“How could
what
disappear?” a voice called from the doorway.
I whirled around—to see Dad lumber heavily into the room. He carried the
old typewriter in his arms.
“Dad—why… ?” I started.
He set it down on the desk. Then he pushed his curly black hair off his
forehead and grinned at me. “I cleaned it for you, Zackie,” he said. “And put in a new ribbon.”
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ribbons are hard
to find these days,” he added. “No one uses typewriters anymore.”
Alex laughed. “Zackie thought the typewriter disappeared into thin air!”
I flashed Alex an angry look. “Alex—give me a break,” I whispered.
She made a face at me.
Dad shook his head. “It’s a little too heavy to disappear into thin air,” he
sighed. “It weighs a ton! More than a computer!”
I walked over to the typewriter and ran my hand over the smooth, dark metal.
“Thanks for cleaning it up, Dad,” I said. “It looks awesome.”
“A few of the keys were sticking,” Dad added. “So I oiled them up. I think
the old machine is working fine now, Zackie. You should be able to write some
great stories on it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I repeated.
I couldn’t wait to get started. I reached into my top drawer for some paper.
Then I noticed that Dad hadn’t left. He was lingering by the door, watching Alex
and me.
“Your mom went across the street to visit Janet Hawkins, our new neighbor,”
he said. “It’s such a beautiful spring night. I thought maybe you two would like
to take a walk into town to get some ice cream.”
“Uh… no thanks,” Alex replied. “I already had dessert at home. Before I
came over.”
“And I really want to get started typing my new scary story,” I told him.
He sighed and looked disappointed. I think he really wanted an excuse to get
ice cream.
As soon as he left, I dropped into my desk chair. I slid a fresh, white sheet
of paper into the typewriter roller.
Alex pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Can I try the typewriter after
you?” she asked.
“Yes.
After
me,” I replied impatiently.
I really wanted to get my story typed.
I let my eyes wander over the round, black keys. Then I leaned forward and
started to type.
Typing on a typewriter is a lot different from typing on a keyboard. For one
thing, you have to press the keys a lot harder.
It took me a few tries to get the feel of the thing.
Then I typed the first words of the story:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
“Hey—!” I uttered a cry as lightning flashed in my bedroom window.
Rain pounded on the glass.
A sharp roar of thunder shook the house.
Darkness swept over me as all the lights went out.
“Zackie—?” Alex cried in a tiny voice. “Zackie? Zackie? Are you all right?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m okay,” I said quietly.
Alex is the only person in the world who knows that I’m afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of mice. And I’m afraid of the dark.
I admit it.
And I’m afraid of a lot of other things.
I’m afraid of big dogs. I’m afraid of going down to the basement when I’m all
alone in the house. I’m afraid of jumping into the deep end of the swimming
pool.
I’ve told Alex about some of my fears. But not all of them.
I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing.
Why do I write scary stories if I’m afraid of so many things?
I don’t know. Maybe I write better stories because I know what being scared
feels like.
“The lights went off so suddenly,” Alex said. She stood beside me, leaning
over my desk to see out the window. “Usually they flicker or something.”
Sheets of rain pounded against the windowpane. Jagged streaks of lightning
crackled across the sky.
I stayed in my desk chair, gripping the arms tightly. “I’m glad Adam isn’t
here,” I murmured. “He’d just make fun of me.”
“But you’re not very scared now—are you?” Alex asked.
An explosion of thunder made me nearly jump out of the chair.
“A little,” I confessed.
And then I heard the footsteps. Heavy, thudding footsteps from out in the
hall.
Thunder roared again.
I spun away from the window. And listened to the footsteps, thudding heavily
on the carpet.
“Who’s there?” I called through the darkness.
I saw a flicker of yellow light in the doorway. A shadow swept over the
wallpaper in the hall.
Dad stepped into the room. “This is so weird,” he said. He was carrying two
candles in candlesticks. Their flames bent and nearly went out as he carried
them to my desk.
“Where did that storm come from?” Dad asked, setting the candles beside my
typewriter. “Are you okay, Zackie?”
I forgot. Dad also knows I’m scared of the dark.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Thanks for the candles.”
Dad stared out the window. We couldn’t really see anything out there. The
rain was coming down too hard.
“The sky was clear a few seconds ago,” Dad said, leaning over me to get a
better view. “I can’t believe such a big storm could blow in so quickly.”
“It’s weird,” I agreed.
We stared at the rain for a minute or so. Sheets of lightning made the
backyard glow like silver.
“I’m going to call your mother,” Dad said. “I’m going to tell her to wait out
the storm.” He patted me on the back, then headed to the door.
“Don’t you want a candle?” I called after him.
“No. I’ll find my way,” he replied. “I have a flashlight in the basement.” He
disappeared down the hall.
“What do you want to do now?” Alex asked. Her face looked orange in the
candlelight. Her eyes glowed like cat eyes.
I turned back to the typewriter. “It would be cool to write by candlelight,”
I said. “Scary stories should
always
be written by candlelight. I’ll bet
that’s how all the famous horror writers write their stories.”
“Cool,” Alex replied. “Go ahead.”
I slid the candlesticks closer. The yellow light flickered over the
typewriter keys.
I leaned forward and read over the first sentence of my story:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
Then I hit the space bar and typed the next sentence:
THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
I hit the space bar again. And raised my fingers to type the next sentence.
But a rattling noise made me jump.
“What is
that
?” I gasped.
“The window.” Alex pointed.
Outside, the wind blew hard, rattling the windowpane.
Over the steady roar of the rain, I heard another sound. A strange howl.
I gripped the arms of my desk chair. “Do you hear that?” I asked Alex.
She nodded. Her eyes squinted out the window.
“It’s just the wind,” she said softly. “It’s howling through the trees.”
Outside, the howling grew louder as the wind swirled around my house. The
window rattled and shook.
The howling grew high and shrill, almost like a human voice, a human wail.
I felt a chill run down my back.
Gripping the chair arms tightly, I struggled to keep my fear down.
It’s just a storm, I told myself. Just a rainstorm. Just a lot of rain and
wind.
I glanced at the words I had typed. In the flickering, orange light, the
black type jumped out at me:
THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
I listened to the shrill howl outside. It seemed to
surround me, surround the house. “How strange,” I muttered. And then, things got
a lot stranger.
“You’re not getting very far with the story,” Alex said.
“Well, the storm—” I started.
She put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re shaking!” she exclaimed.
“No, I’m not!” I lied.
“Yes, you are. You’re shaking,” she insisted.
“No way. I’m okay. Really,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady.
“I’m not that afraid, Alex.”
“Maybe if you work on the story, you won’t think about the storm so much,”
she suggested.
“Right. The story,” I agreed.
An explosion of thunder shook the house.
I let out a sharp cry. “Why does it seem so close?” I exclaimed. “The
lightning and thunder—it sounds as if it’s all right in the backyard!”
Alex grabbed my shoulders and turned me to the typewriter. “Type,” she
ordered. “Pretend there is no storm. Just type.”
I obediently raised my hands to the keys of the old typewriter. The candles
had burned down a little, and the page was shadowy and dark.
I typed the next sentence:
ALEX AND ZACKIE WERE ALONE IN THE DARK HOUSE, LISTENING TO THE STORM.
Rain pounded hard against the window. In a white flash of lightning, I could
see the trees in the backyard, bending and trembling in the howling wind.
“The story is about
us
?” Alex asked, leaning over my shoulder to read
what I had typed.
“Of course,” I replied. “You know that I always write about us and the other
kids at school. It makes it easier to describe everyone.”
“Well, don’t let the Blob Monster eat me!” she instructed. “I want to be the
hero. Not the dinner!”
I laughed.
A crash of thunder made me jump.
I turned back to the typewriter. I squinted to read over the sentences I had
typed.
“The candles aren’t giving enough light,” I complained. “How did writers
do
it in the old days? They must have all gone blind!”
“Let’s go and get more candles,” Alex suggested.
“Good idea,” I agreed.
We each picked up a candlestick. Holding them in front of us, we made our way
down the hall.
The candles bent and flickered. Our footsteps were drowned out by the steady roar of rain on the roof.
“Dad?” I called. “Hey, Dad—we need more candles!”
No reply.
We stepped into the living room. Two candles glowed on the mantelpiece. Two
more stood side by side on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Dad?” I called. “Where are you?”
Holding our candles high, Alex and I made our way to the den. Then the
kitchen. Then Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
No Dad.
Holding my candle tightly in one hand, I pulled open the door to the
basement. “Dad? Are you down there?”
Silence.
I felt another tingling chill run down my back. I turned to Alex. “He—he’s
gone!” I stammered. “We’re all alone!”
“He
has
to be here,” Alex insisted. “Why would he go out in this
storm?”
“For ice cream?” I suggested. “He really wanted some ice cream.”
Alex frowned. “Your dad would go out in this storm to get a cup of ice cream?
That’s impossible.”
“You don’t know my dad!” I replied.
“He’s here,” Alex insisted. She set down the candle and cupped her hands
around her mouth. “Mr. Beauchamp? Mr. Beauchamp?” she called.
No reply.
Wind howled outside the living-room window. Lightning flickered.
“Hey—!” I cried.
In the flash of bright light, I saw a car in the driveway. Dad’s car.
I made my way to the window and peered out. “Dad didn’t drive anywhere,” I
told Alex. “His car is still here. And he wouldn’t walk.”
“Mr. Beauchamp? Mr. Beauchamp?” Alex tried again.
“Weird,” I muttered. “He wouldn’t go out without telling us—would he? He—he just disappeared.”
Alex’s eyes flashed. Her expression changed. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Zackie—what was the last sentence you typed?” she demanded, still
squinting at me.
“Huh?”
“In your story,” she said impatiently. “What was the last sentence?”
I thought hard. Then I recited it:
“ALEX AND ZACKIE WERE ALONE IN THE DARK HOUSE, LISTENING TO THE STORM.”
Alex nodded her head solemnly.
“So what?” I asked. “What does the story have to do with anything?”
“Don’t you see?” Alex replied. “You wrote that we were all alone in the house—and now we’re
all alone
!”
I stared back at her. I still didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Zackie—this is amazing!” she cried. “What is the
first
sentence of
the story?”
I told it to her:
“IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.”
“Yes!” Alex cried excitedly. Her eyes went wide. The candle shook in her
hand. “Yes! A dark and stormy night! But it had been a nice night—right?”
“Huh?” I struggled to follow her.
“Your dad said there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Remember? That’s why he
wanted to walk into town.”
“Yeah. Right. So what?” I demanded.
She let out an impatient sigh. “So then you typed that it was dark and stormy—and guess what? It became dark and stormy.”
“But, Alex—” I started.
She raised a finger to her lips to silence me. “And then you typed that we
were all alone in the dark house. And that came true too!”
“Oh, no!” I groaned. “You’re not going to tell me that my story is coming
true—are you?”
“So far it has,” she insisted. “Every word of it.”
“That’s really dumb,” I told her. “I think this storm has freaked you out
more than me!”
“Then how else do you explain it?” Alex shot back.
“Explain it? A big rainstorm came up. That’s how I explain it.”
I picked up a candlestick from the mantel. Now I had one in each hand. I
started back to my room.
Alex followed me. “How do you explain your dad disappearing into thin air?”
Our shadows edged along the wall, bending in the flickering light. I wished
the electricity would come back on.
I stepped into my room. “Dad didn’t disappear. He went out,” I told Alex. I
sighed. “Your idea is crazy. Just because I typed that it was stormy out…”
“Let’s test it,” Alex urged.
“Excuse me?”