The Haunted

Thirty-three

His grandparents’ house seemed lonely. Grandpa was missing, Megan was in the hospital, and his mom was staying with her. Only he, his dad and his grandma were home for dinner. His dad bought pizza in an effort to cheer him up, and let him watch The Simpsons instead of the news, but it didn’t really work. It made him feel sadder, in fact, made him more aware that things weren’t normal, that everything was out of whack.

He didn’t really understand what had happened to Megan. He’d seen her in the bathroom before her parents rushed her to the hospital, and it looked like she’d stolen a steak knife from the kitchen and was using it to cut up her legs. Had she been trying to kill herself? What would have happened if Mom hadn’t walked in on her? Would she be dead?

Did the house make her do it?

That was what he really wanted to know, but she hadn’t been awake when he went to see her, so he’d been unable to ask. He remembered what it had felt like when he’d been compelled to dig, when he’d obsessed over holes in the backyard, and he needed to let her know that he understood, that he knew what she was going through.

He didn’t like the fact that she’d been cutting herself here at Grandma and Grandpa’s. As far as he was concerned, that meant there were two possibilities, neither of them good. Either whatever lived in their house had the power to reach all the way out here to make them do what it wanted. Or they’d been infected and carried within themselves a part of that thing, which could manifest itself at any time.

Both thoughts terrified him.

Throughout dinner and afterward, he kept examining his every thought and movement, as well as the words and actions of his dad and grandma, looking for any sign that they had been influenced or corrupted in any way. He saw no evidence of it, but that didn’t assuage him. It could happen at any moment, and he became more and more worried as time passed and nothing weird happened. It had been almost twenty-four hours since his mom had found Megan bleeding in the bathroom, and he was on edge, waiting for something like that to happen again.

After The Simpsons, King of the Hill came on, then Family Guy, then The Simpsons again; then his dad told him it was time for bed.

James got up from the couch and looked down the long, dark hallway. The guest room he’d been using was at the far end. “I don’t want to sleep in that room,” he said.

His dad started to say something, probably that there was nothing for him to be afraid of, but they all knew that wasn’t true, and when his grandma spoke up and said that he could sleep in her room—she and his grandpa had separate beds—James looked over at his dad, and his dad didn’t object.

His dad went with him while he got his pajamas out of the guest room, and stood outside the bathroom while he changed. His grandma had put new sheets on the bed and had brought over the blanket he’d been using from the other room. He said good night to both his dad and grandma, giving each of them a hug, then got into bed, leaving the door open and the hall light on. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and he was still awake an hour later when his grandma came in and got into her bed. He pretended to be asleep, however, and eventually he did drift off.

In his nightmare, it was midnight and he was back at their house. He had gotten up, thirsty, and walked downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink of water, which made no sense because he always kept a water bottle next to his bed. But he got a drink from the kitchen sink nevertheless, then went over to the basement door, opened it and walked down the stairs. Only the basement wasn’t scary. There was no sign of that grinning man in the corner, and whatever it was that had made the cellar creepy seemed to be gone.

It was the garage that was scary now.

He knew it instantly, and he walked up the stairs and outside, through the backyard, past small holes packed tightly with the bodies of dead animals, and plants so desiccated they resembled the skeletons of misshapen creatures. Both garage doors were open and the building was filled with light, but even the light was scary, and he knew that he should not go in there alone. He did, though, walking through the lighted open area straight to the ladder against the wall. There was darkness at the top of the ladder, and he didn’t want to go up to the headquarters, but he couldn’t stop himself, and, putting one hand over the other, he climbed the rungs. The trapdoor was already open, and he poked his head up through the space.

Headquarters had changed since the last time he and Robbie had been up here. All of the junk they had collected was gone, and instead of the items they had scrounged from alleys and garbage cans, the room was filled with primitive furniture that looked like it had come out of some settler’s cabin two hundred years ago. There was a bench made from a split log, a table of hand-hewn wood, a copper bathtub filled with water, a rocking chair made from the branches of trees, a low wooden bed with a homemade quilt thrown atop the mattress. There were no lamps, but light seeped in from below through cracks in the floor, making everything look even older and spookier than it already was.

James wanted to climb back down, but there was something he knew he had to do, and he pulled himself through the trapdoor and onto the floor, standing. The light from below created weird shadows on the walls and ceiling, and at first he thought that was what was making him feel slightly off balance. But then he realized that something in the room was moving. He glanced around, trying to figure out what it was.

The rocking chair.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the rocking chair was rocking. No one sat in it, but it was rocking nevertheless, its slatted shadow swinging like a pendulum among the others on the ceiling, back and forth, back and forth. The wood creaked, the only sound in the stillness save for his own breathing.

The last thing in the world he wanted was to pass by that chair, but there was something he had to do, and he gathered his courage and walked forward, not looking at the rocking chair, though he could see its movement in his peripheral vision, and he could hear it.

Creak.

His focus was on the wall ahead, on the rectangular board that he would have to pull out in order to get to the secret compartment.

Creak.

Then he was past the rocking chair and could no longer see it, not even in his peripheral vision. He crouched down near the wall, used his fist to tap the board, and pulled it aside when it came loose. Bending down, he looked into the secret compartment.

And saw, inside, on top of the small hill of dirt, his grandpa’s bloody head.

James awoke—

—in his bedroom, at home.

It was night, it was dark, and he was confused, disoriented. He was supposed to be in his grandma’s room, and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. Then he sat up, felt the familiar reality of his bed below him, saw the outlines in the darkness of his movie posters on the wall, smelled the musty odor that his room got sometimes when their house was closed up for too long, and he knew that he was really back home.

Was he alone in here?

The thought terrified him. Their house was scary enough when everyone was home. But if he was the only one in it …

Maybe this was just another dream.

No. Why try to fool himself? He knew it wasn’t. How he had come to be here and why, James had no idea. The only thing he did know was that he needed to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He was in his pajamas and wasn’t wearing shoes, but though he still had some clothes in his closet and could probably find an old pair of sneakers to wear, he didn’t want to waste the time it would take to find them. He had to get out of here now, and he jumped out of bed, running through the darkness, down the hall, down the stairs, to the front door—

And he couldn’t open it.

He turned the lock, jiggled the handle, pulled as hard as he could, but no matter what he did, the door wouldn’t budge.

To his left, a light switched on, and the suddenness of it made him jump. He looked to his left, toward the living room. A single lamp was on, and it shone on only one section of wall, illuminating what should have been his mom’s framed Vincent van Gogh poster from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Should have been … but wasn’t.

For inside the frame was a giant picture of the Old Maid, a poster-size version of the most dreaded card in that terrible game, and she was staring directly at him, her eyes scowling, her mouth grinning, a juxtaposition that made her look completely and utterly insane.

A low noise came from somewhere, constant and cracked and high-pitched, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from the picture.

And that it was laughter.

As he watched, the Old Maid began rocking back and forth, and her scowling eyes lightened, her eyebrows moving up until she looked downright jolly. Somehow that was worse, and James jiggled the door handle one last time before heading into the kitchen to try the back door. If he couldn’t open it, he’d break a window and get out that way.

Did the phone work? he wondered. Maybe he should call his dad and—

He tripped over something lying in the doorway between the hall and the laundry room, his arms flailing wildly to keep himself from falling. He ran into the washing machine and quickly put his hands on it to steady himself before turning around to see what he’d stumbled over.

It was his grandpa.

James let out a shocked cry. The old man wasn’t headless, the way he had been in his dream, but he was unmoving and curled up on the ground. Was he dead? James thought so, but was afraid to find out.

His grandpa stirred, moaned.

James jumped, startled. Immediately he went back to the doorway and dropped to his knees, touching the old man’s shoulder. “Grandpa?” Maybe they’d both be able to get out of here together. “Grandpa?”

A skinny arm shot out, a dry, cold hand grabbing James’s wrist and holding tight. He tried to pull away, but the grip was strong, and then his grandfather sat up, grinning crazily. Struggling to free himself, James made a fist and used it to pound on the hand that was holding him.

His grandpa’s other hand swung in from the right and slapped James hard on the side of the head.

James burst into tears. He couldn’t help it. The pain was tremendous, but that wasn’t the only reason he was crying. There were emotions at work, emotions he didn’t even understand. But that didn’t stop him from hitting his grandfather, moving from hand to arm, trying anything he could to get away, curving his fingers into claws and trying to scratch that old, cold skin.

The other hand hit the side of his head again, causing his right ear to ring.

The hand holding his wrist let go, but now both of the old man’s hands were slapping him. Hard. Left side of the head, right side of the head, left side of the head, right side of the head …

Still sobbing, James tried to scramble backward, but his grandpa kept coming at him, hitting, smiling.

Only it wasn’t really his grandpa. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did, and it made it much easier to do what he had to do.

James threw himself backward, landing hard on his butt, then jumped instantly to his feet and kicked the old man hard in the face. He felt the nose give way beneath his heel, and he expected to see blood, but there was none. Only a crooked nose above that crazy grin.

Blood was coming out of his own ears. Both of them. He could feel it trickling down. His hearing was muffled, although that didn’t matter much right now, and he wondered whether he’d been hit hard enough to do permanent damage.

His grandpa started to stand, and James kicked him again, then ran into the kitchen. As he’d expected, as he should have known, the back door was jammed, too, just like the front door. He didn’t have as much time to try to get it open, because his grandpa was coming after him, but he wiggled and pulled hard enough to know that even if he did have more time, it probably wouldn’t make much difference.

James ran into the dining room, aware that the house had become an enclosed box. He was trapped in here. There was no way for him to escape, and eventually his grandpa would probably catch him. If he could only break a window or use the phone … But the old man was right behind him, and all James had time to do was run.

The last thing he wanted was to go through the living room, but he had no choice, and he sped past the framed picture of the Old Maid, not looking at it but hearing beneath his slapping footsteps and ragged breathing the Old Maid’s cracked, high-pitched laugh. He was determined not to go upstairs—that would be a trap—so he ran back into the hallway, making a circle. Except the hallway was different. It had changed since he’d hurried through here only a few moments before. The walls were darker, as was the floor, and there was an extra door just before the one to his parents’ bedroom—which had been open but now was closed.

He was afraid to go anywhere that he hadn’t been already, so, like a little kid, he stayed on the same track—hallway, laundry room, kitchen, dining room, living room, hallway—although he checked behind him to make sure that his grandpa was still giving chase. He didn’t want to turn a corner and find that the old man had switched directions and was waiting for him. No, his grandpa was still back there, and James sped up, dashing through the laundry room into the kitchen.

He could see through the window that it was already starting to get light outside, which meant it was nearly morning. When his dad discovered that he was gone, he’d figure out where he was and come and rescue him.

All James had to do was stay alive until then.

His dad would save him.

He was still running, moving through the dining room again and toward the living room and the Old Maid. The basement door had a lock, he remembered suddenly. Whatever had taken over his grandpa might be able to pick locks or ignore them or even walk through doors, but there was a chance that it couldn’t, and if James could get over there and lock himself in, he might be safe. At least for a little while.

It was worth a shot.

He ran into the hallway again, as fast as he could, sliding around the corner, and this time the door that led to the laundry room was the only door. He sped through it, and instead of passing by the entrance to the basement, he stopped and tried the knob. It opened easily, and he turned on the light and stepped inside, quickly closing the door and fumblingly turning the latch until he heard the lock click.

Any hope James had had that he’d been able to slip into the basement unnoticed disappeared instantly when the doorknob rattled loudly behind him as he hurried down the stairs. He reached the bottom just as his grandpa—or whatever had taken over his grandpa—slammed into the door, trying to break it down. It was an old house, and the door was thick and solid, so James didn’t really think the old man’s body would be able to break in. But he remembered the steely hardness of the cold hand that had gripped his wrist, and he knew that while it wasn’t likely, it was still possible, and he looked around frantically until he found a box big enough to hide behind. He moved an overstuffed Hefty bag aside, got behind the box, moved the Hefty bag back and crouched down, waiting.

His dad would come. His dad would find him. His dad would save him.

He knew he would.

He knew he would.