A Little Yellow Book of Fevered Stories by Al Sarrantonio

Author:Al Sarrantonio [Sarrantonio, Al]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, supernatural, short stories
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2021-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

Sleepover

“Chickens were green,” he said.

“They weren’t,” she answered. “They were yellow. Frogs were green.”

“That’s the sky,” he said, grinning slyly to himself. He had a secret grin even when his lips didn’t smile. “The sky was green. Grass was blue.”

She shook her head back and forth, almost violently. “You got ’em mixed up, Ty. It’s the other way ’round. Grass was-green, sky blue.”

“It was the way I say,” he replied, and his eyes were hard enough that he meant it.

“No, little brother, it was the way I remember.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she looked at the ground. “I think …”

They were on a plane of black smooth glass. Where the sky—which was maroon and devoid of clouds—met the horizon there was a faint curved thin fuzzy line, like a charcoal-drawn heat wave. The temperature never seemed to change, though sometimes Ty complained of being cold at night. Willa pressed up near him when this happened, but always reluctantly. There was a part of her that was sure he claimed cold just to get attention.

Ty was seven, as close as Willa could remember. He had been seven when they woke up one morning in this place which had, during the night, replaced the second-floor bedroom of cousin Clara’s big white house with the white picket fence. Sometimes Willa had trouble remembering some things about the white house now—such as if the garage doors had needed painting or not, or if the mailbox post at the road was crooked or straight. But there were other things that Willa did remember—the sharpness of the red metal flag on the mailbox, which felt like it might cut your finger when you raised it to tell the mailman there was mail to be taken, or the tart ammonia smell of the cat litter box when it hadn’t been cleaned, or the way Aunt Erin and Uncle Bill’s smiles lit up their faces when cousin Clara said something clever. She remembered Clara’s science project, the working windmill, with it’s gold first-place ribbon hanging from it (it had been gold, hadn’t it?—Ty would now say it had been tan, or orange) that was displayed prominently on the fireplace mantle.

But she couldn’t remember if the fireplace bricks had been red or white.

“I’m hungry again,” Ty said, and this time Willa knew he was looking for nothing but attention. They hadn’t bed’ hungry since they had found themselves here. They hadn’t gotten dirty, or had to brush their teeth, or even had to go to the bathroom.

Which had led Willa to conclude—

“And we’re not dead!” Ty said, reaching over to jab her in the ribs. “We’re just … here!”

“And where is that?” Willa responded.

Ty began to cry, true frightened sobs, which made Willa pleased and then, instantly, sorry. She reached over to brush the hair away from his forehead. “It’s all right,” she whispered, “We’re not dead.”

But he was consumed by one of his out-of-control times, and clung to her, shivering. She could feel the wetness of his tears against the skin of her arm, soaking into the upper cuff of her nightdress.

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