Scary Out There (17 page)

The boy that Jeremy had come to know as Death fell forward. His body tumbled only once in the air before it struck the surface of the water and plunged into the depths. Doubt filled Jeremy's heart just as the splashing sounds from below filled his ears. Had the boy really been Death? Or had he been just another suicidal teen, just another statistic? Had all the perceived knowledge about Jeremy and his intentions just been insightful guesses?

Or had he just been given a second chance at life? A new life. Far away from the problems of Jeremy Grainger.

His heart was racing in confusion and terror. It drummed louder inside his head as he heard the splashing below go quiet. Before he realized what he was doing, he was running. Down the tracks, off the bridge, onto the gravel beside the tracks. The air whipped his hair back from his eyes. His palm was sticky from the Twinkie, but he couldn't remember having dropped it. He had to find someone to help the boy who'd jumped into
the river. But it was almost midnight in a small town. Who would even be awake at this hour? He strained his thoughts, but couldn't find an answer, no matter how hard he tried.

Then, on the horizon of the next hill, the soft glow of fluorescent lighting. The bus station. Parked outside was the 12:05 to Saint Louis. Inside Jeremy's pocket was the ticket, but inside his head were doubts. What if he just watched a boy die? What if he could still help him? What if . . . ?

But then he saw something through the window that eased his nerves and set his annoyance level on overdrive at the same time. He stepped onto the bus and dug the ticket out of his pocket, handing it to the driver. Then he made his way about halfway down the aisle and took a seat next to a boy in a rumpled, patched jacket, holding a flask in his hand. His clothes were completely dry, his hair, too. He looked, in fact, precisely the way that he had the first time that Jeremy had laid eyes on him.

As Jeremy sat hard in the seat next to him, he cracked a smile—the first he had in a long time. “You are such a dick.”

It was a trick. There was no deal. The decision to live or die—to move on or dwell, had been up to Jeremy the entire time.

Death grinned and reached inside his pocket. “Twinkie?”

Zac Brewer
grew up on a diet of
The Twilight Zone
and books by Stephen King. He chased them down with every drop of horror he could find—in books, movie theaters, on television. The most delicious parts of his banquet, however, he found lurking in the shadowed corners of his dark imagination. When he's not writing books, he's skittering down your wall and lurking underneath your bed. Zac doesn't believe in happy endings . . . unless they involve blood. He lives in Missouri with his husband and two children.

Website:
zacbrewer.com

Twitter:
@unclezacbrewer

Facebook:
facebook.com/NYT-Bestselling-Author-Zac-Brewer-241859875932/

LINDA ADDISON

Demon Slayer

It builds in me again,

swelling under thin scars

hidden by long sleeves,

burning for release.

It burns away my determination.

I lock the door, pick up the

edged tool, relieve the pressure,

one more time.

Finally able to breathe again,

I need a hero to slay

this myth buried in me,

disfiguring my future.

Maybe I can become a warrior,

find one person who cares,

unveil the shadow of anger,

the shifting darkness.

Write a new story,

when the pressure begins,

slay It, recognize my light,

and become Legend.

Don't Talk to Strangers

He waited for the young ones

where shadows grow wild

and parents never go.

Their voices appeared first,

giggling, crying, whispering,

teasing, loud then quiet.

Soon footsteps stumbled in

running, skipping, stomping,

ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

Then came their hands.

Tender fingers, brown, pale,

dirty nails, shiny clean nails.

After a while curls of hair

floated by, tight, loose,

dark, light, purple and pink.

Saddened it would end soon,

he held his breath

before their eyes arrived.

Convergence of Troubled Strands

I have been here before,

outside, always outside,

unseen, frozen in place.

Everything moves faster:

Mom, Dad, teachers,

Those-Who-Could-Be-Friends.

I try:

wear the right clothes,

get the right haircut,

smile at the right time.

Still invisible.

I can't breathe in this

desert. The thought of

being a ghost suddenly

tastes real, then I

raise my eyes,

see you standing still.

Another phantom, you

see me, nod, our shadows

meet, suddenly there is air.

#LoveLetter for @OverU

How do I #Trend thee?

Even as I #Like every update,

every /photo/

you #BlockMe.

@OnceUponATime we were

#InARelationship before

I wasn't allowed to

be a #Friend or #CloseFriend.

On #TBT I post pictures from

when we were #HappyInLove

but you don't #Like them,

you #UnFollow me.

I #TotallyRegret hitting you

but you will not #ForgiveOrForget.

If only you #Loved me the same,

but you never #Heart my posts.

It's not #MyFault, you #MadeMeDoIt.

@IHeartYou #Forever. We are #MeantToBe.

So I will #SeekOut and follow everyone

you know until #YouHeartMe again.

Linda Addison
is an award-winning author of four collections, including
How to Recognize a Demon Has Become Your Friend.
She is the first African American recipient of the HWA Bram Stoker Award. She has published over three hundred poems, stories, and articles and is a member of Circles in the Hair, the Horror Writers Association, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, and the Science Fiction Poetry Association.

Website:
lindaaddisonpoet.com

Twitter:
@nytebird45

Facebook:
facebook.com/linda.d.addison

JOSH MALERMAN

H
ow much does it pay?”

Dad's first question. Of course it was Dad's first question.

“Eight dollars an hour.”

“Eight dollars?” Mom said, peering into the kitchen. “Kelly, that's gotta be twice what I made back when I did the same exact thing.”

“You babysat?” Kelly asked, sticking a fork into a piece of pancake. Mom looked surprised that her daughter wouldn't have guessed this on her own.

“Well, of
course
I babysat. Everybody babysat in the nineties.”

Kelly looked to Dad across the table. Dad shook his head.

“No, I did not babysit,” he said. “And I think eight dollars is too little. It's less than minimum wage. And I don't love the idea that you'd be responsible for somebody else's kid. Not even for a night.”

“Dick Herman”—Mom used his full name, entering the kitchen now, one hand on her hip—“you sound like you're a hundred-year-old man.”

“Do I? So I do. I don't like it.”

“Don't like what? We hired babysitters for Kelly all the time when she was a kid. She's fifteen. She's old enough.” Mom looked directly at Kelly and winked. “She's
responsible
enough too.”

Kelly tried to imagine Mom babysitting. But she couldn't see anything except the bespectacled woman in an ankle length dress, ready for work, standing before her. Kelly imagined Mom sitting prim on a couch in a silent house. No friends over. No phone calls. Babysitting, and nothing more.

“Where do they live?” Dad asked, shoveling pancake into his mouth. “Maybe we know them. Who are they?”

Kelly pulled the piece of paper from the pouch of her hoodie sweatshirt.

“The Donaldses.”

“Donalds?” Dad turned toward Mom. She knew more people around town than he did. Mom shook her head no.

“Don't know them,” she said. “But I'm sure they're very nice people. How old is their kid?”

“Could be ten kids,” Dad said, shaking his head.

“One kid,” Kelly said. “They didn't say how old.”

Both parents frowned.

“Didn't say how old?” Dad shook his head again. “What if it's a baby? For Christ's sake, Sue, it's winter. What if there's an emergency? Can you imagine Kelly carrying a baby on foot through a snowstorm?”

Now Mom shook her head.

“That's enough, Dick. Seriously, do you have to imagine the
worst
thing possible?”

“It's got you thinking though, doesn't it?”

“No. It doesn't have me thinking. Kelly Herman, you're a fifteen-year-old, magnificent student, and a beautiful, intelligent woman.
And
if there's an emergency, you have a cell phone. If you want to dip your feet into the workforce, I'm one hundred percent behind you.”

“Dad?”

Kelly had a special bond with Dad. The same sense of humor. A similar worldview. When he said no, she usually let it die.

“No,” he said.

Not this time.

“But what percent are you behind me?”

“On this?”

“Yeah, on this.”

Dad leaned back in his breakfast chair and mused on the numbers.

“Forty.”

Kelly smiled.

“That's one-forty between the two of you. An average of seventy. I'm going to give them a call.”

Dad looked to Mom. She was smiling.

“That's my girl,” she said. “Using your brain. Let us know how it goes.”

•  •  •

Kelly used the landline in the office. She liked sitting in the office chair, leaning back as far as she could, putting her socked feet up on the desk. It made her feel like she was in charge of a big company. If she was, she thought, she'd be a good boss. But the idea quickly scared her. People coming to her with questions. The responsibility of answering those questions. Employees. It was probably a lot different from piecing together the yearbook with the staff. But who knows?

“Hello?”

A man's voice. An adult. Weird feeling, calling a stranger.

“Hello, I read your ad and—”

“Are you a babysitter?”

Kelly blushed, despite being unseen.

“Um, yes. Sure.”

“Sure? You said you're calling about the advertisement?”

“Yes.” Kelly felt like she'd already botched it. “I'm a babysitter.”

“And you can watch him tonight?”

Him. Good. A boy sounded easier somehow.

“Yes. I spoke with my parents. They're for it.”

A pause on the line and Kelly thought it meant the man was considering what she'd just said. Maybe “they're for it” was a weird, young thing to say. Then she heard a muffled exchange between the man and a woman and understood the couple were talking it over.

“How old are you?” the man asked.

“I'm fifteen.”

“Experience?”

“No. Not really. How old is your son?”

More of the muffled exchange. Kelly looked at herself in the mirror hanging on the back of the open office door.

You look old enough to do this
, she thought, and made a face like her mom would.

“I'm sorry,” the man returned. “What's your name?”

“Kelly Herman.”

She thought she sounded too young. Like Kelly Herman was a kid's name.

“Well, Kelly Herman, we were hoping for somebody with at least
some
experience.”

Kelly nodded at her reflection.

“I totally understand,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it's your kid. He means the world to you.”

Kelly felt a small thrill. She'd expressed herself somehow in that moment.

“Hang on a second,” the man said.

There was more of the muffled exchange, and Kelly stared at herself in the glass.

“Hello again,” the man said. “I apologize if I sounded a bit worried. But you're absolutely right. He means the world to us. Can you be here at seven?”

Kelly's heart fluttered. She caught her reflection, a real reaction, wide-eyed and happy.

“Yes! Mom or Dad will drive me.”

“Great. Let me give you directions to our home. Where do you live?”

Kelly told him and then began writing the directions on a small yellow sticky pad. She had to use two of the squares. When he was done, she thanked him.

“Wait,” the man said. He paused. Then, “You don't know our names yet.”

Kelly felt embarrassed for not having asked.

“Um . . . Mr. and Mrs. Donalds?”

The man laughed, deeply.

“No, no. That won't do. I'm Charles and my wife is Allison. And we're very excited to see you at seven.”

Kelly, sensing an opportunity to make up for what felt like a blunder, asked, “Mr. Donalds, Charles, what's your son's name?”

A brief silence. A pause. A beat.

“Danny.”

Danny Donalds
, Kelly thought. About as childish as Kelly Herman.

“Awesome,” she said. “Can't wait to meet him.”

“Thank you, Kelly. Seven o'clock, then.”

They hung up. Kelly scribbled the names on a third yellow square. She looked directly into the mirror and smiled.

“You got a job!” she exclaimed. Then she ran downstairs to
tell Mom and Dad and to make sure one of them was going to drive her there at seven after all.

“Dunkirk?” Dad said, arching an eyebrow. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Perfect,” Mom said. “Surprised we don't know them.”