Out Of The Box

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.” Penlight in my hand, I turned it to illuminate my face, wriggling my eyebrows for dramatic effect.

Gage sighed. “That story is so lame. Heard it last year at camp. Try again, nerd.”

I looked around the makeshift tent I’d constructed in the den, trying to think of another scary story. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, Mom barged through the front door.

“Boys!” Mom called out. “Come see what I bought. It’s a Jason!”

“What the heck is a Jason?” muttered Gage, throwing back the sheets I had carefully stretched over several chairs.

“Hey, you wrecked the tent!” I exclaimed, scrambling after my little brother. “Come back here, you little-“ I stopped cold in the living room, insult dying in my throat.

Six-foot-four Jason stood in the entryway, a blood-stained machete brandished in one upraised hand. Mom stood next to him, grinning. “Isn’t he great?”

Gage slowly circled the figure, inspecting his rugged black pants and jacket, tattered white tee shirt, and gloved hands. Almost two feet shorter than Jason, Gage was unable to reach up and remove the eerie hockey mask covering the crazy killer’s face.

“C’mere,” Gage said, motioning to me. “Take the mask off and let’s look at him.”

I couldn’t move. I was about twenty feet from Jason and that still felt too close. “C’mon, G, let’s go back to the tent,” I mumbled.

Gage just stared at me. “Are you scared?” Before I could reply he slapped his knees and started howling with laughter. “Seriously, Kyle? It’s not real! It’s amina, uh, aminate –“

“Animatronic,” finished Mom. She’d gone back outside to retrieve Jason’s storage box and returned in time to hear our exchange. “And Gage, don’t make fun of your brother.”

“But Mom, he’s fifteen, and he’s scared of a doll! “

Mom started to correct Gage, but he just ignored her and walked past me, punching me in the arm on his way back to the den. “Hysterical,” he murmured, grinning.

Mom set down the box. “I’ve got to call dad real quick then I’ll come back and show you how he fits in the box.” She patted Jason on the shoulder. “He’s gonna make a great addition to our Halloween decorations.”

She left the room, leaving me alone with the monster. Unlike Gage, I didn’t need to check him out. I knew exactly who he was - Jason Voorhees, supernatural killer in the Friday the 13th film series. His character had suffered a horrible, tragic death but rose from the dead to savagely murder those who wronged him or just plain got in his way. I’d seen a few of the movies – there were about ten, most of them really bad sequels – but slasher movies didn’t appeal to me. I only sat through them when I was with my friends because I didn’t want them to think I was a wuss.

Oh but you are, Jason’s eyes seemed to say. Or rather, his good eye – the right one was sealed shut but the left one stared icily through the mask. You are a major wuss, Kyle, and I’m on to you.

“Yo, K-hole,” came Gage’s annoying voice. “I’m takin’ down your dumb tent so I can play Playstation.”

“Go ahead,” I called back, my interest in storytelling lost. “I gotta help mom.” I sat on the living room ottoman, far from Jason, until Mom came back a few minutes later.

“Watch this,” she said, stepping behind Jason and placing both hands on his shoulders. Jason stood on a round, hard plastic pedestal, his boot-clad feet permanently attached to it. Mom placed one foot on a button between Jason’s heels and stepped on the button while simultaneously pushing down on Jason’s shoulders. Instantly the tall, terrible figure shrunk to a demonic-looking dwarf.

“Pretty cool, huh?” She picked up Jason and placed him in his box. His head stuck out.

The kitchen phone rang. “That’s dad, calling me back. Kyle, take the Jason into the garage and see if you can get his lid shut.” She disappeared before I could protest.

I approached junior-sized Jason with caution, thinking if the springs in his legs suddenly activated, he might explode out of the box. Then I would explode out of my pants. Gage would never let me forget that one.

I tried to close the lid but Jason’s disfigured head wouldn’t budge. He would have to be stored with his head peeking out. There was no way I was going let him stare at me while I carried him, so I moved to the backside of the box, took a deep breath, and picked it up.

The Camp Crystal Lake killer was surprisingly light. In a flash I had him down the hall, through the laundry room, and into the crowded garage. Anxious to be rid of him, I looked for space among the chaos known as “our family stuff.” I found some room in the center between Gage’s drum set and a ping pong table and plopped him down, facing away from me. Jason could stare at the metal roll-up door forever for all I cared.

I scurried back to the laundry room, stealing one last glance behind me. The box remained still. Jason’s masked head didn’t whip around and confront me. Satisfied, I shut and locked the door. Jason would stay safely put away until Halloween.

For the next two weeks I avoided the garage as much as possible. Mom had no clue about my fear of the deranged dummy, and neither did Dad. He had taken a temporary job in So Cal, about nine hours from home, so we only saw him a few times a month.

Gage, on the other hand, knew exactly why I stayed out of the garage. He cornered me in the kitchen one day while I was making a sandwich.

“Wassup, coward?” Gage opened the fridge and gestured inside. “Want me to pour you a glass of wussy juice?”

After turning nine this year, Gage had developed what Mom referred to as “Smart Mouth Syndrome.” I silently counted to ten before answering him, something I’d seen Mom do on several occasions.

“Gage, I’m not buying into your game.” Wow, what a lame comeback. I sounded like one of my parents.

Gage grabbed a water bottle and slammed the fridge door shut. He hopped onto a stool across the counter and stared at me, sipping his water. He smacked his lips after every sip until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’s your problem, dude?” I waved a mustard-covered butter knife at him.

Gage slid back in mock fear. “Whoa, bro, go easy with the yellow stuff. You know it’s my kryptonite.” He smiled. “I’m just givin’ ya a hard time. You know, about Jason.”

I waved him away and took a bite of my sandwich. “It’s nothing, little man. Just a creepy doll. In about a week he’ll be outside, scaring trick-or-treaters.”

“Well, in about a day, Mom and I are flying out to see Dad for an overnighter.” He took his last sip of water. “And you’ll be here alone with J-J-J-Jason.” A got-ya-didn’t-I smile crept over his face.

I nearly choked on my salami and Swiss. “You lie,” I hissed. “You’re full of –“

“Mom!” Gage cut me off. “You pack for our trip yet?!”

Mom emerged from her home office across from the kitchen. “Really, Gage? Why the shouting?” She didn’t let him answer. Instead, she gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Kyle, I was gonna tell you at dinner tonight. Gage and I are flying out tomorrow for a quick visit with Dad then we’ll be back Sunday night. I thought you might like the chance to have the house to yourself.”

Ah, the dilemma. Thank Mom for allowing me the privilege of staying home alone . . . or beg her to take me because a murderous movie mannequin scared the poop out of me.

Gage watched me carefully, waiting for me to snap, throw myself at Mom’s feet, and plead with her to take me. Eyes slit, mouth hanging open, I think he actually salivated a little, anticipating my hissy fit.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I looked Mom right in the eye and said, “Cool, thanks for trusting me. Give Dad a hug for me.”

Mom smiled, said she’d order pizza later, and returned to her office. I winked at Gage; he gave me a rude finger gesture.

I didn’t sleep well that night. The eerie whisper of ch-ch-ch-ah-ah-ah, Jason’s personal movie theme, echoed in my ears. I slept with my door open and kept waking up every few hours, glancing at the moonlit hallway.

It was gonna be a long, lonely weekend.

Mom and Gage were gone by eight on Saturday morning. Thirty-six hours before they’d be home again. Thirty-six hours alone in a spacious two-story house. Thirty-six hours with Jason.

I groaned. Why was I such a wimp? I was a high school freshman left alone for the weekend. I should be calling my buddies, inviting them over to play video games all night. I should be texting my girlfriend to come hang with me. I should be raiding my parent’s liquor cabinet and partying.

Except . . . I didn’t want my geek friends to come over because they beat me every single time at whatever video game we played. And I didn’t have a girlfriend - no surprise there. And I thought underage drinking was stupid.

I didn’t even own a cell phone. When Mom asked me to choose between a cell phone and a laptop computer last Christmas, I chose the computer.

I could hear Gage’s voice in my head. Nerd!

After skipping breakfast, I ended up making nachos with extra jalapenos for lunch, washing down the spicy, cheesy goodness with two cans of Coke. I read my latest stash of comics for a few hours until my eyesight started to blur. Around three o’clock the Twinkies in the cupboard beckoned me; I inhaled four of them in less than five minutes. After that I watched The Goonies, reciting all the best lines, and downed a bag of extra buttery microwave popcorn. By six o’clock I was curled up on the den couch in abdominal distress, moaning.

One hour and four trips to the bathroom later, I felt better but tired. I was just about to sprawl out on the couch when I thought of Jason.

Reluctantly I crept into the laundry room and opened the garage door. Part of me was thinking, He won’t be there! Ultimate joke on you, Kyle – your family leaves and Jason escapes his box! But there he sat in the shadows, nestled in his box, looking at me.

Looking at me. I distinctly recalled putting him in the garage facing the outer door. Gage probably turned him around before he left. Little booger.

Satisfied but spooked, I shut and re-locked the door. I wandered around the house and made sure all the doors and windows were secure. I grabbed my brother’s Little League bat out of the hall closet and put it on the floor next to the couch. Never hurts to have a little protection while you’re taking a nap.

I slept longer than intended. The clock above the tv read 11:58 pm when I woke. The house was completely dark. Dang it.

I sat up, fully alert. I knew my house well enough to find the nearest light switch in the dark, but I couldn’t move. I was listening. For any strange creak or groan. For him.

Gage’s voice invaded my thoughts. Get up, stupid, and turn on the dang lights.

Oh, I turned on the dang lights alright. All of them, all over the house. I thought about blasting the tv or radio, creating noise to quiet the frightening thoughts in my head, but I didn’t want the neighbors to think I was partying. Someone might report me to Mom and then she wouldn’t trust me again.

My stomach growled but nothing sounded good. I grabbed a water bottle, went back to the couch, and turned on the tv. A remake of The Thing was on. I flipped the channel. The Exorcist. Flip. Night of the Living Dead. Flip. Friday the 13th.

For a minute I thought my tv was possessed but then it hit me. Halloween was a week away - of course most stations were running scary flicks. Duh.

I finally found some Tom & Jerry cartoon re-runs and watched those until almost two a.m. Tom was trying to trap Jerry for the umpteenth time when the tv started to fizzle out. I put it on mute and heard the source of the problem. The night wind gusted outside, interfering with the satellite dish signal. Before I completely lost the signal, I changed the station to the weather channel, alarmed by what I saw. Thirty-mile-per-hour winds blasted in my area and overnight rain was expected. Heavy rain. Any time now.

As if on cue, the rain began, and the wind howled in protest. Fat raindrops slapped the windows and tap-danced madly on the roof. I turned off the tv, went into the kitchen, and peered out the glass patio door. I flipped on the patio light just in time to see our cheap plastic chairs scoot along the cement and collide with the barbecue. The canvas patio canopy rippled, threatening to rip off and fly away. Mom’s carefully planted perennials whipped back and forth. Sorry, Mom, don’t think they’ll survive the night.

I stepped back from the patio door, turned around . . . and the lights went out.

Don’t panic, I told myself. Just find a flashlight. The thought sparked a memory. Mom recently bought two new flashlights for trick-or-treating with Gage. But where did she put them? Hmm, they were plastic and yellow and reminded me of Twinkies.

The cupboard below the snack pantry – yes! Carefully I moved to my right, one hand outstretched, feeling for the pantry. Making contact, I slid my hand down to the drawer below, opening it. I could feel only one flashlight, so I snatched it and flicked it on.

I prowled around the house, flashlight in one hand, bat in the other, re-checking the windows and doors. All secure. I passed the laundry room on my way back to the kitchen and stopped cold. One more place to check. One more thing to check on.

Ok, Kyle, you can do this. No sweat. Every time you look, he’s always there. Like, for real, this has got to be the last time you check because it’s getting ridiculous.

I set the bat on the dryer and opened the garage door. I aimed the flashlight at the center of the garage.

The box was tipped over. Jason was gone.

Before this moment, I can recall just one other time that I felt real panic. I was nine, my brother was three, and we were fishing at a local pond with my father. Dad turned his back on us for a few seconds, grabbing more bait from his tackle box, and my little brother went tumbling off the dock into the water. I remember how fast Dad dropped his bait and reel, jumped in, and hauled out a sputtering Gage. My heart had been in my throat, and my gut had seized with a horrible cramp as I imagined my poor brother drowning.

This time, panic grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me to my core. I stared at the empty box in disbelief, unable to make a sound. Hand shaking, I waved the flashlight all over the garage, left to right, top to bottom. No Jason anywhere.

I slammed the door and collapsed on the floor in a ball, squeezing my eyes shut. Not happening, not happening! How could he get out? Where could he be? Oh, why didn’t I go with Mom?!

I sat there for what seemed like forever, shaking, refusing to open my eyes. Jason was somewhere in the house, waiting for me, biding his time until he found me and sliced me up. No one would hear my screams above the storm. Mom and Gage would come home and find bits of me all over the house. A hysterical giggle escaped my lips. Maybe they’d use my parts as Halloween decorations!

Gage’s voice again. Bro, get out of the house. Grab the bat and make a run for it.

My eyes snapped open. Flushed with sudden adrenaline, I gripped the bat and flashlight and made a break from the laundry room. I banked left into the living room, swinging the bat in front of me wildly. I collided with the front door, reached over to undo the deadbolt . . . and saw Jason’s mask appear in the window next to the door.

I froze and held my breath. Jason stared, unmoving, through the long, narrow window. His horrific mask glowed in the darkness. Had he seen me? I held the flashlight pointed downward so barely any light shone in the entryway. I moved an inch, trying to get a better look at his position, when his good eye rolled my way and caught sight of me.

I shrieked and backpedaled into the living room, slid on the wood floor, and landed hard on my butt. I dropped the bat but held the flashlight in my other hand in a death grip. Flipping onto all fours, I hurriedly crawled toward the kitchen. Behind me I heard a single bang on the glass then two more furious bangs on the front door. Then nothing.

I didn’t know where he’d gone or how fast he could move. All I could think about was the bat, lost in the darkness of the living room. I needed another weapon.

Knives. A set of assorted knives rested in a butcher block next to the stove. Unable to think straight, I randomly selected a large cleaver and a serrated steak knife. As I fled the kitchen I caught movement outside the patio door – a dark, hulking shape with a glowing white head.

Jason.

I darted through the living room to the stairs. The thunder of shattering glass propelled me up the steps two at a time. Jason had broken through the patio door.

I paused at the top of the stairs. Where to go? On the left – my parents’ room. On the right – the hallway leading to a guest room, my room, and Gage’s room.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Jason’s approaching zombie-like footsteps forced me to make a decision. I jerked right and ran into the guest bedroom, no real plan in my head, just hope in my heart that it would be the last place Jason would look.

He climbed the stairs slowly. Hiding underneath the queen-sized guest bed, my heart pounded with each step of Jason’s boots. I had lost the flashlight when I slid under the bed. It rested somewhere in the blackness away from me. I didn’t need it anymore. My eyes had acclimated to the dark and despite my terror, I operated on instinct, ready to fight my way out of the house.

I heard Jason stop at the top of the stairs. Was he capable of logical thought, trying to judge which room I was in? Or was he functioning on pure bloodlust, ready to swing his machete into my skull?

Please go into my parents’ room, I wished. Turn left, turn left, turn –

By the sound of his footfalls, I could tell Jason turned right, heading in my direction. Crap.

Jason paused in the doorway of the guest room. I lay flat under the bed, perfectly still, breathing shallow and silent. I pictured Jason entering the room and flipping over the bed, revealing me. I gripped the knives in my hands. If I was going down, so was he.

After several tense seconds, Jason moved away from the guest room and down the remaining part of the L-shaped hallway. I heard the turn of a doorknob followed by a loud bang then a series of cracking noises.

Gage’s room! Jason must have encountered my brother’s locked door. In addition to Smart Mouth Syndrome, Gage had developed a strange paranoia that I would search through his room, if given the chance, so he’d recently started locking his door. As if I wanted anything from a fourth grader’s bedroom. Well, maybe his video game cheat codes.

Hey, stupid. Gage’s voice interrupted my wayward thoughts. While Slasher Dude is busy ripping into my room, how about you make a run for it?

I skittered like a cockroach from under the bed and peeked around the corner of the doorway. Jason had his back to me as he whacked at Gage’s door incessantly. In a semi-crouch, I stole down the hallway and back to the stairs. I was elated, feeling home-free, until I stepped on the bottom stair.

Creeeaaak. Oh, God, I forgot about the broken stair!

Jason halted his destruction of Gage’s door. I heard his heavy steps as I rushed to the front door and unbolted the deadlock. Jamming the knives into my back pockets, I grabbed the doorknob, turned, pulled . . . and nothing. Denied. Defeated. No escape for me.

Jason started down the stairs. Blood pounding in my ears, I realized I’d forgotten to undo the top door latch. Cursing myself, I unlatched the door and opened it just as Jason reached the bottom of the stairs.

I threw myself into the driving wind and rain and headed to the house of my nearest neighbor, an old widower. Stubborn grouch refused to move out of his big, empty house, having lost his wife years ago. In fact, he rarely went anywhere which was good because I counted on him being home.

I banged on the man’s front door. “Mr. Howard! Mr. Howard! It’s Kyle! Please let me in.” I glanced over my shoulder. No Jason. Where was he?

I continued banging, hitting the door as hard as I could. “Mr. Howard! Please!” The old man had to be home - he was always home. He was likely asleep; it was the middle of the night, after all. I looked around for Jason again, not seeing him, and threw my puny body weight against Mr. Howard’s door.

“Mr. Howard! Please help me!” Jeez, was he deaf?

As a matter of fact, yes, came Gage’s smug voice. Don’t you remember Mom talking about the old fart refusing to get hearing aids?

No, no, no! Desperate, I ran back into the nasty weather, determined to get across the street to the Andersons. They were newlyweds, frequently absent from the neighborhood, but on this night, I prayed they were home.

I didn’t get to find out. Jason stood in the middle of the street, blocking my way. The rain seemed to blow around him, as if it feared landing on him. He tilted his head to one side and held out his machete, as if to say, Let’s do this, Kyle. Come out and face your fears.

Trapped, I ran back into my house, slamming and locking the door behind me. Upstairs again? No, too obvious. Living room? No place to hide. Kitchen? Too much glass on the floor. Den? Mom’s office? No and no – see living room answer.

WHACK. Jason’s machete tore into the front door. I retrieved the cleaver from my back pocket, nearly slicing my fingers. Out of time, I ducked into the closet under the stairs, shutting the door as quietly as possible. In the pitch-black of the confined space, I made my way past shoes and coats to the back of the closet where our luggage resided. I crawled behind the largest suitcase, balled up and waited.

Jason was a pro. It didn’t take many blows to get into the house. I trembled as the front door came crashing down. Thud-thud, thud-thud. God, I hated the sound of his feet.

Oh, no, my feet! I had left soggy footprints on the wood floor. Rain-soaked, I began to shudder uncontrollably, from fear and wet. Was he able to track my prints in the dark?

The closet door opened in answer to my question. Simultaneously, the lights flickered as the electrical power attempted to restore itself. Jason tore the coats from their hangers, causing the closet’s lone hanging bulb to sway back and forth. Bent down, he lumbered into the space, chopping at the luggage, driven to drag me out and murder me.

I, too, was driven . . . by temporary insanity. In the crazy dancing light, I yelled and charged out of my hiding spot, driving the cleaver into the center of Jason’s mask. I pulled the steak knife from my other back pocket and shoved it through an eyehole, aiming for Jason’s good eye. He dropped his machete and fell backward with me on top of him. I scrambled to get out of the closet, but Jason grabbed me by the ankle in a painful grip.

The last thing I remember is screaming, long and loud.

It was light when I woke up. Startled, I fell off the couch and hit the wood floor on my side. A jolt of pain shot through my ribs, thrusting me into reality.

Ch-ch-ch-ah-ah-ah. Nightmare images of Jason and his gleaming blade filled my head. I looked around wildly. Everything appeared okay. The patio door was closed and intact. All the knives sat in the butcher block next to the stove. The pantry and drawers were undisturbed.

I hiked up my pant leg and checked my ankle, expecting to see a red mark where Jason had grabbed me. Nothing, not even a bug bite. My skin was as pale as always.

Slowly I stood and tip-toed into the living room. The front door was solid, shut and locked. The floor was clean and, except for the baseball bat lying next to the ottoman, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“What the – “ I flinched at the sound of my own voice.

Was last night even real? Had I dreamt the whole horrible event?

Taking no chances, I grabbed the bat, went into the kitchen, snatched the large cleaver, and headed upstairs. I crept down the hallway, turned the corner to Gage’s room, and nearly dropped my weapons in shock. Like the front door, Gage’s door was closed and unmarred.

It must’ve been a bad dream, a super evil, fifteen-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten nightmare. Only one way to really make sure.

Limbs weak with fear, insides quivering, I went down to the laundry room. I counted to three and opened the garage door, raising the cleaver in anticipation.

Jason was in his box. The box sat between the drum set and pool table as before, and Jason was facing me, not the outer door, but he was shrunk down in the box, upright and still, his mask a bit askew.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole crazy situation, so I just shut the door and locked it, resisting the urge to re-open it and check again. I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror. Aside from the circles under my eyes, I was alive and well. I put away my weapon and strolled out to the front yard.

Autumn’s chill hung in the morning air. The sun shone in the clear sky and the grass glimmered with wetness. Mr. Howard tottered outside to fetch the newspaper from his driveway.

“Mr. Howard!” I called and waved. I had to shout his name a few more times and jump up and down before I caught his attention. “Bad storm last night, huh?”

Mr. Howard frowned at me. “Hey, kid!” he bellowed. “Stop using drugs!”

Well, Mr. Howard was officially deaf and senile.

Across the street, the Andersons’s BMW pulled into their driveway. Mr. Anderson emerged from the driver’s seat, dress shirt un-tucked, hair disheveled. Seconds later, Mrs. Anderson tumbled out of the passenger side, laughing. She wore a pink feather boa around her neck, and she was barefoot. She saw me and waved.

“Hi, Kyle!” She tugged at her black mini-dress and stumbled into her house after her new husband.

I smiled. Everything was as it should be, everything was fine. My jitters about being alone with Jason combined with all the junk food I’d consumed had given me a terribly vivid dream, that’s all.

I showered and wiled away the hours eating cereal, reading the newspaper, and browsing the Internet. I even played a few games on the Playstation, hoping to sharpen my skills before Gage came home and whooped my butt as usual.

At dinner time I heard Mom’s car. My heart leaped. Overjoyed that she was home, I ran to the front door, opened it . . . and came face to face with a waxy Freddy Krueger’s burnt, hellish sneer and gnarled, blade-covered fingers.

“Kyle, look what I bought on the way home! Kyle? Kyle!”