Locker 13

by R. L. Stine

  I spun around and headed toward them, the heavy pack bouncing on my back. “What’s going on?” I cried. “What’s wrong?”

  More shrill screams.

  And then I saw the two enormous brown snakes. Swinging down from a low tree limb. Blocking the path.

  The same color as the tree, they twisted their long bodies, thicker than garden hoses, and snapped their jaws.

  I didn’t hesitate. I dived forward, stretching out my arms.

  “Luke—what are you doing? Stay away from them!” I heard Coach Bendix shout.

  The kids’ frightened screams rang through the woods.

  “Get away from them!” Coach ordered.

  But I knew nothing could hurt me. I knew my good luck would keep me safe.

  I shot my hands out. And grabbed both snakes, one in each hand.

  I wrapped my fingers around their thick bodies. Then, with a hard tug, I wrenched them off the tree limb. And raised them high.

  “Whoa!”

  I didn’t realize how long they were.

  And how strong.

  I let out a startled cry as both snakes wriggled loose. I saw the tiny, black eyes flash. Saw the jaws open.

  Then both snake heads came crashing toward me, jaws snapping—snapping so furiously beneath the flashing eyes, snapping like bear traps.

  I felt a rush of air as they snapped—snapped—snapped their sharp-toothed jaws. Heads swinging wildly. Whole bodies swinging and shaking. Thick, white drool clinging to their pointed teeth.

  Shrill screams rose all around me. I stared at the snapping heads, the glimmering, black eyes—until it seemed that the snakes were screaming, too.

  And then—they flew from my hands.

  Wriggled free with strong tosses of their heavy bodies. And plunged to the ground. Disappearing so quickly. Blending into the hard, brown dirt. Vanishing beneath the carpet of fat brown leaves, twigs, and fallen limbs.

  As kids surrounded me, I stood hunched over, gasping for breath. I smoothed my open hands over my ears, my cheeks, my whole face.

  I waited for the pain of the snakebites to spread over me.

  But no. No sting. No throbbing. No pain.

  They had snapped so close, I felt their breath on my skin.

  But they hadn’t bitten me.

  “You’re so lucky!” Coach Bendix was saying. He had a hand on my shoulder and was examining my face. “I never saw anyone so lucky. Why did you do it, Luke? Those snakes are deadly poisonous. Deadly! Why did you do it?”

  I stared at him but didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.

  How could I explain it to him? How could I explain to anyone what it felt like to be so incredibly, awesomely lucky?

  All around, kids were cheering. Congratulating me. Talking about me, how brave I had been.

  Leaning against a tree, I saw Hannah. She stood by herself, crutch under one arm. She was the only one not smiling, not cheering.

  I saw the red blotches on Hannah’s face. Watched as she transfered the crutch to her other arm. And saw her scowling at me, her eyes narrowed. She shook her head and scowled.

  And in that moment, I realized that she was jealous. Jealous of my good luck.

  Jealous that she was no longer the hero. She was no longer the lucky one.

  Too bad, Hannah, I thought, watching her angry expression. I had felt sorry for her. I had felt really guilty, too.

  But no more.

  I’ve got the luck now, Hannah, I thought. And I’m going to keep it!

  “Let’s go, guys. We’ve got another game to win!” I cried. I gave Sam Mulroney a playful towel slap.

  Locker doors slammed. Guys finished lacing up their basketball shoes.

  “Did you see those Deaver Mills guys?” Mulroney asked, peeking into the gym through a crack in the locker room door. “They’re monsters! They must feed those guys whole steaks five times a day!”

  “Big doesn’t mean good!” I said. “They look like cows! They’re so slow.”

  “We’ll dribble circles around them!” Jay Boxer said.

  “Just feed me the ball!” I instructed them. “No matter where I am. Feed me the ball. I’ll put it in. I’m feeling lucky today, guys. Real lucky!”

  “Hey, Champ—” Stretch called, pulling on his jersey. “You’re not a ball hog or anything—are you?”

  Guys used to laugh when Stretch shouted insults at me. But not anymore. Everyone was on my side now. Everyone wanted to be on the winner’s side.

  “Hey, Stretch—what do they call you?” I shouted back. “A bench hog?”

  Everybody laughed.

  Stretch laughed too. Now that I was a winner, he was starting to be a little nicer to me. He even gave me some dribbling tips after one practice.

  The guys all headed out to the gym. I could hear the shouts of the crowd in the bleachers. And the steady thud of basketballs on the floor as the Deaver Mills Lions warmed up.

  “Time to kill me some Lions,” I muttered. I finished lacing my sneakers.

  Then I stood up. Started to swing my gym locker closed.

  And slammed my left hand in the door.

  “Hey!” I cried out in surprise as pain shot up my arm.

  I shook the hand hard, trying to shake the pain away. My wrist throbbed. I moved my fingers, tilted my hand back and forth. It moved okay. Not broken.

  But the hand was red and already starting to swell.

  “No time for this,” I muttered.

  I slammed the locker shut with my right hand. And, still shaking my left hand, hurried out into the gym.

  The crowd cheered as I ran onto the floor. I saw some of the Deaver Mills players whisper to each other and point at me. They knew who the star player was. They knew who was going to wipe the floor with them today!

  We huddled close around Coach Bendix. “Take it slow with these guys,” he instructed. “Feel them out. Get their rhythm. Let’s rattle them, show them we can play defense.”

  “Just get me the ball!” I chimed in. “I’m going to be loose under the basket all day!”

  We gave our team cheer and trotted out to the center of the floor. I searched the bleachers for Hannah. She said she would try to come to the game today.

  I spotted her at the side of the bleachers, hunched in a wheelchair. Her bad foot was propped up, and it had an even bigger bandage over it.

  I guess it isn’t getting better, I thought. I felt a pang of guilt.

  Poor Hannah.

  I looked for my parents. Then I remembered they weren’t coming today. They had to stay home for a furniture delivery.

  I turned away from the crowd. I had a game to play. Time to get my game face on. No time to think about Hannah and her problems.

  I went up for the opening jump. I tapped the ball to Mulroney, and the game was underway.

  He dribbled to half-court, then sent a high pass to me.

  “Whoa—!” The ball flew right through my hands and bounced out of bounds.

  “Mulroney—too hard!” I called. “Who were you throwing at?”

  He shrugged and started trotting to the Lions’ basket.

  “Get in there, Luke! Get going! Look alive!” I heard Coach Bendix shouting.

  The Deaver guard came dribbling slowly toward me. I darted up to him, stuck out my hand to steal the ball—and missed.

  He moved past me easily and sent up an easy layup for two points.

  “Weird,” I muttered. I shook my left hand. The pain had dulled to an ache, but the hand was pretty swollen.

  I moved down the court. Caught a pass. Spun away from the Lion defender. Went in for an easy shot.

  And missed!

  “Huh?”

  I heard the crowd groan. Startled voices all around.

  Mulroney slapped me on the shoulder. “Take it easy, man,” he said. “Play your game. Just play your game.”

  A few seconds later I drove in for a shot—and was fouled. I moved to the foul line—and missed both foul shots!

  More groans
and muttering from the bleachers. I saw Coach Bendix shake his head.

  A bounce pass from Jay Boxer sailed right through my legs. Some of the Lions’ players had a good laugh over that one.

  Then I missed three more shots in a row!

  Mulroney flashed me a thumbs-up. “No prob,” he called. “Play your game, Luke! We’ll get ’em!”

  The Lions were winning twelve to four.

  I took another pass and moved under the basket. I leaped high for a slam dunk.

  My arm hit the rim hard. I cried out in pain. And watched the ball sail over the backboard.

  “Whoa. This isn’t happening,” I muttered, picking myself up off the floor. “No way.”

  At the other end of the floor I grabbed a rebound off the backboard. I dodged past a huge Lion player. Dribbled away from him easily. Picked up speed. Brought the ball onto our side of the court.

  Eyed the basket. Prepared to stop short and put up a three-pointer.

  And tripped. Felt one sneaker bump the other. Tripped over my own shoe.

  And watched the ball sail into a Lion’s hands as I stumbled. I fell forward onto my stomach. My arms and legs were out flat on the floor. “OOOF!”

  I heard startled gasps from the bleachers. And laughter.

  Yes. Some people were laughing at me.

  “What is going on?” I cried.

  I forced myself to my feet. Shook off the pain.

  “This isn’t happening. It can’t be!”

  I reached into the pocket of my uniform shorts. Reached for my good-luck skull.

  Fumbled in the pocket. Searched both pockets.

  “Hey—”

  No. No. No way.

  The skull was gone!

  Fumbling frantically in both pockets, I began running for the team bench. “Time out! Time out!” I screamed.

  Had the skull fallen out of my pocket?

  I squinted hard, searching the gleaming, polished floor.

  No sign of it.

  “Time out!” I pleaded.

  I heard a whistle blow on the sidelines.

  I had to find it—now! I couldn’t play without it.

  My eyes swept over the floor. I began to run full speed to the bench.

  I didn’t see the huge Lions player—until we collided.

  I plowed right into him. Caught him flat-footed. He let out a startled, “Oof.” And we cracked heads.

  “Yaaaiiii!” I let out a scream of agony as blinding red pain shot around my head. The red shimmered to gold. Brighter, brighter … bright as the sun.

  I felt my legs giving out. Felt myself collapsing, crumbling into a deep, deep, bottomless darkness.

  I woke up to pinpoints of yellow light. They flickered high above me. Each time they flashed, a wave of pain rolled over my forehead, down the back of my neck.

  I blinked hard. Blinked until I realized I was staring up at the lights on the gym rafters.

  I lay on my back on the gym floor, one knee raised, my hands flat at my sides. I squinted up at the high rafters—until faces blocked my view.

  Players’ faces. And then a few worried-looking adults. And then Coach Bendix’s face, looming over me, bobbing over me like a parade balloon.

  “What—?” One word escaped my throat. My dry throat. So dry, I couldn’t swallow.

  “Stay still, Luke,” Coach ordered, speaking softly. His dark eyes peered down into mine, studying me. “You’ve had a bad concussion. Don’t try to move. We’re sending you to the emergency room.”

  “Huh? No!” I gasped.

  I rolled onto my side. I lurched to my feet. The floor tilted from side to side, as if I were on a rocking boat.

  “Don’t move, Luke.” Coach reached for me.

  But I staggered out of his grasp. Stumbled through the circle of people that had formed around me.

  “No. No hospital!” I croaked.

  I had to find that skull. That was all I needed, and then I would be okay again.

  The skull …

  I stumbled over someone’s shoe. Staggered toward the locker room. The gleaming wood floor swaying beneath me.

  “Luke—come back!”

  No. No way. I shoved open the locker room door with one shoulder. And sliding a hand against the lockers, moved to the back row. Lurched to my gym locker. Pulled open the door so hard it slammed against the frame.

  “Where is it? Where?”

  I frantically pawed through my street clothes. Searched and then tossed everything onto the floor.

  “Where? Where?”

  Not in my khakis pockets. Not in my shirt pocket. Not in my sweatshirt.

  The locker floor? No. Nothing down there.

  Stumbling over the pile of clothes on the floor, I lurched back down the row of gym lockers. Ran through the gym, out the doors, and up the stairs. Into the long, empty hall.

  My sneakers squeaked on the hard floor as I ran. The walls and ceiling appeared to close in on me, then slide back into place.

  To my locker. To locker 13.

  It took me three tries to get the combination right. But finally I unlocked it and flung open the door.

  And jammed my hand into one coat pocket, and then the other.

  “Where is it? I have to have it! Where? Where?”

  And then a long, happy sigh escaped my parched throat as my hand closed around it.

  Yessss!

  I was so happy!

  I had the skull in my hand. I squeezed it tightly. So happy. So happy.

  I pulled it out of the coat pocket. Raised it in front of me. Raised it close to examine it.

  And let out a cry of horror.

  The eyes. They were dark. Not red, not glowing.

  And the face had changed! The bump-toothed grin was gone. The open mouth was curled down in a fierce, angry scowl.

  “No—it’s impossible!” I gasped.

  I held the skull up to the light. The red jewel eyes were gone! The deep, round sockets were empty. The skull scowled down at me, dark and menacing.

  What does this mean? I wondered. How did this happen?

  Before I could think about it clearly, I glimpsed something in the open locker. A soft glow. A slow moving light, growing larger as if moving closer.

  The light split into two. Two circles of red light. Down low. Very low, near the locker floor.

  I gripped the skull tightly in my fist and stared as the red lights glimmered closer. The whole locker shimmered. The dark walls reflected the two lights. Brighter … bright as fire now.

  Two red eyes, I realized. Two glowing eyes floating from the blackness of locker 13.

  I jumped back as a black cat stepped silently out, as if floating. A black cat with fiery, red eyes. The same black cat as before?

  It pulled back its lips, bared pointed, white teeth, and hissed at me.

  My back hit the wall. I blinked against the brightness of those two circles of red light.

  And as I trembled in horror, squeezing the skull, squeezing it so tightly my hand ached—the cat rose up off the floor.

  And melted into another form.

  Melted and grew taller. Taller … The cat became a human figure, dressed all in black, wrapped in a broad, black coat down to the floor, its face hidden in the darkness of a black hood.

  Hidden. All hidden … except for the eyes—those horrifying, fiery eyes.

  “Wh-who are you? What do you want?” I startled myself by crying out those words. I didn’t think I could speak.

  My whole body trembled. I pressed myself against the wall to keep from falling to my knees.

  The hooded figure stepped silently away from the open locker. A hoarse rasp burst out from under the hood, a whisper like the crackle of dead leaves: “The luck has run out, Luke.”

  “No!” I gasped.

  A bony hand swung out from the sleeve of the black coat—and swiped the skull away from me.

  “No!” I cried in protest. “No! No!”

  “The luck is over.”

  “Who are you?” I s
hrieked in a tight, terrified voice. “Wh-who? How did you get in my locker? What do you want?” I screamed in total panic.

  “The luck is over.”

  “It can’t be!” I cried. “It can’t be! I need it!”

  “Over …” the hooded figure rasped. “Over … over …”

  The red eyes glowed from under the hood. The bony hand held the tiny skull in front of the broad black coat.

  “I need that luck!” I wailed. “I need that skull!”

  And I grabbed it back. Grabbed it out of the bony hand.

  “I need it! I have to have it!”

  I raised the skull in front of me. Stared hard at it.

  What was wrong with it? Something wriggling on it … wriggling in my hand … crawling over my palm …

  “Ohhhh.” I let out a moan as I saw. The skull was covered … crawling … crawling with hundreds of maggots!

  The skull fell from my hand and bounced across the floor. I frantically shook my hand, scraped it against the wall, brushing the disgusting maggots off my skin.

  Under the black hood the red eyes glowed brighter. “You enjoyed a lot of good luck, Luke,” the figure said in his hoarse croak. “But the luck has ended. And now you must pay for it.”

  “Huh? Pay?” I felt my throat tighten. I stared at the fiery eyes, trying to see a face, trying to see who was speaking to me from under that hood.

  “Luke—I’m so sorry!” a voice called.

  I turned to find Hannah wheeling herself rapidly down the hall, leaning forward in her wheelchair, turning the wheels with both hands.

  “Hannah—? What—?” I couldn’t find any words.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. As she wheeled herself closer, I saw tears brimming in her eyes, rolling down her red-blotched face.

  “Sorry?” I repeated, my head spinning in confusion.

  “He made me do it!” she wailed. “You have to believe me, Luke. I didn’t want to. Really! But he made me!”

  She grabbed my hand. Squeezed it tightly. Her hand was as cold as ice. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Very touching!” the hooded figure rasped coldly.

  “Hannah—he made you do what?” I asked.

  “He—he made me give you the skull!” Hannah stammered, still squeezing my hand.

  “Huh?” I let out a startled cry. “You gave it to me? But I thought I found it. I thought—”