The Girl Who Cried Monster

by R. L. Stine

  The plan wasn’t to be locked in that dark, creepy building with him, unable to escape.

  But here I was.

  So far, I was okay. He had no idea that anyone else was here with him. No idea that he was being spied on.

  Pressed against the tall shelves, I crept along the narrow aisle until I was as close as I dared to go. I could see his entire desk, caught in a deep orange rectangle of light from the high window.

  Mr. Mortman stepped behind his desk, humming softly to himself. He straightened a stack of books, then shoved it to a corner of the desk.

  He pulled open his desk drawer and shuffled things around, searching for something in there.

  I crept a little closer. I could see very clearly now. The afternoon sunlight made everything orangey-red.

  Mr. Mortman tugged at the neck of his turtleneck. He rolled some pencils off the desktop into the open desk drawer. Then he shut the drawer.

  This is boring, I thought.

  This is very boring. And normal.

  I must have been wrong last week. I must have imagined the whole thing.

  Mr. Mortman is just a funny little man. He isn’t a monster at all.

  I sank against the tall shelf, disappointed.

  I’d wasted all this time, hiding on that filthy shelf — for nothing.

  And now here I was, locked in the library after closing time, watching the librarian clean off his desk.

  What a thrill!

  I’ve got to get out of here, I thought. I’ve been really stupid.

  But then I saw Mr. Mortman reach for the fly jar on the shelf behind him.

  I swallowed hard. My heart gave a sudden lurch.

  A smile crossed Mr. Mortman’s pudgy face as he set the big glass jar down in front of him. Then he reached across the desk and, with both hands, pulled the rectangular turtle pan closer.

  “Dinnertime, my timid friends,” he said in his high, scratchy voice. He grinned down at the turtles. He reached into the pan and splashed the water a bit. “Dinnertime, friends,” he repeated.

  And, then, as I stared without blinking, stared with my jaw dropping lower and lower in disbelief, his face began to change again.

  His round head began to swell up.

  His black eyes bulged.

  His mouth grew until it became an open black pit.

  The enormous head bobbed above the yellow turtleneck. The eyes swam in front of the head. The mouth twisted, opening and closing like an enormous fish mouth.

  I was right! I realized.

  Mr. Mortman is a monster!

  I knew I was right! But no one would believe me.

  They’ll have to believe me now, I told myself. I’m seeing this so clearly. It’s all so bright in the red-orange light.

  I’m seeing it. I’m not imagining it.

  They’ll have to believe me now.

  And as I gaped openmouthed at the gross creature the librarian had become, he reached into the fly jar, removed a handful of flies, and shoved them hungrily into his mouth.

  “Dinnertime,” he rasped, talking as he chewed.

  I could hear the buzz of the flies inside the jar.

  They were alive! The flies were alive, and he was gobbling them up as if they were candy.

  I raised my hands and pressed them against the sides of my face as I stared.

  “Dinnertime!”

  Another handful of flies.

  Some of them had escaped. They buzzed loudly around his swollen, bobbing head.

  As he chewed and swallowed, Mr. Mortman grabbed at the flies in the air, his tiny hands surprisingly quick. He pulled flies out of the air — one, another, another — and popped them into his enormous gorge of a mouth.

  Mr. Mortman’s eyes swam out in front of his face.

  For a short, terrifying moment, the eyes stopped. They were staring right at me!

  I realized I had leaned too far into the aisle.

  Had he spotted me?

  I jumped back with a gasp of panic.

  The bulging black eyes, like undulating toadstools, remained in place for another second or two. Then they continued rolling and swimming about.

  After a third handful of flies, Mr. Mortman closed the jar, licking his black lips with a snakelike, pencil-thin tongue.

  The buzzing stopped.

  The room was silent again except for the ticking clock and my thundering heartbeats.

  Now what? I thought.

  Is that it?

  No.

  “Dinnertime, my timid friends,” the librarian said in a thin, trembling voice, the voice seeming to bob along with the enormous head.

  He reached a hand into the pan and picked up one of the little green-shelled turtles. I could see the turtle’s legs racing.

  Is he going to feed some flies to the turtles now? I wondered.

  Mr. Mortman held the turtle higher, studying it with his bulging, rolling eyes. He held it up to the sunlight. The turtle’s legs continued to move.

  Then he popped the turtle into his mouth.

  I heard the crack of the shell as Mr. Mortman bit down.

  He chewed noisily, several times, making a loud crunch with each chew. Then I saw him swallow once, twice, till he got it down.

  I’d seen enough.

  More than enough.

  I turned away. I began to make my way blindly back through the dark aisle. I jogged quickly. I didn’t really care if he heard me or not.

  I just had to get out of there.

  Out into the sunlight and fresh air.

  Away from the crunching sound that kept repeating in my ears. The crunch of the turtle shell as Mr. Mortman chewed it and chewed it.

  Chewed it alive.

  I ran from the main reading room, my heart thudding, my legs feeling heavy as stone.

  I was gasping for breath when I reached the front entry. I ran to the door and grabbed the handle.

  And then remembered.

  The door was locked.

  I couldn’t get out.

  I was locked in.

  And, then, as I stood staring straight ahead at the closed door, my hand gripping the brass knob, I heard footsteps. Behind me. Rapid footsteps.

  Mr. Mortman had heard me.

  I was trapped.

  I froze in panic, staring at the door until it became a dark blur in front of me.

  Mr. Mortman’s footsteps grew louder behind me.

  Help! I uttered a silent plea. Somebody — help me!

  The librarian would burst into the front entryway any second. And there I’d be. Trapped at the door.

  Trapped like a rat. Or like a turtle!

  And then what?

  Would he grab me up like one of his pets?

  Would he crunch me between his teeth?

  There had to be a way out of there. There had to be!

  And, then, staring at the blur of the door, it suddenly came clear to me. It all came back in focus. And I realized that maybe — just maybe — I wasn’t trapped at all.

  Mr. Mortman had locked the door from the inside.

  The inside.

  That meant that maybe I could unlock it and open the door.

  If the door locked with a key, then I was stuck.

  But if it was just an ordinary lock that you turned …

  “Hey, is someone out there?” Mr. Mortman’s raspy voice burst into my thoughts.

  My eyes frantically searched the door. I found the lock under the brass knob.

  I reached for it.

  Please turn. Please turn. Please turn.

  The lock turned in my hand with a soft click. The prettiest sound I ever heard!

  In a second, I had pulled open the door. In another second, I was out on the stone steps. Then, I was running as fast as I could, running across the front lawn, cutting through some shrubs, diving through a hedge — running for my life!

  Gasping for air, I turned halfway down the block. I could see Mr. Mortman, a shadowy figure in the library door. He was standing in the doorway,
staring out, not moving. Just standing there.

  Had he seen me?

  Did he know it was me spying on him?

  I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get away.

  The late afternoon sun was ducking behind the trees, making the shadows long and dark. I lowered my head and ran into the long, blue shadows, my sneakers thudding hard against the sidewalk.

  I was out. I was okay. I had seen the monster, but he hadn’t seen me. I hoped.

  I ran until I got to Aaron’s house. He was still in the front yard. He was sitting on the stump of an old tree his parents had removed. I could see the blue Frisbee-type thing in his lap. He was struggling to untangle the long rubber band.

  Aaron had his head down, concentrating on undoing the knots, and didn’t see me at first.

  “Aaron — Mr. Mortman is a monster!” I cried breathlessly.

  “Huh?” He looked up, startled.

  “Mr. Mortman — he’s a monster!” I repeated, panting like a dog. I put my hands on my knees and leaned forward, trying to catch my breath.

  “Lucy, what’s your problem?” Aaron muttered, returning his attention to the rubber band.

  “Listen to me!” I screamed impatiently. I didn’t sound like myself. I didn’t recognize my shrill, panicky voice.

  “This thing stinks,” Aaron muttered. “It’s totally tangled.”

  “Aaron, please!” I pleaded. “I was in the library. I saw him. He changed into a monster. He ate one of his turtles!”

  Aaron laughed. “Yum!” he said. “Did you bring me one?”

  “Aaron, it isn’t funny!” I cried, still out of breath. “I — I was so scared. He’s a monster. He really is. I thought I was locked in with him. I thought —”

  “Tell you what,” Aaron said, still picking at the knots in the rubber band. He held the blue plastic disc up to me. “If you can untangle this big knot, I’ll let you play with it.”

  “Aaaaaagh!” I let out an angry scream. “Why don’t you listen to me?”

  “Lucy, give me a break,” Aaron said, still holding the disc up to me. “I don’t want to talk about monsters now. It’s kind of babyish, you know?”

  “But, Aaron!”

  “Why don’t you save that stuff for Randy?” Aaron suggested. He waved the blue disc. “Do you want to help me with this or not?”

  “Not!” I screamed. Then I added: “You’re a lousy friend!”

  He looked a little surprised.

  I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. I took off again, heading for home.

  I was really angry. What was his problem, anyway? You’re supposed to take a friend seriously. You’re not supposed to think automatically that your friend is just making up a story.

  Couldn’t Aaron see how frightened and upset I was? Couldn’t he see that it wasn’t a joke?

  He’s a total jerk, I decided, as my house finally came into view. I’m never speaking to him again.

  I ran up the driveway, pulled open the screen door, and burst into the house. “Mom! Dad!” My heart was pounding so hard, my mouth was so dry, my cry was a hoarse whisper.

  “Mom — where are you?”

  I ran through the house until I found Randy in the den. He was lying on the floor, his face two inches in front of the TV, watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  “Where are Mom and Dad?” I cried breathlessly.

  He ignored me. Just stared at his cartoon. The colors from the TV danced over his face.

  “Randy — where are they?” I repeated frantically.

  “Grocery shopping,” he muttered without turning around.

  “But I have to talk to them!” I said. “When did they leave? When will they be back?”

  He shrugged without removing his eyes from the screen. “I don’t know.”

  “But, Randy!”

  “Leave me alone,” he whined. “I’m watching a cartoon.”

  “But I saw a monster!” I screamed. “A real one!”

  His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open. “A real monster?” he stammered.

  “Yes!” I cried.

  “Did he follow you home?” Randy asked, turning pale.

  “I hope not!” I exclaimed. I wheeled around and ran out of the den. I glanced out the living room window as I hurried past. No sign of my parents’ car.

  So I ran up to my room.

  I was so upset. So angry and upset.

  I took two steps into my room, then stopped.

  There in my bed, under the covers, lay a big, hairy monster, its gnarled brown head on my pillow, its gaping, toothless mouth twisted in an evil grin.

  I grabbed the top of my dresser and uttered a loud gasp of shock.

  The monster stared at me, one round eye bigger than the other. It didn’t move off my pillow.

  It uttered a high-pitched giggle.

  I mean, I thought it giggled. It took me a short while to realize that the giggling was coming from behind me.

  I spun around to see Randy just outside the door. When he saw the terrified look on my face, his giggle became a roar of laughter.

  “Like it?” he asked, stepping past me into the room and walking up to my bed. “I made it in art class.”

  “Huh?”

  Randy picked up the lumpy brown monster head. As soon as he picked it up, I saw that the hair was brown yarn, that the face was painted on.

  “It’s papier-mâché,” Randy announced proudly. “Neat, huh?”

  I let out a long sigh and slumped onto the edge of the bed. “Yeah. Neat,” I muttered unhappily.

  “I put the pillows under your covers to make it look like he had a body,” Randy continued, grinning. His grin looked a lot like the grin on the monster head.

  “Very clever,” I said bitterly. “Listen, Randy, I just had a really scary thing happen. And I’m really not in the mood for jokes.”

  His grin grew wider. He tossed the brown monster head at me.

  I caught it and held it in my lap. He motioned for me to toss it back, but I didn’t.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I cried. “I’m very upset. I saw a monster. A real one. In the library.”

  “You’re just embarrassed because my monster head fooled you,” Randy said. “You’re mad because I really scared you.”

  “Mr. Mortman is a monster,” I told him, bouncing the monster head in my lap. “I saw him change into a monster. His head grew big, and his eyes popped out, and his mouth twisted open.”

  “Stop it!” Randy cried, starting to look scared.

  “I saw him eat flies,” I continued. “Handfuls of flies.”

  “Flies?” Randy asked. “Yuck!”

  “And then I saw him pick up one of his pet turtles. You know. The ones he keeps in that pan on his desk. I saw him pop it in his mouth and eat it.”

  Randy shuddered. He stared at me thoughtfully. For a moment, I thought maybe he believed me. But then his expression changed, and he shook his head.

  “No way, Lucy. You’re just mad because I scared you for once. So now you’re trying to scare me. But it isn’t going to work.”

  Randy grabbed the monster head from my lap and started out the door. “I don’t believe you about Mr. Mortman.”

  “But it’s true!” I protested shrilly.

  “I’m missing my cartoons,” he said.

  Just then, I heard a knock at the front door.

  “Mom!” I cried. I leapt off the bed and went tearing to the stairs. I shoved Randy out of my way, and practically flew down the steps, taking them three at a time.

  “Mom! Dad — you’re home! I have to tell you —”

  I froze in front of the screen door.

  It wasn’t my parents.

  It was Mr. Mortman.

  My first thought was to run.

  My next thought was to slam the front door.

  My next thought was to run back upstairs and hide in my room.

  But it was too late to hide. Mr. Mortman had already seen me. He was staring at me through the screen door w
ith those beady black eyes, an evil, thin-lipped smile on his pale, round face.

  He saw me, I realized.

  He saw me spying on him in the library.

  He saw me running away.

  He knows that I know his secret. He knows that I know he’s a monster.

  And he’s come to get me.

  He’s come to get rid of me, to make sure his secret is safe.

  “Lucy?” he called.

  I stared at him through the screen.

  I could see in his eyes that he knew it had been me in the library.

  The sun had nearly gone down. The sky behind him was sunset-purple. His face looked even paler than usual in the evening light.

  “Lucy, hi. It’s me,” he said.

  He was waiting for me to say something. But I was frozen there in panic, trying to decide whether to run or scream. Or both.

  Randy had stopped halfway down the stairs. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Mr. Mortman,” I replied softly.

  “Oh.” That was what my little brother said. He came the rest of the way down, then walked past me on his way back to the den.

  “Hi, Mr. Mortman,” I managed to say, not moving any closer to the door. Then I blurted out, “My parents aren’t home.”

  I knew instantly that it was a dumb thing to say.

  Now the monster knew that Randy and I were here alone.

  Why did I say that? I asked myself. How could I be so stupid?

  “I didn’t come to see your parents,” Mr. Mortman said softly. “I came to see you, Lucy.”

  He knows! I thought. He really knows!

  I’m dead meat!

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what to say. My eyes searched the front hallway for a weapon, something to hit him with when he broke through the screen door and came after me.

  Mr. Mortman’s eyes narrowed. His smile faded.

  This is it! I thought.

  There was nothing around that I could use to fight him off. A little glass flower vase. That’s all I could see. I didn’t think it would be too effective against a roaring monster.

  “Lucy, I believe this belongs to you,” Mr. Mortman said. He held up my blue canvas backpack.

  “Huh?”

  “I found it back in the stacks,” Mr. Mortman said, his smile returning. “I didn’t know who had left it. But I found your name and address on the tag here.”