The Dare

I’m standing here, the new kid in town, I have to do it. I’m gazing at the knocker on the door of a run-down old barn, which seems to get bigger and bigger as I get smaller and smaller. I know what you’re thinking, but I just don’t want to knock it. It’s not because the curling vines look like they have infested and consumed the barn, or that the discoloured white paint peels from its host like leprosy, the place is just plain creepy. This feeling is accentuated by the accompanying odour of decay and moth balls.

I’ve heard stories about the old man that lives here. Apparently, he decided to move into the barn years ago when he burned his house down when his wife died. Now it’s said that he is so bitter and mad that he steals the children who trespass on his property and eat them.

I can see him through the dusty window, he is facing the other way reading a book as he sits in his old brown leather chair which has been patched up so much over the years that it more patch and less of the original leather. I extend my right arm, grab onto the knocker but pause, my hand just holding it waiting to gather the courage to do it.

I look back at my new friends, who have decided to stay at the bushes on the outskirts of the property. The other kids are gesturing for me to do it, some daring to quietly egg me on. So, I close my eyes and knock. It’s louder than I expected, and I can hear it echo all through the barn.

My friends told me I have to wait ten seconds before I can run and that they will stay with me the whole time. I turn to them, anxiety flooding through me, hoping to find their encouraging faces, but my so-called friends have already started to run.

“Cowards” I mumble under my breath and begin to count “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten”.

When I finally reach ten seconds, I turn to run, but before I take even a step the door flies open and in my peripheral vision, I see a wrinkly old hand reach out and grab my shoulder. I freeze, and it feels like an eternity when I remember I should scream. So, with all my might I let out a scream full of fear, loud enough so my friends can hear and know that if I’m eaten, it was their fault. Then as the old hand pulls me into the even older barn, I can see everyone running for their lives, forgetting about stealth and silence as they all yell “Run for it, she’s been taken, run!”

Then the door is slammed closed with me on the inside, the old man lets go of me and I turn around to face him. We stare at each other for a few seconds and then we burst out laughing. After catching our breath, we walk towards the kitchen and he says, “Some friends you have there”.

“I know!” I exclaim, unable to believe that not even one of them tried to help me.

“How long should we wait to see if they send another trembling child to knock on the door to see if you’ve been eaten?” he enquired, handing me a cookie from his cookie jar and putting the kettle on.

“I feel like it’ll be a while” I admit, taking the cookie he offers. I’m disappointed to see how little I matter to them, but also admitting to myself that I knew this would likely be how it ended, given that I only met them earlier today.

“Well in that case, would you like a cuppa?” he asks, as the kettle begins to squeal, signalling that it’s done.

“Yeah, I’d love one gramps.” I reply.