The First Horror (9 page)

Cally changed into a long nightshirt. Then she went down to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she finished, she noticed the light still on in James’s room. She made her over to it and peeked in. He was in his pajamas, standing beside his bed, a picture book in one hand. “Read me this story,” he demanded, seeing Cally in the doorway. “Huh?” Cally stepped into the room. The air was hot and stuffy, warmer than in the hall. “Let’s open a window in here,” she said. “No—don’t!” James cried, his eyes wide. He moved to block Cally’s path to the window. “Don’t—please!” “Okay, okay,” Cally said softly, stopping beside him. “Why don’t you want the window open?” “I just don’t,” he replied. He’s afraid, she realized. James never used to be afraid of anything. But now … “Read me this.” He shoved the book into her hand. Cally glanced at the cover. The picture book was called Pug, the Ugly Bunny. “Read it. Sit here.” James climbed into bed and patted the mattress at his side.

“But this is a baby book,” Cally protested. “You haven’t read this book in at least five years. And now you can read it yourself.” “Please read it to me,” he asked in a tiny, pleading voice. Cally felt as if she might burst into tears. Poor James, she thought. He’s trying to go back to being a baby. Everything has frightened him so much, he’s trying to go back to when things were happy. Happy and safe. With a sob, she threw her arms around his slender body, pulled him close, and hugged him. He felt so fragile, so delicate. James didn’t make any effort to free himself. He just repeated, “The story. Please read it to me.” Cally let go of him and wiped the tears off her cheeks with her hands. Then she settled next to her brother on his narrow bed and read the picture book to him as if he were two instead of nine. After she finished reading, she set the book down, said good night, and made her way from the room. She stopped in the doorway to peer back at him. James had picked up the book and was silently reading through it again. Shaking her head, Cally turned and slowly made her way down the narrow hall to her room. Cally felt like crying again as she thought of James, of how fearful he had become, how pitifully fearful. She had no way of knowing that she would never see her brother again.

Dear Diary,. My poor brother. I’m so worried about him. He has started acting like a total baby. A few minutes ago he made me read him a picture book he hasn’t read since he was three. And he has become afraid of everything. He is even afraid to have his bedroom window open at night. James was never like that before. This house is changing all of us. Mom has become so quiet, so withdrawn. She barely says a word. Most nights she goes to her room right after dinner and just lies in bed in the dark. When I asked her if she wanted to come with me to the mall to start looking for school clothes, she just shook her head and walked away. I’m worried the most about Dad. He spends hours pacing back and forth, talking to himself like a crazy person. Sometimes he stares at us with this weird expression on his face, as if he doesn’t recognize us. He keeps talking about how he’s going to find that real estate agent Mr. Lurie and get our money back. But he knows that’s impossible. Then Dad will start talking about how he’s going to fix this place up, get it in really good shape. Paint it and everything. As if that’s going to help. There’s evil here. Real evil I know I sound like Kody. But I have to admit that Kody was right. The stones Anthony told us—about the Fears and the people they murdered and buried under our house, and about the poor family who built the house—they must be true. Oh, Anthony, will I ever see you again? I called the hospital tonight, but his mother came on the phone. She was very cold to me. She said Anthony didn’t want to talk to me and didn’t want to see me.

I guess I can’t blame him. I practically forced him to come here. And then …

Cally stopped writing when she heard the first high-pitched cry. Holding her pen above the diary page, as if frozen in place, she tilted her head and listened. “Mommy! Daddy!” The pen fell from her hand as she shoved the desk chair back and leapt to her feet. The cries were coming from James’s room. Shrill, frightened cries. Is he having a nightmare? Cally wondered. James had terrible nightmares when he was little. Sometimes he would wake up two or three times a night, screaming and crying. But he hadn’t had bad dreams for years, “Mommy! Daddy! Come get me!” Lurching toward the door, Cally stubbed her toe on the leg of the desk. She cried out in pain and hopped the rest of the way. “James—what’s the matter?” she heard her father calling. Heavy footsteps. More cries. Kody appeared in the hall, rubbing her eyes. Cally’s mother appeared from her bedroom, hurrying after Mr. Frasier. “Mommy, where are you?” James’s cry sounded tiny, far away. Ignoring the throbbing pain that shot up her leg, Cally hobbled after the others. Down the hall to James’s room. “James?” Mrs. Frasier choked out. Cally stopped in the doorway. Her father clicked on the ceiling light, “James? Where are you?” The first thing Cally saw was the picture book about the ugly bunny. It was carefully propped up against James’s pillow. But the sheets and blankets were tossed on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Mommy? Are you there? Daddy?” Cally could hear James’s voice so clearly. He was there in the room with them. But where? “James—are you hiding? Where are you, James?” Mrs. Frasier’s voice trembled. Her eyes were red rimmed, wide with fear. “Come get me, Mommy. It’s dark here. It’s very dark here” James’s words sent a cold shiver down Cally’s back. She saw Kody gasp and raise her hand to her mouth. “Come get me—please!” James begged. “Where are you, James?” Mrs. Frasier cried. “Please—tell us where you are!” “It’s too dark here. It’s too dark, Mommy!” Cally’s father tore desperately at the sheets, jerking them off the bed. He lurched to the closet and pulled open the door. “James?” Kody dropped to the floor and searched under the bed. Mr. Frasier moved frantically to the window and peered out. “Where are you, son?” “Come get me. Please—come get me. I’m scared, Daddy.” “Just tell us where you are!” Cally’s mother shrieked, tugging at her hair with both hands. “Tell us, James! Tell us where you are!” “It’s so dark here, Mommy. I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be here, Mommy. Come get me!” “Tell us, James!” Mrs. Frasier shrieked in a terrified voice Cally had never heard before. “Tell us where you are!” Silence. Cally gripped the doorframe, her hands as cold as ice, her heart thudding in her chest. “James? Where are you?” Mrs. Frasier repeated, sobbing.

“I’m coming to get you, James,” Cally’s father said, searching the closet again, ducking low to look under the computer table. “Don’t worry. I’m coming. Just tell me where you are.” “I’m right here, Daddy. I’m right here,” the tiny, frightened voice said. “It’s real dark here. I’m afraid. Please come get me. Please!” “Where?” Mr. Frasier repeated desperately. “Where? Where?” Cally jumped, startled, as her mother let out a shrill scream. “He’s there!” Mrs. Frasier shrieked, pointing. “He’s right there!”

“Huh? Where?” Mr. Frasier turned to gape at his wife. Cally’s mother pointed furiously. “There! James is right there!” Cally didn’t see anything. Her mother was pointing to thin air. “He’s there! Get him! Get James!” Mrs. Frasier insisted. “But I don’t see—” Mr. Frasier started to say, his eyes dancing wildly behind his glasses, his hands balled into tense fists at his sides. “In the wall! He’s in the wall!” Cally’s mother screamed, pointing. “Come get me. It’s too dark in here.” James’s voice sounded even softer now, more frightened. With a frantic cry, Cally’s father began clawing at the wallpaper. “I’m coming, James! Daddy is coming!” Kody moved quickly. She grabbed her father by the shoulders and struggled to pull him back. “Daddy—your hands!” Mr. Frasier’s fingers were cut and bleeding. “He’s in the wall! Get him! Get him out of there!” Mrs. Frasier shrieked, still tugging her hair. “We need tools! A sledgehammer!” Mr. Frasier declared. “I—I’ll get it,” Cally said hesitantly. She felt so helpless, standing in the doorway, gripped with terror, watching the horror sweep over her family. “I’ll get the sledgehammer.” Before she even realized what she was doing, Cally was running barefoot down the creaking stairs toward the back hall. Pulling open the basement door. Clicking on the dim light Making her way down the steep wooden stairs. The concrete basement floor felt so cold under her bare feet. The sledgehammer, she thought. Where? Her eyes searched desperately over the cluttered floor. The moving floor. The squirming floor. Moving? “Ohhhh.” Cally uttered a low cry as the rats came into focus. At least a dozen of them, their tiny eyes red in the dim light, their snakelike tails sweeping along the floor as they squirmed and scuttled. Why hasn’t Mr. Hankers killed them yet? Cally wondered, gaping at the disgusting creatures, trembling all over. Why are there still so many rats? Cally spotted a sledgehammer and iron pick leaning against the basement wall. As she started toward them, the rats all stopped moving. Cally froze. The rats reared up on their hind legs, their red eyes trained menacingly on her. They’re going to attack, Cally realized. A wave of fear made her entire body convulse in a cold shudder. A shrill hissing sound rose up from the staring-rats. A warning cry? A call to battle?

With a desperate wail, Cally lurched to the wall. Grabbed the sledgehammer. Then she spun around, turning to the rats. She raised the heavy hammer high with both hands. The rats didn’t move. The red eyes glowed brightly. Their shrill hissing grew louder. Are they going to attack? Are they going to charge all at once? Slowly, Cally lowered the sledgehammer. She grabbed the metal pick. Then she sucked in a deep breath—and plunged back toward the stairs. The shrill rat hiss pierced the air, a deafening, terrifying sound. Cally struggled to ignore it as she stumbled up the stairs, dragging the heavy tools with her. Her heart pounding so hard it hurt, she reached the top and slammed the door behind her. At last, the hissing stopped. Cally swallowed hard. She hurried through the darkness, carrying the sledgehammer and pick. Up the stairs. She could hear her mother’s loud sobs as she reached the second-floor landing. And she could hear her father’s frantic shouts. “We’re coming, James. Hold on. Hold on. We’re coming.” Her father grabbed the sledgehammer from Cally. He dove toward the wall and began slamming it wildly against the dark wallpaper. “We’re coming, James! We’re coming] Daddy’s coming now!” he shouted as he worked. Dropping the hammer, he grabbed the pick and tore through the wallpaper. Then clawed away at the plaster underneath. Cally sank down beside her sister on James’s bed, watching her father’s desperate stabs at the wall. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap, Cally fought back the waves of nausea that rose up from her stomach. Kody was breathing hard, gasping with each breath, her arms crossed tightly, protectively, around her chest. Mrs. Frasier stood hunched against the far wall, sobbing loudly, shaking her head and moaning. “I’m coming! Daddy’s coming, James!” The plaster cracked. Large chunks fell away, dropping over Mr. Frasier’s bare feet and onto the bedroom floor. Sweat stained the back of his pajama top as he worked. He groaned and cried out with each swipe at the wall. “James—can you hear me? I’m coming for you! I’m almost there!” And then Cally saw the last chunk of plaster fall away. Groaning, Mr. Frasier took a step back. They all stared at the gaping black hole he had made. The empty black hole. “James?” Mr. Frasier called breathlessly, his chest heaving. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “James?” Silence. Cally leapt to her feet. She crossed the room, pushed past her dazed, exhausted father, and stuck her head into the hole in the wall. “Can you see him?” she heard her mother call. “Is he in there?” Cally pulled her head back. “It’s—empty,” she choked out. “But, Cally—” Mrs. Frasier started. “Empty. Just a hole,” Cally muttered. Mr. Frasier let the sledgehammer fall heavily to the floor. He let out a long sigh. “Daddy! Mommy! Where are you?” The tiny cry made everyone jump. “James?” Cally turned back to the wall.

“I’m afraid. I’m really afraid. Come get me!” The voice wasn’t coming from the wall. “He—he’s downstairs!” Kody stammered, pointing. “Yes!” Mrs, Frasier’s expression brightened “I can hear him! In the living room!” She turned and stumbled out into the hall. “James! James— are you down there?” Cally’s father picked up the tools and lumbered after her. Cally and Kody exchanged frightened glances. “None of us is getting out of here alive,” Kody muttered, her green eyes clouded with fear. “We have to find him!” Cally insisted in a trembling voice. “We have to!” As they hurried into the hall, they heard their mother’s scream. Then they heard the heavy thump of a body falling down the stairs. Then silence.

Cally got to the top of the stairs a few steps ahead of Kody. Staring to the bottom, she saw her mother sprawled on the floor, on her side, her body twisted at an impossible angle. Mr. Frasier was bent over her, frantically squeezing her hands. “Is Mom okay?” “Did she fall? Is she all right?” The girls’ voices competed from the top of the stairs. Cally swallowed hard. Her mother wasn’t moving. Wasn’t moving at all. “Is she okay? Is she?” Finally their mother stirred. “My arm,” she moaned. “My arm hurts so much.” Mr. Frasier gently rolled her onto her back, exposing her right arm, which had been bent underneath her. “I—I think it’s broken,” Mrs. Frasier said through gritted teeth. “Mommy! Daddy! Where are you?” James’s high-pitched cry made Mr. Frasier let go of his wife’s hand and climb to his feet “James? Are you here?” “Ohhh, my arm.” Mrs. Frasier struggled to sit up. Cally and Kody dashed down the stairs to help her. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” Cally told her mother. “No!” Mrs. Frasier protested. “I can’t leave! I cant leave until we find James!” She winced in pain. Cally glanced at the torn sleeve of her mother’s nightgown. “Mom! Your arm—” The jagged bone was poking through the tear in her mother’s sleeve. “I can’t leave! I can’t leave!” Mrs. Frasier shrieked. “Mommy—where are you? Come get me!” “He’s up in the ceiling!” Mr. Frasier declared, raising his eyes to the high living room ceiling. “Are you up there, James? I can hear you up there!” “Hey! I found Cubby!” they heard James exclaim. “Here, Cubby. Here, Cubby. I found Cubby!” Cally could hear the puppy barking behind James’s shrill cries. “Yes! He’s up in the ceiling!” Mr. Frasier declared breathlessly, his eyes dancing crazily in his head. “Dad—” Cally grabbed her father’s shoulder. “Mom’s arm—we have to get her to the hospital. The bone—it’s—” “No!” He jerked out of her grasp. “I have to get James. He’s right up there!” He pointed to the ceiling. “Daddy, I found Cubby!” The voice did sound as if it were coming from above their heads. “But Mom’s arm—!” Cally protested.