Fear: 13 Stories of Suspense and Horror (10 page)

He scooped Jon up in his arms and said, “Hold on tight.”

One of the shadows whipped forward, snatching the flashlight from Dax's grip. It threw the light down, smashing it to bits, leaving them all in darkness. The shadow monsters swarmed closer to the boys, and just as a long shadowy tentacle reached for Jon, Dax leaped toward the familiar sight on the low cave ceiling and clung to the hole in the floor of Jon's closet with the tips of his determined fingers. His biceps burned, but he pulled himself up until he was waist-high into the closet. “Jon, get off now! I'm falling!”

Jon scrambled from his brother through his pitch-black room to his bed, drenched in sweat and tears, crying for his brother to hurry, hurry before those monsters got him.

Something wrapped around Dax's ankle and pulled hard; it was no use. It pulled him back down into the cave, the tips of his fingers only barely clinging to the wood.

He was going to fall. And once he did, those things would suck every bit of his essence away.

A beam of light suddenly shined down into the hole and the creatures backed off. Dax looked up. Jon was holding a flashlight he must have retrieved from the kitchen. Dax pulled himself free from the hole, his muscles burning. He collapsed onto the floor of Jon's closet and hugged his brother, trying to stanch his tears, but the danger wasn't over. There was still a hole in the closet floor. It was still dark.

Whispers drifted up from the hole until they were filling the room. Jon's flashlight flickered out, as if it couldn't stand up against the growing darkness. Dax picked up his brother and ran for the door. They had to get out of there, away from the darkness, into the light.

The bedroom door opened and their mother flipped the light switch, bathing the room in incandescent light. “Where have you boys been?! Your father and I have been worried sick!”

Dax panted, his heart settling into a more normal rhythm. He looked at the closet, at the perfect, unbroken floor. Jon ran across the room and jumped into his mother's arms. Dax couldn't help but notice that the trail of dust was gone, the Jon-thing's connection to him broken at last.

Holding Jon, placing kisses on his cheeks, their mom crossed the room and opened the heavy drapes, letting sunlight inside. It was morning. Had they really been gone that long? It had felt like minutes, maybe an hour, but certainly not several hours.

She turned back to Dax with a concerned look on her face. “Dax? Is everything okay? We were so scared that something happened to you both.”

Dax slowly nodded his head, even though everything was about as far from okay as it could get, and looked from the closet to the sunny day outside. Out the window, he could see the neighbor kids playing soccer. To any onlooker, it would seem like an ordinary, normal day.

He turned back to his mom and released a relieved sigh. “Yeah, Mom. Everything's fine. We just—”

As she turned around, Jon peered over his mother's shoulder at Dax, who froze. Jon smiled and offered a wave.

Shadows lurked in his eyes—the darkest that Dax had ever seen.

▼ PEG KEHRET ▼

 

 

 

 

 

T
he antiques business was fun until the burglaries began. After school and on Saturdays, I work at my mom's store, Off-Line Antiques. When I arrived last Friday, Mom said, “Someone burglarized Rosie's Posies and the theater last night. They took Rosie's computer, cases of candy from the theater, and cash from both places.”

Claire, a teller at the corner bank, came in on her break. After we discussed the burglaries, Claire said, “You called about a cat ring?” She collects cat items, so Mom alerts her when we have something she might want.

Mom handed the ring to Claire. The top of the ring was an oval-shaped tile, with a black-and-white cat painted on it. “It's a poison ring,” Mom said, “circa 1820.”

Claire looked up. “Poison?”

“See the hidden clasp? It opens.” Mom demonstrated how the top of the ring lifted up, revealing a secret compartment. “The rings were made to hide poison,” Mom said, “although they were often used to carry a loved one's lock of hair.”

“How much is it?”

She and Mom settled on a price, and Claire wore the ring back to work.

A frail white-haired woman carrying a faded paisley tote bag came in.

“What did you bring today, Mrs. Pameron?” Mom asked.

“More things from Maud.” She removed a brass candlestick from the bag, followed by a stained rag doll that was missing half her hair. When Mrs. Pameron had first come to the shop, months earlier, she had brought treasured keepsakes. Her eyes often filled with tears as she told where she and her late husband had purchased a particular item. Every piece she brought had a history, and Mom bought them all.

After a while, her personal stories stopped and she began selling us her sister's belongings. The quality of the goods gradually got worse, but Mom still purchased some items from Mrs. Pameron because she felt sorry for her. The woman always wore the same frayed sweater, and she had memory problems. “She probably needs the money,” Mom said.

Mrs. Pameron took an old tin Santa out of her bag. “I'll take the Santa,” Mom said, “but not the rest. The candlestick isn't old, and the doll is in poor condition.”

“I'll be back tomorrow,” Mrs. Pameron said as Mom paid for the Santa. “This was all I could carry.”

“I could go to your sister's house,” Mom said, “and buy what I can use.”

“You can't do that,” Mrs. Pameron said. “Oh, no. You mustn't do that.”

When we left that day, we double-checked the doors to be sure they were locked, but we still felt uneasy knowing that a burglar had struck so close by. We considered spending the night in the shop, but Mom decided we couldn't let fear rule our lives.

The next morning we got more bad news. The bank where Claire works had been robbed at closing time the night before. The robber took a bag of money as well as cash and jewelry from customers and bank personnel. A teller pushed a hidden alarm, but the police arrived after the robber had fled. Surveillance video of the suspect in a ski mask and black coat was hazy.

Claire stopped in on her lunch hour. “It was awful,” she said. “He only got fifteen dollars in cash from me, but he took my grandmother's watch and the cat ring that I bought from you.” She paused a moment, then added, “It was horrible to see that gun pointed at me. I could see the cold look in his eyes, and I knew he would pull the trigger if anyone refused to cooperate.”

I shuddered, imagining the scene.

 

 

Mrs. Pameron came again on Monday. When she removed a pearl necklace from her bag, Mom said, “Tell me about your sister.”

“Maud was the oldest, then Jimmy, then me. Now I'm the only one left.”

I blurted out, “Your sister died?”

“Oh, yes, dear,” Mrs. Pameron said. “Maud's been gone ten years.”

Mom and I glanced at each other. Mrs. Pameron didn't remember telling us that she was selling her sister's items because Maud planned to move. Mom said, “I can't buy from you for a while. I'm sorry. I need to sell some merchandise before I add any more.”

Mrs. Pameron gasped and put one hand over her mouth. Her eyes darted toward the door, as if she feared someone might hear our conversation. “But what will I do?” she asked.

“If you need money for living expenses,” Mom said, “there are agencies who will help you. Why don't you give me your phone number?”

“I'm not staying at home now. I—I don't have a telephone.”

After she left Mom said, “I hated to do that but I don't like to buy items unless I know where they came from.”

“If her sister's been dead for ten years,” I said, “where did she get the stuff she brought in?”

“Exactly. If it was her own, she wouldn't need to lie.”

 

 

Mom had a dentist appointment Tuesday, so I was alone in the shop when a young man entered. “Let me talk to the owner,” he said.

“She isn't here,” I said. “I could have her call you when she gets back.”

“Give her a message,” he said. “Tell her I don't appreciate the way she treated my aunt.”

“Your aunt?”

“Aunt Martha brought antiques to sell and she was turned away.”

“You're Mrs. Pameron's nephew?” I asked.

He seemed surprised that I knew the name.

“Mom has bought a lot of items from her,” I said, “but we're overstocked now.”

He picked up a glass toothpick holder and turned it over to see the price. “You and your mother offer junk store prices to an old woman who isn't right in the head, and then you call them valuable antiques and jack up the price.”

I wanted to protest but decided I shouldn't argue with him. He seemed jumpy, and angry. I wondered if he was on drugs.

His gaze swept around the shop. “What a scam!” He threw the toothpick holder to the floor, where it shattered.

“Hey!” I said. “You'll have to pay for that!” But he had already stormed out, leaving the door open.

My hands shook as I closed the door and swept up the broken glass.

When Mom returned, we debated whether or not to tell the police about the incident. We decided not to, knowing it would be my word against the nephew's, who would probably insist the broken toothpick holder was an accident.

I was in class the next morning when Mom's friend Susan came to get me. “Someone broke into Off-Line Antiques last night,” she said as she drove me to the shop. “Nothing was stolen, but the shop was trashed.”

Mom was talking to a police officer when I arrived. “We took the cash box and my laptop home last night,” she told him. “We thought those were the only items of ours that a thief would want.”

WARNING had been spray-painted on a glass display cabinet, and a beautiful carved grandfather's clock had been tipped over so that it crashed into a shelf of fine china, breaking not only the clock but dozens of old Haviland and Wedgwood plates. An oak table that displayed Red Wing pottery had been overturned. Vintage postcards that Mom had carefully sorted by topic were in a heap on the floor.

“It was probably the same person who robbed the flower shop, the theater, and the bank,” the officer said. “Maybe he vandalized the store because he was angry when he didn't find cash or any items that are easily sold on the street. Are you insured?”

“Yes, but most antiques are irreplaceable.”

“Have you had a problem with any customer recently? Is there someone who has a grudge against you?”

I told him about Mrs. Pameron's nephew. “I don't know his name,” I said.

“We'll look into it,” the officer said.

Instead of going back to school, I helped Mom clean up the mess. After we swept up the broken china and hauled the clock pieces to the Dumpster in the alley, I felt antsy. At two thirty Mom said it was okay for me to leave. I needed to buy a notebook and some art supplies for a school project.

After I did my shopping, I got in line at Starbucks. When the young woman ahead of me reached for her change, I saw the cat ring on her finger!

I told myself not to jump to conclusions. Many antiques are reproduced. Cheap imitations of poison rings are probably being cranked out in China and imported by the hundreds. I needed a closer look.

As the woman collected her coffee, I stepped out of line so I could watch her. She was alone. When she set her coffee down to add cream to it, I stood beside her and reached for a napkin. As she stirred cream into her coffee, I studied the ring. The band had the burnished patina of old gold, and fine age lines were visible in the painted tile. I clearly saw the small clasp on the side, where the lid opened. It was an antique poison ring with a cat painted on the tile, and I was sure it belonged to Claire.

When the woman left Starbucks I followed, staying near other shoppers so she wouldn't notice me. I hoped to get the license plate number of her car. I removed my cell phone from my backpack and slipped it into my pocket, where I could grab it quickly to call the police. The bank robber had been a man, but this woman probably knew who he was.

She broke into a run, waving at a city bus. As she boarded, I raced forward. The driver waited for me. I walked to a seat in the back, where I could watch the woman.

We rode for ten minutes before she got off. I was afraid I would be too obvious if I exited with her, so I stayed on the bus and watched to see where she went. The woman entered a small brick apartment building. I got out at the next corner and walked back. The sign on the building said SERENE HOMES FOR SENIORS
.

She must be visiting someone. Well, it was still a clue. The police could talk to the residents and learn who had company today.

I went inside. A row of mailboxes, with apartment numbers and the names of residents on them, lined one wall. I began copying the names into my notebook. I had written down about half of the names when the door to the closest apartment opened.

I looked up, and froze. Mrs. Pameron's nephew stared at me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I'm working on a school project,” I said. “I have to interview someone who remembers World War II.”

He came forward and stood beside me. “You came to talk to Aunt Martha.”

“She lives here? I didn't know that!”

“Go inside.” He pointed toward the open apartment door.

I backed away from him, toward the outside door. “I need to get home,” I said.