The Gate: 13 Dark & Odd Tales Page 2

  “I can’t do this!” he screamed. He still couldn’t move his feet. “I have a life of my own! I have my rights!”

  Albert shook his head. “Unfortunately, they don’t matter now,” he said.

  The cloud descended on Johnny. The fleshy tubes became tentacles that reached out for him, prying his mouth open. He choked on them as they slithered down his throat. He tried to grasp them, to pull them out, but his hands slipped from their greasy hides. His air cut off, he felt close to passing out. His vision grew hazy.

  “Do not fight it!” he heard Albert scream. “You will pass from the realm of man into the realm of legend! You will no longer be bound by place, bound by time! You will be as a god, the Gatekeeper, able to access all worlds at once!”

  Johnny gagged on the entities invading his body. They kept on coming, miles of them, as if they’d never end. He started to fall backward. Albert and the other monks rushed forward. They clasped his arms, supported his back, kept him upright.

  “Just give in,” Albert whispered into his ear. “It will all be worth it.”

  “When the worlds open up to you,” said a voice in his head, “there will be no end to what you can see...”

  SULLIVAN STREET

  TIMMY HIGGIN’S HEART SKIPPED A BEAT the moment he laid eyes on her. She had auburn hair that bounced off her head in curls tight as springs. Her dark blue eyes twinkled, highlighted by the contrast of her light cocoa skin. The beginnings of her womanhood shone from beneath the flowery sundress that clung a little too tightly to her tall, slender frame. She wrinkled her perfect little nose as she stared at the small colonial house the movers were hauling loads of breakables into, and then turned to him and winked. Timmy breathed as if he had just finished sprinting a hundred miles.

  Her name was Charlotte Ginsberg, and she was the most perfect being Timmy had ever seen over the span of his eleven years.

  “What is it, son?” his father’s cheery voice asked. A heavy, foreboding hand fell to his shoulder. Timmy refrained from turning around. He didn’t want to see his father’s overly-cheery face. It creeped him out.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Just watchin’ the neighbors move in.”

  “Ah, yes,” said his dad. “I’m glad the old Faber place finally has new tenants. It’s been empty for far too long. Did you meet them yet?”

  Timmy nodded. “Uh-huh. Mr. Ginsberg introduced me to his daughter a few minutes ago.”

  “Is that her?”

  Again, a nod.

  “Strange.” He could literally hear the frown stretch over his father’s lips. “I was outside mowing the lawn when the truck first pulled up. I wonder why he didn’t come over to say something to me, first. We are neighbors now. I figured that would carry some weight.”

  “Maybe he was too busy. I just walked over and said hi. Maybe you shoulda’ done that, too.”

  “I shouldn’t have to, Tim. Some things are an evident courtesy. That’s the way we do things here on Sullivan Street.”

  Mr. Higgins squeezed his son’s shoulder. Timmy heard him turn on his heels and walk away. “I’m going to talk to your mother about this,” he said. The screen door slammed.

  Timmy sighed and dropped his eyes to the grass. The blades stood straight up, glistening like millions of green razors. He wanted to kick at it, to dig up his father’s beloved lawn and make skid marks with his sneakers, but he didn’t. He could hear his father’s voice in his head, whispering you best not in that unnervingly jolly tone. His heart rate lowered, and the depression he so often felt started to creep in. So he did all he could to bring his youthful spirits back to life, which was to once more eye Charlotte Ginsberg as she meandered across her own, less manicured lawn, box of clothes in hand, and wait for the moment when the rear of her dress would hike up again and offer him a peek at the Strawberry Shortcake panties hiding beneath it.

  * * *

  Sullivan Street sat atop the crest of the highest hill in Fhalmagal, Colorado, just west of neighboring Littleton. It was a quiet place, peaceful and serene, isolated from the rest of the world by the giant, cragged mountains encircling it. The people were full of cheer, always smiling, always shouting, “Howdy neighbor!” and “Good day to you!” whenever the moment presented itself. It was an affluent place. The houses were old, large, and roomy, the cars hefty and shining, the lawns meticulously manicured. And then there was Sullivan Street, sitting on its apex – the roomiest, heftiest, and shiniest neighborhood of all.

  Timmy Higgins hated it.

  It hadn’t always been that way. Everything started out well enough when his father moved them out of downtrodden Boulder to take an executive position at a local investment house. Timmy was happy to finally have a backyard of his own, to have a place where he and his older sister Samantha could run around and play, and even fight, without the fear of stepping on broken glass or running into the wandering undesirables who meant to do them harm. The neighbors were always giving him presents and leaving milk and cookies on the front stoop for he and his sister. Even the fact they didn’t have to lock their doors any longer was a foreign yet welcomed concept.

  Then Samantha ran away, two weeks after they moved in, and all those good tidings flittered away.

  His parents told him it was nothing, that she’d come back when she regained her senses. That was four years ago. She never did come home.

  Though young, Timmy was still aware enough to find his parents’ attitude toward his sister’s disappearance unsettling. He would fall into fits of tears every night early on, but he never saw his mother shed even one. A month or so afterward, Samantha’s name ceased to be mentioned, even in whispers. It felt to Timmy as though, to his strangely content parents, she never existed.

  He sat on his bike by the side of the road and stared once more at Charlotte as she read a book while sitting in a lawn chair on a patch of grass that was beginning to brown from lack of watering. She was as much an oddity as that discolored plot of earth. Her expression was somber and clenched, as if in a constant state of deep thought. Her parents, too, were peculiar. He hadn’t seen a non-white face since his family had arrived in Fhalmagal, and Charlotte’s mother was black as black could be. Her father was light-skinned, and he carried himself with the serious manner his daughter reflected. When either of them smiled, he could tell they meant it. When they frowned or scowled, they meant that too.

  Given the forged merriment that’d surrounded him for four years, he found it refreshing.

  Charlotte crossed her feet and took a sip of her lemonade. Seeing the straw touch her wet lips, a strange sensation tickled in Timmy’s abdomen. He grunted and shifted on the bicycle seat. His foot slipped off the pedal and he came close to falling over. “Shoot!” he yelped as he regained his balance.

  The object of his affections glanced up from her book. She smiled at him with that earnest, meaningful smile. Timmy blushed. His eyes dropped to his feet.

  “Whatcha doin?” she called out to him.

  “Nothin’,” he replied.

  “You wanna come over?”

  He shifted the bike from one side to the other. “Uh, I don’t know.”

  “C’mon. My dad’s got more lemonade inside.”

  “Okay.”

  Timmy set his bike up on its kickstand and shuffled across the road. He couldn’t breathe. It seemed to take forever for one foot to move in front of the other. He didn’t want the sensation to end, though he couldn’t figure out why he should feel this way.

  “Hurry up, slowpoke.”

  He did as he was told, until he saw the shadow of a trim figure enter his vision. He glanced up to see Charlotte standing. Standing, smiling, and revealing her beautiful, gap-filled mouth for him.

  “You’re funny,” she said. “I think I like you.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She stuck out her hand. Timmy stared at it for a few indecisive moments and then shook it. Her skin felt like his summer sheets, cool and smooth and soft.


  “I think I like you, too,” he replied.

  “You wanna go inside now? Get some lemonade?”

  “Okay.”

  The inside of the Ginsberg house was just like Charlotte; tender and inviting. He sat on a stool and propped his elbows on the kitchen’s center island. Mrs. Ginsberg shuffled about in the other room, phone pressed to her ear. Timmy couldn’t hear what she said, but from her tone it sounded important. Mr. Ginsberg was in the kitchen with them, making sandwiches.

  “Hey guys,” the man said. “Nice day for a Saturday, huh?”

  Timmy and Charlotte nodded at once.

  “Is it always like this in October?” he asked Timmy. “It has to be at least eighty outside.”

  “Most of the time,” replied Timmy. “It snows sometimes in the winter, but mostly it’s just like this. You know…summery.”

  “Huh. That’s odd. Figured that being in the mountains and all it’d be a little colder. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Oh, around.” Mr. Ginsberg said. Timmy liked the tone of his voice. It was soft and easy and, though he couldn’t think of the word to describe it, sincere. “We came from back east. Connecticut. Do you know where that is?”

  Timmy nodded.

  “Okay then. Thumbs up to geography.”

  “Why’d you move here?”

  “Well, Charlotte’s mom got laid off about a month ago. I’m a writer, but business has been pretty slow for me, too. Then this firm here in Fhalmagal contacted her on one of those internet job sites. They said they’d pay relocation fees and everything. That’s nice of them, isn’t it?”

  Again, Timmy nodded.

  Mr. Ginsberg’s nose shriveled up. It was that look he loved on Charlotte. “So,” he said, “what kind of a name is Fhalmagal, anyway? Indian?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Timmy. “I thought it sounded funny, too.”

  “Oh well. Maybe I’ll ask your dad, if I ever meet him.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, shoot, I wanted to get home before five. Connie!”

  Mrs. Ginsberg poked her head into the room. “Yes?”

  “Come on, sweetie. The grocery store awaits.” He placed a kiss on Charlotte’s forehead. “You be good while we’re gone, okay?”

  “I will, dad.”

  “Good girl.” He looked at Timmy. “Kiddo, if you’re here when we get back, maybe we’ll dig some trenches in the backyard. See if we can get all the way to China.”

  Timmy grinned. “Okay.”

  With that, Charlotte’s parents walked out the door. The Range Rover in the driveway slowly backed out and then sped out of site. Timmy’s jaw dropped.

  “They let you stay home alone?” he said.

  Charlotte shrugged. “I’m twelve years old, silly. That’s old enough to take care of myself.”

  Jealousy caused his lips to quiver. “I wish my dad was as nice as yours.”

  “Oh, silly. My dad can be mean too, you know.”

  “That’s not it. Not mean.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He crumpled his face. “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Oh. Let’s go in the living room!” She bounced off her stool and breezed past him. He caught a whiff of her as she strode by – cherry bubble gum. He grinned.

  “You comin’ or what?”

  Timmy followed her lead. She sat down on the couch, leaned against the cushion, and tucked a pillow beneath her head. With her free hand she motioned for Timmy to sit beside her. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, as if he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do.

  “Come on, sit down,” she said.

  Timmy lowered himself to the couch. The soft cushions enveloped him, pushed him in Charlotte’s direction until he sat thigh to bare thigh with her. His heart again kicked up its beat. Sweat dripped off his eyelashes. His stomach grumbled. Then everything got really quiet.

  “What’re we doing?” he asked.

  “Listening.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. Crickets, birds, cars, whatever makes noise. I like the sounds things make. They make me feel good.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  She sat up and took his hand. He slowly forced his eyes to look in her direction. Her expression seemed mischievous yet doubtful.

  “So,” she said, “tell me about this house.”

  “Why?”

  “This house makes strange sounds.”

  “I don’t know…it’s just a house.”

  “How about the people who lived here? Before we came?”

  “The Fabers? They were nice, I guess.”

  “Did they live here long?”

  “About a year. Mr. Faber worked with my dad at the firm. Like your mom.”

  “Why’d they move?”

  Timmy glanced at the ceiling. “Well, Mrs. Faber had a nervous breakdown or something. My dad says it’s because their daughter Bella got kidnapped.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows arched. “Kidnapped?”

  With her interest, a billowy lightness rose in Timmy. “Yup,” he said. “Happened when school started last year. She was in her seat one day in class, next day she wasn’t. And Mrs. Faber started screaming at Mr. Faber all the time. I could hear them in my room at night. She called him evil and said he’d go to hell for what he did.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe ‘cause he told her it wouldn’t do no good to look for her.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  Again he shrugged. “Just because it’s what grownups say. My dad and mom said the same thing when my sister ran away.”

  “Your sister ran away?”

  “Yeah. A long time ago.”

  “They didn’t look for her?”

  “Nope.”

  Charlotte sat back and grunted. Her puffy lips dropped into a frown. She took her hand from his and folded her arms over her rose-blossom chest.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Timmy.

  “That’s not right,” she said. “That’s just plain mean. How can people say stuff like that? My dad would never let me just be gone. He’d look for me. He and mom, both. They wouldn’t sleep until they got me home. They love me.”

  “Do you think my parents didn’t love Sammy?”

  “You tell me, Timmy.”

  He shook his head. Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes.

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  “Well dear, we’re off to greet the new neighbors,” Mrs. Higgins proclaimed in her ultra-merry way. She looked at the babysitter. “Mary, the party should be over by midnight. The initial meet-and-greets always are. Make sure Timmy’s in bed by nine o’clock, okay?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Higgins.”

  Timmy walked up to his mother and grasped her by the hand.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, Timmy?” Still that grating happiness.

  “Why didn’t you love Sammy?”

  The broad smile on Mrs. Higgins’ face slowly washed away like driveway dirt in a rainstorm. She shook her hand from her son’s grasp and backed up a step.

  “What did you say?”

  “Why didn’t you love Sammy?”

  She shook her head. Her perfectly maintained hair whipped about. “Why did…you can’t…this isn’t…” For the first time in who knew how long, it looked like she was about to cry.

  His father breezed into the room. He took one look at his wife and his own wide grin disappeared, as well. He glared at Timmy and his eyes widened. Timmy swore he could see fire burning behind them.

  “What…did…you…do?”

  “Nothing, dad, honest!”

  His mother leaned into his father and pressed her lips to his ear. He could hear her frantic whisper, but could not make out the words. His father’s face gradually became more and more severe. Then his mother stepped away, and his father took a menacing step forward. Mary the babysitter slunk out of the room. His father s
poke, and his voice boomed through the house.

  “Who put those thoughts in your head?”

  “I…well,” stammered Timmy.

  “Spit it out!”

  “Um…I was playing with Charlotte today…and she said that if she ever ran away her dad would never give up on her…and then…”

  His father rolled his eyes. “It figures,” he muttered. The anger was still present, and it seeped out even in his lowered voice. This scared Timmy, for it had been quite some time since he’d seen his father angry. And they were about to go next door! He had to protect his friend.

  “She didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he said. “She was just…”

  His father waved a hand at him. His cheeriness returned, as if it had never left. “Oh, it’s okay, Timmy,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I don’t blame the girl. She’s just being a girl, is all.”

  His mother nodded aggressively in approval.

  “We’ll have a talk with her folks. There’re a few things we all have to discuss, anyway. Not the least of which is the state of that yard…”

  His voice drifted away, as did his gaze. He stood staring at the ceiling – he and his mother both – for an uncomfortably long time. Then, abruptly, his body shook and his grin became even wider and more jackal-like. He ruffled Timmy’s hair.

  “Okay son, we’ll be back,” he said happily. “See you in the morning.”

  His parents walked out the front door. The door clicked shut. Happily.

  Timmy shuddered.

  * * *

  Two weeks went by. The party, and the events that occurred in the Higgins house beforehand, seemed long forgotten. Life, as it often does, progressed onward.

  The innate boredom of youth caused Timmy and Charlotte to gravitate even closer to each other. They talked and laughed and played video games and basketball. They even kissed on one occasion – an awkward, messy affair that had spit dribbling down Timmy’s chin and an unusually hard rock form in his pants while Charlotte giggled in embarrassment. This happened during one of the many times Mr. and Mrs. Ginsberg trusted Charlotte to be home alone for an hour at a time.