Twilight Zone

  Beside her, Anthony’s laugh rose in approval. “This is a good cartoon.”

  “Uh-huh.” Helen forced a smile. “But aren’t there some other programs you like to watch, too?”

  Anthony shook his head. “Cartoons are the best.” He pointed at the screen, where the wolf’s smoking figure suddenly melted into the form of a ghostly angel, a halo encircling its head and a harp appearing between its paws. Now, spreading celestial wings, it floated away.

  “You see?” Anthony nodded happily. “Anything can happen in cartoons.”

  He turned to face Helen again. “That’s why I like them. Don’t you?” The brown eyes were serious now, as he gazed up expectantly. Helen sensed that somehow he attached great importance to her answer.

  She shifted in her seat, oddly disconcerted by his stare. “Well . . . I guess everybody likes cartoons.”

  “Not everybody.” Anthony darted a disapproving glance at his uncle.

  Uncle Walt chuckled hastily. “Oh, sure we do! We all like cartoons! Anything can happen in ’em, just like Anthony says. Wouldn’t want to watch anything else, no-siree!”

  Now footsteps sounded from the hallway, and a voice rose gaily. “Here we come!”

  Helen turned, gazing over the back of the sofa as Anthony’s parents appeared followed by Ethel, each of them carrying two cardboard plates.

  “Good stuff here for everybody!” Father grinned happily as he set his burden down on the card table. Ethel followed suit, then lugged a small end table across the room and set it down before the sofa where Anthony’s mother stood waiting.

  “There you are, darling.” Mother put down one plate before him, then placed the other before his guest.

  “Thank you,” Helen murmured.

  As his mother moved away to join the others seated around the card table, Anthony turned his attention to the food.

  Helen glanced down at her plate, staring dubiously at its contents.

  What kind of a meal was this? A thin hamburger and a jelly donut nestled against a candy bar and a bag of potato chips. Was this their idea of good food? Apparently so, for from the card table across the room, voices rose in ecstatic approval.

  “Mmm! Doesn’t this look yummy?”

  “Boy, that’s good!”

  “Isn’t this delicious!”

  “You bet!”

  Anthony cast a sidelong glance at Helen. “Okay?”

  Helen nodded politely. She was conscious of guarded stares from the other table as she lifted the hamburger bun. To her surprise there was peanut butter smeared on top of the meat patty.

  The boy beamed at her. “I always like peanut butter on hamburgers. It’s good that way.”

  She managed a smile as she put the top back on the bun and took a tentative nibble. The silent tension at the other table was broken now by the sounds of enjoyment; the lip-smacking noises and enthusiastic murmurs with which food is consumed in television commercials.

  As she listened, vagrant thoughts intruded. There had been no commercials interrupting the TV cartoons here tonight. That was strange. But even stranger was the spectacle of Anthony’s family devouring their odd meal as though it were a gourmet dinner.

  Helen forced herself to take another tiny bite. Yes, it was all very strange; now another thought occurred. She glanced at Anthony and framed a question.

  “Isn’t your sister Sarah going to eat with us?”

  Anthony seemed taken aback. “Uh, no. Sarah doesn’t eat.”

  Mirthful assent rose from the foursome around the card table.

  “That’s right!”

  “Sarah doesn’t eat, no way!”

  “That’s funny, Anthony!”

  “Every time he says that, I get such a kick!”

  Anthony frowned. Instantly they fell silent. A moment later the murmurs of party enjoyment resumed, but Helen was conscious of their wariness; it, too, raised a question, and she was tired of questions. What she needed were a few straight answers.

  She turned to the boy. “Do you always eat like this?”

  Anthony did not reply and Helen was acutely conscious of the sudden silence from the other table. They were all staring at her now.

  Mother was the first to speak, her thin smile belied by the apprehension in her voice. “Anthony can have anything he wants.”

  Father nodded quickly. “Anything at all!”

  Uncle Walt forced an unconvincing chuckle. “You bet he can!”

  Helen ignored them; she was waiting for the boy to speak.

  He nodded at her apologetically. “Don’t you think it’s good?”

  Helen hesitated. Politeness dictated an approving response, but she was sick of politeness, sick of phony approval, sick of this strange overprotective atmosphere and the unanswered questions it posed. Couldn’t the family understand what they were doing to the child by indulging him this way? Didn’t they realize the consequences of catering to his whims? Maybe it was none of her business, perhaps she was reverting to her role as a schoolteacher, but it was time somebody spoke up.

  She nodded quickly. “I suppose it’s all right once in a while,” she told him, “but you’re young, you need to get proper nutrition.” She fixed the family with a stare of pedagogical disapproval. “You can’t eat like this all the time!”

  Flustered, Anthony shook his head. “I never thought of that. But you’re right, Helen. It’s not good all the time—”

  Again the echoing chorus rose from the other table.

  “Right! Anthony’s a growing boy!”

  “Of course he is! He needs his nutrition.”

  “You’re so right, Anthony!”

  Anthony turned, silencing them with an accusing stare. “You’d never tell me that,” he cried.

  Their smiles were sickly, but no one spoke. It remained for Helen to break the mood.

  “Oh well,” she murmured. “I really shouldn’t be criticizing, should I?” She smiled at the youngster. “After all, it is your birthday supper.”

  Again, the terrible silence. And then Ethel’s voice, rising almost despairingly. “Another birthday?”

  Uncle Walt’s grin was gone. “With presents?”

  Anthony shook his head angrily. “No—it’s not my birthday! I never told you that—”

  As he gestured toward them, the group around the table recoiled, catching their breaths.

  Shrinking back, Ethel’s elbow knocked against the side of her plate, spilling it to the floor.

  Anthony glowered at her. “Stop that!” he cried. “I’m not doing anything.” Then he caught himself, turning to Helen and forcing his smile. “They’re being silly!”

  Helen faced him, speaking softly. “Anthony, you did tell me it was your birthday.”

  Mother’s voice rose in a dreadful parody of cheer. “Of course it is!”

  “Yes!” Ethel chimed in immediately.

  So did Uncle Walt. “Sure! We all know it’s Anthony’s birthday, don’t we?”

  His valiant attempt at a chuckle emerged, but it sounded more like a frightened cackle of sheer panic, halting abruptly as Anthony shouted him down.

  “It’s not! I told you it’s not my birthday, do you hear?”

  Helen stared in shock at the family’s frightened faces. What was wrong with them, what had she started here? She didn’t know the answer, but whatever it might be, it didn’t matter to her now. Suddenly all she wanted was out of here.

  She started to rise from the sofa. “I think I’d better go, Anthony.”

  Anthony gazed up at her hastily, eyes imploring. “No!”

  The passion in his voice made Helen stiffen.

  Now the boy rose, his eyes beseeching. “Please—it’s okay, everything’s okay.”

  He glanced at the television screen, where a cartoon rabbit was climbing out of a magician’s hat. “You gotta stay,” he said. “Uncle Walt’s gonna do a trick for us.”

  “I’m sorry, Anthony.” Helen shook her head. “I really must leave now.”

  “But
Uncle Walt’s gonna do a trick—just for you! Please—sit down—”

  “You bet!” Uncle Walt nodded but Helen ignored him and started to turn away.

  Anthony put his hand on her arm. “It only takes a minute. You’ll see—” As she halted, the boy called out quickly, “Do the hat trick, Uncle Walt! The hat trick!”

  “You bet!” Uncle Walt rose, then stared blankly around the room. His booming voice faltered. “Where—where’s the hat?”

  “Over there,” Anthony released his grip on Helen’s arm, gesturing impulsively. “On the TV set.”

  Automatically Helen’s gaze followed his pointing finger. Resting on the TV set was a top hat.

  Helen stared in surprise, but as she did so she was conscious of another and more unsettling emotion rising within her; something akin to panic.

  Anthony smiled up at her reassuringly. “You’ll like this.”

  Helen took a deep breath. “Anthony—”

  The boy ignored her. “Go ahead, Uncle Walt,” he called.

  “Yes, sir!”

  As Helen watched, Uncle Walt moved slowly across the room and reached out to pick up the top hat. He grasped it hesitantly, the gesture of a man forcing himself to pick up a live coal from the fire.

  But Anthony was nodding happily. “You’ll like this, Helen. It’s good.” Before she could move again, he grabbed her hand squeezing it tightly, then turned to call. “Do it, Uncle Walt. Do it now!”

  The intensity in his voice was matched by that of his grip. Helen stood motionless, watching as he clutched her hand.

  Now everyone was watching as Uncle Walt turned, hat in hand. His attempt at a smile was horrible to see, but Anthony’s eyes were fixed upon him in inexorable command.

  Slowly, Uncle Walt reached down into the hat. A moment later his hand emerged again, holding up a white rabbit.

  Helen could sense his suppressed shudder of relief as he faced the family with a ghastly grin. “Ta-da!” he muttered shakily.

  Their response of mingled handclaps and laughter was no more convincing than Uncle Walt’s grin, but Anthony gazed up at Helen now. “Isn’t this fun? We do it a lot. You’d like it here, Helen, honest you would.”

  Helen stared at him, her panic mounting and from behind her rose an insane babble of agreement from the rest of the family.

  “You’d love it here! You would!”

  Helen stared at them in sudden dread, then jerked her hand free. She had to get out, had to—

  Anthony, sensing her intention, shouted to Uncle Walt. “Do it again! Do it right!”

  Before Helen could turn away, Uncle Walt’s hand descended into the hat, then drew back, gasping. Eyes frantic with fear, he watched as an enormous figure rose to tower above the television set.

  It was a rabbit—but not the sort that a professional stage magician could conjure up. Only a sorcerer could summon such a thing. This was a multicolored monstrosity, a huge misshapen creature with the paws and claws of a tiger. Great yellow eyes bulged above a snouted muzzle, which gaped wide now, revealing a long snakelike tongue lolling forth from between the curved fangs of a sabretooth. Squatting atop the television set, the thing extended its talons.

  Helen cried out, raising her hand as a shield against the sight.

  As she did so, Anthony gestured swiftly. “Don’t be scared!” he shouted.

  He gestured again, this time in the direction of the television set. Helen lowered her arm just in time to see the entity spiral down and vanish into the hat once more. An instant later, the hat itself had disappeared.

  Blindly, unmindful of the family’s reaction, intent only on frantic flight, Helen turned and grabbed her purse from the end table near the doorway. To her dismay its clasp opened and the bag slipped from her trembling fingers, its contents spilling across the floor.

  She knelt quickly, trying to capture the items scattering across the carpet.

  Anthony crouched beside her, shaking his head in anguish. “I didn’t want to do that! Honest I didn’t—I just got mad, and sometimes I can’t help what happens!”

  Helen made no reply, but the look on her face was answer enough. Now the boy began to assist her, picking up objects and stuffing them back into her purse. And all the while his soft, intense voice sounded through the silence.

  “Please don’t go, Helen! I can make it real nice here. I can make the food the way you said it should be. I can even change the house if you want! Just say it, and I can make anything you like, but don’t—”

  Suddenly he broke off, looking closely at a scrap of paper he had picked up from the floor. Now the pleading face was transformed into a mask of rage.

  Helen stared at him, startled. As Anthony scrambled to his feet, the family cowered back against the wall. Still glaring, the boy turned to Helen and held out the scrap of paper.

  “You see?” he said. “I told you how they were!”

  Helen glanced down at the crumpled fragment, which appeared to be torn from the upper margin of a newspaper. Across its length read the words of the hastily scrawled pencil message:

  Help us! Anthony is a Monster!

  She glanced up as he nodded. “They hate me! They want to send me away to someplace bad, just like my real mother and father did!”

  Voices faltered forth from the far end of the room. “That’s not true, Anthony—”

  “Of course not—”

  “You know how we—”

  The three responses sounded simultaneously and Anthony cut them off with a single wave. He turned to Helen, speaking rapidly. “They’re afraid of me. Everybody is. That’s why they act this way. And I do everything for them! They can watch TV all day. No one has to do a thing. Not a thing! I’m real good all the time—”

  Uncle Walt’s voice sounded in hasty agreement. “That’s right—Anthony’s a good boy. We love him!”

  The youngster reached out, plucking the piece of paper from between Helen’s trembling fingers. Rising, he moved toward the four figures cowering against the far wall, their eyes terrified by the threat in his.

  “Then I wonder who wrote this note.” Now the threat entered his voice. “I wonder who called me a monster?”

  Instantly the babble began. “He did it!”

  “Not me!”

  “You know I didn’t do it! It was Ethel!”

  “Yes—Ethel. She’s the one!”

  Mother, Father, and Uncle Walt were all pointing now, pointing at the stricken girl. She shook her head, eyes widening, mouth twitching in terror.

  Helen rose. She didn’t know what Anthony intended; only that somehow, whatever it was, he had to be stopped.

  Anthony was nodding at the girl. “Oh? I didn’t know that. What a big surprise! Ethel, huh?”

  Ethel shook her head frantically. Her voice was shaking, too. “All right! Go ahead and do it—do it—”

  The boy smiled at her now and his whisper was almost gentle. “Do what, Ethel?”

  Somehow this mockery held even more menace than his rage. With a convulsive effort, Ethel tore her gaze free from his accusing stare and gestured at Helen, her words tumbling out in a haste born of hysteria.

  “Now do you realize you’ll never get away?” she shouted. “You think it was an accident you came here? He made it happen! He brought you here just like he brought us here and kept us! Just the way he’ll keep you!” She nodded, but her voice raced on.

  “Or maybe he’ll get mad at you someday like he did with his real sister and cripple you and take away your mouth so you can’t yell at him, or maybe do what he did to his real mother and father—”

  For an instant Anthony closed his eyes, wincing in pain. Then he opened them once more, staring at the girl. Softly, very softly, he spoke:

  “Time for you to go now, Ethel.”

  Helen took a step forward. “Anthony, don’t—”

  But Anthony ignored her. He faced Ethel, smiling his secret smile.

  “It’s a special surprise. I just made it up.”

  Ethel m
oaned, shaking her head as Anthony’s voice rose. “I’m wishing you to Cartoonland!”

  Ethel vanished.

  Not in a puff of smoke. Not in a blind flash. She simply—disappeared.

  Helen stood frozen. Ice water trickled in her veins, her limbs were numb with cold, but it was not physical chill that set her trembling. This wasn’t the first time she had seen someone disappear before her very eyes; she’d watched magic acts on the stage, where the conjurer waved his wand and a shapely assistant had seemingly vanished from behind a black cloth or the confines of a closed cabinet. And in fantasy films a wizard might mutter an incantation that caused another character to fade from the screen. But this prosaically furnished parlor was not a stage set and the small boy standing before her wasn’t a magician. He hadn’t waved a wand or uttered a spell and Ethel had not been obliterated by means of a movie’s special effects.

  This was reality. The parlor was real. The people in it, including Ethel, actually existed.

  Or had existed. Because now Ethel was gone. A small boy uttered a simple sentence and Ethel became a nonperson.

  It was the cold reality that sent shivers along Helen’s spine.

  And now the small boy was smiling at her.

  “I told you cartoons are good,” Anthony said. “Anything can happen in them!”

  He turned, pointing toward the television set.

  Helen followed his gaze to the screen, where animated figures of goblins and witches were chasing their victim. Now the object of their pursuit glanced back and Helen stared in shock at the familiar face.

  Ethel was in the cartoon!

  For a moment her panic-stricken features filled the screen, mouth opened to sound a shriek, which rose against a blaring background of merry music.

  Then Anthony’s hand rose in a sweeping gesture, for all the world like one of Helen’s former pupils using an eraser to wipe a blackboard clean.

  The screen went blank.

  And Anthony, in a dreadful parody of Bugs Bunny, stuttered “Th-th-th-th-that’s all, Ethel!”

  With a gasp, Helen turned and ran for the door. Behind her she heard the family’s cries, heard the boy’s sharply shouted command, but she didn’t look back.

  Now, racing down the hall, she reached the front door and tugged at the handle. For one fearful moment she thought it was locked; then, suddenly surrendering to her strength, it flew open.