Frankenweenie

by Elizabeth Rudnick

  Copyright © 2012 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-7920-7

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  t was a perfect day in the small and peaceful town of New Holland. The sun was shining and birds were chirping. Kids played hide-and-seek while parents drank lemonade on the porches of their cookie-cutter homes and gossiped about the latest happenings. On a hill above town, a Dutch windmill turned lazily in the soft wind. Everything was normal. Well, almost everything. Inside one particular house on Maple Lane, things were a little more…theatrical.

  Mr. and Mrs. Frankenstein sat in their living room, waiting. Suddenly there was a whir followed by a hum and a moment later a projection screen flickered to life. A title card appeared on the screen. It was blurry and clearly homemade, but the title could just be made out. It read: MONSTERS FROM BEYOND!

  Standing behind his twin homemade movie projectors ten-year old Victor Frankenstein observed his handiwork. Good. Everything was going just as he had planned. He fiddled with a button and was about to continue his show, when…

  “Victor,” a woman’s voice said, sounding confused, “I don’t know that it’s…”

  “You have to wear the glasses,” Victor replied, running a hand through his thick dark hair. His mother didn’t always understand him—or his inventions. He was used to it by now. But at least she supported him and his ideas.

  “Oh! Yes, of course!” she said, reaching over to pick up the pair of 3-D glasses on the coffee table. Placing them on her face, her eyes grew wide. That was much, much better. The title card disappeared from view and was replaced by a new one. It read: STARRING SPARKY!

  “That’s you!” Mr. Frankenstein exclaimed. Victor’s father looked like an older version of his son. He had dark hair and was tall, with long, lanky limbs. Looking at the screen and then down at a spot right next to him, he smiled. Sitting on the couch was Sparky the dog. The terrier was thirty pounds of wiggly body and wagging tail. His coat was white, and he had tall, pointy black ears that stood straight up. Hearing Mr. Frankenstein’s shout, Sparky looked up and cocked his head. Victor’s father reached down and gave the dog a pat before turning his attention back to the movie.

  On the screen, Sparky had been transformed into the Sparkysaurus—a dog/dinosaur hybrid. He was wearing a foam fin on his back as he walked through a model city made completely of cardboard and household objects. An old refrigerator box was now a skyscraper and a candlestick acted as a lamppost. “So that’s where my candlestick went,” Mrs. Frankenstein said, as Sparky passed by the light.

  “I’ve been looking for those golf tees,” Mr. Frankenstein added, noticing a dozen or so of the pointy objects.

  The Sparkysaurus suddenly came to a stop. Slowly, he turned around, his attention caught by something in the distance. As the camera panned out, the Frankensteins saw what the Sparkysaurus had seen—a pterodactyl. It was flying down from a mountain, right at the Sparkysaurus! Of course, in reality it was just a toy pterodactyl being held up by a fishing line, but its eyes glowed red with the help of old Christmas lights, so it still looked pretty scary. The Sparkysaurus didn’t back down. Jumping up, Sparkysaurus grabbed the flying dinosaur in his mouth and began shaking his head back and forth. The pterodactyl didn’t have a chance!

  On the couch, the real Sparky got into the action. Jumping onto the back of the couch, he began to bark loudly at the screen. “You tell him, Sparky!” Mr. Frankenstein shouted, encouraging his furry little friend.

  The light from the projector behind Sparky cast his shadow onto the screen, and for a moment it looked almost as if there were two Sparky’s. But then the real Sparky moved a little and his silhouette disappeared.

  Victor was pleased. Everything was going well. The movie looked good. His parents seemed entertained, and Sparky was perfect, as always. He was the best dog a boy could have. Nothing could ruin this moment.…

  And then, everything went wrong.

  Suddenly, one of the projectors began to hum and whir a bit too noisily. Something had caught on one of the splices in the film reel where Victor had pasted two sections of movie together. The projector jammed and then, as Victor watched in horror, the film caught on fire and began to melt. Meanwhile, one tail of the film came loose and began to whip back and forth just like Sparky’s tail when he saw a squirrel. It went left and right, left and right, until it got tangled with the other projector’s reel. With a SMASH, the machines got pulled together in a shower of sparks.

  “Oh, my!” Victor’s mom explained.

  Woof, woof! Sparky barked.

  Mr. Frankenstein was speechless.

  Victor looked back and forth between the projectors, his mind racing. He had to do something. With a sigh he reached down and pulled the power cord from the wall. The light bulb on top of the projector dimmed, and the whirring reels slowed.

  For a moment, the room went dark. Then Victor walked over and flicked on the light switch.

  “It was certainly exciting!” Mrs. Frankenstein said after a moment of awkward silence.

  Her husband nodded. “Yeah! Big finish!”

  Victor shook his head. He knew his parents were just being supportive. But he wasn’t going to give up. “I can fix it,” he said stubbornly. Picking up the remains of his projection machines, he patted his leg. “C’mon, boy!” he said, calling Sparky.

  As Victor’s parents watched him head upstairs with Sparky at his heels, they exchanged glances. It was nice that Victor was so inventive, but all these projects and crazy schemes were beginning to make them nervous.

  “All that time he spends up there…” Mr. Frankenstein began, unsure if he should go on. He plunged ahead anyway. “A boy his age needs to be outside with his friends.”

  Mrs. Frankenstein shrugged. “I don’t know that Victor has friends, dear,” she answered. “Other than Sparky.”

  “When I was his age, I had lots of friends. We’d play baseball until dark.”

  Victor’s mom knew her husband was concerned. But when she had been a kid she had been a lot like Victor—quiet and shy. Mrs. Frankenstein had spent most of her time in her room, reading. And she had turned out fine. “There’s nothing wrong with Victor,” she said, ending the conversation. “He’s just in his own world.…”

  pstairs, Victor was indeed in his own world. When he had begun making his inventions, his mom had let him keep them in his room. But soon there were just too many. So his parents had let him take over the attic and make it into his own private work space. He loved pulling down the trapdoor and walking up the ladderlike stairs into his invention wonderland. The ceiling was sloped on either side and there was a window that let in sunlight, moonlight, and the occasional bit of rain when Victor forgot to shut it. There was a workbench in the middle of the room covered with schematics, wires, and various tools. More schematics hung on the walls and every nook and cranny held fabulous inventions both new and old. It was
Victor’s haven.

  After clearing off some space, he lifted his broken projectors onto the workbench. He needed to make some adjustments. Then everything would be in working order. As he disassembled the machine, Sparky jumped up onto his special Sparky-size treadmill. Victor had made it so his dog could get exercise even when Victor was too busy to walk him. As Sparky trotted along, Victor picked up a soldering iron. Putting on his safety glasses and pulling up his sleeves, he began tinkering.

  While Victor tinkered, Sparky kept on trotting. He was used to his owner making lots of noise. He didn’t mind. He just liked being near his boy. He kept on trotting as a plume of smoke rose out of Victor’s soldering iron. Suddenly, he had an itch. Forgetting that the treadmill was still going, Sparky stopped to scratch himself. Whoosh! He went sliding backward, right off the treadmill. Victor heard the commotion and turned, but by the time he looked over, Sparky was back on the treadmill, his tail wagging.

  Turning back to his projectors, Victor narrowed his eyes. He fiddled with a lever and patched up one last piece of film. Then he flashed one of his rare smiles. He had fixed it! The day wasn’t going to end badly after all. Giving Sparky a pat, Victor headed downstairs. He had homework to do and dinner to eat. Tomorrow he could start on a new invention.

  The next morning, Victor waited on his front steps for Sparky to grab the newspaper. It was one of their rituals. Sparky would wait for the paperboy to fling the news, run and grab it with his mouth, and trot it right back to Victor. As Victor stood waiting, he noticed that their next-door neighbor, Mr. Burgemeister, was getting his own paper. Mr. Burgemeister was not just Victor’s neighbor. He was also the mayor of New Holland—and a bit of a bully. He spent hours making sure his flower gardens looked just right, and if Sparky even looked at a tulip the wrong way, Victor was sure to hear about it.

  As if he knew the boy was thinking about him, Mr. Burgemeister looked up and locked eyes with Victor. He sneered. “Your dog has been sniffing around my Dutch Dazzlers,” he said nastily. “And the other day I caught him peeing on my flamingo.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Victor said, trying to sound sincere.

  “You better,” the mayor threatened. “Or I’ll get you—and your little dog, too!” He let out a quick, evil laugh, proud of his clever quoting of the classic Wizard of Oz.

  But what he didn’t realize was that Victor didn’t watch movies. He was too busy reading or inventing. So he had no idea what the man was talking about. He simply said, “Yes, sir,” turned, and went inside, Sparky right behind him.

  Mr. Burgemeister watched the Frankenstein’s front door close. When he was convinced that the boy and his pesky dog wouldn’t bother him, at least for the time being, he turned his attention back to the paper in his hand. Unfolding the front page, he scanned the headline. MAYOR BURGEMEISTER TO KICK OFF DUTCH DAY. Underneath was a picture of the mayor wearing a sash and hat. Mr. Burgemeister nodded, pleased.

  Suddenly, sensing someone behind him, the mayor looked up from his paper. “And just where are you headed?” he asked the young girl with raven-dark hair sneaking out of the house.

  It was his niece, Elsa Van Helsing. She was the same age as Victor and equally shy. Her hair was always pulled into two neat pigtails, and she always looked tidy. From her room, she had seen her uncle talking to Victor and hoped he’d be distracted long enough for her to sneak out. But she was out of luck.

  At the sound of her uncle’s voice, Elsa froze. She had been living with him long enough to know he had a short temper. “I’m going to school,” she answered as politely as possible.

  Mr. Burgemeister puffed out his chest. “Listen, your parents aren’t back for another three months so…”

  Elsa tried not to groan. Three months seemed like forever. She cut her uncle off before he could go on and listed her daily chores. “I made my bed. And my lunch. I cleaned up the kitchen and folded the towels.”

  When she was done, Mr. Burgemeister turned to face her. “Well, my darling niece,” he said, his voice softening a touch. “I do appreciate your tidiness—unlike your parents, digging a bunch of holes in the desert.”

  “It’s called archeology.”

  Mr. Burgemeister shrugged. “Whatever. It’s pointless, really. And filthy. Everything worth anything is new, isn’t it?” he said. “You don’t go to a store and say, ‘I’d like an old pot, please. And if you’d break it for me, that be even better.’” Satisfied his point had been made, he gestured to the road. “Off you go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elsa said, quickly walking down the path and away from the house. That conversation had been too long for her. Next time she’d have to hope Victor would distract her uncle a few minutes longer. Then she could get out without having to deal with that again. If only Victor weren’t so shy. Then she could ask him to help her by inventing some way to make her invisible or something…if he would just talk to her.

  ictor didn’t know Elsa needed his help. He just knew he had to get to class on time. Everyday he took the same route to school. He rode his bike by Pine Street and Willow. Then he passed old Mrs. Reinhardt’s creepy house, followed by a dozen picture perfect homes—each with big picture windows and two car garages.

  Sometimes Sparky would sneak out of the house and follow until Victor made him turn around. Victor hated sending Sparky home. He wished he could take his dog with him to school. It would be so much nicer to have his best friend by his side. But he had tried that once. The principal had not been happy when he found Sparky inside Victor’s locker. Now Sparky stayed tied up in the backyard or up in the attic, and Victor was all alone.

  When he finally got to school, Victor kneeled down and locked his bike to a long rack. He was about to stand up when a shadow fell across him. Gulping, he raised his head.

  Standing over him was the weirdest girl he’d ever met. She was even weirder than Victor, and that was saying a lot. She had huge eyes and long, stick-straight hair that made her skinny body seem even skinnier. Skulking around the school hallways, staring at the other students with her big eyes, she often looked as though she were plotting something. And to make matters worse, she had a big white cat named Mr. Whiskers that she believed could tell the future.

  She was holding the cat as she stared down at Victor. Looking just like a villain out of a scary movie, she slowly stroked the cat’s white fur. “Hello, Victor,” the Weird Girl finally said.

  “Hi,” Victor replied.

  “Mr. Whiskers had a dream about you last night,” the girl said, holding the cat closer to her chest.

  Victor sighed. If Sparky were there, he would have barked and scared off the cat and Victor wouldn’t have to deal with this conversation. But Sparky was at home, so he had no choice but to ask, “How do you know?”

  The girl gave one of her weird smiles. “Because this morning, he made this.” She held out her arm and opened her palm. In her hand was something that looked like a small rope of dried clay. It was bent into the shape of a V.

  Victor recoiled. “Did you get that out of the litter box?” he asked, disgusted.

  The girl nodded. “It’s an omen,” she said, as though that were obvious. This wasn’t the first time Mr. Whiskers had “made” an omen. It always happened the morning after he had one of his special dreams. “Last month he dreamed about Bob,” the girl went on, referring to one of their classmates. Bob was a chubby guy who loved his food—especially ice cream. “That day he fell in a manhole.”

  When Victor didn’t say anything, the girl gave another example. “He dreamed about Toshiaki the day he pitched a perfect game.”

  Victor remembered that day. It had been pretty impressive. Toshiaki was the foreign-exchange student in their class. He was an intense guy who loved baseball more than anything else—except winning. On the day Weird Girl was talking about, he had been even better than usual. Could it have been because of Mr. Whiskers?

  “And he dreamed about Nassor the day he got knocked unconscious,” the girl went on.

&
nbsp; Victor remembered that, too. He didn’t like Nassor. He was an intense boy with sinister eyes. During Toshiaki’s perfect game, he had hit Nassor square on the mask, knocking him out.

  While those were all pretty strange coincidences, Victor didn’t necessarily believe that Mr. Whiskers had anything to do with them. But the girl clearly did. “If Mr. Whiskers dreams of you, it means something big is going to happen.” She held out the V. “You can keep it.”

  RIIIIINNNG. Saved by the bell, Victor thought.

  Sidestepping around the girl, Victor headed into the school. Behind him, the girl watched him for a moment before opening up her backpack and slipping Mr. Whiskers inside. Victor might not believe her now, but he would. She was sure of it. Mr. Whiskers was never wrong. Something big was going to happen…soon.

  Oblivious to the power of Mr. Whisker’s “gifts,” Victor headed to his favorite class—science. But when he got to the classroom, there was a new teacher standing at the front of the room. The man was tall, with a long face and deep-set eyes that peered out from behind glasses. His hair was slicked back and he had a thin mustache.

  When everyone had taken their seats, he addressed the class. “I am Mr. Rzykruski,” the man said in a thick, broken accent that sounded somewhere between a Russian spy and Dracula. “I will be your new science teacher. Apparently Mr. Holcum had an incident.”

  “He got hit by lightning,” Elsa interrupted. The other kids in the classroom nodded. They had all heard the news but, based on the look on Mr. Rzykruski’s face, he hadn’t.

  “Well. That is bad,” he finally said. Seeing a chance to teach something, he went on. “But he did not get ‘hit by’ lightning. Lightning does not hit a person, the way one is hit by a baseball or a cabbage.” In his seat, Nassor cringed, remembering just how it felt to be hit by a baseball.

  Turning to the blackboard, Mr. Rzykruski began to illustrate his point. He drew a big cloud. “Lightning is simply electricity. The cloud is angry, yes, making a storm.” He drew some more. “All the electrons are saying, ‘I am leaving you. I am going to the land of opportunity.’”