08 - The Girl Who Cried Monster Page 6

He was still enjoying his first batch of tender flies.

  Now! I told myself.

  I was about to push the button—when Mr. Mortman suddenly turned away.

  With a gasp, I stopped myself just in time.

  My pulse was pounding at my temples so hard, I could barely see straight.

  What was he doing?

  He was reaching for another jar. He set it down on his desk and unscrewed the lid.

  I raised the camera again and squinted at him through the viewfinder.

  What did he have in this jar? Something was fluttering in there. It took me a while to realize they were moths. White moths.

  He closed his fist around one and shoved it hungrily into his mouth. Another moth fluttered out of the jar before he could close the lid.

  Mr. Mortman’s eyes bulged like toadstools growing out of his balloonlike head. His mouth twisted and coiled as he chewed the moth.

  Taking another deep breath and holding it, I leaned forward as far as I could, steadied the camera in front of my eye—and snapped the shutter.

  15

  The FLASH!

  I had forgotten about the flash!

  I was so worried about the click of the shutter, I had totally forgotten that my camera had automatic flash!

  The instant flash of white light made Mr. Mortman cry out angrily. Startled, he raised his hands to cover his bulging eyes.

  I stood frozen in the aisle, frozen by carelessness, frozen by my stupidity!

  “Who’s there?” he growled, still covering his eyes.

  I realized he hadn’t seen me yet. Those big eyes must have been very sensitive to light. The flash had momentarily blinded him.

  He let out a monstrous roar that echoed off the four walls of the vast room.

  Somehow I revived my senses enough to pull myself back, out of view.

  “Who’s there?” he repeated, his voice a rasping snarl. “You won’t get away!”

  I saw him lumbering in my direction. As he lurched toward me, his body swayed awkwardly, as if his eyes were still blinded.

  I gaped in horror as he approached.

  He seemed steadier with each step. His bulging eyes searched the rows of shelves. He was breathing hard, each breath a furious growl.

  “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

  Get going! I told myself, still gripping the camera in both hands. Get going! What are you waiting for?

  “You won’t get away!” the monster cried.

  Oh, yes, I will!

  He was three rows away, his eyes peering down the dark aisles. Searching. Searching.

  He hadn’t seen me, I knew. The light of the flash had startled him, then blinded him.

  He didn’t know it was me.

  Now all I had to do was run. All I had to do was get out of there with the proof safely in my hands.

  So what was I waiting for?

  He lumbered closer. He was only a row away.

  Run! I ordered my paralyzed legs. Run! Don’t just stand there!

  I spun around, clumsily bumped into a shelf of books. Several books toppled to the floor.

  Run! Don’t stop!

  It was taking me so long to move. I was so weighed down by my fear.

  Run! Lucy! He’s right behind you!

  Finally, my legs started to cooperate.

  Holding the camera in one hand, I began to run through the dark aisle toward the back of the room.

  “You won’t get away!” the monster bellowed from the next aisle. “I hear you! I know where you are!”

  Uttering an animal cry of terror, I ran blindly to the end of the aisle, turned toward the doorway—and crashed into a low book cart.

  The cart toppled over as I fell on top of it.

  I landed hard on my stomach and knees. The camera bounced from my hand and slid across the floor.

  “I’ve got you now!” the monster growled, moving quickly from the next aisle.

  16

  I scrambled to get up, but my leg was caught in the cart.

  The monster lumbered toward me, panting loudly.

  Once again, my fear tried to paralyze me. I tried to push myself up with both hands, but my body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

  I’m dead meat! I thought.

  Finally, I pushed myself up and freed myself from the cart.

  Dead meat. Dead meat.

  The panting, growling monster was only a few yards away now, lurching out of a row of shelves.

  I grabbed the camera and stumbled to the door, my knee throbbing, my head whirring.

  I’ll never make it. Never.

  And then I heard the loud electronic ringing.

  At first, I thought it was an alarm.

  But then I realized it was the telephone.

  I pulled myself into the doorway and turned.

  The monster hesitated at the end of the aisle. His bulbous, black eyes floated up above his face. His gaping mouth, drooling green liquid, twisted into an O of surprise.

  He stopped short, startled by the sudden interruption.

  Saved by the bell! I thought happily. I pulled open the heavy front door and burst out to freedom.

  I ran for two blocks, my sneakers slapping the pavement, my heart refusing to slow its frantic beat. I closed my eyes as I ran, enjoying the feel of the warm, fresh air on my face, the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the sweep of my hair flying behind me as I ran. Feeling free. Free and safe!

  When I opened my eyes and slowed my pace, I realized that I was gripping the camera so tightly, my hands hurt.

  My proof. I had my proof.

  One snapshot. One snapshot that nearly cost me my life. But I had it in the camera, my proof that Mr. Mortman was a monster.

  “I have to get it developed,” I said out loud. “Fast.”

  I jogged the rest of the way home, cradling the camera under my arm.

  As my house came into view, I had a chilling feeling that Mr. Mortman would be waiting there. That he would be waiting beside the front porch, waiting to grab the camera from me, to rob me of my proof.

  I hesitated at the bottom of the driveway.

  No one there.

  Was he hiding in the bushes? Around the side of the house?

  I walked up the front lawn slowly. You’re being stupid, I scolded myself. How could Mr. Mortman get here before you?

  Besides, I wasn’t even sure he had recognized me.

  The lights were out in the library. The room was dark. The closest he had come was the aisle next to mine. And he was blinded for a long while from the camera flash.

  I started to breathe a little easier. Yes, it was possible that the librarian didn’t know who he was chasing. It was possible that he never got a good look at me at all.

  My dad’s car pulled up the drive as I reached the front porch. I went tearing after him, running around the side of the house to the back.

  “Dad! Hi!” I called as he climbed out of the car.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked. His suit was rumpled. His hair was disheveled. He looked tired.

  “Dad, can we get this film developed—right away?” I demanded, shoving the camera toward him.

  “Whoa!” he cried. “I just got home. Let’s talk about it at dinner, okay?”

  “No, Dad—really!” I insisted. “I have to get this developed. There’s something very important on it.”

  He walked past me toward the house, his shoes crunching over the gravel driveway.

  I followed right behind, still holding my camera up high. “Please, Dad? It’s really important. Really really important!”

  He turned, chuckling. “What have you got? A picture of that boy who moved across the street?”

  “No,” I replied angrily. “I’m serious, Dad. Can’t you take me to the mall? There’s that one-hour developing place there.”

  “What’s so important?” he asked, his smile fading. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing down his thick, black hair.

  I had the urge to tell him. I had t
he urge to tell him I had a photo of the monster in there. But I stopped myself.

  I knew he wouldn’t believe me. I knew he wouldn’t take me seriously.

  And then he wouldn’t drive me to the mall to get my film developed. No way.

  “I’ll show it to you when it’s developed,” I said.

  He held open the screen door. We walked into the kitchen. Dad sniffed the air a couple of times, expecting the aroma of cooking food.

  Mom came bursting in from the hallway to greet us. “Don’t sniff,” she told my dad. “There’s nothing cooking. We’re eating out tonight.”

  “Great!” I cried. “Can we eat at the mall? At that Chinese restaurant you like?” I turned to my Dad. “Please? Please? Then I could get my film developed while we eat.”

  “I could go for Chinese food,” Mom said thoughtfully. Then she turned her gaze on me. “Why so eager to get your film developed?”

  “It’s a secret,” Dad said before I could reply. “She won’t tell.”

  I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “It’s a picture I snapped of Mr. Mortman,” I told them excitedly. “It’s my proof that he’s a monster.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. Dad shook his head.

  “It’s proof!” I insisted. “Maybe when you see the photo, you’ll finally believe me.”

  “You’re right,” Dad said sarcastically. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Randy! Hurry downstairs!” Mom shouted into the hallway. “We’re going to the mall for Chinese food!”

  “Aw, do we have to have Chinese food?” my brother called down unhappily. His standard reply.

  “I’ll get you the plain lo mein noodles you like,” Mom called up to him. “Just hurry. We’re all hungry.”

  I pushed the button on my camera to rewind the roll of film. “I’m going to drop this at the one-hour developing place before dinner,” I told them. “Then we can pick it up after dinner.”

  “No monster talk at dinner tonight—promise?” Mom said sternly. “I don’t want you scaring your brother.”

  “Promise,” I said, pulling the film roll out of the camera, squeezing it between my fingers.

  After dinner, I told myself, I won’t have to talk about monsters —I’ll show you one!

  Dinner seemed to take forever.

  Randy didn’t stop complaining the whole time. He said his noodles tasted funny. He said the spareribs were too greasy, and the soup was too hot. He spilled his glass of water all over the table.

  I barely paid any attention to what anyone said. I was thinking about my snapshot. I couldn’t wait to see it—and to show it to Mom and Dad.

  I could just imagine the looks on their faces when they saw that I was right, that I hadn’t been making it up—that Mr. Mortman really was a monster.

  I imagined both my parents apologizing to me, promising they’d never doubt me again.

  “I feel so bad,” I imagined my dad saying, “I’m going to buy you that computer you’ve been asking for.”

  “And a new bike,” I imagined Mom saying. “Please forgive us for doubting you.”

  “And I’m sorry, too,” I imagined Randy saying. “I know I’ve been a real jerk.”

  “And you can stay up till midnight every night from now on, even on school nights,” I imagined Dad saying.

  Suddenly, my mom’s voice broke into my daydreams. “Lucy, I don’t think you heard a word I said,” she scolded.

  “No… I… uh… was thinking about something,” I admitted. I picked up my chopsticks and raised a chunk of rice to my mouth.

  “She was thinking about monsters!” Randy cried, raising both hands up over the table, squeezing his fingers as if he were a monster about to attack me.

  “No monster talk!” Mom insisted sharply.

  “Don’t look at me!” I cried. “He said it—not me!” I pointed an accusing finger at Randy.

  “Just finish your dinner,” Dad said quietly. He had sparerib grease all over his chin.

  Finally, we were opening our fortune cookies. Mine said something about waiting for sunshine when the clouds part. I never get those fortunes.

  Dad paid the check. Randy nearly spilled another glass of water as we were standing up. I went running out of the restaurant. I was so excited, so eager, I couldn’t wait another second.

  The little photo store was on the upper level. I leapt onto the escalator, grabbed the rail, and rode to the top. Then I tore into the store, up to the counter, and called breathlessly to the young woman at the developing machine, “Are my photos ready yet?”

  She turned, startled by my loud voice. “I think so. What’s your name?”

  I told her. She walked over to a rack of yellow envelopes and began slowly shuffling through them.

  I tapped my fingers nervously on the counter-top, staring at the stack of yellow envelopes. Couldn’t she hurry it up a little?

  She shuffled all the way through the stack, then turned back to me. “What did you say your name was again?”

  Trying not to sound too exasperated, I told her my name again. I leaned eagerly on the counter-top, my heart pounding, and stared at her as she began once again to shuffle through the yellow envelopes, moving her lips as she read the names.

  Finally, she pulled one out and handed it to me.

  I grabbed it and started to tear it open.

  “That comes to fourteen dollars even,” she said.

  I realized I didn’t have any money. “I’ll have to get my dad,” I told her, not letting go of the precious package.

  I turned, and Dad appeared in the doorway. Mom and Randy waited outside.

  He paid.

  I carried the envelope of photos out of the store. My hands were shaking as I pulled it open and removed the snapshots.

  “Lucy, calm down,” Mom said, sounding worried.

  I stared down at the snapshots. All photos of Randy’s birthday party.

  I sifted through them quickly, staring at the grinning faces of Randy’s stupid friends.

  Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?

  Of course, it was the very last photo, the one on the bottom of the stack.

  “Here it is!” I cried.

  Mom and Dad leaned forward to see over my shoulder.

  The other photos fell from my hand and scattered over the floor as I raised the photo to my face—

  —and gasped.

  17

  The photo was clear and sharp.

  Mr. Mortman’s large desk stood in the center in a burst of bright light. I could see papers on the desk, the pan of turtles at the far corner, a low pile of books.

  Behind the desk, I could see the top of Mr. Mortman’s tall wooden stool. And behind the stool, the shelves were in clear focus, even the glass jar of flies on the lower shelf.

  But there was no monster.

  No Mr. Mortman.

  No one.

  No one in the snapshot at all.

  “He—he was standing right there!” I cried. “Beside the desk!”

  “The room looks empty,” Dad said, staring down over my shoulder at the snapshot in my quivering hand.

  “There’s no one there,” Mom said, turning her gaze on me.

  “He was there,” I insisted, unable to take my eyes off the photo. “Right there.” I pointed to where the monster had stood.

  Randy laughed. “Let me see.” He pulled the photo from my hand and examined it. “I see him!” he declared. “He’s invisible!”

  “It isn’t funny,” I said weakly. I pulled the photo away from him. I sighed unhappily. I felt so bad. I wanted to sink into a hole in the floor and never come out.

  “He’s invisible!” Randy repeated gleefully, enjoying his own joke.

  Mom and Dad were staring at me, looks of concern on their faces.

  “Don’t you see?” I cried, waving the photo in one hand. “Don’t you see? This proves it! This proves he’s a monster. He doesn’t show up in photographs!”

  Dad shook his head and frowned. “Lucy,
haven’t you carried this joke far enough?”

  Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m starting to get worried about you,” she said softly. “I think you’re really starting to believe in your own monster joke.”

  “Can we get ice cream?” Randy asked.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Aaron complained.

  “Just shut up. You owe me!” I snapped.

  It was the next evening. We were crouched low, hiding behind the low shrubs at the side of the library.

  It was a crisp, cool day. The sun was already lowering itself behind the trees. The shadows stretched long and blue over the library lawn.

  “I owe you?” Aaron protested. “Are you crazy?”

  “You owe me,” I repeated. “You were supposed to come to the library with me yesterday, remember. You let me down.”

  He brushed a bug off his freckled nose. “Can I help it if I had an orthodontist appointment?” He sounded funny. His words were coming out all sticky. He wasn’t used to his new braces yet.

  “Yes,” I insisted. “I counted on you, and you let me down—and you got me in all kinds of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” He dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged, keeping his head low behind the evergreen shrub.

  “My parents said I’m never again allowed to mention Mr. Mortman or the fact that he’s a monster,” I told him.

  “Good,” Aaron said.

  “Not good. It means I really need you, Aaron. I need you to see that I’m telling the truth, and tell my parents.” My voice broke. “They think I’m crazy. They really do!”

  He started to reply, but he could see I was really upset. So he stopped himself.

  A cool breeze swept past, making the trees all seem to whisper at us.

  I kept my eyes trained on the library door. It was five-twenty. Past closing time. Mr. Mortman should be coming out any second.

  “So we’re going to follow Mr. Mortman home?” Aaron asked, scratching the back of his. neck. “And spy on him at his house? Why don’t we just watch him through the library window?”

  “The window is too high,” I replied. “We have to follow him. He told me he walks home every evening. I want you to see him turn into a monster,” I said, staring straight ahead over the top of the bush. “I want you to believe me.”