Billy's Last Dare

         I grew up in small-town America. Like most small towns we had our ice cream parlor, two screen cineplex, general store with little old men on rocking chairs sitting on the porch shooting the shit reminiscing about the "gold-old-days" and a haunted house. Our haunted house was nothing spectacular, a run-down Victorian badly in need of paint, landscaping and a handyman. The typical broken shutters, shattered windows, boarded over doors, overgrown weed-lawn and a wrought iron fence with dangerous looking spikes. The ornate gate was chained shut and locked with a rusted padlock. Watch any movie that features a haunted house and you'll see it, the same one I grew up with, the same one that most kids growing up in small towns in the fifties ran past like their asses were on fire; should they be unfortunate enough to encounter it on their walk home from school. Our haunted house even had a predictable story; nice family lived there, the Davidson's. They were pillars of the community, Mr. Davidson had been mayor for a short time, his wife was active in the church and I even heard that his kids had both been boy scouts. Then one day, completely out of the blue Mr. D went nuts and offed his entire family finishing it all with a bullet to his own brain. This happened about twenty years before I was born and by the summer of 1956 I'd heard the story so many times I could recite it in my sleep.

         That summer I was sixteen and looking forward to my senior year in high school, finally we would be the kings of the school. Back in '56 this was something to be proud of, something that other kids admired, back then school mattered. I was captain of the football team, straight A student, Eagle Scout, even sang in the choir at church. I was the typical All-American-Boy. My girlfriend was even captain of the cheerleading squad and the most beautiful girl in town. Cherry Wilson was her name, blond hair, blue eyes and boobs so big it took both hands to grab just one. I lost my virginity to Cherry that summer, in a memorable night of hormones and steamy windows in the back seat of my dad's '55 Chevy. She's Cheryl Barton now, and just as beautiful as she was on that night. We celebrated our forty-year-anniversary just last month and have three beautiful children; two girls and one boy, Stephen James Barton Jr.

         I left that small town after high school, moved to California and became a lawyer. I do alright, all things considered, but my dreams are haunted by memories of that summer. I read that book It by Stephen King, and related to those kids in a lot of ways. I wasn't harassed by a freaky clown with a thing for balloons, but I had my own trauma to deal with. My own experience that caused me to piss my pants and run home crying to my mommy. My therapist says that if I won't talk to her about my nightmares that I should write them down, the better to deal with them. I suppose a blank notebook is cheap therapy. Of course, with the price I pay, anything would be cheap therapy.

         It was a hot, sticky night in July 1956 and I was hanging out with the same group of guys I'd been hanging out with since first grade. Billy Walters, Shawn Tisdale and Andy Chalton. Walking around town, throwing rocks at mailboxes, wishing that someone's old man had agreed to let us have a car that night. We weren't up to no good so much as bored. Billy had alway been a big talker, in elementary school he used to dare us to do things that he himself wasn't brave enough to do. All talk and no action, with asthma that could stop an elephant, glasses thick as coke bottles and an imagination that knew no bounds Billy came up with some of the wildest stunts. Andy was a puss, afraid of his own shadow with a scream like a little girl. So it was usually Shawn and I who took the dares. Shawn and I ended up with broken bones, paying off angry neighbors with our paltry allowances and explaining to our parents why we'd thought that swinging a cat by the tail and watching it sail from the top of a tree to the roof of Mr. Reaver's house was a good idea.

         Billy's gone now, drug overdose took him in '78. He was a writer, fantasy stories about wizards and stuff. I never read any of his books but I own an autographed copy of each one. He never got married but had a little girl with some crack-addict in Detroit. He was a single dad in a time when single dads didn't exist and when he died she was only three. His folks took her in and she grew up in the same town her old man did. Andy's doing all right, married but no kids. Low sperm count our something. He never left home and took over his pop's auto repair shop about twenty years ago. Seems happy, but Andy never was one for excitement. Shawn's up in Seattle and we get together about once a year. He's also a lawyer, without him by my side I never would have made it through law school and he often says the same about me. Shawn's a big-shot, takes the major cases, ends up on TV. No time for a family, but he loves what he does and doesn't seem to miss it. He does love coming down to our place for Thanksgiving though. Says he appreciates a home-cooked meal at least once a year.

         It was no surprise to any of us that on this night Billy came up with another one of his not-so-great ideas. We were on Dover Street and coming up fast was the haunted house. A couple doors down Billy stopped us all with a loud shushing sound and a quick jerk of his arm. Curious we stopped and looked at him expectantly, knowing that he had some idea and anticipating an exciting end to our uneventful evening.

         "Okay guys, I have an idea."

         "What is it this time Billy?" Andy whined, knowing that whatever it was he would want nothing to do with it.

         "The haunted house." Billy gestured over his shoulder, "Anyone ever been inside it?"

         "Not since all that shit happened back in 1920" Shawn answered, looking bemused. "They boarded it up and forgot about it, no one even tried to sell it. Bad juju or something."

         "Well, I think it's about time someone went in there, and not just for a quick peek around. I think one of us should go in there and stay the night."

         "You're shitting me." I looked at Billy with mild disbelief and a tinge of anger. As bored as I was I had no desire to add breaking and entering to my record.

         "No, I'm not." Billy was dead serious.

         Andy backed up a step, "I ain't going in there."

         "No shit." Billy glared at Andy. "I know chickens with more guts then you Andy, and I'm not asking you to do anything. You're just the fucking audience." Turning back to Shawn and I Billy smiled, "Rock, paper, scissors." It was his favorite way to determine which of us would be his next victim.

         With an exasperated sigh I turned to Shawn, we both shot out our fists and together we counted out loud as we pumped our fists up and down, "One, two, three!"

         I was rock, Shawn, paper. I'd lost, and my reward was a night in the haunted house.

         Billy refused to let me go home to get a flashlight, but Shawn had a lighter that Billy grudgingly allowed me to take. We walked the perimeter of the property until we found a gap in the wrought iron where a pole was missing. The four of us shimmied through and approached the house. Andy was shaking with fright and Billy was grinning like an idiot.

         One of the windows on the ground floor was busted out, I climbed through and poked my head outside. "Shawn, call my mom and tell her I'm crashing at your place. You guys be here at six or I'll kick all your asses."

         Billy flashed me a thumbs up and his grin widened. "Tell us all the gory details."

         I flipped him the bird and he laughed. They all trooped back down to the gap in the fence and I turned to face the interior of the house.

         I stood there for a few minutes, letting my eyes adjust as much as they could. The street lights were on, but little of their light actually reached the house, let alone shone through the dust-covered windows. I was in the living room, the room where it all had happened. Nothing had been done to the house in thirty-six years, all the furniture was intact and I thought I saw bookshelves on the far wall. I saw the outline of a fireplace to my right and a few things that resembled chairs. I sneezed twice, the dust in the place was unbelievable, and heard a scuttering sound to my left. Rats, or some other creatures, had made their home here. Shuddering I inched my way forward, my arms extended, trying to avoid bumping into anything while I looked for a comfortable place to spend the night.

         I made my way out of the living room, spending the night in a house where some guy had killed his whole family was bad enough, no way was I going to stay in the room where it had actually happened. I crossed the entry way and made my way into what I assumed was the parlor. Holding Shawn's lighter tightly in my sweaty palm I began to feel my way around the room. I bumped into a chair and, slipping the lighter into my hip pocket, reached down and touched it with both hands. Leather, smooth and un-scarred. I sat down gingerly, bumping an ottoman with my knees. I put my feet up and made myself as comfortable as possible.

         I must have sat there for an hour, daydreaming about Cherry and flitting in and out of consciousness. I heard a soft scraping sound which I attributed to the four-legged residents I had forced my company upon. Opening my eyes I gazed around the room, trying to see in the almost complete darkness. I heard the sound a second time and held my breath, waiting for it to come again, hoping I could find out where it was coming from. Unfortunately I had to breathe and the sound refused to repeat. I was starting to get a little freaked, hearing strange noises while sitting in the dark, in a house where multiple murders had been committed was scary, no matter how you rationalized it. I briefly thought of leaving, figuring if I came back before the guys got here they'd never know I hadn't stayed. But I had a feeling that Billy would be waiting outside, just in case I tried such a thing. I found out later that he had, spending the night in the bushes near the front gate, eyes locked on that window, not sleeping and daring me with every fiber of his being to cheat him out of his vicarious adventure.

         I stood up, stretching my cramped muscles. Spending the night in this chair was not going to be comfortable, but I had no desire to seek out a bed. As I began to sit back down I heard the scraping sound a third time and saw movement from the corner of my eye. I turned my head quickly and stopped, my hands clenching the arms of the chair and my ass frozen a few inches above the seat. There, in the doorway leading to the entry way was a bit of black deeper than the night. A shadow, where there should be no shadow, where none could be cast. Frozen in a ridiculous position I stared, not daring to take my eyes off whatever it was I was looking at, waiting for it to move.

         "Billy?"

         More a croak then a word. I swallowed and tried again, "Billy?" Better, this time it actually sounded like English.

         The shadow moved, it moved and didn't make a sound. I lept from the chair and bolted to the other side of the room, "Billy don't fuck with me!" I hollered as I backed against the wall and shimmied away from the shadow. It came closer and I could still see nothing but black, It was long, tall and not very wide. Moving closer to me as I inched along the wall, pressed up against it as hard as I could be, hoping for a door. I knew now that Billy was not in the house with me, and was extremely grateful I had put on clean underwear that morning. I practically fell through a doorway when the shadow was only two feet in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch it if I'd had the nerve. Close enough to see that it was humanoid. I recognized a head, arms and legs, but they were blurred and indistinct. I backpedaled furiously in an attempt to keep from falling on my ass, turned around, realized I was in a hallway and sprinted down it. While I ran I asked myself, Aren't ghosts supposed to be white? For although I couldn't see through the shadow I could see that it had no corporeal form.

         I skidded to a halt in the kitchen, I could see better in this room than in the front of the house. The moon shone through the windows illuminating dust covered appliances and out-dated linoleum. I threw myself at a door, hoping it was somewhere that I could hide. I opened it so hard I almost jerked the door off its hinges and pulled myself inside. I closed the door, leaving it open just enough to see what followed me, how soon, and what it would do once it got here.

         The shadow entered the kitchen, floated into the kitchen and stopped in front of the door to the pantry, where I was hiding. Warmth flooded my crotch and I whimpered like a beaten dog. A small white square fell to the floor at the shadow's feet, the damn thing had no feet but there were certainly foot-shaped blobs at the end of its leg-shaped appendages. I was so distracted by the white square I didn't notice the door opening slowly. I identified the object as an empty matchbook and shot my gaze upward to the shadow as it seemed to peer around the edge of the door, as though playing a game of hide-and-seek, toying with me in the moment of discovery.

         When the door was fully open I felt more exposed than I had when my older sister walked in on me masturbating in the bathroom. I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding so hard I thought for sure I would drop dead of a heart attack. I could see the headlines, hear Billy's disbelief and my mother's tearful accusations. My younger brother would finally get his hands on my extensive baseball card collection.

         The shadow-arm raised and I heard a soft voice, "I hate to bother you, but, can I have a light?"

         A cigar sat in the shadow, wrapped in blackness, suspended. Nodding mutely, unable to speak, I pulled Shawn's lighter out of my pocket and flicked it. Orange flame shot up and the shadow moved the cigar towards what I assumed was its head. The end of the cigar burned red and smoke began to puff. A seeming nod of thanks and the shadow drifted back towards the parlor. I let the flame die and shoved the lighter back into my hip pocket before sinking to the floor. I spent the rest of the night curled up in the pantry. When the sun peeked in through the windows I crawled out and checked my watch, it was a quarter to seven. Standing up and making my way to the front of the house I vowed that if Billy ever made another dare I'd kick his ass.