Dead End Street Page 5

  And then, just like in the story, the mournful cry of a wolf rose.

  And the sound came from upstairs.

  Everyone, without a word, jumped to their feet and ran…ran without looking back, out of the house.

  * * *

  It’s difficult to stop the laughter. It hurts my throat, this laughing, almost feeling as if something is being scraped away inside me. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed.

  If I had known howling like a wolf would have gotten rid of them so easily, I would have done it a long time ago.

  CHAPTER 5

  David’s Tale

  David looked around at the group members, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “I don’t want there to be any interruptions. Understood?” The way he paced, he looked like some sort of kid drill sergeant—commanding, yet a little absurd. Everyone was there to hear his story, anyway, so the prepared speech, if that’s what it was, really wasn’t necessary. But they knew, and had known for a long time, David was all about power and control.

  The group had gathered right after school for this particular meeting, so they were dressed a little less casually than they might have been if they had taken the time to go home and change. Roy was wearing a blue Oxford cloth shirt and khakis. (His mother had told him that he looked “just adorable,” and Roy had felt pangs of shame all day.) Erin wore a black-and-white striped blouse with a black mini skirt; Roy had been unable to look at little else. Peter had on blue jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt with the legend “Ohio State” emblazoned across the front in big, scarlet letters. Marlene was the only one who probably would not have changed. She wore a big, shapeless, black sweatshirt and black tights with black combat boots.

  Like Marlene, David had spent much time working on his story. He didn’t want anyone calling him a slacker. He also didn’t want anyone thinking his story was anything less than the best in the group. He had stayed up late in his room after his father had gone to bed, working on it. He knew that his dad, had the older man known that he was writing, would have called him a sissy and accused him of wasting his time on “artsy fartsy” stuff when he could be doing something more productive. David still remembered the fit his father had thrown when his mother signed him up for art lessons three years ago, before the cancer took her away. “What do you want to do, Sally?” his father had raged at his cowering mother. “Make the boy grow up into some kind of interior decorator or something?”

  The art lessons had fallen by the wayside. David knew, even back then, that any artistic leanings would be met with derision by his father.

  So, working by candlelight, David had produced his story…writing, rewriting, and polishing until he was certain (almost) that it was the best it could be.

  * * *

  Erin had protested after their last meeting that they should stop getting together at the Tuttle house. Last week, when they had heard the howl, everyone but David had agreed with her. The four friends had thought it was too risky since they had heard the same noise and knew it was something more than “the wind.”

  But David would not be denied. Over lunch in the school cafeteria two days ago, he had accused them of being wimps. “Look at you all,” he had sneered. “Wanted to form a Halloween Horror Club and a dog howls outside and you’re all ready to run away with your tails tucked between your legs.”

  “That dog, or whatever it was, was inside that house,” Marlene countered. “The sound came from upstairs.” She stared back at David with defiance as if daring him to challenge her.

  “Well, just to make sure you little babies have nothing to be afraid of, I took the liberty of checking things out on my own.” David knew he was lying, but he didn’t want to lose the same opportunity Peter, Marlene, and Erin had to tell his story in the Tuttle house. “I went over there last night, by myself, and checked things out, upstairs and downstairs.”

  Everyone stared at him, and David took pleasure in the surprise—and maybe admiration?—in their faces. “There was nothing there. And”—David added to make things even more believable—”I heard the howling again.” He paused to let the effect of what he had just said sink in. “There was an old dog, some sort of Labrador mix, out behind the house. He was mangy and blind in one eye. I think he probably lives in the woods and scrounges for food. He was probably just pissed that the place where he sleeps had been invaded by kids.”

  David could see the unease that the whole group had experienced since last week’s meeting deflate. He hoped his small white lie wouldn’t bring them all to a bad end. He tried to ignore the nagging guilt at the back of his mind. Guilt that the howl had come from upstairs, just as Marlene had said, and maybe his own arrogance was putting them all in danger.

  * * *

  But there was no time to think of that now. It was story time, and David wanted to scare them all…to death.

  “The title of my story is ‘Scared to Death,’” David began and grinned. He took the sheets of paper he had printed out that morning after one final spell check. He had gone over the story so many times, he really didn’t need this “hard copy” draft, but turning the pages would give him a way to channel the nervous energy pulsing through him.

  David cleared his throat and began reading.

  “Melvin sunk down into the darkness of the State Theatre, letting the shadows cover him, wishing the tiny orange lights lining the walls would go out, too. If you happened to be coming up the aisle, you might miss Melvin as you passed by on a popcorn or Jujube run. But if you had seen him, all you’d notice would be a startlingly white forehead topped with bristles of red hair going in different directions. Melvin didn’t like to be aware that other people were around when he went to the movies, and he didn’t like anyone to be aware that he was around.

  “The movies were a special place for thirteen-year-old Melvin. He always saw at least one on Saturday. He’d been known to take in as many as four. All the same kind: horror. He saw them all—vampires, werewolves, aliens, mad slashers. They gave him what he craved: seeing people afraid. His eyes shone in the darkness when there was a close-up of a terrified face, a dying scream.

  “Lately, the movies hadn’t been enough for him. Long after his mother fell asleep, Melvin would slip out into the night cloaked in an outfit he had made for one purpose only: inspiring fear.

  “On this night, shadows from moonlight on leaves, branches, the geometry of small town architecture, played upon cool paved streets. The darkness had a quality similar to the movies Melvin watched every Saturday, flickering as the silver moon disappeared and returned, hiding behind strands of navy blue clouds.

  “Melvin watched the night from his attic window, thinking its drama was perfect for his intent, then turned his attention back to his room. It had a sloping ceiling which Melvin had painted black. Small rubber bats hung from the rafters by invisible thread. At one end of the room sat a black-and-white framed still of Bela Lugosi in Dracula, lit from below by a small, red desk lamp.

  “Melvin sat in front of a black vanity table and switched on the lamp to his right. He had replaced the standard twenty-five watt bulb with a red bulb, and he was pleased with the effect it had on his reflection. It darkened the wild red hue of his hair making it appear almost black. From his drawer, he removed a tube of clown white makeup and began smoothing it on his skin, giving his already ashen pallor an even whiter sheen. Next, he took out deep brown eye shadow and filled in dark rings around his small eyes. Finally, with a tube of bright red lipstick, Melvin lined his lips. In the gloomy room his face appeared to hang in the air, ghostly and disembodied.

  “He went to his bed and picked up a long black cape lined in red satin that he had found in a thrift store three months before. Pulling on the cape’s ties, Melvin closed it, then set out.”

  David paused, trying to gauge the group’s reaction to his story. Everyone was rapt, which was just what he had planned. He also paused to let them all know the scene had shifted, then went on.

  “Phyllis Hartfield hadn�
�t had a decent night’s sleep since her husband, George, had passed away eight months ago. The bed felt weightless with Phyllis alone in it. George had been a big man and had weighed down his side of the bed so much that Phyllis had always rolled toward him. Throughout thirty-five years of marriage, the two had slept close, bodies touching.

  “Now, lying against the goose down pillow, Phyllis watched the night sky through her window. The moon was brilliant and full. Even from her bed, Phyllis could make out its craters. In between the changing striations of the clouds, she connected the stars making up the Big Dipper.

  “Almost before she heard the noise, Phyllis stiffened in her bed. Downstairs, the back door closed with a gentle click. Phyllis knew exactly what that sound was and sat up in bed. She scanned the room, her eyes long used to the darkness, looking for a place to hide should the need arise.

  “There was the familiar creak of the cellar door opening. Moments later, when she tried to turn on the bedside lamp, Phyllis understood what the intruder wanted in the basement—the fuse box. The darkness was complete, an accomplice, as a bank of clouds slid into position covering the moon.

  “The stairs didn’t creak until someone got to the top. Phyllis knew, even before she heard the creak, that the prowler was coming up the stairs. She watched the almost glowing whiteness of her bedroom door, waiting.”

  David moved to the other side of the room as he shifted his story’s perspective.

  “Melvin stood outside the door, his heart racing. He had been staking out old lady Hartfield since the beginning of September. Now, at the end of the month, he was familiar with her habits.

  “He reached out his hand—also covered with clown white, his nails grown long and painted black—and placed it on the doorknob. Opening the door, he viewed a scene almost too perfect. The old woman was already terrified. She was sitting up, her back rigid against a wooden headboard. This, Melvin knew, would be one of the easy ones…so simple to fill the old lady with terror. He took a step toward her. She seemed to almost lean into the wood, her hand raised to cover her gaping mouth.

  “Melvin moved quickly until he was next to the bed. Then, taking the outer edge of the cape in hand, he raised the material high, making himself appear like a bat, like Bela Lugosi in Dracula.

  “Mrs. Hartfield screamed.

  “Melvin flung back his head and laughed. The sound was deep, copied from Vincent Price. And yet, Melvin’s voice was adolescent, giving it a disturbing edge as it cracked and became both a witch’s cackle and demonic.

  “Her eyes widened.

  “Melvin leaned forward, his garishly made-up face close to her, still laughing.

  “Putting up a quivering hand, she whispered, her voice gone hoarse from terror. ‘Please…no.’

  “Making claws of his hands, Melvin brought them closer…closer to her face.

  “The old woman slumped. Her eyes stared, unblinking, at the ceiling.

  “It was Melvin’s turn to be afraid. He shook her. Her chest did not move. He leaned close, pressing his ear to her chest, listening.

  “He heard nothing.

  “Melvin dashed into the night, wanting to be swallowed in darkness.

  “Phyllis Hartfield lay still. On the bodice of her blue nightgown was the white outline of an ear.

  “Two mornings later, gray light illuminated the chrome of countertops, stove, and refrigerator. Melvin sat with his mother, Clara, in their kitchen. She was drinking a cup of black coffee while Melvin stared into a bowl of corn flakes.

  “‘Eat,’ his mother said. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  “Melvin met her dark eyes with his own. Reluctantly, he pushed a spoonful of soggy cereal into his mouth.

  “She scanned lines of type in the morning paper with her long fingernails. Her lips moved slightly as her finger made its way along the words. At one point, it rushed across the page. She paused and looked at her son. ‘Says here, Mrs. Hartfield died.’

  “Underneath the table, Melvin gripped his chair, looking down to see his knuckles had gone bloodless.

  “‘Hmph, says she just up and died in her sleep.’ His mother smiled and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I guess that’s the way to go.’

  “Melvin let loose a huge breath of air.

  “On his way to school, Melvin felt a pull to the State Theatre. The new movies always started on Monday, and Melvin took the long way to school so he would pass the building.

  “He stopped in front of the theatre. They were showing Dracula…a newer version with Natalie Portman and Bill Murray. Melvin glanced at his watch. Classes were due to start in fifteen minutes. And an early bird special—only $5.50!—started in a half hour.

  “Melvin had only the slightest hesitation. And he experienced that because of what had happened the other night with Mrs. Hartfield. He thought that maybe his little personal theater of fear had gone too far. Even as these thoughts filled his mind, his feet carried him across the street to Don’s Coffee Shop to wait for the ticket booth to open.

  “Time spent hunched over black coffee passed slowly, but finally an overweight woman with glasses pulled aside the beige curtains in the ticket booth. Melvin hurried across the street, paid his money, and went inside.

  “The theatre was dark and empty, but to Melvin it felt more like home than the small house he shared with his mother. He took a middle seat in an aisle close to the screen, waiting for the movie to start.

  “As the screen filled with images, Melvin found for the first time that he was unable to concentrate. He remembered Mrs. Hartfield, the delicious terror on her face as he had closed in on her. Then nausea rose when he recalled again and again how she had slumped to one side and died. How could something so monumental be so lacking in drama?

  “Melvin felt the whisper of a touch on his shoulder. The feathery sensation made his skin crawl, and he turned quickly.

  “No one was there.

  “Melvin looked back to the screen. The images seemed even more disconnected.

  “Warm air brushed his neck. Melvin gripped the wooden armrests, heart pounding. Suddenly he stood and looked at the floor behind his seat, then under the chair. An old man three or four rows behind him leaned dramatically to his left, hinting Melvin was blocking his view. Melvin ignored him and continued peering over his chair at the floor.

  “But no one was there.”

  David took a break and sipped from a water bottle he’d brought in from his bike. He tried to gauge his friends’ expressions. Were they still interested? The story was long, but he thought it was good. At least better than any of the second-rate crap the rest of them had presented so far.

  “Clouds had promised rain the entire day. Finally that night, at half-past midnight, the promise was made good. From his attic window, Melvin watched the low, dark clouds gather. Lightning and thunder raged. Rain came with fury, pelting his triangular window, blurring the lights of the small town below him.

  “Normally, such weather would excite Melvin, spurring his imagination. Before Mrs. Hartfield, this would have been a perfect evening to creep outside, a costume straight out of a B-rated horror movie concealed beneath his rain poncho, and terrify someone, someone alone who was already scared by the weather. Maybe a child.

  “But tonight he sat rigid at his window. His small repertoire of costumes hung, spurned, in his closet.

  “He could not rid himself of the terror. The feel of the hand, the breath. Both had been undeniably real.

  “After getting up, he walked to his bed. As he passed his mirror, Phyllis Hartfield appeared on its surface, staring out at him. She smiled.

  “Melvin screamed.

  “Moments later, he heard footsteps on the winding staircase leading to his room. Knocking. His mother’s voice came from the hall. ‘Melvin, what’s the matter?’

  “He looked once more into the glass. Mrs. Hartfield was gone, but there was a hairline crack down the center of the mirror where her image had been.

  “Melvin collapsed on the bed, c
urling into a tight ball, and pulled the covers up over his head.

  “Three mornings later, dawn found Melvin resembling one of his own horror movie creations. His whitish skin had become even more ashen, his red hair was so dry it looked like brush bristles, and his eyes were sunken, surrounded by deep brown rings.

  “Melvin had not slept for three nights. And for those three nights, he had kept a vigil, watching for Mrs. Hartfield. She showed herself only once more. His mirror bore another hairline crack where she had made her moments-long appearance, clothed in the blue nightgown she had worn the night of her death. She gestured at the slightly smeared imprint of Melvin’s clown white ear on her bodice.

  “Melvin had scanned the newspapers once more to see if there was any suspicion of foul play. However, her death was blandly listed as just another case of heart failure among the elderly.

  “There was no relief. He waited for her to appear again. The vigil was filled with expectation, heavy with the promise of the unknown. He lay on his bed, staring at the two cracks, knowing that in those cracks lay the answer to his fears.

  “A week passed with no evening visits from Mrs. Hartfield. Melvin surmised she was through with him. He dressed in his hooded monk’s robe, painted his face black, and crept out into a pitch and cloudy night. His destination: the home of Mary Lou Weatherspoon, his classmate at West Junior High. Her bedroom was accessible by a maple tree growing near her window.

  “Melvin sent Mary Lou into a screaming fit so loud that her parents awakened. He slid down the tree, skinning himself in the process, while Mr. Weatherspoon glared at him from Mary Lou’s open window. The older man screamed at Melvin, ‘I’ll get you, you son of a bitch!’

  “With his heart pounding, Melvin held his robe high above the brick streets as he ran home. The wind picked up.