that is happening very close to them. For instance, you ought to know about the man who watches you when you sleep.
He is a quiet man, which is why you don’t know about him.
You don’t know how he gets into your home, or how he finds his way to the room in which you sleep. You don’t know how he can stare at you so long without blinking, and you don’t know how he manages to be gone by morning, without a trace, and you don’t know where he purchased the long, sharp knife, curved like a crescent moon, that he holds in his left hand, sometimes just millimeters from your eyes, which are closed and flickering in dreams.
There are, of course, things he does not know about you, either. He does not know what you are dreaming about, but then it may be that he does not care. His clothes are rumpled and have odd rips in them here and there. One of his coat sleeves is longer than the other, and this may be to cover his right hand. The sleeve is long enough that if you were to wake up and see him, which you never do, you might not see that his right hand is strange and crooked. It would take a while, in the darkness of the room, to notice that it is missing three fingers.
He comes every night. His right hand does not know what the left is doing.
JERRY SPINELLI
The Chicken or the Egg
“I was first,” said Egg.
“I was first,” said Chicken.
“I was,” said Egg.
“I was,” said Chicken.
“I was!”
“I was!”
“I was!”
“I was!”
“Okay,” said Chicken. “You win.” And pecked Egg. Seven times. From seven holes Egg bled yellow into the barnyard dust. Until all of Egg was out instead of in.
Chicken grinned. “But guess who’s last.”
KENNETH OPPEL
In Hiding
My father and I lay tensely side by side in total darkness, not daring to breathe. The space was small and smelled bad. We were flat on our backs, scarcely able to lift our heads. Above us, the thing shifted restlessly on its bed, grunting. I hoped it would settle itself soon.
Finally the thing stopped moving. I counted seconds. Was it asleep? Or just lying there awake, waiting?
“Now,” my father whispered in my ear.
And very slowly we reached out and up to grasp the child’s ankles with our cold, dead hands.
RICHARD SALA
The Old Man in the Picture
ERIN HUNTER
The Babysitter
The phone rang, echoing around the white-and-silver kitchen that was as glossy as a hall of mirrors. Jess was surrounded by a dozen reflections of herself as she went to pick up the handset.
“Hello?”
For a moment there was no answer, just the faint sound of someone breathing. Jess thought of her friends laughing as they told her not to accept the babysitting job from someone she’d never met. “They probably live in a creepy old house in the middle of the woods!”
They didn’t. They lived in a top-floor loft with a view of the city that made Jess feel like a bird. The white leather sofas smelled of plastic wrapping.
Then a little voice said, “I’m coming home,” before the line clicked off.
Was there another child Jess didn’t know about?
The phone rang again. “I’m coming home!” Now the voice sounded old, tired, and fretful. There was a tap of footsteps. Climbing marble stairs. Like the ones that led up to the loft.
Jess looked down. Something was brushing her leg. It was the phone cord. It had fallen out of the wall.
The sound of scratching at the door. Like a dog. In her hand, the phone rang. “I’m home!” rasped the voice, older than sand. “Did you wait up?”
JAMES PATTERSON
Grand Entrance
Here’s what I remember about that night, and though I’ve been told it’s not possible, I remember everything clearly, like a dream come to life. . . .
I felt trapped. There was terrible screaming.
Where am I? I wondered. Some kind of tightly enclosed space.
My fear was extreme. I tried to stay calm, but I couldn’t.
There was water everywhere around me.
The screaming kept getting louder. And closer.
Then a voice broke through.
“It’s a girl,” said the voice.
Suddenly, it was quiet. Another voice filled the room. I realized it was mine.
And I was screaming like a baby.
SONYA SONES
Halloween Mask
I am me, but I am not.
I can’t be sure whose face feels hot.
Is it mine? Or is it its?
So strange how snug this new mask fits. . . .
Gazing in the mirror over my sink,
staring into eyes that refuse to blink,
holding my ground, I stare right back
at eyes the deadest shade of black. . . .
I swallow hard. This can’t be true—
when last I looked, my eyes
were blue!
TOM GENRICH & MICHÈLE PERRY
Tenton
Father said stuffed toys were childish. But at nine Ava still adored hers, most of all Tenton, the white rat. Tenton had velvety fur worn thin and long tickly whiskers, and traveled with her between Mom’s place and here. No matter what Ava’s fear, Tenton always knew how to comfort her.
One evening
