Graveyard run

“DDING” The shopkeeper’s bell swayed as Christopher swiped the yellow PVC strip door away from his face. The air outside shimmered with heat waves, making the pavement look like water while inside, the multicoloured paper doing the worm but in rapid motion. The radio was playing this Hip-hop tune by Lady Gaga.

“ Comic book wonderland, the best place on earth.” Is this comic store in Southern New Hampshire where kids like Christopher hung out after school.

“We are closing in ten, kiddo.” Store manager Gary said without looking up from his newspaper.

“Got it, just taking a few things,” Christopher muttered.

He went to the superhero section first, a place where middle school kids cringe just by looking at it. But to Chris, that was his haven. Christopher turned his back to old newspaper Gary as he snuck the new collectible in his pocket, looking around for spying cameras and whistling to “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga.

“Just take it all. 90% off anyway.” Sighed Gary without looking up.

Chris felt his face flush. “Um, thanks,” he muttered.

​“How’s school?” Gary asked.

“The usual. Mr McDookie yelled at me for disrespecting Miss Attention Ally because I accidentally pushed her.”

“ Accidentally?” Gary asked, his eyebrows raised, and for once, his eyes not glued to the newspaper.

“Yea” he replied, anxious to change the topic.​

Chris glanced at his watch, 3:30.

“Hey, Gary, do you have any more of those protein bars?” Christopher asked, sorting through the trading cards.

There was only the humming of the fans and the crackle of the radio.

Chris turned around, but Gary wasn’t at his station. The newspaper lies flat on the ground.

“Ping, ping, ping, ping.” The rows of lights flickered and then dozed off to sleep, followed by the fan. Lady Gaga’s voice warped and groaned before being wired into a dead silence.

“Gary?” Chris cried.

He rattled the door handle, but the handle wouldn't budge, seized tight as if welded shut from the outside.

​There was one other exit, though. But it was the graveyard. Not even the cool kids go to the graveyard. Legend has it that one little boy decided to wander off into the darkness of the graveyard and never came out the same again. Chris opened the back door, and a gust of humid wind pushed him. The first bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Tentatively, he stepped into the field of tombstones. A hangman tree’s twisted branches casted a shadow that looked disturbingly like a smirking face. The full moon lay ahead. Wicked laughter echoed through the graveyard. Sounds of footsteps echoed. The clinging vines tried to grab his arm like cold, damp fingers and that is when he started to run.Wind escaped his fingers as the phantasm swirled around him. Mary Wallace, a legend, seemed so real. Paranormal trees with faces loomed as a sticky silver veil plastered across his face, and he felt the rhythmic scuttle of many legs against his neck. He made it to the main road, where a familiar car was parked nearby. His mother’s car. He felt relieved as he sprinted to it. On the way, his eye caught a sign from a window in an abandoned apartment complex.

“10 MINUTES.”

Christopher lunged for the door handle, his lungs burning from the graveyard air. The familiar scent of air freshener wafted through the cracked window.

"Mom! Mom, unlock it!" his voice cracked, slamming his palms against the glass

The door clicked open. Christopher scrambled inside, slamming it shut and locking it instantly. The interior of the car was freezing—colder than the air conditioner should have been able to make it. The digital numbers glowed a sickly green: 3:31.

“Where were you? I have turned the world upside down just to find you! Gary says you left earlier!” Scolded his mother.

"We have to go, the lights—the graveyard— wait Gary?"

His mother flickered the radio to life, it was Gary’s voice, distorted and echoing as if coming from underwater.

"Just take it all, kiddo. 90% off anyway."

“Mum, Gary disappeared into thin air and the store began to shut down! YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!”

“That’s nice, honey.”

The car’s power locks fired in rapid succession: Click-click-click-click.

Outside, the "10 MINUTES" sign in the window changed. The numbers began to bleed down the glass, shifting into a new shape:

9 MINUTES.

“MUM WHY IS GARY ON THE RADIO?”Yelled Christopher.

“Put on your seatbelt, don’t want any accidents tonight.”

“MUM DON’T CHANGE THE TOPIC!”

“It is never okay to steal, I thought I taught you better.”

The car wasn’t going in the direction of home, instead it ran past the hangman’s tree.

Click. 8 MINUTES.

The collectible he had swiped earlier began to grow heavy in his pocket. It started to vibrate, emitting a low, rhythmic hum that matched the "ping, ping, ping" of the store lights. He pulled it out. It wasn't a superhero figure anymore. It was a small, stone carving of a tombstone with his own name etched into the center.

"Give it back, Christopher," his mother warned. "Stealing is a sin. That's why the boy in the legend never came back. He took something that didn't belong to him."

The car engine died. The freezing air in the cabin turned into a thick, humid heat, smelling of old paper and graveyard dirt.

“Go find Gary. Pay the debt.”

“NO mum please don’t make me do this! Gary said I could keep it!”

“Pay the debt, son.”

Chris wandered to the shop, glancing back at his stern mother. The shopkeeper’s bell rang again, making Chistopher flinch.

“Hey kiddo, you’re back again, forgot something?” Gary looked up from his newspaper. Same old Gary.

“Yea, I want to return this collectible.” Christopher said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the collectible, and it turned back into gold Superman.

“Good on you, Chris.”Gary chuckled, and grabbed the collectible.

Chris ran back to his car, and saw the time on the dashboard. 3:45.

“Okay,” Chris breathed, his voice trembling. “I just- I had to pay the debt.”

As the car pulled away from the curb, he looked out the window at the abandoned apartment complex. The sign was still there, but the bleeding red ink had dried and faded. It didn't say 9 MINUTES anymore. It was just a tattered old "FOR RENT" sign, flapping listlessly in the humid breeze.

“Can we go home now?” Christopher asked.

“Of course, honey. Busy day at school tomorrow,” she replied, turning up the radio.

A new song was playing—a soft, melodic pop tune. But as they drove past the town line, a quick burst of static hissed through the speakers. For a split second, the music cut out, and a familiar voice whispered through the white noise:

“See you tomorrow, kiddo. We’re always open.”

Christopher reached into his pocket and felt a small, sticky square. He peeled it off his thumb and held it up to the dashboard light.

“90% OFF.”