by Susan Rich
The Shadow
It’s lonely where I live, an old house a long way from anywhere. That’s why I got a dog. He keeps me company.
Last night the moon was full, and it cast shadows. We took a shortcut through the woods, into the meadow beyond. I let him off the leash to run. He came back holding something.
“Drop it,” I ordered, and he did. I felt sick.
Somebody behind me said, “That’s mine. Don’t turn around.”
Then the shadow beside mine was gone, and my dog whimpered in the moonlight.
LESLEY LIVINGSTON
A Day at the Lake
“It’s not haunted,” I had scoffed at Bradley on the way up in the car.
“Cursed, then.” He’d grinned.
“You’re an idiot.”
Hidden Lake was cold, still, dark as a pool of spilled ink under the summer sun.
My hands, already slippery with wake spray, began to sweat on the handle grips of the towrope stretched taut between me and the ski boat. I glanced down again and felt my stomach lurch. It wasn’t my imagination. Beneath me, flashes of corpse-pale bodies knifed through the murky water.
Frantically, I signaled Bradley to turn the boat back toward the shore. We were so far out. Brad—why did you take me so far out?
Sightless eyes glared up at me. Patient. Waiting.
Bradley turned the boat in a slow, lazy circle and headed in, unaware. The shore beckoned. Only a hundred yards more to the beach. The towline jerked in my hands and went slack as the ski boat’s motor sputtered, spat blue smoke, and died. And I began to sink.
JON SCIESZKA
Whispered
Oh man, we never should have listened to them.
“There’s nothing under the bed,” they said.
“Those noises are just the wind,” they said.
“It’s just your imagination,” they said.
We never should have listened to them.
Now shhhhhhh . . .
FOUND & ENVISIONED BY VLADIMIR RADUNSKY
A Disturbing Limerick
There was a young man of Bengal
Who was asked to a fancy-dress ball.
He murmured: I’ll risk it—
I’ll go as a biscuit...
...But the dog ate him up in the hall.
ALISON MCGHEE
Through the Veil
I was eleven years old when I dreamed that I became my own shadow, and that I was following my body through a dark wood. The moon was our only light, and as the woods grew deeper, it became clear that I was in danger of losing my body. You are only a shadow, a voice whispered in my ear. Without your body you cannot exist. The woods grew deeper, and the fitful light of the moon flickered among the dark branches looming above my head. My body was walking ahead of me, faster and faster. Without your body you cannot exist, came the voice again. And then it came to me that I was not dreaming, and that the moon had disappeared entirely. My body was far ahead, running. Running away from me. Help me! Help me! I tried to scream, but without my body I had no voice. I tried to run, but I had no legs. I tried to fly, but I had no wings. Help me—help—but no one heard me.
It was too late. I no longer existed.
DANIEL EHRENHAFT
The Rash
Friday afternoon, during final period, his right cheek began to itch.
He scratched softly and felt two small bumps. By the time the ball rang, his cheek was on fire. He hurried to the boys’ room and saw that the two bumps had turned to seven—bumps the size of beestings. The right side of his face was a splotchy red mess.
No worries, he thought. He would rub some lotion on the itch, and it would be all cleared up by Monday morning. Just in time for the college interview. He hadn’t planned on going out this weekend anyway. He’d skip the dance. He’d study and take care of this. He had to look his best Monday. He had to project success.
When he got home, seven bumps had turned to eleven.
At dinner, his left cheek began to itch, too. Mom told him not to scratch it. Scratching could lead to infection. Dad blamed it on stress: the college interview, homework, sports, friends, girls. His sister snickered. He’d never get a prom date now.
That night, the itch spread across his face and down his neck. The burning was constant, excruciating. Nothing helped—no creams or pills. Saturday, Mom and Dad called the family doctor; if it hadn’t cleared up by Sunday, he should go to a hospital. He hid in his room instead. He hated hospitals. His sister avoided him, frightened of catching it. The itch would clear up; it had to. He couldn’t reschedule the college interview. It was too late—
But Monday morning, after a fitful sleep, the itch was gone.
He ran his fingers over his cheeks. The flesh was cool and smooth. He smiled, stumbling out of bed. Project success, he thought. He turned on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror.
His bleary eyes stared back. He blinked once, twice.
The face belonged to someone else.
MELISSA MARR
Where Nightmares Walk
The green glow of eyes and sulfurous breath shimmer in the fog as the Nightmares come into range. The horses’ steel-sharp hooves rip furrows in the field, trampling everything in their path.
“Over here!” my companion dog calls out to them, exposing me.
I didn’t know he could speak, but there is no mistaking the source of the sound—or the fact that I am trapped in a field with Nightmares bearing down upon me.
The dog shakes, and his glamour falls away like water flung from his fur. Under his disguise, my helpmate is a skeletal beast with holes where its eyes should be.
“Run,” it growls, “so we can chase.”
I want to, but much like the rest of the things I want my legs to do, running is no longer an option. If I could still run, I wouldn’t be alone on the night when Nightmares walk free. If I could still run, I’d be out in costume trick-or-treating with my friends.
“I can’t run.”
I hobble toward an oak that stands like a shadow in the fog.
The monstrous dog doesn’t stop me as I drop my crutches and pull myself onto the lowest branch. It doesn’t stop me as I try to heave myself higher.
“Faster!” it calls out to the Nightmares, which are almost upon me.
The only question left to answer is whether their running or my climbing is quicker.
CHRIS RASCHKA
On a Tuesday During That Time of Year
On a Tuesday during that time of year when it is particularly unpleasant to be out in the early gray twilight of those sometimes rainy or even sleety days, a small boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, was looking in his deep sock drawer for a particular pair of warm ones that he saved for just this sort of morning. He dug past his long basketball socks, pushed aside his black dress socks, and held for a minute a pair of red-and-blue-striped socks that he had once worn to a party. Plunging his hand back into the spaghetti bowl of stockings, he felt and pinched everything, with his eyes closed, to test if it was that wonderful soft and homey wool of the pair he was looking for.
Figuring that they were perhaps in the laundry, he was about to give up when he touched something hard, lumpy, and, he thought, a little bit hairy. Curious, he curled his fingers around whatever it was and slowly pulled it up, the layers of socks tumbling this way and that, until when he opened his hand he found something gray-green, longish—about five inches—and thin, scabby with little hillocks crowned by short black hairs, very wrinkled, and with what looked like withered corn husk protruding from its end.
It was a finger.
STACEY GODENIR
Death Rides a Pink Bicycle
Calvin walked home from school thinking about how much he hated his kid sister, Annie. She was skipping beside him, humming some ridiculous kindergarten song and embarrassing him as usual. He was about to tell her to shut up when a little blond girl, riding a bright pink bicycle, raced by, knocking him off the sidewalk.
“Watch it!” he hollered after the girl as she
stopped at the street corner ahead.
Slowly, the girl craned her neck toward Calvin until he could see her face. Or rather, what should have been her face.
Instead, bits of pink, doughy flesh hung from a bleached skull. Black eye sockets, empty as a bottomless pit, stared back at Calvin.
The skeleton pointed a bony finger at the terrified boy, then turned and pedaled the pink bicycle into the street.
Bam!
The garbage truck that smashed into her didn’t even hit the brakes.
Calvin ran to the corner, dragging Annie behind him, but there was nothing there. No girl, no bicycle—nothing.
By the time they got home, Calvin had just about convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing. That is, until he saw his dad unloading a bright pink bicycle from the car. It was the one little blond-haired Annie had been asking for.
Suddenly, Calvin knew what he had seen. It was death riding the pink bicycle. His sister’s death.
He realized that he didn’t hate Annie after all—just the opposite. So Calvin jumped on the bicycle and bolted into the street. Desperate to save his sister, he didn’t even look where he was going. Which is why he didn’t see the garbage truck heading his way.
DAN GUTMAN
I’m Not Afraid
I’m not afraid of the dark.
So when I climbed the rotting steps of the old Granger Mansion on Halloween night and peeked through the broken window, it didn’t bother me that there were no lights on. When the squeaky wooden door opened by itself, it didn’t scare me.
When the echoing voice invited me inside to take some Halloween candy, it didn’t scare me.
When I stepped across the threshold and the door closed behind me, it didn’t scare me.
When I heard the lock click shut, it didn’t scare me.
The creaking floorboards didn’t scare me.
The cobwebs brushing my face didn’t scare me.
The portraits of old people hanging on the walls didn’t scare me.
The knife that was sitting on the player piano didn’t scare me.
The strange chemical smell didn’t scare me.
The otherworldly sounds coming from an unseen violin didn’t scare me.
The acrid taste in my mouth didn’t scare me.
The tortured screaming coming from a distant room didn’t scare me.
The footsteps that kept getting closer . . . and closer . . . didn’t scare me.
The insect crawling up the back of my leg didn’t scare me.
The blood that was dripping down the walls didn’t scare me.
No, none of that stuff scared me.
I’ll tell you what scared me.
It was the clown.
ALICE KUIPERS
The Doll
When my stepmum, Angela, gave me a doll, my dad told me I had to say thank you. I said thank you, sweet as a sour apple. The glint in Angela’s eyes was wicked. But Dad didn’t see it.
I found the doll on my pillow with a pin in its tummy. My stomachache was so bad, I didn’t have the strength to throw the doll off the bed. By morning I managed to pull out the pin. I carried the doll to breakfast. My stepmum said, “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” I said. Anyone with half a brain could have seen her surprise. But not Dad.
He cut in. “What are you going to call it?”
I had to think for only a second. I twiddled the pin in my fingers.
“Angela,” I said. I smiled at the horror in her eyes.
Dad thought that was sweet.
As a sour apple.
FRANK VIVA
Easy Over
He was trapped in this hot, dark place. No mother. Every day was the same. He was very sad. Little by little, the scorching heat worked its way into his skin. He hated the stinging smoke. He hated the greasy fingers. No amount of scrubbing could wash away the bad smell. This was his life. Soon it would be over.
LIBBA BRAY
Them
Amir had run far and fast, and his breath burned in his lungs. His shirt was spattered with blood from where one of them had gotten close and Mr. Johnson had killed it. Poor Mr. Johnson.
On the radio, they’d said it would take days before they reached Parkersville. But the next afternoon, the radio had gone to static, and when his mother didn’t return from her job, Amir went to look for her.
He saw shattered windows, burning buildings, bloody handprints on a car’s hood. At the corner of Main and Oak, Leo Black’s bike lay on its side, the wheels still spinning. The radio reports said they could hide anywhere, and some had already adapted, learned to track and hunt rather than just attack. You never saw those coming. You’d only hear a low, syrupy sound, and then it was too late.
As Amir crossed the park, his luck ran out. Hordes of them lurched from their hiding places and came after him. Oh, the sunken, lifeless eyes! Sharp teeth. Rotting flesh. Mouths moving hungrily. One grabbed his arm. Then came Mr. Johnson with his baseball bat, poor Mr. Johnson screaming as Amir ran for home.
It was dusk now. He opened the door. The kitchen light shone. His mother’s coat hung on the back of her chair.
“Mom!” he called, running.
He slipped and fell. The floor was slick with blood. And the shadows reverberated with a deep gurgle.
JOYCE CAROL OATES
Tiger Kitty
Tiger Kitty was my favorite! Tiger Kitty came into our family when I was four years old.
Tiger Kitty slept with me, cuddled and purred in the crook of my arm. Tiger Kitty had the prettiest soft orange-stripe fur, a tail with a white tip, and a little white nose with a single freckle.
One day when it was very windy, Tiger Kitty went away into the woods behind our house. We called and called Tiger Kitty, but he didn’t come back for a day and a night and another day and a night, and then one morning there was Tiger Kitty by the back door mewing to be let inside—we were so happy, we kissed and hugged him.
Tiger Kitty was very happy to be home! Tiger Kitty gobbled up all the food in his dish and mewed for more.
Some change had taken place in Tiger Kitty in the woods. He was longer than he’d been but skinnier, and his eyes were a strange tawny yellow. His tail had a funny bump in it, as if it had been broken, and the white tip seemed to have faded. The freckle seemed to have faded from his nose also.
Sometimes when I pet Tiger Kitty, he doesn’t seem to know who I am and hisses and claws at me—if I’m not quick, Tiger Kitty will scratch my hand. But a few seconds later Tiger Kitty recognizes me, and purrs and rubs hard against my ankles.
Especially when he’s hungry, Tiger Kitty purrs and rubs against my ankles.
Tiger Kitty sleeps with me like always. Though in his sleep Tiger Kitty sometimes growls and twitches, and at such times I am afraid he might scratch me if I woke him.
I love Tiger Kitty!—but there is a secret between us no one else knows.
If you guess our secret, don’t say it out loud. Tiger Kitty can scratch.
JONATHAN LETHEM
Inventory
11 upper arms (one with annoying “MOM” tattoo, one with chafed elbow)
7 lower arms, 3 complete with wrist and hand (one with only three fingers)
5 various torso components (some potential here, I think)
8 thighs (two atrociously hairy)
9 calves with knees
5 heads (one bald and quite ugly, sorry)
1 foot (??? someone stealing feet?)
also various rejected noses and ears, lost count
jar of eyeballs
Note to secretary of acquisitions:
MUST REFRESH INVENTORY!!!!
MICHAEL CONNELLY
Shortcut
The shortcut took me down into the wooded valley on the other side of the railroad tracks. It was dark down here, because the tall trees created a canopy the sun could not penetrate. It had not been raining, but now water dripped down on me from above. The air was damp, and the plants at ground level se
emed huge, some of them with leaves as big as elephant ears.
No one ever cut through here. It was off-limits. But I was late. Very late. The rumor was that there was a tunnel that went directly under the railroad embankment and that it would knock fifteen minutes off my time getting home.
The path grew narrow as it led me farther down. Soon the leaves and branches of the bushes scraped at my arms. And then I finally saw the tunnel. Its opening was dark and lined with whitewashed bricks. As I got closer, I saw tangles of roots hanging down from inside.
I saw no light and thought the rumor couldn’t be true. The tunnel didn’t go through. But then I felt warm air come out of the darkness and wash over me. If there was air coming through, then there had to be an opening on the other side.
I checked my watch. I was out of time. I stepped into the tunnel and ducked under the hanging roots. My second step landed on something soft. It moved and jerked my foot out from under me. I fell, and my hands felt the slime. That was when I realized that the tunnel entrance wasn’t lined with white bricks.
They were teeth.
LAUREN MYRACLE
Strawberry Bubbles
Earlier, before we heard the window shatter, I sat on the closed toilet seat and kept Amy company while she took her bath. I poured in her strawberry bubble bath, and I moved the razor from the edge of the tub. I thought, How stupid to keep a razor in a child’s bathroom.
It wasn’t a safety razor like my mom’s; it was an old-fashioned razor with an exposed blade that gleamed. I touched it ever so lightly—just to see—and a bead of shiny red bubbled up on the pad of my finger.
