46 - How to Kill a Monster Page 2

  I stared at the windows. They were tiny. And I could see only three of them. Three tiny windows in the entire house. One on each floor.

  “Come on, kids,” Mom said. “Let’s get your luggage.”

  Mom, Dad, and Clark climbed out of the car and headed for the trunk. I stood by the car door with Charley.

  The night air felt cold and damp on my skin.

  I stared up.

  Up at the big dark house. Almost hidden behind the trees. In the middle of nowhere.

  And then I heard the howl. A mournful howl. From somewhere deep in the swamp.

  A chill swept through me.

  Charley pressed against my leg. I bent to pet him. “What could that be?” I whispered to the dog in the dark. “What kind of creature howls like that?”

  “Gretchen. Gretchen.” Mom waved from the front door of the house. Everyone else had gone inside.

  “Oh, my,” Grandma said as I stepped into the dim entrance. “This can’t be our little Gretchen.” She wrapped her frail arms around me and gave me a big hug.

  She smelled just the way I had remembered—musty. I glanced at Clark. He rolled his eyes.

  I stepped back and forced a smile.

  “Move aside, Rose,” Grandpa yelled. “Let me get a look at her.”

  “He’s a little hard-of-hearing,” Dad whispered to me.

  Grandpa clasped my hand between his wrinkled fingers. He and Grandma seemed so slight. So fragile.

  “We’re really happy you’re here!” Grandma exclaimed. Her blue eyes twinkled. “We don’t get many visitors!”

  “For a while, we thought you weren’t coming!” Grandpa shouted. “We expected you hours ago.”

  “Flat tire,” Dad explained.

  “Tired?” Grandpa wrapped his arms around Dad. “Well, then come in and sit down, son.”

  Clark giggled. Mom shoved an elbow into his side. Grandpa and Grandma led us into the living room.

  The room was enormous. Our whole house could probably fit inside it.

  The walls were painted green. Drab green. I stared up at the ceiling. Up at an iron chandelier that held twelve candles, in a circle.

  An enormous fireplace took up most of one wall.

  The other walls were covered with black-and-white photographs. Yellowed with age.

  Photographs everywhere. Of people I didn’t recognize. Probably dead relatives, I thought.

  I glanced through a doorway into the next room. The dining room. It appeared to be as big as the living room. Just as dark. Just as dreary.

  Clark and I sat down on a tattered green couch. I felt the old springs sag under my weight. Charley groaned and stretched out on the floor at our feet.

  I glanced around the room. At the pictures. At the worn rug. At the shabby tables and chairs. The flickering light high above us made our shadows dance on the dark walls.

  “This place is creepy,” Clark whispered. “And it really smells bad—worse than Grandma and Grandpa.”

  I choked back a laugh. But Clark was right. The room smelled strange. Damp and sour.

  Why do two old people want to live like this? I wondered. In this musty, dark house. Deep in the swamp.

  “Would anyone like something to drink?” Grandma interrupted my thoughts. “How about a nice cup of tea?”

  Clark and I shook our heads no.

  Mom and Dad also said no. They sat opposite us. The stuffing in their chairs spilled out the backs.

  “Well, you’re finally here!” Grandpa yelled to us. “It’s just great. So, tell me—how come you were late?”

  “Grandpa,” Grandma shouted to him, “no more questions!” Then she turned to us. “After such a long trip, you must be starving. Come into the kitchen. I made my special chicken pot pie—just for you.”

  We followed Grandma and Grandpa into the kitchen. It looked like all the other rooms. Dark and dingy.

  But it didn’t smell as ancient as the other rooms. The tangy aroma of chicken pot pie floated through the air.

  Grandma removed eight small pies from the oven. One for each of us—and a couple of extras in case we were starving, I guessed.

  Grandma placed one on my plate, and I began to dig right in. I was starving.

  As I lifted the fork to my mouth, Charley sprang up from his place on the floor and started to sniff.

  He sniffed our chairs.

  The counter.

  The floor.

  He leaped up to the table and sniffed.

  “Charley, stop!” Dad ordered. “Down!”

  Charley jumped from the table. Then he reared up in front of us—and curled his upper lip.

  He let out a growl.

  A low, menacing growl that erupted into loud barking.

  Furious barking.

  “What on earth is wrong with him?” Grandma demanded, frowning at the dog.

  “I don’t know,” Dad told her. “He’s never done that before.”

  “What is it, Charley?” I asked. I shoved my chair from the table and approached him.

  Charley sniffed the air.

  He barked.

  He sniffed some more.

  A chill of fear washed over me.

  “What is it, boy? What do you smell?”

  5

  I grabbed Charley’s collar. Petted him. Tried to calm him down. But he jerked out of my grasp.

  He barked even louder.

  I reached for his collar again and tugged him toward me. His nails scraped the floor as he pulled away.

  The more I tugged on his collar, the harder Charley fought. He swung his head sharply from side to side. And started to growl.

  “Easy, boy,” I said softly. “Eeea—sy.”

  Nothing worked.

  Finally Clark helped me drag Charley into the living room—where he started to settle down.

  “What do you think is wrong with him?” Clark asked as we stroked the dog’s head.

  “I don’t know.” I stared down at Charley. Restless now, he turned in circles. Then he sat. Then turned in circles. Again and again.

  “I just don’t get it. He’s never done that before. Ever.”

  Clark and I decided to wait in the living room with Charley while Mom and Dad finished eating. We weren’t hungry anymore.

  “How’s that dog of yours?” Grandpa came in and sat down next to us. He ran his wrinkled fingers through his thinning gray hair.

  “Better,” Clark answered, pushing his glasses up.

  “Pet her?” Grandpa hollered. “Sure! If you think that will help.”

  After dinner, Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa talked and talked—about practically everything that had happened since they last saw each other. Eight years ago.

  Clark and I were bored. Really bored.

  “Can we, um, watch television?” Clark finally asked.

  “Oh, sorry, dear,” Grandma apologized. “We don’t have a television.”

  Clark glowered at me—as if it was my fault.

  “Why don’t you call Arnold?” I suggested. Arnold is the biggest nerd in our neighborhood. And Clark’s best friend. “Remind him to pick up your new comic.”

  “Okay,” Clark grumbled. “Um, where’s the phone?”

  “In town.” Grandma smiled weakly. “We don’t know many people—still alive. Doesn’t pay to have a phone. Mr. Donner—at the general store—he takes messages for us.”

  “Haven’t seen Donner all week, though,” Grandpa added. “Our car broke down. Should be fixed soon. Any day now.”

  No television.

  No phone.

  No car.

  In the middle of a swamp.

  This time it was my turn to glower—at Mom and Dad.

  I put on my angriest face. I was sure they were going to take us to Atlanta with them now. Absolutely sure.

  Dad glanced at Mom. He opened his mouth to speak. Then he turned toward me. And shrugged an apology.

  “Guess it’s time for bed!” Grandpa checked his watch. “You two have to get an early start
,” he said to Mom and Dad.

  “Tomorrow you’re going to have so much fun,” Grandma assured Clark and me.

  “Yes, indeed,” Grandpa agreed. “This big old house is great to explore. You’ll have a real adventure!”

  “And I’m going to bake my famous rhubarb pie!” Grandma exclaimed. “You kids can help me. You’ll love it. It’s so sweet, your teeth will fall out after one bite!”

  I heard Clark gulp.

  I groaned—loudly.

  Mom and Dad ignored us. They said good night. And good-bye. They were leaving real early in the morning. Probably before we got up.

  We followed Grandma up the dark, creaky old steps and down a long, winding hall to our rooms on the second floor.

  Clark’s room was right next to mine. I didn’t have a chance to see what it looked like. After Clark went in, Grandma quickly ushered me to my room.

  My room. My gloomy room.

  I set my suitcase down next to the bed and glanced around. The room was nearly as big as a gym! And it didn’t have a single window.

  The only light came from a dim yellow bulb in a small lamp next to the bed.

  A handmade rug covered the floor. Worn thin in spots, its rings of color were dingy with age.

  A warped wooden dresser sat against the wall opposite the bed. It leaned to one side. The drawers hung out.

  A bed. A lamp. A dresser.

  Only three pieces of furniture in this huge, windowless room.

  Even the walls were bare. Not a single picture covered the dreary gray paint.

  I sat down on the bed. I leaned against the bars of the iron headboard.

  I ran my fingers over the blanket. Scratchy wool. Scratchy wool that smelled of mothballs.

  “No way I’m going to use that blanket,” I said out loud. “No way.” But I knew I would. The room was cold and damp, and I began to shiver.

  I quickly changed into my pajamas and pulled the smelly old blanket over me.

  I twisted and turned. Trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress.

  I stared up at the ceiling and listened. Listened to the night sounds of the creepy old house. Strange creaking noises that echoed through the old walls.

  Then I heard the howls.

  Frightening animal howls on the other side of the wall.

  The sad howls from the swamp.

  I sat up.

  Were they coming from Clark’s room?

  6

  I listened hard, afraid to move.

  Another long, sad howl. From outside. Not from Clark’s room.

  “Stop it!” I scolded myself. “Clark is the one with the wild imagination. Not you!”

  But I couldn’t shut out the eerie howls from the swamp.

  Was it an animal? Was it a swamp monster?

  I pressed the pillows over my face. It took me hours to fall asleep.

  When I woke up, I didn’t know if it was morning—or the middle of the night. Without a window, it was impossible to tell.

  I read my watch—8:30. Morning.

  I searched through the suitcase for my new pink T-shirt. I needed something to cheer me up—and pink is my favorite color. I pulled on my jeans. Slipped on my muddy sneakers.

  I dressed quickly. The room reminded me of a prison cell. I wanted to escape fast.

  I opened the bedroom door and peeked into the hall.

  Empty.

  But there, across from my room, I saw a small window. I hadn’t noticed it the night before.

  A bright ray of sunshine filtered through the dusty glass. I peered outside—into the swamp.

  A heavy mist hung over the red cypress trees, casting a soft, rosy glow over the wet land. The glowing mist made the swamp look mysterious and unreal.

  Something purple fluttered on a nearby tree limb. A purple bird. A purple bird with a bright orange beak. I’d never seen a bird like that before.

  Then I heard the sounds again.

  The horrible howls. The shrill cries.

  From animals hiding deep in the swamp—all kinds of creatures I’d probably never seen before.

  Swamp creatures.

  Swamp monsters.

  I shuddered. Then turned away from the window and headed for Clark’s room.

  I knocked on the door. “Clark!”

  No answer.

  “Clark?”

  Silence.

  I burst through the door and let out a cry.

  The sheets on Clark’s bed lay in a tangled mess—as if there had been some kind of struggle.

  And now there was nothing left of Clark—nothing but part of his pajamas, crumpled on the bed!

  7

  “Noooo!”

  I opened my mouth in a terrified cry.

  “Gretchen—what’s your problem?”

  Clark stepped out from the closet.

  He wore a T-shirt, baseball cap, sneakers, and his pajama bottoms.

  “Uh… n-no problem,” I stammered, my heart still pounding.

  “Then why did you scream?” Clark demanded. “And why do you look so weird?”

  “I look weird? You’re the one who looks weird,” I snapped. I pointed to his pajama bottoms. “Where are your pants?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I think Mom must have packed them in your suitcase by mistake.”

  I have to stop letting this big, old house spook me. Clark is the one with the wild imagination—not me, I reminded myself again.

  “Come on,” I told my stepbrother. “Let’s go back to my room and look for your jeans.”

  On the way down to breakfast, Clark stopped to peer out the hall window. The mist had cleared. The dew-covered plants glistened in the sunlight.

  “It looks sort of pretty, doesn’t it?” I murmured.

  “Yeah,” Clark replied. “Pretty. Pretty creepy.”

  The kitchen looked pretty creepy too. It was dark—almost as dark in the morning as the night before. But the back door was open and some sun splashed on the floor and the walls.

  We could hear the sounds of the swamp through the open door. But I tried to ignore them.

  Grandma stood by the stove, a spatula in one hand, a huge plate of blueberry pancakes in the other. She set down the spatula and plate and wiped her hands on her faded flower apron. Then she gave us each a big good-morning hug—smearing Clark with pancake batter.

  I pointed at the stains on his shirt and giggled. Then I glanced down at my shirt. My brand-new pink T-shirt. Splotched with blueberry stains.

  I glanced around the kitchen for something to use to clean my shirt. The room was a disaster.

  Globs of pancake batter dripped from the stove. Batter covered the countertops and stuck to the floor.

  Then I took a good look at Grandma. She was a disaster too.

  Her face was striped—blue and white. Flour and blueberry stains filled the creases of her wrinkled cheeks. She had flour streaked across her nose and chin.

  “Did you sleep well?” She smiled, and her blue eyes crinkled. With the back of her hand, she wiped a wisp of gray hair from her eyes. Now a glob of blueberry batter nested in the thin strands of her hair.

  “I did,” Grandpa answered, as a loud shriek rang out from the swamp. “Always do. It’s so quiet and peaceful here.”

  I had to smile. Maybe Grandpa is lucky that he’s hard-of-hearing, I thought.

  Grandpa headed out the door, and Clark and I brushed ourselves off. Then we took our seats at the table.

  In the middle of the table sat another plate of blueberry pancakes. This plate was even bigger than the one Grandma had been holding. And it was stacked high with blueberry pancakes.

  “Grandma must think we eat like pigs,” Clark leaned over and whispered. “There’s enough here for fifty people.”

  “I know,” I groaned. “And we’ll have to eat them all. Otherwise, she’ll be insulted.”

  “We do?” Clark gulped.

  That’s one of the things I really like about my stepbrother. He believes almost everything
I tell him.

  “Help yourself,” Grandma chirped, carrying two more plates of pancakes to the table. “Don’t be shy.”

  Why did Grandma make all these pancakes? I wondered. There’s no way we could eat all of them. No way.

  I placed a few pancakes on my plate. Grandma heaped about ten onto Clark’s plate. His face turned green.

  Grandma sat down with us. But her plate remained empty. She didn’t take a single pancake.

  All those pancakes and she didn’t even take one. I don’t get it, I thought. I just don’t get it.

  “What’s that you’re reading, dear?” She pointed to Clark’s rolled-up comic, sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Creatures from the Muck,” he answered between bites.

  “Oh, how interesting,” Grandma replied. “I love to read. So does Grandpa Eddie. We read all the time. We love mysteries. ‘There’s nothing like a good mystery,’ Grandpa Eddie always says.”

  I jumped up from the table. I just remembered—Grandma and Grandpa’s presents were still packed in my suitcase.

  Books! Mysteries! Dad told us they loved them.

  “Be right back!” I excused myself and dashed upstairs.

  I started down the long, winding hall to my room. Then stopped when I heard footsteps.

  Who could it be?

  I gazed down the dark hall. I gasped when I spotted a shadow moving against the wall. Someone else was up here. Someone was creeping toward me.

  8

  I pressed my back against the wall. Held my breath and listened.

  The shadow slid out of view.

  The footsteps grew softer.

  Still holding my breath, I inched down the dark twisting hallway. I peeked around a corner. And saw it.

  The shadow. Nearly shapeless in the dim light.

  It moved slowly along the dark green walls, growing smaller as the footsteps faded in the distance.

  I crept swiftly but silently, chasing the shadow through the corridor.

  Whose shadow is it? I wondered. Who else is up here?

  I crept closer.

  The shadow on the wall loomed large again.

  My heartbeat quickened as I chased the mysterious shape.

  The shadow turned another corner. I hurried to the turn as quietly as I could. And stopped.