The Monster's Ring
Bruce Coville
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
The Magic Shop
With a Twist of the Ring . . .
The Battle in the Cafeteria
Russell v. His Father’s Mouth
Eddie’s Revenge
Double Whammy
Russell Goes Berserk
The Beast Within
The Third Twist of the Ring
Russell to the Rescue
Partners
Return to the Magic Shop
Home Run
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Copyright © 2002, 1982 by Bruce Coville
Illustrations copyright © 1982 by Katherine Coville
All rights reserved. Originally published in hardcover in United States by Random House Children’s Books, 1982.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Coville, Bruce.
The monster’s ring/by Bruce Coville.
p. cm.
“A Magic Shop Book.”
Summary: A timid boy, eager to frighten the school bully on Halloween night, acquires a magic ring and the power to change himself into a hideous monster.
[1. Monsters—Fiction. 2. Bullies—Fiction. 3. Halloween—Fiction. 4. Schools— Fiction. 5. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C8344Mo 2002
[Fic]—dc21 2002003537
ISBN 978-0-15-204618-7 hardcover
ISBN 978-0-15-206442-6 paperback
eISBN 978-0-544-63542-5
v1.0315
This is still for Orion
ONE
The Magic Shop
Russell Crannaker glanced up and down the alley.
He was alone.
Perfect. He could practice in peace.
Putting up his arms, Russell staggered forward. He rolled back his eyes so only the whites were showing. Then he began to moan.
Fantastic! He was going to be great as Frankenstein’s monster—the best ever.
Russell relaxed and grinned. Halloween should be all right this year after all.
He moaned and lurched forward again.
Frankenstein. Boy, would he love to actually be Frankenstein’s monster for a while. Then he’d show that Eddie a thing or two. He could see it now: Eddie kneeling in front of him, whining, begging, pleading for mercy.
He could even hear Eddie’s voice: “Please, Russell. Please don’t hurt me. Please. Please!”
Russell smiled. It was a pleasant daydream. But his smile quickly turned to a frown.
Something was wrong.
Eddie was still talking!
“Oh, no! Save me, save me! It’s the horrible Crankenstein! Hey, Crannaker, what’s up? You lose your marbles?”
Russell opened his eyes and turned pale. Eddie, six inches taller than Russell and made mostly of mouth and muscle, was standing at the end of the alley. “Come here, twink,” he sneered. “I’ll make you really look like Frankenstein.”
Russell started to shake. So far that day, Eddie had poked him, punched him, called him names, and smashed him in the face with a cream-filled cupcake. Under the circumstances, only one thing made sense.
Russell did it.
He ran.
“Hey, Crannaker!” bellowed Eddie. “Whassa matter? You afraid?”
Afraid? Of course he was afraid! These days he lived in fear of what Eddie might do next.
He rounded the back corner of the alley and tripped over a row of garbage cans. One fell, spreading trash from wall to wall. Eddie, racing around the corner after him, struck something slimy and slid to his seat. “I’ll get you for this, Crannaker!” he roared.
I’ve got to get out of here, Russell thought desperately. Got to get away. . . now!
He was off like a shot, barreling down some back street. Without thinking, without looking, he turned another corner, and then another.
Suddenly everything was quiet.
Russell stopped. Where was Eddie?
He looked around.
To his surprise, he was alone. Not only that, he was on a street that was completely new to him. That bothered him a little, but it was no real problem. He knew Kennituck Falls fairly well. He couldn’t be far from a main street.
He walked to the next corner, figuring that would take him back to where he had started.
It didn’t.
He turned right again—and then again. He was confused now. And scared. Not scared the way he had been when Eddie was after him. He was scared because Kennituck Falls was too small to get lost in. . . .
It was starting to get dark. A fog began to rise, the mist curling around his feet like snakes made out of smoke.
Russell stopped again. He had reached a dead end street. It was lined with shops he had never seen before. They were closed—all except one. Directly ahead of him, a light burning in its window, crouched a store that took his breath away. The sign in the curved window, written in old-fashioned letters, read:
ELIVES’ MAGIC SUPPLIES
S. H. ELIVES, PROP.
Russell felt a surge of delight He was crazy about magic anyhow. But in October, when it seemed as if anything could happen, he was consumed with a desire to experience it. His worries about being lost disappeared. He had to see what was in that shop!
He hurried forward. Through a window dark with the grime of years, he could see a crammed display of typical magician’s stock: big decks of cards, top hats, Chinese rings, silk scarves. But there was more here—dark boxes with mysterious designs, capes with dragons on them, a skull with a candle on its top. . . .
He loved it.
Glancing over his shoulder to make sure his enemy was nowhere in sight, he opened the door.
A small bell tinkled overhead as Russell stepped in. He looked around uncertainly. A sweet, mysterious aroma filled the air, but the shop was empty. Not only were there no other customers, there was not even a clerk in sight.
He didn’t care; he was too thrilled by the contents of the place, which was jam-packed from top to bottom with magic equipment. The wall to his right held a section of live animals—doves and rabbits, mostly, for pulling out of hats, but also lizards, toads, and snakes.
I wonder what they’re for, thought Russell.
Then his attention was attracted by a stack of books—old, leather-bound volumes with thick ridges on their spines. The top book on the pile was tided Mystery and Illusion. Beneath it was A Traveler’s Guide to Other Worlds.
Just past the books, resting on a pair of dark red sawhorses, was a large box for the old trick of sawing someone in half.
Beyond the box, stretching across the back of the shop, was a long wooden counter with a dragon painted on its side.
On top of the counter sat an old-fashioned brass cash register.
On top of the cash register sat a stuffed owl.
At least, Russell thought the owl was stuffed—until it swiveled its head toward him. It blinked its brown-flower eyes, then uttered a low hoot.
From beyond the curtain that covered the door behind the counter came a voice that made Russell think of dead leaves scraping along the sidewalk in the October wind.
“Peace, Uwila. I know he’s there.”
A wrinkled hand pulled the curtain aside.
Out shuffled an old man.
Old? Ancient was more like it. His withered brown skin reminded Russell of dried mushrooms. He was shorter than Russell, and p
robably weighed less. Yet for some reason—maybe the eyes that glittered like black diamonds below his bristling brow—he seemed very, very strong. He walked around the counter and came to stand in front of Russell.
“Why are you here?”
Russell shivered. “I . . . I just came in to look around.”
The old man shook his head. “Young man, no one comes in my shop just to ‘look around.’ Get to the point. What do you need?”
“Honestly, sir—I just came in to see what you have.”
The old man arched one eyebrow and squinted his other eye shut. “Well, you’ve seen it. Now—what do you need?”
The tone of his voice made it clear to Russell that he had better need something.
He glanced around desperately.
“I don’t even see any prices.”
“How much money do you have?” asked the old man.
Fishing in his pocket, Russell found a crumpled dollar bill—lunch money he had saved by being too nervous to eat. “Just this. But I don’t think—”
“That will be fine!” snapped the old man, snatching it away from him. “Stand still.”
Russell looked at him in surprise.
“Quiet!” said the old man, though Russell had not spoken a word.
Russell stood as if frozen.
The old man stared at him, then closed his eyes and bent his head, almost as if he were listening to something. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, “Wait here.” Then he turned and disappeared back through the curtain.
Russell felt as if his feet had frozen to the floor; he couldn’t have moved if he had tried.
After what seemed like hours, the old man reappeared, carrying a small box. “Here,” he said, extending the box to Russell. “Take this. It’s . . . what you came here to get.”
Russell’s fingers trembled as he held out his hand to accept the package.
The old man leaned even closer. Staring directly into Russell’s eyes, speaking in a low hiss that made the boy feel as if a cold wind were running down his spine, he said, “For Ishtar’s sake—be careful!”
Then he dropped the box into Russell’s waiting fingers.
Russell looked around wildly. Through the front window he could see that it had gotten very dark outside.
“Take the side door,” said the old man, gesturing to his right. “It will get you home more . . . quickly.”
He began to laugh.
Russell spotted the small door at the side of the shop and bolted for it. To his astonishment, he found himself back in the alley where he had started.
For a moment, Russell thought he must have had some strange daydream, or even a hallucination.
Then he realized that he was clutching something in his hand.
Slowly, nervously, he opened his fingers.
TWO
With a Twist of the Ring . . .
He was holding a small box.
Across the top, in flaming red letters, were the words:
THE MONSTER’S RING
Russell smiled. He was very fond of monsters. (In fact, he had the largest collection of monster magazines of anyone in the fifth grade.)
Using his fingernail, he slit the tape that held the box shut.
Inside was a ring made of cheap metal. Set in its top was a green stone carved in the shape of a monster’s face.
Delighted, Russell took out the ring and slipped it onto his finger. As he did, a sudden chill ran through his body.
He shook his head and shivered.
In the bottom of the box lay a neatly folded piece of paper. Curious, Russell lifted it out. The paper was old and yellowed, and it crinkled as he unfolded it.
At the top of the paper was a picture of a monster—the same monster as on the ring. Its arms were spread across the page as if holding everything written beneath it.
Directly below the monster’s chin, in big letters, were the words HOW TO WORK THE MONSTER’S RING.
Work it? thought Russell. How could you “work” a ring?
It must mean how to wear it.
But who needed instructions to wear a ring?
He read on.
“To change yourself into a hideous monster, place the ring on the ring finger of your right hand. Grasp it with your left hand. Turn the ring to the left as you repeat this chant . . .”
Russell shook his head in disgust. “To change yourself into a hideous monster!” He had sworn off that kind of garbage after he wasted all that money on those useless “X-Ray Specs” he bought from the back of a Muck Critter comic.
He crumpled the paper, crammed it into his pocket, and headed for home.
His mother was waiting for him at the door.
“Where have you been, Russell?” she asked.
He could hear the worry in her voice: It was always there, no matter what time he got home.
“Out,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, what have you been doing?”
He shrugged again. “Nothing.”
Mrs. Crannaker sighed. “Well, supper is ready, and you’re not. Go get cleaned up. Go on . . . hurry . . . hurry up, Russell. Hurry!”
Supper was a typical Crannaker family meal. His mother fussed over him as he ate. (She fussed over him a lot.) His father talked on and on (and on!) about some problem he was having at work. And Russell, who had no appetite, sat chasing peas around mashed-potato mountains with his fork.
He was considering telling his parents about the problems he was having with Eddie. But his father had moved on to one of his pet theories—something about the future of civilization—and he wouldn’t wind down for hours.
Russell loved his father, but trying to get a word in edgewise when he was talking was like trying to stop a freight train by standing in front of it: Either way, you were bound to get run down. So Russell simply tuned out.
Fortunately, Mr. Crannaker didn’t seem to care if anyone actually listened to him. As long as he was talking, he was happy. Russell often heard him at night, chattering away over some work he had brought home from the office. He carried on a running dialogue with the television set, and even argued back to the newspaper while he was reading it.
The night wore on. Russell did his homework, then read some of a very spooky book called The House with a Clock in Its Walls. He had almost forgotten about the ring until it caught on his shirt as he was undressing for bed. He grinned. The monster on top really was neat.
Oh, why not? he thought. No one will know if I make a fool of myself here in my own room.
He took out the directions and spread them on his dresser top. Then he gave the ring a twist—one only—as he whispered the chant from the top of the page:
“Powers Dark and Powers Bright,
I call you now, as is my right.
Unleash the magic of this ring,
And change me to a monstrous thing!”
He waited, feeling very silly.
Nothing happened.
“X-Ray Specs,” he said, and shrugged. He headed for the bathroom to wash up, more disappointed than he cared to admit.
Halfway down the hall, Russell felt a strange sensation in his forehead, almost as if something was trying to break through the skin. It didn’t hurt. It was just . . . weird. He put his hand on his brow and felt something sharp and hard. He tried to pull it off. No luck.
He ran to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and nearly fainted.
He had horns coming out of his forehead—horns an inch long, and getting longer!
Mouth agape, Russell watched the transformation. Suddenly hair began to sprout from his face. He needed a shave.
Shave? He needed a lawn mower!
He touched the horns. They seemed to have stopped growing. Mottled brown and yellow, they were almost three inches long and ended in gleaming points, wickedly sharp.
Beneath the horns his brows met in a single shaggy line that ran straight across his forehead. Beneath that line flashed two yellow eyes, holding a strange hint of inner fire.
His nose—flatter than an old prizefighter’s—was nearly lost in the thick beard that hid his neck and chin.
The backs of his hands were covered with curling black fur. He wanted to scream. No—that would only bring his parents.
Suddenly he realized that even though he was frightened, he was also excited. Strange as it was, this was the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him.
He looked in the mirror and snarled.
The sight—and sound—made him jump.
He tried it again.
“Boy, would that ever do a number on Eddie.”
He chuckled at the idea, sounding like an angry bear.
This was ridiculous. He must be dreaming.
He pinched himself to prove it.
Unfortunately, his fingernails were now deadly claws. He drew blood, and the sharp pain convinced him that he was, indeed, awake.
Panic set in.
How long would this last? What if he couldn’t turn back?
The idea caught in his mind and scared him witless. What would his mother say? What wouldn’t his father say? This would give his dad material for hours of passionate, rambling speeches concerning the woeful tale of the thoughtless son who messed about with magic and was turned into a hairy monster as punishment.
Wait a minute. He hadn’t finished reading the directions. Maybe they explained how to turn back.
Opening the bathroom door he peered out cautiously.
Good. His parents were still downstairs.
He stepped out and headed for his room. But as a monster, he did not have as much self-control as when he was a kid. Without intending to, he began to stomp down the hall.
“Russell!” cried a voice from below. “Is that you?”
It was his mother.
He froze.
“Russell?”
