Story One
Price
The typewriter clicked.
It did so much of the time, even when there was no one there to use it; and while this usually wasn’t the case, there were times that the old machine would sit abandoned on the antique wooden desk, or the granite kitchen counter top, or the plush couch cushions with the buzz of the TV droning in the background. It didn’t often need to click on its own, because despite how old the typewriter was, it was well-cared for and prized. But although those times were few and far between, that afternoon happened to be one of those times. That afternoon a soft, silver light poured in from the full moon, engulfing the small condo and the vast forest surrounding it in an ethereal haze. That afternoon a normally peaceful and beautiful scene was made sinister and foreboding by the wickedness within its walls. It turned out that that afternoon was a time for many things. Because, chillingly, that afternoon, the owner of the typewriter with the phantom clicking was preparing to extinguish a phantom of his own.
Graham Campbell hadn’t always believed in the paranormal. In fact, he had made a conscious effort when settling down to write his novel to avoid those topics altogether. His writing style was romantic, tame, and free-flowing – not at all like the horror his time spent in his new home had turned out to be.
Because a month and a half spent living there had convinced him that there was something more going on. During the late hours of the night that he would stay awake clicking away on his typewriter, the peace would be suddenly pierced by a sound no settling home or animal could possibly make. Among them were low moans, creaking footsteps, and ominous murmurs that protruded from the basement and made Graham’s hair stand on end. The first time he had heard it, he’d tried to go down to investigate with a frying pan raised bravely above his head only to find absolutely nothing. Granted, he’d been too afraid to advance past the last stair step, but from what he could tell, it was all normal. There was no trace of another human being, animal or even monster in sight. He hadn’t been able to sleep for hours after that, staring blankly and on edge at the whisper thin cracks in the floorboards beneath his bed.
No, it was safe to say that he hadn’t always believed in the paranormal. But as time had gone on and the noises became more frequent, Graham had been unable to think of another plausible explanation for his circumstances. He had gone down to stand at the bottom of the stairs multiple times and had even sent one of his friends down there to look around completely, but all efforts came up empty-handed and the friend was creeped out and just told him he was crazy. But occasionally the source of these noises began to become tangible when some of his things began to go missing, only to either end up on the basement floor, or around the condo in odd places. Hauntingly, the items that loved to disappear the most often were food and knives from his kitchen, and he thought that he’d discovered why when he did a few Google searches on the house to see who the hell could possibly be haunting him here.
When he was done, he could finally put a name and face to the voice.
Carver Price.
Articles detailed a 22-year-old man with shaggy black hair, an overgrown beard, piercing green eyes, and sunken features. He seemed to have had no wife or kids, and while Graham couldn’t find much else on his family, he did know that he was thought to be quite sick and twisted in the later years of his life. Speculation and rumors surged throughout the small town they lived in, and the harsher ones eventually proved to be true when Carver finally snapped. On November 14th, 1993, Carver Price murdered a young family of four on the very house that had stood here before Graham’s condo had been built. David Page, Angela Page, and their children, Michael and Michelle, all had their throats cut.
Their deaths were considered an immediate tragedy throughout the town, and Carver had been the prime suspect from the very beginning. In fact, they soon had irrefutable evidence to prove that he was the killer—including eye-witnesses placing him at the house, a disturbing criminal record, and a suspicious lack of alibi. But despite the overwhelming evidence, he never had the chance to go to court, or even to jail. Less than two weeks later, firemen responded to a house call from Carver Price. By the time they got to the small house across town, the entire building was up in smoke and human bones and ashes were later found inside among the rubble. It was declared to be a self-set arson, which immediately caused a stir; but he was officially pronounced dead, so the town breathed an uneasy sigh of relief and soon chose to forget about the whole incident. One less thing to worry about, after all.
But now, only 15 years later, the worry had resurfaced. Because Graham knew that he had the evil spirit of a murderer in his own home – or, more specifically, in the basement that the condo complex had decided to simply build over. After all, it was up to code enough for tenants to use it as extra storage space.
Great.
It wasn’t like Graham knew what to do about evil spirits. Sure, in his lifetime he had seen some television shows, but Hollywood twisted things so much he didn’t think those were very accurate. What other options did that leave him, though?
Maybe that was how he had gotten here. His red hair was ruffled with worry and anyone who looked at him could see the bags under his brown eyes, and how his bottom lip was swollen and raw. But the strangest part about this scene wasn’t Graham’s appearance, or how he was standing in the middle of his living room wearing a bathrobe in place of a ceremonial one. The strangest part wasn’t that all the furniture had been moved to the walls to make room for the circle of sea salt and the three white candles, positioned in a triangle around it. The strangest part wasn’t the fact that it was a full moon, or that there were a few black rocks from a nearby vase in Graham’s pocket for safe-keeping, or that the entire condo smelled of sage from the incense lit near his clicking typewriter. No.
The strangest part about this scene was that Graham’s identical twin brother was here.
“You know,” Eric Campbell pouted, having slumped back against the couch as he watched, “most brothers greet their family with a hug, a ‘how’ve you been?’ and a fun night out. Not…” he gestured vaguely. “… this.”
“It needs to be done,” Graham said gravely, checking for any holes in the circle he’d created. “And this is what the Internet said to do to banish Carver.”
“The Internet. Very reliable,” Eric snickered, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Did the Internet tell you to wear that?”
Graham sighed, casting his gaze down to his bathrobe. “They said to wear ceremonial robes, but I don’t have those.”
“What, does everyone not own ceremonial robes? Get with the times, brother.”
Graham scowled slightly. “Eric. Please.”
“What? C’mon, I’m just having fun,” Eric chuckled. “And speaking of, I still can’t believe his name was Carver. It’s kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, don’t you think?”
“Just get down here and help me,” Graham scolded him, “and stop being insensitive. I know you’re a skeptic, but I need your help with this. Don’t make me regret inviting you.”
“Great. And what is ‘this’, exactly?” Eric asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “You look ridiculous, and so does your new condo. Are you really telling me that you’re giving everything up because of a few noises?”
“Look, this is just the first thing I’m trying,” Graham huffed, glaring up at him from his place on the floor, where he was lighting each of the candles as directed. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else. I’m not moving out unless I have to, but… Eric, if you heard what I hear every night, you’d be doing this, too.”
Eric just stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Ungrateful, I tell ya. Try living in a shitty apartment, you’d hear plenty of scary noises then.”
“Eric!”
Eric sighed loudly, but he eventually complied and got to his feet. “Fine, fine! Je-sus. You’ve already got me all the way here, can’t you just be satisfied with that?”
Despite all of Eric’s grousing, the brothers finished their preparations rather quickly. The sage was lit, the crucifixes were hung, and the Bibles were opened. All precautions had been taken to ensure that this ritual was as successful as possible—after all, as Graham later said: “We can’t take any chances.”
Once the stage had been set, Graham brushed the salt off of himself and stood up, earnestly setting his typewriter onto the desk where it would be safe. Then he picked up his phone to access the website he’d been looking at.
Eric stood too and peered over his shoulder, confused. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got to read this. It’s a chant made to send him away.”
“… What, you think you’ll read this Carver guy a bedtime story and he’ll just say, ‘oh shit, I’m intruding, time to turn over a new leaf’ and poof out of here? If he was a suicidal mass murderer in life, I sincerely doubt he’d be too reasonable now.”
“You’re so crass,” Graham scowled. “Come on, can’t you just let me do this?”
“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it, stupid,” Eric snorted softly, ruffling his hair.
Graham ignored him after that, turning to the top point of the white candle triangle, which faced his staircase and basement door. Admittedly, he’d been too afraid to actually do this in the basement itself, since he had no idea what this ghost would do to him once it knew he was trying to make it leave. All he could do now was cross his fingers and hope that this would work, casting Carver Price away from him and back to Hell, where he belonged.
“Oh, spirit, that which resides here. With this circle of salt, sage, and rock of onyx, I am protected from your wrath. I speak to you now with respect and dignity, and I hope you will give me the same,” Graham started, and then paused. Silence.
“Hey, Ghostbuster. Nothing’s happening,” Eric whispered tauntingly, smirking when Graham glared at him fiercely. “Maybe read from the Good Book or something.”
Graham just ignored him, and continued on.
“I understand that this house meant something to you in life, but it’s where mine stands now. It would mean a lot to me if you were to lea—” suddenly, Graham was cut off by a loud bang just beneath them, making he and Eric both jump in surprise and look at each other.
“… Holy shit,” Eric mumbled under his breath, his smug expression having completely dropped off his face. Graham turned to shakily continue as the typewriter kept on clicking in the background, but just a little faster than before.
“I-… I know you’re trapped here, but it’s time for you to move on. You’ve been intruding on my life, and now that of my brother’s, and I only ask that—” Another bang sounded from directly under their feet, and Eric’s eyes widened when they heard a low moan coming from the basement, as if there was someone in pain. This time, though, he dared not interrupt Graham’s machinations. In fact, he silently urged him to continue.
“… I… I only ask that you respect our wishes and see that there is a light for you,” Graham pleaded weakly, but he flinched when the moans turned into yells, and the banging became more violent. Lights began to flicker quickly on and off, and Graham realized with a sickening dread that the fuse box was down there.
“Graham-…” Eric started, looking truly afraid now. “This-… What the fuck is this?!”
“It’s him,” Graham said quietly, and then, stronger, “Carver Price, you need to go home!”
And then the banging stopped. Both boys were almost as startled by this as they had been when it started, and they gave each other a wary glance before either of them dared to speak.
“Do you-… Do you think it’s ove—” Eric began, before suddenly the basement door began to slam back against the lock, straining the hinges with the force of it. He yelped and ran over to hold it closed as the yells morphed into pained and angry howls, and Graham looked on in horror as his brother all but forced the door to stay shut.
Eric yelled over the noise, his back pressed hard against the door. His entire body jolted forward and he was nearly thrown off the door entirely when a full weight was slammed into it, but he barely managed to stay put. “Graham, do something!”
Graham could only open and close his mouth, useless and in shock for a few seconds before he stammered, “I-… C- Carver, you need to get out! You need to move on!”
But this wasn’t enough. The door kept slamming, and it was clear that Eric was losing his hold. Sheer panic was written across his face, and Graham could tell that the same expression was mirrored on his own. He strained against the door, knuckles white and sweat beading on his forehead as he yelped in pain. “Graham!”
“Carver Price, leave this place at once!” Graham shouted, cowering in the salt circle like he was drowning and it was his only lifeline. The typewriter was racing as the banging continued, louder and louder and louder, and Carver was still howling, Eric was screaming—or maybe it was he himself that was screaming, he couldn’t tell—as the house seemed to crash around them, the lights flickered before shutting down completely, all faster and louder and more intense until…
… everything stopped.
The house was silent.
And Graham Campbell dropped to his knees, knowing that the ghost was finally gone.
***
The weeks following that incident were blissfully uneventful. While Graham used to be unable to get a few nights’ sleep in a row without something from the basement disturbing him, he was able to sleep unperturbed for the next week. Finally, he felt well-rested—and that alone would have been more than enough to focus on the novel he had been trying to write, if it were not for Eric’s constant presence.
That being said, his brother didn’t visit often, so Graham was relatively happy to have him stay for a few days, despite how crazy of a personality he had. The fact was that he wasn’t used to someone so wild and unpredictable; but even still, he was stunned to find that—a week and a half later—Eric had left without saying anything. Graham wouldn’t have even known this if he hadn’t seen that his car was no longer in the driveway, with all his things cleared out.
While this was rather odd, Eric could’ve easily gotten a call from work or from his girlfriend. Still, after a few attempts to contact him with no response, Graham made a mental note to call him again in a few days, just to make sure he was Ok.
He also made a mental note to call an electrician. Ever since Carver had been banished all his lights had stopped working, and the Internet had cut out as well. He assumed that Carver had messed with the fuse box or router somehow—which he was sure was possible for ghosts, though he didn’t have the Internet to look it up—and all he had to do was get someone in to fix it at some point. His home phone still worked, though, and he still had leftover candles from the ritual, so both were put to good use during the inconvenience. Not for the first time, Graham found himself thanking anyone who could hear him that he had his trusty typewriter with him, as it had gone back to normal and still worked just fine. With it, he found he could deal with just about everything going on around him. All he had to do was sit somewhere comfortable and immerse himself in his writing, comforted by the clicking his fingers made on the keys when they moved, as well as the clicking that went on when they didn’t. It was steady and reliable; a sound he had attuned his ear to, and a sound that he always managed to get used to and love. After all, just it being there meant he still had something stable to depend on.
And a few days after his brother left, this was where Graham was: sitting at his old wooden desk in front of the windows overlooking the forest, the moon shining brightly overhead. Everything was peaceful now, and it felt like it all had gone back to normal as he consumed himself in his writing, oblivious in the face of his paranormal victory.
In short: everything was perfect until it wasn’t.
Everything was perfect until a loud bang startled Graham from his writing, making him sit up straight in his chair.
No.
No.
That couldn’t have been what he thought it was…
… but then, there it was again: a loud crash, coming right from the basement door.
Graham started out of his seat, panic rising in his chest as he backed up against the bed. The basement door was right near the front entrance, and the back door was on the other side of the condo. There was no way he could get there in time from his bedroom; but he was being silly, of course. There was no way that a ghost could really hurt him. It was just a spirit, just some stupid old spirit that would scare him and then fade away; just some stupid old spirit that couldn’t really touch him; just some stupid old spirit that was now standing in his doorway. And of course, of course, Carver Price had actually looked like that, of course, he had had silver hair and wrinkles before. Because spirits couldn’t age. Right?
Graham collapsed against the bedpost, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of him. He was thin and sunken, just like in the pictures, but there was something unmistakably older about him now. And there was certainly something more intimidating about one of Graham’s previously missing kitchen knives glistening between his fingertips, dripping in blood that wasn’t his own and wearing clothes that looked suspiciously like the ones his twin brother had worn the day he had arrived. This was no spirit – it couldn’t have been. He hardly even registered the small cry of anguish and fear that bubbled up from deep inside him, escaping through his lips in an unspoken plea for mercy.
Nor did he register the fact that the closer Carver got, the faster the typewriter steadily clicked.
As he pressed himself back against the wall like he hoped to disappear right through it, Graham couldn’t help but think that if he’d gone just a bit further into the basement rather than lingering near the stairs each time, this could have been prevented. As he begged one last desperate time for Carver to spare him from this horrible fate, Graham knew that if he had called the police rather than his brother, maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess. If he’d gone out on the isolated forest roads to see his brother’s car crashed and hidden, flipped over in a ditch, if he’d called the electrician in sooner for them to tell him that all the power lines to his condo had been completely severed, if he’d not assumed the culprit was a spirit, if he had done this, if he had done that, if he had just not been so stupid.
But he had been.
Now he would pay the price.
Because as humans can be, sometimes, Graham had been rather stupid. In fact, not only can humans be stupid as well as genius, but humans can be primal as well as civilized. When looking to survive in a hard, unforgiving place, the simplest of people can become creatures of pure, animalistic instinct. And as a madman slunk out of hiding and the moon disappeared behind a cloud, Graham had had no way of knowing that he himself would be victim to the opposite of what he expected. Not someone who had died, but someone with a damaged mind who had fought tooth and nail to survive. A man, not a spirit, who had killed and hidden himself away in an old, foul basement just to keep what he had. A man who then killed just for fun, and taught himself to take pleasure out of it. A man who was good at surviving. And Graham thought then that if only he had been a little more keen on surviving himself, perhaps he would’ve. Perhaps he would’ve been Ok.
But instead, he screamed.
The killer retreated.
The typewriter stopped clicking.
Story Two
A Girl and Her Imp
Kyra’s dad was, in her own words, “weird”. He had always been. That was just how he was. She wasn’t really sure what he did for a living, not exactly. He worked from home and kept odd hours. He would just sit in this huge room at home he called his “office”, doing what he did and not really being seen much by anyone. Including Kyra, who just so happened to be home schooled.
Kyra was an extremely advanced reader and, even though she was only eight, could read at high-school level. She had a love of books that had been born in her dad’s office, since she was big enough to crawl. The walls in her Dad’s office were lined with huge bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling, shelves bent by the weight of all the books they held. He had also managed to put all the fairy tales and books with lots of colorful illustration on the first row of shelves, strategically placed so her little hands could reach the big volumes with ease.
Kyra would sit in a corner for hours on end, paging through the volumes, lost in their pages as her dad worked the night away. For the most part he would be completely oblivious to her presence, either typing on his computer or consulting something in one of the “serious books”. Those were the ones he kept well out of her reach and that Kyra always wondered what was written in them. But her dad never let her see one and whenever she asked, he would redirect her attention to some random book he would dig from some other shelf and hand to her.
She would then forget completely about the musty old books and lose herself on the one her dad gave her. It was a low blow and she was catching on to it. But the books her dad managed to pull out of nowhere always happened to be exactly what she wanted to read at the time. Almost as if he could guess what she was thinking.
But eventually Kyra could be distracted no longer. She just had to know what was in those books! She’d been wanting to know as far back as she could remember. So one day she decided to use the gift of re-direction she inherited from her father and finally see what was in those books. And no one was going to know about it!
Since her dad never got up until at least noon, she waited for her mother to start cooking lunch. She then tiptoed into her dad’s office and closed the door. She then wheeled his office chair against the one of the bookshelves and stood on her tip-toes to reach the top shelf. There she grabbed one of the leather bound books and scampered down the chair, and pushed it back to its place. She then hid the book in her stuffed toy chest. She pulled it all off just in time as her mother went to wake up her dad and call her for lunch.
Dad never noticed the book was gone, at least not until she went to bed. She almost couldn’t sleep all night thinking about how that book was just a few feet from her, inside her toy chest. But she knew very well her dad was going to be up all night again. It’s easy to hide a book, but you can’t read one in the dark.
The next day she rushed through her math and reading assignments so fast that her mom gave her some free time to play or read what she wanted to until lunch time. Her mother then went on to do a few chores around the house and left her alone. After all, how much trouble could a kid get in by herself in her room? Even if that kid was Kyra.
Kyra did not know what to make of that strange book. It was old. Very, very old. From the time when they spelled things weird. Olde with an “e” she giggled. It had all these weird drawings too and it strangely read more like a recipe book than a story book or a “facts” book. Some of its illustrations were downright scary.
But even so she decided to try one of those recipes, just to see what would happen. She kind of suspected this was a spell-book, like the ones in the fairytales she liked to read. To her, the thought of doing a spell was too exciting to pass up. She picked the spell using two criteria: that it wasn’t for anything too scary and that she could manage to get all the ingredients. Finally, she found one that involved a mirror, some candles and a few things she was sure she could smuggle out of the kitchen when her mom wasn’t looking. Getting the stuff was easy. Finding the right time window when her dad was sleeping and her mom was engaged in something that would take a while proved to be much more of a challenge. Eventually the chance came up and Kyra took it.
She placed the mirror and the candles in the right position and used some sidewalk chalk to draw the strange symbol on the back of her play-mat. After checking that Mom was still in the laundry room, she ran back and closed her door. She didn’t want them to see her lighting candles in her room. They would classify that as “playing with fire” and give her a sound spanking if she got caught.
She lit the candles and then tried as best as she could to pronounce the words that were part of the spell. There was a puff of stinky smoke that seemed to come from the mirror, and when it cleared she saw there was a little man, not much taller than a Barbie doll or a teddy bear in front of the mirror.
“Kyra what’s that smell?” she heard her mom shout from across the hallway.
“I was playing with my chemistry set, Mom,” she shouted back and quickly put out and hid the candles and flipped her play-mat over. She gestured the little man to be quiet and managed to convince him to get in the toy chest before her mom came in the room.
“I told you I don’t want you playing with that inside the house, Kyra. If you want to use your chemistry set go do it on the porch. Now the whole house stinks to high heaven!”
“Yes, Mom,” she said looking down. “Sorry Mom.”
Her mom then went on a little more about how now she was going to have to open all the windows to air the house out and moved on to busy herself doing just that. Mom was a busy body and really had a hard time standing still for over five minutes. At least she didn’t get grounded and her secret was safe.
Kyra opened her toy chest and let the little man out. He was a funny looking little man. He was short with little stocky legs and arms and his skin was brown like cinnamon. He was dressed in what appeared to be little more than a cloth sack with holes cut for his arms and head to poke through. And speaking of head, his was huge compared to his body. He had a really big nose and big, pointy ears and his eyes looked more like a goat’s than a person’s.
She asked him his name, to which he replied, “You call me; you name me.” And so she did. And that is how Bobinson-boolay and Kyra met. Kyra came to really like her new little friend. Unlike grown-ups he could sit forever and listen to her talk about everything and nothing. She told him everything. From her likes and dislikes. She went into detail about her favorite movies, cartoons and books. She complained about her mother being too strict, her dad being too distant and math being too hard. She told him about how she found this little boy she saw in the park cute, about another little boy who was mean, and a third one was goofy. She told him how she wanted a cat and how the neighbor’s dog scared her when he came up behind her and started barking. She said she wish someone would fix him so he wouldn’t bark.
And everything seemed to be going fine for a while. Bobinson-boolay would spend the day with her and go off running around the neighborhood while she slept. That was fine by her, since she found the thought of him being around while she slept a little creepy. At first she was really worried that her parents would see her new friend, so she always made him sit surrounded by plush toys to disguise him. That was until one fine day Bobinson-boolay told her he could make himself invisible to all but her. He also told her that he was getting strong again, and now he could do all kinds of things for her as well.
So Bobinson-boolay started at first doing a few of her chores, and quickly graduated to stealing cookies from the cookie jar to sneak back to Kyra. It seemed like a dream, until the weird stuff started happening. At first it was just little things, like the broccoli burning even though her mom was a great cook, or the blueberry bush bursting with juicy blueberries in March. Finally a little kitten appeared out of nowhere and her mom suggested they’d adopt it, even though she was severely allergic to cats. That was really weird. After that things started getting a little scary.
It all started with the lawn guy who came around every Thursday. Kyra always got very annoyed with all the noise his grass mower and blower did. So one fine day his equipment simply would no longer work. The strange part is that it worked on the neighbor’s lawn, but would go dead when he got to their lawn. He came three days in a row, always apologizing and saying he got the equipment looked at but that no one could find anything wrong with it. But once again his equipment refused to work.
Next it was Mr. Allen, the exterminator man. Kyra mentioned to Bobinson-boolay that she kind of felt sorry for the animals and bugs he killed every day. Jokingly she mentioned that it would be funny if he someday got chased by hundreds of cockroaches or some other bugs. She thought that would be funny, until one day he went down to her basement, and came out running. His face was white as a ghost, and he was running his hands frantically over his shirt as if trying to brush off something. But there was nothing on his clothes. In a panic, he ran to his van and sped off. As much as she tried not to, Kyra could not help giggling, even though she felt a little sorry for him. It was like watching someone slip on a banana peel. You know it’s wrong to laugh, but you laugh anyway.
Bobinson-boolay also took care of the mean kid in the playground that Kyra always complained about. One day while Kyra was climbing up to the slide in the playset, the kid pushed her off. Bobinson-boolay waited until he got all the way up and turned around to taunt Kyra before he pushed him down the slide. Bobinson-boolay, of course, was invisible so no one saw him do it. The mean kid fell really hard, got up with a bloody nose and ran home crying. She later found out his arm was broken as well.
Perhaps the creepiest thing that happened was that the boy she found cute kept following her like a lost puppy. He didn’t talk, he didn’t want to play. He just stared at her with a blank smile. As if he was sleepwalking.
Kyra couldn’t help feeling a little scared that Bobinson-boolay could do all those things, but she knew he would never hurt her. He was her own little fairy friend that she had brought into the world. He might be powerful and do some things she considered wrong, but he was a fairy, and fairy-folk were weird. Weirder than her dad, even.
Then one day, something happened. Something that changed her whole perception of what Bobinson-boolay really was, and what he was capable of. It was the day when she finally began to realize what she had let loose in the world. It was the day she really started to understand why her dad had kept those books out of reach.
She was coming home from the neighborhood park, fed up with the little boy following her around all the time. She was wondering if that is what grownups called “stalking” when the neighbor’s dog sneaked up behind her again.
She was ready to jump up and turn to face him, stomp her foot to send him off running. Then she noticed he didn’t bark. She looked down at him and what she saw made her run home screaming. The dog had not barked because his mouth seemed to have been fused shut. Much as if someone took an eraser to his lips and rubbed them off like in a cartoon.
That night she confronted Bobinson-boolay. She knew he was trying to help, but he was going too far and too creepy. In tears, she asked what he had done to the neighbor’s dog.
“But you said someone should fix him,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “Bobinson-boolay fixed him,” and he then bowed as if expecting to be thanked.
“But how is he going to eat?” she asked.
“Oh, no eat,” he said. “He will starve. Bobinson-boolay fixed him good.”
“You have to undo this, Bobinson-boolay,” she pleaded.
“Bobinson-boolay cannot undo what Bobinson-boolay did.” he said, wagging his finger. “Against the rules, ” he said with a nod.
“Bobinson-boolay, you are scaring me!” Kyra tried not to scream. The guilt she suddenly felt over bringing this little monster into the world was beginning to smother her.
“That’s bad, that’s very bad,” He said. “Bobinson-boolay did Kyra favor; Kyra screams at Bobinson-boolay. Bobinson-boolay is hurt with Kyra! Bobinson-boolay doesn’t want to be friends with Kyra no more.”
“I’m going to tell my Dad everything!” Kyra said, making a desperate attempt to scare the little imp into behaving.
“Oh no. You don’t do that,” Bobinson-boolay almost hissed, “You tell father and Bobinson-boolay kill both him and mother too. Bobinson-boolay will kill them in very nasty way.”
“Go away, Bobinson-boolay! I don’t want you here anymore!” Kyra whimpered as her eyes clouded with tears. She now realized she had done something wrong; really, really wrong. She felt helpless, scared and the worst part was that she knew it had all been her fault. It hadn’t been an accident. She had thought about it, plotted, carried out her plan and brought something into her life that she could not control. Now she had no idea how make it go away.
“Bobinson-boolay go,” he said menacingly, “But Bobinson-boolay never gone.”
The little imp faded into nothing right before her eyes. Since they were no longer friends, he now was invisible to her. Just like he was invisible to everyone else. But she knew he was still there, because she could hear his breathing. She then saw her mattress bounce as if someone had jumped on it and the window above the bed slide open.
From the window she heard Bobinson-boolay’s voice singing, “Bobinson-boolay coming for Kyra. But Bobinson-boolay going to have some fun first!” she then heard a thump on the grass outside her window and a maniacal, high pitch laughter as the little imp ran away. And so the reign of terror began.
Things started to go missing, things started breaking and Kyra was getting blamed for all of it. Kyra, like most gifted children was always a little challenging and rebellious, so her blame was always assumed. Kyra protested, and told them she didn’t do it. But when asked how it happened she kept silent, fearing Bobinson-boolay’s threat. Her silence sealed the guilty verdict in the eyes of her parents.
The worst part was when Bobinson-boolay would come in her room at night. She could hear him moving, whispering taunts in her ear, but she could not see him. Some nights he hid under her bed, and grabbed her ankles when she tried to go to the bathroom at night. Other nights he would hide in her closet and all she could see were his glowing eyes, glaring despondently back at her. She knew calling her parents didn’t do any good. They could not see Bobinson-boolay, and when they left, he would start taunting her again.
She looked in the book that started all this trouble to see if there was any way she could keep him away, or better yet, send him back from where he came. In one of the pages she found out that a little sprinkling of salt under her bed could keep him at bay. Unfortunately her mom was a stickler for cleanliness and every so often would vacuum under her bed, leaving her wide open and unprotected.
Things reached a breaking point when she looked out the living room window and saw her cat dead, cut open and left on her porch. She called out to her mother, but when her mom came, the cat was no longer there. Instead Kyra saw Bobinson-boolay, with an evil smile, wagging his finger at her. Then he put the finger against his lips, signaling Kyra to keep quiet.
Kyra never felt so scared. She screamed and her mom came. The scariest part was that even though her mom was looking straight at Bobinson-boolay, she could not see the little imp dancing in front of her. And Bobinson-boolay knew that only too well and taunted Kyra before fading into invisibility again.
That night, Kyra woke up from a terrible nightmare to find Bobinson-boolay sitting cross-legged on top of her chest. “Bobinson-boolay very angry with Kyra,” he said with a snarl. “Kyra calls Bobinson-boolay. Bobinson-boolay comes. Then Kyra likes Bobinson-boolay no more.” He looked at Kyra straight in the eyes. There was burning hatred in them. Hatred that went way beyond what humans can feel.
“Kyra tells Bobinson-boolay to go away, but Bobinson-boolay cannot go home. Bobinson-boolay trapped because of Kyra.” His weight was crushing her, she could barely breathe. She wanted to jump, to scream but she could not move her limbs and she could barely breathe, let alone scream.
“Bobinson-boolay going to fix Kyra. Fix like Bobinson-boolay fixed bad dog.” he said as he started leaning towards her face and slowly move his hands towards her face. She could feel his saliva dripping on her as he drooled, she could smell his rotten breath as he inched closer. “Maybe Bobinson-boolay can go home then. So say rules. Bobinson-boolay follows rules.”
Kyra noticed for the very first time how sharp his teeth were and how cruel his goat like eyes could be. She was terrified. She could not move; she could not scream. The only thing she could do was close her eyes and think real hard how she wished her dad would come save her. Maybe if she tried real hard, he could hear her thoughts, just like he always seemed to know what book she wanted. “Kyra cannot scream. Bobinson-boolay took care of that,” he chuckled. “Now it’s time for Kyra to die!”
He raised his hands and she could see his nails slowly getting bigger and sharper. His hands started twisting and shaping themselves into talons. He raised one hand and was about to slash her throat when the door to her room opened up.
“What is going on here?” She heard a voice say. It was her father. He looked into the bedroom and saw the imp sitting on his child’s chest, smothering the life out of her. With unexpected clarity of mind he leaped towards the bed, grabbed Bobinson-boolay by his neck and threw him hard against the wall. Dizzily, Bobinson-boolay got up and sprang up at Kyra’s dad, but he ducked just in time and the little imp flew past him and hit the wall on the opposite side of the room. Bobinson-boolay stood up slowly, clearly stunned by the rough treatment.
Kyra still could not move, but she saw her dad take out a twisted stick out of his jacket’s pocket, point it at Bobinson-boolie. He chanted something in a language she could not understand and the room suddenly got very cold. Bobinson-boolay’s eyes opened wide, he clutched his throat and tried to scream. He looked at Kyra, his eyes white hot with hatred and then tried once more to leap at her dad. He jumped, claws extended and mouth open screaming with rage. But before he could reach her dad, there was a blinding flash of light, and when Kyra’s vision returned, she saw that Bobinson-boolay was gone.
Her dad put the wand away, crossed his arms and tilted his head towards her. “Is there something you want to tell me, Pumpkin?” He asked. Strangely, there was no anger in his voice. Unlike other grownups, he seemed completely unfazed at seeing fairy. Then again, her dad was weird.
“You know how you always tell me that books are my friends, Daddy?” She said, noticing her voice was back.
“And they are, Pumpkin,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. “And I always tell you that all my books will one day be yours too, don’t I?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, hugging him hard and letting her tears flow. “It’s just I really wanted to see what was in those books…” she whimpered.
“It’s okay, Pumpkin,” he said, hugging her reassuringly. “Daddy’s not mad. That’s something I’m afraid you got from my side of the family,” he said almost apologetically. He then looked her straight in the eyes and smiled and made a goofy face. That’s what he always did when she was scared, and it always worked. “I’m just glad Mom is a heavy sleeper. Explaining all this to her would have been… challenging.”
“I won’t do it again, Daddy.” Kyra volunteered before her dad made her promise.
“Oh, but you will, Pumpkin,” he said with a mischievous smile. “But let’s wait until you are a little older, and then I’ll be glad to show you.”
“You promise?” Kyra’s eyes lit with excitement.
“Pinky-promise,” he said. “But you have to promise me something very important first.”
“I promise I’ll never take those books behind your back again,” she insisted.
“It’s not that, Pumpkin, I know you won’t.” he said. “What I want you to promise is that whatever you do, do not tell Mom!”
They both laughed real hard, and then he lay there with her until she fell asleep.
