Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Why should the castle be all lit up,’ asked Jake anxiously, ‘when no one’s there and nothing’s happening?’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Look up there.’

  The old lady was there again, holding the baby aloft in the upstairs window, looking as desperate as before.

  Then Jake said, ‘The door’s opening.’

  But there was no servant there – just an empty space slowly being revealed as the great iron-studded door slowly and soundlessly swung open.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ whispered Jake.

  It certainly didn’t look good, I thought, staring up again at the old woman. This time there was no doubt that she could see us; in fact, she was actually beckoning urgently, her face miserable and imploring. Then the baby began to cry.

  ‘No,’ said Jake, ‘we can’t.’

  ‘It looks empty.’

  ‘No – ’

  ‘Come on. Let’s just have a peek round the door.’

  ‘That’s all then.’

  ‘OK.’

  We took off our skis and hid them in the bushes. Then we hurried over the drawbridge, our footsteps making no sound at all. There had been a fresh fall of snow that morning and there were no other footprints, which seemed a good sign. Of course, I told myself, they could all be hiding inside, and I knew that was exactly what Jake was thinking.

  The door was half-open.

  ‘Take a look then,’ I said sharply, suddenly losing my nerve.

  ‘All right,’ he said uneasily. He poked his head round and then withdrew it quickly. ‘Blimey.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s cold in there.’

  ‘Yes, but is anyone there?’ I asked him impatiently.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Come on then.’ I pushed past him but Jake grabbed my arm.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We really shouldn’t go in.’ He sounded terrified and I saw that he was shaking.

  ‘Think of the old woman and the baby,’ I said. ‘They need rescuing.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  I stepped through the door and Jake reluctantly followed.

  It was certainly very cold in the hallway of the castle – much colder than it was outside in the snow. There were no paintings on the walls, and not a stick of furniture anywhere. Stalactites hung from the shadowed ceiling and ahead of us we could see the dim outline of a magnificent staircase.

  ‘Let’s go straight up the stairs,’ I said.

  We ran as lightly as we could in order to make as little noise as possible. As we passéd the other rooms, we could see through their open doors that they were completely empty and all the rich furnishings had gone.

  The staircase wound up and up and we both knew we had to continue right to the top of the castle. Floor after floor branched off – linked by gloomy corridors with icicle-hung ceilings – but finally we reached the very top.

  ‘Listen,’ said Jake, and sure enough we could hear a baby crying.

  ‘It’s this way,’ I said.

  ‘OK.’

  We walked slowly and quietly down the stone corridor towards the sounds of crying. Eventually the corridor began to narrow, until we were practically squeezing our way along between the ice-cold walls.

  ‘Why’s it like this?’ I hissed at Jake.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s the servants’ quarters.’

  ‘Very thin servants,’ I muttered, as the walls became narrower and even icier.

  ‘No central heating either,’ shivered Jake. Then we stopped dead, for the cries of the baby were just around the corner.

  ‘OK,’ said Jake. ‘We’ll have to help them now we’ve come so far.’

  We inched forward to find a sliding door that was already half-open. Inside was the old lady with white hair and a peach-like complexion. In her arms she was holding one of the most beautiful babies I had ever seen, its face puckered and tears running down its soft cheeks.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Jake boldly.

  ‘Are you the children I saw from the window?’ Her voice was frail and her smile loving.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The baby’s crying.’

  Is that all? I wondered. I felt a creeping uneasiness. Surely she couldn’t have beckoned us all the way up here just for that.

  ‘I can’t stop him.’

  ‘Give him to me,’ I said.

  ‘That’s nice.’ And the old lady passed the baby into my arms.

  ‘Aah!’ I cried out in shock.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jake anxiously.

  ‘It’s just the baby’s so cold,’ I replied. But even so, he nestled up to me quite happily.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked the old lady.

  ‘Wolf,’ she said.

  I froze. ‘Wolf?’

  ‘It is a trap,’ yelled Jake. ‘Look – she’s changing.’

  The baby squirmed in my arms and from downstairs I could hear an orchestra playing dance music.

  Jake and I stared at each other in horror. The baby suddenly felt warm, and when I looked down it had changed into a small wolf, still curled up in my arms but with a wicked grin and very sharp teeth. I heard a howl and saw the old lady was now down on all fours, grinning and licking her lips.

  I dropped the baby wolf and Jake and I backed away to the door.

  ‘Run,’ he said.

  We turned, hurried through the sliding door and, in single file, sped down the narrow corridor. After a while I realized that there was no sign of pursuit – although the sound of music was considerably louder than before. The orchestra was playing a waltz and I was sure I could hear the shuffling of many paws.

  ‘How do we get past them?’ I asked.

  Jake didn’t reply.

  ‘How do we – Jake?’ I turned to see that I was being followed by a wolf.

  He grinned up at me and I pinched my own skin to make sure that I was still there. I was. But Jake wasn’t himself.

  ‘Jake!’

  There came a kind of whining sound in return.

  ‘Jake. You must speak to me.’

  Again the whining. What was I to do? Was Jake gone for ever? Tears sprang to my eyes and I felt sick with fear and loathing.

  ‘We’ve got to get out, Jake.’

  To my surprise, the wolf nodded.

  ‘You’re still there, Jake. You still understand. Don’t you?’

  The wolf nodded again.

  ‘OK. Follow me. There must be a back way out somewhere.’

  The corridor broadened out again but there were no doors leading off it, and to my horror I suddenly realized we were back at the grand staircase. It was full of wolves, dressed as beautifully as before, standing on their hind legs drinking champagne and dancing in the hallway. I paused, with my wolf brother behind me, not knowing what to do. As I did so, one of the wolves on the staircase gave a menacing howl and then another. Almost at once the music stopped playing, more wolves crowded out and they all began to clap their paws in what seemed like a sinister welcome. Then I realized the welcome was for Jake and not for me.

  Jake bounded past me, and the orchestra struck up again from a side room. He grabbed a wolf dressed in an elegant ball-gown and spun her into the crowd. I lost sight of him completely and stood there, helplessly calling his name, and then in desperation screaming it at the top of my voice. But everybody ignored me and soon I felt quite frantic, unable to identify my brother amongst so many wolves, certain now that he was dressed as they were and that I’d lost him for ever.

  ‘Stop,’ I cried over and over again as they spun so elegantly around me in the grand hallway. The ice had gone, the furnishings were back and everything was warm and luxurious. Food groaned on trolleys, liveried wolf-servants stood everywhere. Then above the music I heard the peeling of laughter – and I saw the old lady standing with the baby on the top
step of the staircase. She was back in human form, as was the baby, who was no longer crying but chuckling and wriggling in her arms.

  ‘Why not me?’ I shouted up the staircase. ‘Why not me?’

  I could dimly hear her frail old voice above the music. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn.’

  ‘Let him go.’

  ‘He’s transformed now.’

  ‘Let him go! Now!’

  But she simply laughed and the baby gurgled. Then I felt a touch on my shoulder. Turning, I saw a wolf in an ermine robe. He bowed low and offered me his paw. The old lady’s voice was suddenly shrill with anger. ‘No!’

  But the wolf had grabbed me and spun me off into the midst of the dance.

  ‘No!’ screamed the old lady. ‘Leave her alone.’

  But the wolf still spun me round and round and into the room with the orchestra, which was furnished even more sumptuously, and the banquet, which was beautifully laid out on two long tables, even more magnificent.

  Then, as we danced, something amazing happened. In front of my eyes the wolf changed into human form and I found I was dancing with a young boy.

  ‘Who are you?’ I gasped.

  ‘Peter. They think I was killed in an avalanche years ago, but I was lured in by her.’

  ‘The old lady?’

  ‘She’s some kind of sorceress. Everyone else here used to be human.’

  ‘You mean – all the wolves?’

  ‘Yes, she lured us all here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She hates humans. I think they burnt her mother as a witch, and she’s never forgiven them. Not just the Bulgarians, but anyone.’

  ‘But you’ve changed back.’

  ‘Yes, by dancing with you.’

  ‘You mean – I could change everyone?’ I said with sudden hope. ‘Change everyone and find my brother?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was sombre.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’ve been waiting too long. Their human forms are too frail. They’ll die –’

  ‘But you –’

  ‘I haven’t long,’ he said quietly, and I could feel the strength fading from his strong arms as we danced. ‘I don’t care if I die. I don’t want to be part of her kingdom. Not any longer.’

  Then a terrible thought struck me. ‘Jake – he’ll die too?’

  ‘Not if you get to him fast. Now!’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can identify him. Come with me.’

  He steered me through a pack of dancers, and as he did so the music seemed to swell.

  ‘Here he is.’

  He took the arm of a wolf dressed in a stylish blue tunic and pulled him over to me. He seemed reluctant to come.

  ‘Dance with him.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Peter’s voice was faint and he staggered slightly. ‘Dance with him now! Quick – before it’s too late.’

  He pushed me into the wolf’s arms, and we began to dance slowly and then more and more quickly as the music speeded up. We spun round and round, and as we did so the wolf in my arms began to change back into Jake – until he was all there, looking amazed. It was only when he was whole again that the orchestra stopped.

  ‘What are we doing this for?’ he gasped.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I told him.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Jake as Peter limped towards us.

  ‘Don’t ask now,’ I said.

  ‘You must go.’ Peter’s voice was very weak. ‘She’s coming down the stairs. I can feel her presence. You must go.’

  We hurried into the hallway and one of the wolves threw open the great iron-studded wooden door just as the old lady descended the stairs. Both her face and that of the baby were contorted with a terrible rage. As she walked, icicles formed on the ceiling behind her and crept down the walls whilst, once again, the glitter and the dazzle of the furnishings faded.

  We were just running through the door and on to the drawbridge, when I looked back to see her standing on the bottom step with the great hall behind her now just one vast, icy, empty cavern. There was no sign of the wolves or the orchestra, and the windows, although still lit, showed only cold emptiness. Only one creature, barely moving, lay at her feet. It was Peter.

  Quickly we grabbed our skis, snapped them on and sped off into the snow, but I knew in my heart of hearts that she was still there and she was still powerful, and she and her castle were waiting to trap other innocent skiers and turn them into wolves.

  Tim shivered as he stared into the darkness at Liz and Jake. ‘You going back to Bulgaria again?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jake. ‘But we won’t be doing any night skiing.’

  There was a long silence until Steven said, ‘I’ve never done any night skiing but I have caught the wrong night bus.’

  ‘Where did it go?’ asked Liz.

  ‘To a graveyard,’ he replied.

  4

  The Wrong Bus

  I’m not allowed to travel on buses on my own; they say I’m too young. Of course I could do it easily enough, but they still won’t let me. But when Gran was taken ill – nothing serious really, just one of her dizzy spells – old Mrs Tideman put me on the bus herself. She was a bit confused, but at least she didn’t think I was too young. Normally Gran picks me up from my parents and brings me back on the 92. But that night I went home alone on the 92. Except it wasn’t the 92 at all. It was really the 77. The driver had forgotten to alter the blind on his turnaround and of course poor Mrs Tideman never asked if it was OK. She just assumed it was. Actually it was a total disaster, for the 77 didn’t go near my home at all; it went to the city cemetery.

  Of course, now I look back on it, I see that it was deliberate and perhaps I was a bit dim to fall for it. For a start, the driver was a bit odd. He had his coat buttoned up and a cap pulled down hard over his eyes; I’d never recognize him again. Another strange thing – the bus was empty and it didn’t stop at any bus-stops at all, despite the fact that there were people queuing up, but maybe they didn’t want the 77.

  I was only sure it must be the wrong bus when we arrived at the cemetery and it pulled into a lay-by beside all the tombs and graves. It was a winter evening and quite spooky but I wasn’t scared – not yet anyway – so I out down my comic and shouted up to the driver, ‘You’re meant to be a 92. The 92 doesn’t come this way.’

  ‘77,’ was his mumbled reply.

  ‘92,’ I repeated crossly. ‘It was on the front.’

  ‘77,’ was all he would say, again.

  ‘So I’m on the wrong bus then?’ I probed indignantly.

  ‘Can’t help that.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ I felt a stab of fear somewhere inside me.

  ‘We’ll be going back soon.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Preston Street,’ he said grudgingly and huddled over his wheel, hunching deeper and deeper into himself.

  Preston Street was where I had got on so I immediately felt better. ‘How long?’ I asked, but there was no reply and I sat back in my seat, trying to keep warm in the frosty twilight.

  I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes there was a queue at the bus-stop. A very orderly queue – in fact so orderly that they hardly moved at all and in the glare of the lamplight they all looked very pale. Suddenly everything clicked into place: it was Hallowe’en and obviously they were all going to a fancy-dress party. I rubbed at the dirty bus window and looked at them more closely, noticing that they were all wearing winding-sheets. I knew what those were because my gran was always going on about them. ‘I’ll be in my winding-sheet soon,’ she would tell all and sundry, ‘then no one will have to worry about me any more.’ I had asked Mum what a winding-sheet was and she had told me that it was the thing the dead were wrapped up in. ‘Grave clothes,’ she had said.

  Well, I didn’t think much of their fancy dress, it wasn’t scary enough, and some of the winding-sheets looked like they w
ere really quite mouldy. With the cemetery behind them they certainly appeared pale enough, but didn’t seem authentic – just a bunch of people badly dressed up.

  I looked at my watch. It was only half-four and our own Hallowe’en party didn’t start until half-seven, so I had plenty of time – provided the bus started up soon, which I was sure it would. After all, it must have some kind of timetable to keep to.

  I thought about my costume; I was going to the party as a vampire and I was going to look much better than the miserable bunch in the bus queue, all dressed the same. Perhaps they went to the same office or something, but none of them was going to win the competition for the best costume. And they didn’t seem to be looking forward to their evening, for no one was speaking to anyone and somehow I didn’t reckon they were going to have much fun.

  Soon I began to feel really impatient. When was this bunch getting on? Why were they waiting? I peered out at them crossly and I saw that at the very back of the queue there was a woman with a girl of about my own age. They were both wearing mouldy-looking winding-sheets like everyone else.

  ‘When are we going?’ I asked the driver.

  There was no reply.

  ‘I said – when are we going?’ I yelled at him.

  ‘All right. No need to shout.’

  ‘Are we going soon?’

  ‘When we’re full.’

  ‘How long will that be?’

  ‘Another five minutes – when they’re all open.’

  ‘Open?’

  ‘Yeah. Open.’

  What would be open, I wondered. I glanced impatiently out of the window again. Someone was just coming out of the cemetery, also wearing a mouldy-looking winding-sheet. How many more of this office party were going to turn up? And why didn’t anyone speak to anyone else?

  Then my eyes were suddenly riveted on something moving in the cemetery – just behind the gate. My heart almost leapt into my mouth and I felt a terrible lurch in my stomach. The lid of one of the largest tombs just inside the fence was opening up and two old people were climbing out of it. Unbelievably, they too were wearing mouldy winding-sheets. What was this – some kind of joke? If so, no one was laughing, least of all the sombre bus driver.

  As the old couple walked slowly and stiffly to join the queue the driver opened the automatic door, letting in a blast of cold air. He then turned to the first in the queue and said, ‘It’s the usual routine, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll read the list, and you come aboard when your name’s called. Right?’