The Unfortunate Tale of Little Mary Jenkins (short story), Page 3

  Her mom crawled into bed with Victoria and held her tight, trying to help her feel better. But it wasn’t working. Victoria was getting panicked and scared. “Did it happen, Mom, did it really happen?” she asked.

  Her mom stroked her hair and gently rocked her back and forth. “Shhh, shhh, shhh” she said to Victoria. Victoria kept moaning and then flinched as a large gust of wind shook the house and rattled the windows. Creaks and groans shivered through walls and floors, sounding to Victoria like heavy footsteps crossing creaky floorboards. Like the Buckley house, she thought.

  A chilly breeze dragged itself roughly across Victoria’s cheek. It brought the musty smell of decayed leaves with it as it swirled around the room. Victoria’s stomach tightened. The smell was intense, just like the smell in the Buckley master suite itself. She scrunched into an even smaller ball, clenching her eyes shut, and breathing in ragged breaths as the fear settled on her like a lead blanket, suffocating her, crushing her.

  “I’m going to go get you a glass of warm milk so you can calm down and sleep,” her mom said.

  “No, Mom, don’t leave me,” pleaded Victoria, holding on to her arm.

  “It’ll just be a few minutes and I’ll be right downstairs. Let’s leave your lamp on and I’ll leave the hallway light on and your door open. Nothing is going to happen. You are safe, dear.”

  Victoria trusted her mother. “Okay,” answered Victoria.

  Lightning struck in the distance and the lights flickered as Victoria’s mom leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. “I won’t be long,” she said. Then, her voice changed to a hoarse whisper and her brown eyes reflected a pale blue from the lightning. “You never caught me.”

  “What?!” Victoria said, quickly pushing away from her mom’s embrace.

  “I said I won’t be long; you’ll see.”

  “Oh, okay, Mom, please hurry,” Victoria said, trying to compose herself so her mom wouldn’t worry. After her mom went downstairs, Victoria noticed a welcome lull in the storm. With the sudden silence, the bright lamp and the warm comforter, Victoria almost felt safe. Almost.

  Creaaaak.

  Victoria was startled by the sound and tried not to think of the creaky Buckley home. “Mom?” she whispered quietly from under her blankets.

  “Mom?” Victoria said again, louder, sensing that something was not right. There was no answer. The creaking continued, slowly approaching the top of the stairs. Blood pumped loudly in Victoria’s ears. Her breathing became rapid, shallow.

  “Mom,” she repeated, louder still, her voice shaking. “Is that you?”

  All at once, the hall light blinked off and a burst of wind slammed the house. The windows rattled as cold air rushed through the frame of Victoria’s bedroom window, sounding like dozens of whispering, murmuring voices. Victoria’s stomach turned to molten lead as she stared at the open door, shaking in terror, nails digging into her hands. “Mom, Mom, Mom…” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  The bedroom door slammed shut, the lock clicking in place. Victoria flinched and then screamed as the lamp by her bed went out like a snuffed candle, dowsing her in darkness. Struggling to get out of her bed, to run, to hide—to do something in the face of the terror that was twisting her insides into tangled knots—she thrashed and kicked in the pitch black room, trying to get out of her bed.

  Falling out of bed, Victoria hit the floor hard. She gasped for air, realizing that something was gripping her ankles. Struggling to breath, Victoria pushed herself up with her arms, trying to scramble away from whatever was holding onto her legs, seemingly pulling her towards the darkness under her bed.

  Screaming silently, she kicked her legs, but they barely moved. She reached down with her hands to free herself and felt folds of thick, heavy…fabric. Fabric! It was her bedspread! She had only been twisted up in the bedspread. Catching her breath, she choked out a silent half-laugh sob of relief, too tired to be annoyed by her silliness.

  Victoria noticed that the storm had abated. Her room was quiet, peaceful even. She sat still, relieved and enjoying the calm—until she noticed a strange, moist sensation tickling her ankle. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she reached through darkness to see what it was.

  Her shaky fingers touched something warm and sticky. She couldn’t see what it was, so she put her hand under her nose, rubbing the gooey liquid between her fingers. The strong, coppery tang of fresh blood greeted her. But it wasn’t her blood—she wasn’t hurt. Her chest tightened with terror as she frantically tried to brush her hands off on her bedspread, wiping blood everywhere. She breathed fast, shallow and panicky. Her hands shook more as she gripped her blanket, trying to pull it close around her in a feeble attempt to protect herself.

  A flash of lightning lit up the room, revealing a red stain covering Victoria’s quivering hand and smeared across the blanket.

  Victoria gasped. She tried to slide away—to get away. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t scream. An unseen power gripped her and drove her slowly to the ground, pushing her flat against the cold wood floor, making her look into the darkness under her bed. Not even able to close her eyes, Victoria was forced to stare into the black nothingness. It was too dark to see, but the hair on her arm tingled and she sensed she was not alone.

  Something waited in the darkness.

  Then, a noise. A sliding, scraping sound from deep within the shadows, like a bag of bones being dragged across an old wood floor. Abruptly it stopped, replaced by a wet, wheezy sound that fluttered unevenly, sounding like something—or someone—struggling to breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out.

  A second bolt of silent lightning struck. For a second, Victoria saw what was under the bed. She saw what was making the noise. She saw what reached for her from deep in the shadows.

  The room went dark again, but stretching out of the inky darkness was a small, wobbly pale hand. As the bloody fingers grasped Victoria’s ankle, a raspy voice whispered, “Olly olly oxen free…”

  ###

  Sam clicked off his flashlight. No one said anything, still mesmerized by the tale of Scary Mary. As their eyes adjusted to the dying light of the fire, the crows stirred in the trees above them, rustling their tar black feathers, the soft noise sounding louder in the dark night than it really was.

  Scout was the first to break the heavy silence. “Whoa, Sam,” she whispered. “That was frea—”

  Nick let out a blood-curdling scream that shattered the stillness, scattering the crows into the black night. Nick’s screaming was immediately joined by more screams of terror as Jeff and Scout jumped up and scrambled away from the fire pit; Nick couldn’t move. He kicked and swatted at whatever had clamped down on his ankle, trapping him in place. His screams rolled out through the night sky as he struggled to free himself.

  Watching his three friends come unglued, Sam couldn’t help but add to the screeching cacophony, his mischievous laughter starkly contrasting to their frightened and confused shrieks.

  Nick was too busy hollering and kicking to notice, but both Scout and Jeff stopped their wailing, confused at Sam’s laughter. They looked back and forth from Sam to Nick, who was still stomping and swatting at his leg, saying, “It’s Mary, it’s Mary; she’s got me, she’s got me!”

  Still laughing, Sam finally let go of Nick’s ankle. “Got you,” he said. “Olly olly oxen free,” he sang as he sat back up, rising out of the shadows.

  “Man, oh man, oh man!” exclaimed Nick, taking a swing at Sam, who dodged out of the way. Carried by his momentum, Nick fell off the log and plopped to the ground, landing in the soft sand near the campfire. Finally realizing what had happened, Jeff joined Sam, laughing. “Oh, Nicky boy, Sam got you good.”

  “Yeah, well I heard you screaming too, buddy,” Nick responded good-naturedly as he picked himself up off the ground, grabbing a piece of licorice as he stood up.

  “Wow. That was a great ghost story,” said Scout, still trying to catch her
breath and regain her composure, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Yeah, great as in now-I’ll-have-to-jump-into-bed-every-night-with-the-lights-on-and-the-door-wedged-open great. So, thanks. Thanks a lot.” Nick hopped up and down, breathing heavily and still swatting at the imaginary hand of Scary Mary.

  “You know, for a guy who used to live on the second floor of a mortuary, you sure got issues about dead people,” said Jeff.

  “Yeah. Oddly enough, you kinda don’t get used to that.”

  “So, Nick, there’s your ghost. Happy?” said Sam. “Of course, now that you’ve heard the story, there is a catch. Scary Mary knows who we are, so you should probably check under your bed tonight—she just might come for you.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks,” said Nick. “That’s just what I need.”

  “Cool,” said Scout. “I’m sorry about what happened, Scary Mary!” she hollered into the night.

  “So, do you think—,” started Sam, who then paused midsentence and cocked his head to the side like a curious Cocker Spaniel, listening.

  On the other side of the fading fire, all three of Sam’s friends sat huddled together. “What?” asked Jeff.

  “Hmm?” replied Sam.

  “What’d you hear?” asked Jeff.

  “Oh, nothing. So—”

  “Nothing? What nothing? What did you hear?” asked Nick, glancing around skittishly.

  “I thought I heard something, I don’t know, rustling, but it’s probably just the wind or the birds.”

  They all glanced around nervously, but it was dark by now and the shadows hemmed them in tightly on all sides.

  “Nick, don’t worry about it. Anyway, that story’s not even true,” said Jeff.

  “Oh, but it is,” said Sam.

  “Doubt it. It’s just one of those stories that everybody says is true, but isn’t.”

  “Except, this one is true. Victoria was my great-grandmother—she wrote the story in her diary.”

  “Whoa,” said Scout.

  Jeff broke the stunned silence. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “That’s a first, Jeff,” said Sam.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, maybe let’s get out of here,” Sam said, standing up and shouldering his backpack. No one argued. Nick jumped to his feet and headed blindly for the trail. Jeff and Scout poured the remains of their drinks on the glowing embers, which hissed and smoked as complete darkness settled on them. Caught off guard, Sam quickly turned his flashlight back on and followed close behind the others as they exited the clearing and started wandering down the trail towards the Misty Meadows trailer park.

  “How about some of that flashlight up here, Sam?” asked Nick, who was at the head of their single file line, tripping over logs and rocks on the twisty trail.

  “Nope, all mine,” laughed Sam, somewhat apprehensively, sweeping the light back and forth to push back the black night.

  They picked their way carefully down the dark trail. In front of them, their gigantic shadows lumbered and swayed in the bright beam of Sam’s flashlight. A breezy wind swirled around the friends as they cautiously stepped around a waist-high clump of prickly pear cactus jutting out into the trail. The rustling of the leaves and branches around them sounded like the gentle murmuring of a small, broken voice. It sighed through the dancing foliage, echoing up and down the trail in a spine-chilling whispery echo:

  “Olly olly oxen free…”

  END

  Acknowledgements

  Jeanna Mason Stay (calloocallaycallay.blogspot.com): thanks so much for your reviews, suggestions and patience—you sure do know your commas!

  Ettajane “EJ” Bechtel (ejaybrd.wix/portfolio): thanks for your help with the cover art—it’s spectacular!

  About the Author

  F.W. Adams was born in a hospital and currently lives in the state of denial, where he is a longtime resident in good standing. F.W. is currently working a full-time job, married to a wonderful wife of nearly 10 years (the marriage, not the wife), the father of four highly energetic children five and under and, on the side, working to tell the rest of Sam’s story. “The Unfortunate Tale of Little Mary Jenkins” is his first published work. Follow him in his efforts to warn the world about dangers hidden below at www.stormdrainchronicles.com.