46 - How to Kill a Monster, Page 3

  Whoever it was—stood right there. Just beyond the turn.

  I took a deep breath—and peeked around the corner.

  And saw Grandpa Eddie.

  Grandpa Eddie—carrying a huge platter stacked high with blueberry pancakes.

  How did Grandpa get up here? I wondered. I thought I saw him go outside.

  Grandpa came in through another door, I decided. That has to be it. This house is huge. It probably has lots of doors and halls and stairways I haven’t discovered yet.

  But what was he doing up here carrying an enormous tray of pancakes? Where was he taking them?

  What a mystery!

  Grandpa Eddie carefully balanced the big silver tray between his hands as he made his way down the hall.

  I have to follow him, I thought. I have to see where he’s going.

  I padded down the hallway. I wasn’t too worried about being quiet now. After all, Grandpa didn’t hear too well.

  I walked only a few yards behind him.

  When I heard the sounds, I froze.

  Sniffing. Behind me. Furious sniffing.

  Oh, no! Charley!

  Charley bounded down the hall toward me. Sniffing. Sniffing furiously. Then the dog spotted me—and stopped.

  “Good dog,” I whispered, trying to shoo him away. “Go back. Go back.”

  But he broke into a run. Barking his head off.

  I grabbed for his collar as he tried to dodge me—to race down the hall to Grandpa.

  I grasped the collar tightly. He barked even louder.

  “Rose?” Grandpa Eddie called out. “Is that you, Rose?”

  “Come on, Charley,” I whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I dragged Charley around the corner—before Grandpa could catch me spying on him. Tugging the dog, I ducked into my room.

  I sat down on the scratchy blanket for a second to catch my breath. Then I quickly rummaged through my suitcase for Grandma and Grandpa’s mystery books.

  Where was Grandpa going with those pancakes? I wondered as I hurried down the stairs with the presents.

  Why was he creeping along so silently?

  It was a mystery I had to solve.

  If only I had minded my own business….

  9

  “Why don’t you two go out and play while I clean up these dishes?” Grandma suggested after breakfast. “Then you can help me make my sweet-as-sugar rhubarb pie!”

  “Play?” Clark grumbled. “Does she think we’re two years old?”

  “Let’s go out, Clark.” I pulled him through the back door. Hanging out in a swamp wasn’t exactly my idea of fun. But anything was better than sitting around that creepy old house.

  We stepped into the bright sunlight—and I gasped. The hot, steamy air felt like a heavy weight against my skin. I tried to breathe deeply—to shake the smothered feeling I had.

  “So what are we going to do?” Clark grumbled, also drawing in a deep breath.

  I glanced around and spotted a path. It started at the back of the house and trailed into the swamp.

  “Let’s explore a little,” I suggested.

  “I am not walking through a swamp,” Clark declared. “No way.”

  “What are you afraid of? Comic-book monsters?” I teased him. “Creatures from the muck?” I laughed.

  “You’re a riot,” Clark muttered, scowling.

  We walked a few steps. The sun filtered through the treetops, casting leafy shadows along the trail.

  “Snakes,” Clark admitted. “I’m afraid of snakes.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll watch out for snakes. You watch out for gators.”

  “Gators?” Clark’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yeah, sure,” I replied. “Swamps are filled with man-eating alligators.”

  A voice interrupted us. “Gretchen. Clark. Don’t stray too far.”

  I turned and saw Grandpa. He stood a few yards behind us.

  What was that in his hand?

  A huge saw. Its sharp teeth glinted in the sunlight.

  Grandpa headed toward a small, unfinished shed. It stood a few feet off the side of the path, tucked between two tall cypress trees.

  “Okay!” I shouted to Grandpa. “We won’t go far.”

  “Want to help finish the shed?” he yelled, waving the saw. “Building things builds confidence, I always say!”

  “Um, maybe later,” I answered.

  “Want to help?” Grandpa shouted again.

  Clark cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “LA-TER!” Then he turned back toward the path.

  And tripped.

  Over a dark form that rose up quickly, silently from the muddy grass.

  10

  “Gator! Gator!” Clark shrieked.

  Grandpa waved his saw wildly. “Later? Later? Okay!”

  “Help me! Help me! It’s got me!” Clark wailed.

  I peered down.

  Down at the dark shape in the grass.

  And laughed.

  “Cypress knee,” I said calmly.

  Clark turned, his mouth still open in fright. He stared at the knobby form in the grass.

  “It’s a cypress limb, poking up from the grass,” I explained. “It’s called a cypress knee. I showed you one yesterday. Remember?”

  “I remembered!” he lied. “I just wanted to scare you.”

  I started to crack a joke, but I saw Clark’s whole body trembling as he picked himself up. I felt kind of sorry for him. “Let’s go back to the house,” I suggested. “Grandma is probably waiting for us. To make her sweet-as-sugar rhubarb pie.”

  On the way back, I told Clark about seeing Grandpa upstairs, and the huge tray of pancakes he carried. But Clark didn’t think it was all that strange.

  “He probably likes to eat in bed,” he said. “Mom and Dad always like breakfast in bed.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I agreed. But I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t convinced at all.

  “Well, you two look as if you’ve had fun!” Grandma chirped when we walked through the door.

  Clark and I glanced at each other and shrugged.

  “Are you ready to bake?” Grandma smiled. “Everything is ready.” She waved at the counter, at the pie ingredients all lined up.

  “Who wants to roll out the dough,” she asked, staring straight at me, “while I slice the rhubarb?”

  “I guess I will,” I replied.

  Clark sighed. “Uh, maybe I’ll go into the living room and read my comic,” he told Grandma, trying to escape. “Mom says I just get in the way when she cooks.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandma replied. “You measure out the sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.”

  I rolled out the pie dough. It seemed like an awful lot of dough. But then—what did I know? I’m never around when Mom bakes. She says I get in the way too.

  When the dough was rolled flat, Grandma took over. “Okay, children. You sit down at the table and have a nice glass of milk. I’ll finish up.”

  Clark and I weren’t thirsty. But we didn’t feel like arguing. We drank our milk and watched Grandma finish making the pie.

  No—not one pie. Three pies.

  “Grandma, how come you’re making three pies?” I asked.

  “I always like to have a little extra,” she explained. “Just in case company drops in.”

  Company? I thought. Company?

  I stared at Grandma.

  Is she totally losing it?

  Who did she think was coming to visit? She lives in the middle of nowhere!

  What is going on around here? I wondered.

  Is Grandma really expecting visitors?

  Why does she make so much extra food?

  11

  “Work builds thirst!” Grandpa announced, banging open the kitchen door. He headed for the refrigerator. “See! I’m right!” Grandpa pointed to our empty milk glasses. “Are you two ready to help with the shed now?”

  “Eddie, the children didn’t come here to work!” Grandma scolded. “Why
don’t you two have some fun exploring the house? There are endless rooms. I’m sure you’ll find some wonderful treasures.”

  “Great idea!” Grandpa’s face lit up with a smile. But it faded quickly. “Just one warning. You’ll find a locked room. At the end of the hall on the third floor. Now pay attention, children. Stay away from that room.”

  “Why? What’s in it?” Clark demanded.

  Grandma and Grandpa exchanged worried glances. Grandma’s face turned bright pink.

  “It’s a supply room,” Grandpa replied. “We’ve stored away things in there. Old things. Fragile things. Things that could easily break. So just stay away.”

  Clark and I took off. We were glad to get away. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Eddie were nice—but weird.

  The kitchen, living room, and dining room took up most of the first floor. And we’d seen them already.

  There was a library on the first floor too. But the books in there were old and dusty. They made me sneeze. Nothing very exciting in there. So Clark and I headed upstairs. To the second floor.

  We made our way past our bedrooms.

  Past the little hall window.

  We followed the twists and turns of the dim hallway—until we came to the next room.

  Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom.

  “I don’t think we should go in there,” I told Clark. “I don’t think Grandma and Grandpa want us snooping through their things.”

  “Come on!” he urged. “Don’t you want to check it out? For pancake crumbs.” He laughed.

  I shoved Clark hard.

  “Hey!” he grumbled. His glasses slid down his nose. “It was just a joke.”

  I left my stepbrother in the hall and opened the door to the next room. The door was made of heavy, dark wood. It groaned when I pushed it.

  I fumbled in the dark for the light switch. The room glowed a sickly yellow—from a single, dirty bulb, dangling from the ceiling.

  In the dreary light, I could make out cartons. A room full of cartons. Stacks and stacks of them.

  “Hey! Maybe there’s some cool stuff in these boxes,” Clark said, pushing past me.

  Clark began to pry one open. “Whatever is in here must be pretty big,” he said, pointing to the carton’s bulging sides.

  I peered over Clark’s shoulder. The room smelled so musty and sour. I held my nose and squinted in the dim light. Waiting for Clark to reveal what was inside the box.

  Clark struggled with the cardboard flaps—and finally they sprang open.

  “I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” I demanded, craning my neck. “What?”

  “Newspapers. Old newspapers,” Clark reported.

  We lifted the top layers of newspapers to reveal—more newspapers. Old, yellowed newspapers.

  We opened five more boxes.

  Newspapers.

  All the cartons were stuffed with newspapers. A room filled with cartons and cartons of newspapers. Dating way back to before Dad was born. More than fifty years of newspapers.

  Why would anyone want to save all this stuff? I wondered.

  “Whoa!” Clark leaned over a box across the room. “You’re not going to believe what’s in this one!”

  “What? What’s in it?”

  “Magazines.” Clark grinned.

  My brother was starting to get on my nerves. But I made my way across the room. I liked magazines. Old ones and new ones.

  I shoved my hand deep inside the magazine box and lifted out a stack.

  I felt something tickle the palm of my hand. Under the magazines.

  I peeked underneath.

  And screamed.

  12

  Hundreds of cockroaches skittered through my fingers.

  I flung the magazines to the floor.

  I shook my hand hard, trying to shake the ugly brown bugs off. “Help me!” I wailed. “Get them off me!”

  I felt prickly legs scurrying up my arm.

  I struggled to brush them off—but there were dozens of them!

  Clark grabbed a magazine from the floor and tried to swat them off. But as he whacked my arm, more roaches flew out from the pages.

  Onto my T-shirt. My neck. My face!

  “Ow! Nooo!” I shrieked. “Help me! Help me!”

  I felt a cockroach skitter across my chin.

  I brushed it off—and slapped one off my cheek.

  Frantic, I grabbed Clark’s comic from his back pocket—and began batting at the scurrying cockroaches. Brushing and batting. Brushing and batting.

  “Gretchen! Stop!” I heard Clark scream. “Stop! They’re all off. Stop!”

  Gasping for breath, I peered down.

  He was right. They were gone.

  But my body still itched. I wondered if I would itch forever.

  I went out into the hall and sat on the floor. I had to wait for my heart to stop pounding before I could speak. “That was so gross,” I finally moaned. “Totally gross.”

  “Tell me about it.” Clark sighed. “Did you have to use my comic?” He held it up by a corner. Not sure if it was safe to stuff back in his pocket.

  My skin still felt as if prickly roach legs were crawling all over it. I shuddered—and brushed myself off one last time.

  “Okay.” I stood up and peered down the dreary hallway. “Let’s see what’s in the next room.”

  “Really?” Clark asked. “You really want to?”

  “Why not?” I told him. “I’m not afraid of little bugs. Are you?”

  Clark hated bugs. I knew he did. Big ones and little ones. But he wouldn’t admit it. So he led the way into the next room.

  We pushed open the heavy door—and peered inside.

  13

  “Wow! Look at all this junk!” My stepbrother stood in the middle of the room. Spinning round and round. Taking it all in.

  A room filled with toys and games. Really old toys and games. Mountains of them.

  In one corner stood a rusty tricycle. The big front tire was missing.

  “I bet this belonged to Dad,” I said. It was hard to imagine Dad as a little kid, riding this trike.

  I honked the horn. It still worked.

  Clark pulled out a dusty chess set from a banged-up wooden box. He began setting up the board while I hunted through the rest of the junk.

  I found a teddy bear with its head badly twisted out of shape.

  A box that held a single roller skate.

  A stuffed toy monkey with one of its arms yanked off.

  I rummaged through bags and bags of little toy soldiers, their uniforms faded, their faces rubbed off.

  Then I spotted an antique toy chest. It had a golden carousel painted on it, dulled with age.

  I lifted the dusty lid. A porcelain doll rested face down inside the chest.

  I lifted her gently. And turned her face toward me.

  Fine cracks ran across her delicate cheeks. A small chip marred the tip of her nose.

  Then I stared into her eyes—and gasped.

  She had no eyes.

  No eyes at all.

  Just two black holes cut out of the space below her small forehead. Two gaping black holes.

  “These are Grandma’s treasures?” I croaked. “It’s all junk!”

  I dropped the doll into the chest.

  And heard a squeak.

  From the other side of the room. Next to the door.

  I turned and saw a rocking horse, rocking back and forth.

  “Clark, did you push that horse?” I demanded.

  “No,” Clark replied, softly, watching the horse rock back and forth. Back and forth. Squeaking.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “This room is starting to give me the creeps.”

  “Me, too,” Clark said. “Someone beheaded the queen in the chess set. Chewed her head right off.”

  Clark leaped over some boxes and jumped into the hall.

  I turned for one last look before I clicked off the light. Totally creepy.

  “Clark
?”

  Where did he go?

  I glanced up and down the long hall.

  No sign of him. But he was just there. Standing in the doorway.

  “Clark? Where are you?”

  I walked down the corridor, following its twists and turns.

  A queasy feeling settled in my stomach. My heart began to race.

  “Clark? This isn’t funny.”

  No answer.

  “Clark? Where are you?”

  14

  “BOOOOOO!”

  I let out a long shrill scream.

  Clark stepped out from behind me, bent over with laughter. “Gotcha!” he cried. “Gotcha big-time!”

  “That wasn’t funny, Clark,” I growled at him. “It was just dumb. I wasn’t even scared.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you just admit it, Gretchen? Admit it—just once. You were totally scared.”

  “Not!” I insisted. “You just surprised me. That’s all.” I stuffed my hands in my jeans pockets so Clark wouldn’t see them shaking. “You’re a real jerk,” I told him.

  “Well, Grandma told us to have fun. And that was fun!” he teased. “So where should we go now?”

  “We aren’t going anywhere,” I told him angrily. “I’m going to hide in my room and read.”

  “Hey! Great idea!” Clark exclaimed. “Let’s play hide-and-seek!”

  “Play? Did I hear you say play?” I asked sarcastically. “I thought you said that only two-year-olds play.”

  “This is different,” Clark explained. “Hide-and-seek in this house is definitely not for babies.”

  “Clark, I am not—”

  He didn’t let me finish. “NOT IT!” he cried. Then he took off, running down the hall to hide.

  “I don’t want to be It,” I grumbled. “I don’t want to play hide-and-seek.”

  Okay, I told myself. Get this over with. Find Clark fast. Then you can go to your room and read.

  I started to count by fives.

  “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…” I called out, counting to one hundred. Then I started down the dark hall. When I reached the end, the hall turned—revealing an old winding staircase that led up to the third floor.