The Boy Who Cried Wolf

I’ve always had a vivid imagination - or at least that’s what my parents told me. When I think about it now, ironically, I find this hard to imagine. How can you measure an imagination? It’s not like when someone dies, they do an autopsy and say, ‘Well, would you look at the size of this guy’s imagination! It’s absolutely massive!’ In reality, I think labelling a kid with a strong imagination is a way that parents make themselves feel better about the fact that their kid is a bit weird.

None of this would have been an issue if we didn’t move to that house. If I was the kind of kid who lived rooted in reality and saw the world like my parents wanted me to see it, they might have believed me when I told them about what I saw. That’s the real problem with having a vivid imagination - people never know if you are telling the truth. I don’t blame them. The boy who cried wolf is an important fable for a reason. It’s just a shame that life doesn’t always work like the stories we are told.

*

We moved to a new house on my thirteenth birthday. It wasn’t planned - my parents may have been a bit boring, but they weren’t cruel, and that date just happened to work my mom’s schedule. They knew I didn’t want to go, but it had something to do with my dad’s job teaching at a new university and the commute. We packed up our life, and our dog Star, into a moving van and drove three hours to a new city that looked a lot like our old city. By the time we arrived, it was already dark, so we unpacked and set up the beds. While my dad and I were screwing the posts and headboards back into the bed, my mom must have slipped out and picked up a cake and some pizza so that once we were finished, we were able to ‘celebrate’ my birthday.

We ate on the floor as the growing dusk filled the empty living room and the house’s silence enveloped us.

*

It’s weird sleeping in an almost empty house. Bare walls and a whole lot of empty space meant that I could almost hear the house breathing. Because I was so awake, I realised I had to pee and got out of bed.

When I was done, I heard something. It came from below and was muffled, but sounded like someone crying or laughing. Or whimpering. I went downstairs and could tell that it was laughing. Short jabs of laughter punctuated by wheezes. I went down the front hallway and stopped in front of a door to the basement that had not been opened yet.

Looking back on it now, I can’t fully understand why I went down those stairs. Isn’t there supposed to be something like fight or flight installed in our brains even when we are young? Surely I must have been afraid. But still, I went down there. Maybe it was my imagination - I think I was picturing a trapped animal and felt bad. The smell of mildew and damp air rose to meet me as I descended and when my feet hit the cold floor, I was in darkness again.

A lightbulb in the middle of the room stood out and I pulled the string. Light spread and I heard the laughter and looked around until I saw a door. I went towards it and wrapped my hands around the handle, the sharp, wheezing laughter spurring me on, fueling my curiosity as I turned it. The only way to describe the smell that greeted me would be mouldy. It was like being surrounded by mouldy bread.

It seemed to be a cellar of some kind. My eyes scanned the corner in front of me and saw nothing. I let my eyes scan to the right - I had only opened the door wide enough to let a little light in - and saw someone sitting on the floor. Shadowy figures scurried around it making squeaking noises. I heard dripping water. The second I looked at him before I closed the door and ran up the stairs, I saw enough to know that it was a man and he was smiling. He had dark, dirty teeth and eyes that were like black holes.

Back upstairs, I was panting and thought about waking up my parents. But the laughing had stopped. I thought about going back down to see if he was still there. But I knew he wouldn’t be. Something told me he wouldn’t be. Besides, even if he was there, my parents wouldn’t believe me. Just my imagination playing tricks on me again.

*

The next afternoon, I was outside with my mom and Star working in the garden. I had asked her why dad didn’t want our help unpacking and she told me he was very meticulous about where things went. I asked her what meticulous meant.

‘Well, it means that he likes order and putting things in a particular place.’ She opened up her garden bag and took out pruning shears. ‘Now just look at this garden. Someone spent a lot of time on this. Shame, it’s all overgrown now. But we can do something about that, right?’ I nodded. ‘You see these roses? All it takes is some deadheading. Life grows out of decay.’ She picked up one of the shrivelled remains of an old bloom and snipped it. The shears made a sharp snap as she spoke, punctuating her words. ‘Your job is to pull any weeds you see. Like those,’ she said as she pointed to a number of growing masses of green.

As we worked and Star rolled around in the grass, I nearly told her about the man in the cellar. But I didn’t want to ruin a nice moment. Besides, I had nearly forgotten about what I saw the night before. It might have even been a dream, there was really no way to tell.

The rest of the day went quickly. I even slept that night. Until the laughter awoke me. It was louder this time, and as I opened my eyes and rejoined the land of the living, I could hear it closer than before. I sat up and was about to turn the light on when I saw the eyes. They were… he was… in my closet. Though his eyes were dark, they were darker than the darkness around him so they showed like tunnels in the night. A rat sat on his shoulder with dark red eyes. The light in my room turned on and I saw his hand move back beside him.

He was smiling still - a toothy broken smile that was empty but somehow full. His face was morphing, the teeth becoming fangs and the features becoming angular. I thought about screaming and his smile went away. He brought his hands together in front of his chest with the knuckles together and twisted as if he were choking something. Or someone. And I didn’t scream. His fingers made a pincer grip as if he were plucking something. He laughed, smiled again and seemed to fade backwards into the closet until he dissolved and was gone.

I sprang from my bed and ran to the closet, throwing the clothes onto the floor but nothing was there. Just a normal, empty closet. I ran downstairs and into the basement, pulling the string for the light as I went and opened the door to the cellar. Nothing was there. Just a normal, empty cellar and the sound of dripping water.

Back in my bed, I felt my blood turning cold - a perpetual shiver. The darkness hung heavy above me and every shadow seemed like it was about to come to life.

*

I went downstairs the next morning and my parents were still busy putting things away. I was about to tell them about what happened - I had to, it had all become too real - when my mom said: ‘Oh, I let Star out a while ago. Could you check on him? Probably out there digging a hole or something.’ I shivered and nodded. My message would have to wait.

I went into the backyard and felt the dew on my feet. I couldn’t see Star anywhere, so I went around the side of the house by the gate. This time, I did scream. There was our dog laying in the grass. His golden fur was streaked with red and when I looked at his head I realised why - his neck was broken. I stepped closer and saw that his eyes were gone, replaced by fleshy divots. The useless balls were on the grass, the gelatinous pupils staring at the sky lifelessly. He lay beside the basement window that had been opened slightly; I could hear the steady dripping of water.

My parents came around the corner and screamed. I was sent upstairs so that I wouldn’t see anything else, but it was a little late for that.

*

The rest of the day passed slowly. I had been exiled to my room, so I spent the time researching our new house. My parents wanted me to be aware of current events, so we had a family membership to various newspapers. It didn’t take long for me to find a recent story about a family’s tragic experience in this very house that caused them to move out. The article didn’t provide much information, especially because it involved the death of a minor. But I could make my own inferences - something had happened to that kid and it wasn’t an accident. It was the man in the cellar. How did they not know about this?

I heard their footsteps on the stairs a few hours later, presumably after Star’s body had been removed. They both sat on my bed and looked at me with tired, solemn eyes.

My dad spoke first: ‘Look, son. We aren’t sure what happened, but we can say that-’

‘I know what happened,’ I said.

They looked at each quizzically.

‘I know how this is going to sound. And that you are going to think I’m just imagining things. But you have to believe me.’ And I told them about my encounters with the man in the cellar and what happened to the other family that lived here. I gave as much detail as I could, hoping to add to the authenticity of my story.

‘Son,’ my dad said. ‘It is completely understandable to try and rationalise these things. The human brain-’

‘It’s not that! I swear I saw him. He’s not a ghost, and not real either, he’s something in between. But he is real, I know that. He turned on my light!’ I said, pointing to the switch.

My dad shook his head slowly. ‘Okay. Show me, then. If this ‘man’ exists, show him to me.’

‘Don’t you want to call the cops first? He’s dangerous.’

My mom nodded. ‘I’ll have my finger on the dial button.’

And so we went downstairs. My dad stopped in the living room, shrugged, and grabbed a poker from the fireplace. The damp smell of the basement rose to meet us and I turned on the light.

‘Do you hear the water?’ I asked.

My dad put a finger over his mouth and pointed at the door. I nodded. He went to the door and opened it but I knew the man wouldn’t be there. I didn’t even look. The cellar was empty - no rats, no man, no water dripping.

Back upstairs, I sat on the couch.

My mom said: ‘We know you are going through a lot right now. Moving, not sleeping and now Star. It’s awful. And your mind must be struggling to process all of this.’

A few beats of silence, then: ‘What would you think about talking to someone about how you are feeling?’

*

I didn’t even bother trying to sleep that night. I was angry at my parents for not believing me and not letting me have a phone - they wanted me to wait until I was sixteen. As such, I had no way of proving any of this to them. Having snuck a flashlight into my room, I waited. I knew he would come, I just didn’t know when. Or how. But I was ready.

Around midnight, I was struck with a powerful urge to pee. I tried to fight it but couldn’t, feeling like I was about to wet the bed. I didn’t think he would be in the bathroom, but I still looked in every corner. When I looked in the mirror, I thought I would see him behind me. But he wasn’t.

I held the flashlight firmly as I went back to my room and was stopped by the laughing. I clicked the flashlight on. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, smiling with his dead eyes.

I sprinted to their room and turned on the light. My words poured out: ‘He’s there! At the bottom of the stairs. If you go now, you can see him. We need to go, we need to leave. Something bad is going to happen if we don’t.’

Their eyes heavy, they sighed in unison.

‘Look,’ my dad said, ‘this is all getting to be a bit much. You really need to try and get some rest. You can sleep in-’

‘Please,’ I pleaded. Tears welled in my eyes. ‘You have to believe me.’

My dad sat up straight: ‘You can sleep in here with us if you are scared. That’s fine. But this needs to stop. Or there will be consequences.’

I looked at my mom and she nodded in agreement. I walked out of the room with my head down and closed the door. Something drew me down the stairs - an urge to do something, to find a way to get rid of him before he did something else. I knew he was in the kitchen before I turned on the light.

His darkness seemed to absorb the light around him and as he smiled at me, his face morphed again into someone who looked like me. But older. His knees cracked and his torso caved in leaving him looking at me like the victim of a horrific car crash.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I cried. ‘Please just leave us alone. I’ll do anything. Just leave us alone.’

His head was at an angle now but he still smiled. The rage inside me exploded and I sprinted at him. He dissolved around me, leaving only a stale smell and moisture on my fingers. I looked behind me and saw him by the stairs again. He spoke to me in a voice that was like the creaking of rusty gears:

‘I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,

Deep down twenty steps of stone;

In the dusk he sat a-smiling,

Smiling there alone.’

He smiled again. I blinked and he was gone.

Panic took hold of me and I looked around. Nothing. No one. But I knew what this vision had meant. My dad would be next. I had to do something and felt an idea form in my mind. I took mom’s phone that was charging on the counter - we didn’t have a landline, easier to duck telemarketers. I went through the kitchen drawers until I found the barbecue lighter. I had no other choice - the police wouldn’t believe me, couldn’t help even if they did.

It all had to be burned. Cleansed. My parents would understand eventually. I moved to the curtain with a frenzied mania and lit the bottom of it. It caught and the flame moved hungrily. I went down the hall and was about to press the emergency call on the phone and warn my parents when I heard squeaking. The door to the basement was vibrating and there were scrabbling, skittering sounds. I stood in paralysis beside the door, watching it shake and bulge on its hinges until it fell towards me and I was covered in a sea of rats. I fell backwards and they poured over me, their teeth and claws jabbing and biting me, pressing and covering every inch of me and I couldn’t even scream because they were over my mouth and I breathed them in and they smelled like death. I fought and writhed, throwing them off my face. I couldn’t tell you how long they were on me, but once I could breathe and see again, the kitchen was in flames. I wanted more than anything to go up the stairs and warn them but I couldn’t move, the rats were everywhere - I wore them like a blanket.

Above me, I saw a smoke detector and felt something like relief until I noticed that the wires were sticking out - someone had pulled them. The flames were starting on the wooden banister and moving up the wooden stairs with a wall of smoke. I coughed and noticed that the rats were gone. I looked around and saw nothing but fire and smoke. I tried to scream but I had no voice to scream. And then I heard the screams from above me. Frantic footsteps and more screaming. A splintering of wood as a foot went through a stair and more screaming. I looked at the front door, the only thing not on fire, and went through it into the cool night air.

*

By the time the fire department arrived, most of the house was already gone. I was wrapped in a blanket with an oxygen mask on as I watched my new house burn along with the bodies of my parents. In the smoke that rose to the night sky, I saw his face.

His smile was etched into the billowing smoke as it rose upwards and dissipated into nothingness.