The Girl Who Cried Monster Page 8

  “Mr. Mortman is a monster,” I interrupted. “That’s my problem.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” Mom replied sharply. “I don’t care if he turns into a drooling werewolf at night. You’re not quitting Reading Rangers. You’re going to your appointment this afternoon if I have to take you by the hand and walk you there myself.”

  “Gee — would you?” I asked.

  The idea flashed into my head that Mom could hide in the stacks and see for herself when Mr. Mortman turned into a monster.

  But I guess she thought I was being sarcastic. She just scowled and walked out of the kitchen.

  And so, an hour later, I was trudging up the stone steps to the old library. It was raining hard, but I didn’t take an umbrella. I didn’t care if I got drenched.

  My hair was soaked and matted on my head. I shook my head hard as I stepped into the entryway, sending drops of water flying in all directions.

  I shivered, more from my fear, from being back in this frightening place, than from the cold. I pulled off my backpack. It was dripping wet, too.

  How can I face Mr. Mortman? I wondered as I made my way reluctantly into the main reading room. How can I face him after last night?

  He must surely suspect that I know his secret.

  He couldn’t have believed me last night, could he?

  I was so furious at my mom for forcing me to come here.

  I hope he turns into a monster and chews me to bits! I thought bitterly. That will really teach Mom a lesson.

  I pictured Mom and Dad and Randy, sitting mournfully in our living room, crying their eyes out, wailing, “If only we had believed her! If only we had listened!”

  Holding my wet backpack in front of me like a shield, I made my way slowly past the long rows of books to the front of the room.

  To my relief, there were several people in the library. I saw two little kids with their mothers and a couple of other women browsing in the mystery book section.

  Great! I thought, starting to feel a little calmer. Mr. Mortman won’t dare do anything while the library is filled with people.

  The librarian was dressed in a green turtleneck today, which really made him look like a big, round turtle. He was stamping a stack of books and didn’t look up as I stepped close to the desk.

  I cleared my throat nervously. “Mr. Mortman?”

  It took him a long while to look up. When he finally did, a warm smile formed above his chins. “Hi, Lucy. Give me a few minutes, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll go dry off.”

  He seems very friendly, I thought, heading over to a chair at one of the long tables. He doesn’t seem angry at all.

  Maybe he really did believe my story last night.

  Maybe he really doesn’t know that I’ve seen him turn into a monster.

  Maybe I’ll get out of here alive….

  I sat down at the table and shook some more water from my hair. I stared at the big, round wall clock, nervously waiting for him to call me up for our meeting. The clock ticked noisily. Each second seemed to take a minute.

  The kids with their mothers checked out some books and left. I turned to the mystery section and saw that the two women had also cleared out. The librarian and I were the only ones left.

  Mr. Mortman shoved a stack of books across his desk and stood up. “I’ll be right back, Lucy,” he said, another friendly, reassuring smile on his face. “Then we’ll have our meeting.”

  He stepped away from his desk and, walking briskly, headed to the back of the reading room. I guessed he was going to the bathroom or something.

  A jagged flash of white lightning flickered across the dark sky outside the window. It was followed by a drumroll of thunder.

  I stood up from the table and, carrying my wet backpack by the straps, started toward Mr. Mortman’s desk.

  I was halfway to the desk when I heard the loud click.

  I knew at once that he had locked the front door.

  A few seconds later, he returned, walking briskly, still smiling. He was rubbing his pudgy white hands together as he walked.

  “Shall we talk about your book?” he asked, stepping up to me.

  “Mr. Mortman — you locked the front door,” I said, swallowing hard.

  His smile didn’t fade.

  His dark little eyes locked on mine.

  “Yes. Of course,” he said softly, studying my face. His hands were still clasped together in front of him.

  “But — why?” I stammered.

  He brought his face close to mine, and his smile faded. “I know why you were at my house last night,” he growled into my ear. “I know everything.”

  “But, Mr. Mortman, I —”

  “I’m sorry,” he said in his throaty growl. “But I can’t let you leave, Lucy. I can’t let you leave the library.”

  “Ohhh.” The sound escaped my lips, a moan of total terror.

  I stared at him without moving. I guess I wanted to see if he was serious or not. If he really meant what he said.

  His eyes told me he did.

  And as I stared at him, his head began to inflate. His tiny, round eyes shot out of their sockets and grew into throbbing, black bulbs.

  “Ohhh.”

  Again, the terrified sound escaped my lips. My entire body convulsed in a shudder of terror.

  His head was throbbing now, throbbing like a heart. His mouth opened into a gaping, gruesome leer, and green spittle ran down his quivering chin.

  Move! I told myself. Move, Lucy! Do something!

  His disgusting grin grew wider. His enormous head bobbed and throbbed excitedly.

  He uttered a low growl of attack. And reached out both arms to grab me.

  “No!” I shrieked.

  I leaned back and, with all my might, swung the backpack into his flabby stomach.

  It caught him by surprise.

  He gasped as it took his breath away.

  I let go of the backpack, spun around, and started to run.

  He was right behind me. I could hear his panting breath and low, menacing growls.

  I ran through a narrow aisle between two tall shelves.

  A rumble of thunder from outside seemed to shake the room.

  He was still behind me. Close. Closer.

  He was going to catch me, going to grab me from behind.

  I reached the end of the row. I hesitated. I didn’t know which way to turn. I couldn’t think.

  He roared, a monstrous animal sound.

  I turned left and started to run along the back wall of the room.

  Another rumble of thunder.

  “Ohh!” I realized to my horror that I’d made a mistake.

  A fatal mistake.

  I was running right into the corner.

  There was no exit here. No escape.

  He roared again, so loud that it drowned out the thunder.

  I was trapped.

  I knew it.

  Trapped.

  With a desperate cry, I ran blindly — headlong into the card catalogue.

  Behind me, I heard the monster’s roar of laughter.

  He knew he had won.

  The card catalogue toppled over. Drawers came sliding out. Cards spilled at my feet, scattering over the floor.

  “Noooo!” the monster howled. At first I thought it was a victory cry. But then I realized it was an angry cry of protest.

  With a moan of horror, he stooped to the floor and began gathering up the cards.

  Staring in disbelief, I plunged past him, running frantically, my arms thrashing wildly at my sides.

  In that moment of terror, I remembered the one thing that librarians hate most: having cards from the card catalogue spilled on the floor!

  Mr. Mortman was a monster — but he was also a librarian.

  He couldn’t bear to have those cards in disorder. He had to try to replace them before chasing after me.

  It took only seconds to run into the front entryway, turn the lock, pull open the door, and flee
out into the rain.

  My sneakers slapped the pavement as I ran, sending up splashes of rainwater.

  I made my way to the street and was halfway up the block when I realized he was chasing after me.

  A flash of lightning crackled to my left.

  I cried out, startled, as a deafening burst of thunder shook the ground.

  I glanced back to see how close the monster was.

  And stopped.

  With trembling hands, I frantically brushed a glaze of rainwater from my eyes.

  “Aaron!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

  He ran up to me, hunching against the cold rain. He was breathing hard. His eyes were wide and frightened. “I — I was in the library,” he stammered, struggling to catch his breath. “Hiding. I saw it. I saw the monster. I saw everything.”

  “You did?” I was so happy. I wanted to hug him.

  A sheet of rain swept over us, driven by a gust of wind.

  “Let’s get to my house!” I cried. “You can tell my parents. Now maybe they’ll finally believe it!”

  Aaron and I burst into the den. Mom looked up from the couch, lowering the newspaper to her lap. “You’re dripping on the rug,” she said.

  “Where’s Dad? Is he home yet?” I asked, rainwater running down my forehead. Aaron and I were soaked from head to foot.

  “Here I am.” He appeared behind us. He had changed out of his work clothes. “What’s all the excitement?”

  “It’s about the monster!” I blurted out. “Mr. Mortman — he —”

  Mom shook her head and started to raise a hand to stop me.

  But Aaron quickly came to my rescue. “I saw him, too!” Aaron exclaimed. “Lucy didn’t make it up. It’s true!”

  Mom and Dad listened to Aaron. I knew they would.

  He told them what he had seen in the library. He told them how the librarian had turned into a monster and chased me into the corner.

  Mom listened intently to Aaron’s story, shaking her head. “I guess Lucy’s story is true,” she said when Aaron had finished.

  “Yeah. I guess it is,” Dad said, putting a hand gently on my shoulder.

  “Well, now that you finally believe me — what are you going to do, Dad?” I demanded.

  He gazed at me thoughtfully. “We’ll invite Mr. Mortman for dinner,” he said.

  “Huh?” I goggled at him, rainwater running down my face. “You’ll what? He tried to gobble me up! You can’t invite him here!” I protested. “You can’t!”

  “Lucy, we have no choice,” Dad insisted. “We’ll invite him for dinner.”

  Mr. Mortman arrived a few evenings later, carrying a bouquet of flowers. He was wearing lime-green trousers and a bright yellow, short-sleeved sport shirt.

  Mom accepted the flowers from him and led him into the living room where Dad, Randy, and I were waiting. I gripped the back of a chair tightly as he entered. My legs felt rubbery, and my stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a heavy rock.

  I still couldn’t believe that Dad had invited Mr. Mortman into our house!

  Dad stepped forward to shake hands with the librarian. “We’ve been meaning to invite you for quite a while,” Dad told him, smiling. “We want to thank you for the excellent reading program at the library.”

  “Yes,” Mom joined in. “It’s really meant a lot to Lucy.”

  Mr. Mortman glanced at me uncertainly. I could see that he was studying my expression. “I’m glad,” he said, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

  Mr. Mortman lowered himself onto the couch. Mom offered him a tray of crackers with cheese on them. He took one and chewed on it delicately.

  Randy sat down on the rug. I was still standing behind the armchair, gripping the back of it so tightly, my hands ached. I had never been so nervous in all my life.

  Mr. Mortman seemed nervous, too. When Dad handed him a glass of iced tea, Mr. Mortman spilled a little on his trousers. “It’s such a humid day,” he said. “This iced tea hits the spot.”

  “Being a librarian must be interesting work,” Mom said, taking a seat beside Mr. Mortman on the couch.

  Dad was standing at the side of the couch.

  They chatted for a while. As they talked, Mr. Mortman kept darting glances at me. Randy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, drummed his fingers on the carpet.

  Mom and Dad seemed calm and perfectly at ease. Mr. Mortman seemed a little uncomfortable. He had glistening beads of perspiration on his shiny, round forehead.

  My stomach growled loudly, more from nervousness than from hunger. No one seemed to hear it.

  The three adults chatted a while longer. Mr. Mortman sipped his iced tea.

  He leaned back on the couch and smiled at my mother. “It was so kind of you to invite me. I don’t get too many home-cooked meals. What’s for dinner?” he asked.

  “You are!” my dad told him, stepping in front of the couch.

  “What?” Mr. Mortman raised a hand behind his ear. “I didn’t hear you correctly. What is for dinner?”

  “You are!” Dad repeated.

  “Ulllp!” Mr. Mortman let out a little cry and turned bright red. He struggled to raise himself from the low couch.

  But Mom and Dad were too fast for him.

  They both pounced on him. Their fangs popped down. And they gobbled the librarian up in less than a minute, bones and all.

  Randy laughed gleefully.

  I had a big smile on my face.

  My brother and I haven’t gotten our fangs yet. That’s why we couldn’t join in.

  “Well, that’s that,” Mom said, standing up and straightening the couch cushion. Then she turned to Randy and me. “That’s the first monster to come to Timberland Falls in nearly twenty years,” she told us. “That’s why it took us so long to believe you, Lucy.”

  “You sure gobbled him up fast!” I exclaimed.

  “In a few years, you’ll get your fangs,” Mom said.

  “Me, too!” Randy declared. “Then maybe I won’t be afraid of monsters anymore!”

  Mom and Dad chuckled. Then Mom’s expression turned serious. “You both understand why we had to do that, don’t you? We can’t allow any other monsters in town. It would frighten the whole community. And we don’t want people to get frightened and chase us away. We like it here!”

  Dad burped loudly. “Pardon me,” he said, covering his mouth.

  Later that night, I was upstairs in Randy’s room. He was all tucked in, and I was telling him a bedtime story.

  “… And so the librarian hid behind the tall bookshelf,” I said in a low, whispery voice. “And when the little boy named Randy reached up to pull a book down from the shelf, the librarian stuck his long arms through the shelf and grabbed the boy, and —”

  “Lucy, how many times do I have to tell you?”

  I glanced up to see Mom standing in the doorway, a frown on her face.

  “I don’t want you frightening your little brother before bedtime,” Mom scolded. “You’ll give him nightmares. Now, come on, Lucy — no more monster stories!”

  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 ev
erything. 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.”