08 - The Girl Who Cried Monster Read online

  I glanced at the clock. She was right. My appointment was for four o’clock.

  Reading Rangers is a summer reading program at the town library that Mom and Dad made me enroll in. They said they didn’t want me to waste the whole summer. And if I joined this thing at the library, at least I’d read some good books.

  The way Reading Rangers works is, I have to go see Mr. Mortman, the librarian, once a week. And I have to give a short report and answer some questions about the book I read that week. I get a gold star for every book I report on.

  If I get six gold stars, I get a prize. I think the prize is a book. Big deal, right? But it’s just a way to make you read.

  I thought I’d read some of the scary mystery novels that all my friends are reading. But no way. Mr. Mortman insists on everyone reading “classics”. He means old books.

  “I’m going to skate over,” I told my mom, and hurried to my room to get my Rollerblades.

  “You’d better fly over!” my mom called up to me. “Hey,” she added a few seconds later, “it looks like rain!”

  She was always giving me weather reports.

  I passed by Randy’s room. He was in there in the dark, no lights, the shades pulled. Playing Super Nintendo, as usual.

  By the time I got my Rollerblades laced and tied, I had only five minutes to get to the library. Luckily, it was only six or seven blocks away.

  I was in big trouble anyway. I had managed to read only four chapters of Huckleberry Finn, my book for the week. That meant I was going to have to fake it with Mr. Mortman.

  I picked the book up from my shelf. It was a new paperback. I wrinkled up some of the pages near the back to make it look as if I’d read that far. I tucked it into my backpack, along with a pair of sneakers. Then I made my way down the stairs—not easy in Rollerblades—and headed to the Timberland Falls town library.

  The library was in a ramshackle old house on the edge of the Timberland woods. The house had belonged to some eccentric old hermit. And when he died, he had no family, so he donated the house to the town. They turned it into a library.

  Some kids said the house had been haunted. But kids say that about every creepy old house. The library did look like a perfect haunted house, though.

  It was three stories tall, dark shingled, with a dark, pointy roof between two stone turrets. The house was set back in the trees, as if hiding there. It was always in the shade, always dark and cold inside.

  Inside, the old floorboards creaked beneath the thin carpet the town had put down. The high windows let in very little light. And the old wooden bookcases reached nearly to the ceiling. When I edged my way through the narrow aisles between the tall, dark shelves, I always felt as if they were about to close in on me.

  I had this frightening feeling that the shelves would lean in on me, cover me up, and I’d be buried there in the darkness forever. Buried under a thousand pounds of dusty, mildewy old books.

  But of course that’s silly.

  It was just a very old house. Very dark and damp. Very creaky. Not as clean as a library should be. Lots of cobwebs and dust.

  Mr. Mortman did his best, I guess. But he was kind of creepy, too.

  The thing all of us kids hated the most about him was that his hands always seemed to be wet. He would smile at you with those beady little black eyes of his lighting up on his plump, bald head. He would reach out and shake your hand. And his hand was always sopping!

  When he turned the pages of books, he’d leave wet fingerprints on the corners. His desktop always had small puddles on the top, moist handprints on the leather desk protector.

  He was short and round. With that shiny, bald head and those tiny black eyes, he looked a lot like a mole. A wet-pawed mole.

  He spoke in a high, scratchy voice. Nearly always whispered. He wasn’t a bad guy, really. He seemed to like kids. He wasn’t mean or anything. And he really liked books.

  He was just weird, that’s all. He sat on a tall wooden stool that made him hover over his enormous desk. He kept a deep aluminum pan on the side of his desk. Inside the pan were several little turtles, moving around in about an inch of water. “My timid friends,” I heard him call them once.

  Sometimes he’d pick up one of them and hold it in his pudgy fingers, high in the air, until it tucked itself into its shell. Then he’d gently set it down, a pleased smile on his pale, flabby face.

  He sure loved his turtles. I guess they were okay as pets. But they were kind of smelly. I always tried to sit on the other side of the desk, as far away from the turtle pan as I could get.

  Well, I skated to the library as fast as I could. I was only a few minutes late when I skated into the cool shade of the library driveway. The sky was clouding over. I sat down on the stone steps and pulled off the Rollerblades. Then I quickly slid into my sneakers and, carrying my Rollerblades, I walked through the front door.

  Making my way through the stacks—the tall, narrow shelves at the back of the main reading room—I dropped the skates against the wall. Then I walked quickly through the aisles to Mr. Mortman’s desk against the back wall.

  He heard my footsteps and immediately glanced up from the pile of books he was stamping with a big rubber stamp. The ceiling light made his bald head shine like a lamp. He smiled. “Hi, Lucy,” he said in his squeaky voice. “Be right with you.”

  I said hi and sat down in the folding chair in front of his desk. I watched him stamp the books. He was wearing a gray turtleneck sweater, which made him look a lot like his pet turtles.

  Finally, after glancing at the big, loudly ticking clock on the wall, he turned to me.

  “And what did you read for Reading Rangers this week, Lucy?” He leaned over the desk toward me. I could see wet fingerprints on the dark desktop.

  “Uh… Huckleberry Finn.” I pulled the book from my backpack and dropped it into my lap.

  “Yes, yes. A wonderful book,” Mr. Mortman said, glancing at the paperback in my lap. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I really enjoyed it. I… couldn’t put it down.”

  That was sort of true. I never picked it up—so how could I put it down?

  “What did you like best about Huckleberry Finn?” Mr. Mortman asked, smiling at me expectantly.

  “Uh… the description,” I told him.

  I had my Reading Rangers gold star in my T-shirt pocket. And I had a new book in my backpack—Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley.

  Maybe I’ll read Frankenstein out loud to Randy, I thought evilly.

  That would probably make his teeth chatter forever!

  The late afternoon sun was hidden behind spreading rain clouds. I had walked nearly all the way home when I realized I had forgotten my Rollerblades.

  So I turned around and went back. I wasn’t sure how late the library stayed open. Mr. Mortman had seemed to be entirely alone in there. I hoped he hadn’t decided to close up shop early. I really didn’t want to leave my new Rollerblades in there overnight.

  I stopped and stared up at the old library. Deep in the shade, it seemed to stare back at me, its dark windows like black, unblinking eyes.

  I climbed the stone steps, then hesitated with my hand on the door. I had a sudden chill.

  Was it just from stepping into the deep shade?

  No. It was something else.

  I had a funny feeling. A bad feeling.

  I get those sometimes. A signal. A moment of unease.

  Like something bad is about to happen.

  Shaking it off, I pushed open the creaking old door and stepped into the musty darkness of the library.

  4

  Shadows danced across the wall as I made my way to the main room. A tree branch tapped noisily against the dust-covered pane of a high window.

  The library was silent except for the creaking floorboards beneath my sneakers. As I entered the main room, I could hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the wall clock.

  The lights had all been turned off.

  I thoug
ht I felt something scamper across my shoe.

  A mouse?

  I stopped short and glanced down.

  Just a dustball clinging to the base of a bookshelf.

  Whoa, Lucy, I scolded myself. It’s just a dusty old library. Nothing to get weird about. Don’t let your wild imagination take off and lead you into trouble.

  Trouble?

  I still had that strange feeling. A gentle but insistent gnawing at my stomach. A tug at my chest.

  Something isn’t right. Something bad is about to happen.

  People call them premonitions. It’s a good vocabulary word for what I was feeling right then.

  I found my Rollerblades where I had left them, against the wall back in the stacks. I grabbed them up, eager to get out of that dark, creepy place.

  I headed quickly back toward the entrance, tiptoeing for some reason. But a sound made me stop.

  I held my breath. And listened.

  It was just a cough.

  Peering down the narrow aisle, I could see Mr. Mortman hovered over his desk. Well, actually, I could just see part of him—one arm, and some of his face when he leaned to the left.

  I was still holding my breath.

  The clock tick-tick-ticked noisily from across the room. Behind his desk, Mr. Mortman’s face moved in and out of blue-purple shadows.

  The Rollerblades suddenly felt heavy. I lowered them silently to the floor. Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I took a few steps toward the front.

  Mr. Mortman began humming to himself. I didn’t recognize the song.

  The shadows grew deeper as I approached. Peering down the dark aisle, I saw him holding a large glass jar between his pudgy hands. I was close enough to see that he had a pleasant smile on his face.

  Keeping in the shadows, I moved closer.

  I like spying on people. It’s kind of thrilling, even when they don’t do anything very interesting.

  Just knowing that you’re watching them and they don’t know they’re being watched is exciting.

  Humming to himself, Mr. Mortman held the jar in front of his chest and started to unscrew the top. “Some juicy flies, my timid friends,” he announced in his high-pitched voice.

  So. The jar was filled with flies.

  Suddenly, the room grew much darker as clouds rolled over the late afternoon sun. The light from the window dimmed. Gray shadows rolled over Mr. Mortman and his enormous desk, as if blanketing him in darkness.

  From my hidden perch among the shelves, I watched him prepare to feed his turtles.

  But wait.

  Something was wrong.

  My premonition was coming true.

  Something weird was happening!

  As he struggled to unscrew the jar lid, Mr. Mortman’s face began to change. His head floated up from his turtleneck and started to expand, like a balloon being inflated.

  I uttered a silent gasp as I saw his tiny eyes poke out of his head. The eyes bulged bigger and bigger, until they were as big as doorknobs.

  The light from the window grew even dimmer.

  The entire room was cast in heavy shadows. The shadows swung and shifted.

  I couldn’t see well at all. It was like I was watching everything through a dark fog.

  Mr. Mortman continued to hum, even as his head bobbed and throbbed above his shoulders and his eyes bulged out as if on stems, poking straight up like insect antennae.

  And then his mouth began to twist and grow. It opened wide, like a gaping black hole on the enormous, bobbing head.

  Mr. Mortman sang louder now. An eerie, frightening sound, more like animal howling than singing.

  He pulled off the lid of the jar and let it fall to the desk. It clanged loudly as it hit the desktop.

  I leaned forward, struggling to see. Squinting hard, I saw Mr. Mortman dip his fat hand into the jar. I could hear loud buzzing from the jar. He pulled out a handful of flies.

  I could see his eyes bulge even wider.

  I could see the gaping black hole that was his mouth.

  He held his hand briefly over the turtle cage. I could see the flies, black dots all over his hand. In his palm. On his short, stubby fingers.

  I thought he was going to lower his hand to the aluminum pan. I thought he was going to feed the turtles.

  But, instead, he jammed the flies into his own mouth.

  I shut my eyes and held my hand over my mouth to keep from puking.

  Or screaming.

  I held my breath, but my heart kept racing.

  The shadows lurched and jumped. The darkness seemed to float around me.

  I opened my eyes. He was eating another handful of flies, shoving them into his gaping mouth with his fingers, swallowing them whole.

  I wanted to shout. I wanted to run.

  Mr. Mortman, I realized, was a monster.

  5

  The shadows seemed to pull away. The sky outside the window brightened, and a gray triangle of light fell over Mr. Mortman’s desk.

  Opening my eyes, I realized I’d been holding my breath. My chest felt as if it were about to burst. I let the air out slowly and took another deep breath.

  Then, without glancing again to the front of the room, I turned and ran. My sneakers thudded over the creaky floors, but I didn’t care.

  I had to get out of there as fast as I could.

  I bolted out the front door of the library onto the stone steps, then down the gravel driveway. I ran as fast as I could, my arms flying wildly at my sides, my black hair blowing behind me.

  I didn’t stop until I was a block away.

  Then I dropped to the curb and waited for my heart to stop pounding like a bass drum.

  Heavy rain clouds rolled over the sun again.

  The sky became an eerie yellow-black. A station wagon rolled past. Some kids in the back of it called to me, but I didn’t raise my head.

  I kept seeing the shadowy scene in the library again and again.

  Mr. Mortman is a monster.

  The words repeated nonstop in my mind.

  It can’t be, I thought, gazing up at the black clouds so low overhead.

  I was seeing things. That had to be it.

  All the shadows in the dark library. All the swirling darkness.

  It was an optical illusion.

  It was my wild imagination.

  It was a daydream, a silly fantasy.

  No! a loud voice in my head cried.

  No, Lucy, you saw Mr. Mortman’s head bulge. You saw his eyes pop out and grow like hideous toadstools on his ballooning face.

  You saw him reach into the fly jar. You heard him humming so happily, so… hungrily.

  You saw him jam the flies into his mouth. Not one handful, but two.

  And maybe he’s still in there, eating his fill.

  It was dark, Lucy. There were shadows. But you saw what you saw. You saw it all.

  Mr. Mortman is a monster.

  I climbed to my feet. I felt a cold drop of rain on top of my head.

  “Mr. Mortman is a monster.” I said it out loud.

  I knew I had to tell Mom and Dad as fast as I could. “The librarian is a monster.” That’s what I’d tell them.

  Of course, they’ll be shocked. Who wouldn’t be?

  Feeling another raindrop on my head, then one on my shoulder, I started jogging for home. I had gone about half a block when I stopped.

  The stupid Rollerblades! I had left them in the library again.

  I turned back. A gust of wind blew my hair over my face. I pushed it back with both hands. I was thinking hard, trying to figure out what to do.

  Rain pattered softly on the pavement of the street. The cold raindrops felt good on my hot forehead.

  I decided to go back to the library and get my skates. This time, I’d make a lot of noise. Make sure Mr. Mortman knew someone was there.

  If he heard me coming, I decided, he’d act normal. He wouldn’t eat flies in front of me. He wouldn’t let his eyes bulge and his head grow like that.
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  Would he?

  I stopped as the library came back into view. I hesitated, staring through the drizzling rain at the old building.

  Maybe I should wait and come back tomorrow with my dad.

  Wouldn’t that be smarter?

  No. I decided I wanted my skates. And I was going to get them.

  I’ve always been pretty brave.

  The time a bat flew into our house, I was the one who yelled and screamed at it and chased it out with a butterfly net.

  I’m not afraid of bats. Or snakes. Or bugs.

  “Or monsters,” I said out loud.

  As I walked up to the front of the library, rain pattering softly all around me, I kept telling myself to make a lot of noise. Make sure Mr. Mortman knows you’re there, Lucy. Call out to him. Tell him you came back because you left your skates.

  He won’t let you see that he’s a monster if he knows you’re there.

  He won’t hurt you or anything if you give him some warning.

  I kept reassuring myself all the way up to the dark, old building. I climbed the stone steps hesitantly.

  Then, taking a deep breath, I grabbed the doorknob and started to go in.

  6

  I turned the knob and pushed, but the door refused to open. I tried again. It took me a while to realize that it was locked.

  The library was closed.

  The rain pattered softly on the grass as I walked around to the front window. It was high off the ground. I had to pull myself up on the window ledge to look inside.

  Darkness. Total darkness.

  I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  I wanted my skates, but I didn’t really want to go back in there. “I’ll get them tomorrow,” I said out loud.

  I lowered myself to the ground. The rain was starting to come down harder, and the wind was picking up, blowing the rain in sheets.

  I started to run, my sneakers squishing over the wet grass. I ran all the way home. I was totally drenched by the time I made my way through the front door. My hair was matted down on my head. My T-shirt was soaked through.

  “Mom! Dad? Are you home?” I cried.