The driver’s head sticks out the window. His scream grows louder as the pickup approaches:
...aaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHHH!
I jump back onto the grass in the nick of time. The truck zips past me. I glimpse the driver – a scruffy older man, bald except for a fringe of gray hair blowing crazily in the wind. His eyes and mouth gape wide open in an expression of absolute terror.
As he disappears down the street, the scream trails off:
AAAAHHHHHaaaahhhh ....
“Who is that lunatic?” I say.
“I think it’s Mr. Thromp,” Spider says.
“Mr. Thromp?” I say. “Like, is he related to our English teacher?”
“Yeah, he’s her husband,” Spider says. “He works with my Dad.”
“Wow!”
Spider gives his pop a thoughtful lick. “Poor guy, no wonder he’s screaming his head off with a wife like her.”
Mom appears at our front door, she looks kind of worried. “What’s all that noise, Ryan?” she asks.
“Nothing, Mom,” I say, “just some nutcase driving by.”
“Yeah, but he’s gone,” Spider says.
“Come in now,” Mom says, “dinner will be ready soon. Would you like to eat with us, Mark?”
Spider nudges me with his elbow. “Ask her about jujitsu, Ryan.”
“Not now,” I say.
Spider raises his voice. “Thank you, Mrs. Warwick, but I’ve got plans already.”
The words Mrs. Warwick grate my nerves like fingernails on a chalk board. I turn to Spider,
“See you at school tomorrow,” I say. “Good luck with your class.”
“Right!”
Spider rides off on his bike, one arm jabbing the air with a martial arts punch. I head toward the house and an evening with my Happy Blended Family.
3: The H. B. F.
The front door bursts open just as I am starting up the porch steps. Larry Nolan rushes outside and nearly knocks me over.
“Hey, watch out!” he says. “What are you doing creeping around?”
“I live here,” I say.
“Oh, yeah.” Larry smirks. “Too bad, ain’t it?”
He jogs away, laughing. Some little kid has left a toy wagon on the sidewalk next door. Larry kicks it aside, still laughing. The wagon bounces off a parked car leaving a nice dent. That is some funny joke, all right. Then again, the dent might be an improvement on the rusty old car.
Larry takes off fast and turns the corner just as the neighbor comes to his door. The guy sees the wagon crashed against his car, then he gives me a dirty look. I smile back.
I hope that he doesn’t suspect me. I mean, I don’t exactly look like a juvenile delinquent. My time here hasn’t warped me that much, has it? In any case, this is not the time for socializing. I bound up the porch steps.
Good old Larry. Not only do I have to put up with that jerk in my English class, but now he’s hanging around my house, too. Inside the house lurks my Happy Blended Family – the H. B. F. Pronounce that “he-beef,” as in a lot of bull.
Bob Warwick sits at the dining room table with a stack of business type papers before him. Smoke curls from his cigarette, and one hand combs through his thinning black hair. His neck tie runs over his spreading gut like a blue creek passing through a bulging field of snow. All this smoke does wonders for my asthma – thanks Bob.
Mom places a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. I suddenly want to vomit.
“Can you put away your papers now, Honey?” she says.
Bob grunts something and shuffles the papers into his briefcase.
Mom and Bob have been married seven months. My real dad is in Arizona with his new wife. For a while, I thought I might be moving in with them, but I didn’t hit it off with my step-mom when I visited. Besides, there are too many cactuses on people’s lawns out there.
Dad didn’t seem too upset by this. After all, he’s “grown apart” from Mom and our family, and he needs “space to make a fresh start.” Those are his exact words; I overheard them myself.
Bob maneuvers his midsection around the table and walks off toward the bathroom. He might not be the sharpest looking guy, but at least he dresses well – part of his effort to bring civilization to Bridgestock. Bob’s daughter, Katie Warwick, tromps down from her room upstairs.
You can’t mistake her booming steps, and you’d assume that some huge person would appear. Katie isn’t real big, but she’s solidly built – like those tough girls you see beating each other up on the TV fight shows. She can hit hard, too, she claims, and has offered to show me.
“Dinner’s almost ready, Katie,” Mom says. “Please set the table.”
“Sure, Mom!” Katie answers in her sweetest voice. “I’ll be right there.”
‘Katie War Witch’ is my nickname for her. In her diary, which I’ve secretly read, she calls herself ‘Leopard Girl.’ For example:
Leopard Girl finds Bridgestock to be rather dull. My dork step-brother is especially boring.
and
Leopard Girl has found a new boyfriend, he should be amusing for a while.
She notices me sitting on the couch, and her phony smile fades.
“How are you, dweeb?” she whispers, exaggerating her lip movements so I can understand.
Katie wasn’t part of the original deal. She was thrown out of the house a few months ago when her mom tied up with a new boyfriend. Guess the new guy didn’t like Katie very much. She’s a high school sophomore, so at least I don’t have to see her at school.
We all sit down for dinner. A good meal, as Mom had enough time to cook from scratch. She stayed in Bridgestock to work at Bob’s office today rather than make the long commute to her law firm’s office in the suburbs. I bite into a delicious breaded drumstick.
“Please pass the corn, Ryan,” Mom says.
I move the bowl her way. She’s so pretty and young looking, a real class act. What could she possibly see in a guy like Bob Warwick?
Bob says very little. He always seems to be mad about something, as if a big belch of anger is ready to come blasting out of him any second. He never says angry things to me, though – he even tries to be ‘friendly’ sometimes. I like it better when he says nothing.
How did so many ugly things elbow their way into my life? Not long ago, Mom and I were living in a beautiful house in the suburbs. I went to a great school and had tons of friends. Things had settled down from Dad walking out, and I sure didn’t miss the constant arguments he and Mom were having.
Then Bob Warwick showed up with his big real estate schemes and hired Mom’s firm to do his legal work.
And now this!
There must be a way out, I just need to find it. There has to be some mathematical formula I can apply to the H. B. F. so that Mom and me can be subtracted from it. Math is one of my strong points, or it used to be before I moved here and got my brain numbed.
If Mom is too far gone and can’t leave, then there has to be a way for me, at least, to get out.
And far away from here.
4: Escape to Mean Field
The sun became a fiery blob as it dropped to the horizon, bathing the earth in a frightening orange glow. People retreated into their houses and pulled the shades on every window. Night reached out. Shadows crept over Mean Field.
Mean Fields are nasty places where people with ugliness in their hearts like to go. Vagrants running from the law, robbers sleeping off their latest crimes and dreaming up new ones, murderers dumping their victims. Such persons were drawn to the Mean Field like flies buzzing to a chunk of rotting meat.
The Bridgestock Mean Field consisted of twenty acres out past the abandoned houses on the eastern edge of town. Nothing grew there except for prickly scrub brush and poisoned dandelions. Nothing stood in this dreary place except for a large sign which read:
FUTURE SITE OF MELODY ACRES ESTATES
Below these words was a portrait of a handsome young family – Mom, Dad, an
d two perfect kids. They were all bright and smiling, as if they’d just dropped in from a toothpaste commercial. Behind them loomed a picture of an enormous house with pillars holding up the front end like an ancient Greek temple.
Most people would think that constructing houses here would be as bad as building them in a pirate cemetery. The meanness of the ground would soak through your basement walls and pollute the entire house. It would give you nightmares, even in day time.
Bob Warwick saw gold in the Mean Field, though, and he’d bought the place cheap. He was convinced that people would snap up the houses as fast as he could build them, and he’d be rich. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t have to depend so much on his snooty new wife and her spoiled brat kid.
***
A few miles south of Mean Field, things were stirring at the dead orchard. Six unspeakably horrid creatures pulled themselves out of the hole that Mr. Thromp had torn open for them. Each one had a body like a giant tulip bulb with wiry hair sprouting from the top.
They gave off a powerful stench, like a pond full of decaying fish and other stuff nobody would want to identify. Big yellow eyes stared out from the upper area of each bulb, and a large, gaping mouth with sharp fangs occupied the lower part. Two nostrils punctured the middle like stab wounds.
The Bulb People snapped their mouths loudly, as if they hadn’t used them in a long while. They moved around the grove on stumpy legs, dragging their ropy arms behind them. Each arm was several feet long and had no hand or fingers.
The largest of the six moved out from among the trees and stood in the open field. The sun shot long spikes of red glare across him, making him squint. He lifted his left arm to shade his eyes. The arm had a kink in the middle, as if it had been broken at one time. But it flexed with terrible power, aching to grab and squeeze the existence out of any living thing.
The creature turned itself around slowly, revolving like some grotesque toy top, and sniffed the air. Then it paused, facing toward a point just east of Bridgestock. His eyes remained fixed in that direction, yellow and unblinking.
“Ung!” it said.
The other five horrors joined it. They were all of the same general shape, except for one that was longer and thinner, more like a giant carrot than a tulip bulb.
“There, go!” croaked the biggest one, gesturing with his bent arm in the direction of Mean Field.
The others grunted agreement. But then the carrot-shaped one stepped forward and shoved the big, fat one.
“Me boss!” it said.
“No, Ponge!” The big fat one shoved back. “Me boss!”
“No, Grech!” howled the carrot and grabbed the fat one with its ropy arms.
They tumbled over, flailing and biting. As they fought, their grotesque bodies started to glow like dull, nightmarish neon signs. They rolled on the ground, tearing up the sod and casting horrible, stretchy, shadows.
Night fell before the gnashing, shrieking battle finally ended in a draw. The fighters glared across the darkness at each other with hatred shining in their yellow eyes. New gashes and bite marks scarred their horrible bodies, but they did not seem to care. Their lights flickered out.
Then, without further dispute, the group began walking.
Mean Field was now as dark as a tomb, but for these creatures it glowed with an unholy light. They headed straight for it, walking in pairs across the open land.
They sang no melodies in the pitch dark, just grunts and low howls that turned the blood cold of anybody who heard them. The residents of farmhouses along the route sensed the passing of this awful crew, but no one dared look outside or turn on any lights. People secured their doors and windows. Farmers sat in front parlors with shotguns cradled in their arms while children in their upstairs bedrooms thrashed about with nightmares.
In the deepest part of night, the creatures arrived at Mean Field and began to dig. For hours the dark air sounded with their scraping and grunting. When they finished burying themselves at last, only their tendril-like arms still lay above ground, twitching among the weeds and broken bottles.
They begin their siren call, which can be heard by only certain people.
5: Mr. Johnson Meets Some New Friends
Early afternoon on Tuesday, Elwood Johnson drove his ice cream truck slowly through the empty streets of Bridgestock. It was too soon to sell ice cream, as the kids were all still in school, but Johnson felt restless. So, he’d got in his truck early and starting cruising.
He did not play his music from the loudspeaker but crept along silently, prowling the streets like some vicious dog looking for someone to attack. He drove past the middle school and thought of the obnoxious, disrespectful punks that gave him such a hard time – those two yesterday, for example, the new ones from out of town. Who had asked them to move here?
He drove past the elementary school and thought of the tender young kids sitting there in their classrooms. They’d all be hoping to go outside for recess, thinking that nothing out there could possibly harm them.
“Drat them kids!” he said aloud. “If only I had a chance to grab one of em!”
But he’d never gotten the chance – yet.
This was a day for bitter thoughts. Johnson recalled how, years before, he’d applied for a police officer job and been turned down. Imagine, a clever man like himself, rejected out of hand!
A clever policemen could enjoy his power, Johnson knew. He’d imagined himself with a club, cracking somebody’s skull in a back alley – somebody who deserved to have his head busted, of course, and there were plenty such folks.
Then he’d applied for a prison guard job. He’d wanted to be the type of guard he’d seen in movies, the guys who beat up prisoners and took bribes. Why shouldn’t he get extra money? Nobody else ever cared about his constant financial troubles. But he was turned down again.
“You belong on the other side of the bars, pal,” the chief guard had told him. “Now get out before I find some excuse to put you there!”
Johnson had been on the other side of the bars, too. And if all his crimes had been discovered, he’d still be there. These memories gnawed at Johnson as he drove along, turning his stomach sour. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Instead of getting a powerful, respected position, he’d ended up in this lousy town driving an ice cream truck. The whole world was against him – always had been – and somebody would have to pay for that!
Where was he going, anyway? He was just moving along the empty streets wherever the truck seemed to take him. He arrived at the large vacant field on the edge of town, by the sign:
FUTURE SITE OF MELODY ACRES ESTATES
“Estates, my eye,” Johnson snorted. “People wouldn’t buy cemetery plots out here.”
Plot ... plotting. An evil idea stole into Johnson’s mind like a goblin. Wouldn’t this be a good place to bring some unsuspecting little kid? Nobody around to hear the screams. Even if Melody Acres ever got built, he’d be long gone before any evidence got dug up.
He’d show everyone. The world had been wrong to trifle with Elwood Johnson, and he would prove it! He stopped the truck and got out. He began stomping across the field, almost bursting with his fury.
But the surroundings calmed him somehow, and he began to walk more slowly. He liked this place, actually, it felt like home to him. Yes, this was the perfect location for his next, most fabulous crime. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
He noticed some long, brownish-green tendrils spread along the ground – like ropes of giant kelp washed up from the ocean. Johnson had never been to the ocean, but he’d seen the kelp forests on TV one night when he couldn’t sleep and was killing off a case of beer.
“What’re those?”
He moved in for a closer look.
The long, skinny things sprang to life and wrapped around his legs with bone-crushing power.
“Ahhh!” the ice cream man howled.
The tendrils yanked him off his fe
et. His head bounced on the rocky ground, but, unfortunately for him, not hard enough to knock him out. His eyes bulging with horror, Johnson saw a ring of huge, gaping mouths emerging from the ground. The tendrils pulled him into the razor fangs.
He screamed even louder, but nobody heard him. Nobody ever saw him again.
6: Unpleasant News
Mom is going out of state on legal business. That’s just wonderful. I should put a big announcement on my blog: “Ryan is abandoned to the wolves!”
I don’t have a blog, actually. Maybe I should start one: Ryan Keppen’s Misery Blog, or Ryan’s M-blog for short. People would love reading it, I’m sure.
But the internet service sucks so bad out here that it’s not worth the effort. There are so many crashes and freeze ups that you just can’t stand it after a while.
Back at our old house, Aunt Theresa stayed with me whenever Mom left on business trips. That wasn’t very cool because my stink-o cousin Jesse usually showed up, too. But this is infinitely worse. Now I’ll be at the mercy of Bob and Katie War Witch for at least a week.
Bob sits at the breakfast table scowling into his coffee cup, ignoring Mom and me as we drag suitcases out to her car.
“This town makes me sick,” he says when we come back in the house. “It’s like they actually want to be ignorant and backward.”
Well, at least he’s got that right.
Mom strokes his hand. “They’re just behind the times, Dear. They’ll come around eventually.”
I want to vomit.
“I wish you’d finally get your house sold, Jeannine,” Bob says. “The money could really help.”
“I’m trying,” Mom says. “We’ll get a buyer soon, don’t worry.”
Bob is not comforted. Neither am I. The thought of selling our beautiful home in the suburbs makes me ill.
The knowledge that it’s still there, in our possession, is one of things that keeps me sane here. As long as our house hasn’t been sold, there is still hope that Mom and I can pull out of this mess.
Why can’t she wise up see things right?
I make a silent vow. If I ever have kids, I will never, ever, uproot their lives without a thorough sit down, talk over with them. And if they have misgivings about somebody I’m dating, I’ll take them seriously.