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Owen Crawford

The May Editor's Pick Writer is Owen Crawford

Owen Crawford

TROLL
by Owen Crawford

On a fine May day—the trees vibrant with green leaves, the air warm, the sky brilliantly blue—twelve-year-old Jimmy Brown stood on the playground, not giving an inch of ground.

“He’s dead. My brother told me so.”

“Nah uh,” Mary Jane shook her pretty head.

Jimmy pressed his lips together, wondering if he was having his leg pulled. Girls were always teasing. If they were wicked when acting alone, they were positively vile in groups like the three who presently faced him. Maybe if they’d been younger he wouldn’t have felt so threatened, but the blond, burnet, and redhead were all a year older than he. This meant the other boys had at least a two year advantage over him. But maybe, just maybe, if he did go to the house…

“How do you know?” Jimmy retorted, than added as an afterthought, “for sure?”

The three girls assumed perfectly innocent demeanors. Beautiful angels with hideous demon souls.

Alison set a hand to her budding chest. “Would we lie?” It was a rhetorical question.

Jimmy was careful not to respond too hastily. His tongue, an agitated serpent, stayed behind his teeth while his mind fit words together, struggling to find the proper response. “Well…no, I guess not.”

“Why would you even question it? I mean, nobody’s seen Eugene in years. Why wouldn’t he be dead?” Jeannie said.

This sounded reasonable. After all, Eugene, the man who lived in the house with a front yard so overgrown with rank vegetation that it resembled a prehistoric jungle, hadn’t been seen in quite some time. Even his car, a Rolls Royce Saloon, had accumulated a thick coat of dust sitting in the shadowy driveway. But then, there was always…“The dogs and cats, though?”    

The girls gave a little huff, hands on hips at the mention of this. “Pets run away all the time. Besides, anyone who says he’s been eating them are crazy,” Mary Jane said.

Jimmy looked at the girls doubtfully. “Why do you even want me to go there?” They had never taken an interest in him before. He could imagine being set up to make some other boy (the boy one of them really liked) jealous. For wasn’t this what girls did best, set boys up and watch with she-devil delight from the sidelines?

“You’re not scared, are you?” These words spoken, a very faint smile tugged at the edges of Alison’s mouth.

Jimmy’s lips pressed together, hands twitching.

You’re not scared, are you?

The words were like a dagger cutting at his pride. He laughed lightly. “Me scared? Yeah, right!”

Jeannie leaned forward, a wicked light flickering in her turquoise eyes. “So you’ll do it?”

“Uh…” Jimmy’s throat and mouth felt dry, as though they’d been stuffed with cotton. He felt the girl’s eyes on him—looking into him and through him. “Maybe if I were convinced.”

The girls exchanged momentary glances. Mary Jane, flanked by Alison and Jeannie, held up her hands in silent communication and moved forward, hips moving gorgeously. Jimmy felt the strings of his heart tighten. A boy could be hypnotized by hips like those. “Jimmy,” she spoke softly, almost purring. Jimmy’s eyes jerked up and found Mary Jane’s eyes. Moist lips parted, she was running her tongue along her lower lip. Then, brushing a lock of her red hair behind her ear, she said, “If you do this for me, I would be really happy. You’d be the bravest boy in the school.”

Jimmy felt the heat of an involuntary blush.

Like the predator sensing the fear of its prey, Mary Jane leaned close, very close, to Jimmy so that he could feel her breath on his face when she said insatiably…softly, “You do want me to be happy, don’t you? And you are brave, aren’t you?” As if to emphasize her point, she pressed a finger to his chest. That sensational touch was like a jolt of electricity to his heart.

“Of course I’ll go,” Jimmy found himself saying, his doubt forgotten.

Mary Jane’s palms slapped together, breaking the spell.

Jimmy blinked twice.

“Good,” Mary Jane said and, turning, walked briskly away. Alison and Jeannie, smiling at him, turned and followed the queen bee.

*****

So went that fine May day—when the trees were vibrant with green leaves, the air warm, the sky brilliantly blue—and Jimmy Brown riding his bicycle to the house where it was said death had paid a visit. At what designated point in time, no one could be sure of. It was this uncertainty, Jimmy knew, that fueled the rumors. The children said many whispered things about Eugene, yet no one went near his house.

“I heard he’s a dwarf, an ugly dwarf,” one of the boys had said. “People like him don’t die. They simply grow old and…change.”

Jimmy blew hot air between his teeth, thinking this. This was the same boy who claimed if you said Bloody Mary three times in front of a mirror in a dark room she would appear. Supposedly he had done this and that was how he got the scar on his right check.

Sure, thought Jimmy.

But there was something that none of the other children knew about him; not even Mary Jane and her acolytes.

When he was younger, the ball he had been playing with accidentally landed in Eugene’s yard. He had entered into the thick shadows of the jungle yard, trees growing crooked with gnarled arm-like branches reaching this way and that, weeds substituting for grass, and large bushes which he was positive were festering with snakes. The dense foliage filtered out most of the sunlight. After some moments of searching he located his ball. He reached down and picked it up…then turned around to see Eugene standing there.

Short in stature, stocky, yet flabby, with abnormally long arms and thinning white uncombed hair, he had a hideously malignant face, his nose squat, lips misshapen, unblinking eyes recessed and small.

“My ball,” Jimmy said in a shaky voice, holding up his ball as evidence. “I was just getting my ball.”

Had Eugene said anything? Jimmy couldn’t recall. If he had, he must have blocked it from his memory. The only thing he remembered after this was running, running away from that yard, from that man, out of the shadows and back into the sunlight.

That was the first and last time he ever saw Eugene. Years passed and no one saw him at all. Years elapsed and people started saying he was dead.

Jimmy suddenly brought his bicycle to a halt. He leaned forwarded on the handlebars licking his lips, weighing his wits. All right, he thought determinedly, I can do this.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d entered into the shadow of the house. And none of the other children—even Kenny who bragged about how he had kissed Beth Anderson—could say that they’d actually walked up to the door of the house; that they’d reached out and touched the door.

Because none of them had.

As he walked up the driveway, he couldn’t help a shudder at the cooler air which resided in the congregation of shadows. He turned his head, looking into the yard, that insufferable maw of tangled uncertainty. Anything could be hiding in there. He stepped lightly into the yard, listening to twigs snapping under his tennis shoes.

So dark, he thought and found himself thinking about how it was said that trolls turned to stone if touched by sunlight. He looked around. Was that what hid here amongst the black cats, rats, snakes, and possibly bats? He shook his head, clearing his pool of thought. Don’t be ridiculous, he scolded himself.

He set a foot on the first of the three porch steps. It creaked under his thin weight. Standing on the doorstep before the front door, he turned his gaze upward to observe the porch light draped in cobwebs. He smiled. If only Mary Jane, Alison, and Jeannie could see him now.

As he turned to leave he thought, Yes, what if they could see me? What proof did he have that he’d been here? What would keep the other children from laughing at him when he said he had stood on Eugene’s porch?

He looked at the yard dubiously. He could take something from the yard. But no, this would hardly be convincing. He turned around, an idea forming in his twelve-year-old brain.

He touched the doorknob.

Oh God! he thought, stomach twisting into a tight knot.

The door was drifting quietly open.

Beyond and within the house waited silently…darkly.

Jimmy swallowed. He pushed the door open further with the merest sigh of its hinges.

Turning, he took a final look at the sunny world behind him. Then, steeling his nerves, he stepped over the threshold into autumnal house ripe with the reek of infinite mustiness and turned to his immediate left to observe that this wall of the coffin narrow entry hall had four long wooden shelves. Upon these shelves were empty glass liquor bottles. He frowned. The dates hinted to a pattern of sorts. Here, 1941. There, 1942. Here, 1943. There, 1944. And so on.

So the man collected bottles, Jimmy thought. He considered taking one of these bottles and dashing out of the forsaken house. But no, surely an empty glass bottle would not be sufficient enough proof. He turned his head, looking toward the living room where there hung funeral parlor curtains. He needed something that would have undeniably come from the house.

He moved into the living room. In the dim light, he just barely made out the shapes of dusty furniture. The floor was wooden planks, and creaked at intervals. As he stepped deeper into the room he kept an eye for something worthy of thieving. However, all he saw so far was junk. There were some pictures on the walls, but these were dreary landscapes. There were leather bound books, but these wouldn’t have been very exciting.

The creak came abruptly to his ears.

Jimmy turned his head sharply in the direction of the sound. Fearful one moment, a nervous smile spread the next. Shaking his head, he continued walking through the room. His shoes repeatedly bumped unseen objects lurking in the darkness dwelling around the floor. The room, having just enough light to see by, made him think that this house must have been where past autumns resided; cool air encased within its walls on a warm day, darkness crouching here and lurking there.

Coming around the sofa, Jimmy saw a wooden case on the low coffee table. He knelt down, brushed away the dust, and looked at the writing in gold lettering. It was not in any language he had ever seen. Opening the case he saw within four elaborately designed jade figurines. His lips parted, the single word “what” issuing as a long breath. He guessed these figurines were supposed to be human, but the physiology wasn’t quite right.

“This ought to do,” he said, reaching out to take one of the figurines. The other children would have to believe him now. But most importantly this meant he could leave, because as he lifted the figurine, which was cold and heavy, he developed a tingling sensation along his scalp.

Behind him, something rustled.

Jimmy’s throat felt dry. He stood slowly, looking into the inky blackness that dreamed there. From the square outlining, he judged it to be a doorway.

There’s nothing there, he thought.

Still, he felt his body begin to tremble. A draft from some undisclosed location breathed a breath of cellar earths, stiffening the hairs on the back of his neck. Looking into the blackness, he almost wanted to believe he could sense something therein drawing nearer to the dim light; something coming achingly slowly into view, yet remaining cradled by the house night.

Nothing’s there.

Ice crept along his bones.

It’s impossible for anything to be there! He’s dead, he’s dead!

A cool draft, like a chilled hand, touched his cheek.

His mind screamed, Leave! Quick, get out, get out!

His stomach tightened. A strangled cry inched up his throat. Turning, Jimmy ran on rubbery legs toward the door that led back out to the world; the world where the sun shone, the leaves were green, and the air was warm.

There, the entry hall. There, the door, the door! Had he shut it behind him?

He threw himself at the door, closing his hand over the doorknob. The door would not open.

He felt as if the contents of his chest and stomach were bloating horribly, the excess pushing upward into his throat with tremendous force. As panic spread like wildfire through his body, he pulled at the knob with both hands to no avail.

Suddenly, again he heard an alien creak from behind. He turned his head, hands not moving from the knob, and—no! no!—was that a shadow growing on the floor in the dim light of the living room?

Jimmy cursed shrilly, the vulgarities slipping off his tongue and vocalizing half consciously and half unconsciously. His strength ebbing, he focused the last of it into opening the door and just as he heard a floorboard near the doorway to the entry hall creak the door flung wide and sunlight struck him with all its golden glory.

He fled from the house, down the driveway, and jumping on his bicycle, peddled breathlessly away. As he did so, he thought of the last sound he’d heard. The sound of the front door closing.

Eugene was dead. Everyone said so.

But if the door had not closed by a phantom hand, than by what?

*****

Night came suddenly.

Jimmy lay in his bed unable to sleep. With the departure of the sun, cool air had befallen this side of the world, and outside a wind had begun moaning through the trees. Turning his head toward the desk whereupon resided his backpack, he thought about his ill gotten gain. Today he might have been just a boy. But tomorrow he would be a hero. A small smile gifted his face to think that when he showed her the jade figurine he had stolen, Mary Jane might let him kiss her. In fact, his smile widened, she might even let him do more than that when they were alone.

But for now night encased the house, its dark influence residing within his room; the knowledge of its existence clotting the space in his skull, creeping coldly into his brain. For as he lay there shuddering despite not being cold, he felt thirsty but could not make himself move to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water or milk or anything.

He just kept looking at the dark window. That’s where the night was. That’s where the stars and the moon shined cold and bright.

What’s the matter with you? Jimmy thought. He was growing impatient with his inability to sleep. He wondered if he could sleep.

“You’re not scared, are you?”Alison’s mocking words drifted into his mind. He turned over onto his side, shutting his eyes, and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

Scared? he thought bitterly. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you. I have the jade figurine.

He opened his eyes and peeked at the clock to see that only a half an hour had elapsed.

He turned onto his back, eyes trained on the ceiling. He sighed heavily. Moving his head slightly, he looked at the moonlight shining softly on the blinds. Sometimes when the wind was rough, he liked to watch the treetops thrashing back and forth. Tonight though they were probably only swaying.

Yes, probably, he thought and, sitting up, pulled back the blinds to see.

Beyond the side yard fence, the visible trees in the neighboring yards were black silhouettes against the lighter darkness of the night sky wherein shone the stars like frozen oversized fireflies and the full moon like the single opened eye of some monstrously gigantic unseen creature looking down at a complex world and unable to understand it.

Letting the blinds fall back across the window, he lay there shivering and helpless. He looked about the darkened room with a distinct feeling of being watched, although he could not understand why. He knew there was no one there.

Stop acting like this, he thought.

Again Jimmy shut his eyes. Again he breathed deeply, exhaling slowly. At length he reopened his eyes. It was obvious he wasn’t going to find sleep. So why fight it? he thought tiredly.

The seconds crept slowly by, the minutes inching away, scarcely half an hour elapsing when he found himself wishing for the merest dog to hold, hugging the sheets which were warm but would not warm him, and finally, feeling agitated, sitting up to the silent air—the dark air.

This is ridiculous, he thought and pulled back the blinds to look out once more at the night.

Suddenly the window was filled with a hideously malignant face with a squat nose, misshapen lips, and unblinking eyes that were recessed and small. The face pressed tightly against the cold glass so that its features were squished and its wretchedness increased by a multitude.

Oh Jesus God, that face!

Jimmy let the blinds fall back and collapsed backward, nearly falling off the bed. The scream in his throat had inched its way up enough so that it ushered weakly from his dry mouth. It was loud enough though that his door opened, light from the hall spilling across him.

His father stood in the doorway. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jimmy lay there for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then, quivering as he sat up, he said, “Um…nothing. Nothing, it was just a bad dream.”

“Well, okay.” His father left the door open a crack, a pencil thin line of light cutting across the floor—cutting across the bed.

Jimmy, heart still racing, put a hand to his forehead where he discovered a thin perspiration. Drying his forehead with the back of his hand, he lied back down. His eyes stared at the window. He felt a shudder run through him.

No, he thought, closing his eyes and pulling the covers up to his chin. It was just your imagination. It was just your imagination. It was just…

…the sound of a door closing.

He opened his eyes. Had he slept? He must have. The sound of a door closing must have been from a dream he’d had. Judging by the creak, it had sounded like the front door. But this was ridiculous. Neither of his parents would be going out at this late hour, and it wasn’t his brother sneaking in after curfew because he was at college.

The wind had died down. The house was as quiet as the grave.

Except for the solitary creak of a floorboard in the hall.

In his sleepy state, it sounded very distant. It was only mother or father. Jimmy, taking comfort in this thought, shut his eyes again. He listened to the creaking of the hall floor grow steadily nearer.

Then stop.

Jimmy’s eyes opened.

Had the line of hall light widened?

No, just his imagination.

So why was it growing wider?

He felt bands of ligament drawing in and a shudder coursed through his frame. For when had mother or father ever breathed that way; raspy, ageless?

And what was that weirdly shaped shadow which grew in the light on the wall? A shadow he sincerely believed he recognized. One he’d seen in an autumnal place to which no one ventured.

Jimmy shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. It was only a dream, a wickedly perverse dream. But some dreams seemed too real to be mere dreams.

Suddenly his eyes shot open. He sucked in winter night. He felt his groin convulse in fear and a gunshot of urine burst hot and shocking down his legs.

Even in dreams, no element was as distinct as the weight which set down on Jimmy’s bed near his feet.

Eugene had come for the jade figurine.

Owen Crawford is a California writer whose work has appeared in magazines such as Planet Magazine and The Storyteller.