Invasion of the Road Weenies (4 page)

“I told you it was gross,” Tina said as they left the building. She shuddered.

Julie didn't say anything.

When she got home, she looked for a place to keep the piece of bandage. She didn't want to shove it in her drawer—it would get lost or crushed. And she didn't want to leave it out, where her mom might mistake it for a worthless scrap of garbage and throw it away. She had several boxes on her dresser. One was for jewelry, another for her hair bands and ribbons, and a third was for letters and cards. Finally, she decided to put the piece in her jewelry box.

“My own little piece of history,” she said as she closed the lid. She was over the guilt now, and glad she'd taken the treasure. She felt good about it all day long, and all that evening.

The mummy came in the night.

His dry wrapped feet made barely a sound on the floor. His body produced light crackles like the thin plastic on a box of candy.

Julie made a sound of her own as she sat up in bed and stared at the mummy standing in her doorway—but that sound caught in her throat and came out as little more than a hiss.

The mummy crossed the room, moving stiffly on knees that hardly bent. He reached toward Julie.

“Here,” Julie said. She grabbed for her jewelry box. “Take it. Take all of it. Those are all my treasures.”

The mummy's hand moved toward her head.

Julie fumbled in the box, spilling earrings, bracelets, and necklaces in a tangle on her lap. She fumbled for the piece of bandage and finally managed to grip it in fingers that felt numb and useless.

“Take it,” she begged, holding up the fragment.

The mummy's hand jerked back from Julie's head. She felt a small, sharp pain in her scalp.

Julie saw a hair dangling from the bandaged fingers—one thin strand of hair. That was all. The mummy turned. As he dragged his ancient body back across the room, Julie's eyes settled on the tag attached to his leg. Mummy number three hundred forty-seven.

She sighed in relief as the mummy left, then carefully rubbed her head where the hair had been plucked. It could have been worse, she realized. But the mummy had taken only one tiny little piece. That seemed like a fair trade. A piece of hair for a piece of bandage.

“One little piece can't hurt,” Julie said as she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She was still trembling, but she knew it was over. She'd never see that mummy again. He had his piece.

Mummy number seventy-nine came the next night. He yanked a hair from her head. Just one small piece.

The night after that, it was mummy number four hundred eighty-six.

Just one little piece.

Julie shuddered as she thought about those words.
Just one little piece.

Just two thousand mummies. Two thousand hairs. Two thousand visits in the middle of the night. Julie felt she was losing it—her hair, her mind—one little piece at a time.

W
e have arrived!” Lyle's
father announced, waking Lyle from his nap.

“We're here, we're here, we're here!” Lyle's little brother Scotty shouted. “Yay!”

“Chill out, Scotty,” Lyle said as he sat up and stretched. “It's just a bunch of pits full of gooky stuff.” He didn't know why his folks had dragged them there. He'd seen the place on TV, and there was nothing exciting about it. So what if some dinosaurs had been stupid enough to get stuck in the tar a zillion years ago?

“Are you sure this is it?” Lyle's mom asked. She pointed out the window. “That seems like a small sign for such a famous place.”

Lyle looked. The sign didn't offer much information, except that this was the way to The Pits. There was an arrow at the bottom, aimed at a path that curved out of sight to the left.

“Certainly,” Lyle's dad said. He patted the map that was lying on the dashboard. “I always know where I'm going.”

“It looks a lot smaller than I expected,” Lyle's mom said. “And there aren't any other cars.”

“Stop worrying,” his dad said. “This is the right place. We just got here ahead of the rush.”

“If you say so. Come on, kids,” Lyle's mom said. “Let's go.”

Lyle grabbed his yo-yo and followed the family through the empty parking lot. “I need a new string,” he called to his mom.

“Lyle, stop fooling around with that thing and pay attention,” his mom said. “We didn't drive all the way here so you could play.”

“That's for sure,” Lyle muttered. He checked out his yo-yo string. It was worn pretty badly in a couple of spots but, with luck, it would last for a few more days. He wound it up and did an around-the-world.

Ploink!

Lyle reached out as the string broke and his yo-yo went flying through the air. It bounced to a landing and clattered across the solid tar of the parking lot, wobbling like a small animal that had just run headfirst into a large tree.

“My yo-yo!” he said, chasing off after it.

The yo-yo rolled down a hill at the edge of the parking lot. Lyle glanced at his parents. “I'll be right there,” he called.

“Don't get lost,” his mom called back. “We'll meet you at the tar pits.” She and the others headed for the path that led from the parking lot through a field.

Lyle chugged down the hill. When he reached the bottom, he stared at the strange landscape. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at. The first toy that caught his eye barely looked like a toy. He stared at the strangely familiar object for long seconds before the shape made sense to his mind.

“A tricycle,” he said. Half sunk in the ground, the discarded vehicle was mostly dull brown and black from rust and weather.

It took Lyle another second to realize that the whole area in front of him was filled with toys—heaps and piles of toys. Most of them were in far better shape than the tricycle, and far more interesting. Many even looked brand-new.

“Wow,” Lyle whispered, forgetting about his yo-yo. Stretching before him was every toy he'd ever dreamed of, and many he never knew existed.

Lyle stepped on the seat of the tricycle. It wobbled a little, but it didn't tip. Right past the handlebars, Lyle saw a model of the SR-71 Blackhawk. He reached down and pulled it free from the muck. “Cool,” he said. He took another step, planting his foot on an official NBA basketball that was three-quarters submerged in the muck. Just ahead, he saw a radio-controlled car—the kind with the really large tires and directional steering. “Awesome,” Lyle said. He dropped the plane and picked up the car.

The controller was only a few feet away, wedged between a red Radio Flyer wagon and a pogo stick. Lyle stepped on a Cabbage Patch doll and grinned as he felt the head sink down.

Lyle's grin faded as his foot kept sinking.

“Hey . . .” He staggered, setting his other foot down hard against the top of a Chutes and Ladders board. The board tilted and sunk into the tar. Small bubbles rose to the goopy surface and burst. Lyle's foot sank in right after the board.

“Oh man,” Lyle said. He tried to pull his foot out.

No use.

“Help!” Lyle cried. “I'm stuck!”

There was no answer.

“HELP!” Lyle cried again, as loudly as he could.

“Lyle,” his mom called from far off.

“Over here!” Lyle shouted. He felt himself sinking deeper. “Hurry. I'm stuck.”

“Good grief, Lyle,” his dad called from behind him. “How did you get yourself in such a mess?”

Lyle heard his dad scrambling over the toys. Then he felt a strong pair of hands grab his sides and pull. His dad lifted him from the tar.

“Look at your pants, young man,” his mom said when Lyle had been deposited on solid turf. “Maybe this will teach you not to run off.”

“Oh, I think he's learned his lesson,” Lyle's dad said. “Haven't you, son?”

“Yeah,” Lyle said. “I sure have.”

His dad grinned and ruffled Lyle's hair. “How about we go see those tar pits? Okay, son?”

“Sure, Dad,” Lyle said. “That sounds great.” He followed his parents away from the toys.

“I think we can cut through here,” his dad said, angling to
the left at the bottom of the hill. They walked a short distance through thick weeds.

Lyle's mom saw it first. “Oh my word, look at that dining room set,” she said. Carrying Scotty, she dashed ahead of the others.

Lyle's father gasped. “A metric socket wrench. Isn't that a beauty.” He rushed forward.

“Toasters,” his mom said. “All those toasters. My word—there's a four-slice model.”

Lyle chased after his parents, but they were already deep into the pile of Thighmasters, DVD players, Civil War chess sets, and power tools. “Stop,” Lyle shouted, stepping on top of an outdoor gas grill. The grill shifted and sank deeper into the tar.

“Look, hon,” Lyle's dad called to Lyle's mom, holding up a chrome showerhead. “Wouldn't this be great in the bathroom? It has five different spray settings, plus a water-saver option and a heavy-duty pulsing mode.”

“Dishes,” his mom exclaimed, bending down to stroke the fine china at her feet. “What a lovely pattern.” She sank lower, taking Scotty with her.

Lyle leaped from the grill, aiming for the top of a surround-sound stereo speaker. He missed and came down into a puddle of muck between a garage-door opener and a Weed Whacker. “Mom!” he shouted. “Dad!”

They didn't seem to hear him. Lyle sighed. Lyle sank. He looked at his parents. They were sinking, too, but they didn't appear to mind. Scotty minded. But, as usual, nobody was paying attention to him.

Lyle sank to his chest and then to his chin. As the tar reached his ears, he heard his last words.

It was his mom speaking. “A pasta maker,” she said. “I'd give anything for one of those.”

D
are you.”

“Dare
you”

“I'll go if you go.”

“You're scared.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Are, too.”

And so, daring each other and teasing each other, Cindy and her friend Beth walked up the path that led to Mr. Lambini's house.

All evening, they'd met kids who'd been there. Everyone was talking about how great and scary it was. Cindy looked at the large piece of wood leaning against the willow tree in Mr. Lambini's front yard. Two dripping words were painted in bloodred letters on a black background:
HAUNTED HOUSE
.

“I'm not scared of anything,” Cindy said. And she wasn't. She'd yet to meet an experience she couldn't handle. Movies, books, even creepy rides—none of it bothered Cindy.

She led the way to Mr. Lambini's porch.
Not bad
, she thought as she studied the scarecrow in the front yard. It looked like it was rigged to move. Sure enough, as she walked past, the arm swung out and a tape-recorded voice said, “Boooohhhooooohhoooohoooo!”

Cindy wasn't scared.

But Beth jumped half a mile, nearly leaving her shoes behind.

“Scared?” Cindy asked Beth when she came back down.

“Nah,” Beth said, with just the faintest tremble in her voice. “Just startled.”

Cindy smiled. The scarecrow was a good sign. They never put the scariest stuff by the entrance. They always saved the good stuff for inside. So, if the entrance was this scary, the rest of the haunted house should be great.

They walked up to the porch. Three other kids—a small cowboy and two hockey players—were standing there, as if trying to build up the courage to ring the bell. Cindy recognized them easily enough despite their costumes. It was Dwayne, Brian, and Brian's little brother, Tim. She smiled and walked past them. “What were you waiting for?” she asked as she rang the bell.

The door swung open. “Enter,” a deep, booming voice said.

Cindy paused, bracing herself for anything that might jump at her. Nothing popped up, so she stepped inside. The walls were draped with sheets, leaving a corridor for them to walk through. Opposite where she stood, a sign said
ENTRANCE
. Below the word, there was an arrow pointing to the right.

“Cool,” Cindy said, turning toward the right. “Maybe we'll go through the whole house.”

“But we don't really know him,” Beth said.

Cindy realized Beth was right. She knew the man's name, but nothing else about him. Still, she wasn't going to turn back. Cindy wasn't scared. “Lots of kids have been here. There's nothing to worry about.” She headed down the hall.

Cindy hadn't gone more than ten steps when the vampire jumped out from behind a sheet.

“Mwwwwaahhaaaahhaahhaaa!” he screamed. Then he vanished behind the walls.

Cindy wasn't scared. But she had to admit the vampire makeup was pretty good.

Beth gasped, but she stayed next to Cindy, clutching her arm so hard Cindy was sure there'd be a bruise the next morning.

Little Tim wailed like a banshee and ran off, his cowboy hat flying from his head as he galloped for safety. Brian chased after him.

Cindy went farther into the house.

The headless man popped out of nowhere and swung an ax at her. Even in the gloom of the narrow corridor, she could see the blade was rubber.

Sure enough, it bounced off her.

Cindy glanced back when she realized nobody was grabbing her arm. “Beth, hold on,” she called, but it was too late. She caught a last glimpse of Beth as her friend vanished around the corner, heading back the way they'd come.

Dwayne was still there—until the skull came flying at them, hissing like a snake, sparks flying from its eyes.

Dwayne made tracks for the door. Cindy watched the skull swing back and forth on the piece of fishing line. “Pretty cool,” she said.

Cindy wasn't scared, not even when the bats dropped from above. Not even when the man with the chainsaw leaped out of the darkness, or when the grasping hands burst through the walls on either side of her, their nails dark with fresh-turned earth.