Invasion of the Road Weenies (13 page)

Stuart wandered down the street, alone.

M
y bedroom is over
the garage. I have to share the room with my wimpy dork of a brother, Alexander. He's only five. It's not a lot of fun sharing a room, especially since Alexander can't sleep through the night without getting up at least a couple billion times to go to the bathroom. Which wouldn't be all that bad except that he has to put the light on before he'll stick his nose into the hall. That's because he's worried about running into a monster.

“There aren't any monsters,” I told him one night before we went to sleep. I was getting really tired of waking up every time he turned on the light.

“Yes, there are,” he said. “Billy Morrison in my kindergarten told me you can call monsters. They'll come to your house. Honest. But they only come at night.”

“Why would you want to call a monster?” I asked.

“If they like you, they'll give you a present,” Alexander said.

“Yeah, sure. And what if they don't like you?” I asked.

“Billy didn't say.”

I laughed at him. Then I forgot all about it. He was always babbling about crazy junk he'd heard from other kids. It's amazing what those kids in kindergarten will believe.

I was sitting at my desk the next day, doing my homework, when Alexander came in and said, “I found out the monster stuff from Billy.”

“Yeah. Okay. Tell me later.” I was more interested in looking out the window at what Dad was doing. Every fall, he spread this thick, sticky gunk on the driveway, fixing all the cracks. We couldn't walk on it until it dried. That took a day. I didn't see what the big deal was about having a perfect driveway, but I guess it was important to Dad.

“Can we do the monster stuff?” Alexander asked.

“Not right now,” I told him. “I've got homework.”

“Later?”

“Sure.” I'd promise him anything to get him to shut up.

Naturally, he didn't forget my promise. “Can we try the monster stuff?” he asked right after I went to bed.

“Go to sleep.”

“You promised.”

“Just go to sleep.”

“YOU PROMISED!”

“Okay, okay. Don't wake Mom and Dad.” The way he was shouting, I was afraid the folks would come running into the room. Their bedroom was on the other side of the house, and they were both pretty sound sleepers, but there was something about Alexander's shouts that could wake up just about anyone. “What do we have to do.”

“Just say
Monster, monster, come to me.”

“That's all?” It sounded a bit too easy.

“We have to say it a hundred times.”

“No way.” This was getting ridiculous.

“YOU PROMISED!”

“Shut up, okay? I'll do it. Let's get started.” I have to admit, there was a part of me that wondered how long it would take to say something one hundred times. It was a bit cool to think about that. I realized I could keep track with my fingers. I could use them to count to ten, and Alexander could use his fingers to count groups of ten.

I turned on the light, then explained to him that every time I held up all ten fingers, he had to stick out one more of his fingers. He accepted what I was saying almost as if it was another part of the magic.

“That will be a hundred?” he asked.

“Yeah. Ten groups of ten. Like if you have ten pennies, that's a dime. And ten dimes make a dollar.”

“But that's not a hundred dimes,” he said.

“Just trust me.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, what kind of present does the monster bring?” I asked.

Alexander shrugged. “Billy didn't say. But the more the monster likes you, the better the present. I'll bet we get something really good.”

We started. I figured the sooner we got it over with, the sooner Alexander would leave me alone.

Monster, monster, come to me.

I kept count. At ten, I wiggled my fingers. It took Alexander a second, but he caught on and held out his right thumb.

At first, it seemed to go quickly. But by the thirtieth time, my throat was getting a bit dry. We made it past fifty, then reached seventy. I couldn't believe it was that hard. By ninety, I could barely speak. Alexander's voice was the merest croak. I would have given anything for a glass of water. I wanted to stop. But there was another part of me that didn't want to give up. It had nothing to do with Alexander's stupid kindergarten magic—I wanted to do it just so I could say I'd done it.

Monster, monster, come to me.

We got to ninety-five. I wanted to cough or clear my throat.

Then ninety-six. I felt that any extra sound—a cough or anything else—would ruin everything. I didn't even dare clear my throat.

Monster, monster, come to me.

Ninety-seven. This was crazy. Why was I doing this? My whole mouth was so dry I thought it was going to crack wide open.

Monster, monster, come to me.

Ninety-eight.

Monster, monster, come to me.

Ninety-nine. I fought back the urge to cough. I looked at Alexander. He was struggling, too.

Monster,
monster, come to me.

One hundred.

We both stopped. The room seemed dead quiet. I looked at Alexander. He looked at me.

He was the first to speak. “Bet it's a great present.”

I was about to open my mouth and say, “Don't be silly.” But I wasn't sure if I could talk. And the shriek came before I could speak.

It came from outside—from below our room. I ran to the window. Out in the driveway, something struggled and howled. A face, the most awful and angry face I'd ever seen, glared up from below as the monster struggled to free itself from the sticky tar in the driveway.

The howls lasted through most of the night. I tried holding the pillow over my ears. It helped some, but I still knew it was out there. Alexander was so scared, he crawled into my bed. For once, he didn't get up to go to the bathroom. Neither of us wanted to look out the window. I didn't need to look—I'd never be able to get that face out of my mind. It was like a giant lizard had gotten too close to a firecracker right when it went off. It was all green and red and twisted and wet.

At some point, before sunrise, I think the howling stopped. I guess I finally fell asleep.

When I awoke, I was confused for a moment. Why was Alexander in my bed? Why was my throat so dry and sore? Then it all came back to me. I sat up. Alexander sat up.

“Was it real?” he asked.

“I don't know.” I ran to the window. There was no sign of the monster. Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe we'd fallen asleep while saying those stupid words.

That's when Dad started shouting for us. He called us both downstairs and made us walk out to the driveway. He sounded really angry. “Who's responsible for this?” he asked, pointing to a spot beneath the bedroom window.

I looked where he pointed. There was something stuck to the tar—something that looked like lizard skin. There were two torn pieces. For a moment, I thought they were just formless blobs. Then, with a jolt, I realized they were roughly in the shape of huge footprints.

“When I find out who did this,” Dad said, “someone is going to be sorry.”

Not as sorry as we're going to be tonight,
I thought. Alexander had said that the monster would bring presents if it liked us. Tonight, there would be no fresh tar to stop it. I wondered what a monster did when it didn't like you. I wondered what it did when it was really unhappy with you.

Tonight, I'll say
Monster, monster, stay away.
I'll make Alexander say it, too. We'll say it a hundred times. We'll say it a thousand times. We'll say it every night, if we get the chance.

N
o way,” Amy said.
“That can't be true.”

“I swear,” Wendy said. “She gives out huge chocolate bars. My brother told me.”

Amy looked down the hill. The house had to be a half mile away. But at least it was downhill. “You sure about this?”

Wendy nodded.

“Okay. If it's true, it'll be worth the trip.” Amy headed down the hill, hitching up her skirt. The witch costume was great, but it was just a bit too long.

There weren't any other homes to stop at along the way—just empty lots filled with tall weeds. Amy hoped she wasn't wasting her time.

“My turn to ring,” Wendy said when they reached the house. At least the front light was on. She rushed to the porch.

Amy followed her up the creaking steps and waited for the door to open. The place was small—little more than a
cabin—and it didn't seem to be in very good condition. Amy wondered how anyone who lived here could afford to give away big bars of chocolate to every kid who came by.

“Well, aren't you two just lovely,” the woman said when she opened the door. She was old and small, just like the house. Behind her, a black cat peered at the girls, its tail forming question marks in the air.

“Trick or—” Amy started to say. But the words caught in her throat as she spotted what lay on the table in the hallway. Two huge candy bars—the biggest she'd ever seen. Maybe Wendy was right. The bars looked like they weighed at least ten pounds each.

“Here you go, dearie,” the woman said. She stooped and lifted a candy bar with two hands, then dropped it into Amy's bag.

Amy felt her arm jolt as the weight hit. “Thank you,” she said. She could already taste the chocolate. It would last for weeks.

“And here you go, young lady,” the woman said, giving the other bar to Wendy.

Lucky us
, Amy thought, realizing she and her friend had gotten the last two candy bars.

“That's very generous,” Wendy said.

The woman nodded. “An old person like me needs to be extra friendly. I'm all alone here except for Jackson,” she said, pointing to the cat. “I want people to think well of me. That way, they won't play tricks on me or make up nasty rumors.”

Amy nodded. It made sense. The woman was alone in
this tiny house at the end of a long road. If she didn't give out candy on Halloween, some of the kids might do bad things to her property. But if she gave out great candy, she'd never have a problem.

“Thanks again,” Amy said as the girls left the house.

“Come back next year,” the woman called.

“Wow, that was worth the trip.” Amy started the long climb up the hill.

“And even worth the trip back,” Wendy added.

“Ten pounds at least,” Amy said. She lifted the candy bar from her bag.

“Yeah.” Wendy hefted her own bar. “It must cost her a fortune to buy these. But I guess she really wants kids to like her. I know I'm going to tell everyone how nice she is.”

“Me, too.” Amy was about to put the candy bar back in her bag when she heard the roar. She froze for an instant. “What was that?”

“Just some kids fooling around,” Wendy said, though she didn't sound very sure.

Amy hitched up her skirt and walked faster. Another roar ripped the air, closer this time. Amy looked back and screamed as the dark beast leaped from the tall weeds, sprinting toward them on four legs and spitting out a fierce and angry growl. Its sharp white teeth glistened like ivory daggers.

“Run!” she shouted.

Amy dashed up the hill. The chocolate bar felt heavier and heavier. It became an anchor, threatening to drag her to a halt. She dropped the bar and ran harder. By her side, she saw Wendy toss her own bar to the ground.

At the top of the hill, Amy paused and looked back. “We made it,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “What was that? A wolf? A lion?”

Wendy shook her head. “I don't know. But I lost my candy bar.”

Amy nodded. “Me, too. But at least we got away. And we still have our bags.” She was beginning to wonder if it had been her imagination. But she knew one thing for certain. “She sure is a nice old lady.”

“Yeah,” Wendy said. “She's really nice.”

Amy saw two boys walk past, heading down the hill. She opened her mouth to warn them about the beast, but then decided not to say anything. They wouldn't believe her. And she couldn't blame them. There couldn't really have been a creature chasing them.

“Come on,” Wendy said. “Let's go to some more houses.” She walked away from the hill.

“Good idea.” Amy followed her.

At that same moment, down at the bottom of the hill, the sleek, black panther opened his jaws and gently placed the two huge chocolate bars on the porch of the small house. Then he clawed at the door, his waving tail forming question marks in the air.

“Well done, Jackson. We've made so many friends tonight,” the nice old woman said. She picked up the chocolate bars, one by one, and placed them back on the table, then petted the panther as it again took the form of a cat. “And just in time,” she added, peering up the hill. “I believe I see more youngsters heading our way.”

N
one of us knew
how Tommy Griffin got away with it, but he never talked. I don't mean that he didn't say very much. I don't mean that he rarely spoke. I mean he
never
talked. We were pretty sure he was able to talk, though not everyone agreed about that. We'd discussed the whole thing many times.

“Maybe there's something wrong with his throat,” Arnie said one day last March when we were hanging out at the playground after lunch.

“No way,” Shawn said. “He'd use sign language or something if that's all the problem was.”

I nodded. I'd seen a few of his test grades when the papers were handed back. He was solidly there in the B+ to A−range. If he
couldn't
talk, he'd have some other way to communicate. “I don't think he can't talk,” I told them. “I think he won't talk.”