02 - Stay Out of the Basement (6 page)

“Aii!” She cried out and dropped the open bottle onto the floor. Ice-cold
water puddled around her feet. She leapt back, but her feet were soaked.

“Casey—you scared me!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up?”

“What are
you
doing up?” he replied, half asleep, his blond hair
matted against his forehead.

“I couldn’t sleep. Help me mop up this water.”

“I didn’t spill it,” he said, backing away. “You mop it up.”

“You
made
me spill it!” Margaret declared shrilly. She grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter and handed him a
wad of them. “Come on. Hurry.”

They both got down on their knees and, by the light from the refrigerator,
began mopping up the cold water.

“I just keep thinking about things,” Casey said, tossing a soaking wad of
paper towel onto the counter. “That’s why I can’t sleep.”

“Me, too,” Margaret said, frowning.

She started to say something else, but a sound from the hallway stopped her.
It was a plaintive cry, a moan filled with sadness.

Margaret gasped and stopped dabbing at the water. “What was that?”

Casey’s eyes filled with fear.

They heard it again, such a sad sound, like a plea, a mournful plea.

“It—it’s coming from the basement,” Margaret said.

“Do you think it’s a plant?” Casey asked very quietly. “Do you think it’s one
of Dad’s plants?”

Margaret didn’t answer. She crouched on her knees, not moving, just
listening.

Another moan, softer this time but just as mournful.

“I don’t think Dad told us the truth,” she told Casey, staring into his eyes.
He looked pale and frightened in the dim refrigerator light. “I don’t think a tomato plant would make a sound like that.”

Margaret climbed to her feet, collected the wet clumps of paper towel, and
deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then she closed the refrigerator
door, covering the room in darkness.

Her hand on Casey’s shoulder, she guided him out of the kitchen and through
the hall. They stopped at the basement door, and listened.

Silence now.

Casey tried the door. It was locked.

Another low moan, sounding very nearby now.

“It’s so human,” Casey whispered.

Margaret shuddered. What was going on down in the basement? What was
really
going on?

She led the way up the stairs and waited at her doorway until Casey was
safely in his room. He gave her a wave, yawning silently, and closed the door
behind him.

A few seconds later, Margaret was back in her bed, the covers pulled up to
her chin despite the warmth of the night. Her mouth was still achingly dry, she
realized. She had never managed to get a drink.

Somehow she drifted into a restless sleep.

Her alarm went off at seven-thirty. She sat up and thought about school. Then
she remembered there was no school for the next two days because of some kind of
teachers’ conference.

She turned off the clock radio, slumped back onto her pillow, and tried to go
back to sleep. But she was awake now, thoughts of the night before pouring back
into her mind, flooding her with the fear she had felt just a few hours earlier.

She stood up and stretched, and decided to go talk to her father, to confront
him first thing, to ask all the questions she wanted to ask.

If I don’t, he’ll disappear down to the basement, and I’ll sit around
thinking these frightening thoughts all day, she told herself.

I don’t want to be terrified of my own father.

I don’t.

She pulled a light cotton robe over her pajamas, found her slippers in the
cluttered closet, and stepped out into the hallway. It was hot and stuffy in the
hall, almost suffocating. Pale, morning light filtered down from the skylight
overhead.

She stopped in front of Casey’s room, wondering if she should wake him so
that he could ask their father questions, too.

No, she decided. The poor guy was up half the night. I’ll let him sleep.

Taking a deep breath, she walked the rest of the hall and stopped at her
parents’ bedroom. The door was open.

“Dad?”

No reply.

“Dad? Are you up?”

She stepped into the room. “Dad?”

He didn’t seem to be there.

The air in here was heavy and smelled strangely sour. The curtains were
drawn. The bedclothes were rumpled and tossed down at the foot of the bed.
Margaret took a few more steps toward the bed.

“Dad?”

No. She had missed him. He was probably already locked in his basement
workroom, she realized unhappily.

He must have gotten up very early and—

What was that in the bed?

Margaret clicked on a dresser lamp and stepped up beside the bed.

“Oh, no!” she cried, raising her hands to her face in horror.

The bedsheet was covered with a thick layer of dirt. Clumps of dirt.

Margaret stared down at it, not breathing, not moving.

The dirt was black and appeared to be moist.

And the dirt was moving.

Moving?

It can’t be, Margaret thought. That’s impossible.

She leaned down to take a closer look at the layer of dirt.

No. The dirt wasn’t moving.

The dirt was filled with dozens of moving insects. And long, brown
earthworms. All crawling through the wet, black clumps that lined her father’s
bed.

Casey didn’t come downstairs until ten-thirty. Before his arrival, Margaret
had made herself breakfast, managed to pull on jeans and a T-shirt, had talked
to Diane on the phone for half an hour, and had spent the rest of the time
pacing back and forth in the living room, trying to decide what to do.

Desperate to talk to her dad, she had banged a few times on the basement
door, timidly at first and then loudly. But he either couldn’t hear her or chose
not to. He didn’t respond.

When Casey finally emerged, she poured him a tall glass of orange juice and
led him out to the backyard to talk. It was a hazy day, the sky mostly yellow,
the air already stifling hot even though the sun was still hovering low over the
hills.

Walking toward the block of green shade cast by the hedges, she told her
brother about their dad’s green blood and about the insect-filled dirt in his
bed.

Casey stood open-mouthed, holding the glass of orange juice in front of him,
untouched. He stared at Margaret, and didn’t say anything for a very long time.

Finally, he set the orange juice down on the lawn and said, “What should we
do?” in a voice just above a whisper.

Margaret shrugged. “I wish Mom would call.”

“Would you tell her everything?” Casey asked, shoving his hands deep into the
pockets of his baggy shorts.

“I guess,” Margaret said. “I don’t know if she’d believe it, but—”

“It’s so scary,” Casey said. “I mean, he’s our dad. We’ve known him our whole
lives. I mean—”

“I know,” Margaret said. “But he’s not the same. He’s—”

“Maybe he can explain it all,” Casey said thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s a good
reason for everything. You know. Like the leaves on his head.”

“We asked him about that,” Margaret reminded her brother. “He just said it
was a side effect. Not much of an explanation.”

Casey nodded, but didn’t reply.

“I told some of it to Diane,” Margaret admitted.

Casey looked up at her in surprise.

“Well, I had to tell
somebody
,” she snapped edgily. “Diane thought I should call the police.”

“Huh?” Casey shook his head. “Dad hasn’t done anything wrong—has he? What
would the police do?”

“I know,” Margaret replied. “That’s what I told Diane. But she said there’s
got to be some kind of law against being a mad scientist.”

“Dad isn’t a mad scientist,” Casey said angrily. “That’s stupid. He’s just—He’s just—”

Just what? Margaret thought. What
is
he?

A few hours later, they were still in the backyard, trying to figure out what
to do, when the kitchen door opened and their father called them to come in.

Margaret looked at Casey in surprise. “I don’t believe it. He came upstairs.”

“Maybe we can talk to him,” Casey said.

They both raced into the kitchen. Dr. Brewer, his Dodgers cap in place,
flashed them a smile as he set two soup bowls down on the table. “Hi,” he said
brightly. “Lunchtime.”

“Huh? You made lunch?” Casey exclaimed, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Dad, we’ve got to talk,” Margaret said seriously.

“Afraid I don’t have much time,” he said, avoiding her stare. “Sit down. Try
this new dish. I want to see if you like it.”

Margaret and Casey obediently took their places at the table. “What
is
this stuff?” Casey cried.

The two bowls were filled with a green, pulpy substance. “It looks like green
mashed potatoes,” Casey said, making a face.

“It’s something different,” Dr. Brewer said mysteriously, standing over them
at the head of the table. “Go ahead. Taste it. I’ll bet you’ll be surprised.”

“Dad—you’ve never made lunch for us before,” Margaret said, trying to keep
the suspicion out of her voice.

“I just wanted you to try this,” he said, his smile fading. “You’re my guinea
pigs.”

“We have some things we want to ask you,” Margaret said, lifting her spoon,
but not eating the green mess.

“Your mother called this morning,” their father said.

“When?” Margaret asked eagerly.

“Just a short while ago. I guess you were outside and didn’t hear the phone
ring.”

“What did she say?” Casey asked, staring down at the bowl in front of him.

“Aunt Eleanor’s doing better. She’s been moved out of intensive care. Your
mom may be able to come home soon.”

“Great!” Margaret and Casey cried in unison.

“Eat,” Dr. Brewer instructed, pointing to the bowls.

“Uh… aren’t you going to have some?” Casey asked, rolling his spoon
around in his fingers.

“No,” their father replied quickly. “I already ate.” He leaned with both
hands against the tabletop. Margaret saw that his cut hand was freshly bandaged.

“Dad, last night—” she started.

But he cut her off. “Eat, will you? Try it.”

“But what
is
it?” Casey demanded, whining. “It doesn’t smell too
good.”

“I think you’ll like the taste,” Dr. Brewer insisted impatiently. “It should
taste very sweet.”

He stared at them, urging them to eat the green stuff.

Staring into the bowl at the mysterious substance, Margaret was suddenly
frozen with fear. He’s too eager for us to eat this, she thought, glancing up at
her brother.

He’s too desperate.

He’s never made lunch before. Why did he make this?

And why won’t he tell us what it is?

What’s going on here? she wondered. And Casey’s expression revealed that he
was wondering the same thing.

Is Dad trying to do something to us? Is this green stuff going to change us, or hurt us… or make us grow leaves, too?

What crazy thoughts, Margaret realized.

But she also realized that she was terrified of whatever this stuff was he
was trying to feed them.

“What’s the matter with you two?” their father cried impatiently. He raised
his hand in an eating gesture. “Pick up your spoons. Come on. What are you
waiting for?”

Margaret and Casey raised their spoons and dropped them into the soft, green
substance. But they didn’t raise the spoons to their mouths.

They couldn’t.

“Eat! Eat!” Dr. Brewer screamed, pounding the table with his good hand. “What
are you waiting for? Eat your lunch. Go ahead. Eat it!”

He’s giving us no choice, Margaret thought.

Her hand was trembling as she reluctantly raised the spoon to her mouth.

“Go ahead. You’ll like it,” Dr. Brewer insisted, leaning over the table.

Casey watched as Margaret raised the spoon to her lips.

The doorbell rang.

“Who could that be?” Dr. Brewer asked, very annoyed at the interruption.
“I’ll be right back, kids.” He lumbered out to the front hall.

“Saved by the bell,” Margaret said, dropping the spoon back into the bowl
with a sickening plop.

“This stuff is disgusting,” Casey whispered. “It’s some kind of plant food or
something. Yuck!”

“Quick—” Margaret said, jumping up and grabbing the two bowls. “Help me.”

They rushed to the sink, pulled out the waste-basket, and scooped the
contents of both bowls into the garbage. Then they carried both bowls back to
the table and set them down beside the spoons.

“Let’s go see who’s at the door,” Casey said.

They crept into the hall in time to see a man carrying a black briefcase step
into the front entranceway and greet their father with a short handshake. The
man had a tanned bald head and was wearing large, blue-lensed sunglasses. He had
a brown mustache and was wearing a navy blue suit with a red-and-white striped
tie.

“Mr. Martinez!” their father exclaimed. “What a… surprise.”

“That’s Dad’s old boss from PolyTech,” Margaret whispered to Casey.

“I
know
,” Casey replied peevishly.

“I said weeks ago I’d come check up on how your work is coming along,”
Martinez said, sniffing the air for some reason. “Wellington gave me a lift. My
car is in the garage—for a change.”

“Well, I’m not really ready,” Dr. Brewer stammered, looking very
uncomfortable even from Margaret’s vantage point behind him. “I wasn’t expecting
anyone. I mean… I don’t think this is a good time.”

“No problem. I’ll just have a quick look,” Martinez said, putting a hand on
Dr. Brewer’s shoulder as if to calm him. “I’ve always been so interested in your
work. You know that. And you know that it wasn’t
my
idea to let you go.
The board forced me. They gave me no choice. But I’m not giving up on you. I promise you that. Come on. Let’s see what kind of
progress you’re making.”