by Philip Kerr
Hugh shook his head and laughed. “You can’t fool me,” he said. “I know a baby when I hear one. And I don’t believe anyone would keep a baby in a closet.” He got up and moved toward the door in the paneling. “Look, I’ll prove it to you.”
As he put his hand on the little handle, Lenore said, just a little nervously, “I don’t think I’d open that door if I were you.”
“Why not?” said Hugh. “There’s nothing scary about a baby. For Pete’s sake, what’s wrong with you people?”
“Nothing’s wrong with us,” said Lenore. “We’re not the ones who are crazy enough to believe there’s a baby in that closet.”
“Perhaps I’ve just got better hearing than anyone else,” said Hugh, and threw open the door, to reveal a mop and a vacuum cleaner and, on the floor of the closet, a pile of old blankets.
“If you ask me,” said Vito, “he’s got indigestion. Too many cheese sandwiches.”
Hugh knelt down and, placing his hand on the blankets, he leaned into the closet, which appeared to be empty. For this reason, he was surprised to find that the blankets under his hand were warm, exactly as if someone had been lying on them. There was a baby smell, too. Milk and baby powder and diapers. And then he saw something at the back of the closet.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s movement.”
In spite of all his muscles, Hugh wasn’t a courageous boy. It was the idea of proving the others wrong that made him reach all the way back into the closet.
“There’s a baby in here, all right,” he said firmly, although he still couldn’t actually see a baby. “I’ve got its little hand in mine. I can feel its other little hand, tickling my forearm.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Hugh?” demanded Mr. Rapscallion. “Of course there’s no baby in that closet. You know what? I think this is just a tactic to delay my telling the rest of the scary story, and scare the others.”
“Agreed,” said Vito.
“Except that we’re not scared,” insisted Lenore, although her voice was more than a little scared.
Hugh recognized that it wasn’t normal to keep a baby in a dark closet beside a vacuum cleaner and a mop. He also recognized that the baby wasn’t tickling his arm; it felt more as if the baby was writing on his arm. All of this took just a few seconds, and, slightly unnerved by this last realization, he withdrew his large paw from the back of the closet and stood up again. And that was when he perceived that his forearm was now covered with tiny, neat handwriting. Writing that would have taken any adult—let alone a baby—several minutes to have completed.
The fright of seeing this writing was quite enough to remove Hugh’s desire to remain at the in-store event and, screaming, he ran from the Reading Room, out of the Haunted House of Books and into the street, where he was pursued by his father and several more news reporters keen to buy his exclusive story. Because good news doesn’t sell newspapers.
Hugh hadn’t even read the message written on his arm. But when, several hours later, he did read the message—and, it must be said, this was the first thing Hugh had read in a long, long time—this is what he read:
“Hugh Bicep. You’re a very naughty boy. Greedy, barbarous and cruel. I’ve seen goats who were more civilized than you. With better table manners, too. And if you don’t mend your nasty little ways soon, I’m going to leave this closet and crawl after you and cry underneath your bed at night so that you won’t ever be able to get any sleep. Not ever. Don’t think I won’t, because I will. I’ll lie there crying every night, and drive you mad until you start behaving yourself like a normal boy. What’s worse, only your ears will hear me. And just in case you think you’re suffering from indigestion and that you’ve imagined any of this, you haven’t. Which is why this message, that only you can see, Hugh, will remain on your arm for three whole months, or until your behavior improves, noticeably.”
“Well, I wonder what scared him?” said Mr. Rapscallion.
Lenore snorted. “As if you don’t know, pal,” she said. “Some trick or other. I bet you got someone on the other side of that closet.” She shook her head. “We’re not stupid.”
“Really, I’m as mystified as you are,” confessed Mr. Rapscallion.
“Yeah,” said Vito. “Sure, old man.” Vito put some gum in his mouth and began to chew furiously. He was nervous. He was so nervous he offered a stick to Lenore, who nodded and took it without a word of thanks, which was only typical. “Lenore’s right. It’s a con, like in a carney. What do you think, Billy?”
Billy shrugged. “I think I might be the only one who wants to hear the end of the story,” he said.
“Aw no,” said Lenore Gas. “You don’t get us like that. We’re here. And we’re staying for the end of the story. No one’s gonna cheat me out of winning this game. Not to mention a thousand dollars.”
“That’s right,” said Vito. “So read on, old man. Read on. We can take it.”
Mr. Rapscallion did as he was asked and continued reading the story aloud.
Once again Mr. Rapscallion did his very best to make the story seem more frightening than it was. He read it in his deepest, scariest voice, with full and sinister expression. Indeed, the sound of his voice was almost hypnotic.
So hypnotic did it seem to Lenore Gas that she spent a full minute telling herself that she must only have imagined that the bust above the door had been occupied by a stuffed raven. Because it was no longer there. Nor was there any sign of a raven in the Reading Room.
Another ten minutes passed.
And Lenore closed her eyes for a moment.
And while she nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door that made Lenore get to her feet instinctively, because she was always the first to answer the door in her house. Indeed, it was a source of pride to her that she was always quicker getting to the front door than any of her brothers. And before she had quite registered where she was and what she was doing, Lenore had gotten up out of her seat and opened wide the door of the Reading Room, thinking that one of the boys—Wilson, or Hugh—must have recovered his nerve and returned.
She found only darkness. Nothing more. And, peering into the inky black, she tried to make out what might have tapped upon the door. The silence was unbroken. Not a word was spoken. Although oddly, it seemed to Lenore, Mr. Rapscallion kept on reading and no one else seemed to have noticed either the gentle tapping on the door or, for that matter, Lenore herself answering it.
She closed the door. And went back to her chair. But even as she started to sit down again, she heard a tapping at the windowpane behind the purple curtain. Once again, no one else seemed to have noticed either the gentle tapping on the pane or, for that matter, Lenore herself going to the window, and, pulling aside the curtain, she opened the shutter and then the window to reveal a handsome black raven.
The raven stepped neatly through the window and flapped off over Lenore’s head.
Lenore closed the window and returned to her seat. Had anyone noticed her getting up from her chair? It seemed not. At the same time, she observed that the raven was now sitting back on the bust above the door.
“That’s a good trick,” she said. “I mean, I could have sworn that crow was a stuffed bird.”
Mr. Rapscallion stopped reading and looked over his yellow-tinted glasses at Lenore. Then he looked up at the raven.
“It’s a raven,” he said. “And it is stuffed.”
“No, it’s not,” said Lenore. “It flew in the window, just now. I should know, I just let it in.”
“No one’s opened that window since I’ve been in this room,” said Vito.
“Get outta here,” exclaimed Lenore. She looked questioningly at Billy.
Billy shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “But Vito’s right.”
“I saw your eyes close a few minutes ago,” Vito told Lenore. “If you ask me, you must have nodded off for a moment and dreamed the whole thing.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Lenore, jumping up from her seat. “Whatever you fools are trying to pull here, it isn’t going to work. Ya feel me?” Standing on a footstool, she reached up to touch the raven. “This is a real bird. Has to be. I just saw it fly in here.”
Experimentally, she flicked the bird on the perch with her forefinger and discovered, to her astonishment, that it was indeed stuffed.
And just as she began to wonder what had happened to the raven she was sure she had let into the room at the window, Lenore felt something shift and stir on top of her head. She let out a shriek and reached on top of her head to grab the bird that was now nesting in her hair. Something pecked her hand and then her head hard, and she shrieked again.
“Only you can hear me, Lenore,” said a loud and rasping voice that Lenore was certain had to be that of the raven. “Listen to me, or I’ll peck a hole in the top of your thick skull. And don’t think I can’t. It’s the larger and heavier beak that makes us ravens differ from mere crows. You are a very bad girl, Lenore. Selfish, rude, intolerant and cruel. It’s time that you turned over a new leaf. And if you don’t, I’m going to lay my eggs in your hair and take up permanent residence here in this very comfortable nest of red hair on top of your ugly red head. Which could be for evermore. Quite a while, anyway. You see, we ravens are very long-lived. There are individual ravens in the Tower of London who have lived for as long as forty years. So unless you want to hear my voice for evermore, you’ll mind what I say and improve your behavior.”
Lenore shrieked as once again, the raven in her hair pecked her skull hard for good measure.
This was more than Lenore could bear and, screaming with fright, she ran from the Reading Room, out of the Haunted House of Books and into the street, where she was pursued by her parents and several more news reporters keen to buy her exclusive story. Because good news doesn’t sell newspapers.
“I wonder what scared her?” said Mr. Rapscallion, genuinely mystified. “I don’t think it could have been the story. I mean, I don’t think she was really listening. Do you, Billy?”
“That makes two of us,” said Vito, and yawned. But the yawn did not mean he was relaxed. The truth was, he was feeling anything but relaxed. Given that three kids had already run screaming out of the shop, Vito was finding it hard to feel anything but terror.
“I think it had something to do with that raven,” observed Billy.
“Yes, I think you’re right, Billy,” said Vito. “Although it’s a little hard to believe that anyone could get spooked by that old bird.”
“Especially an old bird that’s stuffed,” said Billy.
Mr. Rapscallion sat up straight for a moment and turned to Elizabeth and Mercedes. “Tell me, ladies,” he said. “Has either of you actually seen or heard anything at all scary tonight?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mercedes.
“Not a dickey bird,” said Elizabeth. “Nor, for that matter, a raven.”
“I suppose it is a bit scary when someone runs screaming from the room,” admitted Mercedes.
“For no apparent reason,” added Elizabeth. “Yes, that is quite scary. But apart from that—” She shook her head.
“Nothing,” said Mercedes.
Billy sensed Vito’s nervousness and gave him an encouraging smile. “Take it easy,” he said kindly. “Don’t be scared.”
“I can take care of myself,” snarled Vito, who had quite misunderstood Billy’s remarks and was judging the other boy according to his own low standards. “Lemme tell ya something, Billy. Don’t think that you can out-psych me here, my friend. I can’t be got, okay? Not by anyone. Least of all by you. Because you don’t look so tough. Matter of fact, you don’t look tough at all. You look like you could use a good meal. You know what? You look weird, too. I mean, where did you get those clothes? From the local thrift shop? I seen homeless people who are better dressed than you, pal.”
“That’s enough of that, please,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Let’s mind our manners and get back to the story, if we can.”
“Why not?” said Vito.
Mr. Rapscallion started to read again, continuing with the story, which was now nearing the end. As before, he did his very best to make the story seem more frightening than it was. He read it in his deepest, scariest voice, with full and sinister expression. Indeed, the sound of his voice was almost hypnotic. Which perhaps it was.
Vito Capone tried to look like he was listening without hearing anything. He figured that was the best way to get through the remainder of the story and win the contest. So that he could prove to his father that he was a tough guy, just like him, and fit to inherit the family crime business.
Biting his lip hard, Vito did his best to ignore the two fish on the sheet of brown paper that lay on the floor where Mr. Rapscallion had placed them. Vito was feeling bad about that, and not just because the sight of the dead fish had evidently upset Mr. Rapscallion. Vito was feeling bad because he was also feeling scared. He was scared because the fish now appeared not to be dead at all. They were jumping in the air and flapping on the paper as if gasping to get back into the tank of water. And yet Vito had been quite sure they were dead when he left the Sicilian message on Mr. Rapscallion’s chair. Could it be that they hadn’t been dead at all? In which case, why didn’t someone else pick them up and put them safely back in the tank before they really did expire, or suffocate, or whatever it was fish did when they were left out of water on a sheet of brown paper? Why did it have to be him that put them back in the tank? And what might happen to him if he did pick them up? Would something scary happen that might make him run screaming from the shop, just like the others?
Vito closed his eyes for a moment and stayed put in his chair. So that when Mr. Rapscallion said “The end” loudly and snapped the storybook shut, Vito almost jumped out of his skin.
“That’s it?” he exclaimed. “You mean I’ve won?”
“Er…not exactly,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Billy is still with us, after all.”
“Hmm.” Vito sneered. “But the so-called scary story is over, right?”
“Yes.”
“So what happens now? Do we fight for the dough?”
“First of all,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Congratulations to you both for hearing the scariest story ever written without being scared witless.”
“You ask me,” said Vito, growing in confidence again, especially now that the two fish had stopped moving, “it wasn’t scary at all.” He sneered again. “I’ve had bigger scares with the feds.”
“I enjoyed it,” admitted Billy.
“You would,” said Vito. “So what happens now, pop?”
“A tiebreaker,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “In the form of an ordeal, so to speak. It’s number nine on the terms and conditions: ‘In the event of a tie, then the remaining contestants will be asked to spend ten minutes proving that they’re really not scared by entering the Haunted Cellar.’ ”
“What’s that?” said Vito.
“It’s our newest little horror,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
With Mercedes and Elizabeth following at a distance, Mr. Rapscallion led the two boys out of the Reading Room and back into the entrance hall. There he opened a door to reveal a set of descending stone steps, and then lit the large candelabra.
“I keep all the antiquarian books down here,” Mr. Rapscallion told Vito.
“Best place for that old junk,” said Vito.
Their footsteps echoed as they went down into the basement.
At the bottom of the stairs they entered the old cellar that Billy remembered from his first days at the Haunted House of Books. In the farthest wall was a heavy wooden door that led to the canal, and beyond the creature of the black canal were the subterranean library and the phantom organist with the fiery head.
But instead of going through this door, Mr. Rapscallion lifted a heavy trapdoor in the floor and handed each boy a single candle.
“What now?” asked Vito.
; “Down there,” said Mr. Rapscallion, “is the Haunted Cellar. The loser is the person who comes out first.”
“That’s it?” said Vito, full of bravado.
“That’s it,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
Billy peered down into the cobwebby darkness. “Kind of creepy down there,” he said uncomfortably.
“That’s why we call it the Haunted Cellar,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“Chicken,” said Vito, and, with his heart in his mouth, led the way down some more stairs into the darkness.
After a second, Billy followed.
“They’re very brave,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t think I’d have the nerve to go down there.”
“No one’s forcing them,” said Mercedes.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“I hope it’s Vito who comes out first,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t much like that boy at all.”
“Amen to that,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“Exactly what is down there?” asked Mercedes.
“The wine cellar,” admitted Mr. Rapscallion.
“That’s it?” asked Mercedes.
“That’s it,” he admitted.
“Nothing else.”
Mr. Rapscallion shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “You see, there simply wasn’t time to build something new. The Haunted Cellar is just darkness, some old wine bottles, a lot of dust, a few rats and, I expect, their own imaginations.”
Mercedes nodded thoughtfully. “But sometimes,” she said, “your own imagination is the creepiest thing there is.”
Vito Capone and Billy Shivers advanced cautiously into the darkness of the cellar, which was hardly diminished by the flickering light from two small candles. And it was only too easy for one boy to mistake the enlarged and wavering candlelit shadow of the other for some kind of shapeless black cellar-dwelling monstrous creature.
“I wonder why we’re afraid of the dark?” whispered Billy. In the cavernous cellar his whispered voice sounded distinctly ghost-like.
