[Goosebumps 08] - The Girl Who Cried Monster

by R. L. Stine

  I ran through the hallway, nearly slipping on the smooth floor, and burst into the kitchen. “A monster!” I cried.

  “Huh?” Randy was seated at the kitchen table, snapping a big pile of string beans for Mom. He was the only one who looked up.

  Mom and Dad were standing at the counter, rolling little meatballs in their hands. They didn’t even turn around.

  “A monster!” I screamed again.

  “Where?” Randy cried.

  “Did you get caught in the rain?” Mom asked.

  “Don’t you say hi?” Dad asked. “Do you just explode into a room yelling? Don’t I get a ‘Hi, Dad,’ or anything?”

  “Hi, Dad,” I cried breathlessly. “There’s a monster in the library!”

  “Lucy, please—” Mom started impatiently.

  “What kind of monster?” Randy asked. He had stopped snapping the ends off the beans and was staring hard at me.

  Mom finally turned around. “You’re soaked!” she cried. “You’re dripping all over the floor. Get upstairs and change into dry clothes.”

  Dad turned, too, a frown on his face. “Your mother just washed the floor,” he muttered.

  “I’m trying to tell you something!” I shouted, raising my fists in the air.

  “No need to scream,” Mom scolded. “Get changed. Then tell us.”

  “But Mr. Mortman is a monster!” I cried.

  “Can’t you save the monster stuff till later? I just got home, and I’ve got the worst headache,” Dad complained. His eyes stared down at the kitchen floor. Small puddles were forming around me on the white linoleum.

  “I’m serious!” I insisted. “Mr. Mortman—he’s really a monster!”

  Randy laughed. “He’s funny-looking.”

  “Randy, it’s not nice to make fun of people’s looks,” Mom said crossly. She turned back to me. “See what you’re teaching your little brother? Can’t you set a good example?”

  “But, Mom!”

  “Lucy, please get into dry clothes,” Dad pleaded. “Then come down and set the table, okay?”

  I was so frustrated! I tilted my head back and let out an angry growl. “Doesn’t anyone here believe me?” I cried.

  “This really isn’t the time for your monster stories,” Mom said, turning back to her meatballs. “Larry, you’re making them too big,” she scolded my father. “They’re supposed to be small and delicate.”

  “But I like big meatballs,” Dad insisted.

  No one was paying any attention to me. I turned and stomped angrily out of the kitchen.

  “Is Mr. Mortman really a monster?” Randy called after me.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care—about anything!” I screamed back. I was just so angry and upset.

  They didn’t have to ignore me like that.

  All they cared about was their stupid meatballs.

  Up in my room, I pulled off my wet clothes and tossed them on the floor. I changed into jeans and a tank top.

  Is Mr. Mortman really a monster?

  Randy’s question repeated in my head.

  Did I imagine the whole thing? Do I just have monsters on the brain?

  It had been so dark and shadowy in the library with all the lights turned off. Maybe Mr. Mortman didn’t eat the flies. Maybe he pulled them out of the jar and fed them to his pet turtles.

  Maybe I imagined that he ate them.

  Maybe his head didn’t swell up like a balloon. Maybe his eyes didn’t pop out. Maybe that was just a trick of the darkness, the dancing shadows, the dim gray light.

  Maybe I need glasses.

  Maybe I’m crazy and weird.

  “Lucy—hurry down and set the table,” my dad called up the stairs.

  “Okay. Coming.” As I made my way downstairs, I felt all mixed up.

  I didn’t mention Mr. Mortman at dinner. Actually, Mom brought him up. “What book did you choose to read this week?” she asked.

  “Frankenstein,” I told her.

  Dad groaned. “More monsters!” he cried, shaking his head. “Don’t you ever get enough monsters? You see them wherever you go! Do you have to read about monsters, too?”

  Dad has a big booming voice. Everything about my dad is big. He looks very tough, with a broad chest and powerful-looking arms. When he shouts, the whole house shakes.

  “Randy, you did a great job with the string beans,” Mom said, quickly changing the subject.

  After dinner, I helped Dad with the dishes. Then I went upstairs to my room to start reading Frankenstein. I’d seen the old movie of Frankenstein on TV, so I knew what it was about. It was about a scientist who builds a monster, and the monster comes to life.

  It sounded like my kind of story.

  I wondered if it was true.

  To my surprise, I found Randy in my room, sitting on my bed, waiting for me. “What do you want?” I asked. I really don’t like him messing around in my room.

  “Tell me about Mr. Mortman,” he said. I could tell by his face that he was scared and excited at the same time.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. I realized I was eager to tell someone about what had happened in the library. So I told Randy the whole story, starting with how I had to go back there because I’d left my Rollerblades.

  Randy was squeezing my pillow against his chest and breathing really hard. The story got him pretty scared, I guess.

  I was just finishing the part where Mr. Mortman stuffed a handful of flies into his mouth. Randy gasped. He looked sick.

  “Lucy!” My dad burst angrily into the room. “What is your problem?”

  “Nothing, Dad, I—”

  “How many times do we have to tell you not to frighten Randy with your silly monster stories?”

  “Silly?” I shrieked. “But, Dad—this one is true!”

  He made a disgusted face and stood there glaring at me. I expected fire to come shooting out of his nostrils at any minute.

  “I—I’m not scared. Really!” Randy protested, coming to my defense. But my poor brother was as white as the pillow he was holding, and trembling all over.

  “This is your last warning,” Dad said. “I mean it, Lucy. I’m really angry.” He disappeared back downstairs.

  I stared at the doorway where he’d been standing.

  I’m really angry, too, I thought.

  I’m really angry that no one in this family believes me when I’m being serious.

  I knew at that moment that I had no choice.

  I had to prove that I wasn’t a liar. I had to prove that I wasn’t crazy.

  I had to prove to Mom and Dad that Mr. Mortman was a monster.

  7

  “What’s that?” I asked Aaron.

  It was a week later. I had to pass his house to get to the library for my Reading Rangers meeting. I stopped when I saw Aaron in the front yard. He was tossing a blue disc, then catching it when it snapped back at him.

  “It’s a sort of a Frisbee on a long rubber band,” he said. He tossed the disc and it snapped back fast. He missed it and it flew behind him, then snapped back again—and hit him in the back of the head.

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to work exactly,” he said, blushing. He started to untangle a knot in the thick rubber band.

  “Can I play with you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. It’s for one person, see.”

  “It’s a one-person Frisbee?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Haven’t you seen the commercials on TV? You play it by yourself. You throw it and then you catch it.”

  “But what if someone wants to play with you?” I demanded.

  “You can’t,” Aaron answered. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  I thought it was pretty dumb. But Aaron seemed to be having a good time. So I said goodbye and continued on to the library.

  It was a beautiful, sunny day. Everything seemed bright and cheerful, golden and summer green.

  The library, as usual, was bathed in blue shadows. I’d only been back once since that
day. Once very quickly, to get my Rollerblades. I stopped at the curb, staring up at it. I felt a sudden chill.

  The whole world seemed to grow darker here. Darker and colder.

  Just my imagination?

  We’ll see, I thought. We’ll see today what’s real and what isn’t.

  I pulled my backpack off my shoulders and, swinging it by the straps, made my way to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Perched over his desk in the main reading room, Mr. Mortman was just finishing with another Reading Rangers member. It was a girl I knew from school, Ellen Borders.

  I watched from the end of a long row of books. Mr. Mortman was saying good-bye. He handed her a gold star. Then he shook Ellen’s hand, and I could see her try not to make a disgusted face. His hand was probably sopping wet, as usual.

  She said something, and they both laughed. Very jolly.

  Ellen said good-bye and headed toward the doorway. I stepped out to greet her. “What book did you get?” I asked after we had said our hellos.

  She held it up for me. “It’s called White Fang,” she said.

  “It’s about a monster?” I guessed.

  She laughed. “No, Lucy. It’s about a dog.”

  I thought I saw Mr. Mortman’s head lift up when I said the word monster.

  But I might’ve imagined that.

  I chatted a short while longer with Ellen, who was three books ahead of me this summer. She had only one more to read to get her prize. What a show-off.

  I heard the front door close behind her as I took my seat next to Mr. Mortman’s desk and pulled Frankenstein from my bookbag.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Mr. Mortman asked. He had been studying his turtles, but he turned to face me, a friendly smile on his face.

  He was wearing another turtleneck, a bright yellow one this time. I noticed that he wore a big, purple ring on one of his pudgy pink fingers. He twirled the ring as he smiled at me.

  “It was kind of hard,” I said. “But I liked it.”

  I had read more than half of this one. I would have finished it if it didn’t have such tiny type.

  “Did you enjoy the description in this book, too?” Mr. Mortman asked, leaning closer to me over the desk.

  My eye caught the big jar of flies on the shelf behind him. It was very full.

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “I kind of expected more action.”

  “What was your favorite part of the book?” Mr. Mortman asked.

  “The monster!” I answered instantly.

  I watched his face to see if he reacted to that word. But he didn’t even blink. His tiny black eyes remained locked on mine.

  “The monster was really great,” I said. I decided to test him. “Wouldn’t it be neat if there were real monsters, Mr. Mortman?”

  Again he didn’t blink. “Most people wouldn’t be too happy about that,” he said quietly, twirling his purple ring. “Most people like to get their scares in books or in movies. They don’t want their scares to be in real life.” He chuckled.

  I forced myself to chuckle, too.

  I took a deep breath and continued my little test. I was trying to get him to make a slip, to reveal that he wasn’t really human. “Do you believe that real monsters exist?” I asked.

  Not very subtle. I admit it.

  But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do I believe that a scientist such as Dr. Frankenstein could build a living monster?” Mr. Mortman asked. He shook his round, bald head. “We can build robots, but not living creatures.”

  That wasn’t what I meant.

  Some other people came into the library. A little girl with her white-haired grandmother. The little girl went skipping to the children’s book section. The grandmother picked up a newspaper and carried it to an armchair across the room.

  I was very unhappy to see them. I knew that the librarian wouldn’t change into a monster while they were here. I was sure he only ate flies when the library was empty. I was going to have to hide somewhere and wait for them to leave.

  Mr. Mortman reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a gold star, and handed it to me. I thought he was going to shake my hand, but he didn’t. “Have you read Anne of Green Gables?” he asked, picking up a book from the pile on his desk.

  “No,” I said. “Does it have monsters in it?”

  He threw back his head and laughed, his chins quivering.

  I thought I caught a flash of recognition in his eyes. A question. A tiny moment of hesitation.

  I thought my question brought something strange to his eyes.

  But, of course, again it could have been my imagination.

  “I don’t think you’ll find any monsters in this one,” he said, still chuckling. He stamped it with his rubber stamp and handed it to me. The cover was moist from where his fingers had been.

  I made an appointment for the same time next week. Then I walked out of the main reading room and pretended to leave the library.

  I pulled open the front door and let it slam, but I didn’t go out. Instead, I crept back, keeping in the shadows. I stopped at the back wall, hidden by a long row of bookshelves.

  Where to hide?

  I had to find a safe hiding place. Safe from Mr. Mortman’s beady eyes. And safe from anyone else who might enter the library.

  What was my plan?

  Well, I’d been thinking about it all week. But I really didn’t have much of a plan. I just wanted to catch him in the act, that’s all.

  I wanted to see clearly. I wanted to erase all doubts from my mind.

  My plan was to hide until the library was empty, to spy on Mr. Mortman, to watch him change into a monster and eat flies again.

  Then I’d know I wasn’t crazy. Then I’d know my eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me.

  On the other side of the room, I could hear the little girl’s grandmother calling to Mr. Mortman. “Do you have any spelling books? Samantha only likes picture books. But I want her to learn to spell.”

  “Grandma, whisper!” Samantha called harshly. “This is a library, remember! Whisper!”

  My eyes searched the long, dark shelves for a hiding place. And there it was. A low bookshelf along the floor near the back was empty. It formed a narrow cave that I could crawl into.

  Trying to be as silent as I could, I got down on my knees, sat down on the shelf, turned, slid my body back, and tucked myself in.

  It wasn’t really large enough to stretch out. I had to keep my legs folded. My head was pressed hard against the upright board. Not very comfortable. I knew I couldn’t stay like this forever.

  But it was late afternoon. Maybe Samantha and her grandmother would leave soon. Maybe I wouldn’t have to stay tucked on the shelf like a moldy old book for very long.

  My heart was pounding. I could hear Mr. Mortman talking softly to Samantha. I could hear the rustle of the old lady’s newspaper. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of the big wall clock on the front wall.

  I could hear every sound, every creak and groan.

  I suddenly had to sneeze. My nose tickled like crazy! There was so much dust down here.

  I reached up and squeezed my nose hard between my thumb and forefinger. Somehow I managed to shut off the sneeze.

  My heart was pounding even harder. I could hear it over the tick-tick-tick of the clock.

  Please leave, I thought, wishing Samantha and her grandmother out of there.

  Please leave. Please leave. Please leave.

  I don’t know how long I can stay tucked on this dusty shelf.

  My neck was already starting to hurt from being pressed against the shelf. And I felt another sneeze coming on.

  “This book is too hard. I need an easier one,” Samantha was saying to Mr. Mortman.

  I heard Mr. Mortman mutter something. I heard shuffling feet. Footsteps.

  Were they coming this way?

  Were they going to see me?

  No. They turned and headed back to the childre
n’s section on the side.

  “I’ve already read this one,” I heard Samantha complain.

  Please leave. Please leave. Please leave.

  It must have been only a few minutes later when Samantha and her grandmother left, but it seemed like hours to me.

  My neck was stiff. My back ached. My legs were tingling, both asleep.

  I heard the front door close behind them.

  The library was empty now. Except for Mr. Mortman and me.

  I waited. And listened.

  I heard the scrape of his tall stool against the floor. Then I heard his footsteps. He coughed.

  It suddenly grew darker. He was turning off the lights.

  It’s show time! I thought.

  He’s closing up. Now’s the time. Now’s the time he’ll turn into a monster before my eyes.

  I rolled silently off the shelf, onto the floor. Then I pulled myself to a standing position. Holding onto a higher shelf, I raised one leg, then the other, trying to get the circulation back.

  As the overhead lights went out, most of the library was blanketed in darkness. The only light came from the late afternoon sunlight flooding through the window at the front of the room.

  Where was Mr. Mortman?

  I heard him cough again. Then he began to hum to himself.

  He was closing up.

  Holding my breath, I tiptoed closer to his desk. I leaned my side against the shelves as I moved, keeping in the shadows.

  Whoa.

  I suddenly realized Mr. Mortman wasn’t at his desk.

  I heard his footsteps behind me, at the back of the main reading room. Then I heard his shoes thud across the floor of the front entryway.

  I froze in place, listening hard, still holding my breath.

  Was he leaving?

  No.

  I heard a loud click.

  The sound of a lock being turned.

  He had locked the front door!

  I hadn’t planned on that. No way. That was definitely not part of my plan.

  Frozen in the dark aisle, I realized that I was locked in with him!

  Now what?

  8

  Maybe my plan wasn’t exactly the best plan in the world.

  Maybe the whole idea was stupid.

  You can bet I had plenty of doubts racing through my mind as I heard Mr. Mortman return to the main reading room.