OCTOBER PLAYLIST

The Badoo Mountains tumbled out in front of the three backpackers like fat clouds that had grown too heavy and had come crashing down from the sky. Jarrel, the youngest and smallest of the brothers, as usual, carried the heaviest backpack. But because he was young he easily kept up with Anthony and Freddie. Ahead, the sky curdled into lumpy storm clouds. The wind whined a frosty warning.

"Blizzard coming," said Anthony. He thrust his beard, which jutted sharply from his curved jaw, into the icy wind.

"And a bad one at that, " added Freddie, stroking his thin black mustache.

Jarrel was about to tell them about the weather report he had heard on his radio before the batteries faded, but he bit his lip to stop himself from talking. Jarrel knew all too well what he would get for his efforts, Freddie would delight in cutting him down with a cruel remark. Anthony was even worse. He might cuff Jarrel alongside the face for daring to speak out. So Jarrel walked on in silence.

Up ahead, tucked into a rocky pass, stood a peculiar-looking house. It was made of the same white sandstone as the mountains around it. The front wall, however, was stained to the color of dried blood.

Anthony pushed Jarrel forward with a powerful shove. "Go and ask if we can get shelter for the night."

Jarrel climbed the three tall steps to the great metal front door. Timidly, he reached for the old-fashioned knocking ring and brought it down -once, twice, three times onto the heavy door. Finally, with a protesting creak, the great door swung open, and a withered old man, bent over a twisted walking stick, poked a toothless face out of the shadows.

"Greetings, wayfarers," he said. "Be you lost, that your path leads you to my lonely doorstep?"

Jarrel couldn't answer. His tongue lay in helpless anchor at his teeth. Pushing Jarrel aside, Anthony swaggered into the doorway. Jarrel envied the easy way Anthony took control of the situation.

"Lost we are, old man," Anthony said. "Lost and hungry and in need of three warm beds."

The old man drew back his head and cocked it to one side. Jarrel thought it odd the way he looked them over from head to foot. His darting eyes seemed to be measuring them. The old man pursed his thin lips, then opened them with a noisy pop.

"I'll put the three of you up for the night," he said. "Come in. Come in."

The old man put his hand between Jarrel's shoulder blades to push him along. Jarrel hurried inside, trying to avoid the man's touch, a cold and soggy touch.

The old man ushered them upstairs. Jarrel counted thirteen steps. The third and the ninth steps squeaked under each person. The eleventh step was missing completely. At the top of the stairs was a bedroom with three sturdy beds topped with plump mattresses and thick blankets. There was a walk-in closet for stowing gear and a night stand with a candle instead of a lamp. Jarrel studied their host as he hobbled about on his walking stick. The old man's hands were so discolored and gnarled that it was impossible to tell where the walking stick left off and the hand began.

"Do make yourselves comfortable," purred the old man in an overly friendly tone that made Jarrel suspicious.

Anthony and Freddie showed no sign of distrust. They looked overjoyed at the prospect of good warm beds and a hearty meal after their many days on the trail.

"Much thanks, kind friend," said Freddie.

"And if I might be so bold to ask," put in Anthony, "when is dinner to be served?" He gave the old man a playful slap across the shoulders in the manner of fast friends.

"In due time, in due time," said the old man. Again it seemed to Jarrel he was sizing them up with his piercing gaze.

After they were settled, the old man led them into a large dining room warmed by a fireplace that spanned an entire wall. The three brothers dug into a hearty meal of tender roast beef, fresh cheese, and crusty bread still warm from the oven. It's odd, thought Jarrel, the old man isn't eating. As though he could read Jarrel's thoughts, the old man said,

"Sorry am I not to join you in your repast. But I've much work to do in my basement. For, you see, I am the coffin maker for the town in the valley below, and there has been much dying in these parts of late. My work is never done." With this, the old man pulled himself from the table and hobbled to the basement door. "Enjoy your meal, then put yourselves to bed." His voice suddenly dropped to a wavering whisper as he added, "I have but one rule here. Whatever you should hear outside, don't answer the front door after the sun goes down."

The rule seemed an odd one to Jarrel. But he supposed that, being so far from the beaten path, the old man had to be careful at night. Anthony and Freddie didn't seem to give the matter much thought. Freddie nodded over a crumbling wedge of cheese. Anthony merely grunted and continued to cram meat and bread into his face. When they had finished eating, Anthony turned to Freddie.

"What do you say we top this meal off by draining a bottle or two of the old man's wine?"

"Sounds DE-lightful to me, dear brother," replied Freddie. "'As for you, Jarrel, you can clear the table and wash the dishes."

"Yes, sir," said Jarrel, and he kept his voice steady, although he trembled inwardly at the injustice of having to do all the work.

By the time Jarrel had set the last clean dish back into the cupboard, Anthony and Freddie had already turned in for the night. Jarrel turned off the kitchen light and picked his way through the shadowy darkness to the stairway. The noisy squeak of the third step startled him. He remembered the other loose step, the ninth. It squeaked at him like a noisy fiend. Jarrel prepared to leap over the missing eleventh step when he noticed a dim light and heard the sound of hammering coming from somewhere below. Jarrel hurried into the bedroom, careful not to awaken his brothers, lest one drunkenly toss a boot at him. The tall candle on the night stand bathed Jarrel in its friendly glow. Jarrel pulled off his jeans and shirt and put on his pajamas. Slipping into bed, Jarrel wiggled his toes under the warm blankets. Outside, the wind howled and ice pelted the windows. In the cozy bed, Jarrel started to nod off to sleep.

When it happened, it happened suddenly and quite unexpectedly. A loud knocking sounded at the front door. Jarrel swung one leg over the side of the bed and was about to step onto the floor when the old man's words rang in his memory.

*Whatever you should hear outside, don't answer the front door after the sun goes down.*

Jarrel jerked his leg back under the covers. He lay frozen with doubt as the knocking boomed out louder and louder. Jarrel clutched the blankets tightly to his chin and waited. At last the mound in Anthony's bed moved.

Anthony tumbled out of bed, sputtering, "What is all this racket?"

Jarrel lay very still and breathed very slowly. He prayed Anthony wouldn't order him to go to the front door.

"Perhaps it's a fellow backpacker," Anthony said aloud. "I'd best let him in."

Jarrel heard his older brother pulling on his trousers. He heard Anthony curse as he struggled with his boots. Then he heard Anthony snapping his big knife onto the clasp of his belt. Anthony's bulky shadow drifted to the stairway. Jarrel heard Anthony's clumsy jump over the missing step. Jarrel heard the squeak at the ninth step, then hushed footfalls, then the squeak at the third step. Finally, he heard the creaking of the front door. Jarrel could picture Anthony pulling it open. Then--just what did Jarrel hear? He couldn't be sure with the howling wind. Did Anthony scream? Suddenly Jarrel heard the front door crash shut, and all was as before. The storm raged outside. There was no more knocking, and there was no sound at all of Anthony.

Under the warm covers, Jarrel shivered. His goose flesh brushed against the stiff fiber of the blankets. His mind wrestled with the possibilities, Who or what had been at the front door? And what had happened to Anthony? Gradually sleep began to overtake Jarrel. He was almost asleep when it happened again- this time a tapping at the front door. A steady tapping. With it came the gentle sobbing of a woman. Jarrel's heart went out to her. But the words of the old man sounded again in Jarrel's mind.

*Whatever you should hear outside, don't answer the front door after the sun goes down*.

Jarrel heard Freddie leap out of bed and land unsteadily on the floor. He heard Freddie scramble into his clothes and fly out the bedroom door. Then came the sound of his second brother's carefree leap over the missing step. Then the squeak at the ninth step, hushed footfalls, and the squeak at the third step. Jarrel shuddered when he heard the door creak open. He heard the rush of the wind as it whooshed in. Jarrel couldn't be sure, but it sounded as if Freddie let out a piercing scream. One scream, no more. The door crashed shut.

The silence bogged down Jarrel's senses. Waves of fear swept over him. Sweat beaded out on his eyebrows. He was startled by the sound of his own teeth chattering. Jarrel fought against sleep. But in the end, his heavy eyelids won out. He drifted into an uneasy sleep. From it, he was gradually awakened by a persistent scratching at the front door. Jarrel's eyes shot open. His ears were alive to every sound. He heard a faint mewling at the front door, the pathetic mewling of a helpless kitten. Even in the face of the old man's warning, Jarrel could not ignore the lost kitten. He bravely sprang out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Jarrel walked stiffly to the stairway. He was about to leap over the missing step when a sound from below made him look down into the gaping hole. In the basement, a knife lay against the wall.

"It's Anthony's knife!" Jarrel whispered in disbelief and horror.

Jarrel crept down the steps. He stepped carefully over the ninth and third steps to avoid their squeaking. Every sound he did make seemed like a shrieking siren blast to his strained senses. Even his breathing sounded too loud. And the blood pounding in his ears, surely the old man would hear that.

Once at the foot of the stairs, Jarrel steeled his mind against the mewling at the front door. *It's a trick*, he told himself, *a trick to lure me out the front door like Anthony and Freddie.* Jarrel inched his way to the basement door. He held his breath, then slid open the door and cautiously stepped down the stone steps into the musty basement.

The basement was so gloomy that Jarrel could barely make out the old man sitting in front of a cluttered workbench. Only a dusty chandelier with but one working light bulb cast its dim light onto the old man, who sat and rocked, carving what looked like a head of cabbage with a slender knife. The single bulb glinted onto the knife as the old man hacked at the object. When the old man saw Jarrel, his face split into a terrible grin. It was all the more terrible because of the twisted black hole it left in his face, a hole that looked like nothing so much as a knothole in a board.

The old man motioned Jarrel to the workbench with the knife. When Jarrel finally saw clearly what the old man was carving, he let out a whooping scream. The old man picked up his staff and very calmly stepped toward Jarrel. Jarrel's eyes fell on Anthony's knife, leaning carelessly against the wall. He grabbed the knife and turned on the pursuing coffin maker. A gurgle of laughter escaped the old man's wrinkled throat.

"Do you really think that you can oppose me? You, a mere boy?"

Jarrel stumbled backwards a step, then another, and yet another.

"What have you done to Anthony and Freddie?"

The old man held up his twisted staff. "I have turned them into wood. And you will become wood like them when my staff touches you."

Jarrel took one more step back. The rough stone wall pressed into the small of his back. A dank, wet-basement smell choked him. There was nowhere to run. The old man advanced slowly.

"Mine are very special coffins," he said. "For people do not go into my coffins. People become the wood of which my coffins are made. It is the things lurking outside my front door that dwell in my coffins." The old man laughed again, very loudly this time.

A sense of helplessness overwhelmed Jarrel. The old man lumbered toward him. Under the great chandelier beneath which he now stood, he looked more like an animated tree than a human being. Jarrel sucked in a deep breath. He strained his muscles to raise his arm. For just a second he wobbled, his aim unsteady, then he hurled the knife at the support cord of the chandelier. For a moment the light fixture swung uncertainly. Then with a clanking it came crashing down on the terrible old man.

Jarrel turned to flee the basement. He spied an oval trap door in the wall. Pushing the door open, he stumbled out into the frosty night. The blizzard had stopped. Big snowflakes lighted on his eyelashes and face as lazily as plump pelicans onto a glassy lake. Jarrel crossed the mountain pass and headed toward the square houses of the village below. Checkerboard patterns of light winked in warm invitation. As for the old man, Jarrel never did look under the chandelier to see if what remained was splinters or flesh and bone.

IN A VERY DARK AND MOONLESS NIGHT LAST DECEMBER, Reginald Ewing Peabody was driving his car very slowly and most carefully on that particular road in the southwest corner of the county that goes by the three houses that have been deserted for so many years.

He was driving very slowly for he was having trouble seeing the road. His headlights were very dim and it was obvious to Reginald Ewing Peabody that something was drastically wrong with the battery of his car. That road goes uphill and downhill with great monotony when it isn't curving first this way and that way. The road is narrow and the hedges have grown tall and close to the road—all of which add to the difficulties of driving along that particular road late at night.

Reginald Ewing Peabody was on that road as it was a shorter route than the main highway to the house where he was expected to spend the night. He had passed two of those deserted houses a long way back it seemed to him and he had not passed nor seen another car for miles.

His headlights were growing dimmer and dimmer. The night was growing darker and darker. His car had just reached the crest of a hill when there was a flash of lightning followed by the pelting of rain against the windshield. At this onslaught of nature the battery, which Reginald Ewing Peabody had begun to think of as having human characteristics (he had been talking to it, urging it along, pleading and cajoling with it not to abandon him in his need), took that very instant to give up the ghost—it went completely dead.

And there was Reginald Ewing Peabody, miles from any village. He had seen the outline of a house over to his left when a flash of lightning lessened the blackness of the night for a moment.

He needed some shelter from the storm—for his car was old and far from waterproof. He thought that it was possible that there might be someone living in that house and that he might be able to telephone the nearest garage. So he buttoned his slicker, turned up the collar, and made a run for the house.

At the road there was a gate that creaked and moaned as he opened and shut it. The bricks in the walk were slippery with the rain and seemed to be covered with moss as though no one had walked on them for quite some time. But he thought he had noticed a light upstairs.

He knocked on the door. But all he heard was the echo of his knock. So he knocked again. No one seemed to be coming to answer the door. He tried the doorknob. It turned in his hand and the door opened. Reginald Ewing Peabody called out, “Anyone home?"

No answer. The only sound he heard was a faint *rap, rap, rap*. And the sound was coming from upstairs.

So Reginald Ewing Peabody stepped into the front hall. He called again. “Anyone home?"

No answer. Only the sound *rap, rap, rap* and it was definitely coming from upstairs.

Reginald Ewing Peabody lit a match so that he could see to climb the stairs. The match burned until he reached the upstairs landing and then it went out.

He could hear the *rap, rap, rap,* but now it was louder. So he lit another match, and he went down the hall toward the sound. *Rap, rap, rap*. The sound led Reginald Ewing Peabody past one door, past a second door, until he came to a third door.

The sound was coming from behind that third door.

*Rap, rap, rap.*

Reginald Ewing Peabody opened the door. Behind the door were some stairs. The stairs led up to the attic. So he lit another match. He climbed the attic steps and all the time the *rap, rap, rap* was getting louder and louder.

Reginald Ewing Peabody stepped onto the attic floor. He looked all around the attic. He could hear the tapping sound. At last he noticed a door. The rapping sound was coming from behind that door.

He had taken three steps toward the door, when his match burnt out, so he lit another match.

*Rap, rap, rap*, the sound was getting louder.

Reginald Ewing Peabody reached the door and he opened it.

***Rap! Rap! Rap!***

He looked in the closet.

***Rap! Rap! Rap!***

On the shelf of the closet was a box. The rapping sound was coming from the box. Reginald Ewing Peabody opened the box.

Inside was a roll of wrapping paper.

TWO TEENAGERS DROVE out along a dirt road beyond the city limits to park. They stopped under a huge oak tree so the car would be hidden in shadow. That way, none of their friends could drive up and spotlight them to embarrass them.

It was a cold night, close to Halloween, so they left the engine running and the heat on, with one window down a little for fresh air. The radio was on so they could hear the out-of-town football game. Just as the boy was about to make a move, the hourly news came on.

“Texas Rangers report that the sinister survivalist arrested for tax evasion yesterday has killed his captors and escaped. Although his legal name has never been determined from among his many false ID cards...”

The boy reached over to switch to a music station until the news went off. The girl stopped him.

The newscaster continued: ... dressed in camos and armed with a huge hunting knife that he was carrying when he was arrested”

More news and a commercial followed, but there was nothing else about the Camo Killer. The girl was afraid, and insisted that they drive to some place lighter to park. The boy put the car in gear, but it died—they had parked there long enough to run out of gas!

The boy's family were friends with the farm family that lived just up the road, The boy got out and took a metal gas can from the trunk.

"You keep the keys,” he said, "and keep the windows up and the doors locked. I'll go across the field to that barn and borrow a gallon of gas. I won't even have to wake the family; I'll just tip their little tractor back and siphon some out of that tank!”

The boy shut the door and set off into the darkness. The girl locked all the doors.

The car got colder and colder, and as the wind began to blow, branches from the oak tree began to scrape on the car. It sounded like someone trying to get in! The girl slid to the floor and hid as best she could. She waited and waited and waited.

Sometime in the deep of night she fell asleep.

She awoke in darkness, and didn’t want to turn on the key to see the clock. She was too scared to get up from the floor. The wind was still blowing and branches were still scraping on the car. Big, wet drops began to hit the roof of the car. It didn’t sound quite like rain; it must have sprinkled while she was asleep, and now the drops were sifting through the oak leaves and hitting the car.

Time passed, and she fell asleep once more.

Hours later, she awoke again. She felt awake, like it was morning, but she couldn't see our. It was still black as midnight. The sound continued. Drip ... drip ... drip. She finally sat up.

It wasn't night, after all. The windows were covered with mud or something. It was a dirt road, but somehow it didn’t seem possible for the whole car to be covered with mud. She found the keys and put them in the ignition. Sitting up, she turned the key and flipped on the windshield wipers, The wipers flopped back and forth, and cleared the windshield enough so that she could finally see out through the thick, red stain.

It was dawn and there was just enough light for her to see a car coming toward her with its lights off. It was a state police car with two officers in it. One was talking excitedly on the radio. They stopped, put on their "Smokey the Bear” hats, and got out slowly, drawing their guns. They approached the car.

The girl knew she was in trouble with her parents, but why would the police be drawing their guns? One officer came to her side of the car, looked in through the windshield, and put his pistol away. The girl opened the door and started to get out.

"Don’t look back!” said the officer, taking her shoulders in his hands and helping her out. As she emerged, red liquid dripped off the roof onto her arm. She was looking at the stain as they walked to the police car. The officer took off his hat and held it near her face.

“Don’t look back!" he said again, The stain wasn’t mud it... looked like blood. Blood. Enough blood to cover the entire car.

The second officer jumped behind the wheel of the patrol car and revved the engine. The officer helping the girl let her into the back seat of the patrol car. He slammed the door and the driver sped away, leaving the first policeman at the scene.

“Don't look back!" said the officer in the driver's seat.

But the girl couldn't help herself. As they roared past the car covered with blood, she looked up.

Dangling from the tree by his heels was her boyfriend. His head was hanging just above the car and his arms hung down, dragging on the roof. Blood ran down his face, down his arms, down the car.

His throat was cut.

They were sitting round trying to scare one another.

Jim told them about the creature in the ferns which his dad had seen moving about at night, but the others just laughed and said it was only Jim’s dad trying to make him keep away.

Cathy told them about the woman who found a hairy toe and took it home to stew but the monster came after her and got it back. Jim and Kev had heard the story before and said that it was just a story.

Jeanie told them about the miller’s boy who had been attacked one night by a huge black cat and had managed to cut off one of its paws before it vanished. The paw turned into a hand and the next day the miller found that his wife had one hand missing. She was burnt as a witch. Jeanie said that if you went to the old mill at midnight and said the right spell the witch would appear.

Kev said he didn’t think there was any point in making a witch reappear, but if you went in the graveyard late at night and lay down on a grave the ghost of the dead person would grab you.

“That’s silly!” said Jeanie. “What would it want to do that for?’

‘I don’t know, but it does, anyway.’

‘Well, I don’t believe it.’

‘Huh! I bet you daren’t do it.”

‘I'm not afraid of anyone who’s dead,’ said Jeanie. “They’re just dead, that’s all.’

Jim interrupted. ‘It’s not just anyone. It has to be a fresh grave. Someone who’s just been buried.’

‘You mean like old man Crosby?’ Cathy asked. ‘He was buried today.’

“Yeah,’ said Kev. ‘Dare you to go and lie down on old man Crosby’s grave tonight.”

‘Old man Crosby,’ Jim said softly. ‘He always was rather sweet on you wasn’t he?’

‘He was a disgusting old man and I'm glad he’s dead!’

“Yeah, but I bet you daren’t go and lie down on his grave tonight,’ said Jim.

‘Dare you,’ said Kev.

Jeanie was quiet.

‘Go on,’ Cathy said. ‘You show them. You don’t believe in ghosts anyway.’

‘Well?’ Jim looked at her, knowing his sister would back out.

‘All right, I will then.”

‘How will we know if she does it?’ Kev asked.

‘Well, you could all come with me, then you'd know.’

‘Oh no we won't!” said Kev. ‘You have to be alone. It doesn’t work if you're not alone.’

‘Sounds to me as if you're the one who's scared,’ Cathy said.

Kev grinned at her. ‘You bet!” he said. “You wouldn’t catch me anywhere near there tonight. Not with old man Crosby waiting to drag you down and spend the rest of eternity with him.’

“That’s just plain stupid!’ Jeanie shouted. ‘Of course I'll go. We're not all as scared as you.’

Kevin winked at Jim behind Jeanie’s back.

‘I'll make sure she goes out after everyone’s asleep,” Jim said.

‘I don’t need your help, thank you.

‘And you can borrow my knife,’ said Kev, handing her his sheath knife. “You can stick it in old man Crosby’s grave tonight, then we'll know you got further than the gate.”

“You're not supposed to have that,” said Cathy.

‘Oh, give over! She’s not going to do it anyway.’

But Jeanie put the knife in her pocket and walked away.

Standing outside the churchyard gate at half past eleven that night, Jeanie wasn’t feeling very confident. She shouldn’t have let Kevin and her brother trick her into accepting a dare. She didn’t believe in ghosts and she didn’t believe in Kev’s story about being pulled into a grave, but in that case what was she doing here? She didn’t have to prove anything. She would have gone back but she knew that if she did they would keep on at her about being scared. She wasn’t scared, but now she had to go through with the whole silly business.

*And I bet the damn gate squeaks*, she said to herself.

It did.

Jeanie shivered and pulled her coat tight round her. She could just make out the gravel path snaking between the shrubs and abandoned tombstones and followed it to where she knew old man Crosby’s grave would be. She half expected Kev and her brother to jump out at her dressed in sheets, and she determined not to be startled. *Oh, hello*, she would say, *decided to come up for some fresh air, have you*? But they didn’t appear.

Old man Crosby had been a vile old man: bad tempered, dirty, often drunk, he would sit on the bench outside the school watching the girls in the playground and shouting comments at them. From time to time he was moved on by the police or, less often, the headmistress, but he was soon back. He had been found dead in a shed on the allotments at the weekend and been hurriedly buried, unloved and unmourned, less than twelve hours before.

She found his grave, marked by a small bunch of ragged flowers, and peered round for any sign of the boys. There was none. Determined now to get everything over and done with as soon as possible, she took Kevin's sheath knife from her coat pocket and knelt down on old man Crosby’s grave. She plunged it hard into the soil and started to move away.

She was caught. She tried to stand, but was pulled down again. She tried to roll to one side but was held. Terror gripped her. She moaned as she struggled again to escape, but couldn’t. She remembered the time old man Crosby had caught hold of her when she crossed the allotments late one evening, and screamed. Nobody heard her.

Jim was at Kev’s house before breakfast.

‘She’s not back,” he said, his voice shaking.

Kevin started to make a joke, but looked at Jim’s face and thought better of it.

“What do your parents say?”

“They don’t know yet. They think she’s still in her room.

‘Are you sure she isn’t?’

Jim looked at him. “There’s only one place she can be. Are you coming or,” he looked hard at Kevin, ‘are you scared that old man Crosby’ll get you?”

They found Jeanie’s body sprawled across old man Crosby’s grave. She was held there by Kevin's sheath knife, which she had driven deep into the ground through the bottom of her coat.

The house stood shrouded in shadows, silent and still.

Gladys Bates stood in the living room wondering if she and her husband Ben had made a mistake in buying the old house. She'd felt uneasy from the first time they'd looked at it, and she didn’t know why.

It was a perfect place for the children. Little B.G. and Michelle could have their own rooms and a big, shady yard to play in. And the price had certainly been right. In fact, she couldn’t believe it had been priced so low. Anyway, it was too late to back out now—even if they wanted to—because the moving men had just unloaded the van and driven away.

She had set about unpacking. Ben lit a fire in the big fireplace and went off for a meeting with a client. B.G. and Michelle had raced off to explore the other rooms, and Gladys stood looking at all the boxes she still had to unpack.

She moved closer to the fire. She couldn't get warm. The house seemed unusually cold.

Gladys shivered as B.G. and Michelle came running into the room.

“Mommy!” they shouted. “Come see the shadows in our room. They're holding hands.”

An old fear, long-forgotten, flashed through her mind. There was an old Simon and Garfunkel song called “Bleeker Street.” It had been a favorite of her mother's years ago. As a child, Gladys had been frightened by the line about a shadow holding a shadow’s hand. She used to lie awake at night afraid that the shadow’s hands would touch her.

She looked down at her little girls, and she could see that they were frightened, too.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” she told them. “Shadows don't hold hands.”

“These do,” B.G. insisted.

“You're only seeing tree limbs outside your window,” Gladys explained.

“No, Mommy," said Michelle. “These are people shadows.”

“Yeah,” B.G. added, “and they said they're hungry. They want cookies and milk."

Gladys smiled.

“Oh,” she said. “I'm beginning to get the picture. Shall I fix a tray of cookies and milk for you to take to your room?”

“Yes, Mommy, that would be nice,” Michelle said solemnly.

“Please hurry, Mommy," said B.G. “The shadows don't like to wait.”

A few minutes later, Gladys watched her two small girls climb the stairs carrying the cookies and milk. She went back to her unpacking.

“Those two are turning into real little con artists,” she said to herself. Ben would enjoy hearing about this little episode when he got home.

At 8:30, Gladys decided to take a break and go tuck B.G. and Michelle in for the night. She expected to find them playing with their toys, but instead, she found them huddled together on the floor with the empty tray in front of them.

“Mommy,” B.G. said in a small, frightened voice, “the shadows were mean to us. They ate all our cookies and milk.” Michelle looked up, her voice almost a whisper as she spoke. “Could we have some more, Mommy? The shadows are still hungry."

Gladys was puzzled. The girls had never acted this way before.

“You've had enough, girls,” she said. “If the shadows are hungry, they'll just have to wait until breakfast like the rest of us. Now hop in your beds so I can tuck you in.” “Mommy, can I sleep with Michelle tonight?” asked B.G. "I don’t like the shadows.”

Gladys looked around the room. She could see spooky shadows moving along the wall. She didn’t like them either, so she smiled at the two little serious faces.

“OK.” she said. “You may sleep together, but just for tonight."

She kissed them both goodnight and went back downstairs to continue unpacking. She worked until just before time for Ben to come home. She stopped and made some sandwiches and coffee.

When she heard his car pull into the drive, she crossed the hall to open the door for him. She heard the children cry out. She listened, but she didn’t hear them again.

“This new place must be giving them bad dreams,” she thought. “I'll check on them before we go to bed.”

As she and Ben ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee, she told him about how she had been conned into fixing cookies and milk for hungry shadows. She thought he'd laugh, but instead, he looked at her rather oddly.

“What's wrong?" she asked.

“Well, it’s probably nothing, but my client told me something horrible about this house tonight. He said the people who lived here before us abused their children. They locked them in a room upstairs and starved them to death.”

Gladys didn’t remember getting up. She just realized she was running up the stairs with Ben close behind her. They reached Michelle's room and threw open the door. Gladys sagged against Ben in relief. Both little heads were on the pillow, eyes peacefully closed.

Ben and Gladys walked arm-in-arm across the room and stood looking down at their two little girls.

Then, suddenly, shadows began to dance along the walls, and Ben and Gladys felt their blood chill. The room filled with great menacing shadows. They knew something was terribly wrong, and they yanked the cover from the children.

Both stood frozen in horror and disbelief. The sight was unspeakable. All the flesh had been gnawed from those little bones all the way up to their heads.

Ben and Gladys felt the shadows touch them, swirling and smothering their screams. Then all was darkness, and the house stood shrouded in shadows, silent and still.

[By Edgar Allan Poe]

TRUE!—NERVOUS—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—"Who's there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment'—do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me— the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, —for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, —for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search— search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct—It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God'—no, no! They heard!—they suspected'—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”