It Came From Beneath The Sink Page 7

  “Wow!” Carlo breathed.

  “Excellent!” Daniel exclaimed. “I’m glad I came up with it.”

  “Yeah, it’s great to have a genius in the family,” I said sarcastically.

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the twelve dollars my grandma had sent for my birthday. “What do you say we celebrate with ice cream?” I suggested with a grin.

  “Excellent!” the two boys cried happily.

  “Maybe our luck will change now,” I told Daniel. “I bet we become the luckiest family on the block.”

  Then I heard it. That familiar, terrifying, breathing sound again.

  I swung around and faced the door.

  “What’s that?” I cried, my heart sinking. “Do you hear it, too?”

  Yes. We all heard it.

  My throat felt dry. Cold chills ran down my back.

  The breathing grew louder.

  Closer.

  “I didn’t kill it,” I moaned. “It’s back. It’s back!”

  Daniel grabbed my hand. I could see the fear on his face.

  Carlo took a step back from the door. He backed up till he bumped against the kitchen counter.

  We huddled together in the kitchen, afraid to move. Afraid to go look.

  “We have no choice,” I choked out finally. “If it’s back, we have to let it in.”

  I took a deep breath. My legs didn’t want to carry me. They felt as if they were made of lead.

  But I forced myself to the back door.

  My entire body trembled as I reached for the doorknob. And yanked the door open.

  “Oh!” I let out a startled cry.

  Killer gazed up at me, breathing noisily, his stub of a tail wagging furiously.

  “Killer!” I yelled joyfully. “You’re back!” I bent down to hug him. But the dog ran past me, into the kitchen.

  Daniel let out a happy cry and pulled the wiggling dog into his arms. Killer covered Daniel’s face with wet licks.

  “Our luck has changed!” I declared.

  I looked outside.

  Wow! Healthy green grass covered the ground. The flowers lifted their drooping heads and burst back into dazzling color as I watched.

  All of the Grool’s evil seemed to be disappearing.

  I grabbed Killer and hugged him hard. “Killer, Killer,” I crooned. “We got rid of the Grool.”

  “Come on,” Daniel cried. “Ice-cream time!”

  I set Killer back on the floor and kissed him on the head. “We’ll be back soon, boy,” I said.

  “To the ice-cream parlor!” Daniel shouted as he dashed outside. “Race you!” he cried as he ran down the street. “The winner gets a triple-decker sundae!”

  Carlo and I took off after Daniel. I pumped my legs hard and pulled out in front.

  But at the last minute, Daniel pushed past me and tagged the door of the restaurant. “I won!” Daniel cried happily.

  We hurried into the ice-cream parlor. “Table for three,” Daniel said with a grin. The waitress seated us, handed out menus, and wiped the table with a … sponge!

  “Yuck! Get that thing out of here!” Daniel shrieked.

  The waitress didn’t understand. But we all laughed — for the first time in weeks.

  “Don’t mind my brother,” I said. “He’s got a thing about sponges.” He kicked me under the table, and I pinched him back hard.

  The waitress rolled her eyes. Then she took our orders.

  As we shoveled down our sundaes, I realized how hungry I was — and how happy I was.

  The Grool was gone — forever.

  * * *

  We were so full that we practically rolled back home.

  “Killer. Here, boy!” I pushed the back door open and stepped into the kitchen.

  “Hey — Killer? Come here! Aren’t you glad to see us?”

  Killer didn’t turn around.

  He stood at the sink, growling and wagging his tail. He had his nose pressed up against the cabinet door, trying to push it open.

  “All right, Killer. We had our ice cream. Now it’s time for your treat,” I said.

  I put down a fresh bowl of dog food — and added a few small pieces of last night’s turkey.

  “Come on, Killer. Dinnertime,” I called.

  He growled at the cabinet underneath the sink.

  What’s going on? This dog never walks away from a meal, I thought.

  “Killer,” Daniel said, “what are you doing under there? Killer?”

  I bent down and petted the dog’s back. “Killer, there’s nothing in there. The Grool is gone.”

  But Killer kept growling.

  “Okay, okay.” I yanked the cabinet door open for the dog. “See?”

  Killer shoved his head inside.

  I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him out. He carried something in his teeth.

  “What is that, boy?” Daniel asked.

  Killer dropped his find on the floor, then gazed up at me.

  I picked it up. Hmmm. Something hard. Lumpy.

  “What is it?” Daniel asked, stepping close.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “No problem. It’s only a potato.”

  I started to hand it to Daniel.

  But something sharp pricked my finger.

  “Ow!” I cried, startled.

  I rolled the potato over in my hand.

  It felt warm. I could feel it breathing.

  “Daniel, I don’t like the looks of this,” I murmured.

  The potato had a mouth full of teeth.

  I don’t know if you have ever spent any time with first graders. But there is only one word to describe them. And that word is ANIMALS.

  First graders are animals.

  You can quote me.

  My name is Steve Boswell, and I am in the sixth grade. I may not be the smartest guy at Walnut Avenue Middle School. But I know one thing for sure: First graders are animals.

  How do I know this fact? I learned it the hard way. I learned it by coaching the first-grade soccer team after school every day.

  You might want to know why I chose to coach their soccer team. Well, I didn’t choose it. It was a punishment.

  Someone set a squirrel loose in the girls’ locker room. That someone was me. But it wasn’t my idea.

  My best friend, Chuck Greene, caught the squirrel. And he asked me where I thought he should set it free.

  I said, “How about the girls’ locker room before their basketball game on Thursday?”

  So maybe it was partly my idea. But Chuck was just as much to blame as I was.

  Of course, I was the one who got caught.

  Miss Curdy, the gym teacher, grabbed me as I was letting the squirrel out of its box. The squirrel ran across the gym to the bleachers. The kids in the bleachers all jumped up and started running and screaming and acting crazy.

  It was just a dumb squirrel. But all the teachers started chasing after it. It took hours to catch it and get everyone calmed down.

  So Miss Curdy said I had to be punished.

  She gave me a choice of punishments. One: I could come into the gym after school every day and inflate basketballs — by mouth — until my head exploded. Or two: I could coach the first-grade soccer team.

  I chose number two.

  The wrong choice.

  My friend Chuck was supposed to help me coach the team. But he told Miss Curdy he had an after-school job.

  Do you know what his after-school job is? Going home and watching TV.

  A lot of people think that Chuck and I are best friends because we look so much alike. We’re both tall and thin. We both have straight brown hair and dark brown eyes. We both wear baseball caps most of the time. Sometimes people think we’re brothers!

  But that’s not why I like Chuck and Chuck likes me. We’re best friends because we make each other laugh.

  I laughed really hard when Chuck told me what his after-school job was. But I’m not laughing now.

  I’m praying. Every day I pray
for rain. If it rains, the first graders don’t have soccer practice.

  Today, unfortunately, is a bright, clear, beautiful October day. Standing on the playground behind school, I searched the sky for a cloud — any cloud — but saw only blue.

  “Okay, listen up, Hogs!” I shouted. I wasn’t making fun of them. That’s the name they voted for their team. Do you believe it? The Walnut Avenue Hogs.

  Does that give you an idea of what these kids are like?

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted again. “Line up, Hogs!”

  Andrew Foster grabbed the whistle I wear around my neck and blew it in my face. Then Duck Benton tromped down hard on my new sneakers. Everyone calls him Duck because he quacks all the time. He and Andrew thought that was a riot.

  Then Marnie Rosen jumped up behind me, threw her arms around my neck, and climbed on my back. Marnie has curly red hair, freckles all over her face, and the most evil grin I ever saw on a kid. “Give me a ride, Steve!” she shouted. “I want a ride!”

  “Marnie — get off me!” I cried. I tried to loosen her grip on my neck. She was choking me. The Hogs were all laughing now.

  “Marnie — I … can’t … breathe!” I gasped.

  I bent down and tried to throw her off my back. But she hung on even tighter.

  Then I felt her lips press against my ear.

  “What are you doing?” I cried. Was she trying to kiss me or something?

  Yuck! She spit her bubble gum into my ear.

  Then, laughing like a crazed fiend, she hopped off me and went running across the grass, her curly red hair bouncing behind her.

  “Give me a break!” I cried angrily. The purple gum stuck in my ear. It took me a while to scrape it all out.

  By the time I finished, they had started a practice game.

  Have you ever watched six-year-olds play soccer? It’s chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick. Everybody chase the ball. Everybody try to kick it.

  I try to teach them positions. I try to teach them how to pass the ball to each other. I try to teach them teamwork. But all they want to do is chase and kick, chase and kick.

  Which is fine with me. As long as they leave me alone.

  I blow my whistle and act as referee. And try to keep the game going.

  Andrew Foster kicked a big clump of dirt on my jeans as he ran by. He acted as if it were an accident. But I knew it was deliberate.

  Then Duck Benton got into a shoving fight with Johnny Myers. Duck watches hockey games on TV with his dad, and he thinks you’re supposed to fight. Some days Duck doesn’t chase after the ball at all. He just fights.

  I let them chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick for an hour. Then I blew the whistle to call practice to an end.

  Not a bad practice. Only one bloody nose. And that was a win because it wasn’t mine!

  “Okay, Hogs — see you tomorrow!” I shouted. I started to trot off the playground. Their parents or baby-sitters would be waiting for them in front of the school.

  Then I saw that a bunch of the kids had formed a tight circle in the middle of the field. They all wore grins on their faces, so I decided I’d better see what they were up to.

  “What’s going on, guys?” I asked, trotting back to them.

  Some kids stepped back, and I spotted a soccer ball on the grass. Marnie Rosen smiled at me through her freckles. “Hey, Steve, can you kick a goal from here?”

  The other kids stepped away from the ball. I glanced to the goal. It was really far away, at least half the field.

  “What’s the joke?” I demanded.

  Marnie’s grin faded. “No joke. Can you kick a goal from here?”

  “No way!” Duck Benton called.

  “Steve can do it,” I heard Johnny Myers say. “Steve can kick it farther than that.”

  “No way!” Duck insisted. “It’s too far even for a sixth grader.”

  “Hey — that’s an easy goal,” I bragged. “Why don’t you give me something hard to do?”

  Every once in a while I have to do something to impress them. Just to prove that I’m better than they are.

  So I moved up behind the ball. I stopped about eight or ten steps back. Gave myself plenty of running room.

  “Okay, guys, watch how a pro does it!” I cried.

  I ran up to the ball. Got plenty of leg behind it.

  Gave a tremendous kick.

  Froze for a second.

  And then let out a long, high wail of horror.

  R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.

  Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 1995 by Scholastic

  Cover art by Tim Jacobus

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First edition, 1995

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-34873-7

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.