Scare Scape Read online

  Morton led Robbie to the place where he’d unearthed the gargoyle and steeled himself to recount his story.

  “This is all going to sound crazy,” Morton warned, “so don’t say anything until I’ve finished.”

  Robbie shrugged in an “if you say so” kind of way.

  “It turns out the Blind Man was an artist called John King who used to draw stories for Scare Scape.”

  Robbie opened his mouth to speak, but Morton shushed him. “Wait! Hold your questions or I’ll never finish,” he said. “Just before school started I was helping Dad clear the lawn when I found this weird stone gargoyle almost completely buried in the ground. It had three fingers on it and a rhyme that said by breaking a finger off you get a wish. We don’t know where the gargoyle came from, or why it was buried here, but John King must have had something to do with it. And the thing is, well, Melissa, James, and I each made a wish and they came true … kind of.”

  Morton could tell Robbie wanted to ask more questions but was forcing himself to remain silent.

  Morton then led Robbie across the sagging porch, through the kitchen, and up into Melissa’s room. He was quite sure Melissa would be out, but knocked just in case. As he suspected, her room was empty. He led Robbie over to the closet, pushed the dresser aside, and gripped the round ceramic doorknob.

  “This is the freaky bit. Melissa wished for an infinitely large closet, and I wished my monster toys were more realistic, which brought them to life. We had to hide the monsters in here. Now, don’t faint on me.”

  Morton yanked the closet door back dramatically. Robbie gasped, somewhat predictably, but thankfully did not pass out. In fact, after the initial reaction, Robbie seemed to take it in stride. Morton took him a short distance into the closet, where a swarm of Ten-Eyed Salamanders was tearing nastily at what looked to be the carcass of a Gristle Grunt. Morton noted that there were way more Salamanders than he had ever owned, meaning that Melissa’s observations about the creatures breeding were obviously correct.

  Robbie inched closer to the ravenous beasts. The nearest ones turned their heads and made wet, glutinous hissing noises.

  “Better not get too close,” Morton warned. “They’re hungry.”

  Robbie stood staring, transfixed by the savage scene before him. After a couple of minutes Morton tugged him on the arm and dragged him out of the closet. He slammed the door firmly behind him.

  “I can’t believe it,” Robbie said. “I mean, I saw it with my own eyes, but I can’t believe it.”

  “I know the feeling,” Morton said. “I still keep hoping to wake up and find out that it’s all a dream. Or, to be more precise, a nightmare.”

  “So how do the missing cats fit in with all of this?” Robbie said, looking very puzzled.

  “It’s the Zombie Twins,” Morton explained. “They usually control monsters but since there aren’t many monsters around, we figure they’ve settled for cats.”

  “Why do they want the cats?”

  “We don’t know,” Morton admitted. “There’s a lot we don’t know. In fact, now you know as much as we do.”

  Robbie squinted shrewdly at Morton. “Wait a minute. You said there were three wishes. You’ve only mentioned two. What was James’s wish?”

  Morton sighed. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was describe the horrible scene he’d witnessed the night before, but he’d made up his mind to come clean with Robbie and told him the entire story.

  “We don’t really know what his wish is, but it’s something bad,” he said finally. Robbie’s jaw dropped open and he sat speechless on the chair beside Melissa’s writing desk.

  “You want to see the gargoyle?” Morton asked after a minute of embarrassing silence.

  “Sure,” Robbie said, appearing to snap out of his dazed state.

  Morton led him to the small alcove at the bottom of the stairs and flicked the spotlights on.

  “That’s freaky!” Robbie said, leaning in closer to the blackened stone artifact. He read the poem out loud several times and rubbed his fingers over the stumps on the gargoyle’s outstretched hand. “It doesn’t look very magical.”

  “Well, what looks magical?” Morton said. “It’s always like that in the stories isn’t it? An old oil lamp, a lost ring, a monkey’s paw, a mummified big toe that smells of cheese.”

  Robbie chuckled. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  Morton shook his head. “We have to find a way to reverse the wishes before …”

  “Before what?”

  Morton was just considering how to answer that question when James burst into the hallway panting and sweating as if he had just run all the way home from school.

  “Morton, we need to talk,” he said.

  “Sure, what is it?” Morton said.

  “No, I mean, we need to talk alone,” James replied, eyeing Robbie.

  “It’s okay, he knows,” Morton said.

  James’s face twisted in confusion.

  “I told him everything. About the gargoyle, Melissa’s closet, my wish …” Morton stopped himself before mentioning James’s wish.

  “But … but we said we weren’t going to mention it to anyone,” James growled, trying not to raise his voice.

  “Well, I got fed up with lying,” Morton said defensively. “And Robbie’s involved just like the rest of us.”

  James sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re right. Welcome to the madhouse, Robbie.”

  Robbie gave a thin smile.

  “So, what’s the panic about this time?” Morton asked.

  A frantic expression crossed James’s face again. “You know that Simon Bean kid from sixth grade? Well, he saw the Zombie Twins, and he’s telling everyone about it. By morning every kid in school will know that creatures from Scare Scape are stealing cats.”

  A few minutes after James had made his revelation about Simon Bean, the boys shut themselves in the downstairs study and James told the whole story just as he’d heard it. Apparently, sometime before midnight, Simon awoke to the sound of his cat yowling and spitting like a crazed animal. He went downstairs to see it clawing at the door as if it were desperate to get out. Still half asleep, Simon opened the door, and the cat shot off like a bullet. Only then did he realize he probably should have kept his cat inside, so he ran out after it. That’s when he saw a small hooded figure with a white skeletal face and glowing red eyes hovering in the shadows. Simon bravely chased the cat (or so he claimed), but both cat and creature vanished into the darkness before he could catch them.

  “Simon doesn’t read Scare Scape,” Morton said. “Maybe he won’t realize it was one of the Zombie Twins.”

  “He will,” Robbie said flatly. “Simon hangs out with Timothy Clarke. They might not figure it out right away, but it won’t take long, I guarantee it.”

  “It still won’t lead anybody to us,” Morton said, trying to sound optimistic. “I mean, we didn’t invent the Zombie Twins.”

  “No,” James said, “but we’re living in the house of the guy who did. How long do you think it will take Inspector Sharpe to figure that out?”

  Morton’s heart sank. Robbie and James were right. Whichever way you sliced it, this was bad news.

  When Melissa got home a while later, the boys revealed to her that Robbie was now in on the secret. She seemed irritated and probably would have given them an earful but for the fact that Dad came in and invited Robbie to supper before she had a chance. This time Robbie accepted, despite clear warnings from James and Morton about the dangers of Dad’s cooking. He served a stodgy meal of mashed potatoes oddly decorated with sausages and grated cheese, insisting it was a real recipe. Morton couldn’t help noticing that James ate the sausages but didn’t touch the potato. Robbie was the only one who politely ate everything on his plate.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad asked James later, as he was clearing the table. “You haven’t touched the potatoes.”

  “Oh, uh, well, I’m not a big fan of potatoes,”
James said.

  “Since when?” Dad said, with a very perplexed look on his face. “Mashed potatoes have been your favorite food since you were eight months old. Your mother and I called you the Mash Monster until you were three.”

  Morton tensed and found himself glaring involuntarily at James. He sensed that Melissa was doing the same.

  James began stammering nervously, “Oh, yeah, I, uh, hum …”

  “Oh my gosh, look at the time!” Melissa cut in. “Here, Dad, let me do the dishes, you’re going to be late.”

  Fortunately Melissa’s tactic seemed to have the desired effect. Dad looked at his watch and frowned in the way he did when his mind was suddenly fixated on his work. “Well, the sun is sinking,” he said, “and I’m not going to refuse your offer to do the dishes, since it happens so rarely.”

  As soon as Dad’s car pulled out of the driveway Melissa stomped back into the kitchen and turned an accusing stare to James. “So, not eating mashed potatoes anymore, are we?”

  Morton glanced at Robbie. “Please, don’t bicker in front of our friends,” he said.

  “Well, now that Robbie’s in on the secret,” Melissa said, “he’s practically family, so he’ll just have to get used to the way we communicate, won’t he? And this has gone on long enough. James is going to tell us just exactly why he’s been going out at three in the morning these last few nights.”

  “Melissa!” Morton exclaimed. “Now is not the time!”

  “Now is the perfect time,” Melissa persisted.

  “I, I was getting some air, that’s all,” James said, lying very badly.

  “Getting some rotten meat, is how I heard it.”

  James went suddenly pale and began rubbing his hands nervously. Morton had never seen him look so uncomfortable, but before James had time to respond a light knock came from the door.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  It was Wendy. Melissa turned away from James and opened the screen door, looking at her in surprise. “Wendy,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for days and I thought …”

  “What? That I was avoiding you?” she said.

  “Well …”

  Wendy smiled. She had a pile of newspapers tucked under her arm. “I’m sorry about that. I have to admit I’ve been in shock for a couple of days but …” She stopped midsentence when she spotted Robbie.

  “It’s okay,” Melissa said. “Robbie knows.”

  “Oh! Well, the more the merrier,” she said.

  Wendy then spun around to look at James. “Any news about your wish?” she asked nervously. James looked at Melissa imploringly.

  Melissa paused, mulling the situation over, then shook her head. “No, nothing yet,” she said. James sighed, and Morton was surprised to discover that he shared in his sense of relief. He was no more ready to confront this issue than James was.

  “I’ve been trying to think of some way to help,” Wendy went on. “So I started doing some research on John King. You remember I told you my uncle works at the library? Well, he helped me find all these newspaper and magazine articles.”

  Morton practically ran to grab the pile of papers from under Wendy’s arm.

  “That’s a great idea!” he said.

  Wendy shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” Melissa said.

  Morton dropped the pile of papers on the table and began poring over them eagerly. “Did you find out anything useful?” he asked.

  “Well I thought we should read them together. I mean, you have a better idea about what kind of clues we’re looking for.”

  “More reading,” James said heavily.

  “Yes, but this might be better,” Morton said, glancing at the first newspaper. “This is fact, not fiction.”

  “My how the world turns,” Melissa said. “Now Morton thinks newspapers are more interesting than comics.”

  Five minutes later they were all seated around the table drinking frothy hot chocolate prepared by Melissa and reading their way through the generous pile of papers.

  Most of the articles were disappointingly short and, as the pile diminished, Morton’s initial optimism began to fade. They did, however, begin to develop a much more detailed picture of John King. His first job as a teenager had been working for an auction house restoring damaged antique books. According to one interview it was this job that sparked his passion for the occult and inspired him to apply his artistic gifts to drawing macabre pictures and eventually comics. But early in his artistic career, his young wife, referred to only as Mrs. King, passed away unexpectedly. This loss made him focus even more acutely on his art. The rest, his rise to infamy in the underground horror comic scene and his unfortunate death, were all as reported in the somewhat twisted obituary they’d already read in Scare Scape. The only additional tidbit they gleaned from the official obituary in the Dimvale Star was that John King was not his real name. He’d been christened John Smith by “the world’s least imaginative parents.”

  Morton pushed the last paper in his pile to one side. He hadn’t noticed until now that the sun had set and deep-blue shadows were creeping across the room.

  “It doesn’t say anything about how he went blind,” he said, disappointment crowding in on him again. “It just says he did and leaves it at that.”

  “Oh! There is an interview here about his blindness,” Wendy said, picking up a color supplement. “Remember I told you he always worked by candlelight?”

  “Yeah, up in that round room that Dad’s using as his study,” James said.

  “Well, this is the last interview he gave before his death. After refusing to talk about it for his whole life, he finally explained why he’d only worked at night by candlelight.”

  Wendy paused dramatically and cleared her throat. A stillness seemed to ripple out from the kitchen. Everyone put their papers down. Morton became suddenly aware that the house was utterly silent, as if it too were ready to listen to the last printed words of its previous owner.

  Wendy began to read:

  A Portrait of John King

  Eccentric Hermit or Cloistered Prophet?

  by Warren Fletcher

  * * *

  It is a Friday afternoon in July, and I have been granted the once-in-a-lifetime chance to interview the legendary horror comic writer and illustrator John King. As I approach my destination in the oppressive heat of the midsummer sun, I cannot fail to notice the showcase of majestic houses that adorn this Victorian street. I see at once why John King chose this town as his home. These clapboard-and-shingle houses are relics of a vanished age. I’m told Dimvale has several old churches, two very creepy graveyards, and a suitably turbid history that hints of hangings and witch burnings. Just as landscape painters retire to coastal homes or mountain retreats, so this horror writer has found a place filled with picturesque echoes of ghostly voices.

  In this respect King’s house is perfect: old, slightly crooked, and boasting a dramatic circular turret where King created all his work, incredibly, by candlelight.

  “It’s all about the turret,” he explains to me once we’re sitting in his fabled circular studio. “I didn’t really bother much with the rest of the house. I slept here, worked here, did all my research here. Now, of course, all I can do is sit here and think. I spend too much time thinking.”

  Since King is notorious for cutting interviews short and avoiding the press, I decide to jump straight to the question that propelled me halfway across the country.

  “Mr. King, I understand that your blindness was brought on as a direct result of many years of working in poor light. Apparently this condition was common in the days before electricity and many writers and artists suffered from it, Thomas Hardy and Michelangelo among them. We can, all of us, revere these artists who sacrificed so much to bring the world their works in an age before Edison and the lightbulb, but in your case it seems unnecessary, almost self-inflicted. You refused to follow your doctor’s advice with the t
ragic result that you can now no longer enjoy the two greatest passions of your life: reading and drawing. My question is simply: Why? Why work exclusively at night by candlelight, even to the ruin of your career?”

  For a moment I wonder if I have lost my chance of an interview. Mr. King stands up in silence, fumbles for his white cane and paces the room, tripping slightly on a fold in the rug. I cannot tell if the clumsiness of his actions is due to anger or inexperience in his sightless world. When he finally speaks I am surprised to find his tone polite.

  “Firstly, Mr. Fletcher, please call me John. King is neither my name, nor my nature. It was forced upon me by publishers who understand business, for which I have no stomach. Secondly, you must know I have refused to talk publicly about my work habits.”

  This is the response I have expected. I already have my strategy in hand. It’s a risky one, but I feel certain that it is the only one that can possibly work. It’s a strategy seldom used: complete honesty.

  “John, you must know that your publisher has encouraged speculation that you could only draw at night because you are possessed by a beast from the underworld.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “The underworld, they say? Why not the overworld? Or simply, the world?”

  I point out that Scare Scape has promoted the idea that he is demonically inspired because it boosts sales. Yet I believe his stories are filled with moral guidance and hidden wisdom.

  “To allow this rumor to persist is to invite a dismissal of your work,” I say. “You surely cannot want that?”

  John King places his cane directly in front of him and leans toward me. He stares in roughly my direction, but misses slightly, making me feel strangely disembodied.

  “Very well. For your records, young man, I will tell you. Though you may not find the truth much different from the rumors.”

  I make no sound and dare not move from my spot. I have come here to listen.

  “A flame is an organic thing,” he begins. “It is not alive, as such, but it is very nearly alive. It has moods and it responds to the environment, just as we do. On a hot night, the candle flame will be tall and reach up beyond itself, swelling optimistically into the darkness. When it is cold, and chill winds creep around the cracks in the windows, it is small and flickers timidly, never able to take a firm hold, barely able to create light at all. So very human, don’t you think?”