The Most Frightening Story Ever Told (19 page)

The night before the day of the reading, Mr. Rapscallion was feeling very nervous and a little bit depressed about what would happen the next day.

So he telephoned his psychiatrist, Dr. Stundenweise, for some mental health advice.

“I feel very
tense,
Dr. Stundenweise,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “
Tense.
Like something awful is going to happen. Very
tense.
If only there was some way of getting this feeling out of my system. Then I might be able to relax. And stop feeling so
tense.
And if I could relax, then I might not be so
anxious
about reading the story tomorrow. And who knows? If I can relax, then I might even be able to make the scary story sound a lot more scary than it seems to me right now.”

Dr. Stundenweise, who was from Austria and spoke with a strong Austrian accent, gave Mr. Rapscallion the same useful shrink-wrapped advice he always gave him:

“When you're feeling
blue,
this is what you
do;
you write a little
song,
which might just fix what's
wrong.
Music soothes the savage
breast,
and gives your anxious mind a
rest,
from everything that ails and
bothers;
and, my fee is fifty
dollars.
”

“Of course,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Why didn't I think of that before? That's what I did when those hooligans destroyed my mummy. That's what I'll do now. I'll write a little song. Thanks a lot, Dr. Stundenweise.”

So Mr. Rapscallion went to the piano and spent the whole night with pencils and music paper, composing a new song to help get himself into the best frame of mind for what was to come.

The next morning Elizabeth and Mercedes found Mr. Rapscallion asleep, with his head resting on the piano lid. Mercedes thought he looked a bit like Beethoven after a hard night on the staves, and so she took a picture of him with one of her cameras.

The camera flash awoke Mr. Rapscallion, who yawned and stretched for a while. And after a reviving cup of coffee and a muffin, he sang his new song to the two young ladies.

“Scaring the Kids,” a song by Rexford Rapscallion

If there was one thing I did enjoy

When I was just a little boy

It was my dad telling me a story

About something very gory

And a creature who was vile.

When I shrieked it made him smile,

Yes, it's fun scaring the kids.

Now, a tale about a ghost

Was the thing I loved the most.

My dad was quite a storyteller

For a nervous little fellow.

He might sound a crazy coot,

Because my screaming made him hoot

But, you know, it's fun scaring the kids.

Please don't ever look under the bed,

Or check out things that go bump in the night.

They can really mess with your head

And give you a terrible fright.

At six I wanted to see a ghost.

At ten what I wanted most

Was a haunted house to call my home.

And while it might sound gruesome,

My parents did the next best thing,

And hung up some sheets with bits of string,

To have some fun scaring the kids.

I'm older now but just the same

When I hear a kid exclaim

I'm spooked, I get a kick.

Please don't think me sick

If I hide and then say “Boo!”

For me it's like a how d'you do,

I'm just a guy who likes to scare the kids.

Wake up, hush, d'you hear that moan?

And what is this coming up the stair?

Did you see it move, the tombstone?

D'you think there's something here that isn't there?

Now the message of this little song,

Is that there's nothing really wrong

With inflicting harmless terror.

Yet some think it an error

And want to wrap their kids in cashmere wool

They just don't get the fact it's cool

To have fun scaring the kids.

There are some kids who like to say

That nothing scares us anyway,

It's all a yawn, a waste of time,

Stories really are not worth a dime,

There are no mysteries anymore,

This modern world is such a bore.

It's no fun scaring those kids.

There are no ghosts, there are no ghouls,

This is what we're told in schools.

It's sad to say but education

Shows a failure of imagination.

If the world is just a scientific place

We take the magic from the human race.

There's more to us than meets the eye.

And if I'm forced to specify

My argument's hypothesis,

It's the wisdom of scaring the kids.

Yes, and if I'm forced to specify

My argument's hypothesis,

It's the wisdom of scaring the kids.

It was a dark and stormy night. Again. For which Mr. Rapscallion was very grateful to whoever was in charge of Hitchcock's weather. Scary weather is useful stuff for making a story seem a lot more scary than it is. Thunder makes children jump. And lightning makes even a kind face seem frightful. Wind can moan like a ghost. And rain on a windowpane can sound like the fingers of a skeleton. All in all, it was a fine night for fear.

It was almost midnight. The evening of the reading had arrived. Mr. Rapscallion had forbidden all the reporters and television cameras entry to his shop so as to try to make sure there was what he called a proper “atmosfear” inside. Which would have been impossible with lots of people milling around, not to mention camera lights. In Mr. Rapscallion's expert opinion, light created the polar opposite of an “atmosfear.” So the world's press were camped on the sidewalk outside the Haunted House of Books to see what would happen. Some of the regular customers were there, too: Father Merrin, Mr. Stoker, Miss Maupassant, Miss Danvers. Each of them was giving an interview about what kind of man Rexford Rapscallion really was. Even Redford had turned up to wait on the sidewalk and wish her dad and Billy good luck.

Apart from the five contestants and their families, the only people Mr. Rapscallion was planning to allow in the shop were Mercedes and Elizabeth, and a local doctor called John Henry Holliday, just in case there was some sort of frightful accident during the actual reading.

Dr. Holliday was a tall man, with blond hair, a mustache as big as a roll of wallpaper and a large black bag that was full of all sorts of medical equipment.

“Holliday,” said Elizabeth. “That's an interesting name. For a doctor.”

“Yep,” said Dr. Holliday.

“Do people ever call you Doc?” she asked. “Like the famous gunfighting doctor of dental surgery from the O.K. Corral.”

“Some,” admitted Dr. Holliday, who was a man of very few words.

“I didn't mean to be rude or anything,” said Elizabeth.

“Nope. T'weren't rude.” Dr. Holliday smiled. “As a matter of fact, Doc Holliday was my great-great-granddaddy,” said Doc Holliday. “My family have always been doctors to make up for all the people he shot. Now if you don't mind, ma'am, I'd like to get set up.”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth.

Mr. Rapscallion had set a little table beside the piano for the doctor, and without further ado, Doc Holliday took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and donned a leather apron. Then he opened his bag and laid out some surgical equipment on the piano lid: a couple of large saws, several scalpels and curettes, a largish hypodermic and a drill. Last of all he poured lots of sawdust onto the floor around the table.

“What's that for?” asked Mercedes.

“It's to mop up the blood,” explained Doc Holliday.

“Don't worry,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “It's just a little bit of ‘atmosfear,' a joke to help unsettle our contestants. I don't want these little thugs thinking this contest is going to be a piece of cake. Especially now that I can't rely on the actual story to be as scary as I'd originally hoped.”

There was a knock at the front door.

“I expect that will be one of them now,” he said excitedly, because, despite his pessimism as to the scariness of the story, Mr. Rapscallion was in a good mood. Mostly this was due to the effect of singing his song, which Elizabeth and Mercedes had appreciated very much.

Mr. Rapscallion opened the door to reveal his daughter on the sidewalk outside. He motioned for her to come inside but she shook her head.

“Good luck, Dad,” she said.

“Thanks, Redford.”

“Altaira,” she said. “Call me Altaira.” She looked rueful. “I'm cool about my real name again, Dad. Honest.”

“What changed your mind, Altaira?”

“Billy. Who else?” And she gave her father a warm hug, which was the first time she'd hugged him in a while. “Looks like the first contestant is here,” she said, and pointed along the street.

The first contestant was Wilson Dirtbag and he was accompanied by his mother, Fedora.

“Wilson,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Welcome back to the Haunted House of Books. Come in, come in. Let us hope it is a happier experience for all than the last time you were here.”

“I had nothing to do with that pink mummy,” insisted Wilson.

“No matter. Water under the bridge, eh? Now then. This delightful lady must be your mother, Fedora. What a beautiful name. Tell me, do you spell it like the hat?”

“Hat?” Fedora Dirtbag looked at Mr. Rapscallion, uncertain as to what on earth he was talking about. “What hat?” she said, and looked around uncertainly as if she expected to see a sequined Stetson spinning through the air toward her. “Don't tell me I should have worn a hat.”

It was clear she'd never heard of a fedora hat.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “A hat is not necessary, even for a woman with a head as small as yours. The main thing is, you're here. And what a pleasure to meet you. I trust you've brought all the appropriate consent forms for young Wilson here.”

Wilson was busy inspecting the shiny-looking scalpels. Instead of them unsettling or scaring the boy, they appeared to fascinate him.

“Don't touch, sonny,” said Doc Holliday. “If you know what's good for you.”

“Forms?” Mrs. Dirtbag looked blank, which was quite normal for a woman with her modest intellectual gifts.

Mr. Rapscallion's heart gave a leap. Was it possible, he wondered, that he might be able to immediately disqualify Wilson—a boy he considered to be a troublemaker, and with good reason—on the grounds that he had forgotten to complete his consent forms?

“Forms. Yes, the forms. Pieces of paper with writing on them. Like the ones you use to claim Social Security. The boy can't take part without all the appropriate forms. Says it quite clearly in the terms and conditions of the contest.”

“You mean these papers?” Mrs. Dirtbag handed several sheets of paper to Mr. Rapscallion, who inspected them quickly and then nodded, trying to conceal his disappointment.

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” he said, ushering the woman to the door. “We'll see you later, Mrs. Dirtbag. Wilson? You're the first. Mercedes will show you to your seat. Won't you, Mercedes?”

Wilson sneered an ugly sneer. “Mercedes? What kind of a name is that? I guess your daddy must have liked cars, huh?”

Mercedes bit her lip and considered making a similar remark about tennis rackets until she decided that Wilson did not look like the kind of boy who even knew how to spell “tennis racket.” And instead she smiled sweetly and took Wilson to the Reading Room, where the reading was scheduled to take place.

As Mr. Rapscallion ushered Mrs. Dirtbag out of the shop, Hugh Bicep and his father came in, two abreast. For a moment they almost got stuck in the door, they were so large and in such a hurry.

“Hugh! You're here!” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And your father. You're here, too. Hard to miss either of you, really. I expect they can see you both from space. But excellent. An honor to see you both in such obviously muscular good health. Which reminds me. You did bring the forms, Mr. Bicep. No entry to the contest is possible without those all-important consent forms.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Bicep. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Well, now you come to mention it…” Mr. Rapscallion paused. “No, I don't.”

Mr. Bicep delved into his pocket, removed a protein shake and a banana and, finally, found the forms.

Mr. Rapscallion held the forms up to his keen nostrils and sniffed. “Hmm,” he said. “I smell eggs, Canadian bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms, wheat toast. Delicious. Do I take it that these forms were signed on this morning's breakfast table?”

Mr. Bicep smiled sheepishly. “Must have been.” Handing his son the banana, a packet of sandwiches and the protein shake, he said, “There you go, son. To keep your strength up.”

“This is an in-store event, Mr. Bicep,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “A reading of an important and historical story. Not a Sunday school picnic.”

Mr. Bicep shook his head. “Best let him have it,” he said. Lowering his voice, he added, “You wouldn't want to see my little boy when he's hungry, Mr. Rapscallion. You wouldn't like him at all when he's hungry.”

“I find that only too easy to believe,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Elizabeth, take our young friend to the Reading Room, while I see his father OUT.”

At the shop door, which opened and closed with its customary hollow, wicked laugh and a blast of cold air, they were met by Lenore Gas and her parents. Mr. Rapscallion ushered the big man out, and the Gas family in.

Mr. and Mrs. Gas were an odd-looking couple: Mr. Gas was at least seven feet tall and had to duck as he came through the door, which was when Mr. Rapscallion saw that his hair was an even more livid shade of red than his daughter's. Mrs. Gas was exactly half as tall as her husband, even in the diamanté heels she was wearing on her doll's feet. But the thing Mr. Rapscallion noticed most about her was her fingernails. These were six inches long, like those of a Chinese emperor, and painted gold.

“Greetings, greetings,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Welcome, Lenore, welcome to our humble in-store event. That's what we booksellers call a reading. Unless I'm very much mistaken, these two delightful people with you must be your parents.”

Mr. Gas loomed over Mr. Rapscallion like a giant sequoia tree. “Consent,” he said.

“Oh, I do, I do,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Whatever you say is fine with me, Mr. Gas.”

“I mean, these here forms,” said the tall man, handing over Lenore's consent forms. “Unless the game done changed.”

“The game's the same, Mr. Gas,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Same as it always was, Mr. Gas.”

Mr. Gas raised a heavily ringed fist in the air, and for a moment Mr. Rapscallion thought he was going to find himself on the receiving end of a punch. Instead, Lenore raised her own fist and pressed it against her father's in a gesture that appeared to Mr. Rapscallion to be a substitute handshake.

“I'm gonna win this, Daddy,” she said.

“No doubt,” said her father sternly. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop, followed closely by his small but perfectly formed wife.

Mercedes had returned from the Reading Room and Mr. Rapscallion asked her to take Lenore there, even as the door opened again to reveal Mr. Capone and his son Vito. The two were dressed in sharp suits with dark shirts and loud ties. And they were accompanied by several nervous-looking bodyguards who kept their hands inside their coats and their eyes on the rooftop of the building opposite.

“Vito,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “We've been expecting you, of course. And how's the rest of the mob? I mean the family.”

“This doesn't apply to my family,” said Mr. Capone. “Just Vito.”

“We're here for the sit-down, bookseller,” said Vito.
“Capisce?”

“With the greatest respect, I know why you're here, Vito,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

“I certainly hope so, old man,” said Vito. “I certainly hope so.”

The young Vito had a curiously rasping voice. It was like the sound of charcoal coming out of a paper bag. Mr. Rapscallion wondered if the boy had a heavy cold and, for a moment, he considered offering to fetch him some cough syrup. But time was getting on, he told himself. And besides, he had no wish to be accused of favoritism. Not that Vito Capone would ever have been Mr. Rapscallion's idea of a favorite outside a dog race. Mr. Rapscallion already disliked the boy intensely, especially after the “old man” remark.

“I trust you have brought young Vito's consent forms, Mr. Capone. Because I'm afraid our intimidating little friend here can't take part without them.”

“You speak of friends,” said young Vito. “And you speak of respect. But if you really came to me with your friendship, your loyalty, your respect, then your enemies would become my enemies and then, believe me, Mr. Rapscallion, they would fear
you.
Not some stupid scary story.”