Harbor by John Lindqvist (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

Who’s that knocking on your door?

Anders didn’t know if he was swimming up towards the surface, or deeper towards the bottom. He was trapped in a dreadful, shapeless nightmare of a kind he had never experienced before. Part of his consciousness was telling him it was only a dream, and without that small comfort he would probably have gone crazy.

He was under water, in total darkness. There wasn’t the slightest hint of light anywhere, nothing that could tell him what was up and what was down. The only thing he knew was that he was under water, that it was dark, and that he was drowning.

His arms were flailing desperately, he was dying, and his eyes were wide open, to no avail. He waited for the calm resignation that is said to visit those who are drowning or freezing to death, but it didn’t come. Instead there was only panic, and the certain knowledge that he had only seconds to live.

But the seconds passed; he kept drowning but was not allowed to die. If fear can be matter, then he was inside that matter. And it was growing more dense. His heart was racing and his head was about to explode. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

Denser. Closer. Something came to him out of the darkness. An immense formless body had picked up his scent, and was getting closer. His head twisted from side to side, but there was nothing to see. Only darkness and the knowledge that something biggerthan it is possible to imagine was getting closer.

There was a thumping and banging in his ears, and the thumping was a relief. A noise. Something real, something that had direction and permanency, something other than darkness. The thumping was very loud, something was banging and it wasn’t inside him. The darkness dispersed and the abyss in which he had found himself was no deeper than his eyelids.

He opened his eyes, and the sound of the last blow on the door hung in the air like an echo. It took him a few seconds to realise that he was inside his own house, that he was alive. Then he got to his feet and ran towards the front door. He slipped on the kitchen floor and almost fell, but managed to grab hold of the lukewarm kitchen stove, and carried on into the hallway.

This time you’re not going to get away.

He yanked open the door and yelled, hurled himself backward to avoid the thing that was standing on the porch. A grinning face loomed over him as he fell back on to the hall floor. Still in the grip of blind terror, he scrabbled a metre backwards, dragging the rag rug with him. Then the calmer voice of reason kicked in, plucking at the fear and beginning to unravel it.

It’s only the GB-man. He can’t do you any harm.

The plastic figure’s violent swinging slowed down. Anders lay on the hall floor looking at it. His senses were returning, and he could hear two things: some kind of siren from down in the village, and the sound of a moped engine accelerating up the hill then fading into the distance. He could also hear a faint rattling, and Anders realised it was a platform moped.

The GB-man was still standing there staring at him, and Anders couldn’t make himself get up. If he moved, it would leap on him. In order to break the spell, he looked away from the GB-man’s hypnotic gaze and allowed his head to fall back and hit the floor. He stared up at the ceiling.

It’s nothing to be afraid of. Stop it. It’s…a plastic doll produced as a marketing tool. Stop it.

It made no difference. It was as if he were two people. Or like Donald Duck, with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, each giving conflicting comments and advice. He couldn’t get himself together.

‘Go away you stupid ghost, you don’t exist.’

What was that? Alfie Atkins, that’s what. When he’s going to go down into the cellar and he’s scared of ghosts. That’s what his daddy taught him to say. It had been one of Maja’s favourite tapes. Anders raised his head. The GB-man was still standing there, and had completely stopped moving now.

‘Go away you stupid ghost, you don’t exist.’

The siren down in the village fell silent. He could no longer hear the moped’s engine. Anders drew his legs under him and stood up. He pulled himself together and went over to the GB-man, gazing out into the darkness in vain. There was nothing to see.

Who put it there?

The same person who rode off on the moped, obviously. But who?

Despite the fact that the palms of his hands were saying No because they were terrified of touching it, Anders managed to make himself grab hold of the GB-man’s sharp plastic edges and heave the thing down off the porch. The cement block on which it stood was unexpectedly heavy, and he only managed to drag it about a metre along the lawn before he had to let go. The GB-man swung back and forth a few times, then settled in its new spot. It was still staring at him.

Ought to smash it up.

He considered going to fetch the axe, but it was as dark over by the woodshed as it had been in his dream, and besides…the GB-man might take his revenge.

He tried moving the figure a quarter turn to the side, but that didn’t help. It was looking at him out of the corner of its eye.

Who? Who knew?

The person who had placed the figure on his porch had done it to frighten him, and who could possibly know that he was scared of theGB-man? Wrong. That he had become scared of the GB-man. Who?

The same person who’s watching me.

The GB-man looked at him. Anders went and got a black plastic sack, which he pulled over the figure and tucked under the cement block. The sack