night. And he was always falling out of his old bed and hurting himself.
âWhatâs the story about?â he asked, fluffing the pillow behind his head. âDonât make it too scary, okay?â
âOkay. Not too scary,â I said. Total lie.
âTonightâs story is about an evil old man. The man was so evil, he could turn himself into a snarling, clawing monster. Just by concentrating on being evil.â
âWhatâs his name?â
âHis name was Mitch,â I said. âNow, stop interrupting.â
âNo. Really. What was his name?â
âHis name was Evil Boris. But people just called him Evil. Everyone was afraid of him. Every night, Evil Boris would take a walk around town and do something evil.â
âLike what?â
I had the bedroom lights turned low. Mitchâs dark eyes glowed in the dim light, wide with fright. His hands gripped the top of the blanket. I told the story in a whisper, just to make it scarier.
âEvil Boris liked to step on cats. Some nights he picked up big metal trash cans and poured garbage onto peopleâs cars. He crushed birds in his bare hands. He liked to smash windows on houses just to hear the crackling glass sound. And ⦠and guess what else?â
âWhat else?â Mitch asked in a tiny voice.
âOnce a week, he ate someone.â
âHe ate people?â Mitch asked.
âHe only ate kids, about your age,â I said.
I almost laughed. I love making up these stories. And it makes me happy when I can think of creepy ideas like that.
âHe liked to taste them first. Maybe heâd start by chewing on an arm. Sometimes he started with a leg. But the strange thing is ⦠Evil Boris always saved the head for last.â
Mitch made a gulping sound.
âCan you picture it?â I whispered. âCan you picture Evil Boris turning himself into a fanged monster and pulling apart someone your age ⦠chewing ⦠chewing ⦠chewing and swallowing.â
âStop, Lu-Ann,â Mitch begged. âI donât want to picture it. You said you wouldnât make it too scary.â
âBut I didnât tell you the scary part,â I whispered. âDonât you want to hear the scary part?â
âNo!â Mitch shouted. âNo, I donât.â
âThe scary part is ⦠Evil Boris lives in your closet, Mitch. He lives in the back of your clothes closet.â
âNoooo!â
Uh-oh. I think I went too far. Mitch was starting to lose it.
I could see the bedcovers trembling. And I saw the dark glow of his wide, frightened eyes.
âMitch,â I said softly. I patted his shoulder. âItâs just a story. It isnât true.â I smoothed a hand through his thick, dark hair. âI made the whole thing up. Donât be afraid.â
âToo scary,â he murmured. His eyes were on the clothes closet across the bedroom.
âGo ahead. Check out the closet,â I said. I tugged him up. âGo look in the closet. Youâll see. Itâs empty. Thereâs no one in there.â
He pulled back. âI donât want to.â
âItâs just a story,â I said. âQuick. Go look in the closet. Prove it to yourself. Then you can go to sleep.â
He climbed slowly to his feet. His eyes were locked on the closet door. He crossed the room to the closet.
âGo ahead. Open it,â I urged. âYouâll see. No one there.â
Mitch grabbed the door handle. He pulled open the door â and a hideous old man with long curled fangs and a dangling eyeball came roaring out at him.
Mitch opened his mouth in a shriek of horror.
I clapped my hands to my face. âMy story!â I cried. âIt came true !â
Mitch fell on his back, screaming.
The disgusting old man stopped. He raised both fists above his head and roared like a raging lion.
I burst out laughing.
My friend Brad Delaney pulled off the