Digger Doyle’s Book of Real Monsters
By Daniel Warriner
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 9780228609803
Kindle 9780228609810
WEB/PDF 9780228609827
Print ISBNs
Amazon Print 9780228609834
LSI/Ingram 9780228609841
Copyright 2019 by Daniel Warriner
Cover Art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Check the back of this Book for the Glossary
Digger Doyle’s Mini-Bestiary
Chapter 1—Nighttime Visits
Digger knew it was his uncle at the front door because no one else knocked just twice. From his upstairs bedroom he’d heard that heavy double thud, followed by the flip-flopping of his mother’s slippers sweeping across the living room floor. With its usual creak, the door opened, and his uncle’s deep voice trembled through the house. But in bed, Digger couldn’t make out a single word.
Uncle Buddy, Aunt Emma, and Digger’s untamable cousins, Corliss and Pam, lived right next door. And while any of these Happers would visit at any time of day, for any number of reasons, none had ever popped by so late.
The grizzly must be snooping around again, Digger thought. He’d seen the bear sniffing about earlier for huckleberries behind their houses at the edge of WolfsWhispers Woods. No doubt that bear was to blame for the scratches at the back of the Happer shed, where they stored their syrups and jams. Had his uncle come to warn them to stay indoors?
Imagining claws sent shivers down Digger’s back, so he squeezed the grizzly out of his thoughts. Besides, his uncle was probably there only for a chat about camp. After all, summer vacation had started. That’s why Digger was still awake, reading way past his normal bedtime.
His mother, Mrs. Doyle, was the biggest worrywart in all the tiny town of Westwood. School night or not, she insisted on Digger going to sleep before eight o’clock. But even then, Digger sometimes secretly read with a flashlight under his blanket. On this night, he placed that flashlight and his book on a bedside table, got out of bed, and then—carefully tiptoeing, so as not to make the floorboards squeak—snuck out of his room and up to the top stair.
He couldn’t see their faces, just his uncle’s navy blue workshop trousers, and his mother’s orange nightdress. They were standing in the entranceway, a jump away from the bottom stair.
Mrs. Doyle’s voice was growing. Something had rattled her, much more than any bear sighting could do.
“Well, I hope he doesn’t notice it’s missing. He’d be terribly upset, you know.”
“I understand, Isabelle.”
“Go on—you’d better take it with you.”
“It’s still in his office, I presume?”
“Yes, where it’s been for years.”
What could his uncle possibly want from his father’s office?
Doctor Daryus Doyle, Digger’s father, worked for hours each day in that dusty, dimly lit room at the back of their house. That was before he left on “his last adventure,” as Mrs. Doyle put it solemnly. Three years had gone by since he disappeared. But whenever Digger walked into that office, memories of his father flooded his mind.
Digger would sit in the big chair, behind the wide wooden desk, and imagine Doctor Doyle reading stories from massive books, jotting down notes, or pattering away on his old grey typewriter. Digger also looked at the hanging pictures, a collection of his father’s peculiar drawings and mother’s pretty paintings. One, a sketch by Doctor Doyle, was of a ghastly beast, with scraggly fur and a tail studded with spikes. Another was of a rock-like critter, no larger than a coconut, with oval eyes and six slick tentacles.
Mrs. Doyle’s pictures were the opposite of his father’s fantastic creations. Years ago, she painted flowers, baskets overflowing with fruit, and views of the sea and cliffs and WolfsWhispers. She captured the real world, whereas Doctor Doyle drew what he imagined.
In those days, when his father was away, his mother would paint in the garden. Watching her, Digger would ask, “Can we go with him next time?” He wondered why they couldn’t all travel together. She’d tell him, “You’re not old enough, Digger. The world is dangerous.” Every time he asked, the answer was the same. “You’re not old enough, Digger.” Always, “Not yet.”
Mrs. Doyle hadn’t so much as looked at a painting since Doctor Doyle’s disappearance, let alone picked up a paintbrush. But her old pictures remained on the office walls. They were cheery and sweet, and reminded Digger of what home used to be like.
Also in that office was Digger’s absolute favorite thing of all—a globe. Surrounded by notepads, some sort of turtle shell, and the typewriter, that colorful world seemed to float magically over the desk. Each country had its own unique shape, some with rivers and lakes, others with snow-capped mountains or sandy deserts, and many bordered on blue seas. He’d place his hand on the globe and give it a twirl. Round and round it would spin, all its colors blurring together . . .
* * *
Digger could barely hear them talking in the office. His mother said she’d better “dust it off” before his uncle took it with him. “It’s late,” he replied. “There’s no need to bother with dusting.” Then he suggested taking, “this too, as it will help him understand where he might have gone,” to which his mother reluctantly agreed with a flat, “all right.” Next, in a stern tone, one Digger rarely heard her use, she said, “There won’t be any need to show him these if he isn’t able to read it.” Mr. Happer didn’t respond, and for a moment all Digger could hear were his mother’s slippers crossing the floor again. Then, halfway to the door, those footsteps stopped.
“You must promise me, Buddy—if he can’t read it, you won’t mention anything about far-off islands. Promise me that, please.”
“It’s unlikely that he’ll be able to read it, Isabelle. But you have my word—if he can’t see anything, then consider the matter closed, at least as far as he’s concerned. In any case, there’s no reason to worry. Not yet, anyway. In fact, we should feel more hopeful that he’s still alive.”
When his uncle stepped back into view, Digger’s heart pounded at the bottom of his throat. In one arm, his uncle was carrying the globe. And under the other was the turtle shell.
“Those belong here!” he wanted to shout out. But his mother would be angry if she found out he was listening in, so he kept his mouth shut. Surely, he thought, his uncle wanted to turn the globe and shell into some crazy invention. That was his hobby—inventing weird stuff. Digger pictured the globe as a robot, wearing the shell, with dials and metal rods sticking out in all directions. He had to get them back before that happened!
“I’ll talk to the kids after lunch tomorrow,” Mr. Happer said in a softer voice. “Emma plans to make her summer stew. Shall we say noon?”
“That’ll be fine. Please tell Corliss to bring Digger back on time, and they shouldn’t be messing about near the cliffs. Or in the woods, with that nosy bear around. Or near the boats. Or in the—”
“—Isabelle, you’re worrying again. All Corliss has planned is a couple hours of fishing. But I’ll tell him to keep an eye on the time, and not to stray far. We’ll all have plenty to do if, um . . . If we have to set off.”
Set off? His uncle hadn’t mentioned anything to Digger about traveling. He and Corliss were going to summer camp soon, b
ut the campground was a mere twenty-minute drive away.
Digger half-listened to his mother and Uncle Buddy say goodnight. After his uncle left, she stood at the closed door, as if expecting him to knock again. Next, she locked it, which Digger had never seen her do. Since everyone in Westwood trusted each other, nobody ever locked up their house. Finally, his mother turned off the entrance light and went back into the living room. In the shadows of the upstairs hallway, Digger leaned against the wall, remembering another late night—the one right before his father left . . .
* * *
At his desk, Doctor Doyle was searching for something in a thick, leather-bound book. He stroked his moustache with one hand, and with the other gently flipped through the age-yellowed pages—almost as brittle as dead leaves. Without looking up, he waved Digger over to the facing chair, and his heavier than usual eyebrows made him appear quite serious.
Digger hopped into the chair. Upon finding the right page, his father half-turned the globe. With a finger he circled a seahorse-shaped cluster of islands, each with jagged edges, seemingly sharp enough to prick the skin if poked at.
“Digger, what do you know about this country?”
“‘Japan,’” he read. “Not much, I guess. I saw sumo wrestlers on TV once. Oh, and Corliss told me Uncle Buddy’s truck is from there.”
“Yes, that’s true.” His father smiled. “And have you ever seen, or heard about, Kappas?” This he asked through a tight grin, as if trying to hold in a mouthful of excitement.
“Kappas? No. Is that one of your made-up stories?” He was used to his father’s outlandish tales of imaginary animals.
“Well, every unreal story comes from a real one, I dare say.” He glanced at the turtle shell—like a stretched-out, upside-down bowl. “Digger, a Kappa is a creature that has long gone unnoticed by people. According to this book, they’re all-around sneaky pests. Trickery is their game. Long ago they led villagers astray in forests, including children. Tracking down these animals is extremely difficult. But perhaps it’s best that way.”
Digger’s eyes were wide with curiosity. He scooted the chair closer to the desk. “What kind of creature is it exactly?”
“No one knows for sure. Kappas have never been studied closely. Or photographed. Or caught. In this book it says they smell like fish and spend lots of time underwater.”
Doctor Doyle’s finger slid across the page. “Let’s see . . . Ah, yes, here it is: ‘Kappas have the body of a monkey, and a round bump of a back that’s as hard as hardwood. They have hair or fur on their heads. Webbed feet like a frog’s. Can climb swiftly over wet rocks and slimy riverbanks. Yellowish-green skin. Scaly . . . More like a lizard than a fish. And they can jump high too.’”
Now Digger wanted to know everything. “What else does it say?”
“Hmm . . . ‘At the very top of their heads is a dip. A sunken spot—as deep and as round as a tea saucer.’ However, the purpose of a head with a dent is . . . ‘UNKNOWN.’”
Puzzled, Doctor Doyle stopped reading.
“Well, Digger, it’s late, and tomorrow I have an early train to catch.” He closed the book with a thump.
“Dad, I’m not scared, you know?”
“No, no . . . I know you’re not, son. But there are monsters out there, of every type. The world can be dangerous, particularly for those who forget that it is.”
Digger gave the globe a twirl.
“This book, you must realize, is incredibly special.” He delicately ran his fingers over the cover. “Nonetheless, countless dreadful things are described on these pages. Horrible stories, which can give us—even the bravest of us—the worst nightmares.”
Digger wasn’t ready to give up. “Can’t I read it for a little? In bed, I mean. If I promise to sleep soon?”
“Not now,” his father said in a kind manner. “Your mother’s gone to bed, and we should as well. There’ll be time for stories when I get back from Australia. And one day, Digger, you’ll be ready to read this. That I can assure you.” He slid the book into his brown backpack. “Oh, before you leave, Digger, there’s something else I’d like you to know . . . Always remember: what we see, or find, often depends on what we were looking for in the first place.”
Doctor Doyle left the next morning. Off to Australia—or so everyone had been told. There would not be a phone call. No email or letter. No reports of him showing up anywhere. Not a trace. No clues. Nothing.
Chapter 2—Uncle Buddy’s Workshop
Digger awoke early the next morning and right away went downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Doyle had just finished unshelling two hard-boiled eggs and was now spreading globs of jam over toast by a bowl of apple slices.
“Good morning, Digger,” she said with a cheeriness that seemed untrue.
“Good morning.” Digger poured orange juice into a cup and took a seat at the table. His head was a beehive of questions. Why had Uncle Buddy taken the globe? Why so late at night? Was someone going somewhere? And if someone was about to set off, where would they be going? When? And Why? And, most importantly, did last night’s conversation have anything to do with his father?
But not wanting to distress his mother by asking any of those questions directly, he decided to take a different approach . . .
“Mom?”
“Yes, dear, what is it?” She placed the apple slices on the table.
“Would it be okay if I put dad’s globe in my room?”
Mrs. Happer turned her head away. “I’m sure your father would like that. Why don’t you bring it upstairs tonight?”
Had she forgotten it was gone? Had his uncle’s visit all been a bad dream?
Impossible.
Something was on his mother’s mind. Maybe she hadn’t properly heard Digger’s question.
“Digger, your aunt and uncle have invited us next door for lunch,” she said, changing the subject. Then she changed it five more times: “No doubt Corliss will be here shortly to take you fishing. You’d better eat up. Oh, please don’t stay too long at the creek today, all right? Lunch is at noon. Keep an eye on the time.”
“We will,” Digger assured her. He stopped himself from asking how she knew Corliss had planned for them to go fishing. But he had to find out what was going on.
“Mom, is Uncle Buddy going somewhere this summer?”
She dropped a stringed tea bag into a teacup and, for a moment, stood motionless at the kitchen counter. “Why would you say that, dear?” She asked this much too calmly, and the teaspoon hovered in her frozen hand. “Did Corliss mention something?” She looked away, trying to hide her uneasiness.
“No. Last I heard he was going to summer camp with me.”
Mrs. Doyle let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, going to camp is a wonderful idea. Remember how much fun you boys had last year?”
Digger took a thin slice of apple from the bowl. It was true; he had enjoyed camp, apart from the hikes in WolfsWhispers Woods, where toothy wolves and bears lurked about with other beasts, or so he imagined.
“Let’s talk about camp later, okay?” Mrs. Doyle didn’t wait for Digger to respond. “You’d better eat your breakfast before Corliss comes. School’s out, but I’m sure he’ll be here at the usual time.”
It had long been part of Corliss’s routine to pound on their door every morning and then barge in with his sister. On school days they’d walk down the narrow road between the sea cliff edge and WolfsWhispers, cross the bridge over Fisherman’s Creek, pass seven of the twenty-nine houses in all of Westwood, and finally reach the schoolhouse.
Then on weekends and holidays, Corliss led Digger to all sorts of other places, Pam following a few steps behind. At the bridge they’d fish. At the wharf they’d toss stones or rocks at waves. And at the very back of their backyards, they’d climb trees or build forts.
This particular morning, Corliss’s banging at the entrance ended with a horrible thud. He’d discovered with his forehead that the door was locked.
Mrs. Doyle jumped in
her seat, spilling several sips of tea onto the table.
“Digger!” Corliss hollered at the top of his lungs. Digger swallowed his last bite of toast and hurried to unlock the door.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Corliss shouted the instant the door swung open. Mrs. Doyle, arms crossed, stepped into the entranceway. “What’s all this hullabaloo? Summer vacation doesn’t mean you can go bursting into other people’s homes screaming.”
“Oh, hello, Aunty Doyle. Fine day, isn’t it?” Corliss straightened himself and spoke in the slow, peaceful way he figured Mrs. Doyle liked.
“Why, yes, Corliss, it certainly is,” she said grumbly. “Too fine a day and far too early for such yelling, don’t you agree? Perhaps you’re upset school has finished?” She was clearly more than a tad annoyed, which is how she usually felt when Corliss was around. “He’s a wild one,” she’d warned Digger so many times, her eyes filled with worry. “Don’t let that cousin of yours get you into trouble, Digger.”
Corliss turned up his politeness even more. “Sorry to disturb you, Aunty Doyle. And, yes, I’m terribly disappointed I can’t be—oh, what’s the word?—schooled today. Surely I need more science. And history. And of course math. But for the next few weeks I have nothing to do except fishing and camping. Such a waste, isn’t it?”
By this point, Mrs. Doyle was only half-listening to Corliss’s nonsense. She straightened Digger’s shirt collar as he slipped on his shoes. Then Digger grabbed a fishing rod from his cousin and was out the door.
“Don’t forget lunch. It’s important you’re there, okay? And don’t stray far . . .” Her voice dwindled behind them as they raced down the hill to the road along the craggy cliff facing the sea.
“My dad told me the same thing,” Corliss said after they reached the bottom of the hill. “And if we’re not back on time, no second helping of stew. At least not for me.”
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