Thirteen Volume Two

THE DARE

DARRAN YORK

Some of you will already know me from ‘The Magic’. (Editor’s note: The Magic’ is the controversial short story which opened Thirteen - Volume One. It resulted in the book being banned in Italy and sparked an instant internet sensation, fuelled by people who had attempted to try it. Following numerous reports of strange activity during and after reading it, the story itself is purported to be somehow haunted. Despite its length (it is only one and a half pages long), it has become known as ‘the scariest short story in the world’. In brief, the story requests that you read it alone and follow a number of instructions in order to complete the challenge.) The rest of you, I guess this is the first time you’ve had the pleasure.

For the first timers, let me explain something to you very briefly and get you up to speed with all of this and how it’s going to work.

I set challenges for people. Little dares for the brave, curious or foolish to try. If you play along all the way to the end, then you win. But if you just read the words like you’re reading any old story, you fail… and you’re wasting your time.

This will only work if you do exactly as you’re told. Any feeling of disappointment you get if you read but don’t play will be entirely attributable to you. I’ll say it myself and save you the bother – this story will not be scary if you don’t participate. It will not terrify you if you don’t play along. It will not freak you out if you don’t give it a shot. In fact, it will bore you. You may as well go and read the nutritional information on your cereal box instead.

Any judgment on the ability of this story to petrify is invalid if you have not been brave enough to attempt The Dare.

I’ve got experience in these things, believe me. I’ve seen it all before. You’ve got your quick Kindle down-loaders of ‘The Magic’, who feel aggrieved that they haven’t been terrified, even though they didn’t follow the very basic instructions. Whiney little bitches. Then there are your freeloaders, who leaf through ‘Thirteen Volume One’ in the book shops and the libraries, so eager to see what the fuss is about that they miss the ride.

Just so everyone is singing from the same hymn sheet: You want this to work? Play along and try it. It doesn’t matter if you’re sixteen or sixty-six; the rules apply to everybody the same. This isn’t for kids, it’s for adults, so if you excuse yourself from participating in the challenge on some kind of self-induced seniority complex then I’m telling you now, you’re deluding yourself, buddy. Get involved. If you don’t, you will be gutted.

We’re going on a little trip. And this time, unlike ‘The Magic’, you don’t need to be alone for it to work. The more the merrier. Witnesses are good.

The Dare

So, step one: I need you to speak to a friend or two. You can show them this story up to this point, or just generally convey to them the following: I want to see if I’m brave enough to try The Dare. It’s meant to be freaky. I would like you to come with me to try it. It will take us as long as it takes us to get to the nearest graveyard, then no more than ten minutes.

Arrange a date and a time to meet (early evening is best). Then you, as the instigator, must prepare the following for step two:

A small bag/rucksack… into which you place…

A box of matches.

A small mirror.

A pen.

A single sheet of blank paper.

This book, or a print out of ‘The Dare’.

Once you have put everything into the bag, make your way to the graveyard and only read on from this paragraph once you arrive there. You can film it if you like, just in case people don’t believe you’ve done this all the way to the end. I do like to encourage these sort of things…

Interlude

Did you make it to the graveyard?

Everybody you asked showed up?

Very good.

(I hope you’re at the graveyard if you’re reading this and not sat in your bedroom reading it on the computer because you’re too scared to try it. If you are, you should just skip it. It won’t do anything for you. If bedrooms are your thing, try ‘The Magic’.)

Let’s continue…

Step three: Don’t make a nuisance of yourself. As organizer, tell your little group to be on their best behavior. Upsetting people who are mourning will quickly result in the graveyard staff escorting you away, and that’s no good. I know the nerves are probably already setting in, and the giddy excitement can easily lead to silliness, but calm down and make sure everyone is focused and cool. People acting like dicks will ruin this dare, so keep things under control.

Step four: Take a walk around for five minutes (alone, in pairs, all together, whatever) and find the oldest grave you can find. That’s the one with the oldest date of death on it, not the oldest date of birth. If there’s nothing earlier than 1911, find another graveyard. This will only work with old.

Step five: Gather round the grave.

Step six: Take the pen and paper out of the bag. Rip squares from the paper that are large enough to write a single letter on and write out the following letters:

• The first letter of the first name (If there is more than one name on the headstone, go with the longest dead.)

• Write the last letter of the last name

• Write the first letter of every paragraph from the section under Interlude, on the previous page – there are five of them, from ‘D’ to ‘L’

• Everyone in your group to write at least three letters of your choosing. Keep them secret from each other. Do not use the same letter twice when it comes to your go.

• Take the year of death. Each number, correspond to a letter from the alphabet. 1889, for example, would be ‘a’, first letter of the alphabet, ‘h’, eighth letter of the alphabet, ‘h’ and ‘i’. If there’s a zero, skip it.

• What month did they die? Add the following accordingly: January – g. February – a. March – i. April – l. May – p. June – w. July – c. August – r. September – m. October – b. November – u. December – t.

• If they died on an even number day of the month, add ‘f’, ‘t’ and ‘p’.

• If it was odd, ‘w’, ‘s’ and ‘c’

Put all of the letters into your bag. Do not fold them.

Step seven: Tip all of the letters out by your feet. Pick up the ones which landed face up and burn one of them with the match. Put the rest of the ones which landed face-up back into the bag. Leave the ones which are face-down.

Step eight: Take out the little mirror and walk in a circle around the face-down letters three times, pointing the mirror towards the letters. If there are less than six letters, make up the difference with letters from the bag. All of you, as a group, or both of you, as a pair, or just you, if you were brave enough to get this far alone.

Step nine: Pick up the face-down letters, but do not look at them just yet.

Now you’re in one of three groups, I’m guessing: One, you’re there, doing this, and you’re nervous. Two, you’re there, doing this, thinking it’s lame and nothing’s going to happen. Three, you’re in your bedroom. (Tut, tut, tut.)

Groups one and two, well done – we are nearly there. Soon, you may be able to say ‘I did The Dare.’

Step ten: Take it in turns to turn over the remaining bits of paper. Wait for a word to present itself amongst them as an anagram. It might only be small. Like ‘hi’. Or ‘run’, or ‘go’.

What’s your word?

MONSTERS UNDER CEDAR BLUFF

BOYD E. HARRIS

Every night from his pen, Ivan watched monsters roam the neighborhood. All the dogs in Cedar Bluff saw them. For years these monsters had been coming out of the storm drains into the streets and causing havoc. They crept through yards, knowing there were fences that stood between them and their canine enemies. Dog's masters didn't often come out to investigate, and as far as Ivan knew, none had ever seen them.

For years these nocturnal creatures raided garages for dog food and other valuables and rummaged through garbage cans. These bad deeds were sometimes blamed on the family dog and punishable by time in a dark room without food. This only added to the irritation neighborhood dogs experienced. Barking incessantly was the only way to vent their frustrations. Often dogs barked and howled through the night, hoping to catch the attention of their masters.

Sometime back, Ivan learned not to bark much, because he didn't like being a bad-boy. He also knew it kept him out of the house. When he was in his pen, the nightly disturbances from the monsters kept him from sleeping. There was nothing creepier to Ivan than to see several of them crawl out of the storm drains and disappear into the darkness of neighborhood yards. His master, Daddy, was a heavy sleeper, but whenever his sleep was disrupted, he'd usually be up for hours. Ivan could count on a very short wanna-go-for-a-walk? the next day. Barking wasn't worth the attention and it never really did any good.

Because Ivan was usually a good-boy, Daddy did nice things for him. He took Ivan to the dam at the neighborhood creek every few days and threw yellow, fury balls way out into the water so Ivan could go fetch them. Once they were home, Daddy bathed him. He used some great smelling soapy stuff and then toweled him dry. Ivan wasted no opportunity to sneak in a slurp of Daddy's face when he leaned in too close. He loved to hear Daddy giggle from the tickle of Ivan's tongue on his whiskers.

Soon neighborhood cats began to disappear, though Ivan and his comrades usually saw what was happening to them. One night Ivan watched a cat shriek violently, while several monsters ripped it to pieces. The monsters dragged its mutilated carcass down into the sewers. A moment after they disappeared, Daddy came running out to see what the screeching was all about. Other neighbors met with Daddy in the street. Ivan figured they were there to discuss whose cat it was and what had happened to it.

Daddy blamed the disappearance on something called coyotes. He pointed to the open land behind the back yard of his house talking about where they dwelled. Some dogs wondered if coyotes actually were the monsters, but Ivan knew better. They were the wild dogs that lived on the bluff near the community park and howled on full moon nights. They usually brought the whole neighborhood of dogs into an uproar, but not Ivan. Coyotes were not the monsters.

Then came the night when something very freaky happened to Ivan. A monster climbed into his pen and startled him from his sleep. He jumped up and cornered the monster, though he knew this was not a good thing. It was smaller than him, but it came at him and dug its long claws into his hide in several places, at one point just a few inches below his eye. Ivan sunk his teeth into its rear thigh, but it kept clawing him until he let go. The monster made a desperate lunge at the fence and scurried over it, just escaping Ivan's muscular jaws.

Ivan had hoped to hold the monster in just long enough for Daddy to come out and see it, but the monster disappeared too soon. Daddy surveyed the area around the pen and then took Ivan into his house. Daddy tended to Ivan's cuts with something wet from a brown bottle that stung like fire ants.

He said to Ivan, I hope you got the better of that wild coyote. After working on Ivan's wounds for a moment, he said, But jumping that six foot fence doesn't seem like something a coyote would do. Could it have been a raccoon that got in your pen? Whatever it was, it made a huge mistake squaring off against a killer boxer like you.

Ivan just wagged his docked tail and licked at his master, unable to show his frustration. He wanted to tell Daddy that the intruder was neither a coyote nor a raccoon, though he had no idea what a raccoon was. He'd never seen one.

Then an awful thing took place in the Cedar Bluff neighborhood. Ivan watched a team of monsters come around the side of the house across the street and two doors down. They dragged something much larger than a cat along the sidewalk. The street was too dark to make out the figure, but it was wrapped in something white, soaked in red. Ivan could smell the blood from his pen. The monsters took it to the storm drain and pulled it in. The dogs all barked and howled. Even Ivan howled that night. Daddy came out and attempted to calm Ivan down, but Ivan had seen something terrible and he wanted his master to understand.

What is it, Ivan? Did the coyotes come around again? Could it have been a raccoon? Daddy held on hard, but Ivan pulled away, trying to release himself from his master's

grip. If he could just break free, he could lead the way to the monster's escape route.

Daddy kept Ivan out for the rest of the night, though the monsters didn't return from their subterranean home.

This morning Ivan woke up to sirens approaching the neighborhood. Daddy came running out and followed the emergency vehicles to the house where the monsters had been. It was a very dreary day. Ivan could sense it in all the neighborhood humans. It was a sad day for dogs too. The family that lived in that house was horrified. Ivan knew them well. The three children loved Ivan and his goofy playfulness. But now the youngest child they called Amber was missing and Ivan could tell the family was worried. Ivan knew where she was, but he was locked up in this pen, and he had no way of showing them.

Tonight the blood-thirsty monsters came back from under Cedar Bluff. They seemed different to Ivan, less as scavengers and more as predators. They had tasted human flesh and were now on the prowl for richer meat. They spread out into neighborhood and three slowly crept up onto Daddy's yard toward Ivan's pen. What were they looking for now? He watched as the brown and grey, bushy tailed creatures, with black masks and long snouts inched their way toward him. Their beady eyes were cold and dark. They were truly evil.

Though he knew fighting these monsters would mean suicide, Ivan was angry enough to slay all three. With his springy boxer hind legs, he leapt to the top of the fence, hooked it with his front paws and pulled himself over. He dropped in front of the monsters. They stood dead in their tracks, startled at his prowess. Without hesitation, Ivan lunged at the largest of the three. The monster slashed at him with its long, shiny claws, but it had no chance as Ivan arrived and sunk his teeth firmly into its neck. The other two fled from the shocking sight, as Ivan violently shook the monster around the yard until well after the life escaped its body.

Daddy came out to find the mutilated carcass lying in front of his angry, unsatisfied dog. Ivan's red, foamy face was ready for more. Daddy looked at the dead beast in his yard.

My God Ivan, that's the biggest raccoon I've ever seen.

Ivan had seen bigger. His alert ears were focused on the gutter drains and the yards in the distance, looking for more. His body was shaking, not from fear, but anger. His chest hummed a dull growl, almost too low for human ears.

What's come over you? Daddy followed Ivan's gaze and said, "Were there more? Raccoons move in families, but they don't like

trouble. He grabbed Ivan by the collar and began to lead him toward the front door. Don't worry boy, they won't be back tonight."

But Ivan resisted, holding tight in his stance, staring down the street at a couple of monsters, who were watching from the shadows of some bushes.

Daddy took Ivan in and cleaned him up, picking around the short light brown fur as though he was expecting to find more wounds, but Ivan's body was without a scratch. He took Ivan back out to his pen, gave him a treat and said, Listen boy, I have a big day tomorrow. You-are-a-good-boy. But Daddy has to keep you out tonight. He found a long leash and said, I'm going to tie you up just for the rest of the night so you don't get out. Tomorrow we'll do something about the fence, so you can't get out and nothing else can get in. Daddy tied the long leash to the dog house and as he reached to clip it to Ivan's collar, Ivan shook him off and backed away. Now, Daddy's-sorry-boy, but let's not make this night any longer than it has to be. Daddy grabbed him by the collar, pulled him toward the leash and clipped it. Ivan continued to resist, putting out a bit of a whimper.

Then Daddy grabbed a large garbage bag and put the carcass in it with a shovel. He tied the bag tightly, threw the body in his garbage bin and went back inside the house to finish the night's sleep.

Later the monsters did come back, but this time in an army. Every monster in the neighborhood joined the march. Ivan's leash was just long enough to allow his thick neck through the dog window Daddy had cut from the picket fence. He watched quietly as a dozen of them approached Daddy's yard toward the pen. They came to within five feet of Ivan and began to hiss.

Ivan was more angry than scared. He growled.

Then the monsters turned and headed for the front door of the house. A couple of them climbed up on the tall hedges next to the front door and another positioned itself on the porch lamp, while the others waited at the front door. Ivan panicked. He burst into an uncontrollable bark. He pulled so hard on his leash that the wood in the dog house began to splinter.

Daddy's bedroom light came on. A moment later the front door opened. The army of monsters charged inside. Ivan stopped barking and he could hear a ruckus taking place. He tilted his head, trying not to pant. Daddy yelled violent things that Ivan had never heard before. It sounded like things were smashing against walls and furniture was being overturned. It lasted about a minute and then all was silent.

Ivan began barking again, pulling on his leash, enough to rip one of the boards completely out of the dog house. There were two more holding the leash firm. He fought his best, but could not get free.

Then he saw a monster reappear from the house, dragging something in its teeth. Once in the yard's post light, he could see it was a human arm. Then another monster followed it, dragging Daddy's head by the hair, blood flickering in the light as it drained through his neck. A group of monsters brought the rest of Daddy's body outside. They purposely brought it by the pen to taunt Ivan on their kill. Then they carried the pieces away toward the storm drain across the street.

Ivan watched Daddy disappear, piece by piece, into the darkness under Cedar Bluff.

PINK PAPERS

STEPHEN FOSTER

Glass shattered, and coffee dripped down the bathroom wall while Garry was taking a piss. The sudden noise made him jump and spray across the toilet seat before he could close off his bladder. Taking a deep breath and ignoring his wife, standing red-faced at the door, he continued his business, careful not to miss again. After zipping up he wiped down the porcelain and flushed. On his way to the sink, he had to step over the shards of a broken mug. He winced; it had been his favorite. The thought occurred to him that his wife was actually angry and not just blowing smoke.

You bastard, she hissed in such a way that seemed to confirm the actually-mad hypothesis.

I don't know why you're mad, Garry said, scrubbing his hands. It's not like this hasn't happened every month for the past sixteen years. It occurred to him that he probably hadn't helped the situation by going to take a piss while his wife was in the middle of a rant, but he didn't mention that. It was beside the point.

Have you heard a word I've said? she cried.

Baby, said Garry, drying his hands. I have your speech memorized. You know why? Because I hear it once every two months or so when you get fed up with what you decided that you wanted in the first place.

Well maybe I don't want it anymore! she shouted.

He froze. That was a new addition to the argument. Maybe this was serious after all. Stunned, he walked out of the bathroom, not noticing he was taking the hand towel with him.

He collapsed on the couch and gazed at the pink wallpaper, making damn sure not to look at the kitchen, where this monthly fiasco always started. Though he hadn't actually taken a peek this month, he knew it must be something uncommonly bad because his wife was uncommonly upset. A lion, perhaps? A zombie? He'd been writing about lions and zombies this month so maybe that was it. But, then again, he'd been writing about lots more than that...

But that wasn't important right now. His wife had dropped the divorce hint for the first time in eight years.

Nice bracelet, he said. Who bought it for you? Before she could answer, he launched a barrage of you're-an-ungrateful-girl bombs. Nice patent leather shoes. Who bought them for you? Nice house you live in here, Amy. Who bought it for you? Nice breasts you have there. Who bought the silicone in them? Nice frigging life you have, Amy. I sure don't hear you complaining during the other thirty days of every month! You have one nice life. And why? Because of me! And because of that! He flung his finger at the kitchen. Whatever the hell it is this month.

Garry had started sweating, and he dabbed his forehead with the towel.

She was looking down at her patent leather shoes. Or maybe at her bulging chest. It's a little girl.

Garry's stomach clenched. It had to be that. The pink-sheets had to have picked that story! Why not lions or zombies? Lions and zombies he could deal with. Dead girls brought back to life he couldn't. Especially when the girl was based on... he shivered. Better not go down that road.

He was more careful than ever to keep his eyes away from the barely cracked kitchen door; he could imagine the little girl, neck cut, peeking out and smiling at him. He suddenly felt like throwing up, but managed to control it.

I'm sorry, he said. I didn't think — I mean, I didn't even finish the damn story! You know that. And you know why.

That's why they picked her, said Amy, sitting down next to him and touching his arm tentatively. They're evil.

I say again, lady: I don't hear ya bitching during the rest of the month.

Whenever Amy argued she vacillated between two moods (two people if you will): pissed-off Amy and perfectly-reasonable Amy. Garry preferred pissed-off Amy—mostly because perfectly-reasonable Amy tended to make sense. And he hated that.

Garry, she said calmly, about to make the Big Suggestion—a suggestion she'd made enough times for it to have proper noun status. Maybe you should just start using some new paper. You're a good writer. I've read your stuff, even some of the stuff you won't let me read. You don't need some old pink-sheets.

The pink papers were responsible for the horror in the kitchen, but they were also responsible for the patent leather shoes, big house, big boobs, and all the rest. He'd come across the paper in a little shop called Faust's Gifts. Garry, being the writer and student of British literature as he was, hadn't missed the reference and hadn't even wanted to go in. He wouldn't have if not for the pink paper on display at the window. The color wasn't one he cared for, but the stuff was selling at half a cent for five pounds! And in those days, he wasn't going to pass up a chance to save money, especially on something that was so crucial to his writing.

The pink-sheets had made him rich. Before his career had gotten off the ground he used to write on the paper in longhand and the stories had just come. His handwriting on all other mediums was illegible, but on the pink-sheets, he wrote with a beautiful looping script that made him think of the way Shakespeare or Marlowe must have written. His penmanship wasn't the only thing the paper improved. Every story—every story—he wrote on the pink-sheets sold to the first magazine to which he submitted, even the magazines that claimed they would never accept a story handwritten. (Folks with any money at all used typewriters in those days.) After selling the first few stories, Garry went back to Faust's Gifts, slapped down a five