“Excellent!” Emmy and Annie declared together.
They all laughed again.
Alex stopped laughing and stepped up beside me. She brushed something off my shoulder.
“Mouse hair,” she murmured.
Then she turned to the others. “We should give Zackie a break,” she told them. “Someday he’s going to be a famous horror writer.”
“Someday he’s going to be a famous chicken!” Annie exclaimed.
Emmy made clucking sounds and flapped her elbows.
“Do you believe it? The famous horror writer is afraid of mice!” Adam cried.
Emmy and Annie thought that was really funny. Their red hair bobbed up and down as they laughed.
Emmy glanced at her watch—and gasped. “We’re really late!”
She and her sister spun around and ran down the hall. Adam put the mouse in his pocket and went tearing after them.
I knelt down to pull my books from the bottom of my locker. I reached in carefully. I had to make sure there were no more mice.
Alex stood over me. “You okay?” she asked softly.
“Go away,” I snapped.
“What did I do?” Alex demanded.
“Just go away,” I muttered.
I didn’t want her around. I didn’t want anyone around.
I felt like a total jerk.
Why did I let little mice scare me like that? Why did I have to freak out in front of everyone?
Because I’m a total jerk, I decided.
I shoved books and a Trapper Keeper into my backpack. Then I stood up and started to close my locker.
Alex leaned against the wall. “I told you to go away,” I snapped at her again.
She started to reply, but stopped when Mr. Conklin, the principal, turned the corner.
Mr. Conklin is a tall, pencil-thin man, with a narrow, red face and big ears that stick out like jug handles. He talks really fast. Always runs instead of walking. And always seems to be moving in eight directions at once.
He eyed Alex, then me. “Who let the mice out of the science lab?” he demanded breathlessly.
“Th-they were in Zackie’s locker—” Alex started.
Before she could explain the rest, Mr. Conklin narrowed his eyes at me. His face grew even redder.
“Zackie, I’d like to see you in my office,” he ordered. “Right now.”
12
I didn’t say much at dinner.
I kept wondering if I should tell Mom and Dad about my adventures at school that day. But I decided to keep silent.
I didn’t need them laughing at me too.
And I didn’t need them asking a million questions about what Mr. Conklin said to me.
He had been pretty nice about it, actually. He just warned me to try to keep live creatures out of my locker.
After dinner, Dad and I loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up. I was sponging off the dinner table when Alex appeared. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Did Mr. Conklin—”
I slapped a hand over her mouth to shut her up.
I could see Mom and Dad watching from the other room. “What about Mr. Conklin?” Mom demanded.
“He’s a nice guy,” I replied.
I dragged Alex to the den. “So? How’s it going?” she repeated.
“How’s it going?” I cried shrilly. “How’s it going? How can you ask me ‘how’s it going’?”
“Well…” she started.
“It’s going terrible!” I cried. “I had the worst day! Kids were laughing at me all day. Everywhere I went, kids made mouse faces at me and squeaked at me.”
She started to smile, but cut it off.
“I don’t know why I lost it like that this morning,” I continued. “I felt so dumb. I—”
“It was just a joke,” Alex interrupted. “No big deal.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You didn’t have a hundred disgusting rodents crawling all over your body.”
“A hundred?” Alex said. “How about one?”
“It seemed like a hundred,” I mumbled. I decided to change the subject. “Look at this,” I said.
I walked over to the desk by the window. After school, I had worked there for three hours. I picked up a stack of pages.
“What are those?” Alex asked, following me to the desk.
“My new Blob Monster story,” I replied, holding up the handwritten pages. “I’m making it even scarier.”
Alex took the pages from my hand and shuffled through them. Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “You didn’t type them on the old typewriter?”
“Of course not.” I took the pages back. “I always write the first draft by hand. I don’t type my stories until I’ve got them just right.”
I picked up the pen from the desk. “I used the antique pen that woman gave me in the shop,” I told Alex. “What a great pen. It writes so smoothly. I can’t believe she gave it to me for free!”
Alex laughed. “You’re such a weird guy, Zackie. You get so excited about things like pens and typewriters.” And then she added, “I think that’s cool.”
I glanced over my story. “Now it’s time to type it,” I said. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to use the old typewriter.”
I led the way into my room. I was halfway to my desk when I stopped.
And let out a startled cry.
The typewriter was gone.
13
Alex and I both gaped at the empty spot on the front of my desktop. Alex pushed up her glasses and squinted.
“It—it’s gone,” I murmured weakly. My knees started to buckle. I grabbed my dresser to hold myself up.
“Weird,” Alex muttered, shaking her head. “Are you sure—”
“It just disappeared into thin air!” I interrupted. “I don’t believe this! How? How could it disappear?”
“How could what disappear?” a voice called from the doorway.
I whirled around—to see Dad lumber heavily into the room. He carried the old typewriter in his arms.
“Dad—why… ?” I started.
He set it down on the desk. Then he pushed his curly black hair off his forehead and grinned at me. “I cleaned it for you, Zackie,” he said. “And put in a new ribbon.”
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ribbons are hard to find these days,” he added. “No one uses typewriters anymore.”
Alex laughed. “Zackie thought the typewriter disappeared into thin air!”
I flashed Alex an angry look. “Alex—give me a break,” I whispered.
She made a face at me.
Dad shook his head. “It’s a little too heavy to disappear into thin air,” he sighed. “It weighs a ton! More than a computer!”
I walked over to the typewriter and ran my hand over the smooth, dark metal. “Thanks for cleaning it up, Dad,” I said. “It looks awesome.”
“A few of the keys were sticking,” Dad added. “So I oiled them up. I think the old machine is working fine now, Zackie. You should be able to write some great stories on it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I repeated.
I couldn’t wait to get started. I reached into my top drawer for some paper. Then I noticed that Dad hadn’t left. He was lingering by the door, watching Alex and me.
“Your mom went across the street to visit Janet Hawkins, our new neighbor,” he said. “It’s such a beautiful spring night. I thought maybe you two would like to take a walk into town to get some ice cream.”
“Uh… no thanks,” Alex replied. “I already had dessert at home. Before I came over.”
“And I really want to get started typing my new scary story,” I told him.
He sighed and looked disappointed. I think he really wanted an excuse to get ice cream.
As soon as he left, I dropped into my desk chair. I slid a fresh, white sheet of paper into the typewriter roller.
Alex pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Can I try the typewriter after you?” she asked.
“Yes.
After me,” I replied impatiently.
I really wanted to get my story typed.
I let my eyes wander over the round, black keys. Then I leaned forward and started to type.
Typing on a typewriter is a lot different from typing on a keyboard. For one thing, you have to press the keys a lot harder.
It took me a few tries to get the feel of the thing.
Then I typed the first words of the story:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
“Hey—!” I uttered a cry as lightning flashed in my bedroom window.
Rain pounded on the glass.
A sharp roar of thunder shook the house.
Darkness swept over me as all the lights went out.
“Zackie—?” Alex cried in a tiny voice. “Zackie? Zackie? Are you all right?”
14
I swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m okay,” I said quietly.
Alex is the only person in the world who knows that I’m afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of mice. And I’m afraid of the dark.
I admit it.
And I’m afraid of a lot of other things.
I’m afraid of big dogs. I’m afraid of going down to the basement when I’m all alone in the house. I’m afraid of jumping into the deep end of the swimming pool.
I’ve told Alex about some of my fears. But not all of them.
I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing.
Why do I write scary stories if I’m afraid of so many things?
I don’t know. Maybe I write better stories because I know what being scared feels like.
“The lights went off so suddenly,” Alex said. She stood beside me, leaning over my desk to see out the window. “Usually they flicker or something.”
Sheets of rain pounded against the windowpane. Jagged streaks of lightning crackled across the sky.
I stayed in my desk chair, gripping the arms tightly. “I’m glad Adam isn’t here,” I murmured. “He’d just make fun of me.”
“But you’re not very scared now—are you?” Alex asked.
An explosion of thunder made me nearly jump out of the chair.
“A little,” I confessed.
And then I heard the footsteps. Heavy, thudding footsteps from out in the hall.
Thunder roared again.
I spun away from the window. And listened to the footsteps, thudding heavily on the carpet.
“Who’s there?” I called through the darkness.
I saw a flicker of yellow light in the doorway. A shadow swept over the wallpaper in the hall.
Dad stepped into the room. “This is so weird,” he said. He was carrying two candles in candlesticks. Their flames bent and nearly went out as he carried them to my desk.
“Where did that storm come from?” Dad asked, setting the candles beside my typewriter. “Are you okay, Zackie?”
I forgot. Dad also knows I’m scared of the dark.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Thanks for the candles.”
Dad stared out the window. We couldn’t really see anything out there. The rain was coming down too hard.
“The sky was clear a few seconds ago,” Dad said, leaning over me to get a better view. “I can’t believe such a big storm could blow in so quickly.”
“It’s weird,” I agreed.
We stared at the rain for a minute or so. Sheets of lightning made the backyard glow like silver.
“I’m going to call your mother,” Dad said. “I’m going to tell her to wait out the storm.” He patted me on the back, then headed to the door.
“Don’t you want a candle?” I called after him.
“No. I’ll find my way,” he replied. “I have a flashlight in the basement.” He disappeared down the hall.
“What do you want to do now?” Alex asked. Her face looked orange in the candlelight. Her eyes glowed like cat eyes.
I turned back to the typewriter. “It would be cool to write by candlelight,” I said. “Scary stories should always be written by candlelight. I’ll bet that’s how all the famous horror writers write their stories.”
“Cool,” Alex replied. “Go ahead.”
I slid the candlesticks closer. The yellow light flickered over the typewriter keys.
I leaned forward and read over the first sentence of my story:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
Then I hit the space bar and typed the next sentence:
THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
I hit the space bar again. And raised my fingers to type the next sentence.
But a rattling noise made me jump.
“What is that?” I gasped.
“The window.” Alex pointed.
Outside, the wind blew hard, rattling the windowpane.
Over the steady roar of the rain, I heard another sound. A strange howl.
I gripped the arms of my desk chair. “Do you hear that?” I asked Alex.
She nodded. Her eyes squinted out the window.
“It’s just the wind,” she said softly. “It’s howling through the trees.”
Outside, the howling grew louder as the wind swirled around my house. The window rattled and shook.
The howling grew high and shrill, almost like a human voice, a human wail.
I felt a chill run down my back.
Gripping the chair arms tightly, I struggled to keep my fear down.
It’s just a storm, I told myself. Just a rainstorm. Just a lot of rain and wind.
I glanced at the words I had typed. In the flickering, orange light, the black type jumped out at me:
THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
I listened to the shrill howl outside. It seemed to surround me, surround the house. “How strange,” I muttered. And then, things got a lot stranger.
15
“You’re not getting very far with the story,” Alex said.
“Well, the storm—” I started.
She put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re shaking!” she exclaimed.
“No, I’m not!” I lied.
“Yes, you are. You’re shaking,” she insisted.
“No way. I’m okay. Really,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. “I’m not that afraid, Alex.”
“Maybe if you work on the story, you won’t think about the storm so much,” she suggested.
“Right. The story,” I agreed.
An explosion of thunder shook the house.
I let out a sharp cry. “Why does it seem so close?” I exclaimed. “The lightning and thunder—it sounds as if it’s all right in the backyard!”
Alex grabbed my shoulders and turned me to the typewriter. “Type,” she ordered. “Pretend there is no storm. Just type.”
I obediently raised my hands to the keys of the old typewriter. The candles had burned down a little, and the page was shadowy and dark.
I typed the next sentence:
ALEX AND ZACKIE WERE ALONE IN THE DARK HOUSE, LISTENING TO THE STORM.
Rain pounded hard against the window. In a white flash of lightning, I could see the trees in the backyard, bending and trembling in the howling wind.
“The story is about us?” Alex asked, leaning over my shoulder to read what I had typed.
“Of course,” I replied. “You know that I always write about us and the other kids at school. It makes it easier to describe everyone.”
“Well, don’t let the Blob Monster eat me!” she instructed. “I want to be the hero. Not the dinner!”
I laughed.
A crash of thunder made me jump.
I turned back to the typewriter. I squinted to read over the sentences I had typed.
“The candles aren’t giving enough light,” I complained. “How did writers do it in the old days? They must have all gone blind!”
“Let’s go and get more candles,” Alex suggested.
“Good idea,” I agreed.
We each picked up a candlestick. Holding them in front of us, we made our way down the hall.
The candles bent and flic
kered. Our footsteps were drowned out by the steady roar of rain on the roof.
“Dad?” I called. “Hey, Dad—we need more candles!”
No reply.
We stepped into the living room. Two candles glowed on the mantelpiece. Two more stood side by side on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Dad?” I called. “Where are you?”
Holding our candles high, Alex and I made our way to the den. Then the kitchen. Then Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
No Dad.
Holding my candle tightly in one hand, I pulled open the door to the basement. “Dad? Are you down there?”
Silence.
I felt another tingling chill run down my back. I turned to Alex. “He—he’s gone!” I stammered. “We’re all alone!”
16
“He has to be here,” Alex insisted. “Why would he go out in this storm?”
“For ice cream?” I suggested. “He really wanted some ice cream.”
Alex frowned. “Your dad would go out in this storm to get a cup of ice cream? That’s impossible.”
“You don’t know my dad!” I replied.
“He’s here,” Alex insisted. She set down the candle and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Beauchamp? Mr. Beauchamp?” she called.
No reply.
Wind howled outside the living-room window. Lightning flickered.
“Hey—!” I cried.
In the flash of bright light, I saw a car in the driveway. Dad’s car.
I made my way to the window and peered out. “Dad didn’t drive anywhere,” I told Alex. “His car is still here. And he wouldn’t walk.”
“Mr. Beauchamp? Mr. Beauchamp?” Alex tried again.
“Weird,” I muttered. “He wouldn’t go out without telling us—would he? He—he just disappeared.”
Alex’s eyes flashed. Her expression changed. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Zackie—what was the last sentence you typed?” she demanded, still squinting at me.
“Huh?”
“In your story,” she said impatiently. “What was the last sentence?”