Chicken by Crystal Collier

The old school looks like a toothless bag lady in the dark, sprawled on her side.

I gulp.

“Get moving, Ryan. Or are you a chicken?”

I grate my teeth so hard they squeal, unwilling to look up at Greg Damien, future NFL star and neighborhood bully. A.K.A, my next door neighbor. The jerk would see my fear the way a dog sniffs people’s butts.

“I’m not a chicken,” I lie. The old building is already giving me nightmares of mummified teachers and human-sized, flesh-eating rats. (Or at least, they want you to believe they’re rats. They’re actually hairy, zombie aliens from another planet who decided to inhabit abandoned buildings on the rundown side of Detroit.)

Greg rips my bike handles from my grasp. “So get in there.”

Squaring my shoulders, I let out a sigh. He could force me into the building without breaking a sweat, seeing as how he’s twice my size. If I refuse, he’ll probably drop kick my rear through the front door.

Five months ago a rumor started floating around the city about a millionaire who converted all his cash into gold, buried it somewhere for safe keeping, then died. Without telling anyone where he hid it. Last week Marcy Livingston snapped a shot of a homeless guy leaving our old school with what she said was a gold bar in his hand. (She’s my other neighbor, the one who never shuts up. Seriously. Her mom threatens to duct tape her mouth shut so loud I can hear her shouting from my bedroom.)

I wouldn’t be standing at the broken entry in the middle of the night, debating the value of my backside if Marcy had just kept her mouth shut. We were going to be rich, but she said something in front of Greg and he decided our plan needed a mastermind. More like a master thug. You’d think with the promise of fortune he’d be going with me, or that he’d go himself, but there are rumors this place is haunted. People hear strange sounds and Marcy claims she saw a ghost.

The glass has been shattered and a couple pieces still glitter on the floor. Those that aren’t covered by dust. I glance back at Greg who grinds a fist into his palm.

Flicking on my phone flashlight, I step into the gloom. It’s not like I’m going to tell Greg if I find something, but he doesn’t have to know that. I start rehearsing my response once I get done here:

It was empty. All empty. The only things I saw were rats, graffiti on the walls, and broken furniture.

Truthfully, I’ve been dying to come check out the empty building, just not the night before my birthday. I want to live until I’m 11. A kid from three streets over went missing a few weeks back while exploring. Mom says he must have been kidnapped or killed by one of the drifters passing through. I’m curious. Not stupid.

Shadows creep across the wall beside me.

Or maybe I am stupid. Or just a chicken. If I had more guts, I would have punched Greg in his bullfrog nose and locked myself in my house. Instead I’m shivering and expecting something to jump out and snap my neck in half with its gator-sized teeth.

“It’s just graffiti and broken furniture,” I chant. Like I’ll believe those words if I say them enough. My foot crunches down on something and I twist the flashlight that direction.

Pages. Book spines. Dozens of them all broken and open-faced, littering the floor.

Now that’s a tragedy.

Rustling.

I jump and flash the light. The tail of a shadow disappears.

Okay, Ryan. This is the point where you get smart, run away, and hide for a few hours so Greg will believe your story.

Fingers trembling, I lift my light to follow the direction of the movement, to an open doorway. It was just a rat. Had to be. Or an alien luring me to my death.

And now I’m seeing things because is that a hint of light?

I click the off button. And swallow so hard it hurts.

The glow creeps across broken pages like a sea of scaly dead things just waiting for me to cross. Daring me to cross. One wrong step and I’ll probably be sucked into the pile and this giant tongue will slurp out, followed by a book-monster’s burp.

The phone is slick in my hands as I step forward.

I do want to die. Clearly.

The pages swish and crack as I step over them, reminding me of that neck-breaking sound effect in movies. I’m shaking as I reach the hall and turn to the source of the glow: another doorway straight ahead.

Every step echoes in the hall. Each smack of my sneaker reminds me how Mom would slap me silly for even thinking about coming here. I would take it and go to my room and dream about sneaking out to Van Naters for midnight ice cream and breaking more windows on abandoned buildings. Even if I’d never do either.

I halt in front of the entry.

This is it. I’ll step into the light and disappear. Poof. Gone. Greg will keep his mouth shut about how he bullied me into coming here and Marcy will blab about what she knows, but she doesn’t know I came here. That I’m about to die. And that I did it willingly.

I shove my phone into my pocket with trembling hands and ball my fists. One quick breath and I step forward.

I’m in the gym, bleachers flailed unevenly from either side, narrowing the room to a central point: the glowing thing in the middle of the floor.

My jaw drops.

Candles gleam on top of a one-story cake. Eleven candles.

“Surprise!” People jump out from behind the bleachers, igniting camping lamps and circling me. I stare in stunned silence, trying to figure this out.

“He’s in shock.” Marcy laughs. Greg’s chuckle bounces off the walls as he appears next to my parents. My parents? In my abandoned old school?

They’re holding packages in their arms, packages wrapped in birthday paper…

Oh.

The grin on my face grows so large my cheeks ache. Best. Birthday. Ever!

Maybe not chickening out pays off.

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE.

Come help celebrate her birthday by picking up one of her books!  

Free At Last

The face in the sun, which looks like the man in the moon, grins at me through the window. I burrow deeper under my covers so I won’t see him.

“It’s up time, Joanie,” Mama hollers from the staircase. I put the pillow over my head, hoping to disappear.

Hands lift the covers off me and rub my arms. “C’mon, Joanie. Get up. You need to get dressed for school.”

           

“No, mama, please don’t make me go.”

           

“But you have to. You’ll have fun. Let’s get you dressed in something special. Let’s see…” She pulls out the crimson, taffeta dress, the one the other kids laugh at, the one she made for me. “You haven’t worn this in a while.”

She slips it over my head. It crinkles every time I move. I can’t tell her I don’t want to wear it. I used to like this dress. When Mama was making it, I begged and begged to try it on. The first time I wore it, I practically danced to school.

But then Herman pulled on my hem and said, “Sounds like a Christmas present.” The other boys started tugging at me. After a bit, I got so upset, I peed in my panties. I have not done that since I was a real little kid.

Mama buckles my shoes over my socks. “We’ll braid your hair later. Get on downstairs and eat breakfast with your sisters.”

I trudge down the stairs, looking for a place to escape.

Grandma is at the table with my sisters. She gets up when I enter the kitchen.

I plop down next to Lottie who was eating a disgusting bowl of Graham crackers and milk. The smell makes my stomach turn.

“I don’t want that,” I say, pointing to the mush Lottie is putting in her mouth. Lottie grins at me with brown flakes in her teeth. Ellen, at the other end of the table with her elbows firmly in place shoves cereal in her mouth. She barely looks up when I sit down.

Grandma puts a bowl in front of me. “How about some Rice Krispies?”

I eat as slowly as possible, counting to ten before taking a bite. Maybe I’ll miss school.

           

Mama comes in and braids my hair as I eat. She pulls it too hard and makes me whimper. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she says.

Ellen walks me to school even though I know the way. I memorized the path the first time so I could come home. I did that until Mama got real mad at me and told Ellen to make sure to hand me over to the teacher.

Ellen doesn’t take my hand but she pushes me as we make our way to the school. I want to run away, but she keeps giving me a nudge. Finally we are at the door to my classroom. She shoves me toward the teacher and says, “Get lost.” Then she disappears in the crowd of kids.

The one thing that keeps me coming back to school is Rosie. She’s my favorite doll. They keep her in a big chest with other toys. The second day of school I found her tossed in the box with big trucks and other heavy tractors on top of her. I pulled her out, rescuing her from that awful place.

As soon as I get in the classroom, I go to the chest and dig for Rosie. Someone shoved her way down in the dark. I twist her out. Her legs are bent. I can’t straighten them. Some of her hair is missing. I tip her back and one of the eyes closes, but the other stays open and stares at me.

The teacher calls us to our seats. I take Rosie. When it’s time to go home, I keep Rosie tucked under my arm. I don’t want to put her back in the box where it’s dark and where she’ll get hurt.

On the way out, the teacher says to me, “You need to return the doll to the toy chest.  You can’t take her home. She belongs here.”

           

A tear rolls down my cheek, but the teacher grabs Rosie from my grasp. “The toys are for all the children. Not just for you.”

The rest of the school year drags like waiting for Daddy to come home or for Christmas to come. I ask the teacher to let me stay inside during play period. I don’t want to go out in the cold with the other kids. The boys hit me with a ball, and I don’t want to play with them. She makes me go until I pee on my dress.

           

“Why didn’t you say you needed to use the bathroom,” the teacher says. Her face is red with anger. I didn’t know I needed to use the bathroom until I got scared. I try to tell her, but she just thrusts me in the bathroom and closes the door. I cry for long enough to miss play period.

Finally when the last day of school comes, I tuck Rosie under my sweater. I can’t leave her here in this awful place, alone, cold, and with no one to love her. I hide her, and walk slowly so no one will see.

We are nearly home when Ellen tugs on my arm and Rosie nearly falls out on the pavement, but I catch her. “What’s that?” she asks.

“The teacher said I could have her,” I lie. I don’t usually lie but this was a special situation. I had to save Rosie. Free her.

Ellen doesn’t care. She slams the backdoor entering the house. Grandma says, “What have you got there?”

Getting better at lying now, I tell her, “It was a prize. I won it for being good.”

“How nice. Let’s get her cleaned up.” My grandmother takes her and cleans her face and brushes her hair. Now I can see Rosie’s cheeks and her lips.

That night I take Rosie to bed. Just before Mama turns off the light, I look at Rosie. She’s lying next to me with one eye open and the other closed. It’s as if she’s winking at me. She knows my secret.

I freed her, and she’ll never tell.