“Speak for yourself, wet fish,” said Vito.
“I guess the dark just makes everything seem scarier,” said Billy, answering his own question. “Even when it’s not.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Vito.
“Only that just about anything in daylight will seem a lot less scary than it does at night.”
“Says you, hero,” said Vito. “How long do we have to stay down here, anyway?”
“Ten minutes,” said Billy.
Vito sat down on an empty wine crate and looked at the luminous dial of his expensive sports watch. Then he glanced around nervously.
“Mr. Rapscallion must have something hidden down here,” he said. “Someone dressed in a sheet, maybe. Or…I dunno. Any minute now I just know that someone or something is going to leap out and try to scare the heck out of me.” Vito made a fist and hit himself on the thigh. “But I won’t be scared off, do you hear? Not by him. Not by you. I’m going to win. Just see if I don’t.”
“I really don’t mind if you do win,” said Billy.
“You don’t?”
“I’ve learned that there are worse things in life than losing.”
But Vito wasn’t having any of this. “Speak for yourself. My dad didn’t raise me to be a loser.”
“Perhaps if we were to explore the cellar and find it before it found us,” suggested Billy.
“You mean go and look for it?” Vito sounded appalled at the very idea. “Whatever it might be?”
“That way we might scare it first,” said Billy. “Don’t you see? We’d be taking away the element of surprise.”
Vito nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” he said reluctantly. “But you go first, okay?”
And so they began to edge their way around the pitch-black cellar, with just their candles to illuminate their search.
“You’re a lot more courageous than you look, Billy,” said Vito grudgingly.
“Thanks,” said Billy. “I’m scared of a lot of things. But I’m not scared of the dark. I used to be. But not anymore.”
They were just about to conclude the search when, low down on the dampest, farthest wall, the two boys came upon what appeared to be the opening to a dark tunnel. A cool breeze emanated from the tunnel opening, although it wasn’t quite enough to extinguish the candles.
Billy stepped into the tunnel and peered ahead. The tunnel was a black void but, oddly enough, it didn’t make him feel afraid. Indeed, he thought that there was something reassuring and even pleasant about the tunnel. It seemed to beckon him on.
“You’re not serious,” said Vito.
“Funnily enough, I am,” said Billy, going a bit farther into the tunnel.
“You’re crazy,” said Vito. “It’s like someone’s tomb in here.” He put his hand on the wall and then pulled it quickly away. “Gives me the creeps.”
“I think that was the general idea, don’t you? Only it’s really not all that creepy in here. It’s just like any other cellar: dark and cold and a bit damp.”
“What else do you want from a creepy place?”
“Wait a minute,” said Billy. “There’s something there.”
Vito held his breath for a moment. “What is it?” he whispered.
“I think I might be able to see it if it wasn’t for this candlelight. The flame moves around so that it’s impossible to make out whatever it is. I’m going to blow mine out.”
“Are you mad? Then we’d only have the one candle.”
“We could always relight the other candle.”
“Not if that one blows out, we can’t. Please, Billy, don’t blow your candle out.”
But it was too late. Billy had already blown out his candle.
“Yes. There is something,” said Billy. “There appears to be a light at the far end of the tunnel. It’s like the light from a brilliant gemstone. It’s getting bigger, too. And yes. I think I can also see the silhouette of a figure coming toward us. Don’t be scared, Vito. I think it’s something quite benign.”
But Vito had heard more than enough. Leaving Billy in the darkness, he ran back up the stairs as quickly as he could without extinguishing his own candle, up through the trapdoor and into the upper cellar, where Mr. Rapscallion, Mercedes and Elizabeth were waiting for him and Billy to return.
Vito didn’t say anything. He was too busy screaming. He went up the stairs, three at a time, and into the entrance hall. Then, still screaming with fright, Vito ran out of the Haunted House of Books and into the street, where he was pursued by his father and several more news reporters keen to buy his exclusive story. Because good news doesn’t sell newspapers.
After several moments had passed, Mr. Rapscallion said, “I wonder what scared him so much?” Mr. Rapscallion sounded genuinely mystified. “It certainly wasn’t the story. And I don’t think it could have been the cellar. I mean, there’s nothing down there except a few bottles of wine. Some of them are actually quite drinkable, too.”
Mercedes peered anxiously down through the trapdoor. “I can’t see any sign of a light down there,” she said. “It’s pitch-black. Do you suppose Billy’s all right?”
“It’s only a wine cellar,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Not a wicked troll’s dungeon.”
“Perhaps he’s dropped his candle,” said Mercedes, “and can’t find his way out in the dark.”
“I never thought of that,” said Mr. Rapscallion, and, leaning through the trapdoor, he switched on an electric light that lit up the Haunted Cellar like an airport terminal.
And, seeing the look of surprise on the faces of Mercedes and Elizabeth, he said, “Like I said, it’s a wine cellar, not a dungeon.”
The moment the electric light went on, they heard a shout from deep inside the cellar and everyone smiled with relief.
“Billy,” said Elizabeth. “I expect he just realized that he’s won.”
Mr. Rapscallion called out to him through the trapdoor of the cellar.
“You’ve won, Billy,” he said. “Vito’s run away. So you can come up now.”
A few moments later, Billy’s head and shoulders appeared through the trapdoor. He was smiling in a way none of his three friends had ever seen before. Like he had lost a cent and found a hundred dollars. Or maybe even a thousand.
“Jolly well done, Billy,” said Elizabeth, and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so pleased for you.”
“Yeah,” said Mercedes. “You did all right, kid. Nothing scares you, that much is clear.”
“Congratulations, my boy,” said Mr. Rapscallion, shaking him by the hand.
“Thank you, sir,” Billy said. “Thank you all.”
“Who’d have guessed it?” said Mercedes. “Billy. The one kid who looked like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. The winner.” And, not to be outdone by Elizabeth, she kissed Billy on the other cheek.
“Where’s Vito?”
“He took off,” said Mercedes. “Like a bat out of you know where.”
“Something spooked him,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “The same as the others. Any idea what it was?”
Billy shrugged. “A trick of the light, I think. I thought I saw a light and then a figure.” He smiled bravely. “But it was probably just my imagination. Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing to fear except fear itself. For some reason that kept on running through my mind while I was down there. There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.”
“That’s all?” Mr. Rapscallion sounded disappointed. “A pity.”
“A pity?” Billy laughed. “What do you mean?”
“The way he ran out of the shop, I thought that Vito Capone might at least have seen the famous Haunted House of Books ghost,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “It would have been very good for business if I could have reported one sighting, anyway.”
“I really don’t believe there is a ghost,” said Mercedes. “Not in this shop, anyway. Maybe not anywhere in the whole world. I’m seriously thinking of giving up the ghost-hunting business.”
r /> “Oh, please don’t say that,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “At least don’t say it to all those newspapermen and television reporters. After all, who’s going to buy books of ghost stories if you go around saying sensible things like that?”
“That reminds me,” said Mercedes. “There are hundreds of them out there. Reporters, that is. Simply hundreds. What’s poor Billy going to do? They’ll eat him and his father alive.”
Mr. Rapscallion shrugged. “Maybe Billy wants to sell his story to a newspaper. Why not? How I survived listening to the scariest story ever told. Something like that.”
Billy shook his head.
“I’m tired,” he admitted. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night. It is very late, after all. Besides, I don’t think my dad would approve of us selling our story to a newspaper.”
“Your father is obviously a very sensible man, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And a man of strong moral fiber. That much was very clear from our conversation. I admire a man of principle.” He nodded. “But Mercedes is right. It might be easier if you were to slip out of the back door. I’ll speak to your father, Billy, and tell him where you are.”
“I expect he’ll have disappeared off home by now,” said Billy. “I can’t imagine he’ll have stayed throughout all this fuss. He doesn’t like crowds of people at all. He’s really a very shy person. Shy and retiring, that’s what he says.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “But look here, it’s late like you say, Billy. And you’re just a kid. Maybe someone should go home with you.”
“It’s okay,” said Billy. “The thunderstorm’s over now. I’ll find my own way back. I always do.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “If you’re sure. Meanwhile, I’d better go and face the world’s press. I know I’m not going to get any sleep until I’ve told them something of what happened here tonight.” He smiled. “If only I understood a little more about that myself.”
“If you are going out there,” said Billy, “then perhaps you could tell Altaira to meet me around the corner.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am she’s calling herself Altaira again instead of Redford,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “I owe that to you, of course.”
“Me?”
“You’re the reason she’s been coming back to the shop, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“You think?”
“I know.”
Billy Shivers sneaked out of the shop into the alley and, to his surprise, he found Altaira already waiting there.
“I won,” he said modestly.
“I heard. Billy, I’m so glad.”
Billy shook his head. “Only I didn’t really feel like speaking to all those newspapermen. So I slipped out the back way.”
“I thought you might.”
“I don’t really like crowds of people,” he confessed.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Because I’m not crowds of people. Just a friend come to walk you home.”
Mr. Rapscallion awoke late and with a sore head. He’d taken a couple of old bottles from the wine cellar and had celebrated a little too enthusiastically. But almost immediately after he was out of bed, he realized that in all the excitement of the previous evening he had quite forgotten to give Billy his prize money.
“How could I be so careless?” he asked Mercedes when, eventually, she and Elizabeth showed up at the shop. “And him and his family so poor and everything. You know, I bet a thousand dollars is really going to make a lot of difference to those people.”
“It’s probably just as well you didn’t give it to him last night,” said Mercedes. “A twelve-year-old boy walking home at night with a thousand dollars in his pocket? That wouldn’t have been such a good idea.”
“He didn’t walk home alone,” said a voice. “I walked him home.”
They looked around as the door announced a customer in the usual spooky way. It was Altaira.
“Altaira,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “How wonderful. I’m so glad you came by. And while I was here.”
“I just dropped in to congratulate you,” she said. “On the success of the contest. I think you must be in every newspaper and on every TV show in the country. I guess now you’ll be able to keep the shop.”
“Yes. Elizabeth? Mercedes? This is my daughter, Altaira.”
“Hi,” said Altaira.
“What a lovely name,” said Elizabeth.
“Thanks,” said Altaira. “It’s from Forbidden Planet, the movie.”
“Oh, I love that movie,” said Mercedes.
“Me too,” said Altaira.
“I wonder where Billy is,” said Mr. Rapscallion. He looked at his watch. “Frankly, I thought he’d be here. He usually is, by now.”
“We did have a very late night,” said Altaira. “I can’t stop yawning.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Him walking you home?”
“I can look after myself,” said Altaira. “I’m street-smart. He’s not.”
“That boy is rather unworldly, it’s true,” admitted Mr. Rapscallion. “So what happened?”
“Dad.” Altaira looked away. “Please. It’s private, if you don’t mind.” She found herself coloring as she remembered how they had sat on his porch in front of Billy’s house and Billy had held her hand in his. Nothing had been said. Nothing needed to be said. But she certainly didn’t want to tell her dad any of that.
“You know what we should do?” said Mercedes, quickly changing the subject. “We should take a taxi over to Billy’s house and give him and his family the prize money right now. We could all go. The four of us. It might be a nice surprise for them.”
“You think they’d mind?” asked Elizabeth. “Us turning up unannounced like that?”
Mercedes shrugged. “When did people ever mind someone turning up to hand them a thousand dollars in cash?”
“You’ve got a point,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “I think it’s a terrific idea.”
He went to the drawer in the cash desk.
“Now where’s that proof of purchase he filled in with his address?”
“It’s 320 Sycamore, Southeast Hitchcock,” said Altaira.
“What if he’s already on the way here?” said Elizabeth.
“Sycamore is off Potter Road,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “If he’s already on his way here, we’re bound to see him. Potter Road is the quickest way to get here.”
Carefully, Mr. Rapscallion took a thousand dollars in cash from the Brown Bomber and put it in his coat pocket.
“What kind of place is it?” he asked his daughter.
“Oh, a big old house. It was nice. A real family home, you know.”
Then they went outside onto Hitchcock High Street and found a cab.
Mr. Rapscallion told the taxi driver, “320 Sycamore.”
The cab driver looked at them strangely. “320 Sycamore?”
“That’s what I said,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Off Potter Road.”
The driver shrugged and did as he was told. They drove southeast for about ten minutes, along Potter Road, and then left onto Sycamore. The houses along Sycamore were big, brick-built, three-story homes for large, wealthy families, with high mansard roofs. Some of the houses looked at least a hundred years old. Finally, the driver pulled up in front of the very last house on the road.
“Is this the place?” asked the driver.
“Of course it is,” said Mr. Rapscallion without really looking at the house.
“Well, this house ain’t been lived in for forty years,” said the driver.
“Oh, my Lord,” said Altaira, and covered her mouth.
320 Sycamore was a large, heavy block of a house with a big, square central tower that was sort of standing guard over it, and at least a dozen blank, staring windows. It was also badly neglected—a dreary, creepy-looking ruin. The front door was gone and most of the window shutters were hanging off their hinges. The front garden was badly
overgrown and full of discarded tires and broken timbers.
“Are you sure this is 320 Sycamore?” Mr. Rapscallion asked the driver.
“Mister, I’ve been a cab driver in Hitchcock for thirty years and I know every inch of this town.”
“This is the house,” Altaira said quietly. “Only it was kind of different last night. Everything was. The house. The garden. Everything.”
Shocked and puzzled, Mr. Rapscallion paid what was on the meter and followed Mercedes and Elizabeth up to the ruined porch. Altaira stayed on the sidewalk for a moment and then walked after her father, who kept on glancing at her with a look of concern.
“It’s all right, Dad,” she said. “I’m okay.”
They stepped across a large hole in the floor and paused in front of the open doorway. This was shrouded with hundreds of spiders’ webs as if no one had crossed the threshold in at least ten years.
“It’s like something out of ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ ” said Elizabeth.
“Except there’s no sign of any beauty,” said Mercedes.
Mr. Rapscallion cleared the webs away with the forearms of his coat and went inside. Broken glass cracked under the soles of his shoes. Inside, the house was dark and forbidding, cold and damp and, most of all, unwelcoming, as if some terrible, unspeakable tragedy had affected it.
“Billy?” he called. “Mr. Shivers. It’s me. Mr. Rapscallion. Is there anyone at home?”
But there was no answer. Just the sound of the wind moaning through a broken window, and a loose shutter tapping gently against the casement.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” admitted Mercedes.
“Think how I feel,” said Altaira. She shook her head. “Maybe I made a mistake. I must have. I mean, just look at this place.”
Mr. Rapscallion stuffed his hand into his pocket and took out the sales receipt that had brought them there. “No,” he said. “There’s no mistake. 320 Sycamore. That’s his handwriting. He wrote the address out himself.”
“Great,” said Altaira. “That’s just great.”
They went into the front garden, where a man with a hard hat and a roll of plans under his arm was getting out of a small truck. He looked surprised to see anyone coming out of the old house.