Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Very well.’ The voice outside was hoarse and dry.

  ‘Off we go now. Ernest and Ellen Petherington.’

  ‘Present,’ they chorused together. They climbed stiffly aboard and with them came a horrible earthy, dusty, rotting-garbage kind of smell.

  ‘Nancy Clinton.’

  ‘Present.’ Her voice was also dry and dusty.

  ‘Abraham and Letitia Brown.’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Alice Repton.’

  ‘Present.’

  I sat there in silence, still dazed by the opening of the tomb. Then I thought of something: maybe it was all part of the party – maybe the party had already happened in another part of the graveyard and the guests were going on somewhere. Didn’t they do that in Mexico? Wasn’t it called The Day of the Dead? I remembered seeing pictures in a school book where Mexicans gathered in the cemetery and put flowers around the graves and all the children had sweets in the shape of skeletons and skulls.

  ‘Arnold Pargeter.’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Annie and Ebenezer Cotton.’

  ‘Present.’

  The smell was getting worse and it was so cold that I could hardly bear it.

  ‘You sit there, Ellie. I’ll sit behind you,’ said yet another dusty voice, and in seconds the girl of about my own age had sat down next to me.

  ‘Going far?’ I asked.

  There was no reply and she just gazed straight ahead.

  ‘What was the party like?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘The grave,’ she replied, and there wasn’t a spark of humour in her voice.

  ‘Don’t be daft. What was the party like?’ I insisted impatiently.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, feel this.’ She gave me her hand and I cried out in pain, for it was ice-cold. ‘Now do you believe me?’

  I was suddenly terrified. If it wasn’t a party, what on earth was it? ‘Where are you going?’ I stuttered.

  ‘We’re going to warm ourselves by the fires of the living. We’re allowed to – once a year – on Hallowe’en.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ I gasped, completely bewildered, the cold terror taking a real grip on me.

  ‘Oh, we visit our families.’

  ‘Can they see you?’ I asked frantically.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So why can I?’

  ‘You came on the bus. That’s why you can see us. It’s the wrong bus.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘For you. For the living. You shouldn’t be on it.’

  ‘So – you are dead,’ I whispered.

  ‘I was killed in a riding accident.’

  ‘And you’ve been coming out once every year, on Hallowe’en – like this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that your mother behind us?’

  ‘No, she’s a lady who looks after me. She’s on her own too.’

  ‘So you’ve got no one?’

  ‘I wish I could find my mum and dad,’ she said with a sudden sob in her distant, dusty voice. ‘They must be buried around here. Nathanial Edmunds told me he saw them last Hallowe’en.’ She began to weep huskily. ‘I’m so lonely, I want to be with them.’

  ‘Where is Nathanial Edmunds?’ I asked, a shred of my confidence returning. ‘I’ll go and ask him – I’ll help you find your parents.’

  ‘He’s down the end of the bus.’

  ‘But can he see me?’ I asked nervously, all my fears surging back.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to reach him – if you try hard enough.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said slowly. ‘You mean none of these people can see me?’

  ‘Just as a blur – a kind of unidentified presence.’ She turned round to me again and, despite her grey pallor, her smile was warm and friendly. She had a small, round face and a snub nose. ‘My name’s Ellie Eves – what’s yours?’

  ‘Steven – Steven Shaw.’ I rose shakily to my feet. ‘I’d better go and speak to Nathanial. I’ll find your parents for you, somehow, even if he can’t tell me much.’

  Ellie gave me the ghost of a smile and I was able to imagine what her smile would have been like when she was alive.

  The further I walked down the bus, the colder it got; a kind of icy mist hung round the occupant of each seat. No one was speaking or even turning to each other; they all stared straight ahead. Their eyes were like black coals and their lips were blue.

  ‘Nathanial Edmunds,’ I whispered. There was no reply so I tried again. ‘Nathanial Edmunds.’ There was still no reply so I bellowed the name this time, and a thin whisper of a voice returned.

  ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘Steven Shaw.’

  ‘Why do you contact the dead?’

  ‘On behalf of a friend.’

  ‘Who do you speak for?’

  ‘Ellie Eves.’

  The mist was so thick that it was difficult to know who I was speaking to. Then I realized I was addressing a very old man with a wizened, crumpled face, in the very back seat of all.

  ‘Ah – the little girl.’ There was a softer note in his dead tone.

  ‘You met her parents and she wants to join them. She’s lonely in the cemetery without them. Do you know where they are by any chance?’ I asked hesitantly, shivering in the intense cold that he radiated.

  ‘All I can remember is they said it was a graveyard surrounded by oak trees.’

  ‘I know where that is – it’s near my school. I could take her there now.’

  ‘It won’t be so easy,’ said the old man gloomily. ‘She won’t have permission to be buried there. There are the Guardians.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked uneasily.

  ‘Each graveyard or cemetery has its Guardians,’ he explained. ‘They are the Appointed Dead.’

  ‘The Appointed Dead?’ I repeated. ‘What do they do?’

  He cleared his dead throat – a harsh, dry, crackling sound. ‘The Appointed Dead have been elected to ensure the calmness and silence of whichever graveyard or cemetery they have been put in charge of. But they have other responsibilities – to keep away vengeful spirits for instance, or grave-robbers, or intruders.’ Suddenly he stared up at me and his eyes blazed red. ‘And you are an intruder. You should leave well alone.’ And he turned away.

  ‘We’re almost in the town centre now,’ I told Ellie when I rejoined her.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me the graveyard where your parents are is surrounded by oak trees – and I know where that is. It’s at St Luke’s Church, and it’s near my school.’

  Her dead eyes shone. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘But there are some drawbacks.’

  I told her what Nathanial Edmunds had told me, and she laughed mockingly.

  ‘Are you going to take any notice of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the Guardians?’

  ‘No,’ I replied triumphantly.

  ‘Then you’ll take me?’

  ‘You bet I will,’ I replied, but despite my brave words I felt absolutely terrified.

  When the bus stopped, the dead began to file off and Ellie turned round to the lady behind and began to explain what she was going to do. To me, their voices were a dusty blur, but I saw the lady shake her head a couple of times, and Ellie nod vigorously. In the end, the lady rose and walked soundlessly and coldly out with the others, leaving Ellie and me on our own.

  ‘Are you ready to lead me to St Luke’s?’ she asked.

  I nodded apprehensively and we followed the others out. As I passed the driver I suddenly asked, ‘Why did you allow me on board?’ But he just turned away.

  ‘How far is it?’ Ellie asked me excitedly.

  ‘Just a couple of streets down,’ I replied, looking over my shoulder uneasily.

  Walking down the darkened street with her, Ellie seemed much less substantial than she had been before -a little grey wraith beside me. The thought of her permanent
loneliness helped me to crush my fears.

  Eventually we arrived at St Luke’s, a little country churchyard just on the edge of town which was surrounded by oak trees.

  ‘What was your parents’ surname again?’

  ‘Eves.’

  Anxiously I began to search the headstones but had no luck for a while, until eventually I saw the names – Wilfred Eves, 1890–1969, and Edwina Eves, his dearly beloved Wife, 1894-1971. Rest in Peace. Those must be Ellie’s parents, I thought, but when I turned round, she’d disappeared.

  Where on earth could she have gone, I wondered, in panicking frustration. Then I heard a low voice calling.

  ‘Steven.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Behind the wheelbarrow.’

  I ran over to her and there she was, grey and insubstantial, her winding-sheet grubbier than ever, crouched pathetically under the wheelbarrow.

  ‘What are you doing? I’ve found your parents,’ I hissed.

  ‘I saw one of the Guardians – one of the Appointed Dead.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Let me think.’ I thought desperately, but nothing came into my mind. I felt numb with terror, but knew that I’d never forgive myself if I deserted Ellie now. ‘Can’t I contact your parents?’ I said at last. ‘Let them know you’re here.’

  ‘All right – take this ring. I was buried with it on. It is one my parents gave me when I was christened.’ She pulled the ring off her middle finger and handed it to me. It was so cold that I nearly dropped it.

  ‘What do I do with it?’

  ‘Hold it up above the grave and say my name.’

  ‘They’ll hear?’

  ‘They’ll know.’

  The moon was full and bright as I stood above the grave of Ellie’s parents. Trembling, I looked at my watch and saw that it was already six o’clock. What would my own parents think? Surely by now they’d be dreadfully worried? Then I remembered that Gran had told them we might go and have tea at my friend Sam’s, and I breathed a sigh of relief; that was one problem out of the way, at least for a while.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Eves,’ I called softly. ‘Ellie’s here – and this is her ring. Can you hear me? She wants to come and be with you. She’s very lonely in her cemetery. Can you hear me? Can you see her ring?’ I held it up and saw the ring glinting in the moonlight. ‘Ellie’s here,’ I repeated. ‘She wants you.’

  ‘Does she now?’ croaked a dry voice, and I wheeled round to see the wraith of a woman in a winding-sheet.

  She towered above me and her smile was malicious and evil.

  ‘How dare you interfere in the affairs of the dead!’ she snarled.

  ‘I’m talking to Ellie’s parents,’ I pleaded, hardly able to bring the words out.

  ‘You’re breaking the rules,’ she said, drawing herself up, seeming to grow taller and taller until she towered over me. ‘Do you know what I can do to you?’ she rasped. ‘I can haunt you for the rest of your life. I’ll be at your side every day – every night. Get up in the morning with you, go to school with you, have breakfast, lunch, tea and supper with you. I’ll be with you always.’ Her eyes glowed like dark coals and her tongue flicked in and out of her mouth like a pale yellow snake.

  I knew I would rather be dead myself than face the horrors of her perpetual haunting, but then I thought of poor Ellie crouched behind the wheelbarrow, thought of her being lonely in her miserable cemetery, and made up my mind in an instant. ‘I don’t care,’ I yelled. ‘Haunt me – haunt me for the rest of my life. I’d rather that than Ellie being out there on her own for ever.’

  In desperation I turned back to the grave. ‘Mr and Mrs Eves – can you hear me?’

  ‘They’ll never hear you. You’re a living being. You can’t raise the dead.’

  ‘I’ve got to try,’ I said.

  The Guardian put her hand on my shoulder and I gasped, suddenly frozen to the bone. Worse still, when I looked down at my hands they were as pale and as grey as dusty parchment. My voice was a husk as I whispered, ‘What are you doing to me?’

  Her dead tongue danced in and out as she spoke and the freezing cold seared my bones, making me cry out in pain. ‘Now you know what it’s like to die – and the more you try to contact the dead, the more I’ll place my hands on you. And the longer I do that –’

  The more I tried to wriggle away from her icy clutch the more it hurt, yet I still had to call up the dead, still had to help Ellie. ‘Mr and Mrs Eves – please hear me.’

  ‘They’ll never hear you,’ cackled the Guardian.

  ‘I’m going to get Ellie,’ I said hurriedly, and ran back through the graves, panic-stricken. Once again Ellie wasn’t there.

  ‘Ellie,’ I hissed, but all I could hear was the calling of a nightjar. ‘Ellie!’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Ellie!’

  ‘I’m over here.’

  She reached out and took my hand. Instinctively I shivered, thinking it would be cold, but this time her touch was faintly warm, as if she was reaching me from a very long way away.

  ‘You must come and help me,’ I said. ‘Let’s run.’ It was only as we reached the grave that I realized the figure standing beside it was not the Guardian.

  ‘Mother,’ I heard Ellie whisper.

  ‘Ellie,’ came the reply, so soft that it was like the stirring of a small night breeze.

  I watched them kind of melt into each other and I turned away, looking at my watch, hoping I would be home before Mum thought I’d been kidnapped or something. I began to run across the graveyard, but as I did so I heard a voice calling, ‘Steven.’

  I turned. ‘Ellie?’

  She was standing beside her mother, holding her hand. ‘Goodbye, Steven.’ Faintly I could see her hand waving.

  ‘Will I ever see you again?’ I whispered.

  ‘Maybe on Hallowe’en night,’ came the reply. ‘Maybe I’ll come visiting.’

  There was long silence after Steven had finished his story.

  ‘Has she ever come visiting?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Steven.

  ‘Do you think she ever will?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steven confidently. ‘I know she’ll come – one day.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll see her in a mirror,’ put in Debbie, ‘a magical mirror.’

  ‘That sounds as if you’ve got something to tell us,’ said Steven.

  ‘I certainly have,’ replied Debbie. ‘If I tell all of you, maybe I won’t be so terrified when I see my own reflection.

  ‘It was one of those dares. You know – the kind you shouldn’t make. I’ve been making dares all my life.’ She paused, reflecting. ‘It’s the challenge, isn’t it?’ She leant back on her elbows and stared at the group round the fire.

  5

  The Ghost Mirrors

  My dare was against my cousin, Ben. Right little show-off he is. Lives in Taymouth and Mum and I go there every year. It’s a run-down old place by the sea and no one goes there for holidays any longer; there’re a few day-trippers, but even they didn’t keep the old pier in business, so it closed down – and part of it has fallen into the sea. It’s a weird structure, and at night it looks like a long, dark finger, all torn and ragged, pointing out into the sea. People used to say it was haunted or that there were lights on it sometimes during dark nights, but I never saw any.

  Ben’s mum and dad used to run a boarding-house in Taymouth until the bottom got knocked out of the holiday market – or that’s what my Auntie Val used to say. Gave it up to run a small supermarket, but we still used to go every year. Made a break, Mum said, and we needed it because we didn’t have any money – not after Dad pushed off.

  Ben’s a year older than me and I don’t get on with him that badly. It’s just that he’s always trying to prove I’m not as good as he is, because he’s a scabby boy. So when he said he bet I didn’t dare spend a night on the haunted pier I said of course I would – if he would. He fell right into my trap and he had to agree.

  W
e fooled my mum and his parents by saying we were going to the vicar’s all-night charity sleep-in. I’d been on one of them before; they started with burnt sausages and ended up with cold porridge. The vicar played the guitar and his wife sang. She’s got a moustache, and the summer I went she had tomato sauce in it as she sang ‘When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbing Along’. You could see the moustache and the tomato sauce in the firelight and it made me want to throw up.

  Anyway, instead of all that, there we were, climbing over the safety barrier and on to the rotten boards of the derelict old pier. It was August and a bright moonlit night, so we could see everything quite clearly and we weren’t in the least bit cold.

  At first I didn’t feel scared at all – and neither did Ben. I was quite sure about that, because although he tries to hide it if he’s afraid, I can always see through him. But as we wandered on, past rusting pillars and an old shut-up tea-shop, past weird, out-of-date machines, and the faded paint of the ghost train, a little trickle of fear crept down to my knees, and I felt quite wobbly as I walked on the spongy boards and saw the gleaming white foam of the breakers beneath me. I think it was the sight of that as well as the wind that suddenly made me shiver, and when I looked at Ben I saw that he was all hunched up like a little old man.

  ‘Debbie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

  ‘You dared me,’ I said nastily.

  ‘Mm.’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ I reminded him sharply, ‘unless you want to go to the vicar’s sleep-in?’

  He shook his head quickly, although I knew he would rather listen to the vicar’s wife all night, with sauce all over her moustache, than actually stay here a moment longer. But he stuck it – just – and I admired him for it.

  ‘Where’re we going then?’ he said, trying to sound hard and failing miserably.

  ‘Let’s explore.’

  ‘Explore?’ He sounded horrified.

  ‘Find a place to sleep.’

  We walked through a deserted bingo hall and then on towards what looked like an old dodgem track.