A Chapbook of Creeping Horror

                                        Barry Eysman

            They talked desultorily of the things of summer, the things that every summer spider webbed them together, save for one. It was that one that would link them together for the rest of their lives, and God how they knew it. Their names were boy. Their town was small. This was before the Internet and 3-D TV. 3-D movies came to the theater and they usually starred Richard Carlson against bug eyed monsters or gill men.

            Nobody's thought swimming in the lake anything more than summer in the bottle of possibility and cold water of blue. They saw on this hill in the dark a certain distance perhaps they had never seen before; there were certain rituals, summer rain and running in it. The total stupidity of running after bug killing spray trucks, regardless of Rachel Carson, who by this time had already died of cancer . Summer is the Poll Parrott comic books, not real ones, but free, and the X ray machine at the shoe store down town, that people used to see how well their new shoes fit, but which children used to look at the bones of their feet, cool. Cool has been around a long time.

            Suddenly, someone said the words, no one was supposed to say, but he did it anyway because he could take the pressure in his chest, not one more moment.

 We didn't do anything ,he said, hopefully, to someone who was not there, in expiation. Everyone stopped. Their words had not been words, but cricket sounds to make that air hotter so it would pressure memory out of their ears, enjoying them with the real crickets. Of the night. They had become made of dark night, consumed by it, become that this summer. It started July 3 at about 2:30 PM, and nobody was the same ever. Childhood would become a thing of pretend and memory, as though they had grown older in such a short length of time.

            In the midst of boy, one of the numbers said. She called us today. Mom told me. She wanted to sell his bicycle. The words came in. The pauses and halts were fear and he never known it before.

We went to the drugstore about comic books and paperbacks and Famous Monsters of Filmland. We went to the movies every Wednesday morning, had a dime. The last one we saw before, this, was the 4-D man, starring Robert Lansing, who was the star of 87th precinct on television.

            Suddenly these names meant salvation, and it was dark. Tomorrow,                                                                    school bone crushing misery of the drudgery of the excelling horror boredom of it. They did not look at each other. They did not dare. They wondered, if school ever ended, how could there be anything, is nothing left, but school?

            They had never known anybody else, who had had this happen to them. Okay okay died. His head on the rock in the damn lake, and had died, had ceased the section of breathing that the body holds most tenderly. Okay, he died, and he will always be dead, and it will not be our fault.

They were not hurting him. If they could've saved him, they would. They were on the other side of the lake dammit. They didn't tell him to make that first dying dive. Or invite him along in the 1^st place.

            Harry idly slapped at a mosquito that was severing a tiny amount of blood from his right hand and had paid the price. They closed their eyes as one, these boys. Time is coming from, one said, another said, let's runaway. Right, sure. Going to work in your old man’s gin business for the rest of your life. Tommy scratched his cheek right beside his pug nose.

Look, said Tommy, it's the horror movies that do it. Okay, a kid died in the lake this summer. We did not ask him along or tell him to dive in. If he wanted to impress us, he failed. Someone else said, but he gave his life for it.. He should impress us . The rest of our lives. Sure, why not!? We get this thing grilling in our minds forever. Somebodies gotta pay for it. Why us? Because it's got to be somebodies fault. Why can't it be his own fault? I hope it's a cold winter, someone said, as he scratched at the ladybug on his knee.

Without a word, the three boys started to get up, put their bicycles up, and got ready to ride off the Hill to the town below where they lived. They looked at each other. One said, it'll always be a secret, never tell, be friends, won't we? We got him to smoke a cigarette, for God's sake. Big deal.

They rubbed sheets of sweat off their faces, from the crew cuts also. They tried not to think of an entire nine months of school starting again tomorrow. They abhorred it yet, this time, it may be nice to be among people, filling their heads with stupid things from stupid books.

They didn't like him. They didn't

dislike him. He was just another kid in town, in school, who cared? Made of darkness, hot, heavy, dense as a black hole, which had not been considered yet. They did not say goodbye, for they would be with each other in school every day. At home, mothers and fatheralready,worried something it happened to the children.

One thought, as she set the table for dinner, if you lock the doors, if you close the windows, you keep them safe to a point, but something slips through those cracks, and you are powerless to prevent it.

On the Hill, watching the boys go away, another boy watched, standing by his bike. He thought, come back to please come back, don’t leave me here. I'm really really scared. Please come back, as his voice, as he, curled off into a whisper, as his bicycle fell to the ground, for no one had been holding it for a long time.

In one house, a mother screamed, because her son's hand was gone, as if bloodily amputated by a butcher. In another house, different pitch scream, because their son’s leg was hanging by a thread, covered in blood, pulled apart muscles and flesh decayed already.

The third boy, you don't want to know about.

Somewhere outside of town. in the dark moonlight, a small boy rode his bicycle. He had a long way to go. It was time he got started. What’s cooler than just being a ghost? A ghost with imagination.

It was the last night of summer. It was the end of the world. The summer,however, did not know it. The heat on this night long was intensely hot and heavy. The four boys sat on the Hill outside of town. Even in their place, for a long time now, they felt wrong in being there. This summer would hang on until early November sometime, but tomorrow is the first day of school, and that was the end of it. They talked desultorily of the things of summer, the things that every summer spider webbed them together, save for one. It was that one that would link them together for the rest of their lives, and God how they knew it. Their names were boy. Their town was small. This was before the Internet and 3-D TV. 3-D movies came to the theater and they usually starred Richard Carlson against bug eyed monsters or gill men. Nobody's thought swimming in the lake anything more than summer in the bottle of possibility and cold water of blue. They saw on this hill in the dark a certain distance perhaps they had never seen before; there were certain rituals, summer rain and running in it. The total stupidity of running after bug killing spray trucks, regardless of Rachel Carson, who by this time had already died of cancer . Summer is the Poll Parrott comic books, not real ones, but free, and the X ray machine at the shoe store down town, that people used to see how well their new shoes fit, but which children used to look at the bones of their feet, cool. Cool has been around a long time Suddenly, someone said the words, no one was supposed to say, but he did it anyway because he could take the pressure in his chest, not one more moment. We didn't do anything he said, hopefully, to someone who was not there, in expiation. Everyone stopped. Their words had not been words, but cricket sounds to make that air hotter so it would pressure memory out of their ears, enjoying them with the real crickets. Of the night. They had made of dark night, consumed by it, become that this summer. It started July 3 at about 2:30 PM, and nobody was the same ever. Childhood would become a thing of pretend and memory, as though they had grown older in such a short length of time. In the midst of boy, one of the numbers said. She called us today. Mom told me. She wanted to sell his bicycle. The words came in, else. The pauses and halts were fear and he never known it before. We went to the drugstore about comic books and paperbacks and Famous Monsters of Filmland. We went to the movies every Wednesday morning, had a dime. The last one we saw before, this, was the 4-D man, starring Robert Lansing, who was the star of 87th precinct on television. Suddenly these names meant salvation, and it was dark. Tomorrow, school bone crushing misery of the drudgery of the excelling horror boredom one of it. They did not look at each other\. They did not dare. They wondered, if your school ever ended, how could there be anything, is nothing left. But school? They had never known anybody else, who had had this happen to them. Okay okay died. His head on the rock in the damn lake, and had died, had ceased the section of breathing that the body holds most tenderly. Okay, he died, and he will always be dead, and it will not be our fault. They were not hurting him. If they could've saved him, they would. They were on the other side of the lake dammit. They didn't tell him to make that first dying dive. Or invite him along in the 1st place. Harry idly slapped a at a mosquito that was severing a tiny amount of blood from his right hand and had paid the price. They closed their eyes as one, these boys. Time is coming from, one said another said, let's runaway. Right, sure. Going to work in your old man’s gin business for the rest of your life. Tommy scratched his cheek right beside his pug nose. Look, said Tommy, it's the horror movies that do it. Okay, a kid died in the lake this summer. We did not ask him along or tell him to dive in. If he wanted to impress us, he failed. Someone else said, but he gave his life for it.. He should impress us . The rest of our lives. Sure, why not!? We get this thing grilling in our minds forever. Somebodies gotta pay for it. Why us? Because it's got to be somebodies fault. Why can't it be his own fault? I hope it's a cold winter, someone said, as he scratch act the ladybug on his knee. Without a word, the three boys started to get up, put their bicycles up, and got ready to ride off the Hill to the town below where they lived. They looked at each other. Once said, it'll always be a secret, never tell, be friends, won't we? We got him to smoke a cigarette for God's sake. Big deal. They rubbed sheets of sweat off their faces, from the crew cut. They tried not to think of an entire nine months of school starting again tomorrow. They abhorred it yet, this time, it may be nice to be among people, filling their heads with stupid things from stupid books. They didn't like him. They didn't dislike him. He was just another kid in town, in school, who cared? Made of darkness, hot, heavy, dense as a black hole, which had not been considered yet. They did not say goodbye, for they would be with each other in school every day. At home mothers and fathers already worried something it happened to the children. One thought, as she set the table for dinner, if you lock the doors, if you close the windows, you keep them safe to a point, but something slips through those cracks, and you are powerless to prevent it. On the Hill, watching the boys go away, another boy watched, standing by his bike. He thought, come back to please come back, don’t leave me here. I'm really really scared. Please come back, as his voice, as he, curled off into a whisper, as his bicycle fell to the ground, for no one had been holding it for a long time. In one house, a mother screamed, because her son's hand was gone, as if bloodily amputated by a butcher. In another house, different pitch screams, because their son’s leg was hanging by a thread, covered in blood, pulled apart muscles and flesh decayed already. The third boy, you don't want to know about.Somewhere outside of town. in the dark moonlight, a small boy rode his bicycle out of town. He had a long way to go. It wa

time he got started. What’s cooler than just a ghost? A ghost with imagination.