Crowley's End

I laughed under streetlights with Gaz, Brett, and Simon. I was brave. Cocky even.

Not now.

I shiver. The handle of my bucket is greasy with palm-sweat. No streetlights this far out. My friends are tucked safe in that warm orange glow, egging me on. I can't hear their shouts anymore.

The House looms taller with every forced step. Narrower, more crooked and run-down. The forest behind it feels nearer. A spook behind every tree for sure. It smells different out here. Like outdoors, and cold, and woodland. Is that pine? And... something else. Like a gone-out bonfire.

This close, I believe the rumours: ole Crowley killed his whole family, and the bodies are still there. Stashed in barrels out back, or sat 'round the table for a gruesome teaparty.

My nose twitches. My skin prickles. This costume feels far too thin. Winter isn't quite here, but she's tapping on the door with a sharp knife.

These are the thoughts I think to keep me walking forward.

Some of the oldsters call this place Crowley's Folly, 'cuz Mr Crowley's dad kept it when the neighbours sold up to developers. The old Mr Crowley inherited it from his father, who was just plain weird. People say there's a pentagram under the dining-room rug that won't wash off. Dunno how they know. Nobody's been in there for years. Years and years.

I don't like where these thoughts are going, so I haul them round and force myself to think of something else.

Most call it Crowley's End. They call it that, because it's right at the far end of the town, see? But also, when it's dark like this, and cold, it feels like the end of the world, it really does. The edge of civilisation. The forest back there is bursting with starved wolves who feast on kids. In a second, I might hear them. It will be a sharp sound, to cut through this unnerving silence. The mist looks like its boiling out from the trees.

I'm trembling, and even though it's nearly dark, I make myself stare at normal stuff. My bravery is fake and shaky, a house of cards even more rickety than the House in front of me. If I breathe too fast, or look the wrong way, it'll come crashing down. So I stare at my feet, the ground, the long, dead, long-dead grass...

It looks like no one even lives here, let alone cares about it. Junk everywhere, and weeds. There's cracked windows on every level, and the fencing around the porch is broken in several places.

Even in the daytime in the summer holidays, the House always looks gloomy. Back when my brother had a paper round, he told me all about it, how he refused to deliver here after a week.

Something horrible must have happened in this house. It groans with the secrets it's barely holding in. Nobody dares come here anymore. That's what it looks like. 'Cept me. I dare. And Silas Crowley, o' course. But he lives there, so he hardly counts. And, he lives there by himself, and he never comes out.

The wooden steps creak. I can't believe I'm doing this. The planks are broken and rotted, so I can ignore being scared and concentrate on not putting my foot through the boards. Imagine being stuck here. When Mr Crowley comes out. People say he's got a hook for a hand.

I raise my hand and I do it. I nearly wet myself, but I do it. I knock.

A light flicks on. There's a shadow, and footsteps. My courage falls out of me in a rush, and I run.

I don't bother picking my way over the ancient decking, this time. The picture of Mr Crowley coming at me with his eyes gleaming and his hook raised might have only ever existed in my head, but it's real enough at that moment, and it's sharp. I leap over the fencing and land badly. The grass is high, but thin, so it's no good to land on or run fast through. The best I can do is wade, half-blind in the near-dark, and stumbling on the rutted grounded.

The creak of the door sounds like it's right at my back, and I freeze, like I can't decide whether to leg it or turn and check that the creepy old man isn't right behind me, reaching with his hook... so I do neither, and wait, eyes popping and teeth chattering, to feel the poke of metal...

"You're meant to say, 'Trick o' treat'," he says.

Relief hits you like a warm wave, melting away the spiky edges of fear, loosening muscles locked tight in place. Maybe it was how ordinary his voice sounded. Or the unmistakeable rustle of sweet wrappers. My head swings round, like it's on a string.

He looks... ordinary. No hook. Just... old. He's leaning on a stick, and rustling the box of treats like it's Go-cat and I'm a stray kitten. He's wearing slippers.

Once I take one step, the others follow more easily. I go the long way, up the steps and across the decking. I don't think I could jump from down here. Leaning forward to see what he's got, I flow right up to the door step. I can see a slice of his home behind him and it looks... nice. Neat, in a gentle sort of way. The light in the hallway is soft yellow, and way beyond I can see a bit of his living room. He's got a cup of tea or cocoa or something next to an easy chair.

He talks about his daughter, gone to live in Australia, and his wife who died many years ago, and then he pushes another handful of chocolate at me.

"Hurry off home, now, kid," he says, "before you catch your death," and then he shuffles back inside.

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Word count (not counting author's note): 987

Author's note:

This started as a micro, and eventually I thought, "heck it all" and decided to do another Kenny's challenge instead. You can read about that here:

Image: I didn't have too bad of a fight with AI today. That is close to what I was hoping for.

Thank you

As always, thank you for reading!

I did another piece for this challenge here:

And here's another entry I enjoyed: