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Horror Stories

The Candle

I was in the basement of my grandma's house when my grandma called for me to come upstairs.  I ran up and she said she was leaving, but my cousin Shayla was coming over.  Well my grandma left and I stayed upstairs watching TV for a bit until Shayla came.  My grandma had just moved in to the house, so we weren't familiar.  We only knew that there was some mysterious storm shelter in the backyard that was bolted shut.

We went outside to find the keys because we were 11 and didn't know what to do.  We found a locket, a key and 3 jellybeans in a box that was buried.  We tried the key.  It was too big, so we put everything back except the locket.  Then Shayla went into the shed and brought out a huge shovel.  She started smacking the shelter door with it.  After about 3 minutes of her smacking and me picking open the locket, a huge hole was in the shelter door.  We couldn't see anything in there because it was too dark outside.

We went in to get a flashlight when we heard a big "BOOM" coming from outside.  Shayla ran outside to find the whole entire shelter door caved in. I brought the flashlight and shined it in there.  Shayla went to get a camera but I wasn't sure why.  I looked in but right when I turned on the flashlight, it went dead.  So, Shayla got another.  She shined the flashlight and I just couldn't believe what I saw, but I knew it was true, and real.  Shayla snapped some pictures and we got out as quickly as possible.

When grandma came home, we weren't there.  We were at the neighbor's house.  We went back to grandma's and she said, "I was looking for you two.  Where were you?"  "At Joey's house" I said with fear in my voice and eyes as I looked outside at the shelter.

Shayla and I ran outside and guess what?..... The shelter door was back on, bolted shut, and everything was perfectly in place how it was before.  Shayla tried to tell grandma what happened, but grandma seemed mad about us snooping around.  Grandma said "I cannot believe what you girls are saying.  I just can't.  I mean it looks like you didn't break the door or anything."  

At that point I knew it was all a dream; the dead man in the shelter, the locket, the jelly beans, the key.

Everything!!!

But then Shayla pulled out her digital camera and showed it to grandma.  It was a disturbing picture and I puked. Sorry, I would put a picture of it on here but I don't have it.

Alone

My mother and father had just left the house to go to the movies.

I was baby-sitting my two little sisters when the doorbell rang.   I knew that I shouldn't answer the door for obvious reasons, but something drew me to open it.
I saw a man at the door and said, "Can I help you?"  He looked at me and stared, as if he didn't hear me the first time.  I  repeated myself several times, but he just stared.  I remembered that he might be deaf, and taking three years of sign language, I signed 'Can I help you?'  He nodded, heavily and then pushed me aside and stepped in.  I signed 'Do I know you?  Do my parents know you?'  He nodded again.  And then stared at the back wall with the picture of a strange figure that came with the house.
My father wanted to throw it away, but my mother said it would go with her new wallpaper. Anyway, back to the story.
He automatically sat at the kitchen table, like he knew where everything was in the house.  I asked him what his name was and he shook his  head no.  I asked him again and he shook his head no, more seriously this time.  I started to get scared for myself and my two baby sisters in the house.  I told him to wait there and I would be back later. I ran into the next room and picked up the phone to call the police.  But when I picked up the phone, I didn't hear a dial tone; I heard breathing ... deep breathing.
I hung up the phone and stared into the kitchen.  The man was still sitting there, he hadn't moved.  I called the kids upstairs and I locked them in my room so he wouldn't hurt them or whatever he planned to do.  Then I ran into my parent’s room to get the cordless, so I could peek into the kitchen to see if he picked up the phone.  When I went downstairs, I looked into the kitchen.  'Good,' I thought.  'He's still sitting down.  Now I can call.'  But when I clicked the phone, I heard breathing, even though he was sitting down.  I screamed and hid behind the wall.
I didn't like this.  When I looked to see if he heard me (I screamed so loud that even a deaf man could hear me) he was gone.  I don’t know what happened, but when I looked at the picture on the wall, there was the man; he was staring at me and occasionally he would blink.
I told my parents and they didn't see the man there.  Only I could see him.  I don't know why, but I am never alone anymore.

End of the line

When Frank and I stepped through the post office doors, there was a crowd gathered, gawking at the new fixture on the wall like a chorus of wide-mouthed frogs. I had to get closer, and that was where being a girl that's scrawnier than a wire fence came in handy. Fortunately, Frank, my twin of eleven years, was just the same.

     "Come on." I said, grabbing his hand, and we slid through the cracks between people until we spilled out in front.

     Finally I got a good look. It was fixed to the plaster next to the postmaster's window, the place of honor usually reserved for the Wanted posters. Beady-eyed Zedekiah Smith, the bank robber, still hung there, but even he had been pushed aside for something more important.

     A telephone. The first one in town.

     "How's it work?" Noah Crawford called out. Noah's the best fix-it man around, and I could tell he was itching to get his fingers on those shiny knobs.

     "Don't rightly know," answered the postmaster, and he tugged at his goatee as if it might tell him. "I do know the sound of your voice moves along wires strung on poles. It's sort of like the telegraph, only you hear words instead of dots and dashes."

     "Ah," the crowd murmured, and I felt my own mouth move along.

     I gazed at that gleaming wood box and something happened inside me. Something — I can only guess — that might be like falling in love. The thought of talking into that box — of making my voice sail through wires in the sky — it took over my brain. I couldn't get it out.

     "Frank," I whispered to my twin. "I have to use that telephone."

     Five minutes later, Frank towed me up Main Street, toward home. "Liza — " he began, but I cut him off. We two thought so much alike, I had Frank's questions answered before he even asked.

     "You're right," I said. "It costs five cents and I don't have it. But look." I pulled him over to the window of Poulson's Variety Store. "You see those?"

     I pointed to a handful of shimmery rocks spread on black velvet. Some were a shiny gray shot through with gold streaks, others yellow as cheese curds. And one, clear and jagged, sat like an icicle, leftover from wintertime.

     Frank's eyebrows screwed up and I could tell he wasn't following.

     "If I found one of those, I bet they'd pay me for it." I explained.

     With a shake of his head, Frank hooked two thumbs under his suspenders. "But Liza — "

     I held up a hand — he couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know. "I've got that figured, too. I'll bet we could find some at North Creek — in the mine."

     Frank shrugged, pretending not to care, but I knew better. He wanted to explore that old mine, same as me. Besides, Frank knew he had no choice. Twins stick together, especially scrawny ones, 'cause it takes two of us to make one of most people.

     We spent half the morning on the dusty road to North Creek. Ma packed a lunch but said she couldn't understand walking all that way for rocks. She thought we were off to search the dry creek bed, and I didn't correct her.

     I felt a bit guilty about fooling my ma, but whenever a pang hit, I conjured up the vision of my voice dancing along wires in the sky. It looked a lot like me, my voice did, only wearing a pink tutu and carrying a frilly umbrella.

     We reached the old mine around noon. The hole in the sage-covered hill had been shored up by timbers. They were weathered and splintery, and looked like a picture frame around nothing.

     I stepped inside, my arms turning to goose bumps from the chill. The air smelled of mildew and rotted beams, but also of horse sweat and wood smoke. Strange. That mine had sat empty for years.

     Once my eyes got used to the dim, I gazed around, hoping to see shimmery rocks littering the floor, but dust was all I saw. Frank walked past me to where the walls narrowed, then disappeared around the curve. I followed fast.

     I'd come up right behind Frank when, ting, his boot connected with metal. He stooped, grabbed, and when he stood, his palm held more than we'd hoped.

     A gold coin. Frank's eyes nearly popped.

     "Where did that come from?" I whispered and reached out a finger to touch.

     Just then, voices sounded in the next cavern over: "Zed, hold it higher." Two men stepped through a gap in the far wall.

     They weren't miners. I could tell that from one glance. They were dressed for riding, with leather chaps and spurs. One held saddlebags over a shoulder and had a mustache that hung past his jaw. The other wore a battered hat, his face hid in its shadow. When he raised his lantern, the light shone full on those beady eyes.

     It was Zedekiah Smith, the bank robber.

     I plastered myself to the wall, hoping to disappear into shadow. Frank hunched over, hiding his head in his sleeves. But for once, we weren't scrawny enough.

     "Hey!" The mustached man pointed, then dropped his saddlebags and ran for us.

     I tried to run, too, but met up with Frank's backside. The next thing I knew, Frank and I were on the ground, being hauled to our feet by a sharp-nailed hand.

     "Lookee here, Zed," our captor cried, "a couple of spies."

 "No," I said, brushing myself off. "We're not spies. We were looking for rocks to sell. There's a new telephone in town, and I just wanted to — Ow!"     The mustache man yanked my hair. "Does she always talk this much?" he asked Frank. Frank — the traitor — nodded.

     "Looking for rocks, eh?" Mustache Man pried open Frank's fingers. The gold coin glowed warm in the lantern light. "Lookee here, Zed. Musta fallen out."

     Zedekiah Smith strode over and picked the coin out of Frank's palm. "You don't want that, boy. That's dirty money."

     "You made it that way," I told him. "You stole it."

     Zedekiah Smith narrowed his eyes, turning them even beadier. "Caleb's right. You do talk a lot."

     Five minutes later, Frank and I were back to back on the ground.

     "That's what you get," Caleb said, as he tied our hands behind us. "Shouldn't go poking your noses in bad places."

     "It wouldn't be bad without you," I said, and Frank twitched.

     "Sure it would," Caleb said. "Old mine's a dangerous place. You could've got caught in a cave-in, or bit by rattlers. Lucky you got us instead. He, he!" He tightened his knots then stood straight. "Someone will find you in a day or so. We'll be long gone by then. Right Zed?"

     "That's right." Zedekiah Smith stood back, watching Caleb do the dirty work, his eyes shaded again.

     "Just let us go," I begged. "We won't tell."

     "Ha!" Caleb shouldered the saddlebags. "I'd like to see you keep your mouth still."

     Zedekiah Smith took up the lantern and without looking back they passed through the opening in the rock wall. I listened until the jingle of their spurs faded.

     We were alone in dark so thick it stopped up my nose. Caleb was right. This was a bad place. I wouldn't last a day. And worse, when Ma found my lifeless body, she'd know I was a liar.

     I was about to sink into despair, but Frank distracted me with more twitching.

     "There," he said. "I'm free."

     I couldn't believe it when the ropes went slack. Jumping to my feet, I rubbed my wrists, trying to figure how Frank had managed to surprise me so. It wasn't that he'd worked his bony wrists out of Caleb's knots. That was plain Frank. The real surprise was that he'd come up with the idea without my help.

     "Phew," I said, relief washing over me at my second chance at life. Ma wouldn't have to find my lifeless body after all. And as for the liar part, well, I'd work on that.

     But first, I had another good deed in mind, the best way to begin my new life. I was about to turn in that outlaw.

     I grabbed Frank's arm and towed him toward the exit. "We need to get to town and report Zedekiah Smith." Then something else occurred to me. "Think of the telephone calls I could make with that reward money."

     'Liza — " Frank started up, but I knew where he was heading.

     "Of course we'll split it."

     We rounded the wall and ran smack into another, one with chaps and a hat. Zedekiah Smith was back. Before we could move, he had us trussed in his arms like two pigs for slaughter.

     "Let go!" I cried, pounding his chest.

     "Shh," he whispered. "Caleb thinks I forgot something."

     I froze. "But . . . "

     "I came back to cut you loose."

     For once, I had a hard time filling my mouth with words.

     "Now, you stay hidden until I get Caleb away," he whispered. "It won't do to have him telling people about my weak stomach."

     "Are you feeling poorly?" Frank asked and Zedekiah Smith laughed.

     "No, but I've got no stomach for hurting people." His arms went limp, releasing us, and he took a step back. "You'd better do your duty and report me. But take this in case that reward money's long in coming." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pale yellow rock studded with honey-colored crystals. "I saw it out in the dry creek bed. Might be worth a telephone call."

     He dropped it into my hand and gave a wink. Then he turned and walked out into the sunlight. Frank and I gawked, like a duet of wide-mouthed frogs.

     We didn't make it to the Sheriff's office until the next morning. I reported Zedekiah Smith, just like I should, but for some reason, it didn't feel like a good deed anymore.

     Our next stop was the Variety Store. Old Mr. Poulson's eyes kindled when he saw the crystal rock. Twenty-five cents went to Frank, who wasted it on candy. I saved mine for something monumental.

     The post office wasn't crowded anymore. Still, there were a few lookers as I walked to the counter and laid down my nickel.

     "I'd like to make a telephone call," I announced.

     "How about that," the postmaster said, stroking his goatee. "You'll be the first. Who would you like to call?"

     "Who?" I echoed. And just like that, my vision dissolved. Pink tutu and frilly umbrella, both drifted off like a dandelion in the wind. My voice couldn't dance along wires — it had no place to go. Nobody I knew had a telephone.

     I turned to Frank and found him grinning.

     "You saw it all along," I accused.

     He shrugged. "I tried to tell you."

     "You did?" I thought back to the day before and realized that maybe he had. I'd been too busy using my own mouth to notice.

     After taking one last, loving look at the telephone, I turned away from the counter. Maybe candy would be a good use for that nickel after all.

     "Frank," I said, pondering those thoughts he kept having without me, "next time you have something to say, speak up. I'll try hard to listen."

     The poster of Zedekiah Smith seemed to nod at me as we passed.

Hobnail

Fannie Poteet sat cross-legged on her Uncle John's front porch; her favorite rag doll clutched under one arm. The late afternoon sun shone through the leaves of the giant oak tree, casting its flickering light on the cabin. This golden motion of light entranced the child and she sat with her face turned upward, as if hypnotized. The steady hum of conversation flowed from inside of the cabin.

     "Ellen, I'm sure happy that you came to church with us today. Why don't you spend the night? It's getting awfully late and it will be dark before you make it home."

     "I'll be fine Sally," replied Fannie's mother. "Anyhow, you know how Lige is about his supper. I left plenty for him and the boys on the back of the stove, but he'll want Fannie and me home. Besides, he'll want to hear if Sam Bosworth's wife managed to drag him into church."

     The laughter that followed her mother's statement broke the child's musings and she stood up, pulled her dress over the protruding petticoat, and stepped inside.

     "Get your shawl Fannie. When the sun goes down, it'll get chilly."

     As the little girl went to the chair by the fireplace to retrieve her wrap, her uncle came in from the back with a lantern.

     "You'll need this Ellen. The wick is new and I've filled it up for you."

     "I appreciate it Johnny," Ellen said. "I'll have Lige bring it back when he goes to town next week."

     Ellen kissed her younger brother good-bye and hugged Sally gently. Patting her sister-in-law on her swollen belly, she said," I'll be back at the end of the month. Don't be lifting anything heavy. If that queasy feeling keeps bothering you, brew some of that mint tea I left in the kitchen. Lord knows I've never seen a baby keep its mammy so sick as much as this one has. It's a boy for sure."

     Upon hearing this, Fannie frowned. She was the youngest in her family, and the only girl. After living with four brothers, she had prayed fervently to God every night for Him to let her aunt have a girl. The only other comfort she had was the pretty rag doll that her mother had made for her. Tucking the doll under her left arm and gathering the shawl with the same hand, she stood waiting patiently. Aunt Sally kissed her lightly on the cheek and squeezed Fannie gently. "If I have a girl, I hope that she will be as sweet as you," her aunt whispered. Uncle John patted her on the head and said, "Bye Pumpkin. When that old momma cat has her kittens, I'll give you the pick of the litter."

     This brought a smile to Fannie's face and swept away the darkening thoughts of boys.

     Ellen secured her own shawl about her shoulders and tossing one side around and over again, picked up the lantern, which had already been lit. Taking Fannie's right hand, the pair proceeded on the three-mile trek back home. Heavy rains during the last week had left the dirt road virtually impassable for anyone on foot. Ellen and her daughter would return home the way they had come, by following the railroad track. The track was about one half mile above the road. It wound and wound around the mountains and through the valleys carrying the coal and lumber, which had been harvested from the land. Once on the track, they proceeded in the direction of their own home. Ellen began to tell Fannie about the trains and all of the distant places they went to. The little girl loved hearing her mother's stories of all the big cities far away. She had been to town only a few times and had never traveled outside of Wise County. Fannie remembered her papa talking about his brother Jack.

     Uncle Jack had left the county, as well as the state of Virginia. He was in a faraway place called Cuba, fighting for a man called Roosevelt. She wondered what kind of place Cuba was, and if it was anything like home.

     The sun's last rays were sinking behind the tree-studded mountains. Shadows rose ominously from the dense woods on both sides of the track. Rustling sounds from the brush caused Fannie to jump, but her mother's soothing voice calmed her fears.

     "It's all right Child; just foxes and possums."

     A hoot owl's mournful cry floated out of the encroaching darkness and Fannie tightened her grip on her mother's hand.

     Finally, night enveloped the landscape, and all that could be seen was the warm glow of the lantern and the shadow of the figures behind it. It was a moonless night, and the faint glow of a few stars faded in between the moving clouds. Fannie tripped over the chunks of gravel scattered between the ties and Ellen realized that her daughter was tired.

     "We'll rest awhile child. My guess is that we have less than a mile to go."

     Ellen set the lantern down and the weary travelers attempted to get comfortable sitting on the rail.

     "Mammy, it's so scary in the dark. Will God watch over us and protect us?"

     "Yes, Fannie. Remember what that new young preacher said in church today. The Good Lord is always with you, and when you need His strength, call out His name. Better still, do what I do."

     "What's that mammy?"

     "Well," Ellen said, stroking her daughter's hair," I sing one of my favorite hymns."

     While contemplating her mother's advice, Fannie was distracted by a sound. The sound came from the direction they had traveled from, and the girl's eyes peered into the ink like darkness. It was very faint, but unlike the other noises she had grown used to along the way. The slow methodic sound was someone walking, and coming in their direction.

     "Mammy, do you hear that?"

     "Hear what child?"

     Fannie moved closer to her mother and said, "It's somebody else coming!"

     Ellen gave her daughter a comforting hug and replied," You're just imagining things Fannie. We've rested enough. Let's get on home. Your papa will be worried."

     Ellen picked up the lantern, took Fannie's hand, and the two resumed their journey. After a while, the sound that had unnerved the little girl began again. This time the steps were more distinct, and definitely closer. The distant ringing of heavy boots echoed in the dark.

     "Mammy, I hear it again!"

     "Hush child."

     Ellen swung the lantern around.

     "See, there's nothing there."

     Fannie secured the grip on her mother's hand and clutched her rag doll tightly. The hoot owl continued its call in the distance, and the night breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.

     "The air sure smells like rain," said Ellen. "The wind is picking up a mite too. We'll be home soon, little girl. Yonder is the last bend."

     Fannie found comfort in her mother's voice, but in the darkness behind them, the steps rang louder. It was the sound of boots, heavy hobnail boots.

     "Mammy, it's getting closer!"

     Ellen swung the lantern around again and said, "Child, there's nothing out there. Tell you what; let's sing "Precious Lord".

     Fannie joined in with her mother, but her voice quivered with fear as the heavy steps came closer and closer. She couldn't understand why her mother seemed oblivious to the sound.

     Ellen's singing grew louder, and up ahead the warm glow of light from their own home glimmered down the side and through the trees. A dog barking in the distance brought the singing to an abrupt end.

     "See child, we're almost home. Tinker will be running up to meet us. Big old Tinker. He's chased mountain lions before. He'll see us safely home."

     "Let's hurry then Mammy. Can't you hear? It's closer and I'm scared. Let's run!"

     "All right child, but see, I'm telling you there's nothing there."

     Ellen made another sweep around with the lantern and as they proceeded she cried out, "Here Tinker! Come on boy!"

     The dog raced up the path leading to the track and the two nearly collided with him as they stepped down on the familiar trail to home.

     "Ellen, is that you?"

     Fannie's heart filled with joy as her father's voice rang out of the darkness.

     "Yes Lige. I'm sorry we're so late. I'm afraid I walked a bit fast for this child. She's worn out."

     Elijah picked up his daughter and carried her the rest of the way home. Once inside of the cabin, Ellen helped Fannie undress and gently tucked her in bed.

     The comforting sounds of her parents' voices drifted from the kitchen. Even the snores of her brothers in the back made her smile and be thankful that she and her mother were safe and sound. Before closing her eyes, her mother's voice rang in her ears.

     "Lige, I heard the steps. I didn't want to frighten the child. I kept singing and swinging the lantern around and telling her there was nothing to be afraid of. But Lige, just before we got off the tracks, I turned the lantern around one last time. That's when I saw what was following us. I saw the figure of a man. A man without a head!"

Culture Of Pakistan

Stories

   
The Story of Tracy Beaker      
Once upon a time there was a little girl called Tracy Beaker. That sounds a bit stupid, like the start of a soppy fairy story. I can't stand fairy stories. They're all the same. If you're very good and very beautiful with long golden curls then, after sweeping up a few cinders or having a long kip in a cobwebby palace, this prince comes along and you live happily ever after. Which is fine if you happen to be a goodie-goodie and look gorgeous. But if you're bad and ugly then you've got no chance whatsoever. You get given a silly name like Rumplestiltskin and nobody invites you to their party and no-one's ever grateful even when you do them a whopping great favor. So of course you get a bit cheesed off with this sort of treatment. You stamp your feet in a rage and fall right through the floorboards or you scream yourself into frenzy and you get locked up in a tower and they throw away the key.
  I've done a bit of stamping and screaming in my time.
  And I've been locked up heaps of times. Once they locked me up all day long. And all night. That was at the first Home, when I wouldn't settle because I wanted my mum so much. I was just little then but they still locked me up. I'm not fibbing. Although I do have a tendency to tell a few fibs now and again. Its funny, Aunty Peggy used to call it Telling Fairy Stories.
  I'd say something like - 'Guess what, Aunty Peggy, I just met my mum in the back garden and she gave me a ride in her flash new sports car and we went down the shopping arcade and she bought me my very own huge bottle of scent, that posh. Poison one, just like the bottle Uncle Sid gave you for your birthday, and I was messing about with it, playing Murderers, and the bottle sort of tipped and it's gone all over me as I expect you've noticed, but it's my scent not yours. I don't know what's happened to yours. I think one of the other kids took it.'
  You know the sort of thing. I'd make it dead convincing but Aunty Peggy wouldn't even listen properly. She'd just shake her head at me and get all cross and red and say, 'Oh Tracy, you naughty girl, you're Telling Fairy Stories again.' Then she'd give me a smack.
  Foster mothers aren't supposed to smack you at all. I told Elaine that Aunty Peggy used to smack me and Elaine sighed and said, 'Well sometimes, Tracy, you really do ask for it.' Which is a lie in itself? I have never in my life said 'Aunty Peggy, please will you give me a great big smack.' And her smacks really hurt too, right on the back of your leg where it stings the most. I didn't like that Aunty Peggy at all. If I was in a real fairy story I'd put a curse on her. A huge wart right on the end of her nose? Frogs and toads coming wriggling out of her mouth every time she tries to speak? No, I can make up better than that. She can have permanent huge great bogeys hanging out of her nose that won't go away no matter how many times she blows it, and whenever she tried to speak, she'll make this terribly loud Rude Noise. Great!
  Oh dear. You can't win. Elaine, my stupid old social worker, was sitting beside me when I started writing THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER and I got the giggles making up my brilliant curses for Aunty Peggy and Elaine looked surprised and said, 'What are you laughing at, Tracy?'
  I said, 'Mind your own business' and she said, 'Now Tracy' and then she looked at what I'd written which I a bit of a cheek seeing as it's supposed to be very private. She sighed when she got to the Aunty Peggy part and said, 'Really Tracy!' and I said, 'Yes, really, Elaine.' And she sighed again and her lips moved for a moment or two. That's her taking a deep break and counting up to ten. Social workers are supposed to do that when a child is being difficult. Elaine ends up doing an awful lot of counting when she's with me.   

 

VOICE IN A BOTTLE

  

The sun was warm on Ryan’s neck, as he lay upon the grass on grandpa’s property.

He stared across Northumberland Strait along New Brunswick’s shore, the water smooth as an NHL rink. 

Cape Islander boats were dropping lobster traps, also called ‘pots.’ Ryan was fascinated the first time he saw a model of one.  It looked like a small barrel cut in half.

One had been placed on grandpa’s front lawn to attract tourists to his variety store. 

Fish netting covered the open end, with an open space in the center called a 'Head.' Lobsters were trapped easily after crawling through to the herring bait. 

Ryan drew a monster-sized one in the sand.  Prince Edward Island was like a straight line in the distance.  Behind it splashed the Atlantic Ocean.

Last week Ryan and grandpa launched a jar.  It once contained relish.  But on that windy day it held a note. 

Grandpa understood this village could be lonely for an energetic boy.  And he had a plan to find a friend for his grandson. 

Ryan had placed a note in the bottle that read-- 

“Hi.  My name is Ryan Lapointe.  I'm 8 years old.

I like to fish and swim.  Mom and me live with

grandpa at Lapointe's Variety Store.  Want to be

my friend? I live at General Delivery, Cap Lumiere.

New Brunswick.  Canada.”

That day the jar floated away on an ocean swell.  And Ryan hoped it would bring back a friend, soon.

Waiting for an answer took a lot of patience.  Minutes and hours tumbled into days.  It left Ryan time to think of other things.  Like, did mom enjoy working at grandpa's variety store, since Grandpa’s health was not so good. 

What if Ryan couldn’t return to Nova Scotia for school in September? What about Christmas holidays with his friends?

He wished grandpa would hurry up and get well.  If mom didn’t have to help in the store every day, Ryan would have someone to play with.

But, it was nice living here by the ocean shore.  Living in grandpa’s guest cabin was neat.

It had large windows on four sides.  Each morning the sunrise was bright as an egg yolk.  On the western side of the cabin evening sunsets completed the day.

This morning Ryan felt rays pour into his bedroom.  “An early dip in the cool ocean might be neat,” he said to his mom.

A natural rock stairway led to the salt water.  In some places it was very deep, so he remained in the tiny cove with a sandy beach. 

As he waited for lunch Ryan watched the whitecaps.  He hoped someone would answer his message soon. 

Perhaps a new friend from far away as England might find his bottle.  Or, it could be someone from France where his great, great grandfather was born.

His eyes followed the sun climb upwards in the sky.  His tummy was thankful the ground began to warm up.  Sea gulls continued to fly around the lobster boats.

“Time for lunch,” his mother finally called.

She convinced Ryan to go with her for a drive after they ate.  “Maybe you can pick out a little gift for yourself, ” she added.

Ryan had a worried look on his face.  “Do you think I should?” he asked.

"Yes," his mother said quickly.  "If someone finds your bottle, grandpa will be here."   

Ryan wished it would happen soon.  What if it already smashed up on rocks on Prince Edward Island’s shore? He quickly pushed the thought from his mind. 

Buctouche was a half hour drive away, and the scenery quite enjoyable along the seashore.

“Wow!” Ryan said as they drove beside a beautiful beach in the Acadian fishing village.  It wasn’t anything like the rocky shore near grandpa's store.

"This is the ‘oyster-bed’ capital of New Brunswick," said his mother.

After visiting souvenir shops and a bakery Ryan became restless.  “Can we go soon, mom?” he asked.  He needed to return to his lookout by the ocean.

What if his bottle simply traveled in circles in the middle of the ocean? Or, some boy already found the bottle and didn’t want to be his friend? His mind battled thoughts pesky as mosquitoes. 

Just then, mom’s cell phone rang.

Ryan watched her smile as she hung up.  “Hurry, in the car!” she yelled.  Pounding wheels matched his heartbeat as they headed home. 

Ryan knew it had to be something good.  But, his mother wasn’t saying anything. 

Grandpa was waiting in front of his variety store.  "Ryan! Here’s his telephone number!" Shouting turned to a whisper as he leaned closer.  "Someone found your bottle."

Ryan's mouth opened wide and his eyes almost leaped from his head.  "My bottle? Someone found it?" He turned to his mother.  “That’s why you didn’t tell me.”

"Yes.  He's waiting for your call," she said.

"Who?" Ryan asked.  It was confusing coming all at once.

"Your message was found near here this morning," Grandpa said.

"Here?" Ryan asked, disappointment in his voice.  “Not even as far as Prince Edward Island?”

"Just phone," grandpa said.  Ryan did.

His new friend Jacques Forget lived only two miles away.  Both boys spent much time talking on the phone.  After all, new friends had to get to know each other.

Jacques said how excited he was to find the bottle, and the note.  He was French but also spoke English.  And he wanted Ryan for a friend.

After both boys’ parents had a chat, plans were made. 

Jacques was to visit first. 

The next day couldn’t come quickly enough for an excited Ryan.

Finally his new friend Jacques arrived.  Ryan wiped his face once more checking for any left over ketchup from a bacon and egg breakfast. 

Both boys noticed they each had light colored hair.

“Allo.” You are taller than me,” Jacques said in his French accent. 

At first Ryan was shy, but what the heck.  He gave the other boy a solid high five. 

Soon they were sitting on the beach at grandpa's shore.

Ryan shook his head in amazement.  Imagine his new friend lived just a few miles away in Richibucto Village. 

Plans were made for Ryan to attend school in September.  He was even going to be in Jacques’ class. 

Grandpa was very pleased his daughter and grandson would be staying through the winter.  His health hadn’t improved enough to be alone at the store.

Ryan didn’t mind living here either.  Having a new friend changed everything.

“Jacques, time for a swim,” he said.  Then Ryan raced his new friend to the water. 

 
 

NIGHT DREAM

“If you’re that worn out, then go to bed,” mom said. And I did, even if darkness didn’t come creeping yet outside my window. My arms were so weak I couldn’t get my socks off. They kept sticking to my feet. So I crawled under the covers. When I’m very tired, I dream…

…I have to go to the bank to get some money. Dad’s birthday is tomorrow. And I want to buy him something super-dooper special.

“Hurry up,” mom said, “before the bank closes.” She always reminds me I have my own money. Sometimes I forget my bankbook says I still have $36 dollars left. The bus driver is very nice when I tell him I have no money. “But, I’ll pay you back when I get some from the bank,” I say.

We travel down busy streets, past tall buildings and I jump off the three steps from the bus. There is a long line of people at the bank. And the Teller’s wicket looks like it is a mile away. So I count bushels of butterflies while waiting. Finally it’s my turn. And I look up at this man behind the counter. He must be ten feet tall. At first I thought he was very nice.

“There’s no money here for you,” he said. “You must have spent it all.”

“But…but, my mother said there’s some left,” I answered. “I saved it all myself, from my paper route.”

“Then you should check with her again,” said the man sternly. “Or, you must have come to the wrong bank,” he said, showing off his teeth.

I looked into his eyes. And watched his smile. Was he pretending to be a sly coyote? Last summer, I saw one in a field near my house. The animal looked sneaky with his bushy tail.

On the way home I met a nice lady. When I told her my sad story, she felt sorry for me. She must have been rich because she gave me a whole suitcase full of money. I couldn’t carry it all. So I gave her back one stack of paper money. In case she needed to buy a bag of chips, or go to a movie.

Now I don’t have to go home. I have enough money to get an awesome gift for my dad. “Something really special,” I say to a white rabbit, sitting on the seat beside me. I think he is following me home.

“You be careful, the coyote doesn’t try to eat you,” I say. I show him my teeth. But it doesn’t scare him. 

Around the corner, there is a little girl standing on the sidewalk. I get off the bus to see why she is crying. “My hands are cold,” she said. So I bought her a pair of red mittens. She is so surprised she forgets to thank me.

Now I am hungry, and tired. So I sit down on the sidewalk and open my birthday gift knapsack. There is half an apple, a mustard sandwich, and two chocolate chip cookies. Soon my knapsack is empty, except for one crust of bread. It tries to hide in the corner.

“If only I had some blueberry jam,” I told the bus driver waiting for me. “It would be delicious on this crust of bread.”

“I’ll take you to where blueberries are large. And juicy,” he said.

The bus brought me far from the city, and across a busy highway. Even past fishing boats in the harbor. Then the bus drove up a gravel road. I watched a pheasant hurry across the road. We went past fields of hay and a high hill, and we finally stopped. The bus had a flat tire.

I got off and looked across a valley filled with blueberries. And waiting beside the first bush was that white rabbit. “How did he find me?” I wondered.

I quickly filled up my knapsack with juicy berries. My hands look like they are painted blue. And my back is sore from bending over so much. So I sat on a log and took off my right shoe and sock. Then I began to cry. I was afraid the coyote would come and bite my toe.

What was I doing here? I thought. There are no gifts for dad here. Besides, that sly coyote might find me. After running like thunder across a field I tripped over a log. Then fell into a little creek, with squishy mud. Was something chasing me? Maybe it was that white rabbit. I shook myself dry, the way my friend’s dog does. Spotty is his name. I mean that’s the dog’s name. I heard more crying. But it sounded far away. My eyes were closed tightly. Just like the front door when I slam it.

…Then I open my eyes, one at a time. Mom and dad are staring at me. The cat is on my bed. And I am too. When I look out the window, the coyote’s face is there. And he is laughing. I hug my mother. She begins to laugh too. Oh…Oh. I forgot to get Dad’s present. Closing my eyes, I hurry back to my dreaming.

UP, UP AND AWAY

A long time ago, when I was eight, dad took me fishing. It was in April, the first day of fishing season in northern Quebec. And I didn’t care if it was cold, or if there was still snow on the ground. 

“Help me find my warm boots?” I asked. And he did. Then I helped dad make peanut butter sandwiches, my favorite. “Where’s my packsack?” I asked. Smiling patiently, he found it for me.

“This is how I’m going to get a fish,” I said. Holding my new fishing rod birthday gift full stretch, I saw its neat lines, tightly wound threads and shiny eyelets. Then swinging it around, smacked the water glass from the kitchen table. Good thing he helped me clean up all the bits and pieces.

Mom just stood and shook her head. I don’t think she was upset. Just glad her boys were going fishing together, anywhere out of the house.

We loaded up our pickup truck. First my fishing rod was too long in the front. So I placed it in the back. Then I put our packsacks with sandwiches and water right beside it. Almost forgot our fishing box with some neat lures, but dad didn’t. He handed the green tin box to me.

The gravel road was full of loose stones. And they flew behind us as if fired from slingshots. But I couldn’t see much because of the dust. Then we hit a huge bump. “My fishing rod!” I yelled, as I watched it bounce from the truck. Dad put the brakes on so hard I flew across the seat and almost choked on the road dust that soon covered us.

“I saw it fly across that ditch,” I said.  Dad climbed down the side of the road. And stepped on some ice. “Don’t get wet!” I yelled. But, he did.

Soon dad came back with my neat gift, scratched and covered in mud. The broken cork handle made it shorter than before. After starting on our way, I could now keep my fishing rod in my lap. And my tears had stopped.

It’s hard to try and be a man when your birthday present tries to take off like a crow then gets broken. At least it fit inside the front of the truck. “Does that mean I can’t go fishing? I ask.

“No,” dad answered. “I’m going to show you another way to fish,” he said. “Just like my own dad showed me.”

“At least we’re still going fishing!” I shouted. After a while, my hat blew off. Dad stopped the truck and this time I went along to help him find it. I tried not to notice him talking to himself.

“Keep it in your lap, under the tackle box,” he suggested. “This is where our hiking begins,” dad said when we finally stopped. The trail was full of icy ditches. He said, “Try not to get wet.” But I did.

It was fun jumping on the ice. Except when I broke through. It was like a freezing /waterfall splashing all over. Good thing he brought an extra pair of pants for me. He must know me really well by now.

Finally we reach the lake. It seems like we walked half way around the world. Most of the ice is gone. And some ducks are swimming. The water’s too cold for me though. I just want to fish.

I watch carefully as dad shows me my grandfather’s way to fish, without a fishing pole.

He finds a heavy rock, wraps some line around it then ties a knot. After that he makes a little circle with the rest of the line, in a pile beside his foot. And ties a neat silver spinner on the very end. Then he makes another knot keeping it fast to the strong black line. 

Holding about three feet of line in front of him, he begins to twirl. He does that a couple of times and sends it flying over the water. It sure took off, making a heavy splash some distance away. I can’t wait for my turn.

“Do you want some help?” Dad asked.

“No, I want to do it all by myself.”

“Did you watch everything I did?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answer. “And I’m going to throw it farther than you!” I bragged loudly. I take my line and wrap it around another rock. Then I make a circle with the rest beside my feet. And knot my special gold spoon on the end I am going to throw.                                

After winding up like a baseball player, my first throw goes backwards and catches on a tree limb. But dad gets it down for me. I think he ripped his pants. Now I’m ready to begin twirling again. First, I do one big circle, then two, then three. And finally let go. My spoon, like a rocket, goes up and up. The sun makes it shine.

A lucky crow gets out of the way. The floppy bird might think it’s a truck…no, maybe a plane that flies. My line flies through the air, past a floating log. And over some ducks on the water.

It goes and goes and…Oh, oh. “Dad, I forgot to make a knot when I wrapped the line around my rock!”

I remember long ago how he shook his head. And smiled. Now I do too. I think he’s still out there on the lake. And he’s looking for a lost gold spoon for his little boy.