It Came From Beneath The Sink Read online

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  Teaser

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Before my brother and I found the strange little creature under the sink, we were a normal, happy family. In fact, I’d have to say we were very lucky.

  But our luck quickly changed when we pulled the creature from its dark hiding place.

  The sad, frightening story begins on the day we moved.

  “Here we are, kids.” Dad honked the horn happily as we rounded the corner onto Maple Lane and pulled up in front of our new house. “Ready for the big move, Kitty Kat?”

  My dad is the only one who can get away with calling me Kitty Kat. My real name is Katrina (ugh!) Merton, but only the teachers call me Katrina. To everyone else I’m simply Kat.

  “Definitely, Dad!” I shouted. I jumped out of the station wagon.

  “Rowf! Rowf!” Killer, our cocker spaniel, barked in agreement and followed me out onto the sidewalk.

  Daniel, my goofy little brother, is the one who named the dog. What a dumb name. Killer is afraid of everything. The only thing he kills is his rubber ball!

  Daniel and I had biked past the new house plenty of times already. It’s only three blocks away from where we used to live, on East Main.

  But I still couldn’t believe we’d be living here. I mean, I always thought our old house was pretty great. But this place is awesome!

  Three stories high, sitting up on its own little hill, with butter-yellow shutters and at least a dozen windows. A wide porch wraps around the whole house. The front yard must be about the size of a football field.

  It’s not a house — it’s a mansion!

  Well, practically a mansion. Enormous — but not exactly fancy. What Mom calls “a comfortable old shoe kind of house.”

  Actually, today it really looked messy and old. A few of the shutters hung crookedly, the grass needed mowing, and the whole place seemed to be covered with an inch of dust.

  But as Mom said, “Nothing that can’t be taken care of with a good cleaning, a coat of paint, and a few bangs with the hammer.”

  Mom, Dad, and Daniel climbed out of the car, and we all stood staring excitedly at the house. Today, I’d finally get to see the inside!

  Mom pointed to the second floor. “See that big balcony?” she asked. “That’s the room where your father and I will sleep. The next room over is Daniel’s.”

  She gave my hand a little squeeze. “The little balcony — that’s outside your room, Kat.” She beamed.

  My very own private porch! I leaned over and gave Mom a big hug. “I love it already,” I whispered into her ear.

  Naturally, Daniel started whining immediately. He’s ten years old, but most of the time he acts as if he’s about two.

  “How come Kat’s room has a balcony — and mine doesn’t?” he complained. “It’s not fair! I want a balcony, too!”

  “Get a life, Daniel,” I muttered. “Mom, tell him to be quiet. Don’t I get something for being two years older?”

  Well, almost two years older. My birthday was in four days.

  “Quiet, kids,” Mom ordered. “Daniel, you don’t have a balcony. But you are getting something neat, too — bunk beds. So Carlo can sleep over whenever you want.”

  “Excellent!” Daniel shouted. Carlo is Daniel’s best friend. They’re always together — and always bugging me.

  Daniel is okay — most of the time. But he insists on being right. Dad calls him Mr. Know-It-All.

  And sometimes Dad calls Daniel the Human Tornado, because he runs around like a whirlwind and makes unbelievable messes.

  I’m a lot more like my Dad — sort of calm and quiet. Well, usually calm. And we both have the same favorite foods — lasagna, really sour garlic pickles, and mocha-chip ice cream.

  I even look like my father, tall and thin with a lot of freckles and reddish hair. I usually wear my hair in a ponytail. Dad doesn’t have much hair to worry about.

  Daniel looks more like my mother. Straight, light brown hair that’s always falling in his eyes, and what Mom calls a “sturdy” build. (That means he’s chunky.)

  Today, Daniel was definitely in Human Tornado mode. He ran up onto the big green lawn and began spinning around in a circle. “It’s huge,” he shouted. “It’s gigantic. It’s … it’s … it’s super-house!”

  He collapsed in a heap on the grass. “And this is the super-yard! Hey, Kat, look at me — I’m Super-Daniel!”

  “You’re super-dumb,” I told him, messing up his hair with both hands.

  “Hey, quit it!” Daniel yelped. He pulled out his water gun and squirted the front of my T-shirt. “You’re captured,” he announced. “You are my prisoner!”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, tugging on the water pistol. “Give up the gun!” I commanded. I pulled harder. “Let go!”

  “Okay!” Daniel grinned. He loosened his grip so suddenly that I staggered backwards — and fell onto the sidewalk.

  “What a klutz!” Daniel snickered.

  I knew how to get him. I zoomed up the porch steps. “Hey, Daniel,” I called, “I’m going to be first in the new house!”

  “No way!” he exclaimed, scrambling up off the lawn. He hurled himself at the steps and grabbed me by the ankle. “Me first! Me first!”

  That’s when Dad walked up the driveway, carrying an overstuffed cardboard box with KITCHEN written on the side. Two moving men followed, hauling our big blue couch.

  “Hey, stop goofing around! Mom and I really need your help today. That’s why we allowed you to miss a school day,” he called. “Daniel, walk Killer — and make sure he has food and water. Kat, keep an eye on Daniel.

  “And Kat, clean the inside of the kitchen cabinets, okay?” Dad added. “Mom wants to start putting the dishes and pots away.”

  “Sure, Dad,” I answered. I saw Daniel rummaging through a box on the lawn. The box was marked CARDS AND COMICS.

  “Hey, where’s the dog?” I yelled to him.

  He shrugged.

  “Daniel!” I frowned. “I don’t see Killer anywhere. Where is he?”

  He dropped a stack of baseball cards. “Okay, okay, I’ll go find him,” he mumbled. He stood up and made his way to the driveway, calling the dog’s name.

  As soon as he disappeared around the side of the house, I hurried to the box marked CARDS AND COMICS and checked through it. Sure enough, the little brat had stolen some of my comics.

  I tucked them under my arm and walked inside to the kitchen to clean out the cabinets. One quick glance made me groan.

  Cabinets filled just about every square inch of the big, bright room! Sighing, I yanked paper towels and a bottle of cleaner out of the CLEANING SUPPLIES box and started scrubbing.

  Spritz, rub, spritz, rub.

  This could take hours!

  After I finished a cabinet, I stepped back to admire my work. Then I knelt down in front of the cabinet under the sink.

  But something — a squeaky noise, like the sound of a footstep on an old wooden stair — made me stop short.

  What is that? I wondered, my heart beating faster.


  I slowly opened the cabinet. Tried to peek inside.

  I opened it a little wider. A little wider.

  I heard the noise again.

  My heart was pounding now.

  I opened the cabinet door another inch.

  And then it grabbed me.

  A dark, hairy claw.

  It wouldn’t let go.

  I screamed.

  “Daniel! You scared me to death!” I screamed. I pounded him on the back.

  Laughing his head off, my brother yanked off the stupid rat costume he had insisted on packing. “You should have seen your face!” he cried. “Know what? I’m going to start calling you Scaredy-Kat!”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny,” I replied, rolling my eyes. Did I mention that Daniel also thinks he’s the king of practical jokes?

  I suddenly remembered what my brother was supposed to be doing. “Dad asked you to find Killer. Where is he?”

  “I didn’t have to find him.” Daniel snickered. “He was never lost.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “I stuck Killer in the basement,” he said proudly. “While you were hanging around on the porch, I ran in through the side door and hid under the sink.”

  “You really are a big rat!” I exclaimed.

  I heard a funny tap-tapping on the linoleum floor. “What’s that noise?” I asked.

  Daniel’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, no, it’s a real rat!” he shrieked. “Kat, look out! Move!”

  Without thinking, I jumped onto a kitchen chair as … Killer came trotting into the kitchen.

  Daniel let out a high-pitched laugh. “Twice on the same trick!” He was very pleased with himself.

  I dove at my brother, ready to tickle him. “Prepare to die laughing!” I yelled.

  “Stop! Help! No!” he gulped. “Kat, please. Stop, please. I … can’t … take … it!”

  “Give up?” I asked.

  Daniel nodded. “Yes!” he half-gasped, half-laughed.

  “All right,” I said generously. “You can get up now.”

  “Thanks!” he said. “Hey, what’s Killer doing over there?”

  “No way. I’m not falling for another one of your tricks,” I declared.

  But when I glanced over, the cocker spaniel did seem very interested in something inside the sink cabinet I’d left open.

  He pulled it out, then sniffed. Pushed it with his nose and gave a head-tossing growl.

  That’s weird, I thought. Killer never growls.

  “What do you have there, boy?” I called to him.

  The dog didn’t even look up.

  Sniff, sniff, sniff … growl.

  I leaned in for a closer view.

  “What is it, Kat?” Daniel asked.

  “Nothing much,” I answered casually. “Just an old sponge, I think.”

  Sniff, sniff, sniff … growl.

  It seemed perfectly ordinary — small, round, and light brown. A little bigger than an egg.

  But the sponge had Killer all excited and nervous. The dog danced around it, barking and growling.

  I snatched the sponge from him to get a better look. And my sweet dog tried to bite me!

  “Killer!” I yelled. “Bad boy!”

  He slunk to a corner. And with an embarrassed howl, he lay his head down sadly on his paws.

  I held the sponge up close to my face, to study it better.

  Whoa! Wait a minute!

  I suddenly understood Killer’s strange behavior.

  “Daniel — check it out!” I exclaimed. “Wow! I don’t BELIEVE this!”

  “Huh? What is it, Kat?” Daniel cried.

  I stared in shock at the tiny sponge.

  “Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me,” I muttered. “It’s totally weird!”

  “Come on, Kat,” Daniel insisted. “What is it?”

  I studied the sponge some more. “Wow!” I gasped. My eyes weren’t fooling me.

  The round sponge moved in my hand, gently and slowly, in and out, in and out in a lazy rhythm.

  As if it were breathing!

  But sponges don’t breathe. Do they?

  This one sure did!

  I could even hear its little breaths: Whoa-ahhh, whoa-ahhh.

  “Daniel! I don’t think this is just a sponge,” I stammered. “I think it’s alive!” I tossed it back into the sink cabinet. I admit it. I felt a little scared.

  My brother put his hands on his hips. “That’s a pretty lame joke,” he snickered.

  “But, Daniel —” I started.

  “You can’t get me with that one, Kat. It’s an old sponge,” he insisted, grinning. “A dirty old sponge that’s probably been here for a hundred years.”

  “All right, don’t believe me!” I exclaimed. “When I’m famous for discovering this thing, I won’t tell them you’re my brother.”

  Mom walked by, carrying an armload of winter coats. I knew that she would believe me.

  “Mom!” I yelled. “The sponge! It’s alive!”

  “That’s nice, dear,” she murmured. “Only a few more things to bring in. Now, where did I put that box of silverware?”

  My mother acted as if she didn’t even hear me! “Mom,” I started again, even louder this time. “The sponge! Under the sink! It’s breathing!”

  She ignored me and kept walking through the kitchen and right out the screen door into the backyard.

  Nobody cared about my amazing find.

  Except for Killer. He seemed really interested.

  Maybe too interested.

  Killer bent his neck down low, poked his head into the cabinet, gave the sponge a long stare — and growled, deep in his throat.

  Grrrr. Grrrr.

  Why was he growling again?

  Killer touched his wet nose to the sponge. He shoved it around, sniffing and sniffing. He gazed up at me for a moment, a puzzled expression on his dog face.

  Grrrr. Grrrr.

  Killer opened his mouth and grabbed the sponge in his teeth.

  “Hey, that’s not lunch!” I yelped, grabbing Killer by his collar and yanking him out from under the sink. “That could be a very important discovery.”

  I turned to my brother.

  “See, Daniel? Killer knows it’s alive,” I insisted. “Honest, it’s not a trick. Look closer — I promise that you’ll see it breathing.”

  Daniel smirked as if he didn’t believe me. But he poked his head into the cabinet.

  “Hey, whoa! You might be right,” he admitted. He pulled himself up to face me. “I think it is alive! And I also think … it’s mine!”

  With that, he dove under the sink to grab the sponge.

  “No way!” I protested. I grabbed the back of his T-shirt and hauled him out. “I saw it first. The sponge belongs to me!”

  He shook me off and dove back down again. “Finders, keepers!” he cried.

  I made another grab for him.

  But before I could touch him, Daniel uttered a bloodcurdling scream of pain!

  “AAAAAIIIIIIII!”

  You could probably hear Daniel’s wail for blocks.

  That got Mom’s attention. She came banging through the screen door from the backyard.

  “What happened? Who screamed? What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Mom demanded.

  Daniel backed out from under the sink, holding his head. He squinted up at us. “I hit my head on the sink,” he wailed. “Kat pushed me!”

  Mom knelt down and put her arm around Daniel. “You poor thing,” she said soothingly. She patted his head softly.

  “I did not push him,” I declared. “I didn’t even touch him.”

  Daniel groaned and rubbed the side of his head. “It really hurts,” he complained. “I’ll probably have a huge bump there.”

  He glared at me. “You did it on purpose! And it’s not your sponge, anyway. It was in the house. So it belongs to all of us!”

  “It is so my sponge!” I insisted. “What’s your problem, Daniel? Why do you always want what’s mine?”

/>   “That’s enough!” Mom cried impatiently. “I can’t believe you’re fighting over a stupid sponge!”

  Mom turned to me. “Kat, you are supposed to be keeping an eye on your brother, aren’t you?” she demanded. “And, Daniel, don’t take things that aren’t yours.”

  She turned to leave the room. “Not one more word about a silly sponge! Or you’ll both be sorry!”

  As soon as Mom left the room, Daniel stuck out his tongue at me and crossed his eyes. “Thanks for getting me in trouble,” he grumbled.

  He stomped off, with Killer at his heels.

  Alone in the kitchen, I bent down, reached my hand under the sink, and picked up the sponge.

  “Everyone’s yelling and screaming around here,” I whispered to it. “You’re causing a lot of trouble — aren’t you?”

  I felt sort of dumb talking to a sponge.

  But it didn’t feel like a sponge. Not at all.

  It’s warm, I thought in surprise. Warm and damp.

  “Are you alive?” I asked the wrinkled little ball.

  I closed my hand around it softly — and the weirdest thing happened. The sponge started moving in my hand.

  Well, not exactly moving.

  Pulsing — slowly and gently.

  Ca-chunk. Ca-chunk.

  It moved like the plastic model heart we used in science class.

  Could I be feeling a heartbeat?

  I peered curiously at the thing. I ran my finger-tips over the wrinkles that covered it, pushing back the folds of spongy, moist material.

  “Whoa!” I cried, startled. Two wet, black eyes stared out at me.

  I shuddered. “Yuck!”

  You aren’t a sponge at all, I thought. Sponges don’t have eyes, do they? What are you?

  I needed some answers. Quick. But who could I talk to?

  Not Mom. She didn’t want to hear about the sponge.

  “Dad! Dad!” I called out, dashing through the living room and dining room. “Where are you?”

  “Mmmmph,” he shouted. “Mmmmmpph.”

  “What?” I yelled, running through the house. “Oh, here you are.”

  Dad stood at the top of a ladder in the front hall. He had a hammer in one hand and a big roll of black electrician’s tape in the other.

  And a bunch of nails in his mouth. “Mmmmpph,” he mumbled.

  “Dad, what are you trying to say?” I asked.

  He spit the nails out.