ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK?
CHARLES L. GRANT
THE STORM BEGAN moving just below the horizon, setting houses and trees in sharp silhouette, freezing the clouds in gray and roiling white; it buried the sunset and drove off the stars and replaced the moon’s shadows with strobic shadows of its own.
Yet it was harmless out there, far enough away to make people smile, glance at their watches, and walk only a bit faster. There was no warning in the forecast, and its own warning was muttered, softened by the spring air that just an hour ago filled with sun and new flowers and leaves brilliant green on the trees along the curbs.
Then the breeze became a wind, and the storm turned around, a panther stalking the night with flashes of lightning where its claws touched the ground, grumblings of thunder when it spotted its prey.
The breeze became a wind, and the temperature dropped, and all that was left was the waiting for the rain.
The padded deacon’s bench had been turned around to face the picture window in the den. The floral draperies had been pulled back, the lights had been turned off, and the backyard was visible only between the blinks of an eye, as the storm moved overhead and crashed down on the house. Lightning escaped the confines of black clouds, flaring, crackling, giving the trees angled movement and turning the back hedge into a huge black wall. The ornamental wishing well, the birdbath, the toolshed in the corner, all of them curiously flat when the air burned blue-white ahead of the thunder. The leaves were silver, the grass pale-gray, and the reflections in the pane were bloodless and transparent.
“She’s right,” Jeremy Kneale said, squirming on the bench but not wanting to leave. “Bernie’s right, it’s just like a movie.”
“It is not. It’s stupid. It’s dark out, can’t you see that?” Stacey flinched at the next lightning bolt, but he still wasn’t impressed. “It’s dumb. I wanna watch TV.”
“Bernie says we can’t,” Will reminded him. “She says we have to wait until something good comes on.”
“Her real name,” said Stacey, “is Bernadette, and Bernadette is a real pain in the ass.”
Jeremy winced at the way his friend talked about their new babysitter, but he didn’t say a word. Scolding Stacey Parsons was a waste of time. He knew that. He had heard his mother tell his father that a hundred times, and heard them wonder how the boy’s parents managed without strangling him. That part was a joke; at least, he thought it was a joke.
Behind them, through the swinging door that led into the kitchen, they could hear Bernie working. Making popcorn. Fixing trays. Getting glasses from the cupboard and pouring them soda.
“I feel stupid,” Will confessed at last.
Jeremy did too, but he wouldn’t admit it. He was in enough trouble already, and the one thing he didn’t need was Bernie telling his folks that he was being difficult again. Yet it wasn’t his fault. He liked to explore things, go places, find new games to play with his best friends in the whole world. Just because it sometimes got him into trouble with the neighbors, or with people he didn’t even know, didn’t mean he was bad. Like the window this afternoon at the toy shop. He didn’t mean to break it, but Stacey had ducked when he’d tossed the rock at him. Not a throw, just a toss, and it must have hit the pane just right because the next thing they knew there was glass all over the pavement and lots of big people reaching for them so they wouldn’t run away.
It was an accident.
His parents didn’t believe him.
And parents, Stacey had said once, never believed the kid when there was a grownup around. You had to be big to be believed; you had to be able to defend yourself with something else besides tears.
“I’m hungry,” Will Young said, standing and walking away from the window. He turned on a lamp, blinking at the light.
“Yeah,” said Stacey. He stood, gestured, and he and Jeremy turned the bench around where it belonged. Then he closed the drapes and sat again, hands in his lap, feet swinging. “I wish she’d hurry up.”
“It’s like prison,” Will said, rubbing his hands together and grinning. “Bernie is the guard, see, and our parents are off to see the governor, to find out when they’re going to throw the switch.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Jeremy asked.
“Saw it in a movie.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I saw that movie, and you got it wrong. They’re supposed to find out if the governor is going to stop them from throwing the switch.”
“Sure,” Stacey said. “Did you see the look on my father’s face when he found out what happened today?” He shuddered. “I know that look. He’s gonna be right there by the guy with the black mask. He’s gonna throw the switch himself.”
Jeremy had to agree. He had never seen any of their parents so angry before. As if he and his buddies had deliberately set out to find trouble, or cause it when they couldn’t find it, and lied about it when they did. Of course, they didn’t always tell the truth because then they’d really get clobbered. As it was, they were supposed to stay on their own property for a whole two weeks, and the only reason they were allowed together tonight was because his father had decided it was time the six grownups got together and decided what to do about taming their hellions.
He didn’t know exactly what hellions meant when he heard his father on the phone with Mr. Young the other night, but he did know it wasn’t good. And he knew that this time they weren’t going to be able to cry or beg or pout their way out of whatever punishment there was going to be. Staying home wasn’t punishment; staying home was only getting ready for whatever big stuff was coming after.
Lightning; and thunder.
Ashes in the fireplace shifting into piles.
The wind rattling the pane and keening through the eaves.
The boys jumped, smiled nervously, and jumped again when the kitchen door pushed open and Bernie came out with a tray in her hands. She walked to the card table in the middle of the room and put the tray in the center. There were three glasses filled with soda, a huge bowl of popcorn, and three chocolate candy bars.
None of the boys moved. They only watched as the babysitter frowned at the closed drapes, at the turned-around bench, and at Will still standing by the floor lamp in the corner. Her short brown hair seemed darker tonight, her eyes deeper, her nose sharper, and when she brushed her hands down the side of her dress, she seemed less like a friend than the guard Will had described.
“I thought,” she said, “you were going to watch the storm.”
“That’s dumb,” Stacey told her.
“Yeah,” Will agreed.
She turned to Jeremy then and waited for his answer.
He shrugged. He didn’t want to get her mad, didn’t want her to tell his mother and father he was being a pain again. Bernie was all right, and he wanted to keep her on his side. She had stayed with him twice before, and with Stacey and Will too, just after the big trouble started, and though she sometimes made him nervous the way she looked at him, the way she walked around the house without making a sound, he thought she was pretty okay, for a grownup.
“Sit,” she said, and pointed at the bench.
They did, sensing something in her manner that forestalled rebellion. Besides, they could smell the butter on the popcorn, see the bubbles in the soda, and the chocolate bars were the largest they had ever seen in their lives.
“We’re going to have a contest,” she told them, standing behind the table with her hands folded at her waist. “It’s going to be a lot of fun. The only thing is, you can’t be afraid.”
“Afraid?” Stacey said. “Who’s afraid?”
Bernie smiled slowly. “Aren’t you scared of the dark?”
Stacey laughed, Will sneered, Jeremy pulled on his ear.
She stared at them until Will giggled. “Stace is scared of the ocean,” he said, taking a punch on the arm.
“Yeah? Well, you’re scared of the dark, you even still got a nightlight.”
Jeremy kept silent—he was onl
y scared of his parents.
“Good,” she said. “That’s fine, because the contest, you see, is a series of games that I pick for you to play.”
“Big deal,” said Will, poking Jeremy in the ribs.
“What is it, spin the bottle?” Stacey said, laughing until he saw the look on her face.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now pay attention, please. I want you to listen closely. Since you’re not afraid of the dark, I’ll pick something . . .” She looked to the ceiling, looked down, and touched the table. “If you get scared, you lose.”
“Jesus, Bernie,” Stacey said. “We’re not babies, you know.”
“I know,” she told him. “And that’s what I told your parents. You’re not babies anymore. You can take it. You’re tough.”
“Right,” Stacey said, Will nodded emphatically, and Jeremy said, “Take what?”
Bernie ignored him. “The rules are simple: I pick the games, nobody quits before the end, and for every game you win you get to keep a bar of this chocolate.”
“That’s not fair,” Stacey complained.
Bernie smiled. “Second place gets popcorn.”
“Hey!” said Will.
“And last place gets to sleep in the rain.”
Jeremy looked at his friends, looked at Bernie, and decided that this wasn’t going to be a good night after all.
She looked at her watch. “We’d better get started. I promised your parents we’d be done before they return. Are you ready?”
They each nodded, staring at the chocolate bars each weighing three pounds.
“In that case,” she said, in the thunder, in the lightning, while the wind knocked on the door, “the first game is:”
hide-and-seek
It was dark, so dark it was like living in a black cloud.
And it was quiet, except for the sound of his breathing.
Will Young closed his mouth and his eyes and wished he wasn’t so fat. His mother was always yelling at him for eating too much, and for sneaking food into his bedroom after he was supposed to be asleep. But he didn’t care. He enjoyed eating. It didn’t matter what there was in the cupboards or in the refrigerator as long as it was good—and there wasn’t much he didn’t like.
And he didn’t think he was really gross-and-ugly fat, not like his father was, with his belly showing even when his shirt was all buttoned. He just had a little extra here and there around his waist and his face, and that definitely didn’t stop him from being able to run, or climb, or crawl under the porch; at least his arms didn’t have all that flab hanging down, and at least his thighs didn’t rub together because there was no room between them.
Nevertheless, he wished now he was a little slimmer, because then he could squeeze a bit further back into the closet, maybe even get behind the golf bag that belonged to Jerry’s father. He didn’t think he’d have to stay here very long because Stacey said it was a dumb game and didn’t want to play and would probably deliberately get himself caught first. Jerry knew the house better than anyone, but Will thought he was scared of something and would probably head right for the cellar, the first place Bernie would look.
The huge closet in the upstairs hall, then, was almost perfect when he found it. Clothes and coats hanging from the rail, boxes and stuff stacked on the floor, and the door so snug no light came underneath it.
He reached out his hands and felt around him, trying to move things in front and move himself farther back, without making any noise. He breathed through his mouth. He froze whenever he heard footsteps passing outside.
And he finally reached the corner after moving the golf bag aside.
Perfect. Dark, but perfect. Bernie would have to declare him the winner of this game, no question about it.
He grinned, and rubbed his hands together.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, and listened to the muffled spill of thunder over the roof.
And heard something move on the other side of the closet.
He blinked and cocked his head, frowning as he listened as hard as he could and wondering what it was, or maybe it was his imagination.
A scratching, soft and slow, maybe it’s a rat or a bat or something that lives in the back of the closet and waits for dopes like him to play stupid baby games in the middle of a storm; a scratching, soft and slow, and something suddenly brushed quickly over his face. He almost yelled as he lashed out to knock it away, nearly yelled again when his fingers were caught, trapped in something that had round hard teeth. His free hand grabbed for it while he pushed deeper into the corner, grabbed and yanked, and something fell over his face.
He did yell, then, but the sound was muffled, all sound deadened as his feet kicked out and struck the golf bag, as his head slammed against the wall, as his hands tore and pulled and the thing dropped and tangled into his lap, and a coat hanger a moment later fell onto his chest.
Crap, he thought as he felt the jacket on his legs, the round buttons, the smooth lapels. Crap, you’re a jerk.
He shuddered and rolled his shoulders, wiped a hand over his eyes and felt the perspiration slick on his face. He dried himself with the jacket and pulled the golf bag back in front of him, proud that he’d fought the demons and hadn’t been killed.
Besides, this proved that he’d made a good choice. This proved he could be quiet.
Bernie, he knew then, would never find him now. She might open the door, but even the light from the hall wouldn’t reach him back here. And she surely wouldn’t come in, not with that dress on. He giggled, and quickly covered his mouth. He didn’t know her very well, only the two other times he’d been over when she’d sat with Jeremy, but he knew she wouldn’t want to dirty that dress. She was very careful about it. He could see that. He could see how she stayed away from the walls, and held the skirt away from anything that might touch it and make it dirty.
She was weird, and not even Jeremy could tell him he was wrong. Weird, and always looking at them as if they were bugs or something. Sometimes she was fun, like with the spooky stories she’d tell them, but most of the time she just sat on the bench in the den and watched them. Like a guard. Like a dog. Until Mr. and Mrs. Kneale came home, and then she would put on her coat and leave without even saying goodnight.
Weird.
Really weird.
And a scratching in the corner.
A laugh outside as Stacey ran down the hall, telling his two friends he was caught but don’t give up, Bernie was a jerk, and they’d share the chocolate later.
Will smiled and nodded to himself. One down, one to go. All she had to do was find Jeremy and the game was all his. All that candy, all his.
His stomach growled.
Something scratched lightly in the corner, and he wished there wasn’t such a draft in here, tickling his neck and making him think there was something crawling through his hair. The wind outside had found a hole in the walls, had snuck around the windows, and now he was getting cold and the clothes were moving and rustling together, whispering to each other and scratching.
are you afraid of the dark?
A monster, he thought then, and squeezed his eyes closed, grateful for the colored lights that swirled in small circles and the curtains of faint orange that drifted down from the top, disappeared and came back; there was a monster in the closet.
He shifted, and heard someone walking the hall outside the door.
Bernie, he called silently, go find Jeremy, I’m not here.
A monster in with him, but the candy bars were huge and all he had to do was wait until his best friend was found.
A coat hanger scraped on the metal pole overhead.
Besides, there’s no such things as monsters and I will not be afraid because I am hungry and I want that candy, he thought, his hands tight in fists, his eyes still closed.
Something thumped against the golf bag, and the clubs inside rattled.
No such thing. No such thing.
The bag quivered again, and he felt a weight press aga
inst the sole of his sneaker. And he sighed his relief, grinned and shook his head at how stupid he could be. It had been his foot all the time. He had unthinkingly stretched a leg out and had kicked the bag with his foot, so there was nothing to worry about, alone here in the dark.
scratching
Then he heard Jeremy running, probably from his bedroom, not the cellar after all, telling Will it was over, that he’d won the first game.
He sighed again, loudly, and nodded. He knew he would win. How could they have thought otherwise? Wasn’t he the champion hide-and-seeker in the whole school, if not the whole entire world? Couldn’t he do something wrong and then hide from his parents until they were nearly frantic with fear and he popped out and smiled and they forgot they were angry?
Crap, he was the champ. Bernie should have known.
A footstep by the door.
And a scratching inside.
He grinned and shifted, and took hold of the bag.
Someone turned the lock . . . turned the lock and walked away.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Bernie, it’s me!”
And he pushed the bag aside, and saw the red eyes staring at him.
The candy bars sat in the middle of the table, and Stacey stood as close as he dared, one eye on Bernie fussing with the logs in the fireplace, the other on the reward he would win the next time. Had Jeremy been last, it would have been different because Jerry was okay. But Will was a p-i-g hog and he didn’t think he could stand sitting here watching that pig scoff down all that chocolate.
Bernie rose and dusted her hands on the apron she wore around her waist.
Stacey decided he would win the next one, and let Jerry have the last. At least that way, Will-the-pig wouldn’t hog it all and make them look stupid besides.
Terrifying Tales to Tell at Night Page 14
