Childhood Fears Page 9

  “Welcome to my woods,” the clown said, in a voice so much like his father’s Billy stared harder to see if indeed it was his Dad behind all that frightening paint, “to our woods.” It stepped forward in shoes three times too big. Stepped again, and again, stopping only when it reached the center of the clearing.

  “Your woods, now,” the clown added, tilting its palms toward him. Whispers from the trees, so soft that Billy thought at first it was only wind, but the voices grew louder, more urgent, like the leaves in the house, sometimes laughing, other times speaking in words he couldn’t quite make out, except that they were impatient. The sounds amplified and spread out behind the clown and finally took physical form as shapes moving past the deeper shadows of the woods beyond, moving into the clearing like a hunched pack of wolves. Billy made out no details except their egg-yellow eyes blinking from feral faces black as the rest of their bodies. Sometimes eyes blinked into existence from their shoulders and chests. So hard to tell. They formed up behind the clown like fog, but in outline only. Except the eyes, dozens or hundreds of them. The clown raised its arms to the shining stars and laughed, “Here at last! My heir, our salva—”

  The shadows leaped onto the tall man’s shoulders, weighing him down though they looked no more substantial than the shadows they’d emerged from. Some wrapped around the backs of his legs. The clown’s laughter turned to screams as he fell beneath them, glee sharpened to terror. He spoke no more, too busy thrashing against the black tide. Between the dark bodies, Billy saw glimpses of the clown, his stomach ripped open, spilling a glistening black ooze—blood, he thought, it’s blood because they’re eating him—across the shiny outfit. When one of the shapes buried its snout into the belly and pulled free a long rope of intestine Billy screamed, too, and covered his face. This did not mask the sound of the slaughter, the wet ripping and slathering of a hundred black mouths. He realized he would not know if they turned his way, would have no chance to run if they did. He moved one hand aside, enough to see a large swatch of darkness break free of the pack. Twin yellow eyes glowed with a mad, animalistic frenzy. It stood there, staring at him, and Billy could sense something coming from it. Some kind of anticipation. As if the death of the clown in this place signaled the end of the old, and the beginning of the new. Billy was supposed to do something to acknowledge that.

  The dark, feral thing moved closer, and Billy feared for his life again. It seemed about to leap, when something grabbed Billy from behind, reached around to grip the necklace around his throat and pulled. The chain dug like a blade into the flesh of his neck and then broke free, releasing him, and pulling him out of the dangerous place.

  The kitchen flashed across his vision, bright, smelling of autumn leaves and dust. So dusty.

  Dad stood over him, the necklace’s broken chain in his good hand. The other hand, bleeding from the wrist, hung by his side. The sphere and its orbiting rings slid free, clanged to the floor beside Billy’s bare feet. His father kicked it away. His eyes were wild with anger. That was good, right? Dad was beating the monster. His father’s arms and pajama pants were smeared in gray dust. Streaks of blood across his bare chest, spots dotting his cheeks. The blood is from the clown monster, Billy thought, Not Mom. Mom’s okay. Mom’s okay.

  “Don’t you ever put that on again, Billy!”

  Billy nodded, trying not to think how much that voice sounded like the clown’s in the other place. He raised both his arms to the sides of his head, pressed them against his ears while he watched his father turn back to the dead thing in the center of the kitchen. It looked different now, like an old dried out bag. The pick was buried in its back. One of the arms had been pulled free and lay curled around the leg of the kitchen table. Dad pounced onto the dead clown like the black monsters had done in the clearing and tore more pieces free, stomping on it with his feet, shouting things like, “No more, you’re dead! Stay dead! You killed her! You killed her! You’re dead! You killed her!”

  His father’s words—You killed her!—played over and over in Billy’s head, filling him with cement. He couldn’t move. To lower his arms, to move a toe, would be to think about the words’ meaning. You killed her! No! Mom was okay. Everything would be okay.

  Dad never stopped, not even when there was nothing under him but a smear of dust on the floor. Now and then he’d lean over, grab a previously discarded piece of the clown and rip and tear, as Billy watched, frozen. Then the house filled with blue and white lights, and, a little later, red lights too. Men came in, each with one hand on the butt of their guns just like the cops on TV. His father had his good hand open in their direction, to show he didn’t have a weapon, and he was pleading with them. Billy did not move. He watched everything like a statue. Everything would be okay. He knew that was true when one of the policemen ran downstairs, shouted for someone to get an ambulance. Why would they call an ambulance if his mother wasn’t going to be just fine?

  The last he saw of his father that night, he was being dragged into the living room. In that final glimpse the man stared back into the kitchen and into Billy’s eyes, shouted his name, like the monster had done in the basement. But it was a different voice. This one belonged to his father.

  Then he was gone and Billy tried to think of something to do, but his body wouldn’t move. He had to help his dad, somehow. Help his mom. Then it came to him, a snippet of memory. Gram Lucy. She would always do the same thing if there was a problem in the house. Billy could do what she did, and he would not have to move much at all.

  A fat policeman—he had a gun, too, like the others—stepped around the stain on the kitchen floor and slowly knelt in front of Billy. He moved a hand between them like waving away smoke.

  He whispered, “Son?”

  Billy stared, then began to whisper Gram Lucy’s prayer, the Hail Mary, at least as much of it as he could remember. The policeman said, “What was that, son?”

  Son? The word reverberated inside his skull, losing all meaning.

  Over and over, Billy prayed. As long as he didn’t stop, everything would be all right. As long as he didn’t stop, the monster could never come back.

  About the Authors

  L.L. Soares

  L.L. Soares is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of the novel Life Rage. His other books include the novels Rock ’n’ Roll and Hard, the short story collection In Sickness (with Laura Cooney), and the novellas Green Tsunami (also with Laura Cooney) and Breaking Eggs (with Kurt Newton).

  His fiction has appeared in such magazines as Cemetery Dance, Horror Garage, Bare Bone, Shroud, and Gothic.Net, as well as the anthologies The Best of Horrorfind 2, Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad! Volumes 1 & 2, Someone Wicked, and Insidious Assassins. He also co-writes (with Michael Arruda) the Stoker-nominated horror movie review column Cinema Knife Fight, which can be found at cinemaknifefight.com.

  There is absolutely no truth to the rumor that he likes to dress up as a clown on weekends and scare his neighbors.

  To keep up on his endeavors, go to www.llsoares.com.

  G. Daniel Gunn

  G. Daniel Gunn is the author of the novel Destroyer of Worlds, and is the pseudonym for Daniel G Keohane, Bram Stoker nominated author of Solomon’s Grave, Margaret’s Ark and Plague of Darkness. Dan’s stories have appeared in Cemetery Dance, Apex Digest, Shroud Magazine, Madhouse, Coach’s Midnight Diner, Fantastic Stories and many others. He is still afraid of clowns after all these years. Visit his website at www.dankeohane.com

  The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave

  J.H. Moncrieff

  Dedication

  For Chris and Dee-Dee, who made it happen.

  Chapter One

  It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.

  “I don’t want it,” I said, pushing it back at my mother.

  “Now, Josh—be nice. This was your father’s when he was a child, and he really wants you to have it.”

&
nbsp; I folded my arms across my chest as she continued to shove the toy at me. “He’s not my father.”

  My father had died two years ago, when I was only eight. Mom said his heart stopped, which sounded terrifying. How did a person’s heart just…stop? Dad’s heart quit working while he was sleeping, so for a year I didn’t want to go to bed. I was afraid the same thing would happen to me.

  The only thing I liked less than the ugly toy was Michael, my new stepfather. Oh, he seemed nice enough, I guess, but there was something about him that gave me the creeps. Maybe it was the way his smile never reached his eyes. Or the times I’d caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t understand how Mom could love someone like that. My real dad had been so nice. His eyes had crinkled at the corners when he laughed, and he laughed a lot. Michael hardly ever laughed, and when he did, it made me shiver.

  Mom sighed. She tried to hide it, but I noticed her lower lip was trembling. Again. She cried at anything these days, even those sappy commercials about starving kids in the Sudan, wherever that was. “He’s trying, Josh. Can’t you be a little nicer to him? It would mean a lot to me.”

  I didn’t want to see her cry again, so I said sure, I would be nicer. She looked relieved as she pressed the toy into my arms and thanked me. Then she asked me what I would like for dinner, which was a treat. Lately we’d only had Michael’s requests, and Michael wanted weird things like steamed spinach and broccoli soup. What kind of person actually likes broccoli?

  She seemed a bit troubled when I requested macaroni and cheese—she was probably worried Michael wouldn’t like it. She hurried to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the bear.

  A teddy bear. Who gives a ten-year-old boy a teddy bear? I was into The Incredible Hulk and riding my bike. A teddy bear was a little kid’s toy.

  I turned the bear over in my hands. Even its fur felt nasty, matted and a bit greasy. I guess it was supposed to be a panda, even though it wasn’t like any panda I’d ever seen. Its body was mostly black, and it had black patches over both eyes. Around its neck was a tattered yellow ribbon.

  Its eyes were beady, the kind of eyes you see in scary cartoon paintings—the type that seem to follow you around. But the worst was its mouth. It was curled into a vicious snarl so you could see its teeth, and it had huge fangs. What kind of teddy bear has fangs? Nothing about it was soft or cuddly. It was so stiff it was like a piece of wood in my arms.

  The longer I held the bear, the spookier it was. I could swear it was staring back at me, but that was crazy—it was only a toy. It was my imagination playing tricks on me, just like how I was always sure someone was chasing me whenever I ran upstairs from the basement.

  All I knew was that I wanted to put as much space between it and me as possible. I threw it in my closet, under a pile of dirty clothes that smelled so bad even Mom wouldn’t go near them. She might be able to make me take the bear, but she couldn’t force me to play with it.

  I went outside to join my friends and forgot all about the bear—until it was time for bed.

  Chapter Two

  The second I stepped into my room, I could tell something wasn’t right. It felt like someone was already inside, waiting for me, but I had no brothers or sisters and my friends had gone home.

  Suddenly, for some reason I couldn’t understand, I was scared. I’d been about to turn on the light, but I had this feeling I shouldn’t.

  “Hello?” I said, feeling silly. I had no idea who I was saying hello to, but I really hoped no one would answer me. No one did.

  Before I could stop myself, I flicked on the light. What I saw made me jump. The ugly bear was on my bed! It seemed to be looking at me, its snout twisted into a snarl. I ran to the living room as fast as I could.

  My mother glanced up from the television in surprise. “Josh, what are you still doing up? I thought we agreed it was time for you to go to bed.”

  Michael wasn’t surprised to see me. If anything, he seemed happy. He had a weird smirk on his face that I didn’t like at all.

  “Did you go in my room?” I was asking them both, but my question was really for him.

  “Now, Josh, don’t be silly. Why would we go in your room?” Mom asked, but I ignored her. I was still glaring at Michael, who was staring right back at me.

  “Why do you think someone’s been in your room?” he asked, smooth as silk. I noticed he didn’t deny it.

  “The bear is on my bed! Someone put him there.”

  “What bear? What on earth are you talking about?” I could tell from the tone of Mom’s voice that she was confused, but she was beginning to get upset too. She always could pick up on my thoughts better than anyone else, and I was breathing so hard she could probably hear it.

  Michael patted her leg. “It’s nothing to get upset about, Eileen. I believe Josh is referring to the teddy bear I gave him. Isn’t that right, Josh?”

  He smiled, but I imagined that behind his curved lips, he had sharp white fangs like his bear. It was easy enough to believe.

  “Did you put him on my bed?” I demanded. I was so angry I could spit, but plenty scared too.

  “If he’s on your bed, I’m sure you put him there. You probably got busy playing and forgot.”

  That’s the other thing I didn’t like about Michael. He talked to me like I was a moron instead of a kid. As if I had been stupid enough to leave that bear on my bed and then forget about it. And the worst part was, I could tell he didn’t believe it. I could see it in his face—he knew exactly how the bear got there.

  “You did put him there!”

  “Now, honey, I’m not sure what’s going on,” Mom said, looking warily from Michael to me and back again, “but I’m sure Michael’s right—you just forgot.”

  “I didn’t forget!” I was close to screaming now. I could feel my face getting hot.

  “Okay, okay.” She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. For a second, I was tempted to push her away, but that would have hurt her feelings, and it wasn’t her fault Michael had given me that creepy bear. But it was her fault that Michael was in our lives to start with. A part of me hated her for that. I pulled away.

  She bent down to look into my eyes. “Where did you leave the bear?”

  “In my closet. It was under some clothes. There’s no way I forgot and put it on my bed.”

  Mom straightened. Disappointment was written all over her face. I could tell she was unhappy about where I’d left Michael’s gift...

  We both were startled when my stepfather laughed. “Well, that explains it. A closet is no place for a bear. I’m sure Edgar walked out of there and got on the bed himself.”

  My mouth dropped open, but Mom responded before I could say anything. “That’s not funny. Children have very active imaginations, and you have to be careful what you say to them. Talking like that will give him nightmares.”

  “I’m not a child!” I yelled. I was sick and tired of everyone babying me and acting like I was a little kid. If anything, I understood more than they did. How could they not see that bear was creepy?

  “Exactly. He’s not a child, Eileen. He isn’t scared of my little teddy bear—are you, Josh? The boy knows I’m just kidding around.”

  They both waited for my response. Mom still seemed concerned, but hesitant, perhaps wondering if this was worth making a big deal over. The only people who appeared to be upset by this conversation were the two of us. Michael continued to smile, showing off his shark-like teeth.

  As for me, I was in a tough spot. If I wanted to be treated like a big boy—and I did—I could hardly admit that I was scared of a little teddy bear. More than anything, I wished for a moment alone with my mother. I wished I could tell her that there was no way I could sleep in that room with Edgar. (Who names a teddy bear Edgar, anyway? How creepy is that?) But if I admitted it in front of Michael, I’d never hear the end
of it. He’d been nicer when he was just dating my mother. Now that they were married, I was getting the idea that he was the kind of person who said cruel things and then claimed he was only “teasing”.

  “Well, it’s getting late,” Michael said in a jovial tone, thumping his hand on the armrest. “Why don’t I tuck you in?”

  Panicked, I met my mother’s eyes with my best pleading expression. She immediately understood.

  “That’s not necessary, honey. He’s ten years old. He’s totally capable of putting himself to bed.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s no trouble. Come on, Josh. Let’s go.” Michael held out his hand, and I had to take it if I didn’t want to seem rude. His unspoken message was clear—if I was going to act like a child, he was going to treat me like one. His skin was rough against mine, and in that moment, I hated him with a ferocity that spooked me.

  Somehow it was even worse to see Edgar waiting on my bed when Michael was beside me. They were both on the same team, and I was the odd one out. I knew it was crazy to think that about a teddy bear, but that was the way it felt.

  “Ah, that’s perfect. See how happy the little guy is. That’s definitely the spot for him,” Michael said, and he was right. The bear did seem happier. Viewed from this perspective, his snarling muzzle could have been a smile. I knew then that Michael had put him on my bed, but I wondered how he’d known where to search. Maybe when he was a kid, he’d kept Edgar in the closet too.