. Seems like she’s heavily into Elvis. It doesn’t look like she’ll be much help to you.

  ou start digging. It’s slow work. The days and nights merge, and before long you can’t tell which is which. After six months the spoon’s worn down to a centimetre of rusty metal. You throw it away. From now on you use your hands. At first you get a lot of blisters but gradually your hands toughen up.

  It’s not all bad news though. The worms are really tasty, and occasionally you score an extra treat, like a cricket or a millipede. And at least with the millipedes you get lots of drumsticks.

  Water’s not a problem. There’s so much of it dripping through the walls of your tunnel that you can lick it up as you go.

  You know you’re getting older. You see your skin start to get wrinkly and as the time passes your hair goes grey.

  But you quite enjoy it, in a funny sort of way. There’s something strangely satisfying about it. It’s very quiet down here and very peaceful. You even forget why you’re digging. The memory of the monster fades from your brain. You just keep digging, slowly and patiently.

  You have faith that one day you’ll get somewhere.

  Then comes the moment when you realise you’re about to break through. You dig out another handful of dirt and suddenly see a glint of light in the distance. You dig faster and faster, getting wildly excited as your long quest seems at last to be coming to an end. One more poke with your index finger and the whole wall of dirt falls away. You stick your head through the hole and look eagerly at the view. The bright light hurts your eyes but gradually you get used to it. There’s a lot of water. You seem to be on the edge of a harbour. There’s ferries everywhere. And what’s that in the distance? A big lady holding a torch? Or to be more accurate, a statue of a big lady holding a torch? Oh no. Surely not. No, it can’t be! Just to make sure, you ask a teenager who’s walking past.

  ‘Excuse me,’ you say politely. ‘Could you please tell me what that thing is?’

  ‘Hey?’ he asks. ‘You serious? You must be kidding. Even an old-timer like you knows what that is. That’s the Statue of Liberty.’

  ‘Hmm,’ you think. ‘Wonder if I can sell my story to “60 Minutes”.’

  ou suddenly turn and race down the aisle of the church. As you run towards the front of it you notice something strange. The altar is covered in black, there are black candles, and the cross is upside down. ‘Whoops,’ you think, ‘this is not a healthy place for me to be.’ You swerve and go left, towards a small side door. But, just as you get close to it, someone opens it—from the other side. A man is standing in front of you. He’s dressed in black, with a silver chain around his neck, and a silver emblem hanging from it. He’s tall and two of his teeth seem funny: kind of long and pointy. He smiles at you but it doesn’t seem a friendly smile.

  Behind you Stacey calls out: ‘Quick, Dad, it’s our supper for tonight.’

  ‘What?’ you think. ‘That’s me they’re talking about! I don’t want to be anyone’s supper!’

  You swerve away from the man’s clutching arms and run down the side aisle. You hear the man running after you, and he sounds like he’s pretty close. You see Stacey coming at you from the left, and she’s very close. This is awful. Then you see a rope right in front and, at the same time, you notice one of those little fire alarm windows, with an axe behind the glass, and a sign saying IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS. ‘Gosh,’ you think, ‘I don’t know if I’d get in trouble for breaking the glass when there’s no fire. Maybe I should just shin up the rope.’

  t’s the work of a moment to attach the cable to the lid of the trunk. And the work of two minutes to wind out the winch. Just as you finish, your brother comes wandering down to where you are. ‘What are you doing?’ he wants to know.

  ‘Nothing,’ you say, quickly throwing the lever on the winch forwards. ‘Hey, look at this.’

  You lead him across to a broken-down chest of drawers. It’s essential to get him away from the winch so he can’t see what’s happening. As he examines the drawers you sneak a glance back over your shoulder. Yes, it’s working!

  ‘Oh no, look!’ you suddenly scream. ‘AAAAGHHHH!’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he says. ‘I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ you think, but you don’t say that out loud. Instead you screech, ‘Just look, please, please!’

  Scornfully he turns around and stares into the shadows where you’re pointing. ‘You can’t fool me,’ he starts to say, ‘There’s nothing that can . . .’

  Then he sees the lid of the trunk opening, inch by inch, as the winch slowly winds up.

  ‘. . . AH AH AH . . . the lid . . . AH AH AH . . .’ He’s backing away from you, towards the door of the attic, with one quivering finger aimed at the trunk. His face has gone the colour of cement. His finger’s going like a metronome. The lid is creaking and grinding its way upwards with the best sound effects you’ve heard since the ‘Invasion of the Vacuum Cleaners’ on TV.

  ‘AH AH AH . . .’ that’s your brother going out the attic door backwards.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH . . . CRASH!’ That’s your brother falling down the attic stairs.

  You smile and go down to see if you can help him. No doubt about it, there’s no feeling quite as sweet as revenge!

  uick, Mum,’ you yell, grabbing her arm, ‘let’s make a break for it!’

  You try to drag her down the drive with you, but to your horror you only get three steps before your legs buckle and you’re lying face down on the ground.

  ‘Get up,’ Stacey growls, kicking you in the ribs with her Doc Martens. It’s a very painful kick, and you crawl back up and stagger to your feet.

  ‘Now,’ Stacey says, ‘come with us and don’t try any funny business.’

  You follow her and her mother. You’re limping along, barely able to walk, but you don’t dare fall behind. You find yourself going towards a big old grey castle, built of stone, with a drawbridge across the moat. As you approach the entrance, the air feels colder, a dark cloud comes across the sun, and a musty smell drifts into your nostrils. You and your mum are walking so slowly that you have fallen a bit behind, but the other two don’t seem to mind. Maybe they reali
se you’re too affected by the drug to run far, even if you could make another attempt to get away.

  Stacey and her mother are halfway across the bridge and you’re about to start over it. Then suddenly you notice a little button next to the drawbridge. It’s red and it’s got a sign on it saying DON’T PRESS. Of course you don’t hesitate. You press the button as hard as you can. After all, you figure, you can’t be worse off than you are already. Can you?

  ou turn the TV on and swing the aerial around till you get a picture. An old movie’s showing. You can tell it’s an old movie because when the man kisses the woman they both keep their clothes on. Boy, is that ever an old movie! As you watch more closely you realise what it is. It’s King Kong. And that gives you an idea. By now you’re so desperate to get out of there that any idea seems like a good idea. So, without giving yourself time to get scared, you pick up the TV and carry it to the door.

  You take a deep breath, then, in one move, you fling back the bolt and throw the door open. There’s the monster standing ready for you. He towers over you like a great statue. Only he’s a living statue, living and breathing and hungry.

  Before he can move, you quickly turn the TV around and hold it up where he can see it. He’s lifting his huge right paw, to club you to death before he has you for his daily intake of fibre and iron and vitamin B.

  That hot breath blows over you again, like a blast from a volcano. But, just as he opens his terrible mouth in a ravenous snarl, he catches sight of the TV. His expression changes. For a moment he’s frozen there, his arm raised high. Then his arm falls to his side. He seems entranced by the images on the little screen.

  He sits down on the top step and puts his chin on his hands. Every time King Kong roars in the movie this monster growls back. But it’s a nice growl, a friendly growl. The change in him is amazing. There’s only one possible explanation for this. He’s in love. He’s in love and it’s beautiful. He’s in love and when that movie ends and King Kong vanishes off the screen, you’re going to be very, very unpopular.