by R. L. Stine
Gripped with fear, Margaret took a few steps toward Casey, then saw the small, gray creature scampering across the floor.
She started to laugh.
“Casey, it’s a squirrel!”
“What?” His voice was several octaves higher than normal. “It—it grabbed my ankle and—”
“Look,” Margaret said, pointing. “It’s a squirrel. Look how scared it is. It must have run right into you.”
“Oh.” Casey sighed. The color began to return to his ash-gray face. “I thought it was a… plant.”
“Right. A furry gray plant,” Margaret said, shaking her head. Her heart was still thudding in her chest. “You sure gave me a scare, Casey.”
The squirrel stopped several yards away, turned, stood up on its hind legs, and stared back at them, quivering all over.
“How did a squirrel get down here?” Casey demanded, his voice still shaky.
Margaret shrugged. “Squirrels are always getting in,” she said. “And remember that chipmunk we couldn’t get rid of?” Then she glanced over to the small ground-level window at the top of the opposite wall. “That window—it’s open,” she told Casey. “The squirrel must have climbed in over there.”
“Shoo!” Casey yelled at the squirrel. He started to chase it. The squirrel’s tail shot right up in the air, and then it took off, running through the tangled plants. “Get out! Get out!” Casey screamed.
The terrified squirrel, with Casey in close pursuit, circled the plants twice. Then it headed to the far wall, leapt onto a carton, then onto a higher carton, then bounded out the open window.
Casey stopped running and stared up at the window.
“Good work,” Margaret said. “Now, let’s get out of here. We don’t know what anything is. We have no idea what to look for. So we can’t tell if Dad is telling the truth or not.”
She started toward the stairs, but stopped when she heard the bumping sound. “Casey—did you hear that?” She searched for her brother, but he was hidden by the thick leaves of the plants. “Casey?”
“Yeah. I heard it,” he answered, still out of her view. “It’s coming from the supply closet.”
The loud thumping made Margaret shudder. It sounded to her exactly like someone banging on the closet wall.
“Casey, let’s check it out,” she said.
No reply.
The banging got louder.
“Casey?”
Why wasn’t he answering her?
“Casey—where are you? You’re frightening me,” Margaret called, moving closer to the shimmering plants. Another tomato plopped to the ground, so near her foot, it made her jump.
Despite the intense heat, she suddenly felt cold all over.
“Casey?”
“Margaret—come here. I’ve found something,” he finally said. He sounded uncertain, worried.
She hurried around the plants and saw him standing in front of the worktable beside the supply closet. The banging from the closet had stopped.
“Casey, what’s the matter? You scared me,” Margaret scolded. She stopped and leaned against the wooden worktable.
“Look,” her brother said, holding up a dark, folded-up bundle. “I found this. On the floor. Shoved under this worktable.”
“Huh? What is it?” Margaret asked.
Casey unfolded it. It was a suit jacket. A blue suit jacket. A red-striped necktie was folded inside it.
“It’s Mr. Martinez’s,” Casey said, squeezing the collar of the wrinkled jacket between his hands. “It’s his jacket and tie.”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open into a wide O of surprise. “You mean he left it here?”
“If he left it, why was it bundled up and shoved back under the table?” Casey asked.
Margaret stared at the jacket. She ran her hand over the silky striped tie.
“Did you see Mr. Martinez leave the house yesterday afternoon?” Casey asked.
“No,” Margaret answered. “But he must have left. I mean, his car was gone.”
“He didn’t drive, remember? He told Dad he got a lift.”
Margaret raised her eyes from the wrinkled jacket to her brother’s worried face. “Casey—what are you saying? That Mr. Martinez didn’t leave? That he was eaten by a plant or something? That’s ridiculous!”
“Then why were his coat and tie hidden like that?” Casey demanded.
Margaret didn’t have a chance to respond.
They both gasped as they heard loud footsteps on the stairs.
Someone was hurrying down to the basement.
“Hide!” Margaret whispered.
“Where?” Casey asked, his eyes wide with panic.
15
Margaret leapt up onto the carton, then pulled herself through the small, open window. A tight squeeze, but she struggled out onto the grass. Then she turned around to help Casey.
That squirrel turned out to be a friend, she thought, tugging her brother’s arms as he scrambled out of the basement. It showed us the only escape route.
The afternoon air felt quite cool compared to the steamy basement. Breathing hard, they both squatted down to peer into the window. “Who is it?” Casey whispered.
Margaret didn’t have to answer. They both saw their father step into the white light, his eyes searching the plant room.
“Why did Dad come back?” Casey asked.
“Sshhh!” Margaret held a finger to her lips. Then she climbed to her feet and pulled Casey toward the back door. “Come on. Hurry.”
The back door was unlocked. They stepped into the kitchen just as their father emerged from the basement, a concerned expression on his face. “Hey—there you are!” he exclaimed.
“Hi, Dad,” Margaret said, trying to sound casual. “Why’d you come back?”
“Had to get more tools,” he answered, studying their faces. He eyed them suspiciously. “Where were you two?”
“Out in the backyard,” Margaret said quickly. “We came in when we heard the back door slam.”
Dr. Brewer scowled and shook his head. “You never used to lie to me before,” he said. “I know you went down into the basement again. You left the door wide open.”
“We just wanted to look,” Casey said quickly, glancing at Margaret, his expression fearful.
“We found Mr. Martinez’s jacket and tie,” Margaret said. “What happened to him, Dad?”
“Huh?” The question seemed to catch Dr. Brewer by surprise.
“Why did he leave his jacket and tie down there?” Margaret asked.
“I’m raising two snoops,” her father griped. “Martinez got hot, okay? I have to keep the basement at a very high, tropical temperature with lots of humidity. Martinez became uncomfortable. He removed his jacket and tie and put them down on the worktable. Then he forgot them when he left.”
Dr. Brewer chuckled. “I think he was in a state of shock from everything I showed him down there. It’s no wonder he forgot his things. But I called Martinez this morning. I’m going to drive over and return his stuff when I finish at Mr. Henry’s.”
Margaret saw a smile break out on Casey’s face. She felt relieved, too. It was good to know that Mr. Martinez was okay.
How awful to suspect my own father of doing something terrible to someone, she thought.
But she couldn’t help herself. The fear returned every time she saw him.
“I’d better get going,” Dr. Brewer said. Carrying the tools he had picked up, he started toward the back door. But he stopped at the end of the hall and turned around. “Don’t go back in the basement, okay? It really could be dangerous. You could be very sorry.”
Margaret listened to the screen door slam behind him.
Was that a warning—or a threat? she wondered.
16
Margaret spent Saturday morning biking up in the golden hills with Diane. The sun burned through the morning smog, and the skies turned blue. A strong breeze kept them from getting too hot. The narrow road was lined with red and yellow wildflowers, and Margaret felt as
if she were traveling somewhere far, far away.
They had lunch at Diane’s house—tomato soup and avocado salad—then wandered back to Margaret’s house, trying to figure out how to spend the rest of a beautiful afternoon.
Dr. Brewer was just backing the station wagon down the drive as Margaret and Diane rode up on their bikes. He rolled down the window, a broad smile on his face. “Good news!” he shouted. “Your mom is on her way home. I’m going to the airport to get her!”
“Oh, that’s great!” Margaret exclaimed, so happy she could almost cry. Margaret and Diane waved and pedaled up the driveway.
I’m so happy, Margaret thought. It’ll be so good to have her back. Someone I can talk to. Someone who can explain… about Dad.
They looked through some old copies of Sassy and People in Margaret’s room, listening to some tapes that Margaret had recently bought. At a little past three, Diane suddenly remembered that she had a make-up piano lesson that she was late for. She rushed out of the house in a panic, jumped on her bike, yelled, “Say hi to your mom for me!” and disappeared down the drive.
Margaret stood behind the house looking out at the rolling hills, wondering what to do next to make the time pass before her mother got home. The strong, swirling breeze felt cool against her face. She decided to get a book and go sit down with it under the shady sassafras tree in the middle of the yard.
She turned and pulled open the kitchen door, and Casey came running up. “Where are our kites?” he asked, out of breath.
“Kites? I don’t know. Why?” Margaret asked. “Hey—” She grabbed his shoulder to get his attention. “Mom’s coming home. She should be here in an hour or so.”
“Great!” he cried. “Just enough time to fly some kites. It’s so windy. Come on. Want to fly ’em with me?”
“Sure,” Margaret said. It would help pass the time. She thought hard, trying to remember where they put the kites. “Are they in the garage?”
“No,” Casey told her. “I know. They’re in the basement. On those shelves. The string, too.” He pushed past her into the house. “I’ll jimmy the lock and go down and get them.”
“Hey, Casey—be careful down there,” she called after him. He disappeared into the hallway. Margaret had second thoughts. She didn’t want Casey down there by himself in the plant room. “Wait up,” she called. “I’ll come with you.”
They made their way down the stairs quickly, into the hot, steamy air, into the bright lights.
The plants seemed to bend toward them, to reach out to them as they walked by. Margaret tried to ignore them. Walking right behind Casey, she kept her eyes on the tall metal shelves straight ahead.
The shelves were deep and filled with old, unwanted toys, games, and sports equipment, a plastic tent, some old sleeping bags. Casey got there first and started rummaging around on the lower shelves. “I know they’re here somewhere,” he said.
“Yeah. I remember storing them here,” Margaret said, running her eyes over the top shelves.
Casey, down on his knees, started pulling boxes off the bottom shelf. Suddenly, he stopped. “Whoa—Margaret.”
“Huh?” She took a step back. “What is it?”
“Look at this,” Casey said softly. He pulled something out from behind the shelves, then stood up with it bundled in his hands.
Margaret saw that he was holding a pair of black shoes. And a pair of blue trousers.
Blue suit trousers?
His face suddenly pale, his features drawn, Casey let the shoes drop to the floor. He unfurled the trousers and held them up in front of him.
“Hey—look in the back pocket,” Margaret said, pointing.
Casey reached into the back pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet.
“I don’t believe this,” Margaret said.
Casey’s hands trembled as he opened the wallet and searched inside. He pulled out a green American Express card and read the name on it.
“It belongs to Mr. Martinez,” he said, swallowing hard. He raised his eyes to Margaret’s. “This is Mr. Martinez’s stuff.”
17
“Dad lied,” Casey said, staring in horror at the wallet in his hands. “Mr. Martinez might leave without his jacket. But he wouldn’t leave without his pants and shoes.”
“But—what happened to him?” Margaret asked, feeling sick.
Casey slammed the wallet shut. He shook his head sadly, but didn’t reply.
In the center of the room, a plant seemed to groan, the sound startling the two kids.
“Dad lied,” Casey repeated, staring down at the pants and shoes on the floor. “Dad lied to us.”
“What are we going to do?” Margaret cried, panic and desperation in her voice. “We’ve got to tell someone what’s happening here. But who?”
The plant groaned again. Tendrils snaked along the dirt. Leaves clapped against each other softly, wetly.
And then the banging began again in the supply closet next to the shelves.
Margaret stared at Casey. “That thumping. What is it?”
They both listened to the insistent banging sounds. A low moan issued from the closet, followed by a higher-pitched one, both mournful, both very human-sounding.
“I think someone’s in there!” Margaret exclaimed.
“Maybe it’s Mr. Martinez,” Casey suggested, still gripping the wallet tightly in his hand.
Thud thud thud.
“Do you think we should open the closet?” Casey asked timidly.
A plant groaned as if answering.
“Yes. I think we should,” Margaret replied, suddenly cold all over. “If it’s Mr. Martinez in there, we’ve got to let him out.”
Casey set the wallet down on the shelf. Then they moved quickly to the supply closet.
Across from them, the plants seemed to shift and move as the two kids did. They heard breathing sounds, another groan, scurrying noises. Leaves bristled on their stalks. Tendrils drooped and slid.
“Hey—look!” Casey cried.
“I see,” Margaret said. The closet door wasn’t just locked. A two-by-four had been nailed over it.
Thud thud. Thud thud thud.
“There’s someone in there—I know it!” Margaret cried.
“I’ll get the hammer,” Casey said. Keeping close to the wall and as far away from the plants as he could, he edged his way toward the worktable.
A few seconds later, he returned with a claw hammer.
Thud thud.
Working together, they pried the two-by-four off the door. It clattered noisily to the floor.
The banging from inside the supply closet grew louder, more insistent.
“Now what do we do about the lock?” Margaret asked, staring at it.
Casey scratched his head. They both had perspiration dripping down their faces. The steamy, hot air made it hard to catch their breaths.
“I don’t know how to unlock it,” Casey said, stumped.
“What if we tried to pry the door off the way we pulled off the two-by-four?” Margaret asked.
Thud thud thud.
Casey shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s try.”
Working the claw of the hammer into the narrow crack, they tried prying the door on the side of the lock. When it wouldn’t budge, they moved to the hinged side of the door and tried there.
“It’s not moving,” Casey said, mopping his forehead with his arm.
“Keep trying,” Margaret said. “Here. Let’s both push it.”
Digging the claw in just above the lower hinge, they both pushed the handle of the hammer with all their strength.
“It—it moved a little,” Margaret said, breathing hard.
They kept at it. The wet wood began to crack. They both pushed against the hammer, wedging the claw into the crack.
Finally, with a loud ripping sound, they managed to pull the door off.
“Huh?” Casey dropped the hammer.
They both squinted into the dark closet.
And screa
med in horror when they saw what was inside.
18
“Look!” Margaret cried, her heart thudding. She suddenly felt dizzy. She gripped the side of the closet to steady herself.
“I—don’t believe this,” Casey said quietly, his voice trembling as he stared into the long, narrow supply closet.
They both gaped at the weird plants that filled the closet.
Were they plants?
Under the dim ceiling bulb, they bent and writhed, groaning, breathing, sighing. Branches shook, leaves shimmered and moved, tall plants leaned forward as if reaching out to Margaret and Casey.
“Look at that one!” Casey cried, taking a step back, stumbling into Margaret. “It has an arm!”
“Ohh.” Margaret followed Casey’s stare. Casey was right. The tall, leafy plant appeared to have a green, human arm descending from its stalk.
Margaret’s eyes darted around the closet. To her horror, she realized that several plants seemed to have human features—green arms, a yellow hand with three fingers poking from it, two stumpy legs where the stem should be.
She and her brother both cried out when they saw the plant with the face. Inside a cluster of broad leaves there appeared to grow a round, green tomato. But the tomato had a human-shaped nose and an open mouth, from which it repeatedly uttered the most mournful sighs and groans.
Another plant, a short plant with clusters of broad, oval leaves, had two green, nearly human faces partly hidden by the leaves, both wailing through open mouths.
“Let’s get out of here!” Casey cried, grabbing Margaret’s hand in fear and tugging her away from the closet. “This is—gross!”
The plants moaned and sighed. Green, fingerless hands reached out to Margaret and Casey. A yellow, sick-looking plant near the wall made choking sounds. A tall flowering plant staggered toward them, thin, tendril-like arms outstretched.
“Wait!” Margaret cried, pulling her hand out of Casey’s. She spotted something on the closet floor behind the moaning, shifting plants. “Casey—what’s that?” she asked, pointing.
She struggled to focus her eyes in the dim light of the closet. On the floor behind the plants, near the shelves on the back wall, were two human feet.