by R. L. Stine
Margaret shuddered. What was going on down in the basement? What was really going on?
She led the way up the stairs and waited at her doorway until Casey was safely in his room. He gave her a wave, yawning silently, and closed the door behind him.
A few seconds later, Margaret was back in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin despite the warmth of the night. Her mouth was still achingly dry, she realized. She had never managed to get a drink.
Somehow she drifted into a restless sleep.
Her alarm went off at seven-thirty. She sat up and thought about school. Then she remembered there was no school for the next two days because of some kind of teachers’ conference.
She turned off the clock radio, slumped back onto her pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. But she was awake now, thoughts of the night before pouring back into her mind, flooding her with the fear she had felt just a few hours earlier.
She stood up and stretched, and decided to go talk to her father, to confront him first thing, to ask all the questions she wanted to ask.
If I don’t, he’ll disappear down to the basement, and I’ll sit around thinking these frightening thoughts all day, she told herself.
I don’t want to be terrified of my own father.
I don’t.
She pulled a light cotton robe over her pajamas, found her slippers in the cluttered closet, and stepped out into the hallway. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, almost suffocating. Pale, morning light filtered down from the skylight overhead.
She stopped in front of Casey’s room, wondering if she should wake him so that he could ask their father questions, too.
No, she decided. The poor guy was up half the night. I’ll let him sleep.
Taking a deep breath, she walked the rest of the hall and stopped at her parents’ bedroom. The door was open.
“Dad?”
No reply.
“Dad? Are you up?”
She stepped into the room. “Dad?”
He didn’t seem to be there.
The air in here was heavy and smelled strangely sour. The curtains were drawn. The bedclothes were rumpled and tossed down at the foot of the bed. Margaret took a few more steps toward the bed.
“Dad?”
No. She had missed him. He was probably already locked in his basement workroom, she realized unhappily.
He must have gotten up very early and—
What was that in the bed?
Margaret clicked on a dresser lamp and stepped up beside the bed.
“Oh, no!” she cried, raising her hands to her face in horror.
The bedsheet was covered with a thick layer of dirt. Clumps of dirt.
Margaret stared down at it, not breathing, not moving.
The dirt was black and appeared to be moist.
And the dirt was moving.
Moving?
It can’t be, Margaret thought. That’s impossible.
She leaned down to take a closer look at the layer of dirt.
No. The dirt wasn’t moving.
The dirt was filled with dozens of moving insects. And long, brown earthworms. All crawling through the wet, black clumps that lined her father’s bed.
11
Casey didn’t come downstairs until ten-thirty. Before his arrival, Margaret had made herself breakfast, managed to pull on jeans and a T-shirt, had talked to Diane on the phone for half an hour, and had spent the rest of the time pacing back and forth in the living room, trying to decide what to do.
Desperate to talk to her dad, she had banged a few times on the basement door, timidly at first and then loudly. But he either couldn’t hear her or chose not to. He didn’t respond.
When Casey finally emerged, she poured him a tall glass of orange juice and led him out to the backyard to talk. It was a hazy day, the sky mostly yellow, the air already stifling hot even though the sun was still hovering low over the hills.
Walking toward the block of green shade cast by the hedges, she told her brother about their dad’s green blood and about the insect-filled dirt in his bed.
Casey stood open-mouthed, holding the glass of orange juice in front of him, untouched. He stared at Margaret, and didn’t say anything for a very long time.
Finally, he set the orange juice down on the lawn and said, “What should we do?” in a voice just above a whisper.
Margaret shrugged. “I wish Mom would call.”
“Would you tell her everything?” Casey asked, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy shorts.
“I guess,” Margaret said. “I don’t know if she’d believe it, but—”
“It’s so scary,” Casey said. “I mean, he’s our dad. We’ve known him our whole lives. I mean—”
“I know,” Margaret said. “But he’s not the same. He’s—”
“Maybe he can explain it all,” Casey said thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s a good reason for everything. You know. Like the leaves on his head.”
“We asked him about that,” Margaret reminded her brother. “He just said it was a side effect. Not much of an explanation.”
Casey nodded, but didn’t reply.
“I told some of it to Diane,” Margaret admitted.
Casey looked up at her in surprise.
“Well, I had to tell somebody,” she snapped edgily. “Diane thought I should call the police.”
“Huh?” Casey shook his head. “Dad hasn’t done anything wrong—has he? What would the police do?”
“I know,” Margaret replied. “That’s what I told Diane. But she said there’s got to be some kind of law against being a mad scientist.”
“Dad isn’t a mad scientist,” Casey said angrily. “That’s stupid. He’s just—He’s just—”
Just what? Margaret thought. What is he?
A few hours later, they were still in the backyard, trying to figure out what to do, when the kitchen door opened and their father called them to come in.
Margaret looked at Casey in surprise. “I don’t believe it. He came upstairs.”
“Maybe we can talk to him,” Casey said.
They both raced into the kitchen. Dr. Brewer, his Dodgers cap in place, flashed them a smile as he set two soup bowls down on the table. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Lunchtime.”
“Huh? You made lunch?” Casey exclaimed, unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Dad, we’ve got to talk,” Margaret said seriously.
“Afraid I don’t have much time,” he said, avoiding her stare. “Sit down. Try this new dish. I want to see if you like it.”
Margaret and Casey obediently took their places at the table. “What is this stuff?” Casey cried.
The two bowls were filled with a green, pulpy substance. “It looks like green mashed potatoes,” Casey said, making a face.
“It’s something different,” Dr. Brewer said mysteriously, standing over them at the head of the table. “Go ahead. Taste it. I’ll bet you’ll be surprised.”
“Dad—you’ve never made lunch for us before,” Margaret said, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.
“I just wanted you to try this,” he said, his smile fading. “You’re my guinea pigs.”
“We have some things we want to ask you,” Margaret said, lifting her spoon, but not eating the green mess.
“Your mother called this morning,” their father said.
“When?” Margaret asked eagerly.
“Just a short while ago. I guess you were outside and didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“What did she say?” Casey asked, staring down at the bowl in front of him.
“Aunt Eleanor’s doing better. She’s been moved out of intensive care. Your mom may be able to come home soon.”
“Great!” Margaret and Casey cried in unison.
“Eat,” Dr. Brewer instructed, pointing to the bowls.
“Uh… aren’t you going to have some?” Casey asked, rolling his spoon around in his fingers.
“No,” their father replied q
uickly. “I already ate.” He leaned with both hands against the tabletop. Margaret saw that his cut hand was freshly bandaged.
“Dad, last night—” she started.
But he cut her off. “Eat, will you? Try it.”
“But what is it?” Casey demanded, whining. “It doesn’t smell too good.”
“I think you’ll like the taste,” Dr. Brewer insisted impatiently. “It should taste very sweet.”
He stared at them, urging them to eat the green stuff.
Staring into the bowl at the mysterious substance, Margaret was suddenly frozen with fear. He’s too eager for us to eat this, she thought, glancing up at her brother.
He’s too desperate.
He’s never made lunch before. Why did he make this?
And why won’t he tell us what it is?
What’s going on here? she wondered. And Casey’s expression revealed that he was wondering the same thing.
Is Dad trying to do something to us? Is this green stuff going to change us, or hurt us… or make us grow leaves, too?
What crazy thoughts, Margaret realized.
But she also realized that she was terrified of whatever this stuff was he was trying to feed them.
“What’s the matter with you two?” their father cried impatiently. He raised his hand in an eating gesture. “Pick up your spoons. Come on. What are you waiting for?”
Margaret and Casey raised their spoons and dropped them into the soft, green substance. But they didn’t raise the spoons to their mouths.
They couldn’t.
“Eat! Eat!” Dr. Brewer screamed, pounding the table with his good hand. “What are you waiting for? Eat your lunch. Go ahead. Eat it!”
He’s giving us no choice, Margaret thought.
Her hand was trembling as she reluctantly raised the spoon to her mouth.
12
“Go ahead. You’ll like it,” Dr. Brewer insisted, leaning over the table.
Casey watched as Margaret raised the spoon to her lips.
The doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Dr. Brewer asked, very annoyed at the interruption. “I’ll be right back, kids.” He lumbered out to the front hall.
“Saved by the bell,” Margaret said, dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a sickening plop.
“This stuff is disgusting,” Casey whispered. “It’s some kind of plant food or something. Yuck!”
“Quick—” Margaret said, jumping up and grabbing the two bowls. “Help me.”
They rushed to the sink, pulled out the waste-basket, and scooped the contents of both bowls into the garbage. Then they carried both bowls back to the table and set them down beside the spoons.
“Let’s go see who’s at the door,” Casey said.
They crept into the hall in time to see a man carrying a black briefcase step into the front entranceway and greet their father with a short handshake. The man had a tanned bald head and was wearing large, blue-lensed sunglasses. He had a brown mustache and was wearing a navy blue suit with a red-and-white striped tie.
“Mr. Martinez!” their father exclaimed. “What a… surprise.”
“That’s Dad’s old boss from PolyTech,” Margaret whispered to Casey.
“I know,” Casey replied peevishly.
“I said weeks ago I’d come check up on how your work is coming along,” Martinez said, sniffing the air for some reason. “Wellington gave me a lift. My car is in the garage—for a change.”
“Well, I’m not really ready,” Dr. Brewer stammered, looking very uncomfortable even from Margaret’s vantage point behind him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I mean… I don’t think this is a good time.”
“No problem. I’ll just have a quick look,” Martinez said, putting a hand on Dr. Brewer’s shoulder as if to calm him. “I’ve always been so interested in your work. You know that. And you know that it wasn’t my idea to let you go. The board forced me. They gave me no choice. But I’m not giving up on you. I promise you that. Come on. Let’s see what kind of progress you’re making.”
“Well…” Dr. Brewer couldn’t hide his displeasure at Mr. Martinez’s surprise appearance. He scowled and tried to block the path to the basement steps.
At least, it seemed that way to Margaret, who watched silently beside her brother.
Mr. Martinez stepped past Dr. Brewer and pulled open the basement door. “Hi, guys.” Mr. Martinez gave the two kids a wave, hoisting his briefcase as if it weighed two tons.
Their father looked surprised to see them there. “Did you kids finish your lunch?”
“Yeah, it was pretty good,” Casey lied.
The answer seemed to please Dr. Brewer. Adjusting the brim of his Dodgers cap, he followed Mr. Martinez into the basement, carefully closing and locking the door behind him.
“Maybe he’ll give Dad his job back,” Casey said, walking back into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator to look for something for lunch.
“Don’t be stupid,” Margaret said, reaching over him to pull out a container of egg salad. “If Dad really is growing plants that are part animal, he’ll be famous. He won’t need a job.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Casey said thoughtfully. “Is that all there is? Just egg salad?”
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Margaret offered.
“I’m not really hungry,” Casey replied. “That green stuff made me sick. Why do you think he wanted us to eat it?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said. She put a hand on Casey’s slender shoulder. “I’m really scared, Casey. I wish Mom were home.”
“Me, too,” he said quietly.
Margaret put the egg salad back into the refrigerator. She closed the door, then leaned her hot forehead against it. “Casey—”
“What?”
“Do you think Dad is telling us the truth?”
“About what?”
“About anything?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, shaking his head. Then his expression suddenly changed. “There’s one way to find out,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
“Huh? What do you mean?” Margaret pushed herself away from the refrigerator.
“The first chance we get, the first time Dad is away,” Casey whispered, “let’s go back down in the basement and see for ourselves what Dad is doing.”
13
They got their chance the next afternoon when their father emerged from the basement, red metal toolchest in hand. “I promised Mr. Henry next door I’d help him install a new sink in his bathroom,” he explained, adjusting his Dodgers cap with his free hand.
“When are you coming back?” Casey asked, glancing at Margaret.
Not very subtle, Casey, Margaret thought, rolling her eyes.
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,” Dr. Brewer said. He disappeared out the kitchen door.
They watched him cut through the hedges in the backyard and head to Mr. Henry’s back door. “It’s now or never,” Margaret said, glancing doubtfully at Casey. “Think we can do this?” She tried the door. Locked, as usual.
“No problem,” Casey said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Go get a paper clip. I’ll show you what my friend Kevin taught me last week.”
Margaret obediently found a paper clip on her desk and brought it to him. Casey straightened the clip out, then poked it into the lock. In a few seconds, he hummed a triumphant fanfare and pulled the door open.
“Now you’re an expert lock picker, huh? Your friend Kevin is a good guy to know,” Margaret said, shaking her head.
Casey grinned and motioned for Margaret to go first.
“Okay. Let’s not think about it. Let’s just do it,” Margaret said, summoning her courage and stepping onto the landing.
A few seconds later, they were in the basement.
Knowing a little of what to expect down here didn’t make it any less frightening. They were hit immediately by a blast of steamy, hot air. The air, Margaret realized, was so wet, so thick, that dro
plets immediately clung to her skin.
Squinting against the sudden bright light, they stopped in the doorway to the plant room. The plants seemed taller, thicker, more plentiful than the first time they had ventured down here.
Long, sinewy tendrils drooped from thick yellow stalks. Broad green and yellow leaves bobbed and trembled, shimmering under the white light. Leaves slapped against each other, making a soft, wet sound. A fat tomato plopped to the ground.
Everything seemed to shimmer. The plants all seemed to quiver expectantly. They weren’t standing still. They seemed to be reaching up, reaching out, quaking with energy as they grew.
Long brown tendrils snaked along the dirt, wrapping themselves around other plants, around each other. A bushy fern had grown to the ceiling, curved, and started its way back down again.
“Wow!” Casey cried, impressed with this trembling, glistening jungle. “Are all these plants really brand-new?”
“I guess so,” Margaret said softly. “They look prehistoric!”
They heard breathing sounds, loud sighing, a low moan coming from the direction of the supply closet against the wall.
A tendril suddenly swung out from a long stalk. Margaret pulled Casey back. “Look out. Don’t get too close,” she warned.
“I know,” he said sharply, moving away from her. “Don’t grab me like that. You scared me.”
The tendril slid harmlessly to the dirt.
“Sorry,” she said, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “It’s just… well, you remember last time.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
Margaret shuddered.
She heard breathing. Steady, quiet breathing.
These plants are definitely not normal, she thought. She took a step back, letting her eyes roam over the amazing jungle of slithering, sighing plants.
She was still staring at them when she heard Casey’s terrified scream.
“Help! It’s got me! It’s got me!”
14
Margaret uttered a shriek of terror and spun away from the plants to find her brother.
“Help!” Casey cried.