Flury by Tony Bertauski

Author:Tony Bertauski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction holiday, science fiction christmas, snowman at christmas, fantasy christmas, young adult scifi christmas, teen holiday, children science fiction
Publisher: DeadPixel Publications
Published: 2014-11-13T00:00:00+00:00

IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT.

Oliver can’t sleep. He’s imagining a two-bedroom apartment. He could put posters on the wall, not make his bed in the morning or do chores. Excitement trembles inside him like a surge of caffeine.

The silhouette of the windmill is dim in the open field. There’s no snow to contrast against, not even patches in the shadows. Winter is officially over. The river must be swollen. Maybe it’s even reached the bridge.

Oliver looks at the dresser, the outline barely visible in the dark room. There’s still a journal in the attic. He hadn’t thought about it since Grandmother snatched his book bag, afraid she’d see the thoughts in his eyes. What must be in them that made her panic? Maybe she doesn’t want us to know mental illness runs in the family. The world knows without those journals, trust me.

And where’s the seventh one?

Maybe now would be the time to go to the attic. He checks the time, thinking he could get down the hall and back within minutes—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oliver fumbles the phone. His teeth lock together, clamped by the raw grip of fear. Someone knocked on the door, but not with a knuckle. More like a fingernail, each rap separated by a long second. The last one sent gooseflesh across his shoulders as the nail dragged across the painted surface.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

...scratch.

The previous gooseflesh transforms into full-body shrink-wrap. Eyes wide, he stops breathing.

“Ollie.”

Henry didn’t so much as say his name as he breathed it. And not through the heavy door, but under it.

“Open the door, Ollie. I know you’re in there. I know you’re awake.”

Oliver presses his hands over his ears. He could sit there all night. Henry couldn’t get into the room unless he had a key. Which he probably does because it’s just an old-fashioned lock.

“Ollllllie.”

If he’s got a metal glove, he’s got one of those keys.

“Open the doooooor.”

Scratch.

With jerky movements, he slides across the room. The knob turns against the lock. Oliver gulps for air, drawing deep, smooth breaths, feeling his pulse flutter in his neck. He slides his feet—his dead cold feet—and holds the doorknob.

“Open,” Henry says, “the door.”

Oliver turns the oval end of the key. The latch tumbles in the assembly. He pulls it open. Henry stands upright in the doorway. Oliver can see the perfect posture of Grandmother possessing his body. The dim light from the bedroom window reveals a spreading grin.

“What do you want?” The words lack the quiver in Oliver’s belly.

Henry, wearing a white robe with wide collars and soft-soled slippers, walks forward. Oliver steps aside. In the dark, he paces around the bed, hands in the square pockets of his robe. He looks around the room, tilting his head toward the dresser, the nightstand and bed, as if he might see something in the dark. Maybe he smells the binoculars still hidden under the bed.

“What do you know?” Henry flips the pillow and rubs his hand over the sheet beneath it.

“What?”

“What do you know, Ollie? What have you seen?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.

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