The Puppet's Payback and Other Chilling Tales Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Number Seven Bus

  213 Poplar Street

  The Grounding of Theresa

  The Real Thing

  Trouble Afoot

  The Puppet’s Payback

  The New Girl

  The Little Blue Jacket

  The Last House on Crescent Road

  The Thirteenth Pigeon

  Afterword: What Makes Me Write Ghost Stories?

  Sample Chapter from GUEST

  Buy the Book

  Read More from Mary Downing Hahn

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2020 by Mary Downing Hahn

  Some of the stories in this book were published previously in slightly different forms:

  “The Last House on Crescent Road” appeared in Don’t Give Up the Ghost, ed. David Gale. Delacorte Press, 1993.

  “The Grounding of Theresa” appeared in Bruce Coville’s Book of Ghosts. Scholastic, 1994.

  “Give a Puppet a Hand” appeared in Bruce Coville’s Book of Nightmares. Scholastic, 1995.

  “Trouble Afoot” appeared in Bruce Coville’s Book of Monsters, II. Scholastic, 1996.

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover photograph © 2020 by Sally Mundy/Trevillion Images

  Cover design by Opal Roengchai

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-358-06732-0

  eISBN 978-0-358-06734-4

  v1.0820

  For Dinah,

  with thanks for helping me tell my stories

  The Number Seven Bus

  One day last spring, I decided to skip school. It was a warm, sunny day, one of the first nice days of the year, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and lilacs—much too great a day to spend at Hiram Adams Middle School, slaving away for a bunch of sadistic teachers who loved to make kids feel stupid and worthless. Besides, I hadn’t studied for my biology test or written my book report for language arts. It made sense to hang out at the lakefront, doing stunts on my skateboard, instead of sitting in a classroom.

  Sometime in the afternoon, the weather changed, the way it often does in March. The sky darkened, the wind blew, and the rain came cutting through the air sideways, soaking me to the skin. I grabbed my skateboard and headed for the mall. I’d dry out playing a few rounds of Storm Blaster at the arcade and then take the bus home. If I timed it right, I’d get there before Mom came back from work. She’d never guess I hadn’t been in school.

  It would probably have worked if I hadn’t lost track of time. Once I start playing a game like Storm Blaster, I totally forget the rest of the world, especially if I’m on a winning streak. I’m in the game. I’m part of it, breathing the same air as the hero, seeing what he sees, hearing what he hears, doing what he does. Mom often said the world could end and I’d miss it completely.

  Anyway, the next thing I knew, five hours had vanished. It was nine thirty, and the mall was closing. Now I was in for it. I hadn’t called Mom, who would be a nervous wreck—and furious as well.

  On my way out of the arcade, I reached into my pocket for my phone. It wasn’t where I usually keep it, so I checked every pocket twice before I remembered I’d left it at home, charging. What was I going to tell Mom? I’d gone to the library? I’d stayed after school to watch a basketball game? I’d gone to Mike’s house to play Storm Blaster on his Nintendo Switch? I was thinking so hard I bumped right into this guy who was also leaving the arcade.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking a step to the side.

  “Be more careful next time,” he said in a menacing voice.

  I opened my mouth to come back with a smart remark but changed my mind when I realized who he was. I’d seen him in the arcade before, always alone, playing in a dead earnest way that made me seem like a goof-off. Strange-looking too—tall and gaunt and ashy pale, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, his dark hair in a long ponytail. He had sleeve tattoos on both arms. He was definitely one weird dude, the kind who belongs to a motorcycle gang, the kind who’s not quite normal—the kind you don’t want to mess with.

  Gripping my skateboard a little tighter, I edged away and headed for the bus stop outside the mall’s west entrance. It was dark, not raining hard but misting just enough to blur everything. The mall and the parking lot were both emptying fast. I glanced over my shoulder. No sign of the guy from the arcade.

  A normal-looking kid was sitting on the bench, obviously waiting for a bus.

  “Has Number Seven come yet?” I asked him.

  “You just missed it, man,” he said, looking at his watch. “There should be another one in about ten minutes though. They come pretty regularly at closing time.”

  That wasn’t great news. The temperature had dropped way down since I’d left home. I was freezing to death in my stupid short-sleeved T-shirt.

  The boy got on Number Eight, and I sat on the bench alone, but not for long. By the time good old Number Seven pulled into sight, I’d been joined by three or four other people. We all crowded through the door, joking about the change in the weather and stuff like that. I dropped into a seat near the back. With any luck, I’d be home in half an hour. That gave me thirty minutes to come up with a good story for Mom.

  Just before the driver shut the door, the guy from the arcade got on the bus. He sat down across the aisle from me, one row up. He wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, but I kept looking at the back of his head. I can’t explain it. There was just something so strange about him.

  After about five minutes, he turned and caught me looking at him. I’d never seen eyes like his. They were almost colorless, making it hard to tell where the iris ended and the white began. His pupils were black dots, smaller than a period at the end of a sentence printed in the tiniest type. Worst of all, his unblinking stare cut right through my eyes to the thoughts hidden in my head. Or at least it felt that way.

  He sneered and turned back around, allowing me to look away at last. My heart pounded, my breath came in ragged little gasps, and my mouth filled with hot spit the way it does just before you throw up. Pressing my face against the window, I peered outside. We were two blocks from the corner where I always got off. Never had Pearce Street looked darker, lonelier—not a person in sight, not many streetlights, mainly because my friends and I had gone on a spree with our air rifles and used them for target practice.

  I glanced at the guy. Just as I’d feared, he was half turned toward me again, watching me. Before he looked away, a smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.

  What if he followed me off the bus? I had five long, dark blocks to walk before I reached my house.

  When the driver stopped at Pearce Street, two or three people got off, but I decided to stay where I was. At the end of the line, the guy would make his exit—he’d have to. Once he was gone, I’d sweet-talk the driver into letting me ride back to Pearce Street. I was a kid. No adult would make me walk three or four miles in the dark. Of course, I’d get home even later, but Mom was a whole lot easier to face than this weird guy, whoever he was.

&
nbsp; When we reached the terminus, only the guy and I were on the bus. The driver opened the door, and the guy got off. He glanced back once like he was surprised not to see me following him. I grinned and waved, pleased I’d fooled him, and he walked off into the shadows.

  “Hey, kid.” The driver had gotten to his feet and was frowning at me. “This is the end of the line. Didn’t you hear me? Everybody off.”

  I walked down the aisle, looking out the windows to scan the darkness. No sign of him. But then, he’d be hard to see dressed in those black clothes.

  “I missed my stop,” I said, giving him my most charming smile, the one I saved for special occasions in the principal’s office. “Fell asleep or something. If it’s okay, sir, I’ll ride back with you as far as Pearce Street.”

  “Sorry, kid,” the driver said, obviously unmoved by my manners, which would have amazed most adults, Mom included. “Let this be one of life’s little learning experiences. Stay awake next time.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I said. “My house is three or four miles from here. It’s late. It’s dark out there . . .”

  The driver shook his head. “Don’t tell me a tough kid like you is afraid of the dark.”

  I hated that kind of smart talk from adults, but I was in no position to tell him what I thought of rude bus drivers. “Listen,” I said, “did you see the guy who got off here?”

  The driver yawned without bothering to cover his mouth. “I didn’t notice him.”

  “He was sitting right there.” I pointed at the empty seat where he had been. “Tall and skinny, with a long, scraggly ponytail, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, kind of weird-looking.”

  “Oh, him.” The driver shrugged. “He rides this route all the time. What about it?”

  “Well, he followed me out of the arcade at the mall.” I was beginning to feel a little dumb. Was I blowing this way out of proportion? “He kept looking at me,” I added, feeling even dumber.

  “I can’t imagine why he’d waste his eyesight on you,” the driver said, showing off his great wit. “Besides, he’s never caused me any trouble. We come to the end of the line, and he gets off. Like any normal person.”

  “Look,” I said, trying not to whine like a little kid, “just let me ride back to Pearce Street. That’s all I’m asking you.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” the driver said. “This is the last bus, kid. I’ve been driving for eight hours. All I want to do now is go home and have a beer.”

  Cursing myself for not thinking of this possibility, I followed the driver across a dark parking lot to a beat-up old Ford Camaro parked under a streetlight.

  “Then give me a ride home,” I begged. “Please.”

  The driver unlocked his car door. “No dice, kid. Pearce Street is miles out of my way.”

  “My mom will pay you for your trouble, I guarantee it.”

  He shook his head and got into the car. Before I could stop him, he slammed the door in my face. Dropping my skateboard, I ran around to the passenger side, but the door was locked. Rolling the window down half an inch, he said, “I never give rides to strangers.”

  Gunning the motor, he drove away.

  “Wait!” I ran after the car, yelling for him to stop, but he kept going. In seconds, the Camaro’s taillights vanished around a corner, and I was standing in the middle of the street all by myself.

  No, not all by myself. The guy in black had stepped out of the shadows a few feet ahead of me. He stood with his hands on his hips, his head tilted, as tense as a cat watching a bird.

  I whirled around and started running in the opposite direction, but no matter which way I ran, he was always ahead of me, grinning that terrible grin. When I was too exhausted to take another step, he came right up to me and seized my shoulders. His fingers chilled me to the bone.

  “What’s the use, Matthew?” he asked. “You can’t get away from me. Quit trying.”

  “How do you know my name?” I whispered.

  “I’ve been watching you and your friends for a long time. I know all your names—Tony, Mike, Travers, and you, Matthew.” As he spoke, he held my eyes with his. “I’ve been hoping to get one of you alone, and look—here you are.”

  “Do you want money? Is that it? I haven’t got a cent on me, but I live right there.” I pointed a shaky finger at the closest house. A light shone from the front window. I figured if I ran up the steps and banged on the door, someone would let me in. They’d call the police, call my mother, save me from this guy. “My mother will be glad to—”

  He shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, Matthew. I know where you live. I’ve followed you and your friends more than once. And none of you ever saw me.”

  I tried again to pull away, but he held my shoulders so tight my bones ached. I yelled for help, but nobody came to a window or opened a door.

  The guy pressed his hand over my mouth. “Be quiet,” he said. “Why struggle? You’re mine now.”

  “Let me go,” I pleaded. “Please. My mother—”

  “Not till you give me what I want.” He bared his teeth, and I knew what he was.

  “No,” I whispered, “no, you can’t be real, you—”

  “Oh, but I am real,” he murmured softly. “In fact, I’m the realest thing you’ll ever meet.”

  With that, he leaned over me and sank his fangs into my neck. The world spun into darkness, and I spun with it, sinking down, down, into nothing.

  * * *

  You probably thought that was the end of me. I wouldn’t blame you. I sure thought so at the time. But the funny thing is I’m still around. Not that anyone knows.

  Mom visits my grave at least once a week to shed a few tears for me, her poor son. I feel bad for her. I’d love to tell her what’s really going on, but she wouldn’t understand. She might even try to do something about it. After all, she and I watched a lot of horror movies together. There’s not much she doesn’t know about silver crosses and wooden stakes and garlic.

  Some of my old friends drop by too. We always liked skateboarding in the cemetery, so they make a point of passing my grave and doing special stunts for me. They’d never guess I’m applauding every fancy move they make.

  Only Vince knows the truth. He comes for me after dark, wearing his black T-shirt and jeans, whistling me out of my cozy lead-lined coffin. He’s not such a bad guy once you get to know him.

  We hang out at the arcade, keeping in the shadows, taking care not to be recognized. He’s taught me all he knows about the games, as well as a few other things. I’m learning fast, he says, just like he thought I would.

  When the mall closes, Vince and I always catch the last Number Seven bus. Keep your eyes open on your ride home. Maybe you’ll see us one night and wonder who we are and why we’re watching you. Don’t be scared if we get off at your stop and follow you. It might take you a while, but trust me, you’ll learn to like Vince and me and the way we live.

  213 Poplar Street

  Ever since school let out, I’d been in the library, working on an assignment for English. Just before the library closed, I picked up a stack of books and headed for the checkout desk.

  Mrs. Fisher smiled and took the stack. “Just in time, William,” she said. “We close in five minutes.”

  “It took me ages to find what I needed.”

  “Big assignment?”

  I faked a groan and she laughed.

  As soon as she was done with my books, I stuffed them into my backpack, zipped my jacket, and went outside to meet my sister, Lynn. She had the family car that night, and Mom had told her to pick me up when the library closed at six.

  I looked up and down the street, but I didn’t see our old Volvo. No surprise. Lynn was always late.

  A few people left the library and hurried off into the dark. A fog had settled in, and they soon disappeared from view. While I stood on the steps shivering, the door behind me locked with an unmistakable click. A few minutes later, the lights inside went out. Then I
heard cars starting in the parking lot behind the building. The librarians drove away, heading for home, but here I was, on the library steps all by myself, still waiting, still cold, and getting madder by the minute.

  I walked to the curb and peered up and down the street. Because of the fog, I couldn’t see very far in either direction, but our Volvo wasn’t in sight.

  I pulled out my cell phone to call Lynn and realized I’d forgotten to charge it. If I had to, I could walk home. I’d done it plenty of times in the daylight. Normally it took about half an hour, but between the dark and the fog, the familiar streets looked menacing, sinister, threatening. It was as if I were in a different town whose streets I didn’t recognize.

  I waited a little longer, but finally I gave up. Lynn wasn’t coming. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I headed down Forty-Second Avenue. Streetlights glowed dimly, almost hidden in the fog. Bare winter trees loomed up as I approached and shrank away behind me. A woman walking her dog passed me and disappeared into the fog like a ghost.

  It was a Sherlock Holmes night, perfect for a murder. I heard footsteps behind me. I saw dim shapes emerging from the fog and then vanishing. I told myself no one had ever been murdered in Union Heights. Monsters and fiends didn’t hide in shadowy yards. It was foggy and dark, that’s all. I’d read too many scary books and seen too many scary movies. I was letting my imagination go crazy.

  But still I walked faster, especially after I realized I’d taken the route home that passed the town cemetery. I knew it was crammed with dead people, their burials marked by crosses and tombstones and angels, all crowded together, slanting this way and that, some lying broken on the ground. Scary in the daylight, the graveyard was way scarier at night.

  I crossed the street to avoid walking so close to it, but even at this distance, I saw the tombstones crowding up to the fence as if they were trying to squeeze between the bars and escape.

  I sped up until I was almost running. The sooner I left the cemetery behind, the better.

  Just as I neared the cemetery’s tall gates, I heard a child crying—or at least that’s what it sounded like. But how could a child be in the cemetery? It had to be something else, an animal probably. Our neighbor had a Siamese cat that sounded just like a baby when it cried.