Nightmare Hour (10 page)

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY BLEU TURRELL

P
eople often ask if I believe in ghosts and witches. The answer is no. But many years ago I knew a woman who said she was a witch. Her name was Judith, and she worked in the same office I did.

One day Phil, a guy in the next office, got sick. Everyone said that Judith had put a curse on him. Poor Phil. His hair turned white. His teeth started to fall out. He grew skinnier and skinnier. Then one day he was fine again.

Judith claimed she had removed the spell. I never really thought Judith was responsible. I wasn't sure
what
to believe. But I do know this: Sometimes it would be great to have that kind of magical power. At least that's what Stephanie thinks in this story. Stephanie wants to be a witch--in the
worst
way….

“I
want to be like you,”
I told the witch. The witch raised her black eyebrows. Her straight black hair fell to her shoulders as she tilted her head, studying me hard with her cold, silvery eyes.

I stared right back at her, not blinking, challenging her. My chin quivered, but nothing else moved.

It took a lot of courage to come to the witch's house. Most kids in the neighborhood won't go near it, won't even climb the hill the old house rests on.

But I was brave.

Or to tell the truth, desperate.

You might think that going to see a witch is a crazy thing to do. But if you knew what my life was like, you'd understand.

She was my last hope.

Gemma Rogerson is a real witch, and everyone in Maywood Falls knows it. People go to Gemma for help when nothing else works. Then they ask her to cast a spell to improve their lives or to get them out of trouble.

Sometimes they even ask her to put a curse on their enemies.

And is she
powerful!

Gemma cast a hiccuping spell on Mr. Fraley from the used-car lot. She did it because she found out he was selling stolen cars. He hiccuped for two years without stopping, and he couldn't sell a single car!

I'm not making it up. It was on the news.

It was also on the news when Gemma played a really mean joke on Mayor Krenitsky. At his press conference a
million buzzing flies crawled out of his ears and nose, and long, purple worms poked out of his eyes.

Gemma can use her amazing powers for good--and for evil.

I didn't care. I really needed help.

So there I stood in her kitchen, staring her down, trying not to blink. Afternoon sunlight washed through her dust-covered windows. The light spread over the cluttered shelves against the wall, shelves of jars and bottles filled with feathers and powders and insects and tiny bones.

Finally Gemma moved. Her long, black dress crinkled as she crossed the room. As she came closer, I could see her beautiful creamy skin. Her eyes were bright and alert, her lips full and smooth.

How old was she? I couldn't tell. Maybe thirty, maybe younger.

She squeezed my arm with a smooth, pale hand. “Are you afraid?” she asked. Her voice was soft and velvety.

“N-no,” I stammered. “I don't think so.”

She squeezed my arm tighter, until it whitened beneath her fingers. “You should be,” she said.

I held my breath.

Was coming here a horrible mistake?

Finally she let go of my arm. Her black fingernails sparkled as she raised her hand and brushed back my stringy, mouse-brown hair.

She didn't smile. “Stephanie, why do you want to be a witch?” she asked.

I let out a long sigh. “Because I'm so unhappy,” I said.

Then I didn't hold back. I let it all out.

I told her how I hate my looks, my pointed chin, my piggy snub nose, my scraggly hair. I told her how I have no friends. How the kids at school tease me because I'm ugly and cross-eyed.

I told Gemma the horrible nicknames the kids call me. I told her how even the teachers don't like me. How they're all so mean to me. How both my parents ignore me and give all their attention to Roddy, my baby brother.

I told her a lot more. It was so hard to tell it all, and it made me feel good at the same time.

Maybe someone would finally understand how unhappy I am. Maybe Gemma would see why I had to forget my fear and come to see her.

Her silvery eyes didn't blink or move from my face as I told my long, painful story. The sunlight kept fading, then returning, casting us in shadow, then brightness.

In the other room a clock ticked loudly.

I stopped to catch my breath. I gazed around the cluttered kitchen, at the wonderful, mysterious bottles of insect wings and animal parts.

Gemma frowned suddenly. “So you are very unhappy, Stephanie,” she said softly. “But why do you come to me, dear? Why do you want to be a witch?”

“I--I want powers!” I shouted. “I want to be able to show the others, to pay them all back for being so cruel to me, for making fun of me, for picking on me, for never giving me a chance.”

Gemma squinted at me. “Revenge? You just want revenge?”

“No! Not just revenge!” I cried, my voice rising with excitement. “People come to you. They come to you for help. They're afraid of you. But they respect you. I--I want people to respect me too!”

I was breathing hard now. Tears poured down my cheeks.

With a toss of her head Gemma swung her black hair over her shoulder. “You really want to be like me?” she asked, still studying me with those intense eyes. “You really want me to give you powers?”

I nodded eagerly, letting the tears flow. “Yes. Please. It's all I dream about. I'll do anything.”

Her eyes widened. “Anything?” She motioned for me to sit down on a kitchen stool.

“I can do as you ask, Stephanie,” she said softly. “But the price will be…high.”

“Price?” I choked out.

“Of course,” Gemma said, crossing her arms over the front of the black dress. “A very high price. You may not wish to pay it.”

“I'll do anything,” I repeated. “I don't have any money, but--”

“Stephanie, I don't want money,” Gemma interrupted. “Money means nothing to me. If you are serious about becoming a witch, you must pay a much higher price than money.”

“Wh-what is it?” I asked. “What do you want?”

Gemma didn't hesitate. “Bring me your baby brother!”

“What?” I gasped.

“Your baby brother. That is the price,” she said. “Bring
him to me, and I will make you a witch.”

I stared at her, tears still stinging my eyes. My throat suddenly ached. My stomach felt heavy and tight.

Can I bring her the baby? I wondered.

Can I really do that?

 

Dad was in the den, his face buried in the newspaper. He didn't even look up when I came in. I called hi to him, and he grunted in reply.

I found Mom in the kitchen, snapping string beans. “Hi,” I said. She knows I hate string beans. I think that's why we have them nearly every night.

“Your hair is a mess,” Mom said. “Can't you do anything with it?”

“I--I don't know,” I answered.

“If you tried harder, you could look almost pretty,” Mom said without glancing up from her beans.

“Thanks for the compliment,” I replied.

She never says anything nice to me. Never.

“Where's Roddy?” I asked.

“He's in his crib. Napping. Don't wake him up,” Mom said. “It took me hours to get him to go down. Don't go into his room at all, Stephanie. You always scare him.”

“No problem,” I muttered.

I left the kitchen and went straight to Roddy's room. He was sleeping, all curled in a ball, in his cuddly yellow feet pajamas. He was pink and bald and as cute as can be.

I rested my arms on the bars of the crib and gazed down at the little guy. My hands were suddenly cold. My stomach churned.

Can I really do this? I wondered.

Can I steal my baby brother and hand him over to a witch?

I lowered my face toward him. He opened his eyes--and his fat, pink hand shot up and grabbed my hair.

“Ow!” I gasped.

He tugged my hair with all his strength.

“Let go!” I jerked my head up. But he held on--and pulled my hair into his mouth.

“Roddy--let go!” I grabbed his little fist with both hands and struggled to pry it open.

He's always grabbing things. And he's so strong. Once he wrapped his tiny fingers around my nose and squeezed it so hard, it bled.

“Let go! You're really hurting me!” I cried. I finally pulled his fist open and jerked my hair free.

Roddy opened his mouth and began to scream at the top of his lungs, waving his fists angrily in the air.

“What's going on?” Mom burst into the room. “Stephanie--I told you not to wake him up!”

“But--but--” I sputtered. “It's not my fault! He pulled my hair!”

“Get out!” Mom ordered, picking up the baby. “You're always scaring him. Just get out!”

I turned and ran.

I tore into my room and threw myself facedown on my bed.

I suddenly knew I could do it. I could take Roddy to Gemma.

No problem.

 

I waited until late at night. Mom and Dad had gone to bed. Roddy was asleep.

I crept into his room and tiptoed up to his crib. He was making soft cooing sounds, his tiny thumb curled in his mouth.

I suddenly realized I was shaking all over.

“I'm sorry, Roddy,” I whispered. “I have to do this. I have no choice.”

I picked the little guy up and held him against my chest. He felt so soft and warm. He smelled so good. He cooed softly but didn't wake up.

Tiptoeing, trying not to make a sound, I carried him out into the hall.

Am I really doing this? I asked myself, still shaking.

I swallowed hard. I knew if I stopped to think, I'd put Roddy back in his crib, and that would be that.

So I ran.

I ran through the front hall. Across the living room. And out the front door.

I ran down the front lawn, crossed the street, and kept running. The wind whispered through the trees. No moon or stars in the sky. No cars on the street.

Nestling the baby tightly against my chest, I ran through the darkness, ran all the way up the steep hill to Gemma's house.

I didn't stop to knock. I burst breathlessly through the front door.

I found Gemma in the kitchen, standing at the stove, brewing a pot of thick, black tea.

I stopped in the doorway. Roddy cooed in my arms, still asleep.

Gemma turned to me, her eyes wide with surprise.

What am I doing? I asked myself again. Am I really going to give her my little brother?

Yes.

I'd dreamed of changing my life for so long…

I shut my eyes--and shoved Roddy into her arms. “Here,” I whispered.

Gemma's mouth dropped open. She held the baby out in front of her like a football she was about to punt. She kept staring from me to the baby, then back to me.

“You
really
are serious, Stephanie,” she said finally, unable to hide her surprise. “You really want to become a witch.”

I nodded.

Roddy raised his tiny arms and stretched. His eyes were still closed.

“Wh-what are you going to do with him?” I asked Gemma in a trembling voice.

Gemma grinned. She smoothed a finger under Roddy's soft chin. “I need baby powder,” she said. “I'm going to grind his bones.”

“NO!” I screeched. “You
can't!
”

Gemma tossed back her head and laughed. “I'm teasing you, Stephanie,” she said. “I was just joking.”

“Well, what are you going to do with him?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she replied, raising the baby to her bony shoulder. “This was just a test, Stephanie.”

“Huh? A test?” I gasped.

“I wanted to see how serious you were,” she replied. “I needed to see just how far you were willing to go.”