Spell of the Screaming Jokers (3 page)

The four of us huddled close together as we walked along Fear Street.

“He said something weird,” Frankie began as we headed home. “It sounded like ‘We shake the skull . . . . ' No. That wasn't it.”

He frowned, trying to remember. “I know. ‘We shake the skull with eyes that gleam.' ”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Jeff said.

Frankie shrugged. “That's what it sounded like.”

“That can't be what he said. Maybe he said something like, sorry to shake you up,” Louisa suggested.

“No. That's not what he said.” Frankie sounded definite.

That didn't stop Louisa. “Maybe the skull part was about how he hoped you didn't crack
your
skull.”

Frankie groaned. “Louisa. Do me a favor. Stop guessing.”

We didn't talk the rest of the way to Frankie's house. I had to admit, Louisa's explanations were pretty lame.

Frankie paused on his porch. “Listen,” he said. “I'm sorry about getting you guys in trouble.”

By the porch light I saw that Frankie was pretty scraped up. The side of his face was raw where he'd hit the pavement. And there was a strange, dark bruise above his wrist. It looked almost as if it were in the shape of a flower. Or something.

“Frankie, that bruise . . . ” I pointed to his arm.
“It's shaped like . . . like a club,” I said, suddenly seeing it.

“A club?” Frankie studied the bruise. “What do you mean?”

“You know—the card suit,” I said. “Like spades, or hearts.”

“Huh?” He stared at me.

“Brit, I think you're losing it,” Louisa told me.

Maybe. But I wasn't so sure.

First—there was that hideous joker. Now—the club-shaped mark on Frankie's arm. Was I imagining them because I didn't like cards?

Or was there something going on?

Something bad?

“T
ruth or dare!” Louisa challenged me in the cafeteria on Monday. “Do you think Frankie is cute?”

“Spike
is cute,” I replied, reminding her of what she said about the rat. “Frankie is—interesting.”

“He's cute,” Louisa told me. “But he needs a haircut.”

“You always want to fix everybody's hair!” I exclaimed.

I checked my watch. Oh, no—I was late! I bolted from my seat.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Louisa asked.

“I almost forgot! I have to meet Frankie,” I explained. “Mr. Emerson wants us to hang a
community-service club poster. Lunch period is the only time we can do it.”

“You and Frankie, huh?” Louisa waggled her eyebrows at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Louisa, quit it! Meet me by my locker after school, okay?” I gathered up my books.

“Right.” Louisa nodded. “Tell Frankie I said hi!”

I charged out of the cafeteria. In the main hallway I spotted Frankie walking with the principal. Mr. Emerson had a large roll of poster paper under one arm. I hurried to meet them.

“Brittany.” Mr. Emerson smiled. “I've been hearing about your visit with Max on Saturday. His mother said you really cheered him up. That's terrific! Maybe your visits will help him get well faster.”

“I hope so,” I said. And I did hope Max felt better. But I had another reason too. Between Max and my little brother, I was really sick of cards!

Mr. Emerson showed us where he wanted us to put up the poster. He handed me a roll of masking tape.

“Mr. Stock from maintenance set this up for you,” he said, pointing to a five-rung ladder. “If the tape runs out, there's another roll on my desk. Help yourself.” Then he left.

“Okay, let's see how high I can hang this baby.” Frankie started up the ladder with the poster.

“I'll make tape rolls,” I offered. “You can stick them under the edges of the poster. That way the tape won't show.”

I began tearing off strips of masking tape and rolling them with the sticky side out.

When Frankie was on the fourth rung of the ladder, he reached down for a tape roll.

I handed it to him—and caught a glimpse of his arm.

“Frankie!” I exclaimed. “That bruise!”

The bruise had darkened. Its outline had become more definite. Now it looked
exactly
like a black three-leaf clover. Like a club.

“Yeah. It's weird.” Frankie took the tape. “You know what else? It doesn't hurt. Bruises definitely hurt. And this one doesn't.”

We both stared at the strange mark on Frankie's arm. “Maybe it's dirt,” I said.

“That's what I thought,” he replied. “But I tried scrubbing it. It won't come off.”

If it isn't a bruise and it isn't dirt—what is it? I wondered as I made tape loops.

I came to the end of the roll. “Hey, Frankie. Don't move!” I ordered. “We're out of tape.”

I hurried around the corner to the principal's office to get another roll. As I reached for the tape on his desk, I heard a humming sound. Had Mr. Emerson left his computer on?

I checked. No.

A fan? No.

I shrugged and left the office.

In the hallway I could still hear the sound. But it changed from a hum to a hiss.

Suddenly I pictured Mrs. Marder's hissing, snarling cats. What an odd thing to think about.

As I walked down the corridor, the sound grew louder.

Now it didn't sound so much like hissing—more like rattling.

Like the sound we heard last night on Fear Street.

I hurried down the hall.

The rattling grew louder.

I started to run.

“Frankie!” I called.

He didn't answer.

Then I heard a crash!

And a horrible scream!

“Frankie!” I shouted. “Are you okay?
Frankie!”

I
skidded around the corner. Then I screeched to a stop.

“Oh, no!” My knees began to tremble. “Frankie! How did this happen?”

Frankie lay on the floor.

The ladder rested on top of him.

The poster was draped over his body.

“Are you okay?” I shoved the ladder off him.

But Frankie didn't answer. He didn't move.

I ripped away pieces of the heavy poster. “Frankie! Say something!” I begged.

Frankie moaned. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“What happened?” I demanded as he sat up.

“I don't know.” He shook his head. “It all
happened so fast.” Then he lowered his voice. “But I didn't fall.”

“What do you mean?”

“First I heard this sound. This—rattling sound,” he said.

Frankie heard it too! So I didn't imagine it!

“Then,” he went on, “these two kids came zooming down the hall. Little kids. Like second-graders. They pushed the ladder over. Then one of them said something—”

“Frankie,” I interrupted. “The sound you heard—was it the same as that night on Fear Street? That rattling sound?”

“Yeah.” Frankie nodded. “It
was
the same.”

He stared off into space for a second.

I waved a hand in front of his face. “Can you remember anything about the kids who pushed over the ladder?” I asked him. “What they said? What they looked like?”

“They sped down the hall so fast,” Frankie told me, “and—wait a sec. There
is
one thing. They had on strange hats.”

I don't know why, but my mind suddenly flashed on Mrs. Marder again. Mrs. Marder—with the green bandanna tied around her head. Mrs. Marder—screaming at us. Screaming about how she would make us pay.

“Well.” Frankie shrugged. “I guess I'm okay anyway.”

We cleaned up the mess on the floor. Later we'd have to explain to Mr. Emerson what happened to the poster.

As we walked to our next class, Frankie still seemed sort of dazed. He had this distant look in his eyes, like he was trying really hard to remember something.

He turned to me. “One of the kids who knocked over the ladder said, ‘We make our marks, we laugh and scream!' ” he told me. “Weird, huh?”

I drew in a breath. It
was
weird. “What about last night on Fear Street? What did you think that kid said?”

“ ‘We shake the skull with eyes that gleam,' ” Frankie remembered.

“Hey!” I cried. “It's some kind of rhyme. Listen. ‘We shake the skull with eyes that gleam! We make our marks, we laugh and scream!' See? The lines go together.”

A bell rang. Kids poured out of classrooms into the hallway. They pushed by us. But Frankie and I stood there, staring at each other.

“Something very weird is going on,” I said at last.

Frankie raised his hand and touched the bump on his forehead.

When I saw his arm, I gasped.

“What's the matter?” Frankie asked. “What's wrong?”

I opened my mouth. But no words came out.

“Stop it, Brit!” Frankie cried. “Say something!”

All I could do was point to his arm.

There was another mark on it.

Above the club.

But this one wasn't black.

It was red.

And it was in a shape I knew.

The shape of a perfect diamond.

“l
t—it looks like a diamond,” Frankie whispered. His eyes were glued to the mysterious shape on his arm.

I rubbed my finger over the club and the diamond. They were smooth. “They're like tattoos.”

“They
are
like tattoos,” he agreed. “But I haven't been to any tattoo places. So how did I get them?”

Neither of us knew.

*  *  *

That afternoon the four of us headed for Max's house again.

I kept waiting for Frankie to tell Louisa and Jeff about getting pushed off the ladder. Or about the diamond-shaped mark on his arm. But he just
walked along silently. Maybe he was trying to forget.

“What are we going to do with Max today?” Louisa asked.

“Let's think of something new,” I suggested. “Something besides card games.”

“What else can we play with a sick kid?” Jeff asked. “Touch football?”

“No,” I snapped. “But what about Monopoly? Or Scrabble? I'd even play Candy Land! Anything but cards.”

“Oh, Brittany,” Jeff said. “It's only for a couple of hours.”

I glanced at Frankie. Why didn't he speak up? Why didn't he tell anyone about the marks on his arm? I wondered. He had even more reason than I did for being sick of cards.

Well, he could keep quiet if he wanted to. I was going to say something.

“Frankie?” I asked. “Are those marks still on your arm?”

“What marks?” Louisa asked.

Frankie pulled up his shirt cuff. They were there all right.

“Do you see them, Louisa?” I asked her. “A club shape and a diamond?”

Louisa squinted. “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean,” she admitted. “I can sort of see the shapes.”

“You guys are crazy,” Jeff declared. “One's a dark bruise and the other's a reddish scrape. That's all.”