The 12 Screams of Christmas

  No. I wasn’t hungry. In fact, my stomach felt hard as a rock.

  I took a seat across from the twins. Aaron stood at the head of the table. He picked up the carving knife. He ran a finger down the blade.

  He lowered his eyes to me. “Turkey is your favorite — isn’t it.” It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a threat. He ran his finger along the knife blade again.

  “Here comes the turkey!” Peg announced cheerily. She carried a big oval platter to the table and set it down in front of her husband.

  I gazed at the platter — and nearly choked.

  I was staring at a turkey skeleton. All bones. No meat.

  A short while later, Peg set a big bowl on the table in front of me. “Help yourself, dear,” she said.

  I peered into the bowl. I saw a big dust ball inside.

  Another bowl appeared. Peg placed it on my other side.

  I didn’t want to look inside it, but I couldn’t help myself. When I saw the pile of mouse heads in the bowl, I wanted to scream. My stomach did a flip-flop. I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from puking.

  I looked away. But I couldn’t get the sight of the tiny black eyes in the furry gray mouse heads from my mind.

  “Go ahead, dear,” Peg urged. “Help yourself to my sweet potatoes.” She pushed the bowl with the mouse heads toward me. “Taste it. Let me know if it needs salt.”

  “No. Really,” I murmured. I felt my stomach heave again. “No thank you. I’m … not hungry. I —”

  “Taste it!” Peg screamed. She raised a big serving spoon to my face. I stared at the two wilted mouse heads staring back at me on the spoon. “Taste it!”

  She pushed the spoon to my mouth.

  “Taste it. Taste it — now!”

  “NOOOOO!”

  I screamed and shot my hands up. I knocked the bowl away.

  It crashed to the floor, and the mouse heads rolled out like little tennis balls.

  I jumped to my feet. “You have to let me go!” I cried. I tried to walk away, but I stumbled over the mouse heads. The heads rolled all over the floor. I caught my balance against a dining room chair.

  “You have to let me go back to the others,” I said. “Back downstairs. You can’t keep me here.”

  I stood with my hands pressed against my waist, breathing hard.

  Peg pretended she didn’t hear me. She wiped her hands again on her apron. I could see she was struggling to keep the anger off her face.

  “Well, if you’re not hungry, dear,” she said, calmly, slowly, “let’s open our presents now.”

  The twins cheered and clapped their hands.

  Peg disappeared for a moment. Then she returned carrying a big gift box. She handed it to Aaron, who still sat at the head of the table.

  “What could this be?” he said, running his hands along the red ribbon tied on the box.

  He slid the ribbon off and pulled open the lid. His eyes went wide as he pulled out a ragged brown sweater covered with gaping moth holes. “A sweater!” he cried. “I love it!”

  Peg smiled at him and patted his shoulder. “I know you do,” she said. “I’ve given it to you every Christmas for over a hundred years.”

  They both chuckled as if she had made a funny joke.

  Aaron held the ragged sweater up to show it off to Abe and Ned.

  Peg turned to me. “And what did you bring us, Flora?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

  “What did you bring us?” Peg repeated. “The boys are dying for some new presents.”

  They all laughed.

  “Dying, see?” Peg said. “Dying for presents. That’s a joke.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think it was very funny.

  This was insane. Like a terrible nightmare. Only, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I was trapped here with them. No way to escape.

  I was totally at their mercy.

  They waited for me to say something. Did they really expect me to bring them presents? My stomach tightened into a knot. I could feel the panic sweep over me, freeze me in place.

  “We are waiting,” Aaron said.

  I shrugged. I lowered my head. “I … I don’t have any presents,” I said in a whisper.

  They remained silent for a moment. No one moved. It was as if someone had pushed STOP and the video had frozen in place.

  And then they began to change. Their faces reddened, then darkened to purple. Their dead eyes bulged. Their cheeks blew in and out like frogs’ cheeks.

  “You spoiled our Christmas!” Aaron growled. His purple face appeared ready to explode. He opened his mouth in an animal howl.

  “You ruined everything!” Peg rumbled in a harsh, gravelly rasp. “You spoiled our holiday.”

  The boys changed, too. Their faces bellowed in and out. Like fish heads. Their eyes appeared about to fly out of their sockets. Their hair stood up on end. Straight up in the air. Their hands swelled. Their whole bodies shimmered and pulsed angrily.

  “You spoiled Christmas,” Peg roared. “You must be punished.”

  “No, please.” I struggled to back away. But there was nowhere to go.

  “Please,” I begged. “What are you going to do? What are you going to do to me?”

  “Punished,” Aaron murmured. “You must be punished.”

  “No, please —”

  The two boys moved toward me, dark eyes bulging. Their red faces pulsed in and out. They walked stiffly, like robots or zombies.

  I tried to back away, but I was pinned against the attic wall.

  “Punished,” they chanted. “Punished.”

  Once again, the boys grabbed me by the arms. They gripped me with inhuman strength.

  “Let go!” I cried. “Let go of me!”

  I tried to squirm free. But they were too strong.

  They lifted me off the floor.

  I kicked them. Squirmed and kicked.

  But they weren’t human. They didn’t even look like boys anymore. More like red-faced, snarling monsters.

  “Let go of me!” I kicked. I twisted. I tried to duck out of their grasp.

  But they held me tightly under my arms. Above the floor. Nearly a foot off the floor.

  Held me helpless. And carried me across the attic, past the dining room table with its skeleton turkey. Past the fireplace … the Christmas tree with its old-fashioned popcorn and burning candles …

  To the attic window.

  “Punished … Punished …” I could hear Aaron and Peg chanting in low voices behind me.

  The boys pushed the wreath out of the way. Then they slid open the attic window. Slid it open all the way.

  I could see a black-shingle roof tilting below the window. And beyond it — far below — the backyard with its garden shed, run-down shack, and stone well.

  I could see it all through the open window.

  “Punished … Punished …”

  Without a groan, without a sound, the boys raised me higher. They lifted me to the open window.

  “Hey — stop!” I screamed. “What are you doing? Let me down! Stop!”

  They didn’t react to my screams. Their eyes remained straight ahead. Their expressions didn’t change.

  “Good-bye, Kate,” Aaron called. “Good-bye!”

  The boys hoisted me higher — and heaved me out the attic window.

  I sailed into the air. Too terrified to scream.

  The cloudless blue sky seemed to lower itself to meet me.

  My heart felt about to explode in my chest. I could feel the blood pulse at my temples.

  But the shock of the cold air jolted me alert.

  I landed on my back on the slanting roof below the window. Without thinking, I tucked my head and did a forward roll. It took me to the edge of the roof.

  I could see the steep drop below me. Too far to jump down. I shot out both hands — and wrapped them around the metal gutter at the corner of the roof.

  Swinging my body around, I held on to the drainpipe. Wr
apped my legs around it. And slid … slid slowly down to the ground.

  I took a few steps. My legs felt weak. Trembly. I struggled to catch my breath.

  Have I escaped them? Have I really escaped?

  I turned to the house. The lights were on in the kitchen. I could see some kids inside through the back window.

  I have to warn my friends, I thought. I have to tell them the ghosts are living upstairs.

  I fought off my dizziness and forced my legs to move. I took a few stumbling steps toward the kitchen when the sky suddenly darkened.

  No. Not the sky. Abe and Ned flew down in front of me and slid beside me.

  “Go away!” I cried. I tried to run.

  But they grabbed me once again. Held me tightly under my arms.

  Their parents loomed up in front of me. Frightening creatures now. Their faces twisted and distorted, like red, melting candle wax. As if they couldn’t keep their shape. Their anger was so hot, it was melting their faces!

  “You cannot escape, Kate,” Peg rasped in an ugly animal growl. “You ruined our Christmas.”

  “You’re ruining MINE!” I screamed.

  A crazy thing to say. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. How could I? I was insane with fear.

  Their faces bubbled like hot tomato soup. Like the ugliest horror-movie monsters.

  Had they once been a happy, caring family? It was hard to imagine.

  Without a word, the boys lifted me off the ground again. They floated silently, carrying me across the backyard.

  Gusts of wind swirled dead leaves beneath us. Bare trees shook their dark limbs, as if trying to warn us away. At the back of the yard, two crows perched on the wood fence. Both cawed hoarsely, flapping their black wings as we approached.

  And then, there we were. We stood beside the stone well. The two monstrous parents. The strong, silent twins, their steel-like hands digging into my skin.

  I tensed my whole body. I gritted my teeth so hard, my jaw ached and throbbed.

  I couldn’t fight them. I couldn’t free myself.

  As the parents watched, the twins raised me over the top of the well.

  Gripped in terror, my senses went on superalert. I could see every crack in the stone walls. I could see a tiny white worm crawling along the round wall edge. I could see ripples in the dark water far below.

  Ned and Abe held me over the gaping opening.

  I shut my eyes. “Please …” I begged. “Please …”

  “Flora needs company for Christmas, too,” I heard Peg say. “Please wish her a merry Christmas.”

  “Good-bye, Kate,” the twins said in unison.

  I felt their hands loosen their grip on me and slide away.

  I felt myself start to slip down.

  “WAIT!” I screamed. “I can help you!”

  What was I thinking? I don’t know. It was my last frantic attempt to save my life.

  “I can help you!” I screeched.

  The twins’ strong hands tightened around me again. Slowly, they lifted me up, away from the well opening, and set me down on the ground.

  I stood there, sputtering, shaking, hugging myself, trying to get it together. My brain whirred. My head throbbed.

  The four of them huddled together in front of me. They didn’t move. Their eyes locked on me, like cold lasers. They waited for me to speak.

  Suddenly, miraculously, I had an idea.

  “What if I bring Flora up from the well?” I said in a tiny, trembling voice. “What if I rescue her?”

  They still didn’t move. The parents’ faces bubbled and blistered. The twins didn’t blink, just stared straight ahead like robots.

  “What if I bring Flora up to spend Christmas with you?” I repeated. “If I do, will you let me return to the other kids?”

  Aaron made a grunting sound. “Can’t be done,” he growled.

  “But if I do it …?” I said.

  “If you rescue Flora, we will let you go back to them,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But it can’t be done.”

  Peg raised her hands to her bubbling, melting cheeks. “Can’t be done,” she agreed.

  How did I plan to rescue Flora?

  I didn’t have a clue. I was just stalling them, just trying to save my life.

  Maybe … maybe I can find a way to get back to the others inside.

  Maybe I can trick these ghosts …

  “How long will you give me?” I asked. “I think I can rescue Flora. But how long will you give me to try? A day? Two days?”

  If they give me a day, I can run inside to safety.

  “Do it now,” Aaron said.

  “N-now?” I stammered. “No. I’ll need a little time. I —”

  He slid up to me, his eyes angry in that angry red face. “Now,” he repeated. “Do it now.”

  “But — but —” I sputtered.

  “Now.”

  This wasn’t working out.

  I needed a plan. I needed —

  Whoa. Wait a minute.

  Mr. Piccolo said the story of Flora and the ghosts had been passed down in his family. That story gave him the idea for his Christmas play. He said he had made one big change to the story. Because it was a Christmas play, he had Flora rescued in the end.

  Yes!

  And how was she rescued? By twelve screams. Someone screamed, “Come up!” twelve times — and Flora rose up from the bottom of the well.

  Of course, that was just in Mr. P’s play. But what if it really worked?

  What if twelve screams could make Flora rise up from the bottom of the well and return to her family?

  I had no choice. It was the only idea I had. I had to try it.

  My life depended on it.

  I turned to the well. I took a few steps toward it. I peered over the side.

  I could see that still, dark water far below. A perfect black circle, smooth and black.

  My legs were trembling. I was too terrified to breathe. Could I scream? Could I make a sound?

  I took a step back. I cupped my hands around my mouth — and I started to scream.

  “Come up! Come up! Come up …!”

  My voice echoed down the well walls. “Come up! Come up! Come up!”

  Carefully, I counted. Carefully, I numbered each scream.

  It had to be twelve. The twelve screams of Christmas. Just like in Mr. P’s play.

  “Come up! Come up! Come up!”

  I counted … ten … eleven … twelve times I screamed!

  And then, gasping for breath, my chest heaving up and down, dizzy … suddenly so dizzy … I staggered back — and watched. Gazed at the top of the well. And waited …

  Waited …

  Would it work?

  Would Flora come sailing up from her watery grave?

  Aaron, Peg, and the two boys hovered close behind me. No one spoke. The only sounds were the caws of the crows and the whoosh of the gusting wind across the backyard.

  And I could hear my heartbeat as I stared at the well. Stared and waited …

  Flora? Are you coming up?

  No. Silence from the well.

  I took a deep breath, stepped up to the side, and peered down.

  At the well bottom, the pool of black water stood still. Not a ripple. Not a splash.

  No. No. No.

  It didn’t work.

  I shut my eyes and backed away.

  Those twelve screams would be my last.

  And then I heard a soft splash. Just a whisper.

  At first, I thought it was the rush of wind.

  Another splash made me open my eyes. The sound came from deep in the well.

  I turned but didn’t move toward it. Afraid to see. Afraid that maybe I was imagining it because I was so frightened and desperate.

  But wait. I heard another sound ring up from deep down below. A slap against the stones. Another splash. And then a steady slap slap slap.

  I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  I dove to the side of the well. Gripped the cold
stone wall and peered down.

  I blinked as I saw a circle of red moving up from the darkness. It took me a while to focus and see that it was a red cap. Water spilled off the sides of the cap, sliding back to the black pool on the bottom.

  I saw two pale hands slapping the sides of the round wall. Two hands and then the slender arms poking out of a black dress. A young girl. Flora. Climbing slowly. Climbing up the side of the well.

  Yes! Yes!

  Water poured off her dress, off her dark shoes. Inch by inch, she clawed and pulled herself up the stone wall. I couldn’t see her face. It was hidden by the floppy, red cap.

  I realized I had stopped breathing. I let my breath out in a long whoosh.

  A wave of happiness and relief swept over me. You can relax now, Kate. You have rescued Flora. You are safe now. The ghost family will let you return to the others.

  But I couldn’t relax — not until Flora was out of the well.

  Slowly, steadily, she climbed. And then she stopped several feet below me.

  She stopped and raised a pale hand to me. “Pull me up.” Her voice sounded watery, muffled, frightened.

  “I can go no further,” she said. “Pull me up. Please hurry.”

  She clung to the wall with one hand. The other she raised toward me, the little fingers curling and uncurling. “I’ve waited so long. Please pull me up.”

  Forgetting the danger of the crumbling wall, I leaned over and reached for her. I stretched my arm down as far as it would go. Tried to stretch my hand to meet hers.

  But I couldn’t reach her. She was just a few inches too far down.

  “Pull me up,” she repeated, her voice shrill now, impatient. “Hurry. Pull me up.” Her hand slapped the stones.

  I tried again.

  No. My hand wrapped around nothing but air.

  “Come up a little higher,” I called. “Just a few inches higher, and I can grab you.”

  “Pull me up,” she said again. “I’ve climbed as high as I can climb. You must pull me up.”

  I leaned farther into the well. My waist was over the side. I stood on tiptoes. And reached … stretched my arm and reached down. And —

  Yes!

  My hand wrapped around hers. I felt the shock of how cold her hand was, how cold and soft and damp. Like a small fish.