She Read online

  With a burst of joy, she jumped down and hugged him before running off downstairs to her room.

  Michael asked, “Where’s she going, Mom?”

  “From the looks of it, to get more stuffed animals.”

  “Bubby?”

  Michael was exhausted, laying on the floor yet again. Lilly had claimed the bed, his bed, and when she made up her mind, there was no changing it. The word came out of nowhere, but he saw her sit up in the bed, curled hair falling to the neck of her nightgown. Light was floating out of the closet, casting just enough of it to see her silhouette against the even darker wall.

  “Yeah, Lilly?”

  There was a moment’s pause, as if she was unsure what to say, or if she wanted to. Then she asked, “Can you tell me a story? I can’t sleep. I tried to count the sheep jumping into the wall, but there’s too many.”

  Michael laughed despite his weariness and responded, “You mean jumping over the gate?”

  “Oh, they do that? If I try that, will I sleep better?” she asked in a curious, innocent way that little children do.

  “I don’t know.” Michael yawned. “I’m sorry, Lilly, but I just need to sleep. Could you tell yourself a story?”

  She thought for a moment, then answered, “I guess. I haven’t tried.”

  “Well,” -he yawned again, beginning to fade into the world of dreams- “you ought to... try... tonight…” and then his head sunk into the pillow, calm and quiet.

  “But what story can I tell?” she asked. No reply came, but she did not know her brother was sleeping. With a pouting face, she curled up and brought her tiny knees to her even smaller chin. “What story can I tell…”

  It was a while later -almost an hour- when Lilly uncurled herself and laid down straight, breathing calmly as she slept. The ceiling overhead was dark, only seen in flashes, illuminated by the flickering light of the closet. On for a few seconds, and then off. Agonizing, repetitive, painfully dependable; every so many seconds, it popped off, and then just as quickly lit up again. On, and then off; back on, and back off. Nothing would wake her, however.

  Within five minutes, the room was dark, except for the digital clock over squatting on the shelf. 10:25; the closet light instantly flicked back on. It remained steady, almost giving hope that it would stay. Was the darkness to be defeated? Was the light to remain?

  The tapping noise started then. Like a the nail of a woman’s hand, tapping ever so rhythmically on glass, it continued. Lightbulb snapped on; tap, tap, tap; lightbulb clicked off. A few seconds passed slowly; lightbulb burst on; tap, tap, tap; lightbulb clicked off. 10:26. Lightbulb shocked on; tap, tap, tap; lightbulb clicked off. A few seconds passed slowly; lightbulb snapped on; tap, tap, tap; lightbulb clicked off.

  10:27. Lightbulb snapped on; tap, tap, tap, tap; the tapping got faster, faster, and then stopped; lightbulb clicked off. A few seconds passed slowly; lightbulb burst on; tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, faster, faster, stop; lightbulb clicked off.

  10:28. There was no noise. Lilly lay there, sleeping peacefully, unaware of what was happening all around her. She was calm, content, and totally-

  Tap, tap, tap; pause; tap, tap, tap; pause; tap, tap, tap. Light on, light off, light on, light off; it rapidly switched back and forth, a pop here and it shot on, a snap here and it turned off in the blink of an eye, the drop of a nail.

  Still she slept.

  Nail. Nails on the window. Nails tapping; tap, tap tap, tap; on and on and on, never stopping, not ceasing, continuous, dreadfully continuous

  10:29. It grew to a sickening pace, while the light switched on and off even quicker, even faster. On, off, tap, tap, on, off, tap, tap; it would be torture listening. If Lilly had been awake, she would have grabbed her brother’s hand and pointed to the window, because there, tap, tap, tap, tapping along, were the nails. Five, bright red nails of a woman; tap, tap, tap, tap. The fingers flexed, bent, tapped, bent back, flexed, bent, tapped, bent back; on and on. They began to scratch, scraping along downwards, starting near the top and carving their way down the glass, leaving a trail. Then a mixture, frantic taps followed by drawn-out scrapes, both full of madness.

  10:30. The nails disappeared. The light shut off. Everything was black. What darkness lay outside the window remained calm, peaceful.

  It was replaced by a face; a hideous face, a lined, scarred, tortured, mutilated face. Wrinkles scratched like roads in its surface, going this way and that way from the capital city, which was the chapped, curved lips. She stared in the window. Her eyes were gleaming.

  The face was smiling.

  She was smiling.

  Lilly’s eyes jerked open in her sleep, and in a sweet, little voice she told a story. Short, to the point, and dreadful. It was her story.

  “It was dark. A little girl was walking on the street. She was smiling. She was happy. She was alone. There were streetlights, but it was still dark. Then, she saw someone. It was an old lady by the street lamp. She looked sad; she was a sad old lady. The sad old lady was looking at the grass. Maybe there was something fun in the grass; maybe there was a toy to make her happy.

  “But the sad old lady looked up. She saw the little girl and she smiled. The sad old lady had teeth, but not all of them. She had lots of pretty, white hair though. I wish I was had her hair. The little girl wishes she had her hair. The sad old lady was crying. She was a sad old lady.

  “The little girl went closer and asked, ‘What is wrong, sad old lady?’

  “The sad old lady smiled, but it was a sad smile. The sad old lady said, ‘I am a sad old lady.’

  “The little girl asked, ‘Why are you a sad old lady?’

  “The sad old lady answered, ‘I always have wished for a daughter like you. Two daughters like you.

  “The little girl said, ‘If I go up the road with you, will you be happy, sad old lady?’

  “The sad old lady said, ‘Yes. Very happy.’

  “Then they walked up the road together, the little girl and the sad old lady. Except now, she was a happy old lady. Oh, I wish I had her pretty red nails and her pretty white hair.”

  Then Lilly closed her eyes and slept on. Nothing strange happened at all that night, nothing unusual at all.

  Across town, Brandon looked out his window many times that night, but never saw the lady. She was not there, you see. She was busy.

  She was a happy old lady.

  8. Storms

  “Weather reports tonight call for some heavy rain beginning later in the evening and carrying on until late morning. Chances of thunder and lightning tonight, folks, so unless you have an emergency, stay inside and get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll have highs in the lower 90s and lows around….”

  It had been an uneventful week. Brandon reported to them all that he had not seen the lady recently, and, in fact, it seemed like she may have gone away. Michael took this as a good sign, along with Christian and Crystal. If she would leave, then everything would be back to normal, and they could enjoy their summer vacation.

  “And they all lived happily ever after,” Michael read as he closed the book. Lilly was sitting on his lap, intently staring at the picture book. This was one of her favorite books; in it were a handful of fairy tales, but with bright, colorful pictures, especially of the princesses.

  “Can you read the first one again?” she asked, craning her head back to smile at him. “I like that one.”

  “Oh, I guess so,” he grinned at her. “Let’s see here... page one…”

  Nicole Walker, or Mrs. Walker, looked on smiling, ignoring the weather forecasts of rain and thunder. Michael had always been great with his little sister, much unlike his father. Ever since Jim had left her, Nicole slowly morphed into a hard-working, tough-skinned mom, doing anything to earn money, and doing more to hold onto it. Working double jobs, in the afternoons as a waitress and the mornings and evenings as a janitor for the town hall in Marcy, she had enough to live comfortably in the small, two story house. After their separation, which went rathe
r horribly, even for a divorce, she got rights to the house, the car, and full-time guardianship of the kids. Even some little money came her way. Jim did not get, or want, anything to do with the kids, but that was typical of him.

  Mrs. Gray, oh what a nice lady she was, drove Lilly around most days, with Mrs. Moore doing the same for Michael. Besides driving in to Marcy, Michael stayed in Hardy most of the time, getting where he needed to go on a bike. In such a small town, a bike was just as handy as, and much cheaper than, a car. Whenever they got together here at the house, it was always special, and she longed for the day when working could morph into family-time. Inside, she feared that day might never come, and worried that she would spend her whole life watching Michael and Lilly grow up without ever having a hand in it. It was watching your own children grow up, while you were more of a hotel-manager, a landlord who gave them room and board, more than a mother; it was torture.

  “Mom, is it Lilly’s bedtime?” Michael asked.

  “Huh?” She looked up from her intertwined fingers. “Oh, um yeah, I suppose it is. Would you mind taking her up for me? I hurt my knee at work today; slipped on the mop.”

  A pang of guilt shot through her for asking it of Michael, but it was true; her knee really did hurt. The truth was, she could hardly bend it, but it was nothing that a few painkillers and ice could not take care of.

  “Sure, Mom. Come on, Lilly.”

  “What about the book?” she asked.

  “I’ll put it back in its bed” -with a heave he picked her up in his strong arms- “right after I put you in yours. You need to stop growing, missy. You’re getting heavy.”

  She giggled when he walked away, dipping down into lunges as if she had grown too large to carry properly. “Quit, quit,” she burst into laughter again. “That tickles my tummy.”

  “Oh, you won’t like rollercoasters then when you’re older.”

  “Neither do you,” Nicole commented from her seat on the couch.

  “‘Cause they’re so freaking high,” Michael said, as if that was an obvious reason.

  “What’s a rollercoaster?” Nicole heard Lilly ask while Michael carried her upstairs.

  They were such good kids, although the older could hardly be called a kid anymore. Sure, he was only fourteen, but so mature for his age, and so sure in himself. He’s the perfect mixture of his father’s confidence and whatever I gave him, she thought to herself. Now, Lilly, she’s just plain cute, nothing else to it. And that thought made her smile.

  Michael layed Lilly in her bed upstairs, kissing her on the forehead before turning to leave. When he had a finger on the lightswitch, she called to him.

  “Bubby?”

  “Yes, Lilly?”

  “I love you.”

  It was much later in the night, now, and jet black outside. Some might say it was too late; that it was the next day. 4 o’clock seemed much later when you were still awake. Nicole was asleep downstairs, though, and Lilly tucked in under her blankets, peaceful dreams surrounding her. Michael was not asleep, though. His eyes opened, unable to find rest that night. Without making any noise he turned in his bed to face the window.

  Everything was quiet and still; he could see the street light outside. They were rare on Country Road, but one happened to near his house, directly across from it actually. Besides that, there was a house off in the distance, and a house close nearby, both smaller than his and quieter. No kids, just a lonely farmer in one, and a farmer couple in the other. They were never seen out and about.

  There was not much to hear in his house. Through the window, he could just make out the fields, but not the road. It was too near his house to be visible from the bed. Though everything was silent, his brain seemed to be screeching. There were restless, unheard screams filling the nighttime air; he was sure of it. But he was the only one.

  Wind screeched much more audibly outside, like nails on a chalkboard; the rows of soybeans moved slightly, but were not yet tall enough to be affected much by the gentle breeze. Rain was pounding on the roof like a thousand little drums, each with its own rhythm and notes. It was not what he could see or hear that woke him and kept him awake. It was what he felt; a sensation.

  The sensation of being watched.

  Throwing the blankets off him, a sudden rush of adrenaline erased all sleepiness. His eyes were sharp, mind alert, and every little detail seemed to stand out. If someone was watching him, that meant his family could be in danger. His mom, Lilly; they were who he feared for.

  Straightening himself, he looked around the room. The doorway was dark, but he could have seen if someone was standing there. Much like his mother, good eyesight had been passed on to him.

  Nobody else was in the room, or if they were, only the shadows of the corner behind the door would hide them. Grabbing a flashlight from his dresser, he warily approached that area, ready to fight. If it was a dangerous man, he could catch them off guard, maybe land a punch. If it was someone else, he would back up and let them come towards him.

  When he was a few feet away, still having made no noise, he clicked the button, making little sound, and looked where the light pointed.

  Only a pile of shoes lay behind the door.

  A burst of wind outside screamed loud, making him jump. Rain continued to beat the roof, which helped to calm his nerves. It was just the wind; being watched was just his imagination; this was just a normal night.

  Looking over to the alarm clock, he found it was only 10:49. That meant he had been asleep for... well, it did not matter. More importantly, he had a calming handful of hours ahead during which he could sleep. When he woke up, this would all be just be like a dream.

  Just a dream; just a memory, like what happened at Brandon’s house that one night, what seemed like years ago. Such a strange occurrence, a scary tale for sure, but peculiar most of all. Those types of things never happened in real life; you never saw a woman outside stalking you.

  Without knowing, he had drifted slowly towards the window curtains, behind which lay a beautiful moon. He could see the light coming through a crack between the two breezy coverings. It was pale and full, like a bowling ball in the sky, painted white. When he was little, people told him stories of how the moon was made of cheese, but that could not be true. It looked more like a-

  What were those?

  On the window, there was lines, scratches it seemed. They were faint, but he could see them with the moonlight shining directly through. Starting near the top, they tore downwards, farther down, and eventually stopped near the bottom. To the sides of them were smaller marks, some wider and some thinner.

  What caught his attention, though, was outside. Directly across the road, among the soybeans, stood a lady with a black hood on. If asked for a comparison, he would say the Grim Reaper’s wife, and indeed, she looked the part. Although she did not carry a pitchfork or a sickle, the way she stood tall with a slight slouch, her head bowed and arms hidden in the many folds of her long robe or dress, whichever it was, made her seem all the more powerful.

  Glimmering with the lights shining down on it, he saw long, white hair. What once had been traces of black were entirely gone now, but still he recognized it… recognized her.

  He stared, awestruck and fearful. Maybe, if he stood dreadfully still, she would not sense his presence, and not look up at him. Seeing those awful eyes with that terrible smile... no, he could not bear it tonight. Go back to bed, he kept telling himself. She won’t see you if you leave; she wouldn’t dare come closer. But despite his best efforts, both feet remained where they were, and both eyes took in the scene, not wanting to believe it.

  With a movement so sudden it must have hurt her neck, the lady looked up at him, and there were those eyes, there was that smile. One gnarled finger raised to point at him, speaking a thousand words with that one movement. She was taunting him, beckoning him, testing him.

  Quickly, Michael leapt away from that spot and raced into the hallway, then down the stairs. Hoping his mom would not w
ake up, he opened the front door, which was right by the steps, and raced out onto the front porch. There she was, still standing, although now both arms stayed at her side. A smile was carved into her features, and lines visible from here marked her face like writing.

  “Who are you?” he whispered, before saying it louder, and then still louder until he shouting it towards her. Everything went quiet for a moment as he waited; even the wind died down and the rain seemed a little less noisy.

  “You have already named me,” she said. He heard the words crisp and clear, but the voice was not what he had expected. It seemed familiar, menacingly so, but comforting. In a sick way, he longed inside of him to reach out and touch her, to feel her clammy hands and see into those eyes deeper. Her voice called him closer, even without saying the words. Words were unnecessary; her voice and tone said it all.

  From out behind her stepped two little girls. The first, he shuddered to think, was someone he recognized. With black hair braided behind her head, and smooth, dark skin, it was Grace Gray, holding the hand of the woman. Such a sight was unnerving and heartstopping, but what he saw next was heartbreaking.

  Lilly had her warm, small fingers firmly wrapped around the cold palm of her hand. Everything seemed to stop for a moment, and time halted in its nightly walk, while he stared, full of agony and dread. Her face was as happy as ever, a bright smile forming and her little ears perking up at the sight of her brother. Soaking, red curls were falling down the back of her head, separated from those in the front by a hairband. The free hand was waving to her brother, fingers outstretched and glistening with rain. This was fear to Michael; seeing her, his cute, beloved sister, out there with a monster, the monster. She had taken her.

  “No!” he screamed into the cold, wet rain. Dashing towards the few steps leading down to the grass, he took off with a leap, determined to catch her, hunting for justice. She had taken her.

  His foot slipped on the wet stone, and he came crashing down, head smacking across rock while he watched them slip away into the soybean fields and in the direction of the forest. He could hear his sister giggling all the way while his vision blurred and then was lost as blood trickled from his forehead. She had taken her.