Creep Street by John Marsden

there’s the sound of quick footsteps and you spin around, terrified, thinking maybe it’s a vampire or something. But it’s not, just Stacey. She’s panting hard, out of breath. ‘I thought you mightn’t have been here,’ she says.
    â€˜I thought you mightn’t turn up,’ you confess.
    You stand there looking at each other. Stacey’s shivering. That could be the cold, but then again . . .
    â€˜Well,’ she says, ‘guess we should get down there and see if there’s any action.
    â€˜Sure,’ you say, ‘sounds like a good idea to me.’
    But you still just stand there looking at each other.
    Then you both start talking at the same time.
    â€˜We could . . .’ you say.
    â€˜Do you think we should . . .’ she says.
    You stop again.
    â€˜You go first,’ you say.
    â€˜No, you go.’
    â€˜Well,’ you say, ‘I was just going to say that it’s awfully cold . . .’
    â€˜Yes, it is . . . And dark . . .’
    â€˜Yes, I noticed that.’
    â€˜Maybe we should . . .’
    â€˜But on the other hand . . .’

ventually, with midnight looming, you realise. There isn’t going to be a Stacey. Stacey has wimped it. Stacey has piked out. Stacey is a scaredy-cat . . .
    But then you think a bit further. OK, maybe she has wimped it. But there is another possibility. Maybe she left home to meet you but she never arrived! Suppose something happened to her on the way here! Suppose those evil spirits that she warned you about are out already, and they’ve grabbed her? On a night like this, anything’s possible.
    You’re not sure what to do, but eventually you start to wander towards the street, wondering if you should go searching for her. Once again you’re regretting that you ever let yourself get talked into this. It’s totally nerve-racking.
    In the distance a clock is striking midnight. You look around, trembling. Everything seems to have become very still suddenly. The wind stops blowing, the dogs stop barking, you can’t even hear the traffic from the distant highway. You think you hear something behind you maybe, but you’re scared to peep over your shoulder. Then—horror! There’s a scream that does come from behind you, very close behind. It’s a terrible bone-rattling spine-melting hair-blanching scream, a scream that tears the heart out of your chest and cuts your legs off at the knees. ‘Wah, wah, wah,’ you go. You try to make yourself move, but nothing in your body is working, except your heart, which has gone into over-drive. ‘I’m dead,’ you think.

ou’re not thinking of wimping out, are you?’ she says.
    â€˜Oh no,’ you say. ‘Oh no no no no no no no no. No. Not me, no.’
    â€˜Oh, good. Because for a moment there . . .’
    â€˜Let’s go,’ you say, before you can have second thoughts. You want to seem tough and decisive. ‘Let’s make bubbles.’
    â€˜Let’s make bubbles?’ What on earth does that mean? Why are you talking like this? You really want to be upstairs hiding under the bed. But too late now. The damage is done. You’re walking down the driveway, trying not to make any noise, and Stacey’s walking right there beside you. You go on past the sheds and head for the three little graves. You get about fifty metres away, to where you can almost see them through the trees, then you stop and look at Stacey.
    â€˜What do you think?’ you whisper.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she whispers back.
    â€˜We’d better be careful.’
    â€˜What’s the time?’
    You peer at your watch in the dim moonlight.
    â€˜Three minutes to twelve.’
    â€˜Oh, yikes.’
    You both start creeping forwards. You wonder why Stacey’s chosen this moment to start tap-dancing, then you realise it’s the sound of