Creep Street (14 page)

ell, I don't know,' you say. ‘That doesn't sound such a smart idea to me.'

‘Look,' she says, ‘you've got to live in this house for years to come, right? And you don't want this hanging over your head for all that time, right? So now's your big chance to find out what's really going on. So I'll meet you at a quarter to twelve, right?'

You look up at the sky and down at your feet and all around the garden. There's no answers there, nothing that gives you a clue of what to say to Stacey. But she's waiting for you. She's tapping her foot impatiently. So you open your mouth.

‘Er . . . yes, OK then,' you say.

Oh no! Did you really say that? Have you completely lost your head? Because there's a very good chance that you'll lose your head tonight. You've done some stupid things in your life—teaching your baby sister all the swear words you know was one of them—but this has to be the most stupid yet. This is a PB: a personal best.

Stacey is walking away happily. ‘I'll meet you at 11.45, in front of the sheds,' she calls back over her shoulder. ‘Bring a torch, OK?'

All the rest of the day you're worried sick. You don't dare tell your parents what you're up to, but you can't eat tea and you can't concentrate on what anyone says to you. Your imagination keeps dreaming up horrible pictures of the worst things that might happen.

Your new bedroom is still a shambles because you've hardly started unpacking. After a long search you find your alarm clock, which is buried in a tea chest that seems to be mainly full of your dirty washing. You set it to 11.30 and get into bed without bothering to change. Your parents come in to say, ‘Goodnight.' ‘Are you all right, dear?' your mother wants to know. ‘You don't seem your normal happy self tonight.'

You feel so tempted to tell her the truth. But you don't.

‘I'm fine,' you mumble.

They go and you lie there in the dark wishing you could think of an excuse not to turn up.

Gradually you do fall asleep, but when you do it's almost worse, because you dream of skeletons and corpses and fun stuff like that. You toss and turn for a couple of hours, then suddenly you're awoken by a devil banging his pitchfork against a big gong . . . no, it's a fire alarm . . . no, it's a school bell . . . no, no, it's just your clock ringing its little heart out.

You grope around in the dark looking for it, wanting to kill it. It takes about three minutes but finally you find it and turn it off.

By now you're completely awake. You put your shoes on and go downstairs. You get to the front door and slide it open. It squeaks and creaks all the way. A rush of cold air makes you shiver. It's dark outside, so dark. You sneak a glance at your watch. Yes, one minute before 11.45. You can't hang around here. Having come this far you might as well keep going. You take a deep breath and head outside.

You step carefully across the holes in the verandah. Your eyes start to get used to the light. You go down the steps without breaking your neck, then you walk gingerly along the path. The gravel makes little crunchy noises under your feet, like when you're chewing on peanut brittle. Nothing seems to be moving; there's no wind, no cars on the road, no possums in the garden.

You get to the sheds. There's no sign of anyone, and especially no sign of Stacey. Will she turn up? You stand there waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting and watching.

t takes ten minutes, but at last it gets you there. The storm eases and beneath your feet you see the ground getting closer and closer. Finally, with one giant rip of metal, the last length of guttering pulls off and deposits you gently outside your front door.

You're alive! You've survived! It's hard to believe, but you've actually snatched yourself from the jaws of death. You look around and breathe in the fresh sweet air. It never smelt this good before. Life sure seems wonderful!

A moment later your mother comes around the corner of the house. ‘Hey, Mum,' you say ‘you'll never guess what just happened . . .'

‘Oh good,' she says, ignoring what you're trying to say. ‘You've pulled all that rotten old guttering down. Well done.'

And off she goes.

Another moment later your father comes around the other corner of the house.

‘Hey, Dad,' you say, ‘you'll never guess what just happened . . .'

‘Oh no,' he says, ignoring what you're trying to say. ‘You've pulled all that guttering down, right in the middle of a rainstorm. Very clever. You've probably flooded half the damn house. Well done.'

And off he goes.

‘So I'll put it back up again,' you shout after him, matching his sarcasm with some of your own.

‘Good idea,' he yells back over his shoulder. ‘Do that.'

‘Grrrr,' you mutter, going off to get a ladder.

ome on,' you say, ‘I'll introduce you.'

You walk towards your mother. ‘Oh, there you are, dear,' she says, ‘I've been looking for you everywhere.'

‘Mum, this is Stacey,' you say, turning to introduce your new friend.

‘Well, well,' your mother says. ‘You've made a friend already. That's nice.'

Stacey flashes some metal at your mum.

‘Now, tell me,' your mother says, ‘these white crosses. I didn't notice them before. Perhaps Stacey can tell us what they are.'

‘She already has, Mum,' you say. ‘And I don't think you're going to like it.'

‘Oh, look,' Stacey says, ‘what I told you, it mightn't be a hundred per cent . . .'

But you're so anxious to tell your mother the story that you ignore Stacey.

‘You see, Mum,' you rush on, ‘the last three owners of this house have all died here! These are their graves! And no-one knows how they died! The last one was found on Christmas Eve, dead in the cellar, and the door was locked from the outside. Mum, we've got to get out of this place, and I mean now!'

‘Oh really, dear,' your mother says. ‘You always did have such an over-active imagination.' She's bending to look at the graves.

‘But Mum, it's true, you can ask Stacey.'

‘Um, I just remembered, I've got to go,' Stacey says suddenly and starts walking away up the drive.

‘The last three owners, is that what you said?' your mum asks, as she reads the inscriptions on the crosses.

‘That's right.'

‘And what were their names?'

‘I only know one of them. He was Mr Blenkinsop.'

‘Mr Blenkinsop.'

‘That's right.'

‘Not Spotty? Or Tiddles? Or Bonza?'

‘What are you talking about?'

Your mother reads one of the inscriptions out loud: ‘Tiddles, good companion, great rat-catcher, died 7 November 1995, aged fifteen.'

‘Oh,' you say.

‘Now, where's that nice girl you just introduced me to?' your mother says, straightening up. ‘Oh, she seems to have gone. What a pity.'

re you completely and utterly crazy? Are you out of your ever-loving mind? You want to sit down and write a letter at a time like this? You idiot! I'll give you two choices here, and you'd better make a quick decision: you either go back and find a way to break the glass, or you can go straight to a psychiatrist. Which is it to be?