The Most Frightening Story Ever Told (14 page)

“I was allowed the use of a room to set up my cameras and monitors and, having placed the bear in their middle, I went to work. Hours went by and I soon thought I must be mad. As mad as Mr. Dublin, I concluded.

“Day turned to night. And I grew tired. Yawning, I took my eye off the thing. And then, just for a second, I imagined that I had seen the bear move—as if, in the blink of an eye, it had glanced at me before looking away once again.

“Horrified, I went to the recording equipment and played the tape back in slow motion. And I saw that I had not been mistaken. The teddy bear had moved, if only for the tiniest fraction of a second.

“Nervously I picked the bear up and looked at it more closely. Still it seemed normal to me. And yet the more I looked at it the more I was sure its expression had changed, but so subtly it was hardly noticeable. The mouth was different, wider, thicker. It was as if there were more of the stitches that made the mouth than before. And fetching a penknife from my bag, I started to unpick them, one at a time. None of the stitches were tight, as stitches ought to have been, but loose, hardly stitched at all, in fact. And it wasn't long before my efforts with the penknife revealed a tiny mouth full of very sharp-looking teeth.

“This discovery shocked me, I don't mind telling you. A teddy bear with teeth was not at all what I had been expecting. Whoever expects a teddy bear to have any teeth? Let alone a mouth like a tiny shark. At this stage I ought to have left well enough alone. Called the police, or perhaps the zoo. I don't know. But scientific fascination overtook me, I suppose, and, putting aside my penknife, I pulled the threads of stitching aside with my fingers' ends.”

Miss McBatty stopped speaking for a moment. For several moments.

“What happened?” gasped Billy. “What happened next?”

Her face looked grave, as if the memory of what had happened was all too painful. Which it was.

Silently she held up one of her hands. And it was clear to Billy that Miss McBatty was missing the tip of a forefinger.

As if something had bitten it off.

Billy felt his jaw drop like a dead man's hand. He let out a gasp.

“Yikes,” he said. “Did it—the teddy bear—did it—?”

“Yes, Billy,” said Miss McBatty. “It bit off the end of my finger. By the time I had picked myself off the floor and bandaged my finger with a handkerchief, the teddy bear had run out into the street and was never seen again.

“I am not permitted to say very much more by the Chicago police, as the case is still open and under investigation. What I can say is that the investigation revealed that Mr. Dublin's baby daughter, Liffey, was not the first family pet or little sister that had been eaten by that teddy bear.”

“Wow, that is such a creepy story,” exclaimed Billy. “I don't know, but that might just be the creepiest story I've ever heard. I don't think I'll sleep tonight thinking about it. And if I do manage to sleep, I bet I have the worst nightmare anyone has ever had.” He shook his head. “The kind of nightmare where you think you're falling from a great height. Or the kind of nightmare where you're dead. I have that one a lot.”

“Everyone has nightmares like that, Billy,” said Miss McBatty.

“But that story is so creepy. Gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.”

“Creepy, yes,” said Miss McBatty. “But unfortunately for me, it wasn't supernatural. After all, it was only a teddy bear, not a ghost.”

Billy shrugged. “So what's the problem?”

“Bil-ly,”
said Miss McBatty. “I'm a ghost hunter. I'm supposed to hunt ghosts and find them and stuff. A teddy bear just doesn't qualify, on account of the fact that it wasn't a ghost, but something very much alive.” Miss McBatty sighed and looked sad for a moment. “Can I tell you a secret, Billy?”

“Of course you can,” said Billy, leaning forward on Edgar Allan Poe's armchair.

“It's this.” Miss McBatty sighed again. “Back in Kansas City I may have given you the impression that I might have actually seen a ghost. But the honest truth is, I haven't. Not ever. Not once. Those bath faucets turning on in that Kansas City hotel were about the nearest I've ever come to a genuine ghostly experience.”

“I see,” said Billy, trying to hide his disappointment.

Only he didn't do it very well, because Miss McBatty said, “You're quite right to be disappointed, Billy. I wouldn't blame you if you thought I was a total fake.”

“I don't think that at all,” insisted Billy. “In fact, I think you're kind of wonderful.”

But Miss McBatty wasn't really listening. She was too busy listening to the sound of the disappointment in her own self that she was failing to hear what Billy had to say.

“I mean, I've got all this expensive equipment for detecting ghosts, but the fact is that I never have actually detected a ghost. Let alone seen one. What kind of ghost hunter does that make me?”

“An unlucky one?” Billy suggested. And when Miss McBatty didn't look convinced, he added, “You've only just started, Mercedes. May I call you Mercedes?”

Mercedes McBatty nodded. “I wish you would, Billy. I can't ever get used to the idea of people calling me Miss. It makes me sound like a sort of target.”

Billy nodded. “What I mean is this: you're just fifteen years old, Mercedes. You ask me, you've got plenty of time to see a ghost before you can start calling yourself a fake and a failure. I think you're brave and wonderful. I know I wouldn't have had the courage to pick up a teddy bear I suspected of having eaten someone's baby. And certainly I couldn't ever have put my finger near its mouth.”

“Thank you, Billy,” said Mercedes. “I think you're one of the kindest people I ever met. And I think it's really great, the way Mr. Rapscallion trusts you to look after the shop when he's not around. He must think a lot of you.”

Billy shook his head. “I'm just an ordinary kid who likes books, that's all.”

“Believe me, Billy, that makes you someone worth trusting.”

Billy shrugged modestly. And then he smiled. A compliment from Mercedes McBatty felt like something important.

“Tell me about your accident, Billy.”

Billy shrugged again. “Not much to tell. We were all of us in the car, my parents and me, when it happened. A truck on Hitchcock High Street came from nowhere and hit us from behind. I really don't remember very much about it at all. Anyway, the next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. For months, I guess.”

“Is that when you got interested in books?”

“Oh no,” said Billy. “I was a keen reader long before that. As far back as I can remember, I've always loved books. Our family never had money for much, but there were always plenty of books around. And when I'd finished reading those, I went to the library. The great thing about books? It's the way they take you out of yourself. The way they make all your troubles seem so small. I couldn't live without books. It beats me how anyone can live without reading books.”

A few days later, Mr. Rapscallion took Billy outside the Haunted House of Books to ask his opinion of the sign he had posted on the shop window. The sign said:

TO ALL THE KIDS IN HITCHCOCK

Scare yourself silly and win a thousand bucks.

Just five enormously brave kids will have the chance to hear a unique in-store midnight reading of the scariest story ever written in the whole history of the world.

But only the kid who isn't scared totally witless by hearing it will win the grand prize of a thousand dollars in cash. (Yes, we do mean American dollars, and yes, we do mean green stuff in your hand.)

In other words, absolutely no chickens need apply. We mean it, folks. If you're frightened of the dark, or your own shadow, or you think that maybe there's a bogeyman underneath your bed, then you'd probably better think again.

Take it from us, this story isn't for the faint of heart. Seriously. The last time it was read aloud, in 1820, there were actual casualties.

So if any of you kids think you've got the guts, then come in today, buy a book and enter your name and address for the draw. You could be one of the lucky five who are chosen to hear the story, one of whom will end up a thousand dollars better off.

ALL TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY:

The Very Small Print: All rights reserved, whatever the heck that means. We wouldn't have to print this kind of almost invisible and meaningless rubbish if people weren't such greedy morons, always trying to make a quick buck from other people who are just trying to scrape out an honest living. Or if there weren't so many greedy, grasping lawyers. Which reminds me, if you're a lawyer and you try to sue me or persuade other people to sue me, I shall take great pleasure in pointing out that everything is covered in the small print, or the very small print. So there. Now you know what it feels like. Get yourself a better pair of glasses and a decent job. I've got more respect for vampires than I do for lawyers: vampires have to suck blood to stay alive; lawyers do it because they like it. The organizer's decision is final. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went she was too dumb to take a book with her. But I bet she took an iPong or an iDork or an iDumb or an iThick or an iMoron or whatever they call one of those portable devices that are an excuse not to use your brain on a plane or a bus. Get a life, you dork. Haven't you figured it out yet? This is why bookshops are closing all over the world. Because people are too stupid to read books. In case you're interested, that's why we're running this contest. To try to get people through the door. Because if you mugs stop buying books there won't be any bookshops. And this town will look as ignorant as the others in this state. Use it or lose it. That's what I say.

Billy read it all carefully—even the very small print—and then nodded with approval.

But even before he'd finished reading, the sign in the window had attracted a large crowd of local people who started to discuss the contest with excitement.

“It looks like it's working already,” Billy told Mr. Rapscallion.

“Good, because I told Mr. Johnson Hildebrand from the local newspaper all about it and he agreed to come over here with a photographer and to interview me. Aha.” Mr. Rapscallion pointed at two men walking across the street toward the shop. One of them was carrying several pounds of cameras around his neck. The other had a pencil behind his ear and a notebook in his hand.

“This might be them now,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

They were both fat and smelled strongly of beer.

“In fact, I'm sure of it.”

“Hildebrand,” said the man with the notebook. “From the
Hitchcock Hard News
? And this is Bill Snapz, our photographer.”

“Hey,” said Snapz. “How're you doing?”

“And you must be Mr. Rapscallion,” said Mr. Hildebrand.

“How did you know?” asked Mr. Rapscallion.

“I'm a journalist,” said Mr. Hildebrand. “It's my job to know things and find out stuff that sometimes people would prefer to remain hush-hush and covered up. Besides, there's a tag on your shirt with your name on it.”

Mr. Rapscallion took Mr. Hildebrand into the shop to answer some questions for an article on the contest in the newspaper. Meanwhile, the photographer stayed outside taking pictures of the growing crowd. And Billy stayed to listen to what local people were saying about the contest.

“The scariest story in the world?” A tall man shook his head. “Ain't no such thing. It's just an obvious gimmick. To get people through the door.”

“Once upon a time, I met my wife,” said the man standing next to him. “That's about the scariest story I know.”

Both men seemed to think that was pretty funny.

“I think it's a fantastic idea,” said another man. “I must say my eldest son, Grub, could do with a good fright. He's too cocky by far. You ask me, a scary story's just what he needs to wipe the smug smile off that kid's ugly face.”

“It's the same with my daughter, Loopy,” said a woman. “It might be easier to get her home on time if she was a bit more frightened of the dark. I think it's a great idea, too.”

“Nuts,” said someone else. “The guy's crazy. Nothing scares kids these days. I caught my five-year-old watching a horror movie. And he was laughing.
Laughing.
I saw the same film when I was eighteen and I had nightmares about it for weeks afterward.”

“It's just an easy way to throw away a thousand dollars.”

“You're missing the point, mister,” said a clever little girl called Gnomi, who was about nine or ten years old. “Do you really not get it? This might be an easy way
to pick up
a thousand bucks.”

“She's right,” said another kid. “What couldn't I do with a thousand bucks?”

“Come to think of it,” said a policeman who had stopped to see what all the fuss was about, “there ain't much that scares my boy, Wham, either. And our family could sure use a thousand dollars. We could buy a wide-screen TV. Or use the money to take a vacation.”

People were already starting to go inside the shop. And immediately several bought the cheapest book they could find—a very thin paperback by the Canadian horror writer F. Chankly Bore entitled
Newfoundland Nocturnal
—so that they could enter themselves or their child in the contest without any further delay.

And pretty soon the shoebox beside the cash register had several dozen names inside it.