The Curse of the Were-Hyena

by Bruce Hale

  I pretended to feel his forehead. “Now I know you’re woozy.”

  “You said our parents would probably keep us locked in after school.”

  “Probably?” I said. “We’ll be grounded for a week.”

  Drifting up the sidewalk toward Main Street, Benny kept talking. He knew I’d follow. “So sneaking out to catch Mr. Chu’s maker tonight will be hard enough without adding another sneak-out before that.”

  “Hang on. Why would we need to sneak out before that?”

  “To check with Mrs. Tamasese, of course—to learn more about the alpha hyena and his powers. We’ve got to be ready.”

  What we’d just seen at Mr. Chu’s house must have shaken me more than I knew. Otherwise, how to explain what happened next? I planted my feet, stopped dead on the sidewalk, and did something I’d almost never done before.

  I told Benny, “No.”

  “No?”

  Emotions fizzed inside me like soda in a shaken-up can. “No! No more breaking rules and getting in trouble.”

  Benny offered a half smile. “But that’s what we do.”

  “Not anymore.” My hands slashed the air. “It hasn’t gotten us anything but detention and being grounded.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It hasn’t cured Mr. Chu.” My eyes prickled and my jaw tightened. “I’m going to do something we should have done a long time ago.”

  “Change our socks?” Benny was trying to keep things light, but I wasn’t joking around. Not this time.

  “I’m going to the cops with this,” I said.

  Benny’s eyes got huge, and his hands came up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Bad idea. The last thing we need is to get the cops involved.”

  In the face of his sureness, I wobbled for a moment. But the sight of Mr. Chu’s rolled-back eyeballs had decided me.

  “We’re in way over our heads,” I said. “Come with me.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  I reached out to him. “Let’s go to your dad and tell him everything. He’s got to believe us.”

  “Why would he? Your dad didn’t believe us.”

  I drew myself up. “We’ve got to at least try. We’re not professional monster hunters, Benny. We’re just kids.”

  His cheeks reddened and his eyes held a hurt look. “You may chicken out,” he said in a tight voice, “but I’m not missing my chance to be a hero.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

  Benny’s face froze. “You’re the stupid one.” Turning on his heel, he fled down the sidewalk in the direction of the comics store.

  “Benny!” I cried, taking a couple of strides after him. But my steps faltered. I’d known as soon as I said it that the police station was the right place to go. And with Benny or without him, that’s exactly where I was headed.

  THE NEXT FEW blocks were a blur. My mind churned like chilies in a grinder. Endlessly, it turned over my argument with Benny, Mr. Chu’s worsening condition, and the teensy little problem of what the heck I was going to tell the police to convince them to act.

  I couldn’t believe Benny had gone off on his own like that. From the first time we’d met in kindergarten, we’d been practically inseparable. I couldn’t believe I’d told him no. I tried to think of things from his side. He probably just didn’t want to look like he was running to his daddy.

  Maybe he had a point….

  This is the downside of being the kind of kid who always overthinks things.

  I was so distracted that the toot of a car horn made me jump.

  A bronze Toyota pulled to the curb ahead of me, and the passenger-side window slid down. A familiar PTA-mom-looking face with salt-and-pepper hair peered out.

  “Is that Carlos?” asked the museum lady.

  “Oh, hi, Ms. Icaza,” I said.

  Her smile was as warm as fresh-baked sugar cookies. “You look like a man on a mission,” she said. “Need a ride?”

  Now, I’m not a complete idiot. I know kids aren’t supposed to take rides from strangers. But since I’d met her twice, Ms. Icaza wasn’t technically a stranger. Plus, my mom had been in L.A. for a couple days, and I was really missing her. Right then I needed a sympathetic, momlike ear.

  “Um, maybe…” I said, wavering. “I’m going to the police station?”

  The museum worker turned off her car, got out, and joined me on the sidewalk. “The police?” she said. “Are you going to surrender yourself to the truant officer?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “It kind of has to do with…shapeshifting.”

  She didn’t scoff, she didn’t laugh. Instead, Ms. Icaza’s eyes went round with interest. “Really?” she said. “Tell me.”

  I took a deep breath and decided to use her as a dry run for the story I’d give the police. “It’s my teacher,” I said. “He’s turning into a were-hyena.”

  Then I proceeded to hit the low points of the past couple days, leaving out the bit where Big Pete pulled the fire alarm and Benny and I borrowed her museum’s amulet.

  Sometime during the tale, we climbed into her car and she drove slowly away. Most grown-ups barely listen to kids; they only wait for their turn to tell you what’s what. But Ms. Icaza was not most grown-ups. When I finished, she stayed silent.

  “I—I know it sounds crazy,” I said at last, “but—”

  She held up a palm. “No. No, it doesn’t sound crazy. Unlikely, yes. Bizarre, yes. But I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  Her hand patted mine. “I do. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

  “Huh?”

  Ms. Icaza smiled. “Shakespeare. It means there are still unknowns, still miracles on this planet. Science doesn’t know everything. In fact, Mr. Sharkawy and I saw some strange sights when we were in Africa, so I don’t find the whole idea of shapeshifters so hard to believe.”

  “That’s great,” I said. My heart suddenly felt lighter. “Will you come with me to see the cops? They might take me more seriously if I’ve got a grown-up along.”

  Turning a corner, Ms. Icaza said, “I’ll do even better than that.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll help you cure your teacher.”

  “That’d be terrific!” I said. Then I noticed which direction we were heading. “Um, but the police station is behind us.”

  Ms. Icaza gave me a conspiratorial look. “First, we’re going to the museum.”

  “The museum?” This didn’t seem like the best time to take in some culture.

  “Not everything we brought back is part of the Africa exhibit,” she said. “Mr. Sharkawy collected other occult objects and ancient texts, and I think we may have something to help cure shapeshifters.”

  A worm of guilt writhed in my belly. How could I tell her not to bother going back for the amulet because it was already in my pocket?

  “Oh, really?” I asked. “What kinds of things?”

  “Rare translations of ancient rituals, as well as herbs from tribal shamans.”

  I relaxed again. “Okay by me. That sounds good.”

  In under five minutes Ms. Icaza had parked her car in the museum lot and was leading me toward the employees’ entrance. A sudden thought jolted me, and I balked.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Mr. Sharkawy,” I said. “He won’t help us. He hates me and Benny.”

  She flapped her hand, dismissing my worry. “That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t hate you two.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  Ms. Icaza’s laugh chimed like mission bells. “He hates all children. But never fear, he loves the supernatural even more than he loathes kids.”

  “If you say so…” I said, letting her usher me into the building. Being anywhere near the guy made me nervous, but maybe Ms. Icaza could keep him in line.

  Instead of taking me upstairs to the director’s office, however, Ms. Icaza led the way down some steps to the basement lev
el. The ceiling hung low, the walls were pea-soup green, and a permanent chill filled the air.

  “Um, what about your boss?” I asked.

  “Time is of the essence.” She hurried along a corridor, fishing in her purse for a key ring. “I need you to start looking through the papers while I break the news to Mr. Sharkawy in a way that gets him on our side. It’ll go faster if you’re not there.”

  I liked the way she said “our side.” Not to diss Mrs. Tamasese’s advice, but it was a relief to have a grown-up more actively helping us with Mr. Chu’s problem.

  When Ms. Icaza opened up the storage room, the fluorescents flickered on overhead, bathing everything in a sickly greenish light. Stacks of shallow boxes about the size of paintings were leaning on one wall. Against another, a long table held rolls of brightly colored fabric and a row of what I guessed were African sculptures. They ranged from bearded weirdos and animal-headed dudes to earth-mother figures. Shelves filled the back half of this wide room, groaning under the weight of countless papers and scrolls.

  “Wow.” I sized up the racks. “Do I have to look through all of this?”

  Ms. Icaza chuckled. “Not quite. The papers we brought back from Africa are right here.” She indicated the two lowest shelves and passed me a box of disposable gloves. “Put these on to protect the documents.”

  As she turned to go, I said, “Wait. What am I looking for?”

  “Descriptions of Yoruba and Bakongo shamanic rituals. I know I saw several dealing with animal possession.”

  My face must have reflected my doubts, because Ms. Icaza offered me a motherly smile. “Don’t worry,” she said, patting my shoulder, “we’ll take care of you.” Then she bustled out the door and closed it behind her with a click.

  The harsh overhead light cast dramatic shadows on the sculptures. Too dramatic. The eyes of the biggest animal-headed dude were like pools of darkness, drawing me in. Could a carving hypnotize a person? Or could it come to life, like that evil doll Chucky?

  I shuddered.

  Then I took a deep breath and got a grip. We had important work to do and here I was, wasting time scaring myself. Slipping on a pair of ultrathin latex gloves, I got to work.

  Time seemed to zip by as I paged through the crinkly old documents at a low worktable. I found plenty of references to rituals, but nothing about animal possession. The papers piled up. When at last I stood to stretch a kink out of my back, it suddenly struck me:

  Where was Ms. Icaza?

  She’d sounded like she meant to come right back. But it felt like at least a half hour had passed, maybe more. Had she gotten into trouble with her boss?

  I shivered as an awful thought occurred. If Mr. Sharkawy was the alpha hyena, he wouldn’t want us trying to cure Mr. Chu. In fact, he might do something drastic to his own employee to stop us.

  Uh-oh.

  I peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto the table. In a half-dozen strides, I stood at the door. I tried the knob.

  Locked.

  Hammering on the thick wood, I cried, “Hello? Ms. Icaza? Mr. Sharkawy? Anyone there?”

  No answer. I pounded again.

  And then I heard something that froze my bones to the marrow: a low, sinister chuckle.

  “H-hello?” I called, voice wavering. “Who’s there?”

  Still no reply.

  “The door’s locked,” I said. “I can’t get out.”

  “Of course not,” said an oily voice. “You’re right where we want you.”

  “Mr. Sharkawy?” I said. “It’s Carlos Rivera. Open up.”

  The chuckle lasted even longer this time, sounding positively unhinged.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the museum director when he’d finished his spooky laughing exercises. “The animal ancestors require a sacrifice, and guess what? You’re it.”

  Híjole. I sagged in disbelief. My forehead rested against the door.

  All I could think was, I really, really wished I’d listened to Benny.

  MY SHOCK only lasted for a few heartbeats. Then the full awareness of my predicament sank in. Stark terror boiled along my veins, scorching its way through my body like molten lava.

  “No!” I yelled, pounding my fists against the door. “You can’t do this! I’m only in fourth grade!”

  “The ancestors demand a sacrifice every moon. It’s an honor to be chosen,” said Mr. Sharkawy. His voice sounded so creepy, it felt like tarantulas were scuttling down my spine.

  “I don’t deserve the honor!” I cried. “I cheated on a pop quiz!”

  “The ancients like fresh young offerings.”

  “But I’m not fresh.” I pounded harder. “I forgot to change my underwear, and I haven’t showered all week!”

  “The gods have chosen,” said Mr. Sharkawy.

  I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Where’s Ms. Icaza?”

  “Someplace where she won’t interfere,” said the psycho museum director. “Prepare yourself. I’ll return presently.”

  Poor Ms. Icaza. She was locked up, knocked out, or worse.

  Poor me. She wouldn’t be coming to save me.

  At that point, I did what any self-respecting kid in my situation would’ve done. I screamed, I pleaded, and I threatened. None of it did any good. Mr. Sharkawy was either getting his jollies by listening to me freak out, or he’d gone off to do other creepy-museum-guy things. I couldn’t tell.

  Right then, I made a vow: no more telling grown-ups about our supernatural troubles. Not only was it bad form for a hero, but it had landed me in this predicament.

  After rattling and kicking the door, I began exploring the room, searching for an escape route. Aside from the entrance, there was no way out. The storeroom was almost window-free, except for a single narrow, rectangular opening high on the far wall.

  I dragged over a chair and climbed onto it. Teetering on tiptoe, I could almost reach the bottom of the window frame. Shoot. I added a pile of thick books and tried again. This time, my hand closed on the latch.

  But no matter how much I tugged and twisted, it wouldn’t budge. I took a closer look. The lock had been sloppily painted over the last time this room was redone, probably back around the time of King Tut.

  On a shelf of tools, I found a small hammer that looked like something you’d use to knock dirt off of fossils. I whacked the latch with it.

  The stupid thing still wouldn’t budge.

  How long had Mr. Sharkawy been gone? I wondered. The room had no clock. I patted my pockets, remembering at last to look for my cell phone. Not only could I learn the time, I could call for help!

  And then I recalled: my phone was right where I left it.

  In my desk. At school.

  Right then, I’m not ashamed to say I threw a small tantrum. Nothing like the ones my drama-queen little sister can manage, but it involved plenty of yelling and whining and battering my fists on the table.

  “Not fair!” I cried.

  When I stopped abusing the table, I realized maybe I could use it. After dumping everything onto the floor, I hauled the heavy thing underneath the window. Then I set the chair on top.

  Climbing onto it, I once again whacked the window latch. Still stuck. That thing was frozen harder than a truant officer’s heart.

  “Gnnnagh!” I made one last swing with all my might.

  And hit the glass. Kssshh! went the windowpane.

  A realization dawned. Duh. If the window won’t open, break it.

  In less than a minute, I’d knocked out most of the glass. At last! But then, looking it over carefully, I realized two things: (a) even if I could avoid slicing myself to ribbons on the stubborn teeth of glass still in the frame, I was (b) too big to fit through that narrow gap.

  Dang it.

  A fresh breeze blew from outside, taunting me with the tang of eucalyptus.

  Although nothing showed through the window but a gently sloping bank of ice plant, I heard the groan and rattle of a truck nearby.

  “H
ey!” I screamed. “Help! I’m locked in!”

  Beep-beep-beep went the truck as it backed up.

  “Help! Someone help me!”

  Metal bins boomed and thumped as the trash truck emptied them.

  Over and over I screamed, until my throat was as raw as an all-sushi buffet. The truck drove off. Nobody came.

  It was starting to look like the animal ancestors might enjoy some piping-hot Carlos Rivera after all. And that thought sent a new wave of fear crashing through me.

  I scurried around the room collecting the bright African fabric, a sheaf of colored paper, small sculptures—anything I could throw through the window to attract attention. With a Magic Marker, I scrawled HELP, I’M BEING HELD CAPTIVE!—CARLOS on a bunch of the sheets.

  Out it all went. Most of the junk landed within a foot or two of the building, but I managed to use a hand-carved staff to shove some of the fabric and papers a little farther up the slope.

  I hoped it was far enough.

  Climbing down from the table, I lost my balance and toppled. Just in time, my hands braced on the cement floor, breaking my fall.

  I found myself face-to-face with a steel floor grate. From the look of things, this basement storeroom had originally been designed so people could hose it down to clean it. (Although nobody had cleaned out this place in a long time.)

  The grate measured maybe one foot on each side—big enough to accommodate a fair volume of water.

  Or a desperate fourth-grade boy.

  Sticking my fingers through the holes in the grid, I pulled upward. The heavy grate barely stirred. Jeez, was everything in this place stuck?

  Voices echoed from the corridor. Mr. Sharkawy and his assistants, coming to take me away.

  My pulse raced. It was now or never.

  Squatting over the grate and planting my feet, I heaved for all I was worth. This time the steel square came up in my hands. A strong whiff of mold and sewage followed it.

  I turned my face away and tried to breathe through my mouth.

  A key rattled in the door lock.

  No time for squeamishness. I dropped the grate with a clang and stuffed my legs into the hole. As my prison door swung open, I levered myself forward, dropped into the chute—

  And got stuck under my armpits.