The Dare

Andrea Buffington, Tracie Hingtgen, Mike Pasley

Ghost Stories
Andrea Buffington

The tender white flesh brushed against the flames, its surface glossy with heat, then blistered. It crisped brown, then caught fire.

“Collin, marshmallow’s on fire.”

In jerking the stick back, the sticky, ignited glob of sugar was flicked off the end, becoming a flaming projectile. Sticking to a box of graham crackers like napalm, the cardboard caught fire. Two older boys rushed over to put out the marshmallow, avoiding the campfire, closely followed by Collin who’d forgotten he was still holding a pointy stick.

“Ow, Collin, watch it,” Garrett shouted, rubbing his arm. He hadn’t really been hurt but scowled in annoyance at this younger cousin. This little bonfire with a bunch of neighborhood nose-pickers was his uncle’s idea, and as his family was only visiting, he didn’t have means to avoid it.

A huddle of grade-schoolers giggled watching Patrick put out the shallow flames that had defaced the charred box. “Killed the marshmallow.”

“Sorry, Garrett,” Collin abashedly apologized.

Garrett ignored him and sat on a large log being used as a temporary seat next to a round blond boy about his own age with a rough face.

“Beaten by a toddler,” the blond boy goaded.

“Shut it, Paul.”

Patrick, who’d witnessed the slight argument, noticed his little brother looking rather distraught.

“No harm’s done Collin; it’s not like you could’ve set the house on fire. We’re too far away. Cracker? They’re still good.”

Collin took the offered snack, but didn’t eat it.

“If nothing else, it’s a good story to tell Dad.”

“Speaking of stories,” Garrett’s voice announced from nowhere. Patrick hadn’t known they’d been overheard. There was a smug sort of bitter-grin in Garrett’s voice. “I say it’s time for some ghost stories.”

The very mention of “ghost stories” sent shivers through the young children who fidgeted restlessly on their log opposite the older boys. It was the kind of fidgeting signifying a dislike of what was being said, but they knew contradiction would mean name-calling and a wedgie. The flames of the fire lit Garrett’s face red and the silhouette of the wood loomed behind him. He looked quite frightening from the kid’s point of view.

“Do any of you know what happened to Brian and Charlie Mops?”

“I thought they moved to Cleveland.”

“That’s what your mom wants you to believe!” Garrett snapped, composing himself and lowering his voice for effect, “They went walking in these woods, by the graveyard, and never came out again.”

“They moved to Cleveland.”

“Did they tell you that?”

“No, my mom . . .”

“Exactly. Their parents were scared and moved away, and your parents don’t want you to be scared of the Bunnyman.”

“Bunnyman? What kind of name. . .”

“He escaped from a psycho ward and lives in the graveyard, in the crypt. He eats bunnies, raw, but he likes little kids better.”

The huddled mass of little kids on the other side of the fire all wore very similar looks of doe-eyed fright.

“And he lives in the graveyard?”

“In the crypt. Like a vampire.”

“Does he come out of the woods?” Collin asked.

“To get food – bunnies and little kids. That’s what happened to Brian and Charlie. They went in on a dare and the Bunnyman killed them. Nobody found their bodies, but that’s because no one was allowed to open the crypt. They would’ve found them in there.”

Patrick didn’t like that his little brother was falling for this stupid and rather poorly told ghost story. Besides, he and Garrett were too old to be telling bad ghost stories to little kids.

“Just because there’s a graveyard nearby doesn’t mean it’s haunted.”

Everyone was now staring at Patrick, and Garrett was looking rather annoyed.

“Well, it doesn’t.”

Garrett laughed, “Well, then prove it. Dare you to go to the crypt and,” he paused to think, “you gotta leave something. Your watch. Tomorrow we’ll go and see if you actually went.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, “No. You can get arrested for going in the graveyard at night.”

“Who’s gonna see you besides the Bunnyman?”

Patrick reasoned that they were out in the middle of nowhere, and no one would see him. It would be the stupidest thing he’d ever do, but no harm, no foul. At least his little brother wouldn’t be having nightmares about some psycho living next to them.

“Fine. Anybody gotta flashlight?”

All Alone
Tracie Hingtgen

Patrick knew it was a lame dare with a fictitious character named the Bunnyman. He wasn’t like Collin’s younger friends who needed their mommies to hold their hands if they walked through the woods. Patrick had visited these woods before and had even been to the graveyard that was beyond them during the day. The only difference was that this time the sky was bleak and the weather matched the same mood while spitting little raindrops on Patrick’s red hair.

As Patrick started to walk slowly into the woods, the fall leaves made a crunch noise under his green Converse shoes, and it sounded more like he was stomping on eggshells. The batteries to his flashlight were low and the light flickered when he turned it on. It was also tiny, and it could fit easily into his jean pocket. At first, Patrick wasn’t scared. He stood with his shoulders back, head held high, and his eyes fixed straight ahead into the unknown.

He was alone. The woods seemed to be covered in the endless dark blanket with strange noises popping all round him. Many times Patrick heard a second set of footsteps from behind him that made the same crunch noise, but as soon as Patrick stopped to look, the noise disappeared. Each step proved to be more difficult than the last. He knew there was a clearing ahead that led to the graveyard, but he thought by now he would have been there.

“It’s all a dare. It’s just a dare,” Patrick whispered to himself.

The flashlight continued to flicker. Patrick hit the flashlight against his leg to bring life back into it, and his shoe stuck on a sharp object. His heart pumped outside his chest. His eyes searched the ground frantically while his hands shook. Patrick screamed out in frustration while he frantically kicked whatever object on the ground that tugged on him. He aimed the flashlight quickly and noticed it was only a tree branch. With relief, Patrick picked up the tree branch and threw it to the right of him. The tree branch hit the first tombstone, and Patrick was relieved that he was headed in the right direction.

The graveyard consisted of all the normal things Patrick thought he would encounter, old headstones with even older dates engraved on them and huge angel statues that looked real. Patrick felt he was being watched by all the statues, and a strange fog made him look down at his shoes. Patrick didn’t see his green Converse shoes anymore. The fog covered the graveyard, and he believed his friends planted a fog machine just to make the dare worse.

“Nice try, guys,” he said under his breath. Patrick feared that the Bunnyman had been watching his every move since he arrived in the graveyard. Soon, Patrick didn’t want to be brave; he wanted Collin with him at that moment. The wind began to pick up and more crunching noises were made in the woods behind him. Patrick realized his wasn’t alone, and the noise grew louder and closer. He sprinted between the tombstones and remembered that his mother once told him that it wasn’t polite to walk directly on them. Agreeing it was not a good idea to do so, he followed the gravel trail around the graveyard.

The crypts were located in the center of the graveyard; Patrick stopped dead in his tracks. His feet felt like lead, and they seemed to be stuck in one place. His mind switched to all the stories Garrett told him about how the Bunnyman captured bunnies and little kids only to eat them later.

He panted and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The flashlight was gone, lost in the leaves. He couldn’t go back now. Patrick noticed a light that appeared to be from the crypt. It was now or never. It all came down to this. Patrick played the scene in his head; leave the watch and then run like you’re on fire.

 

The Bunnyman, the Octopus.
Mike Pasley

It was dark.

I couldn’t see much.

“Shut up!” I yelled. I hated the dark. The animals think they can be loud when it’s dark. I wished I was an animal. A squirrel. A kangaroo.

An octopus.

If I was an octopus, life would be better. No need to be in this cemetery. No need to work. Working was difficult with so many distractions. Animals screaming at you and obscene thoughts crowding your head made it tough. I wasn’t cut out for work. I was sane enough to know that I was crazy. Crazy people shouldn’t be working.

I should have been an octopus.

I flicked on my flashlight. As soon as I did I heard a noise off to my left. It didn’t sound like a squirrel, kangaroo, or octopus. It sounded like a human person.

“What do want? I’m not alone out here. I’ve got some friends with me, and…we’ll beat you up so much if you come over here.”

The human person didn’t move.

I didn’t move.

Nobody moved.

“Are you the Bunnyman?” A voice trembled from the human person. It was a kid.

“I don’t know.” I was lying. I knew the kids called me that. So mean.

“Do you eat kids?” he asked.

“No. I eat McDonalds.”

He moved a little and I shined my flashlight and saw him. He looked young, teens maybe. He had shoes on and a shirt with writing. I couldn’t read, but I guessed it was a funny shirt. It looked funny.

His ears looked big. He looked like a Tom. No, maybe a Lionel. A William.

“What are you doing? This is private property?” I shouted.

“What are you doing then?”

“I’m the grounds keeper of the cemetery. Just making the nightly rounds. Looking for intruders, crazies.”

He asked me if I was the Bunnyman again. He was still about 20 feet away. I wished I knew what his shirt said. It looked funnier the closer he got.

“What does your shirt say?” I asked.

“Go hard or go home.”

“I don’t get it.” I didn’t get it.

He explained the saying to me, something about sports and being good at them.

“It’s not funny.” I told him.

Since his shirt wasn’t funny, I wasn’t interested in him anymore. I wanted him to leave. The animals wouldn’t shut up, it was getting late, and McDonalds was waiting at home.

“I’m the Bunnyman, I guess.”

“You are?” He sounded disappointed.

“You tell me. I didn’t name myself that.”

“Can I leave my watch in the crypt? It’s a dare.”

I knew I shouldn’t let him. I could get in trouble, but no one had talked to me that thought I was the Bunnyman in a couple years. It felt kind of good.

“What kind of dare? Is this a reality TV show? I don’t like your watch.” I searched for the logic to speak clearly, but I was getting anxious.

“My little brother is scared of you, so I’m proving that you’re not real,” he replied.

“I am real. I’m real, I’m real, I’m real.”

“I mean that you aren’t a killer and stuff. You’re not scary.”

He walked past me and put his watch just inside the crypt.

If I was an octopus, he’d be scared. But I wasn’t. Maybe this kid was an octopus because I was scared now. Alone, with this kid. Maybe he was the Bunnyman. My head was tingling. I couldn’t keep track of what was going on. I just wanted him to leave.

I shut off my flashlight and started screaming. Then the kid started screaming. Then I shouted, “I’m going to eat your brain so much!”

When he was totally out of sight, I stopped yelling. I was quiet for a while.

The animals got quiet. Then I started laughing. I was an octopus, scary and mysterious.

I went in the crypt and grabbed his watch.