HOW DARK AND STORMY WAS IT? : ‘Not Nice to Meet You’

The first time Ben met the Scary Thing was on the night after Halloween. It was the night his parents went to see the movie “Kalifornia.”

“It’s got an R rating, so we can’t take you, sweetie,” his mother said. She was looking into the hall mirror, stroking on pink lip stuff. “Kathy and Ron are coming to baby-sit.”

He sighed. Kathy, his sister, was 13 years older than he was. She and Ron had gotten married last month.

“I’m nearly 8. Why do I need a baby-sitter?”

“Ben, you turned 7 in August.”

“I’m nearly 7 and a quarter.”

The front door opened, letting in a gust of damp, rain-smelling air, and Kathy and Ron. His mother hugged him. “I love you, Mr. Almost-7-and-a-quarter,” she said.

Then she called into the den, where his father had fallen asleep. “Allan! Come on!”

Kathy and Ron had brought a video of the first “Home Alone” movie. The three of them--and Ben’s dog, Sidney, a West Highland white terrier--scrunched up together on the sofa in front of the television. One of Ron’s arms circled Kathy. He smiled at Ben. “Be a pal. Go get me a beer.”

“You’ll lose that Chippendale’s body,” Kathy said. She threw a punch at Ron’s stomach.

Ben didn’t think Ron looked anything like one of those Chippendale’s guys.

He padded into the kitchen, hearing Sidney’s toenails clattering behind him. The small dog stopped in the doorway. He was shivering and staring at the cupboard under the sink.

“What is it, Sid? We got rats or something?”

The kitchen smelled awful, a thick, sick-making smell. Ben had once found a dead bird that smelled like that. Sidney whimpered.

Ben paused, his hand on the fridge door. Should he go get Ron? Yeah, and Ron would tease him about being a baby. He knelt down in front of the cupboard. Carefully, in case a rat jumped out, he opened the door. The smell was so strong it hit him like a punch. At the back, in the dimness behind the tank that made their water taste good, something scrabbled. Claws?

Sidney’s teeth tugged furiously at Ben’s jeans.

Then Ben saw the eyes. Round eyes, saucer-shaped, a glowing orange. They stared at him, unblinking, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that this was the Scary Thing.

He slammed the door, scooped up Sidney and rushed back to the living room.

Ron and Kathy were doing kissy stuff on the sofa.

“The Scary Thing is in the cupboard under our sink!” Ben shouted.

“Dad thinks he’ll grow up to be another Stephen King,” Kathy murmured to Ron.

“Hmmmm,” said Ron, but he kept looking at Kathy.

Ben struggled onto the sofa, wedging himself between them. His parents would be home soon. He couldn’t tell Mom about the Scary Thing. She was going to have a baby: He and Dad had made a pact not to worry her. But he’d tell Dad. His father would know what to do.

His father went straight to the cupboard and hunkered down. The overhead light gleamed on his bald spot. “I can’t see or smell anything, sport.”

Ben, hovering by the doorway, could. He knew why his father couldn’t see or smell the Scary Thing. It was because the Scary Thing wanted only Ben to know. Later, it was going to come upstairs and. . . .

And what?

He heard his mother in the hall, saying good night to Kathy and Ron. She came into the kitchen, smiling. “Benjamin, time for bed.”

It was going to come upstairs and get him.

His father was winking at him, telling some story about how when he was a boy, his imagination ran away with him. Ben was too scared to listen properly.

Later, lying under his quilt, the night light casting shadows, Ben had an idea. His Nerf Lightning Strike Bat! He’d keep it beside him. When the Scary Thing came to get him, he’d bash it.

Yeah.

He must have fallen asleep because he woke to the sound of rain against the window. And something else: a scrabbling noise. Claws? His room was full of the thick, dead-bird smell. He peered over the quilt and saw that his door was open a few inches. He heard a soft plop, like a sigh. The sound of his night light going out.

Darkness.

His heart thumped. He groped for his Nerf Lightning bat. Gone. Had it rolled to the floor? Slowly, he inched to the edge of the bed. His right hand, fingers stretched, reached down, feeling the bat.

A withered hand, dry as long-dead leaves, slipped into his. A whispery voice cackled: “Hellooooo, Benny. . . .”