Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection): Eighteen suspenseful short stories

by Susan May

  Yes, that’s exactly what he would do. He would actually stand up for himself.

  The grate was heavy; he struggled to lift the leg still holding the small torn slip. With the chill of the wind, the metal felt hard and slippery, but he was determined. Several attempts later and he’d raised the grate just enough to work the paper under the leg again. He shoved it beneath, holding it there with one hand, while he dropped the leg back down. When he pulled his hands away, his palms were black with soot.

  Henry turned once more toward the double doors. After checking a few more rooms, he would then continue his search outside.

  His thoughts turned to the strange picture of his family. The looks on their faces made him momentarily sad. He didn’t like that feeling. In his mind he changed the image and turned their sad mouths into happy smiles. That’s better, he thought.

  With the new picture in his mind’s eye, he imagined a message sent by his family written under the photos.

  Dear Henry,

  Mother forgives you for falling asleep and missing dinner. Clarissa and Parker forgive you for crying and not hiding very well. Father doesn’t mind you squirm too much on his lap—you can sit there as long as you like.

  We are looking for you, and when we find you, we will give you a gigantic hug. (He imagined his mother ruffling his hair, kissing his ear, and whispering she loved him very much. Later, she’d give him the dessert she’d saved—apple pie and ice cream, his favorite.)

  Clarissa and Parker want you to know you are the best little brother they could ever have, and they are sorry for calling you a crybaby.

  You are a very, smart boy, and we all love you very much.

  Love your family

  Henry smiled at his make-believe letter. He stood a little taller, his heart a little fuller, as he passed through the doors into the foyer. Yes, he was a clever boy.

  This was a very good day indeed, because he’d learned he didn’t need to be scared of the crybaby boogeyman or Clarissa and Parker. Not only was he smart, he was, also, a very brave boy. Until today, he didn’t know that.

  No sooner had that thought entered his head, than the wind magically and suddenly died down. The leaves settled back on the floor as if under command, creating a crisp brown and yellow carpet. In the moonlight, it was really quite pretty, and they made a delightful crunch under his feet as he walked through them.

  Henry skipped up the hall as a delicious notion alighted upon him, leaving him so excited his heart jumped with joy. He knew exactly what he would do next, and he’d have the best fun doing it.

  He would turn the search for his family into a game of hide-and-seek. For all he knew they were already playing; they just hadn’t told him. Clarissa and Parker had never allowed him to be the seeker; always, he was the hider.

  This time he’d change the rules. When he found his family, he wouldn’t call Clarissa and Parker names like they called him. He’d just be happy and exclaim what wonderful hiders they were.

  What fun. What delightful fun. Finally it was his turn.

  Henry cupped his hands around his mouth.

  Then he shouted as loud as he could.

  “Ready or not. Heeere I cuuum—”

  © 2013 Susan May

  From the Imagination Vault

  “Hide-and-Seek” began simply as an image of a small, frightened boy hiding in a cupboard. Decades ago, when I studied creative writing, the first story I ever wrote was a ghost story. That story disappeared among the many house moves, and I hadn’t written one since.

  I do love a creepy ghost story, but the ghost stories I enjoy are not of ghosts rattling chains and slamming doors in an attempt to scare the bejesus out of the living. The most fascinating stories for me are of souls who don’t recognize their circumstance and who are seeking answers, just as we search for answers from the beyond.

  Poor innocent Henry suffered so with the bullying and then accidentally dying, and that is a sad ending isn’t it? What I love about Henry, though, is his indomitable spirit. Even after everything, he turned a bad situation into something positive.

  That seems true of so many ghost stories. They force the protagonist and the reader to face the good and bad of human nature, and the circumstances and consequences of that nature. In the end, as much as Henry lost his life, to his mind he won. He got to be the seeker, and for him that was a great reward.

  Life and death is all in how you look at it, isn’t it?

  Harassment Day

  Edwin thought he was spending another lovely afternoon with his daughter and granddaughter. But dammit, they had followed him onto the train and they even had the audacity to get off at her station. Now they were on the platform. What could he possibly do to be rid of them?

  Edwin spotted them the moment he stepped off the train. Damn it. They’d followed him.

  How? He’d been so careful.

  They’d been waiting, watching for him at his station. The stupid buggers jumped on, thinking he hadn’t seen them. When the doors slid shut, though, he’d leapt from the carriage. They’d peered at him wide-eyed, staring out the window of the moving train as he waved a satisfied goodbye. He’d caught the next train, and thought he was alone.

  Here they were, bold as brass, strutting toward him as if they had every right to be here. What were they planning this time?

  He wasn’t in the mood today for their childish games. Cassie and his darling granddaughter were meeting him, and he didn’t want their day spoiled.

  Cassie didn’t like them either. She’d often said, “Dad, I’m worried. What if they chase you? At your age, you might hurt yourself.”

  “I’m all right, love,” Edwin replied. “It’s my street. I’m not leaving because of them. It’s just bad luck they arrived after your mother died—they wouldn’t have stood a chance with her.”

  He’d chuckled at the image of his missus, broom in hand, hounding them. That would have put paid to their games. After he caught one in his bedroom, he’d taken to sleeping with a baseball bat. Today he carried nothing.

  Cheeky as sin they were now, on the platform, seemingly confident he was defenseless.

  Oh, there’s the reason. The cunning big one was here. Edwin had seen him before, giving orders to the others. It must be his size, ’cause he sure looks dopey.

  Now they were jeering him. Pointing. Mimicking the limp he’d developed after the operation. Their intent was clear. They would harass him, here, in front of Cassie. Ruin his visit. That’s when he snapped.

  Enough was enough. Instinct kicked in.

  Edwin headed right for them. He took off at the fastest pace he could muster, his bad leg wobbling each time he swung it forward. He waved his arms above his head and screamed at them, his face contorting with each shriek.

  They didn’t run. Instead, they jumped up and down, patting each other’s backs and laughing.

  Laughing!

  Then the worst that could happen, happened: Cassie stepped onto the platform. Her face morphed from a smile into a grimace.

  “Dad,” she called. “Stop! You’ll fall.”

  Then she was by his side, grasping his arm and leading him away.

  Edwin glanced over his shoulder to see them waving goodbye. The big one gestured with his spear. They were only two feet tall but, by God, they were ugly devils, with their dirty animal furs and oversized, hairy feet.

  “Did you take your medicine today?” Cassie asked, her eyes reddening.

  “Medicine won’t get rid of them. Did you see them, Cassie? They’re following me everywhere now.”

  “No Dad, not today. The doctor said there’ll be good days and bad.”

  “Well, today is a bloody bad one—thanks to them.”

  Edwin turned to give them a rude sign. They were gone.

  © 2012 Susan May

  From the Imagination Vault

  Harassment Day was written for a five-hundred-word flash-fiction competition. The story needed to begin with the first line: “Edwin spotted them th
e moment he stepped off the train.”

  It is still one of the most difficult stories I’ve ever written. I must have edited it twenty times or more to get the word count down. How do you create a character, a story arc with a twist, in so few words? A lot of work. That’s how.

  Years later, I edited it with the help of my editor. It’s now snuck up to five hundred and eight words, but I can’t bring myself to cut anymore.

  I’ve always liked this story. It’s very near and dear to my heart because, believe it or not, it’s actually true. That in itself is a great story that is longer than the actual story I wrote. Read on …

  Back in the early eighties, we had a gardener named Jack, recommended to us by a friend. He charged a dollar an hour. Yep, one dollar! The going rate at the time was ten dollars an hour.

  He was in his seventies, stocky, and strong as an ox; he’d been a farmer until his retirement ten years before. He would push his lawnmower almost a mile and half to get to us, also carrying his rake and shears. Coincidentally, he’d lived for many years, and still did at the time, in the same street as my grandparents—who had died years before I met him—and so he knew them. He always said my nana, Dot, gave my lovely, sweet grandpa hell—the women in our family always vocal with our opinions.

  The funny thing was we thought we were getting a bargain at a dollar an hour, until we discovered it took him two days to mow the lawn and clean up the garden. He took a two-hour lunch break. In the end, we paid the same as we would any other gardener.

  One day I was under the house using the washing machine, and Jack came by and said to me:

  “Oh no, you’ve got them, too.”

  “Got what, Jack?”

  “Those cursed little people.”

  “Where?” I said, looking around.

  “Standing right next to you,” he said, pointing beside me.

  I held out my hand to the side at waist height and said, “Here?”

  “No,” he said. “Lower, to your knees. There’re a couple of them there. The buggers must have followed me.”

  It was all I could do not to laugh. The serious look on his face told me he wasn’t joking. Then he proceeded to share the most amazing stories about these little people.

  Apparently, they’d started appearing five years before; they wouldn’t leave him alone. They dressed in fur skins, stood about two feet high with wild hair, and would laugh and jeer at him constantly. To me, his description made them sound exactly like trolls.

  The males were the main harassers, but the female ones—whom, he said, were incredibly ugly—used to sing terrible songs that drove him nuts. Their diet consisted of potatoes they roasted on sticks around a fire.

  Sometimes at night he would be awoken by loud noises in the ceiling. When he climbed up one time to investigate, he said he found a printing press in his roof cavity. They were printing pornography, which they then sold to pay for their food. How did they get the pornography to wherever it was to be sold? In trucks, in the middle of the night—with modified pedals to suit their height.

  The poor man had taken to sleeping with a baseball bat under the bed, so if they annoyed him too much he could give one of them a whack on the head, and they would scatter. One ugly, female troll would sit on his bedroom window ledge and constantly wake him at night, until finally he caught her with the bat. After that she left him alone.

  He told me he’d even contacted the police and asked them to remove them. The police had come out to investigate, but the terrible things had hidden themselves. He’d even written to his local politician to ask if they could possibly pass a law banning them. Someone must own them, he commented. Whoever did should surely require a license or be made to remove them.

  It was quite extraordinary to talk to him. For every question I asked, he would without hesitation have an answer. He was so convincing. I could have talked to him for hours, and I’m sure he would have shared even more endless stories.

  I spoke to a psychologist friend about Jack and his little people. He was so lucid in his tales I did start to wonder if I really did have little people running around my house and if I didn’t need to bring in the pest control. Sadly, she informed me seeing things like this is very common in early dementia.

  It’s a funny story, but it’s also very sad. Jack was a wonderful old soul and a fantastic gardener, and he could certainly tell a tale. He has surely passed on by now, and I hope he’s found peace far away from his tormentors.

  In my final conversation with him about the little people, I asked him if his wife ever saw them, and what she thought.

  His simple answer: “No, she hasn’t. She thinks I’m mad.”

  The Monster Rules

  Bailey had survived his eleven years blissfully unaware there really are creatures just itching to steal him away. When his best friend shares the Monster Rules, Bailey learns how he can stay safe. Until one hot summer night, he’s awoken by strange, scratching noises. Lucky he knows the Monster Rules.

  Dedication

  For my son Bailey, who is braver than anyone I know and more determined.

  Serious Warning

  This story is a children’s story and contains a set of rules. If this story has fallen into your hands and you’re a child or an adult who is scared of the dark, be warned. Once you learn the monster rules, you may never again enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep. This author was in her late twenties before she dared to break all the rules. Even now, decades later, she is still cautious, especially on windy, dark nights—perfect monster weather.

  Bailey had always believed his parents loved him, his home was safe, and the worst thing in his life was having a smelly, younger brother who teased him constantly about his ears and his love of the Disney channel.

  The first time Bailey heard the words “Monster Rules,” the one emotion he felt, even more than fear, was confusion. After Caleb explained everything in a whispered, solemn tone, Bailey was left with only one thought: Parents are liars.

  Unsettling, too, was the story of Caleb’s cousin, eight-year-old Ben Stirling, who had disappeared from his home on a Thursday night. Caleb was unclear on the details, but there was one thing of which he was absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain: Ben Stirling had vanished from his bed as if sucked into a black hole.

  The culprit was a monster.

  “I wouldn’t believe me either,” Caleb told Bailey. “Except I heard them talking about it, and when my brother told me about the monster rules… well, I put two and two together.”

  “Who was talking about it? Your brother?” asked Bailey.

  “No, my mom and auntie—a few weeks after Ben disappeared.” A tremor entered Caleb’s voice. “First off, my parents have never told me the truth about Ben. They told me nobody knew where he disappeared to, and then later that he’d gone to live with God. That day, I heard my mom clear as anything. She said—”

  Caleb leaned in close to Bailey, cupped his hands around his mouth, and whispered, “Ben was taken … by a monster.”

  Bailey stared at Caleb, and felt a chill run through him. That was just the beginning. Caleb continued on for the next forty minutes sharing the “monster rules.” Bailey’s eyes grew wider as he listened, for nobody had ever told him these facts. Not his parents, not the teachers, not a single adult who supposedly cared about him.

  Instead, they’d all assured him the world was a wonderful, safe place, and all you needed to survive was to look left and right when crossing the road, to always ignore strangers, and to never run with scissors.

  What about these dangers he faced every single night? Dangers of which, until Caleb, he’d been blissfully unaware?

  Bailey had been terribly betrayed by adults. For no one had bothered to teach him how to prevent an attack by the hideous, terrifying, unknown monsters that stalked children at night in the one place they were meant to feel safest: their own bedrooms.

  Caleb was small for a ten-year-old. He blamed it on his aversion to milk, broccoli, and any food in th
e orange color range. He was big on theatrics and collecting fascinating knowledge. Like the name of the world’s tallest man—Sultan Kösen, eight-foot-three—and the largest bubble-gum bubble ever blown—twenty inches. If he wasn’t the first person to put up his hand when the teacher asked a question, he was certainly the second.

  His hair had a funny way of sitting on his head, as if each morning his mother would take a big pot of glue and stick it down. He told everybody who’d listen the mole on his chin covered a tracking chip his father had had inserted to ensure he would never get lost. Bailey laughed at the story like everyone else, but he did wonder occasionally if it was true, and if there was a risk the same thing could happen to him.

  As Caleb went over the rules, he waved his hands with a flourish, like a magician performing a trick. The two boys were huddled beneath the school library stairwell, where the shadows and a thread of breeze provided relief from the midday summer heat. Bailey listened with hesitant amusement that gradually turned to dread as his best friend shared the frightening rules, which would soon take over his life.

  “I learned these from my brother, who learned them from his friend, who learned them from his brother, who learned them from… oh, I can’t remember. One thing I’ll tell you since I learned them—”

  Bailey interrupted. “How do you know they work?” It all seemed very Scooby-Doo to him.