They’re Coming For You
Box Set, Vol. 4-6:
Scary Stories that Scream
to be Read
by
O. Penn-Coughin
Published by You Come Too Publishing at Smashwords
Text and Illustrations Copyright © 2011 O. Penn-Coughin
You Come Too Publishing
Tombstone of Contents
They’re Coming For You
Box Set, Vol. 4-6:
Scary Stories that Scream
to be Read
by
O. Penn-Coughin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical article and reviews.
Scary Stories that SCREAM
to be Read… Forthwith
O. Penn-Coughin
Copyright © 2011 O. Penn-Coughin
You Come Too Publishing
Introduction
The stories in this collection are meant to be read in the quiet horror of your mind or as read alouds. Some include instructions [like this].
If anyone needs reminding, this book is not to be taken seriously. It’s all in good fun.
O. Penn-Coughin
Van Full of Clowns
“Clowns!” the shouts rang out. “Run! The clowns are coming!”
Some said the van was white. Others said it was black.
But the stories agreed on one point: evil clowns were on the loose, looking to do who knows what. Up to no good, you could bet your best Carl Yastrzemski card on that.
The sightings first began in the winter of ’81.
By early spring, every kid with any sense was spooked out of his mind. Man, even most of the senseless ones were jumpy.
Descriptions were vague. The ones who had been lucky enough to get away had a hard time saying exactly what the clowns looked like.
Were the clowns real or just evil doers in circus drag? Was there just one van or a whole fleet of ‘em? Questions, rumors, facts, and fear bled together and poured into our dreams.
No matter how much the teacher said so-and-so had moved away, we knew the truth: the clowns had gotten another one. A van full of clowns was seen at the corner of 3rd and Dawson. In the parking lot of Morningwood Park. In front of the school.
The clowns had chased little Jimmy O’Brien down his block. That’s why he fell and cracked his skull on the icy sidewalk that day in April. I don’t know for a fact if that’s how it happened. All I can tell you is Jimmy was never the same after that.
Some of the older kids would joke about it.
“Run! The Clowns are coming!” they’d scream at the younger kids.
“They’ll get you and blow you up like a balloon.”
“Yeah, they’ll twist you into a balloon animal till you explode.”
Sometimes they would inflate their empty lunch bags and sneak up behind someone and pop them.
[Clap hands loudly.]
“Clowns got another one!” they would shout.
More than one kid needed to change his underwear after that. They’d run to the office, crying, trying to hold in what had already leaked out.
“Run! The Clowns are coming! Ha, ha, ha, haaa!”
But even the older kids were scared, I think.
The cops said there was nothing to worry about. Just another case of mass hysteria.
Maybe the whole thing was made up by parents trying to get their children to make it home on time, to listen, to behave. The usual stuff. Maybe it was just another variation on the old boogey man stories. Fooled again. Could be.
But I think it was real.
I never actually saw the clowns myself, and I can’t prove it, but I know they got me, I mean Mikey, my best friend.
One day walking home from school he saw an old white van pull up in front of his house. Someone got out and ran inside. Mikey was too far away to tell who it was. The van took off down the street.
When Mikey walked in, he found his stepfather. He came out of the bathroom, breathing hard.
“Hey, sport,” he said.
His hair was sweaty and pasted to his forehead. He had a few traces of what looked to be white makeup on his face.
Mikey must have gone pale then.
“What’s wrong, sport?”
Mikey looked down.
His stepfather was still wearing the big floppy red shoes.
He could tell that Mikey had seen them.
“I’m sorry you had to find out about this, Mikey,” he said, coming toward him. “You’re a good boy. I’m real sorry.”
The shoes closed in. Closer and closer they came.
No one ever saw Mikey again.
Until now…
[Hum some circus music.]
AAAH!
Lazy Bones
He never had much energy when he was alive.
Now that he was dead…
[Yawn and stretch.]
Forget about it.
Chindi
“That old woman is half-blind,” Blake said. “You distract her and I’ll take that cigar box where she keeps her money.”
The old wrinkled woman was sitting behind a blanket covered with turquoise and silver jewelry. Russell walked up to her.
“Ya'at'eeh, grandmother,” he said. “How’s business?”
“Today has been a good day,” she said.
Blake came around behind her and picked up the cigar box. Some of the coins inside clinked together.
The old woman didn’t seem to hear.
“Hágoónee',” Russell said, walking back to the car. “Goodbye.”
Blake got behind the wheel and hit the gas, sending dirt and gravel flying.
“Candy from a baby, bro,” he said, throwing the box on the seat between them.
A few miles up the highway they turned off on to a dirt road. Blake parked the car behind a large boulder.
“Let’s go over there and see how we did,” he said pointing to an old hogan.
“All right,” Russell said.
They walked over the slickrock and soon reached the structure. It appeared to be abandoned.
Blake went inside. Russell hesitated for a moment and then followed.
The small hogan was filled with furniture and personal belongings as if someone still lived there—except that a thick layer of dust and cobwebs covered everything.
“Why is all this stuff still here?” Blake said.
“The owner probably died here,” Russell said. “My people believe the chindi, the dead person’s ghost, still haunts the place where someone dies.”
“Your people believe a lot of weird stuff,” Blake said.
“I suppose so,” Russell said.
Blake opened the cigar box. He emptied the contents on the bed and started counting.
“Nine dollars and 42 cents,” he said and shook his head. “We’re so rich.”
He smashed the cigar box against the wall. A large black spider scurried into a hole.
“Well, here’s your share after gas money,” Blake sighed, handing Russell three wrinkled dollar bills.
“Let’s get out of here.”
A warm gust of wind slammed the door shut behind them. A raven flew by casting its shadow on Blake’s face.
“Man, it’s hot,” he said.
The air baked and sizzled over the rocks. In the distance a dust devil had formed. The two teens stood and stared at it as it grew and moved in their direction.
“I’ve never seen one last this long,” Russell said. “It’s a big one too.”
The large tornado-looking counterclockwise swirl of dirt and sand was now almost on top of them.
“I need a big soda,” Blake said, turning to leave. “Let’s go.”
“No,” Russell suddenly said in a shaky voice. “It can’t be.”
“What, dog?” Blake said.
“In the dust devil,” Russell whispered. “Chindi.”
Blake didn’t see anything. He turned and saw that his friend’s face had gone pale.
“It’s just sand, white man,” Blake said. “There ain’t no ghost in there.”
“Chindi!” Russell said. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see it?”
He started running.
“Take the money. I don’t want it. Take it! Take—”
The dust devil now passed through Blake. Before he had to close his sandblasted eyes, he thought he saw Russell jump off the edge of the canyon.
A few minutes later, still rubbing his eyes, Blake walked over and looked down.
Hundreds of feet below, on a bloodstained rock, lay Russell’s smashed and broken body. He was dead.
Blake stumbled back away from the edge.
***
Blake died less than a year later. He wasted away. The doctors were never able to find out what was wrong with him. In the end, he was nothing more than skin and bones. And then dust.
Bloody World
The eye in the blender was looking back at me. And then I realized I was the one in the blender looking out at the whir… at the whir… at the whir… at the whirl… at the whirl… at the whirl… going by… going by… going bye…
The Return of El Cuco
A new family had moved into the little house on the corner.
The first night in the house the little girl heard a noise. It was coming from the wall behind her bed.
“Help me, please,” a tiny voice whispered. “El Cuco has trapped me in here.”
The girl started crying and called to her parents.
“There’s nothing, Elena,” her mother said. “It’s just a little hole in the wall.”
But every night, the girl heard the same thing. The little voice called out for help.
“El Cuco has me trapped,” it said. “Help me.”
The father became tired of his daughter’s tears.
“Basta de tonterías, Elena,” he sighed. “Enough of this nonsense. I will sleep in here tomorrow night.”
The next night the father slept on the floor of Elena’s bedroom.
“Help me, please,” a tiny voice whispered. “El Cuco has trapped me in here. Help me, please.”
The father got up and put his ear to the hole.
“Help me…” he heard again.
“I told you, papá,” Elena said. “I knew it wasn’t mi imaginación.”
The next morning the father got his tools and started ripping at the wall around the little hole.
He dropped to his knees when he saw it.
There, behind the wall, was the skeleton of a little boy.
What’s He Building Up There?
The sound of the power saw cut through the night.
“What’s he building up there?” Jerry said, looking out the window across the street and up at the house on the hill.
“He’s not building anything,” Frank said. “There’s no hammering. Just the sawing.”
Jerry couldn’t remember when it had started, but it seemed to have been going on for weeks. And Frank was right. There was never any hammer sounds. All that sawing and no hammering. It was beyond strange.
“Then what’s he sawing up there?” Jerry said. “And don’t you suppose he could be using glue to hold things together?”
Their mom called up from downstairs.
“It’s time for bed, boys.”
“Good night, mom,” Jerry and Frank said.
“I’m gonna find out,” Frank whispered from his bed across the room. “Tomorrow night I’m sneaking up there.”
Jerry didn’t say anything. He started shaking under the covers.
“You comin’ with?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, I’m in,” Jerry said, hoping his brother couldn’t hear the fear in his voice.
The next night, after the sun went down, the boys rode their bikes up the hill. They set them up against a tree by the end of the road and started walking through the woods. The house was dark, but there was a light coming from the garage.
It was quiet. Strangely quiet.
The door creaked a little when Frank pushed it open. He stuck his head in.
“C’mon,” he whispered. “No one’s here.”
The two boys walked in.
There were piles of wood everywhere. But then they saw what the man had been building. Coffins. Coffins of all sizes lined the walls.
As they got closer, Jerry stumbled over a piece of wood and bumped into Frank.
“Shhh,” Frank said. “Watch where you’re going.”
Jerry saw that there were words carved into some of the lids.
“Edgar Wilson,” Frank read. “Hey, isn’t that the kid at the end of our street?”
Jerry didn’t answer. He was standing in front of another coffin a few feet away.
Linda Tomasi was carved on it.
“Look,” Jerry finally said, pointing.
Frank came over.
“What the—”
Linda Tomasi was their mother’s name!
There were two smaller coffins next to it.
“Jerry Tomasi,” Jerry said, standing in front of his own coffin.
“Frank Toma—” Frank began and stopped when he smelled something.
“Hey, you were right,” Frank said.
The strong smell of glue now filled the room.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jerry said.
Right before they could turn to leave, each boy felt a large, wet hand on his shoulder. The air now seemed to drip with glue. Then the light went out.
“I’ve been expecting you,” a voice whispered in their ears.
No one heard their screams over the familiar sound of the power saw—rrrrrr—AAAH!
No one had ever spent an entire night in Shayton House without dying or going mad.
But that didn’t stop people from trying.
They had been trying off and on since the house was built in 1864.
According to the legend, the original owner, Everett Shayton, had died during his first night in the house. The servants found him on the south lawn the next morning. He had either fallen or jumped from the roof.
At last count, more than 100 people had lost their minds and 23 had died in the house. Twenty-four including Shayton.
The most recent victim was a 14-year-old boy who broke into the house last October. To keep him company, the teen brought his pet parrot.
At first nothing happened. But shortly after midnight, a voice started calling from somewhere out in the night.
“I’m coming for you,” it moaned soft and low.
A few minutes later the voice was closer.
“I’m coming for you,” it said again.
It sounded like it was out in the front yard.
Suddenly, the boy’s parrot spoke.
“You’re not coming for me, caw,” it said. “Not for me.”
This was particularly unsettling for the boy because he had had the bird for four years and this was the first time it had said anything.
The voice called again. It now sounded like it was right outside the front door.
“I’m coming for you,” it moaned.
“Not for me, caw,” the parrot answered. “You’re not coming for me.”
“Shhh,” the boy whispered. “The Ghost of Shayton will hear you.”
“What do I care?” the parrot squawked loudly. “It’s not coming for me, caw.”
Equal parts angry and spooked, the boy ran upstairs and into one of the bedrooms.
“I’m coming for you,” the voice said from the foot of the stairs.
“Not for me… what do I care?… he’s in here, Shayton,” the parrot said. “Caw, caw, caw.”
The boy thought about choking the parrot, but before he could do anything he heard the Ghost of Shayton open the bedroom door.
“I’m coming for you,” it said again.