by R. L. Stine
The raccoons, I thought. They attacked the casabas again. I’ve got to tell Dad. Now. Before Buster gets blamed for this, too.
Mr. McCall cradled his four casaba melons in his hands. They were still attached to the vine.
“I came out to water my casabas and I found this… this…” He was too upset to finish. He held the melons out to us.
“Whoa!” I cried in amazement.
No raccoon could have done this.
No way.
Someone had taken a black marker and drawn big, sloppy smiley faces on each melon!
My sister shoved me aside to get a good look.
“Joe!” she shrieked. “That’s horrible. How could you!”
11
“What are you talking about?” Mr. McCall demanded.
“Yes, Mindy, what are you talking about?” Mom asked.
“I caught Joe sneaking outside last night,” Mindy replied. “In the middle of the night. He told me he wanted to wreck the rest of the melons.”
Everyone turned to stare at me in horror. Even Moose, my best friend. Mr. McCall’s face was as red as a tomato again. I saw him clenching and unclenching his fists.
Everyone stared at me in shocked silence. The smiley faces on the melons stared at me, too.
“But—but—but—” I sputtered.
Before I could explain, Dad exploded. “Joe, I think you owe us an explanation. What were you doing outside in the middle of the night?”
I felt my face grow red-hot with anger. “I went out to calm Buster down,” I insisted. “He was howling. I didn’t touch the melons. I would never do anything like that. I was only joking when I told Mindy I wanted to wreck them!”
“Well, this is no joke!” Dad exclaimed angrily. “You are grounded for the week!”
“But, Dad—!” I pleaded. “I didn’t draw on those melons!”
“Make that two weeks!” he snapped. “And I think you should mow Mr. McCall’s grass and water his garden all month. As an apology.”
“Whoa, Jeffrey,” Mr. McCall interrupted. “I don’t want your son—or your dog—in my garden again. Ever.”
He rubbed the casaba melons with his huge fingers, trying to erase the ugly black stains. “I hope this comes off,” he muttered. “Because if it doesn’t, Jeffrey, I’ll sue. Believe me, I will!”
Two hours after the melon disaster, I sprawled on the floor of my room. Grounded. With nothing to do.
I couldn’t play with Buster in the yard. Because the painters were outside.
So I stayed in my room and reread all of my Super Gamma Man comic books.
I ordered a glob of rubber vomit from the Joker’s Wild catalog for five dollars. That’s most of my weekly allowance. Then I sneaked into Mindy’s room and mixed up all the clothes in her closet. No more colors in rainbow order.
When I had finished, it still wasn’t even noon.
What a totally boring day, I thought, as I wandered downstairs.
“Hand me the yellow, please,” Mindy’s voice rang out from the den.
I crept toward the door and peeked in. Mindy and her best friend, Heidi, sat cross-legged on the floor. They were decorating T-shirts with fabric paint.
Heidi is almost as annoying as Mindy. Something is always bothering her. She’s too cold. Or too hot. Or her stomach hurts. Or her shoelaces are too tight.
I watched silently as the two girls worked. Heidi drew a silver collar on a large purple cat.
Mindy hunched over in concentration and slowly outlined a large yellow flower.
I leaped into the den. “Boo!” I screamed.
“Yaii!” Heidi shrieked.
Mindy jumped up, smearing a big yellow blotch on her red shorts. “You jerk!” she cried. “See what you made me do!”
She scraped at the paint with her fingernails. “Beat it, Joe,” she ordered. “We’re busy.”
“Well, I’m not,” I replied. “Thanks to you, Miss Snitch.”
“It was your bright idea to draw faces on those melons,” she snarled. “Not mine.”
“But I didn’t do it!” I insisted.
Mindy counted off the evidence on her fingers.
“You were up in the middle of the night. You went out in the yard. And you told me you wanted to wreck the rest of the melons.”
“I was joking!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you know what a joke is? You should try making one sometime.”
Heidi stretched out her arms. “I’m hot,” she said. “Why don’t we go to the pool? We can finish our shirts later.”
Mindy fixed her eyes on me. “Joe, do you want to go with us?” she asked in a sweet voice. “Whoops. I forgot. You’re grounded.” Then she burst out laughing.
I turned and left the two girls in the den. I have to get out of this house, I thought.
I headed for the kitchen. Mom and the painter huddled together at the counter, checking paint swatches.
“We want the onyx black for the trim. Not the pitch black,” she instructed, tapping the swatches. “I think you brought the wrong paint.”
I tugged on her sleeve. “Mom. Buster’s really bored. Can I take him for a walk?”
“Of course not,” she replied quickly. “You’re grounded.”
“Please,” I begged. “Buster needs a walk. And that paint smell is making me sick.” I held my stomach and made gagging sounds.
The painter shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “Okay, okay,” Mom said. “Take the dog.”
“Excellent! Thanks, Mom!” I cried. I darted through the kitchen and into the back yard. “Good news, Buster,” I exclaimed. “We’re free!”
Buster wagged his stumpy tail. I untied the long rope and clipped a short leash to his collar.
We walked about two miles. All the way down to Buttermilk Pond. That’s our favorite stick-chasing spot.
I tossed a fat stick into the water. Buster plunged into the cold pond and fetched it. We did that over and over until it was three o’clock. Time to go home.
On the way back to the house, we stopped at the Creamy Cow. They have the best ice cream in town.
I used the last bit of my allowance to treat us both to double-dip chocolate-chip cookie dough cones. Buster liked the cookie dough, but he left all the chocolate chips on the ground.
After we finished our ice cream, we continued home. Buster pulled at his leash excitedly as we strolled up the driveway. He seemed really happy to be back.
He dragged me into the front yard and sniffed everything. The evergreen bushes. The flamingos. The deer. The gnomes.
The gnomes.
Was something different about the gnomes?
I dropped Buster’s leash and bent down for a closer look.
I studied their fat little hands. What were those dark smudges on their fingertips. Dirt?
I rubbed their chubby fingers. But the smudges remained.
No. Not dirt.
I leaned in closer.
Paint. Black paint.
12
Black paint. The same color as the smiley faces on Mr. McCall’s casabas!
I swallowed hard. What’s going on here? I wondered. How could the gnomes’ hands be covered in paint?
I’ve got to show someone, I decided.
Mom! She’s in the house. She’ll help me figure this out.
As I reached our front door, I heard a scraping sound coming from the McCalls’ yard.
“Buster! No!” I shouted.
Buster circled Mr. McCall’s vegetable patch, his leash dragging behind him.
I quickly shoved my hand under my T-shirt and yanked out my dog whistle. I blew it hard.
Buster trotted right back to me.
“Good boy!” I cried in relief. I shook my finger in his face. I tried to be stern. “Buster, if you don’t want to be tied up, you have to stay out of that garden!”
Buster licked my finger with his long, sticky tongue. Then he turned to lick the gnomes.
I watched Buster slobber all over them.
“Oh, no!�
� I cried. “Not again!”
Chip’s and Hap’s mouths gaped wide open. In the same terrified expressions I had seen before. As if they were trying to scream.
I slammed my eyes shut. I opened one slowly.
The terrified expressions remained.
What was going on here? Were the gnomes afraid of Buster? Was I going crazy?
My hands trembled as I quickly tied Buster to the tree. Then I ran into the house to search for Mom.
“Mom! Mom!” I panted breathlessly. I found her upstairs, working in her office. “You’ve got to come outside! Now!”
Mom whirled around from her computer. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“It’s the gnomes!” I cried. “There’s black paint on their hands. And they’re not grinning anymore. Come out. You’ll see!”
Mom slowly shoved her chair away from the computer. “Joe, if this is another joke…”
“Please, Mom. It will just take a second. It’s not a joke. Really!”
Mom led the way downstairs. She gazed at the gnomes from the front door.
“See?” I cried, standing behind her. “I told you! Look at their faces. They look like they’re screaming!”
Mom narrowed her eyes. “Joe, give me a break. Why did you get me away from my work? They have the same dumb grins they always have.”
“What?” I gasped. I ran outside. I stared at the gnomes.
They stared back at me. Grinning.
“Joe, I really wish you’d stop the dumb gnome jokes,” Mom said sharply. “They’re not funny. Not funny at all.”
“But look at the paint on their fingers!”
“That’s just dirt,” she said impatiently. “Please, go read a book. Or clean your room. Find something to do. You’re driving me crazy!”
I sat down on the grass. Alone. To think.
I thought about the casaba seed on one of the gnome’s lips. I remembered the first time their mouths had twisted in horror. That was the first time Buster had licked them.
And now they had paint on their fingers.
It all added up.
The gnomes are alive, I decided.
And they’re doing horrible things in the McCalls’ garden.
The gnomes? Doing horrible things? I must be losing my mind!
Suddenly, I didn’t feel too well. Nothing made any sense.
I stood up to go inside.
And heard whispers.
Gruff whispers. Down at my feet.
“Not funny, Joe,” Hap whispered.
“Not funny at all,” Chip rasped.
13
Should I tell Mom and Dad what I heard? I wondered as we ate dinner that night.
“How was everyone’s day?” Dad asked cheerfully. He spooned some peas onto his dinner plate.
They’ll never believe me.
“Heidi and I rode our bikes to the pool,” Mindy piped up. She arranged a mound of tuna casserole on her plate into a neat square. Then she flicked a stray pea away. “But she got a cramp in her leg, so we mostly sunbathed.”
I have to tell.
“I heard something really weird this afternoon,” I burst out. “Really, really weird.”
“You interrupted me!” Mindy said sharply. She blotted her mouth carefully with her napkin.
“But this is important!” I exclaimed. I started shredding my napkin nervously. “I was in the front yard. All alone. And I heard whispers.”
I made my voice low and gruff. “The voices said, ‘Not funny, Joe. Not funny.’ I don’t know who it was. Nobody was there. I… uh… think it was the gnomes.”
Mom banged her glass of lemonade down on the table. “Enough with these gnome jokes!” she declared. “No one thinks they’re funny, Joe.”
“But it’s true!” I cried, crushing my shredded napkin into a ball. “I heard the voices!”
Mindy uttered a scornful laugh. “You are so lame,” she said. “Please pass the bread, Dad.”
“Sure, honey,” Dad replied, handing her the wooden tray of dinner rolls.
And that was the end of that.
After dinner, Dad suggested that we water the tomatoes.
“Okay,” I replied with a shrug. Anything to get out of the house.
“Want me to get the Bug Be Gone?” I asked as we stepped outside.
“No! No!” he gasped. His face turned ghostly pale.
“What’s wrong, Dad? What is it?”
He pointed silently at the tomato patch.
“Ohhh,” I moaned. “Oh, no!”
Our beautiful red tomatoes had been crushed, mangled, and maimed—seeds and pulpy red tomato flesh everywhere.
Dad stared openmouthed, his hands balled into fists. “Who would do such a terrible thing?” he sighed.
My heart began to throb. My pulse raced.
I knew the truth. And now everyone would have to believe me.
“The gnomes did it, Dad!” I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and began tugging him to the front yard. “You’ll see. I’ll prove it!”
“Joe, let go of me. This is no time for jokes. Don’t you realize that we’re out of the garden show? We’ve lost our chance for a blue ribbon! Or any ribbon, for that matter.”
“You have to believe me, Dad. Come on.” I held tightly onto Dad’s sleeve. And I wouldn’t let go.
As I dragged him out front, I wondered what we would find.
Blood-red tomato juice smeared all over their ugly faces?
Squishy pulp hanging from their tiny fat fingers?
Hundreds of seeds stuck to their creepy little feet?
We approached the gnomes.
My eyes narrowed on the hideous creatures.
And finally we stood right before them.
And I couldn’t believe what we found.
14
Nothing.
No juice.
No pulp.
Not a single seed. Not one.
I searched their bodies. Frantically. From their ugly, grinning faces to their creepy, stubby toes.
No clues. Nothing.
How could I have been wrong? My stomach lurched as I turned to face my dad.
“Dad…” I started in a shaky voice.
Dad cut me off with an angry wave of his hand. “There’s nothing to see here, Joe,” he muttered. “I don’t want to hear another word about the gnomes. Understand? Not one!”
His brown eyes flashed with fury. “I know who’s responsible for this!” he said bitterly. “And he’s not going to get away with it!”
He whirled around and trotted into the back yard. He scooped up a handful of smashed tomato.
The juice oozed between his fingers as he circled the house and charged next door.
I watched Dad march up the McCalls’ steps and jab at the doorbell. He began howling before anyone answered the ring. “Bill! Come out here. Now!”
I crouched behind Dad. I’d never seen him this angry before.
I heard the lock turn. The door swung open. And there stood Mr. McCall. In a white jogging outfit. Holding a half-eaten pork chop in one hand.
“Jeffrey, what are you yelling about? It’s difficult to digest with all this noise.” He chuckled.
“Well, digest this!” Dad screamed. Then he brought his hand up and hurled the smashed tomatoes.
They splattered against Mr. McCall’s white T-shirt and dribbled down his white sweatpants. Some of the mushy pulp landed on his clean white sneakers.
Mr. McCall stared down at his clothes in total disbelief. “Are you nuts?” he bellowed.
“No. You are!” my father shrieked. “How could you do this? For a stupid blue ribbon!”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. McCall shouted.
“Oh, I see. Now you’re going to play innocent. You’re going to pretend you don’t know anything. Well, you’re not going to get away with this.”
Mr. McCall stomped down the steps and planted himself about an inch away from my dad. He puffed out his broad chest and hung over my father menacingly.
“I didn’t touch your lousy tomatoes!” he roared. “You wimp! You probably bought your blue-ribbon tomatoes last year.”
Dad shook an angry fist in Mr. McCall’s glaring face. “My tomatoes were the best at the show! Yours looked like raisins next to mine! And whoever heard of growing casabas in Minnesota, anyway? You’re going to be the joke of the garden show!”
My whole body shuddered. They’re going to get into a fist fight, I realized. And Mr. McCall will squash my dad.
“Joke?” Mr. McCall growled. “You’re the joke. You and your sour tomatoes. And those stupid lawn ornaments! Now leave before I really lose control!”
Mr. McCall stomped up to his front door. Then he spun around and said, “I don’t want my son hanging around with Joe anymore! Your son probably wrecked your tomatoes. Just as he wrecked my melons!”
He disappeared into the house, slamming the door so hard, the porch shook.
That night I tossed and turned in bed for hours. Faces painted on melons. Crushed tomatoes.
Whispering lawn gnomes. I couldn’t think of anything else.
It was way after midnight, but I couldn’t sleep. The gnomes with their leering smiles danced before my closed eyes.
Those grinning faces. Laughing. Laughing at me.
Suddenly the room felt hot and stuffy. I kicked off the thin sheet that covered my legs. Still too hot.
I jumped out of bed and headed for my window. I threw it wide open. Warm, wet air rushed in.
I rested my arms on the windowsill and peered out into the darkness. It was a foggy night. A thick gray mist swirled over the front yard. Despite the heat, I felt a chill down my back. I had never seen it this foggy before.
The fog shifted slightly. The angel slowly came into view as the fog moved away. Then the seal. The skunks. The swans. A flash of pink—the flamingos.
And there stood the deer.
Alone.
All alone.
The gnomes were gone.
15
“Mom! Dad!” I cried. Racing to their bedroom. “Wake up! Wake up! The gnomes are gone!”