Scary Out There

by Jonathan Maberry

“Put that down, Nate!” the woman shrieked. “Control yourself. Put that down. I’m begging you.”

  “Nate—don’t do it,” the brother warned. “It isn’t worth it. Is it? Is it worth years in jail?”

  “Nate, please—” The woman was begging now.

  I jumped as I heard a loud crash. And then the woman’s scream of horror rang out, making the radio speaker vibrate. “Stop! You’re killing me! Stop! Get off me! Stop!  ”

  The woman screamed again. But the scream cut off suddenly. And then . . . silence.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I listened with my ear to the speaker.

  Then the sound of footsteps came through the old radio. Running footsteps and heavy breathing. “I’m outta here,” Nate said in a whisper. “Mike, you coming with me?”

  Gasping for breath, I clicked the radio off. I stood there, watching the dial light slowly fade. The woman’s shrill scream still rang in my ears. “That wasn’t real,” I said out loud. “That couldn’t be real.”

  I started to the door, but it swung open before I reached it. “Harry!” I cried.

  He stood in the rain, squinting at me. “Your mom and I didn’t know where you were, Connor. What were you doing?”

  “Listening to the radio,” I said.

  • • •

  The next morning Harry had already left for work when I came down to breakfast. His plate with a few uneaten scrambled egg clumps was in the sink. Mom was on the phone. She stood at the counter with her back turned, twisting the phone cord in her fingers. (Yes, we still have a landline.)

  I crossed the room and poured some corn flakes into a bowl. Mom hung up the phone and turned to me, a troubled frown on her face. She stared past me, as if she didn’t see me standing there.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  She shook herself, as if trying to clear her head. “I just heard the most shocking, dreadful thing,” she said, still avoiding my eyes.

  I set down the milk carton. “What? What is it?”

  “That was Carol across the street. She just told me the most awful news. Anna Perrin. You know. The Perrins, who live on the corner across Park Drive? Anna Perrin was found murdered this morning. And her husband and his brother are both missing.”

  My mouth dropped open and a squeak escaped my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

  Mom shook her head. “Such a terrible thing. And just a few houses down from us.”

  “Mom—” I finally found my voice. “Mom—I heard it. I-I heard the whole thing,” I stammered.

  Mom made a gulping sound. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, Connor, no. Is that true? You heard the murder from your bedroom?”

  “No,” I said, my voice trembling. “I heard it on the radio.”

  She pressed both hands against the kitchen counter, as if keeping herself from collapsing. “That isn’t funny,” she said softly. “A nice woman we all knew was killed last night. Why would you make a dumb joke like that?”

  “It . . . isn’t a joke,” I choked out. “Harry gave me an old radio and—and—” My heart was pounding like crazy. I heard the men’s angry voices again and the woman’s horrifying scream cut short so suddenly.

  “Mom, I was trying to find stations on the old radio Harry gave me, and I heard the murder. I’m not making this up. I heard Mrs. Perrin’s husband. He . . . he threatened her. And I heard her scream. And . . .”

  Mom crossed the room. She placed both hands on my shoulders. “I can see you’re in shock about the murder,” Mom said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you about it first thing in the morning when you’re just waking up. Do you want to see a counselor? I can call Dr. Ackerman this morning. It will help if you talk to someone, Connor.”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. I desperately wanted Mom to believe me. But as she stood there studying me, holding me by the shoulders, trying to calm me down, I realized it was impossible. Of course Mom wasn’t going to believe that I heard Anna Perrin’s murder on my radio. Why would anyone believe it?

  I heard a noise at the kitchen table. I turned and saw Nicky sitting there. I didn’t even realize he was in the kitchen. He had oatmeal smeared all over his face. He even had some clumps in his hair. “I spilled a little,” he said.

  Mom grabbed a bunch of paper towels and hurried to clean him up.

  “Hey, listen. I’m okay,” I told her. “I’m going to school. Don’t worry about me, Mom. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  She was bent over Nicky, trying to get him to hold still so she could wipe his face. “Connor? No more crazy radio talk?”

  I nodded. “No more crazy radio talk.”

  • • •

  As soon as I got to school, I pulled Ziggy out of homeroom, dragged him to an empty science lab at the end of the hall, and blurted out the whole story.

  Ziggy laughed. He didn’t believe me either.

  I raised my right hand and swore I was telling the truth. He just stood there staring at me with this amused look on his pudgy face.

  “Ziggy, the woman really was murdered. Why would I make up a crazy story about it?” I demanded.

  He scrunched up his face. “Because you’re weird?”

  “Come to the workshop after school,” I said. “Maybe we can hear something else on the old radio. Something from real life. Then maybe you’ll believe me.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t. No way. My cousin Ivy is sick and Mom is taking me to her house to entertain her.”

  I squinted at him. “Entertain her? How are you going to entertain her?”

  Ziggy shrugged. “Beats me.”

  • • •

  I thought about the radio all day. I knew I hadn’t imagined those voices. I had listened in on an actual murder. The thought gave me the shivers and made my stomach feel as if it were turning somersaults.

  I hurried home after school. Harry was still at work. Mom left a note on the fridge saying she had taken Nicky to his toddler playgroup.

  I darted into the workshop, clicked on all the lights, hoisted myself onto a tall stool at the table, and hunched over the radio, leaning into the yellow-orange glow of the tuning dial. I turned the dial slowly, moving to one end, then the other. Static . . . nothing but whistling and static.

  One more try. I moved the dial slowly, my face close to the speaker.

  I let out a startled cry when a man’s voice erupted in my ear. My hand shot off the dial. I stared at the radio.

  “I think we have a problem,” the man said. I held my breath. I recognized his voice. From last night. Nate Perrin.

  “What kind of problem?” I recognized that voice, too. Nate’s brother Mike.

  “I think we weren’t alone last night,” Nate said, his voice hushed, just above a whisper. “I think someone heard us.”

  His words sent a tight shiver to the back of my neck. I gripped the tabletop. My hands were suddenly cold and wet.

  “Don’t be crazy,” Mike told his brother. “We were alone. There wasn’t anyone in the house. And when we got out of there, there was no one on the street.”

  “Someone heard,” Nate insisted. “There’s a witness. I know it.”

  “Oh wow,” I murmured. Another shiver rolled down my body. I realized I was trembling in fright. This isn’t happening.

  “You’re being paranoid, Nate. Get over yourself. We’ve got real worries,” Mike said. “How long before the police figure out where to find us?”

  “Someone heard everything,” Nate said, ignoring his brother. “That’s a problem we have to take care of. We can’t have a witness, Mike. No way we can have a witness out there.”

  I realized I was still holding my breath. I let it out in a long whoosh. They can’t know about me—can they? They can’t know I was listening. That’s impossible.

  “I think I know how we can find this person,” Nate said. “I think I can track him down. We have to take care of him, Mike. We have to take him out. You know I’m right.”

  “I don’t know you�
�re right. I think you’re talking crazy, Nate. I say we get the plane tickets and get out of here while we have the chance.”

  “I want to see if I can trace who was listening,” Nate said. “Meet me here at eight, okay? Be here at eight sharp. Then you and I can decide what to do.”

  “Okay. Eight sharp. But don’t do anything on your own. Don’t do anything till we decide.”

  “Okay, Mike. No problem. See you here at eight o’clock.”

  The radio went silent. I stood there, staring at the glowing dial, my arms crossed tight in front of me, trying to stop the shudders that shook my body.

  Eight o’clock. I’ve got to be back here at eight. I have to listen to what they decide to do.

  My brain did flip-flops in my head. I kept hearing their voices. Replaying what they said, a jumble of frightening words repeating and repeating in my mind.

  “I have to get help,” I said out loud.

  I clicked off the radio, turned off the lights, and staggered out of the guesthouse, my legs as shaky as Jell-O. Mom’s car was just pulling up the drive. I ran over to it, waving my arms and screaming. “Mom! I’ve got to talk to you! Mom!”

  She rolled down her window. “Connor, take Nicky into the house. I can’t stay. I have to go meet Harry right away. You’ll have to babysit for him.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “Dinner is in the fridge. Just nuke it for three minutes. We’ll be home pretty late. Take care of Nicky, okay?”

  “But Mom, I have to tell you something. About the radio. I just heard—”

  She sighed. “You promised. No crazy radio talk. Remember? I don’t have time now. Get Nicky into the house. I’m already late.”

  My head spinning, I pulled Nicky from the car and led him into the house. I saw Mom back down the drive and roar away.

  I’ll call the police. The words flashed into my mind. I have no choice. I’ll call the police.

  “Can we wrestle now?” Nicky said, wrapping his arms around my leg and trying to pull me down to the floor.

  “No. Not now. Give me a break.” I pried him off me.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll make dinner in a minute,” I said. I handed him Harry’s iPad. “Here. Play with this.” Harry hated for anyone to touch his iPad. But I was desperate.

  Nicky carried it to the couch, plopped down, and started poking things with his finger. I crept to the kitchen, closed the door so he wouldn’t hear, and dialed 911.

  The call didn’t go well.

  The receptionist put me on the line with a gravelly voiced police officer. As soon as I told him I heard the murder last night on the radio, he started shouting. “Is this a school psych experiment?” he demanded. “Or is it just your idea of a funny prank? Did you know there’s a very strict penalty for interfering with a police investigation?”

  I apologized and hung up. I hugged myself to stop the trembling. You weren’t thinking clearly, Connor, I told myself. What made you think any police officer would believe you?

  I had no choice. I had to be in front of that radio at eight o’clock. Then I would hear my fate. Then I would hear if I really was in serious danger. Maybe Nate and Mike will decide I’m not worth bothering about. Maybe they’ll go to the airport instead and make their escape.

  Eight o’clock. I had to be at that radio at eight.

  I gave Nicky dinner. I picked at my food a little, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach was doing somersaults again. I tried to act normal. I wrestled with the kid for a while after dinner, but I kept my eye on the clock the whole time.

  He wasn’t into it, either. He was cranky and tired from his playgroup. He went a little berserk, punching me as hard as he could in the stomach with both fists. I tucked him into bed a little after seven thirty, and he barely protested.

  A few minutes later the little guy was sound asleep. Not a care in the world. I checked the kitchen clock. Ten till eight. I crept out the kitchen door.

  It was a windy night. The trees were shivering and shaking, making whispery sounds like in one of those cornball horror movies. The swirling gusts made the lawn tilt one way, then the other.

  I was halfway across the backyard when I realized the lights were on in the guesthouse.

  I froze. I could feel my heart leap to my throat.

  Nate and Mike are already there. Waiting for me. They didn’t wait till eight o’clock.

  The wind blew a string of scratchy dry leaves around my ankles. The trees suddenly stopped whispering. I squinted into the front window. A shadow moved inside the workshop.

  “Waiting for me,” I murmured.

  I turned back to the house. Should I make a run for it? What about Nicky? I couldn’t leave him alone. And . . . I couldn’t call the police. I’d already blown my chances with them.

  Nate and Mike tracked me down. They know I heard them. They know I heard the whole thing. And now they’re here waiting for me.

  I stood frozen, my brain spinning, unable to think straight, unable to move. Then, without realizing it, I took a trembling step toward the guesthouse. My eyes gazing into the yellow light of the front window, I took another step.

  The door swung open.

  And I screamed.

  “Connor? What’s your problem?” Ziggy shouted.

  He stood in the light from the workshop, his big body nearly filling the doorway.

  “Ziggy? You’re here?” My voice came out tiny and shrill, like a baby’s cry.

  “I got home from Ivy’s house and came right over,” he said. “Been waiting for you. Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  My heart refused to stop pounding. My legs felt rubbery and weak, but I managed to cross the lawn to the doorway. Of course, I was relieved to see Ziggy. But I knew my problems weren’t over. “Is it eight o’clock yet?” I asked. “Is it?”

  Ziggy nodded. “Almost.” He pulled out his phone and glanced at it. “Yes. Almost eight.”

  “The radio—” I murmured. I could barely form words. “Eight o’clock. The radio.”

  I pushed past him into the workshop. He followed close behind me. “I thought I’d get a head start,” he said. He motioned to the worktable.

  It took my eyes a few seconds to focus in the bright light. And then I started to choke. “You—you—you didn’t!”

  “I took the old radio apart,” Ziggy said. “So now we can put it back together. Do you believe all these glass tubes and weird wires?”

  I stared at the radio parts scattered over the table. My legs started to fold. I sank onto the stool next to him. I could feel the blood throbbing at my temples. The whole room spun in front of me.

  “Hey—what’s wrong with you, Connor?” Ziggy asked. “Why do you look so weird?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer.

  I heard the soft scrape of footsteps outside. And then a pounding knock knock knock on the guesthouse door.

  “Who’s that?” Ziggy asked.

  R. L. Stine is one of the bestselling children’s authors in history. His Goosebumps and Fear Street series have sold more than 400 million copies around the world. He has had several TV series based on his work, and the Goosebumps movie stars Jack Black as R. L. Stine himself. Bob lives in New York City with his wife, Jane, an editor and publisher.

  Website: rlstine.com

  Twitter: @RL_Stine

  Facebook: facebook.com/rlstine

  * * *

  Rites of Passage

  JADE SHAMES

  * * *

  Sparrow

  “Yesterday,” said Kelsey, “I saw a sparrow fly around the living room.”

  I was fourteen, but even then I knew

  there was no sparrow.

  At a sleepover in the dark,

  I listened to the way her body hushed,

  and she told me a secret—

  that she could see the colors in music.

  She put on “Hey Jupiter.”

  It was this song

  that really hit
her hard.

  The twisting, unpredictable piano,

  a witchy female voice sang in delirium.

  I should have known these were the warning signs

  of some form of psychosis.

  But I was just a boy,

  and she was my friend,

  a little older,

  telling me about things to expect,

  and introducing me to new music.

  After losing touch with her for many years,

  I bumped into a friend who told me she had died

  of a drug overdose after a long battle with insanity.

  My immediate instinct was to act,

  but I probably won’t.

  I won’t petition

  or picket for anything,

  or build a foundation,

  raise awareness,

  start a war.

  But what’s weird is this daydream I keep having

  where I fly into her living room,

  and even though this is in the past,

  I’m not a boy anymore,

  and there is Kelsey, picking apart her furniture,

  and I place my hand on her head,

  and lean in and whisper something I can’t quite hear

  but I know it’s absolutely the most perfect thing—

  my whispering acting like water on the fire pit of her mind

  she breaks apart into a flock of wild birds,

  and the rustling of feathers is like applause,

  and each bird flutters out the open windows,

  and falls upward

  all the way to Jupiter.

  Thinking of Kelsey, and how she went to high school one year before I did and said that it was horrible, and how many years later she overdosed on Benadryl in a bathroom because she believed werewolves were waiting for her outside, but really it was a schizophrenic relapse.

  Somehow

  this is what I can’t

  wrap my head around:

  She was older

  than me. And now,

  I am the one

  who is older.

  Trench Coats

  It was the five of us loitering in my friend’s backyard, which was less a yard

  and more of a concrete pit and a compost heap.

  There was a view of a bank and a used car lot