Mother Ghost Grimm Page 9

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Doug knocked on Emily’s door. When she answered, she was alarmed by the scared expression on Doug’s face. “Get your bike. I saw Chloe headed toward Jackson Creek. She was carrying a gasoline can.”

  They rode as far as they could into the woods, then dumped their bikes and ran all the way to the cabin. The stench of gasoline overpowered Emily as they burst into the clearing. She stumbled to a halt; her heart pounding so hard she thought it might beat out of her chest.

  Chloe stood near the porch, a lit match in her hand.

  “No!” Doug ran forward and grabbed Chloe’s arm.

  It was too late.

  The match landed on the porch.

  Flames erupted instantly.

  Doug dragged Chloe away. In a matter of moments, fire engulfed the little log house, but the fierce blaze didn’t touch the trees or the ground surrounding it. Heat filled the air, and so did the smell of charred wood.

  Emily looked at her best friend. “Why’d you set fire to the cabin?”

  Chloe’s blue eyes had an odd glint. “She told me to.”

  Emily glanced at Doug. He shrugged. Humph. Well, she didn’t need to be told that Chloe was talking about Addy Jackson.

  Emily’s stomach twisted into knots as she and her friends watched the cabin burn. She looked at the smoke rising into the sky, much like a soul leaving its body.

  The ghost of Jackson Creek was no more.

  Grandma’s Doll

  Story & Illustration // L.P. Hernandez

  * * *

  Maggie could barely make out the shape of the doll in her dark room. She knew it was there, seated in the rocking chair in the far corner. It had been there when she turned the lights out a minute before. But there was something funny about that doll, which she had not named. Something strange.

  When she woke the doll was often in a new place in the room, usually near the rocking chair, as if the chair moved at some point in the night and dumped the little doll onto the carpet. But sometimes the doll was a few feet away from the rocking chair. Close to Maggie’s bed.

  She watched the ghostly shape in her dark room. Did an arm twitch? It was difficult to tell. She pulled the covers over her head, but her breath made it hot under there. Within a minute she peeked her head out and squinted at the rocking chair.

  The doll was gone.

  * * *

  Maggie found the doll on the floor the next morning. She searched its plastic face for a clue. The blue-gray eyes were painted on. The mouth curled into the slightest smile. Two baby teeth were visible behind its pink lips.

  Maggie coughed.

  She pressed her nose to the doll’s cloth body and found that it stank. It was a smell she did not recognize, but not a good one. Maggie hefted it onto the chair, finding the doll to be heavier than she would have guessed.

  “Coming!” she yelled when her mother called her to breakfast.

  As she walked out of the room, she reached her hand to turn the light switch off. She gasped. There were marks on the back of her hand. Little marks in her skin. Only then did she feel the pain from the wound.

  She looked at her hand and then back at the doll.

  The cuts were small. As if they’d been made by little teeth.

  * * *

  Maggie wanted to tell her mom about the doll, about how it moved in the night, but she was nine years old now. She knew dolls couldn’t move unless they were designed to do so. This was an old doll, originally belonging to Maggie’s grandmother, as did the house.

  “Mom, is it okay if I leave the door open at night? I had a bad dream.”

  Her mother placed a plate of steaming pancakes in front of her.

  “Of course, Maggie. Anything you want to talk about?” she asked.

  Maggie rubbed the back of her hand.

  “No, just a bad dream. I don’t really remember it.”

  “Okay, sweetie.”

  Maggie cut her pancakes into strips and dunked them into a small cup of maple syrup. She said nothing and only nibbled at the pancakes.

  “You sure you’re okay?” her mother asked, tucking Maggie’s hair behind her ear.

  Maggie smiled, “Yes, just didn’t sleep well.”

  That part was true.

  * * *

  Maggie cracked the door open so that light spilled onto the rocking chair and the doll. Its straw hat cast the doll’s face in shadows, but the rest of it was visible. If it moved Maggie would know.

  She settled into bed and closed her eyes most of the way. She believed if the doll knew it was being watched it would not move. So, Maggie pretended to be asleep.

  Then she fell asleep without realizing it.

  She woke with a start in the completely dark room.

  The door had been closed, likely by her mother.

  She blinked in the direction of the rocking chair, but her eyes were not well adjusted.

  “Ow!” she yipped.

  There was a sharp pain in her left arm. She flung her elbow out and connected with something that fell to the floor. Maggie scrambled to turn on the lamp on the nightstand.

  The room flooded with light and Maggie saw the doll face down on the carpet. The doll shuddered once and then was still. But it was not silent. It did not form words, but offered a quick, shrill shriek.

  Maggie hopped out of bed on the opposite side and padded out of the room. She eased the door to her mother’s room open and then closed it behind her. She snuggled next to her mother and fell asleep rubbing the new scratches on her arm.

  * * *

  “Bad dreams again?” her mother asked.

  Maggie yawned and stretched, forgetting for a moment why she was not in her own bed. Then she remembered. The doll in the night. The pain in her arm. She had to tell her mother.

  Before she could say anything, her mother spoke again, “By the way, I found grandma’s doll on your floor. It smelled terrible so I tossed it in the washing machine if you’re looking for it.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Maggie said.

  “So, did you have bad dreams?” her mother asked again.

  Maggie twisted her arm and saw shallow divots there protected by fresh scabs.

  “I guess. I think I’ve been having bad dreams about Grandma’s doll.”

  Her mother frowned, “Oh? Like how?”

  Maggie rubbed her arm as she spoke, “Like the doll comes to life. It used to not do much, just fall off the chair most nights. But lately I think the doll’s been biting me.”

  Her mother’s gaze fell to Maggie’s hand, which rested atop the scabs. She covered the distance between them and wrapped her arm around the girl.

  “We don’t have to keep it in your room if you don’t want to. We can box it up and put it in the attic. I don’t want to donate it because it was Mom’s, but we can keep it hidden.”

  Maggie nodded and felt a bit of weight lift off of her shoulders.

  The washing machine buzzed, and her mother squeezed her once more before departing for the laundry room.

  “I’ll leave her outside to dr-”

  She screamed.

  “What is it?” Maggie asked, dashing into the laundry room.

  Her mother held a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were as big as the moon. Maggie stepped into the room cautiously. She stood next to her mother and peered into the open washing machine.

  The doll was pressed against the inside of the machine, but it was not alone. Also plastered to the inner wall was a drowned rat, a rat that burrowed into the doll’s fabric body and made a home there. A rat that came out at night and foraged for food. A rat that had just begun to develop a taste for human flesh.

  Bus Stop

  Story // Vivian Casley

  Illustration // Melody Grace

  * * *

  Cyrus Benetton walked along the side of the road on a foggy Monday morning with the wiggles in his stomach. Being a new student was never easy but being a new student in the seventh grade was even worse. Middle school could
be the pits. Lucky for him, they moved over Christmas break and he had all the latest gear. He looked down at his brand spanking new shoes and grinned. The cold bit through his thick jacket and he could feel his fingertips going numb through his gloves. He hoped the bus wouldn’t be late like his last one always was, because his nose was already starting to run. He definitely didn’t want what he coined as—snotcicles—on his first day.

  He walked with his head down and almost tripped over his own feet when he looked up. A boy in a bright red sweater was kneeling by the side of the road. He didn’t look up as Cyrus passed, but he mumbled something. Cyrus didn’t want to be rude, so he turned around and asked the boy if he was alright. The boy straightened out a wooden cross that was sticking out of the snow and then stood up.

  “I said you shouldn’t walk along the side of the road like that. It’s dangerous. My mom said they should’ve never put the bus stop here.”

  “Why’s that? Did someone get hurt?” Cyrus asked.

  “Yeah…,” the boy pointed to the cross and then at the crooked stop sign up ahead, “People don’t always stop, and kids don’t always stand on the sidewalk where they’re supposed to.”

  “Dang. That sucks.” Cyrus got onto the sidewalk. “Did you know them? The person who got hurt?”

  “You could say that.” The boy walked up and stuck out his fist. “I’m Danny.”

  “Cyrus.” Cyrus bumped Danny’s fist and noticed he wasn’t wearing any gloves. Actually, all he wore was a sweater. How could he not wear a jacket or a hat, it’s freezing out here, he thought. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Nah. I’m used to it by now. You’ll like Hargrove Middle, it’s pretty cool sometimes.”

  “So, the person who got hurt, was it a kid?” The wiggles in Cyrus’s stomach seemed to be intensifying into a full-fledged jig.

  “Yup. A dumb kid.”

  “Dang. Is he ok?”

  “I’d say he’s seen better days.”

  “So…uh, is the bus normally on time? I got here early since I wasn’t sure.” Cyrus studied Danny’s pale face. His mouth was set in a grim line and he had deep dark circles under sad brown eyes. There were small white earbuds around his neck.

  “The bus comes on time unless it’s snowing. The fog might delay it, but I doubt it.”

  “Cool. So, what grade are you in?” Cyrus couldn’t believe the boys cheeks and nose weren’t chapped red. His own nose probably looked like Rudolph’s by now.

  “I would’ve been in seventh, but I got held back.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does. I miss all my friends.” Danny frowned.

  “I miss mine too. Moving really sucks big time.” Cyrus said.

  “But you can make new ones.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But you can make new friends too, it’s no biggie, being held back. I was held back in kindergarten. My mom said I played around too much.”

  “Yeah, my mom said I did the same…that I never paid attention.”

  “Hey, um, I have an Xbox and a PlayStation…if you ever wanna hang out sometime and play?” Cyrus offered.

  “Thanks.” Danny nodded.

  Cyrus didn’t know what else to talk about, so he focused on listening for the bus instead, kicking himself for leaving his phone at home. He was shivering and wanted to hurry up and get out of the cold. Something about Danny made him uneasy. He could feel him staring, so he pretended his jacket zipper was stuck and refused to look back up in case he met his eyes again. Finally, he heard the familiar whine and hiss of the big yellow-orange submarine and relief flooded over him.

  The bus came slowly up the road but stopped short of where Cyrus was standing so he had to jog up to it. The door squealed open and a burly looking driver nodded at him and grunted good morning. Cyrus assumed Danny was right behind him, but he didn’t look back as he stepped onto the warm and toasty bus. The aroma of stale sweat, and vinyl seats soothed him as he made his way to the back. He hoped Danny wasn’t following. That’s all I need is to be seen with that weirdo, he thought. There were a lot of empty seats, but he chose one across from a boy who looked friendly, set his bag down, and settled in. He tried to look and see where Danny might be, but all he could see was the back of a few heads.

  “What’s up, you new?” The kid tilted his head and looked at Cyrus.

  “Yeah. Just moved here. My name’s Cyrus.”

  “That’s cool. I’m Max. Heads up, we can use our phones on the bus as long as we turn off the ringer. Mr. Turner never says anything.”

  “Really? That’s pretty awesome. We got a lot of stops? There’s not too many people on here yet.”

  “Yeah, we got more. Yours is only the third. Used to be a few more who got on at your stop, but after what happened last year no one wanted to wait there anymore, I guess. Their parents probably bring them now.” Max shrugged.

  “What…what happened last year?”

  “A kid who rode our bus died there. It was right before Halloween; I remember that because no one wanted to let us go trick or treating after. It was a hit and run.”

  “A hit and run?” Cyrus gulped.

  “Yup. Mr. Turner stopped the bus and tried to help, but it was too late. The other kids that had been waiting when it happened got on the bus screaming and crying. Then a bunch of police came and an ambulance, but the ambulance eventually left. The police asked a lot of questions and even though the kids gave a good description of the car, I don’t think they ever caught the person. We had to wait until our parents came to get us and Mr. Turner told us not to look out the windows—but we all did because it was too hard not to. His body was twisted up like a pretzel, like, with blood all over and everything. It’s messed up dude, someone just leaving him to die like that.” Max shivered. “I didn’t know him too well, but he seemed alright. His name was Danny. He usually sat up front with his ear buds in and didn’t bother anyone.”

  Cyrus’s heart thudded against his chest like it was in a game of wall ball. His mouth felt full of chalk dust. He told himself it was because he was nervous about his first day. His hands trembled and he tried to steady them before Max noticed. Maybe he heard him wrong, maybe he didn’t say Danny. He couldn’t have said Danny. Maybe it was a different Danny? He coughed, then forced himself to ask, “Did you say the kid’s name was…Danny?”

  “Yeah, it was definitely Danny. It was super sad, dude. Sometimes I still see him lying there in his bright red sweater, all twisted up, and think—I wish I’d got to know him better.”

  “I’m…I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.” Cyrus murmured.

  “It’s alright, how could you’ve? Anyway, you can always walk to another stop if you wanted. Mine’s further back and you’d have to leave earlier, but at least you won’t have to wait alone there. I mean, it’s just a bus stop, but still…”

  The heat on the bus did nothing to break the chill that settled in Cyrus’s bones. “Thanks, yeah, I think I might do that.”

  The Witch in the Window

  Story // Naching T. Kassa

  * * *

  Janet Chavez is my neighbor and my best friend. She calls me “Becky,” has brown hair and brown eyes, wears pink, and is kind to everyone she meets. We both go to Harkin Elementary and she’s a great person.

  You’d never know she was cursed.

  How did she get cursed? Sometimes, curses are like colds. You just catch one. Janet caught one in a garden. A garden belonging to a witch.

  Now, this isn’t the kind of witch you see in The Wizard of Oz or anything like that. She doesn’t have a green face or a warty nose. She doesn’t cackle or ride a broom. No, this witch is called “Skinwalker” because she can appear as anyone and anything. If you see her true self, her scary self, she’ll curse you.

  Everyone told Janet to stay away from there. They told her not to take the shortcut through Skinwalker’s garden. But she was in a hurry, and it was late, and she wanted to get home.

  She should have listened.

  Janet had
just jumped the small stone wall that separated the woods from the garden when she saw Skinwalker. The witch was in the garden plucking herbs from the rich, brown earth and when she turned, Janet screamed.

  Janet ran. When she got home, she called me and told me what she saw.

  I didn’t believe her at first. I thought she was making it up.

  Janet told me she saw an old woman with a coyote’s body and long, hairy arms. The woman stood upright on two legs, her eyes glowing red in the purple twilight. Janet was too scared to tell her parents.

  I tried to laugh at what Janet said, but she didn’t laugh with me. Instead, she started crying. That’s when I knew she was telling the truth.

  I told her it would be ok. The witch didn’t know where she lived. The witch couldn’t find her. There was nothing to be scared of. Janet stopped crying. She said she wouldn’t go near that garden ever again. Then, we hung up and I went to bed.

  Everything was ok, at first. Nothing happened the first day or the second. On the third day, things went wrong.

  Janet called me just after midnight. She told me she’d seen an old woman at her window. An old woman with hair the color of coyote fur.

  The old woman put a curse on her. She said that if Janet told her parents, or any adult about what she’d seen in the garden, she would take her voice away and she would never speak again.

  I told her not to listen. I told her to tell her parents. She said she would and then, she hung up.

  That was two days ago.

  Janet didn’t come to school yesterday, and she didn’t come today. I got worried, so after school, I called her mom.

  Mrs. Chavez said Janet had lost her voice. They’d taken her to Dr. Henry’s office, and he said she must have strained it because she wasn’t sick. She was supposed to stay home until it came back.

  I asked Mrs. Chavez if I could come over. She said I could come at six-thirty and have dinner.

  I had a while to wait, so I went to the library. It took three hours to find what I needed.