The Haunted

Then he was past the rocking chair and could no longer see it, not even in his peripheral vision. He crouched down near the wall, used his fist to tap the board, and pulled it aside when it came loose. Bending down, he looked into the secret compartment.

And saw, inside, on top of the small hill of dirt, his grandpa’s bloody head.

James awoke—

—in his bedroom, at home.

It was night, it was dark, and he was confused, disoriented. He was supposed to be in his grandma’s room, and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. Then he sat up, felt the familiar reality of his bed below him, saw the outlines in the darkness of his movie posters on the wall, smelled the musty odor that his room got sometimes when their house was closed up for too long, and he knew that he was really back home.

Was he alone in here?

The thought terrified him. Their house was scary enough when everyone was home. But if he was the only one in it …

Maybe this was just another dream.

No. Why try to fool himself? He knew it wasn’t. How he had come to be here and why, James had no idea. The only thing he did know was that he needed to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He was in his pajamas and wasn’t wearing shoes, but though he still had some clothes in his closet and could probably find an old pair of sneakers to wear, he didn’t want to waste the time it would take to find them. He had to get out of here now, and he jumped out of bed, running through the darkness, down the hall, down the stairs, to the front door—

And he couldn’t open it.

He turned the lock, jiggled the handle, pulled as hard as he could, but no matter what he did, the door wouldn’t budge.

To his left, a light switched on, and the suddenness of it made him jump. He looked to his left, toward the living room. A single lamp was on, and it shone on only one section of wall, illuminating what should have been his mom’s framed Vincent van Gogh poster from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Should have been … but wasn’t.

For inside the frame was a giant picture of the Old Maid, a poster-size version of the most dreaded card in that terrible game, and she was staring directly at him, her eyes scowling, her mouth grinning, a juxtaposition that made her look completely and utterly insane.

A low noise came from somewhere, constant and cracked and high-pitched, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from the picture.

And that it was laughter.

As he watched, the Old Maid began rocking back and forth, and her scowling eyes lightened, her eyebrows moving up until she looked downright jolly. Somehow that was worse, and James jiggled the door handle one last time before heading into the kitchen to try the back door. If he couldn’t open it, he’d break a window and get out that way.

Did the phone work? he wondered. Maybe he should call his dad and—

He tripped over something lying in the doorway between the hall and the laundry room, his arms flailing wildly to keep himself from falling. He ran into the washing machine and quickly put his hands on it to steady himself before turning around to see what he’d stumbled over.

It was his grandpa.

James let out a shocked cry. The old man wasn’t headless, the way he had been in his dream, but he was unmoving and curled up on the ground. Was he dead? James thought so, but was afraid to find out.

His grandpa stirred, moaned.

James jumped, startled. Immediately he went back to the doorway and dropped to his knees, touching the old man’s shoulder. “Grandpa?” Maybe they’d both be able to get out of here together. “Grandpa?”

A skinny arm shot out, a dry, cold hand grabbing James’s wrist and holding tight. He tried to pull away, but the grip was strong, and then his grandfather sat up, grinning crazily. Struggling to free himself, James made a fist and used it to pound on the hand that was holding him.

His grandpa’s other hand swung in from the right and slapped James hard on the side of the head.

James burst into tears. He couldn’t help it. The pain was tremendous, but that wasn’t the only reason he was crying. There were emotions at work, emotions he didn’t even understand. But that didn’t stop him from hitting his grandfather, moving from hand to arm, trying anything he could to get away, curving his fingers into claws and trying to scratch that old, cold skin.

The other hand hit the side of his head again, causing his right ear to ring.

The hand holding his wrist let go, but now both of the old man’s hands were slapping him. Hard. Left side of the head, right side of the head, left side of the head, right side of the head …

Still sobbing, James tried to scramble backward, but his grandpa kept coming at him, hitting, smiling.

Only it wasn’t really his grandpa. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did, and it made it much easier to do what he had to do.