The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 Read Online Free PDF

room.”
    “I can do that later,” Bill said. “And I’ll loan you a nickel, if you want.” Bill was not above giving Hal an Indian rope burn sometimes, and would occasionally trip him up or punch him for no particular reason, but mostly he was okay.
    “Sure,” Hal said gratefully. “I’ll just put that busted monkey back in the closet first, okay?”
    “Nah,” Bill said, getting up. “Let’s go-go-go.”
    Hal went. Bill’s moods were changeable, and if he paused to put the monkey away, he might lose his Popsicle. They went down to Teddy’s and got them, then down to the Rec where some kids were getting up a baseball game. Hal was too small to play, but he sat far out in foul territory, sucking his root beer Popsicle and chasing what the big kids called “Chinese home runs.” They didn’t get home until almost dark, and their mother whacked Hal for getting the hand towel dirty and whacked Bill for not cleaning up his side of the room, and after supper there was TV, and by the time all of that had happened, Hal had forgotten all about the monkey. It somehow found its way up onto Bill’s shelf, where it stood right next to Bill’s autographed picture of Bill Boyd. And there it stayed for nearly two years.
    By the time Hal was seven, babysitters had become an extravagance, and Mrs. Shelburn’s last word to the two of them each morning was, “Bill, look after your brother.”
    That day, however, Bill had to stay after school for a Safety Patrol Boy meeting and Hal came home alone, stopping at each corner until he could see absolutely no traffic coming in either direction and then skittering across, shoulders hunched, like a doughboy crossing no man’s land. He let himself into the house with the key under the mat and went immediately to the refrigerator for a glass of milk. He got the bottle, and then it slipped through his fingers and crashed to smithereens on the floor, the pieces of glass flying everywhere, as the monkey suddenly began to beat its cymbals together upstairs.
    Jang-jang-jang-jang, on and on.
    He stood there immobile, looking down at the broken glass and the puddle of milk, full of a terror he could not name or understand. It was simply there, seeming to ooze from his pores.
    He turned and rushed upstairs to their room. The monkey stood on Bill’s shelf, seeming to stare at him. He had knocked the autographed picture of Bill Boyd face-down onto Bill’s bed. The monkey rocked and grinned and beat its cymbals together. Hal approached it slowly, not wanting to, not able to stay away. Its cymbals jerked apart and crashed together and jerked apart again. As he got closer, he could hear the clockwork running in the monkey’s guts.
    Abruptly, uttering a cry of revulsion and terror, he swatted it from the shelf as one might swat a large, loathsome bug. It struck Bill’s pillow and then fell on the floor, cymbals still beating together, jang-jang-jang, lips flexing and closing as it lay there on its back in a patch of late April sunshine.
    Then, suddenly, he remembered Beulah. The monkey had clapped its cymbals that night, too.
    Hal kicked it with one Buster Brown shoe, kicked it as hard as he could, and this time the cry that escaped him was one of fury. The clockwork monkey skittered across the floor, bounced off the wall, and lay still. Hal stood staring at it, fists bunched, heart pounding. It grinned saucily back at him, the sun a burning pinpoint in one glass eye. Kick me all you want, it seemed to tell him. I’ m nothing but cogs and clockwork and a worm-gear or two, kick me all you feel like, I’m not real, just a funny clockwork monkey is all I am, and who’s dead? There’s been an explosion at the helicopter plant! What’s that rising up into the sky like a big bloody bowling ball with eyes where the finger-holes should be? Is it your mother’s head, Hal? Down at Brook Street Corner! The car was going too fast! The driver was drunk! There’s one Patrol Boy less! Could you hear