FANTASTIC TALES FOR FREE

PART 9

My mum turned the key in the ignition, the Clio’s tires screeched, and we left the premises in a cloud of dust.

Back at Aunt Maud’s house, I spent the afternoon slouched in the living room armchair. The cabbage smell was once again attacking my nose, and the Grandfather clock (dong!) was happy being as noisy as ever, but I valiantly put up with it all. Our Charlipoo is quiet as a mouse, I even thought I heard Aunt Maude observe.

When evening came, I gobbled up supper, muttered a vague going to bed, g’night and went up to my room.

I was now lying on the bed, completely dressed. My watch said it was nearly eleven, and it wasn’t because of the old uncomfortable mattress that my eyes were wide open.

I may have seemed quiet as a mouse, but in my head, the hamster had been running in its wheel since the afternoon.

The guy at the graveyard intrigued me, and I didn’t know what to think of his invitation. The dead who walk and talk? What exactly did he mean by that?

Part of me kept thinking that he didn’t even know what he meant. That there was no one home upstairs, and that the best thing to do was to forget this character at once and pray that this cursed stay in the kingdom of boredom and boiled cabbage come to an end as quickly as possible.

Another part of me, however, kept telling me to launch myself headlong into the adventure, and without asking any questions.

Why? You’ll better understand if I admit something: every year as Halloween gets nearer, I go into a superhuman state, as if I get plugged onto a high-tension pylon. My five senses get spectacularly sharp – or that’s what it feels like, anyway - , and waves of a burning tingling sensation goes up and down my spine. These symptoms appear right before the fateful date and disappear the day after the celebrations, November 1st, as if by magic. It’s weird, but that’s how it is, and how it has been for as long as I can remember.

This last Halloween, as failed as it was, had not been an exception to the rule, but the novelty was, not only had these symptoms not completely disappeared along with my hopes for a decent celebration, but they had returned with a vengeance when I had met the strange man. In the state of near-trance excitement I was in, a little voice was screaming at me as loudly as it could: Don’t miss your chance, moron!

What was I supposed to do? I had no idea.

I got up and paced in my room. I looked at my watch: it was past eleven o’clock. Too late for my meeting anyway.

I was going to settle into the pyjamas-and-pillow option, but something urged me to look out the window.

(Go to page 10)

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All rights reserved
(C) 2015-16 Jérémie Cassiopée

Illustration: Marzena Pereida Piwowar

Translation from the original French: Emilie Watson-Couture and the author.

Do you like Harry Potter, Oksa Pollock or Bobby Pendragon? "The Greatest Scare of My Life" is just as good, but radically different! Give it a go, and you won't be disappointed

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