“How are you, Samuel?” she asked, as though they were friends who had just happened to meet on a pleasant Sunday morning.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
“I’m disappointed to hear that,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “In fact, I was hoping you wouldn’t be here at all.”
Samuel shrugged. Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes, already blue, seemed to brighten a shade, drawing his gaze toward them.
“You sent the monster who hid under my bed,” said Samuel.
“Yes, and I’m going to have words with him, when I find him. I expended rather a lot of energy bringing him here. The least he could have done was eat you alive.”
“Well, he didn’t,” said Samuel. “He seemed quite nice, actually.”
Mrs. Abernathy’s calm expression altered for an instant. She might have been a demon but, in common with most of the human adults who had encountered Samuel Johnson, she wasn’t sure if he was being deliberately cheeky, or was just a very unusual child.
“I’m here to seek a truce. I don’t know what you saw, or thought you saw, in our basement that night, but you’re mistaken. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. We’re just… visiting for a time.”
Samuel shook his head. There was something strangely insistent about Mrs. Abernathy’s voice. Samuel recalled a play that they had read about in school, one in which a king was murdered by having poison poured into his ear. Listening to Mrs. Abernathy, he felt just as he imagined the king must have felt as he started to die.
“I-”
“I don’t want to hear it, Samuel. You must learn to keep your mouth shut. If you don’t interfere with me, then I’ll leave you in peace, but if you cross me you won’t even live long enough to regret it. Do you understand?”
Samuel nodded, even as he knew that what Mrs. Abernathy was saying was a lie. There would be no peace for him, or for anyone, if she succeeded with her plans. But her voice was so sweet and hypnotic, and his eyelids were starting to feel so very heavy.
“Come closer, Samuel,” whispered Mrs. Abernathy. “Come closer, and let me whisper in your ear…”
Whisper. Ear. Poison.
In that instant, Samuel sensed the danger he was in. With a great effort of will he pinched himself hard on the hand, using his nails so that the pain was sharp and he drew blood. He took a step back from Mrs. Abernathy, his head clearing, and he saw her face cloud with rage. One of her hands reached for him, almost as though it had a will of its own.
“You nasty child!” she said. “Don’t think you can escape me that easily. You’d better be careful, unless_”
“Unless what?” said Samuel, goading her now. “Unless I want something bad to happen to me, is that it? What could be worse than a monster under my bed waiting to eat me?”
Mrs. Abernathy got her anger under control. She smiled almost sweetly.
“Oh, you have no idea,” she said. “Well then, here it is. Something bad is going to happen to you no matter what you do. The question is: how bad will that something be? When the time comes, I can make it so that you simply fall asleep and never wake up again. But if I choose, I can ensure instead that you never sleep again, and that every moment of your wretched existence is spent in searing agony, gasping for breath and begging for the pain to stop!”
“It sounds like gym class,” said Samuel, with considerable feeling. He was happy that his voice didn’t tremble. It made him appear braver than he was.
Mrs. Abernathy looked past Samuel. He risked a glance in the same direction, and saw his mother approaching.
“You’re so funny, Samuel,” said Mrs. Abernathy, beginning to move away. “When my master comes we’ll see if he finds you quite so amusing. In the meantime, you keep your mouth shut. Remember when I said I’d kill your dog? Well, if you speak of this to your mother, then I’ll kill her instead. I’ll smother her in her sleep, and no one will ever know except you and I. I met her in the supermarket yesterday. I know you’ve been talking about my affairs. Remember this, Samueclass="underline" careless talk costs lives…”
With that she headed off in the direction of town, trailing strong perfume and a faint whiff of burning.
“What did she want?” asked Mrs. Johnson. She was staring at Mrs. Abernathy’s back with ill-concealed distaste. She couldn’t remember why she disliked Mrs. Abernathy so much, just that she did.
“Nothing, Mum,” said Samuel resignedly. “She was just saying hello.”
That evening, Samuel decided that there was no point in telling any grown-up in Biddlecombe of what he knew. They simply wouldn’t believe him. But perhaps someone his own age might. He could no longer deal with all this alone.
Tomorrow, at the risk of being laughed at, he would call upon his friends for help.
XIV In Which We Learn That It Is Sometimes Wise to Be Afraid of the Dark
SAMUEL’S DAD CALLED THE house that night to speak to his son. Samuel tried to tell his dad about the Abernathys’ basement, but his dad only said, “Really?” and “How interesting,” and asked Samuel how he was enjoying his half-term break, and if his mum was okay.
Samuel made one final effort.
“Dad,” he said, “this is serious. I’m not making it up.”
“You think these people, the Abernathys, are carrying out experiments in their basement?” said Mr. Johnson.
“Not experiments,” said Samuel. “I think they were messing about with something that they shouldn’t have been messing about with, and it all went wrong. Now they’ve opened a kind of doorway.”
“Into Hell?”
“Yes, except it’s not working right yet. The door is open, but the gates aren’t.”
“Don’t you usually have to open the gates before the door?” said Mr. Johnson.
“Yes,” said Samuel, “but-”
He stopped.
“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” he said. “You don’t believe me.”
“Have you been playing those computer games again, those ones where you have to kill demons? Samuel, put your mum on the phone.” Samuel did, and heard one side of a conversation that seemed to revolve around whether or not he, Samuel, knew the difference between reality and fantasy, and if this was some kind of reaction to the difficulties in their marriage, and if Samuel should see a psychiatrist. The conversation moved on to other matters, and Samuel drifted away.
His mum had a troubled expression on her face when she hung up the phone, as though she realized that she was supposed to remember something important, but couldn’t quite recall what it was.
“Samuel, go to bed early tonight,” said Mrs. Johnson. “Read something that doesn’t involve demons, or ghosts, or monsters, hmmm? For me. And, darling, be careful what you say to people.”
Then she started crying.
“Your dad’s buying a house with that woman, Samuel,” said his mum, through her tears. “He wants a divorce. And he wants to come down and collect that stupid bloody car of his!”
Samuel held his mum, and didn’t speak. After a while, she told him that it was time for bed. He went up to his room and spent a long time staring out of the window, but he didn’t cry. Suddenly, monsters and demons didn’t seem so important anymore. His dad wasn’t coming home again. Meanwhile, he was just a small boy, and nobody-not his mum, not his dad- listened to small boys, not ever. Shortly after nine, he changed into his pajamas, and climbed into bed.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
It was Boswell who first sensed the coming of the Darkness. He woke at the end of Samuel’s bed, where he had now decided to sleep permanently after the nasty slimy thing had briefly taken up residence on the floor beneath. Boswell’s nose twitched, and his hair stood on end.
Although he was a very intelligent animal, Boswell, like most dogs, divided the world into things that were Good to eat and things that were Bad to eat, with a small space in the middle for things that might potentially be either, or just Good or Bad generally, but about which he wasn’t entirely certain as of yet.