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Our first place Middle School category winner was written by Lorien P. Strange, a 12 year old home schooled student from Colorado Springs, Colorado. |
Tick, tick. Tick, tick. Darkness spread throughout the decrepit house as the clock’s rusted skeleton-thin hands stuttered towards the marred gold twelve. The late October crickets had stopped chirping long before on that night, as did the wind whistling through the bent grey trees surrounding the misty bayou. Everything was silent as a dark musty odor squeezed through the closing gap between night and morning. A melancholy bong! rang solemn and steady through the chipped white house and into the deep black night, enveloping the world like a blanket, or perhaps a fog. The bright harvest moon, shining like a beacon, seemed to dim its orange glow in honor of the ancient sound. That night was the kind of night that not even the sleepwalkers dared to step outside their doors. That night was so dark that even the bravest owls stayed in their nests, huddled together against the terrible evil just outside their home. That night was the kind of night — well, where you might see a ghost. As if on cue, two round green eyes emerged from the dark.
Raymie shivered under the threadbare quilt of the antique bed, and then sighed as the mattress held and mimicked her movements. Dark shadows leisurely draped themselves on the cracked walls of her tiny room, quaking eerily in the wind. After several failed attempts at falling asleep, she sat up and rummaged around her nightstand drawer, looking for matches. She found them and quickly lit her bedside lamp. A warm cave of light appeared, causing her to blink against grainy patterns swimming in her head.
The bayou howled with disappointment as Raymie slid out of bed with a thump! and attached her quilt to the glassless window with some scrap yarn. The cold wooden floor stung hard beneath her feet, striking Raymie with a realization: the next night would be Halloween. This did nothing to assuage her fears.
The floor seemed to grow colder as she remembered with dread that her aunt, uncle and cousins would be spending tomorrow evening with them. Every year, her grandmother (whom she lived with) hosted a Halloween feast for family and friends, much to Raymie’s dismay.
I wonder if Cousin Anthony has stopped hiccuping yet, She thought, remembering something she had done at the last Halloween dinner with a smile. Running her fingers through her hair, her mouth soon dropped at another memory. Ugh! Aunt Cathrine and Baby Kristine ain’t gonna leave my hair alone. She thought sadly. Ever since I cut it short, they’ve been going on about it like birds at sunrise.
She went over to the wall where her fogged mirror hung and studied the ghostly girl looking back at her. Raymie wasn’t considered pretty by anyone (especially not herself), but she liked to watch herself in the mirror and pretend her reflection was a magical servant. Her beeswax-cream skin shone in a satisfying contrast to her smooth black hair, and with her moss colored eyes lifting up at the corners she almost would’ve looked like a magical being if not for the deep scowl she wore out of habit.
Raymie had lived with her grandmother for nine out of her ten years and couldn’t remember when she hadn’t. Her parents had drowned on a ship in the Gulf of Mexico heading down along the Florida panhandle to Miami when she was only a year old. When she asked her grandmother why they were on the ship in the first place, she always said: “Raymie, how many times have I told you to mind your own darn business?” Raymie wondered how many times she’d thought that she was minding her own business.
* * *
Raymie awoke blinking in early morning sunlight, which had banished the lazy shadows on her wall. She sat up, wondering where her quilt had gone and what time it was. She looked over to the clock on one of her room walls, hoping she had remembered to wind it the night before.
It was a handsome clock with a painted metal face and a sturdy oak body, which Raymie had polished and sanded many times before. The hands and pendulum were painted with a fine brass coating that shone night and day. It proudly pointed its hands towards the eight and the six. Raymie suppressed a scream. 8:30! she thought, horrified. Grandma’s gonna whip me good today! She quickly got dressed in her favorite (and only) day dress. She didn’t bother brushing her hair.
She walked as calmly as she could out of her room and into the kitchen. Looking in the cabinets she discovered with a sigh that they were out of eggs. Because Raymie was so young and her grandmother so old, they couldn’t properly run a farm, so they had to buy most of their produce from their neighbor. They did, however, have a small garden with sweet potatoes and carrots, and everyone on the bayou swore that the Andersons grew the best sweet potatoes in the South.
Agnes Anderson, however, did not like sweet potatoes in the morning, and no matter how hard Raymie tried to convince her to eat something else, they always had scrambled eggs and milk for breakfast. Raymie sighed again and prepared to walk to her neighbor’s house when she heard a thump from behind her. She smiled.
“Good morning, Grandma Agnes.” Said Raymie.
Raymie heard a grunt, and then: “Are you makin’ breakfast yet?”
“We’re out of eggs, so I was just about to—”
“If we’re out of eggs, you should’ve noticed that an hour ago.”
“Um—”
“Young lady, are you meanin’ to tell me that you’ve been lollygaggin’ in the kitchen for an hour?”
Raymie turned around to face her formidable Grandmother. “Well—”
Grandma Agnes raised her skinny white eyebrows and turned her mouth into a thin grim line. Raymie winced: this was her grandmother’s famous DON’T-contradict-me stare.
Raymie bowed her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She said solemnly.
Grandma Agnes relaxed her expression and nodded her head. “Good.”
There was a pause. “Raymie,” said Grandma Agnes in her softest tone, “I ain’t sure how you gonna feel ‘bout this, but the Hallow’s Eve dinner is called off.”
Raymie’s stomach jumped and somersaulted, making her feel slightly lightheaded. At first, she was excited to have the evening free, but she soon found herself in a small puddle of disappointment. She took a deep breath.
“Yes ma’am.” She said.
Grandma Agnes raised an eyebrow in suprise. “Aren’t you gonna ask why?”
Raymie shook her head firmly. She knew her grandmother would just tell her to mind her own business.
The eyebrow went higher. “Are you sure?”
Raymie nodded.
If her eyebrow goes any higher, Raymie thought, we’re gonna have one heck of a hole to patch in the roof.
Grandma Agnes lowered her eyebrow and shook her head at the floor. “Well, I ain’t used to not tellin’ you either what’s goin’ on or to mind your own business, so I’m gonna tell you what’s goin’ on. I’ve been havin’ a bad feelin’ for the last few days here, and last night I had a horrible dream.” She looked at Raymie expectantly.
When Raymie didn’t ask what the dream was, Grandma Agnes continued: “It was about somethin’ awful that happened on my tenth Hallow’s Eve, somthin’ I will never forget until the day I die. I dreamt that the same thing happened to you.”
Raymie blinked and stood patiently looking at her Grandmother.
Grandma Agnes’s eyes went wide and she shook her head again. “Young lady, I swear you gonna drive me mad” (here she slapped her thigh) “if you don’t ask me what happened.”
Raymie shuffled on her feet. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “What happened?” She asked, suppressing laughter.
“Mind your own business!” Grandma Agnes shouted with relief and delight. She whooped and fell over laughing. Raymie rushed to her aid. Grandma Agnes looked up at Raymie with glee. “Wheew! I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy sayin’ that so much.” She slowly sat up. “In case you’re wonderin’, I already sent a messenger to alert the neighbors and our family.” She sighed happily. “Now,” she said with a smile, her bones cracking, “Go fetch those eggs before you have me on the floor laughin’ again.”
***
The crisp yet moist fall air bit hard at Raymie’s skin, outdoing the mosquitoes in its sting. Raymie shivered and pulled her cape tight and re-adjusted her egg basket. It wasn’t a long walk to her neighbor’s farmhouse, but it was a cold one, especially when the late morning sun started to disappear behind a cloud. Raymie stopped when she realized this, and looked over at the cloud. It hung low over the horizon and seemed to be moving quickly. Swaths of it stretched hungrily out into the air like the tentacles of a giant squid, searching the depths for a victim. Raymie shivered again. No cloud came this low. It was a fog.
Raymie started to speedwalk. Her grandmother was afraid of fogs for some reason that was, like many other things, not Raymie’s business. Raymie knew her grandmother would tongue-lash her if she didn’t come home before the fog. Grandma Agnes would probably tongue-lash her anyway.
She soon came to a small house that was rather like her own, but this house was very obviously better kept. A proud metal wether vane was attached to the top of the roof, the arrow pointing northwest, seeming happy to fulfill its duty. Raymie walked up to the front porch and knocked on the door. No one answered, but Raymie wasn’t worried. Her neighbors had told her to “go on back” to the chicken coop any time she needed eggs. When she took eggs, Raymie was to leave money in their place. Because the Andersons were good friends with their neighbors, the eggs were only five cents a dozen. Today Raymie bought two dozen to save herself another trip tomorrow.
As she left the henhouse, Raymie noticed with a jolt that the fog had come closer, dancing along like the cold, hungry breath of some malicious creature. Raymie pulled her cape tightly over her shoulders, and cradling the egg basket carefully, she speedwalked as fast as a speedwalk can be.
***
Agnes Anderson was sitting on a kitchen chair wrapped in a quilt, muttering to herself about the fog. Although the chair had a rigid back and almost no seat padding, she usually found these chairs quite comfortable. They had been her great-grandmother’s a long time ago, and it was calming to know that she was sitting where long-gone family once sat. Today, however, this only unnerved her.
A spider spun a web in the corner of the room.
“This is where she sat…he sat right beside her…” Agnes muttered to the room.
“This is the quilt she wrapped herself in…” Agnes pulled the quilt tight around her shoulders.
She looked up. “That…is the same chandelier…that was hanging…” The ornate crystal and gold fixture held the rapidly disappearing sunlight, framed by the cracks on the ceiling.
Agnes shifted her uneven gaze to a beer ring on the table, her breath shaky. “That is where…that is where her drink rested…” Her hands shook with her breathing as she reached out and touched it. She closed her eyes. “This… is the last place….” Her voice choked on tears and fright. “…my parents sat…before the fog came.”
Slowly, like a feather falling, the fog entered the house.
The room got colder and colder.
***
When Raymie arrived at her house, the fog was already surrounding her. Silently chastising herself for worrying her grandmother, she opened the screen door into the kitchen and put the basket on a table. She looked around, wondering where her grandmother was.
“Grandma!” She called. “I’m back!” Raymie knew her grandmother would usually scold her for stating the obvious, but she had a feeling that she wouldn’t get a reply. “Grandma?” She called again. “I’m gonna start the eggs now!” Still no answer. Oh, well. Thought Raymie. She’ll probably come down later. Grandma Agnes had holed herself up in her room on foggy days before, so Raymie wasn’t worried. Raymie got the skillet out from one of the cabinets and began cracking eggs.
The eggs didn’t take long to make, and soon Raymie had them severed up on a plate with a glass of milk for each of them. She called to her grandmother a gain, not expecting an answer. Raymie knew that her grandmother would be angry if Raymie ate without her, so she waited, her stomach rumbling with impatience.
Outside the window Raymie could see the fog swirling around her house, changing the world she knew into something new and different. A million shades of grey seemed to mix about. Like a brew in a witch’s cauldron, thought Raymie. Dark and eerie. Raymie usually enjoyed the peacefulness of fog, but there was something about this one that seemed darker, almost evil.
Raymie decided that ten minutes was long enough for her grandmother to do whatever she was doing. She walked over to her grandmother’s room door and knocked softly. “Grandma? The eggs are ready.” No answer. Raymie sighed. “I’m coming in.”
She slowly turned the chipped-paint handle of the door. Cree-ek! It protested. “Grandma? Are you there?” Raymie stepped into the room and saw something she wished she had never seen.
Grandma Agnes was lying dead on the floor.
***
Tears streaked down Raymie’s face as she clutched her Grandmother’s hand, whispering, “No. Please, no. No no no nononono…” Raymie was on her knees beside Agnes. Raymie had found her beside the bed, crumpled, as if something had pushed her off. When she saw this, Raymie had fallen on her knees and almost fainted as emotion hit her in the stomach with a deep Whoof!
Raymie felt like screaming and kicking the floor. What had happened? Her grandmother was fine when she left to get the eggs. A stroke, she thought grimly. But looking at her grandmother, she suddenly knew that she hadn’t fallen over due to a stroke. Hand trembling, Raymie gently pushed her grandmother over so that she could see her legs.
Except there were no legs. In their place was smoke. No, not smoke. Thought Raymie as she jerked her hand away in fear. That’s fog.
Raymie stood up slowly, fearfully. She took three, slow, trembling steps backwards, eyes on where her grandmother’s legs had been, and ran away, screaming.
In a wild rush of adrenaline, she bonked into walls, crashed into tables, and finally made her way out of the house. She didn’t stop there. She ran out across the bayou, the fog sucking the air right out of her throat and sense out of her mind.
Raymie was a frightened animal running for her life. She didn’t know who or where she was. She didn’t know what had happened. She didn’t know anything other than that she needed to escape. She saw the edge of the fog. The world whorled like a river. She knew she had to reach the edge. Using the last of her strength, she bolted to the end.
She almost made it.
***
I don’t know whose idea it was to go mess around in the old spook house, but it sure wasn’t mine. Come on, said the other boys, it’ll be fun. It could be our clubhouse, where nobody could go but us. I don’t know why I went along with it.
It’s a cold Halloween. I wish I brought my jacket. And a flashlight.
We walk into the decrepit old house. Boards and nails stick out everywhere, jagged and sharp. Shadows hang in all the corners. I don’t like this place. I’m trying not to show my fear.
Suddenly, one of the shadows starts slinking towards me. I shout to the other boys and point it out. Two bright green eyes stare at me. I feel stupid for being afraid of a cat.
“What are you doing here?” It seems to hiss. No, not seems. I stammer.
“Get out!” It says. “Get out before the fog comes and takes you, too!”
None of us move. Our eyes dart between each other. Did we really just hear that cat talk?
The cat sighs and begins licking a paw. “My name,” she says, “is Raymie Anderson. Let me tell you my story.”
The End
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