The Most Frightening Story Ever Told (6 page)

Mr. Rapscallion laughed and laughed as, piecing together his shredded nerves, and now only muttering with fright instead of gibbering, Billy climbed down off the tall pile of books.

“Well, that's more like it,” observed Mr. Rapscallion. “That sounds a lot better than ‘yikes,' let me tell you.”

He started to laugh some more. It has been mentioned that Mr. Rapscallion's laugh was no ordinary laugh, and it was clear to Billy that Mr. Rapscallion liked to laugh, and laugh a lot. As usual his laughter arrived like a clap of thunder and then kept on going long after most other people would have stopped. At this point it became something almost mechanical, like something battery-operated or one of the spring-loaded “surprises” that were in every room of the Haunted House of Books. And still the laughter persisted, like an echo.

Panting loudly, Billy Shivers sat down heavily on the stone floor and, pressing his hand against his chest, started to laugh himself. First he laughed with relief that the thing holding Mr. Rapscallion's hand was now gone from his vivid imagination; and then he laughed as he realized that he had been had.

“That was fantastic,” said Billy, shaking his head. “Fantastic. I haven't had a fright like that, well, since the car accident.”

“Good for you, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

“But look,” said Billy, “you still haven't answered my question: How did you start the Haunted House of Books?”

“That's really very, very simple,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And not much of a story at all. Not like the story you just heard, anyway. You see, when I was a boy, not much older than you, I loved
four
things. I loved doing magic tricks, I loved practical jokes, I loved old horror movies and I loved reading. And I couldn't make up my mind which of these
four
things I loved more, and to which of those four activities I wanted to devote my life when I was a grown-up. So I decided to do them all, and to combine professional magic and practical jokes with my enjoyment of books and horror movies. Hence this shop.”

Mr. Rapscallion sighed and, for a moment, he continued to look happy.

“The definition of true happiness, Billy,” he said, “is making your living from your hobby. It's getting paid for what you would do for nothing. Try to remember that.”

With Billy turning up at the Haunted House of Books every day, it wasn't long before he started to recognize the regular customers. Some of these were friendlier than others. Some weren't in the least bit friendly at all. But then, as Mr. Rapscallion had to remind Billy, it was a bookshop, and not a social club.

There was Father Merrin, of course.

And the lady with the black hair and the green leather coat who Billy now knew was called Miss Danvers. Weird.

There was Dr. Saki. Quite friendly.

There was Mr. Stoker. Friendly but a bit creepy.

There was Mr. Quiller-Couch. Not friendly.

There was Mr. Pu Sung Ling. Not friendly.

There was Miss Maupassant. Not friendly. Weird, too.

There was Mr. Montague James. Friendly. But weird.

And there was Hugh Crane. Who was not at all friendly.

Hugh Crane was a local lawyer and tycoon who wanted to buy the Haunted House of Books. Despite his interest in the shop, Crane was the only person who came in who wasn't in the least bit interested in books. In fact, Crane hated books. He hated books because Crane knew that it's easier to exploit and make money out of people who are ignorant. And of course no one who reads books—even books about ghosts and ghouls—can ever remain entirely ignorant.

The only things Crane ever read were his bank statement, law reports and the price of stocks and shares in the newspaper he owned,
The Hitchcock High Street Journal.
He wanted to buy the bookshop so that he could knock it down and build a different kind of shop. A shop to sell very expensive shampoo. Billy thought it odd that Mr. Crane wanted to sell shampoo, because he was as bald as an ostrich egg.

Once a week Mr. Crane would come into the shop with a large envelope full of cash and try to tempt Mr. Rapscallion into accepting his offer.

Mr. Rapscallion had once borrowed some money from Hugh Crane, to keep the shop going, but now he was unable to repay the loan. Mr. Crane wasn't pressing for the return of his money. Not yet. But it did mean that Mr. Rapscallion had to listen when, in order to get his greedy hands on the shop, Crane offered to wipe out the debt and give Mr. Rapscallion even more money.

Usually Mr. Rapscallion knew when Crane was coming and went into one of the rooms in the shop on purpose so that the tycoon would have to look for him. He always left a note on the counter to say in which of the many rooms he could probably be found. That way Mr. Rapscallion could be sure that Crane would encounter at least one of the shop's many surprises.

One day when this happened, Billy was with Mr. Rapscallion, in Monsters and Mad Scientists. This room was full of books like
Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
and
Wagner the Werewolf.
Billy liked these books, especially
Dr. Jekyll.
The illustrated version seemed really fantastic. He also liked this room because there was a large table, and lying on it, underneath a sheet, was the figure of an enormous man, or, to be more accurate, a monster; and beside the monster stood a mad scientist in a white smock. The monster and the scientist looked all too real, as if at any moment both of them might come to life. And, of course, sometimes, they did just that.

“Are you up there, Mr. Rapscallion?” called Mr. Crane, coming halfway up the curved wooden stairs. “It's me. Your business partner. Hugh Crane.”

“Yes, I'm here,” Mr. Rapscallion shouted.

“Could you come down here, please?” shouted Crane. “I want to speak to you.”

“I'm a little busy right now,” Mr. Rapscallion shouted back to the tycoon. “Come along to Monsters and Mad Scientists.”

“Oh, very well,” Crane shouted crossly.

Mr. Rapscallion could hardly contain his mischievous excitement at what was about to happen. He grinned at Billy. “Wait until he gets a load of what's in this room,” he said, chuckling happily.

Crane peered cautiously around the door, the lenses in his blue-tinted glasses shining like two tiny aquariums that were home to the two snakes that were his calculating eyes. Crane had suffered several unpleasant surprises before in the Haunted House of Books and he was being careful not to encounter another. If there was one thing Crane hated more than books, it was surprises. Especially the kind of surprises that were to be found at the Haunted House of Books.

“Ah, Mr. Rapscallion, there you are.” He smiled a wooden sort of smile. “Is this room safe? For me to come in?”

“Safe? Yes, it's safe,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Come ahead, sir. Come ahead. Only please, no large numbers. You know what I'm like with large numbers.”

Crane stepped into Monsters and Mad Scientists and looked around nervously. “So here you are,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.

“Yes, here I am.” Mr. Rapscallion pointed at Billy. “Mr. Crane, this is my young friend, Billy Shivers.”

Crane grunted. If there was one thing he disliked more than books and surprises, it was boys. Girls were bad enough, but boys did things he didn't like at all. They ran around in the street and played with balls, and shouted at each other, and didn't stand up straight; they laughed at stupid jokes and they kept their hands in their pockets, and they ate potato chips in shops, and they didn't blow their noses, and they mumbled when they were spoken to. But above all Crane hated boys because they disliked washing their hair. No boy likes washing his hair any more than he likes it being washed by his mother, and any boy worth his salt will usually find ways to avoid having his hair washed more than once a month. If at all. As a man who had made millions of dollars selling shampoo, Crane regarded any boy as nothing less than an alien species of life because boys dislike washing their hair.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?” asked Mr. Rapscallion. “How about a book? This book, for instance.
The Lair of the White Worm,
by Bram Stoker. You might enjoy that.”

“I'm not interested in worms,” said Crane. “Of any color. Unless they're bookworms, of course. The quicker all these silly books are consumed by worms the better, in my opinion. It's a hard world we live in, Mr. Rapscallion. And books have no place in it.”

Mr. Rapscallion nodded patiently. He'd heard all of this before.

“Besides,” added Crane, “you know what you can do
for me,
Mr. Rapscallion. You can accept my very generous offer for this shop.” He opened the envelope of cash and, bringing the wad of money up to Mr. Rapscallion's nose, proceeded to riffle the ends of the banknotes like someone about to deal from a pack of playing cards. “Do you smell that, Mr. Rapscallion? Do you smell that? It's hard cash, sir. Money. A generous cash offer considering the amount of money you already owe me.”

“And please don't mention what that is,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

“An offer that's more than enough for you to put an end to this madness and retire from business, sir. Frankly, sir, you are not cut out for business. Not cut out for it at all. Which is why this place is on its knees, sir.”

“As you say, it's a very generous offer, Mr. Crane,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “But this place is my living. It's my life. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I didn't come here every day.”

“Me neither,” mumbled Billy.

“What's that you say, boy?” demanded Crane. “Stop mumbling. I can't tolerate a boy who mumbles.”

“I said, me neither,” said Billy.

“Me neither, what?”

“I mean I wouldn't know what to do with myself either,” said Billy. “If I didn't come here every day.”

“Of course you wouldn't,” Crane said crossly. “You wouldn't know because you have no common sense. Because you're a dreamer, boy. All boys are silly dreamers. I can't tolerate a dreamer. Give me a man who has common sense. And I'll show you a man with a job, a mortgage, a car and a future. In short, I'll show you a man I can own.”

“The answer is still no,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “No, no, no.”

“Then you're a fool, sir,” said Crane. “You're a fool. All the same, I won't give up, sir. I won't give up. I'll be back. And one day you'll take my offer, sir. I can guarantee it. You'll have to accept my offer if only to repay the money you already owe me. You know it. And I know it. I always get what I want in business. Always. Not for nothing am I called Crane the Pain. One day this place will be mine, do you hear? Mine. MINE!”

Like any other tycoon, Hugh Crane was very fond of the sound of his voice. And listening to his own opinions had made him forget where he was. He started to walk around Monsters and Mad Scientists, oblivious to the possibility that a stray footstep might activate a hidden spring, or electronic sensor, and set something very monstrous in motion. And this is exactly what happened.

One moment everything was normal, and the next moment there was an enormous clap of thunder—frightening enough for anyone not expecting it. Then a bolt of lightning lit up the room and several electrical machines filled with a strange sparking blue light that seemed to transmit a deafening current into the body of the monster on the table. The monster's enormous hand lifted, at which point the mad scientist lurched toward it and began to shout hysterically.

“It's alive,” he raved. “It's alive, it's alive, it's alive!!!”

Mr. Crane paled and took several steps back as the lights dimmed and the sheet covering the monster fell away onto the floor as it sat up on the table. As monsters went, this one was top-shelf; green, with a sort of crack in its square skull, and hooded eyes, the monster was only vaguely human. Frankly, this monster strongly resembled a
thing.
The monster growled unpleasantly, like a bad-tempered dog, and pointed straight at Hugh Crane.

“IT'S ALIVE!” screamed the scientist.

“Wow,” said Billy. “Awesome.”

Poor Mr. Crane had seen enough. He let out a howl that could have come whooping out of the monkey house in a zoo. The next second he turned and ran out of the room and down the curved staircase. Halfway down he slipped and descended the rest of the stairs on his behind, like someone sledding down a bumpy hill who has forgotten to bring a sled.

Mr. Rapscallion and Billy followed him out onto the gallery above the stairs just to see that he was all right.

At the bottom Hugh Crane picked himself up and, seeing Mr. Rapscallion laughing, shook his fist at him furiously. “I thought you said the room was safe, you madman,” he yelled, crossly.

“The room
is
safe,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “I didn't say it wasn't frightening.”

He carried on laughing and chuckling and chortling and giggling for at least fifteen minutes after Hugh Crane had raced out of the door of the Haunted House of Books.

Finally Mr. Rapscallion sat down on the stairs, and when he had finished laughing, he let out a breath and sighed.

“Crane's right, though. One day this place probably will be his. I'll have no alternative but to sell. I already owe him money. And I just don't make enough money to keep the shop going, Billy. I have to pay the electricity bill, the telephone bill, the gas bill, insurance and taxes. I can't even afford to employ someone to help out around here. A book clerk. Every time I see that bundle of cash in Crane's hand and get the smell of money in my nostrils, I think that maybe he's talking sense. That maybe I should sell.”

“No,” said Billy. “You can't sell. I love this place.”

“It's unfortunate that more people don't seem to agree with you,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “But the figures don't lie. There just aren't enough people buying books to make this place break even. Let alone make a profit.”

“But what about kids? Kids would love this place.”

“Tell that to my daughter. Altaira hates this shop. Hates books. Not just books about ghosts and horror. I mean she hates
all
books. The only reading she does is when her dumb little friends text her with one of those messages that look like they were spelled by a moron from another planet.”