Mr. Boo

It was the creepy house on the street; the one everyone said was haunted. It hulked on its unkempt patch of land, and some kids swore they could feel it watching them. Cracked paint, shutters askew, porch rotting, the house stood for everything they feared. They never played in front of it, even on the street.

Only Mark dared to venture into its decaying frame. He wasn’t afraid of some abandoned place. His house of fear lurked one block over. That was where bad things actually happened. The other kids could be afraid of an empty house if they wanted.

This house was safe. It gave him a place where he was alone, could explore, and have time to gather his courage to return home. After school, he would go straight to the abandoned building, pried open the cellar door and let himself in. Sometimes he felt as though the house was welcoming him, drawing him in with its promise of peace and silence.

No one will hurt you here, Mark. You’re safe now.

He was sitting in it once again for safety, knees tucked up against his chest. He felt his heart pounding against his small ribcage and he shut his eyes tightly. He could hear them moving around downstairs. They were clumsy and knocked over furniture while they stumbled through the dark.

Please don’t find me, please don’t find me.

There was a crash and a stream of curses.

“Shut up and find the kid already!”

They were bad men. Worse than his dad. They had caught sight of him at the top of the stairs, watching them and his parents. He ran when they saw him, shimmying out of the second floor window onto the roof. Then it was through backyards, bare feet slapping against damp grass. It was still dark out, but that didn’t slow him as he pried open the familiar cellar door and scrambled inside.

“What about upstairs?”

“Shit, really?”

“C’mon.”

Their heavy footfalls shook the rickety staircase as they climbed and Mark tried to squeeze himself even further into the corner. There was a dim light and shadows stretched along the walls as one of the men used his cell phone as a flashlight.

Fuck.

He would never have said that word aloud. His dad would have tanned him extra good for it if he heard, but his dad couldn’t hear. Not anymore, anyway. Besides, it seemed highly appropriate to be thinking it right now.

They entered the room, clattering around in their search. He had to clap his hands over his mouth so he didn’t make a noise of fright, and forced himself to breathe through his nose. In his short ten years of life he had become adept at keeping quiet and staying out of sight. Drawing attention could cause big problems.

With the blue glow from the phone he could see out into the hallway. The room he had chosen was a straight shot to the attic. The attic door was wide open.

It was never open and he had never dared go there—that was Mr. Boo’s place. It was a secret place where even the spiders didn’t crawl for fear of what lay in the dark spaces. He had been up in the attic once. It only took that one time for him to learn quickly that he could explore every inch of the house, except there. But now it was a silent summons. Somehow, Mark just knew he had to get up those steps into Mr. Boo’s domain.

He leapt to his feet, wavering a brief second as muscles cramped from crouching stretched out, then he was pushing free from his hiding spot, pounding towards the open door and the promising black beyond. When a shadow stepped into the doorway and blocked his path, he lowered his shoulder and rammed into the man with all the force he could. Fortunately, the man had not been expecting the impact and he crashed to the floor.

Mark jumped over him before he could recover, tearing up the hallway, then the creaking stairs and into the blackness.

Cursing, the man he had knocked over righted himself and called out to his partner.

“Here, Donny, he went up into the attic. You stay down here in case the little prick tries to come back this way.”

Donny stood at the base of the stairs, staring up into the darkness the man and boy had disappeared into. The sudden silence after all of the commotion pressed heavily against the ears.

“Jack?” Donny ventured, shining his phone’s screen up the stairs. The light did not penetrate very far. “Jack, what’s goin’ on? You got him?”

Silence met his questions. Not a sound, no scuffling or even breathing could be heard from where he stood.

“Shit,” he cursed and stumbled up, phone held out in front of him, “Jack! What the hell are you doin’?”

It was as though all of the light had been sucked out of the space. The pathetic blue glow from his phone barely made silhouettes out of the objects all around him. There was a lot of crap here too. He could make out boxes, old pieces of furniture, and bicycles. He jumped when his light fell across a figure, only to realize it was just an old dress mannequin.

“Jack?” he called out. Again, silence answered him. There was that feeling gnawing at him, the kind he got when something was just not quite right. It was the moment you felt the hairs on the back of your neck and arms prickle and your body tense as though preparing for an attack you couldn’t see.

Donny turned for the door, his only thought was to get out. But there was something already there. A small figure stood between him and the safety of relative lightness beyond, its features hidden in shadow.

“Dammit, kid!”

The man stomped towards the boy, hand already reaching out to grab him. The brave little piss didn’t even flinch at his approach. As Donny grabbed a hold of the skinny arm, his phone’s glowing screen faded, plunging everything into darkness.

The attic door clicked close.