by Michael Dahl
He stood alone inside the circle, inside the fence.
Ren looked up. The sunlight was fading. His strength was fading, too. The last ray of sunlight hit a sign hanging on the fence. It was the sign he had seen when he first turned onto Losa Street. DEAD END. He was sure it was the same sign.
Except now, one of the words was gone.
Matt Rooney sat on the sofa in the living room. He stared across the room at his favorite photo on the wall. In it, he and his parents were each holding a pair of skis. All three of them were smiling at the camera. A snowy mountain sat in the background. They had been so happy on that trip.
Tonight was different. No one was happy. And Matt was afraid. He kept looking away from his parents as they spoke to him from across the coffee table.
“Before your real parents get here, there’s something you should know,” said his father.
“You’re going to scare him,” Mrs. Rooney whispered to her husband.
“I heard that!” said Matt. “What do you mean, ‘scare’ me?”
Mr. Rooney cleared his throat and started over. “As I said, uh, before your real parents get here —”
“But you’re my real parents!” shouted Matt. “I don’t care that I’m adopted!”
Matt’s mom sighed, her eyes watery and tired. She leaned on her husband.
“Your natural parents, I mean,” his dad said.
“I don’t want to go with them,” cried Matt.
Matt’s mom sat down next to him on the sofa. “You don’t have to do anything, Mattie,” she replied. “But they wrote and asked to see you, so —”
“Well, I don’t want to see them,” said Matt. “And you still didn’t tell me what was going to scare me.”
His dad looked quickly at his mother. “Well, sometimes families have problems,” he said.
“Your natural mother and father had to go away for a time,” added his mom. “They had no choice. And they needed someone to take care of their special baby.”
“Special?” Matt asked. “Is something wrong with me?”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you,” his dad said. “You know that.” He sat down on the other side of Matt, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You mean my back, don’t you?” asked Matt. Matt had been born with his back covered in thick, bumpy skin. It didn’t look pretty in the mirror, but Matt was used to it by now. It never stopped him from joining activities. He wore a T-shirt whenever he went swimming, but that was the only thing he did differently from his friends.
“No, I don’t mean your back,” said his father.
A thud shook the house, and Matt’s dad stood up.
“What was that?” Matt said. He turned and looked out the living room window.
It was evening. Their house sat at the bend of a sharp curve. The street trailed off into darkness on either side. Two or three streetlights stretched overhead like dinosaur necks.
Thud! The windows rattled.
“Oh, honey,” said Matt’s mother as she jumped from the sofa and grabbed her husband’s hands.
“It’s them,” said his father.
Thud!
“Them? Them who?” asked Matt. His father didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the front door and opened it.
“Mom, who is Dad talking about?” Matt asked. His mother joined her husband at the door. They both stood there, holding hands, silently staring outside.
“Now you’re scaring me,” said Matt.
The thuds grew louder. Matt leaned over the back of the sofa and peered out the window.
A shadow stood in the middle of the street. It was blocks away, but even at that distance Matt could tell the creature was huge. The head of the thing almost touched the streetlights. A second slightly smaller shadow appeared behind it.
The two shadows moved forward on legs as thick as tree trunks.
“What… is that?” Matt asked weakly.
“Them,” said his mother.
“Them who?” Matt cried again. He saw the two shadows reach out and hold hands. His head hurt. “You don’t mean those — things — are… are…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
The shadows marched toward the house. They smashed through the bushes at the end of the driveway. They knocked branches off the tree in the front yard. Cracks appeared in the living room window with each new thud.
As the creatures came closer, an awful smell became stronger and stronger. What is that terrible smell? Matt wondered. It made him think of vomit on a pile of wet leaves.
A groan rumbled through the house like a thunderstorm.
His mom said in a tiny voice, “Mattie, honey, someone’s asking to meet you.”
Matt felt sick, but he managed to make it to the doorway without throwing up. The creatures were covered in long, droopy, vine-like stuff. Is that their fur? he wondered. They were walking lumps of grass. Matt saw bugs crawling over them.
The taller creature let out an ear-ringing roar. “MATT!!!”
Matt gulped. He grabbed for his mom’s hand. Then he gulped again. Then he said, “Are… are you my… parents?”
The huge creatures began to shiver. The odor got worse. A swarm of bugs flew off the vines and buzzed into the house.
“I think they’re laughing,” said Matt’s dad.
“What’s so funny?” asked Matt.
The bigger one spoke. “No,” boomed the deep voice. “Not your parents.”
Matt sighed. My parents aren’t monsters after all, he thought.
The second giant said, “We are servants. Work for your parents. Here they are.”
A cry pierced the night air. Two strange figures soared over the treetops. They sailed above the streetlights and dove toward the ground. Graceful as eagles, they landed on the front lawn and walked to the front door on slender legs.
“Mattie!” said the female. “My baby!” The beautiful woman looked human except for the pale, bat-like wings on her back. She knelt and gave Matt a hug.
The man stood up straight and proud and shook hands with Matt’s dad. “Thank you for taking care of him,” he said. “We are sorry we haven’t been here. But now we are allowed to visit your world for short periods of time.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we take Mattie for the weekend?” said the female.
Matt’s mom smiled. “Of course not. Um, would you like some coffee?”
Matt couldn’t speak. What was happening? His T-shirt felt tight on his body. His back stung and burned. Then he heard a ripping sound. He stumbled, gripping the side of the door for balance. All of a sudden he felt light as air.
The strange man smiled down at Matt. “Yes, my son,” he said. “You have wings.”
The two grassy creatures were ordered to gather up Matt’s bedroom furniture and all his clothes and video games and soccer ball and books — because he wasn’t sure what he’d need over the next few days. Far above them soared the reunited family.
Matt was still afraid, but his fear had changed. At the beginning of the evening, he had been afraid of who, or what, his parents might be.
Now, he was afraid of falling. He had never used wings before. He had never known he had them, folded under his bumpy back. As the cool air rushed past his face, though, he found his balance. He stretched out his arms, leaning into the wind. He was sure he would get the hang of it. It reminded him of skiing.
Livia wore a doll’s hand around her neck.
The doll had first belonged to Livia’s grandmother. She had passed it down to Livia’s mother, who had then given it to Livia. Over the years, the doll’s green silk dress had grown worn and tattered. It had lost an arm when Livia’s mother and aunt fought over the doll as children. Livia’s cat had scratched the head and ripped off its real human hair that was tied in tiny braids. Piece by piece, the little doll had fallen ap
art. Finally, only the left hand remained, and Livia now wore it as a necklace.
Livia had explained this to the other girls on her first night at summer camp. The girls in her cabin were getting ready for bed when one of them, Emily, saw something moving at Livia’s throat. It was the hand, swinging on its chain.
The girls all looked closer at the little hand.
“It’s porcelain,” Livia said.
“That’s what my grandma’s teacups are made of,” said another girl, Amber.
Livia nodded. “It’s very delicate.”
All the girls could see that the little hand had tiny cracks running through it. The fingernails had faded from red to pink. A thin bracelet of gold wire wrapped around the doll’s wrist. Another wire with a little hoop on the end stuck out of the wrist like a skinny bone. A chain ran through the hoop and hooked around Livia’s neck.
Her cabin mates “oohed” and “ahhed” over the doll hand. A few of them asked to touch the white fingers, but Livia shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s quite delicate. It’s so old. And I’m so afraid it might break.”
All of the girls understood. All except for Brooke.
Why can’t I touch the doll hand? Brooke wondered as she sat in bed that night. Just touching it once won’t hurt.
All night, while the others slept soundly in their bunks, Brooke stared at the bunk above hers. She was angry with Livia. Brooke hated snobby people, and she thought Livia was one of the worst. So scared of letting anyone touch her stupid, precious doll, thought Brooke. Not even a doll. Only a stupid hand.
But the more Brooke thought about it, the more she wanted to try on Livia’s necklace. Anyway, why shouldn’t she touch it? Why not wear it? It would only be for a minute. Half a minute. What was wrong with that?
But Brooke knew Livia would never give her permission, so she waited. All week she waited to find the necklace lying on the little table next to Livia’s bunk. Or on her pillow. As the days rolled by at camp, however, Brooke learned that Livia never took off the doll hand. She wore it in the morning to the Sing-Fest. She wore it during crafting class. She wore it on the bird-watching hike. When the rest of the campers went swimming in the lake, Livia sat on the shore and read. She said the water could ruin the porcelain.
Every night as Livia got ready for bed, Brooke saw her pat the doll hand to make sure it was still there before she slipped into her bed to sleep.
Brooke grew angrier and angrier. Who does Livia think she is, anyway? People are supposed to share. They’re supposed to take turns.
It just wasn’t fair, Brooke thought, that she couldn’t hold the doll necklace in her hands. Or feel it around her neck.
Late one night, when everyone in the cabin was asleep, Brooke threw back the cover of her sleeping bag and crept out of her bunk. It only took a few steps to reach the side of Livia’s bunk. Brooke stood there, looking down at the sleeping snobby girl. It was hard to see in the darkness of the cabin. She bent closer toward Livia’s neck.
Brooke gasped. She covered her mouth with her hands, afraid the sound might wake the sleeping girl.
The chain hung around Livia’s neck as it always did, but the doll hand was gone.
Goose bumps ran up and down the back of Brooke’s neck. She hurried back to her bunk and squirmed into her sleeping bag. She shivered, even under the thick cover. Why did the sight of the bare necklace frighten her? Perhaps the hand had slipped off while Livia slept, and it was hidden under her hair or her T-shirt.
Brooke closed her eyes and tried to calm down.
That was close, she thought. If her gasp had woken up Livia, what would she have said? What excuse would she have made up?
Just then, Brooke heard a tiny sound on the side of her bed. A soft, metallic sound. Zzzzz. The sound grew slightly louder, closer. Zzzzz. It reminded Brooke of a zipper.
Someone — or something — was zipping up her sleeping bag.
Brooke forced herself to open her eyes. But no one was standing beside her bed. All the girls were sleeping in their bunks.
The zipping stopped, but another sound took its place. Scratching. She felt something small crawling down her sleeping bag toward the foot of the bunk. Brooke thought of mice and almost screamed, but then the crawling stopped.
She took a deep breath. The sound returned, coming from the post of the bunk. It climbed up the post to the bunk above her. It stopped for a moment, but then it moved again.
Brooke saw a tiny shadow moving on the underside of the bunk above her. A mouse? A moth?
The shadow grew wider, as if a tiny hand were spreading its fingers.
Suddenly, a white hand fell from above and landed on Brooke’s mouth. Its cold fingers grew and grew. Soon it was as large as a human hand. The hand was covered in cracks with pale pink fingernails.
Worst of all, the hand was strong enough to keep anyone from hearing Brooke cry out.
* * *
“Brooke’s gone!”
Livia and the other girls woke up the following morning to Emily’s cry. They were surprised to see Brooke’s belongings all packed up. Her sleeping bag was rolled up neatly and resting on the floor. A few minutes later, the camp counselor came in, followed by Brooke who picked up her suitcase and bag and left without saying a word.
On her way out the door, the camp counselor turned to the speechless campers and whispered, “I think Brooke misses home. She had a bad night.” Then she quietly closed the door behind her.
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” said Amber.
“What do you think happened?” asked Emily.
Livia giggled softly. Too softly for the others to hear. She wasn’t laughing because Brooke was leaving. She was laughing as if she was being tickled. As if something small and delicate was wiggling near her throat. As if something small was waving goodbye.
Readers often ask me where I get my ideas. To be honest, I don’t always know! Sometimes the ideas arrive on the doorstep of my imagination all dressed up and say, “You were expecting us, right?” Other times they come in dreams, quietly and politely. Still others come when I brainstorm with friends, write down sentences in a notebook, or take a long walk. Here’s where the stories in this book came from.
ONE HUNDRED WORDS
My friend Donnie gave me a challenge. “What if you only had one hundred words to tell a story?” he asked. “What if something terrible was happening to you, and you only had one hundred words to ask for help?” This short short story was my answer to that challenge.
DON’T LET THE BEDBUG BITE
You can’t write scary stories without one of them being about a babysitter. I heard so many creepy tales growing up that involved babysitting — the house is unfamiliar, the grown-ups are gone, it’s dark outside. These ingredients set the heart racing. My friend Beth has an amazing kid named Sam who once was afraid of bedbugs. Sam was sure he saw a bug in his bed. If I were Sam, I’d be afraid of bedbugs, too. I wondered, what if the bug wasn’t in the bed, but was the bed?
PICKLED
Tornadoes are common in the Midwest. When I was in fifth grade, four of them jumped over my house. My family was lucky. Those same tornadoes ripped apart our town, carved craters in our streets, and damaged many lives. Which is why I still fear storms. I’ve sat in many basements waiting for storms to pass. But how long should a person wait to come out? I’ve read about soldiers who hid during World War II and didn’t know the war was over until years later. In the dark, it’s easy to lose track of time.
DEAD END
I was driving home from work and saw a Dead End sign. Whoosh! The whole story jumped into my brain. It probably has something to do with my fear of getting lost. See? I told you that lots of things scare me.
MEET THE PARENTS
When we were kids, my sisters and I often imagined that we were adopted. Our real parents, we believed, were rulers of s
ome European kingdom, waiting to reclaim us. Waiting for us to return to a castle, riches, and an endless supply of books and ice cream. Well, what if our true parents were not wonderful, but horrible? Or even monstrous? What would that be like?
THE DOLL THAT WAVED GOODBYE
One of the most frightening TV shows I ever watched was about a girl whose doll changed places with her. They each took turns being the doll and being the owner. Another spooky story on the show The Twilight Zone had a doll that could talk and sneak around the house at night. Both dolls were very protective of their owners. Very. The location of my story was inspired by the many summers I spent as a kid at a camp in northern Minnesota.
GLOSSARY
babysitter (BAY-bee-SIT-ur) —
someone who takes care of children when their parents aren’t home
barbed wire (BARBD WIRE) —
small, sharp spikes of twisted wire, usually on top of fences
creature (KREE-chur) —
a living being, human or animal
cure (KYOOR) —
a treatment that helps to end a sickness
goose bumps (GOOS BUHMPS) —
tiny bumps that can appear on your skin when you’re scared, cold, or excited
grind (GRINDE) —
to rub against something
metallic (met-AL-ik) —
seeming like metal
obvious (AHB-vee-uhss) —
seen or understood easily
preserves (pri-ZURVS) —
fruit that is canned and saved
scurried (SKUR-eed) —
hurried; moved quickly
swept (SWEPT) —
carried rapidly
tornado (tor-NAY-doh) —
a violent windstorm that causes a lot of damage; appears as a dark, funnel-shaped cloud
victim (VIK-tuhm) —