Vampire fighting was all timing and strategy.
And it was a darn good thing that the twins had been honing both those skills for most of their young lives. At a strangled gasp from Feedback, Cheryl glanced up from her pack to see a person-shaped shadow slithering up the wall. Feedback’s eyes grew huge as a pair of shiny, pointy-toed black shoes, visible beneath black trouser legs, walked slowly, ominously across the chessboard rug. They stopped directly in front of where Cheryl and Feedback crouched beneath the desk. Feedback held his breath, and Cheryl gripped her ruler so hard the edge of it bit into her palm.
Then a pale face, mostly obscured by darkness, popped down to peer at them.
“Good eeEEee-ven-ing,” a voice intoned in a classic Dracula drawl. “Allow me to intro—GLAA—”
The vampy greeting was cut short as, with a furious battle cry, Cheryl launched herself at the creature’s knees, bowling him over and knocking him out into the middle of the room.
“Kill it!” Feedback screeched in terror.
“Stake it!” Tweed shouted, frantically readying a garlic bomb.
“Darn it!” the villainous vampire exclaimed as the black silk cape flipped up over his face, effectively tangling the evil creature in a helpless heap and rendering his struggles largely ineffectual.
“Got it!” Cheryl cried triumphantly, raising the ruler over her head.
“Mff! Mff!” the vamp protested, muffled by the bundle of cape cloth. “MFF-GLAACK!!”
“Wait!”
Tweed suddenly leaped into the fray, flinging her cousin off the thrashing creature of darkness before Cheryl managed to pin him to the carpet with her stake. Cheryl tumbled into a series of shoulder rolls initiated by Tweed’s dragging, and popped up onto her feet, in a fight-ready, fists-flailing stance.
“What didja do that for?” She frowned at her cousin in confusion.
“That ‘GLAACK!!’” Tweed explained, pointing at the writhing heap of evening attire on the floor. “I know that ‘GLAACK!!’”
“What?” Cheryl blinked at her. “You don’t think …” She turned and nudged the bundle on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. “Artie Bartleby?”
“Mrff …”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
Artie sprang to his feet, threw back the cape he wore draped over his shoulders and ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing down chunks of rogue hair spiking out in random directions. Beneath the cloak—which, they now saw, looked more like a swanky private school formal robe—he wore a tailored suit jacket, emblazoned with a crest of some kind, and a pressed white shirt and striped black-and-red cravat tied neatly at his throat. Giving them a super-suave wink, accompanied by an enhanced finger point, he grinned.
Tweed and Cheryl were both rendered utterly speechless.
8 PANICKED ROOM
Tweed was the first to recover. “Uh … Artie?” Her jaw drifted open at the sight of their former annoying mini-nemesis turned stalwart sidekick/handy fall guy. There was simply no earthly way that the Artie Bartleby the twins knew and (occasionally) loved to tease mercilessly could pull off that level of sophistication. No. Way.
“Ladies,” Artie Bartleby said, sauntering casually over to the fireplace where he leaned on an elbow and struck a debonair pose. The suit he wore was so meticulously tailored and pressed you could have sliced cheese on his trouser creases.
The twins exchanged uncertain glances and Cheryl took a cautious step forward. “What’s the deal, Shrimpcake?” she asked, eyes narrowing as she took in his drastically altered appearance, head to shiny-shod foot. “You a creature of evil again? All minioned up? Possessed? Cursed? What’s the deal?”
“Don’t be foolish, my little cauliflower,” he said and laughed a devil-may-care laugh. “I’m my same old, same old self.”
“Uh-huh …”
He licked the tip of his baby finger and ran it along the quirked contour of his eyebrow, above his horn-rimmed glasses—which somehow suddenly looked chic when paired with the tailored duds. “Clothes make the man, don’tcha know?” Artie said, and grinned.
At that point, Feedback crawled out from under the desk. He brushed some carpet lint off his cargo pants and straightened the headphones circling his neck.
“Hey, hey, Feedback!” Artie said with a smooth wave. Helping out at Bartleby’s Gas & Gulp, his mom’s gas station and general store, meant that Artie knew pretty much everyone in the town of Wiggins Cross.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” Feedback offered Artie a wobbly grin and air-guitared a riff on his phone that ended with a screech of crunchy amplifier feedback.
The distorted noise bloomed out, echoing loudly in the high-ceilinged room, and there was an answering screech from over near the French doors. A blur of flappy, growling movement surged toward them and Cheryl suddenly remembered the winged shadow that had preceded Artie into the room and lent him the illusion of vampirosity.
The thing flew at Feedback, who dropped to the floor and covered his head. Grey, bat-like wings slapped at the air, obscuring glimpses of red gleaming eyes, a sharp-hooked beak and talons—all attached to something the size of a large house cat!
“Ramshackle!” Artie yelled. “Down, boy! Girl! Thing!”
Tweed looked at him in astonishment.
“I haven’t really had a chance to figure that out yet, okay?”
“Shrimpcake!” Cheryl was trying to shoo the whirlwind-scrabbling creature away from poor Feedback, who cowered in a ball. “What on earth is that thing?”
“I found him out on the balcony!” Artie said. “He’s harmless! C’mere, buddy …” He darted forward and grappled with the hissing, spitting mini-monster, pulling it away by the scruff of its neck. “Sit!” he said, admonishing him with a pointing finger.
The thing cocked its head and regarded him sideways.
“Siiiitt,” he said again.
“Grr-mrowf,” Ramshackle murmured and, after a moment, sat.
“Whoa …” Karl said in almost a whisper. “What the heck is that?”
“Uh … house cat?” Artie tried unconvincingly, seeming to have just realized that maybe Feedback wasn’t as used to weirdness as Cheryl and Tweed. “Exotic breed. Millionaires, y’know.” He waved vaguely at the opulent architecture all around them.
“Artie”—Tweed took a step forward, peering at the little monster—“is that a gargoyle?”
“Well, I dunno.” Artie shrugged. “I think it’s probably a safe bet, though. He was perched on the roof of this creepy old house when I found him.”
“Mrrr-ackk-k-rrowr …?” the gargoyle burbled inquiringly and ruffled his batwings.
“Wait.” Cheryl frowned, sifting through hours and hours of monster movie flotsam that had settled in her brain. “Aren’t there legends that tell of stone carvings— household guardians—that come to life after sundown?”
“You got that from an old Saturday morning cartoon show!” Feedback protested.
“Well, where do you think they got the idea from?” she shot back.
“Right. Okay. Y’know what?” Feedback said, trying to be casual, but edging along the wall toward the open door that led out into the corridor. “This was fun. But I’ma gedoutta here …”
Ramshackle issued what sounded like a warning growl, deep in his throat.
“Oh, relax, Feedback.” Tweed rolled her eyes and slipped her knapsack off her shoulders. She fished out a bag of Fancy Beast Seafood Deelite Kitty Treats she had stashed in there for (sort of) just such an occasion. When the girls had expanded their sitter services to include pets, they’d stocked up and always carried a bag or two in their supplies, just in case.
“So …” She raised an eyebrow at Artie. “Ramshackle, huh?”
She tossed a fish snack toward the beast and he leaped for it, snapping it out of mid-air with his sharp beak. But one batwing flapped awkwardly, and a clumsy attempt at a barrel roll ended with him cartwheel-crashing to land in a heap. The little monster lurched t
o his feet and shook his head, with an expression on his face like a cat who, having done something dumb, adopts an “I meant to do that” kind of air. He licked his beak and purred, “Rrr-yumm.”
Artie shrugged. “Kind of fits, right?”
They could see that the membrane that stretched between two of the critter’s wing points was ragged along the edge.
“He’s got a bum wing,” Artie said. “I think he musta been hit by lightning or something when he was stone and it chipped his flipper.”
“Poor little guy,” Cheryl said, kneeling down so Ramshackle could amble over and sniff at her outstretched hand.
“Poor little guy?!” Feedback sputtered. “He’s a monster! And … and … impossible and stuff! You all know that, right? I mean—how is … that … even possible?”
“Well …” Tweed tried to phrase her answer carefully so that Feedback wouldn’t freak out any more than he already had. She exchanged a glance with Cheryl, who nodded for her to continue. After all, they were, it seemed, in this together. And withholding vital information from Feedback wasn’t fair. “Remember when you said you thought Cindy and Hazel might be pranking us on all this stuff and we said—”
“This house is not haunted!” he protested before Tweed could even bring up the idea. “There’s no such thing!”
“Well, see …” Cheryl grimaced. “That’s what I said, too. But that’s the trap. In every haunted house movie ever made, someone always says, ‘That’s impossible! There’s no such thing!’ which, of course, is always the dead giveaway that it is possible and there is such a thing.”
“But …”
“We’ve fallen for the oldest horror movie trope on celluloid.” Tweed sighed. “We’re Freddy and Marlene on a trip up into the attic during a power failure.”
“You’re who?” Feedback blinked in confusion.
“We are indeed, partner.” Cheryl nodded sagely. “Oh, the irony.”
“Seriously.” Feedback turned to Artie. “What are they talking about?”
“Beats me.” Artie shrugged. “But whatever it is, they’re probably right. I say go limp, roll with it, do whatever they say. With luck, the scales and fangs disappear in time for dinner. Or, maybe, bedtime!”
“I … I don’t even …”
“If our working theory is correct and this is, in fact, a haunted house, then that”—Tweed pointed to Ramshackle—“being one of the gargoyles from the roof of the house, is equally haunted. Or, at least, animated by some kind of residual essence of the structure.”
“Okay. That’s it.” Feedback began his doorway-bound edging along the wall again. “Like I said, it’s been fun, but I’ma really gedoutta here!”
“MMRroowr-rrgg …” Ramshackle suddenly sprang to his feet, growling and hissing, staring at the empty air just to the left of where Feedback was slowly making a break for it.
SLAM!!
The door slammed shut and the sound of a key turning in a lock echoed loudly in the wake of the noise. Feedback lurched for the door handle but it wouldn’t budge. He put an eye to the keyhole and hollered for Cindy and Hazel to cut it the heck out and open the darn door! When that didn’t work, he ran through the French doors and out onto the balcony. The twins could see him peering into the darkness below. After a few minutes of pacing and peering, he came back in, a defeated slump to his shoulders.
“We’re really high up,” he said. “And there’s a killer thorn hedge all the way along under the balcony. We’re stuck.”
“Yup.” Artie nodded sagely. “In a definitely haunted house.”
An ominous rumble of thunder sounded in the distance outside and a freshening breeze blew the curtains and rattled the windows.
“Haunted.” Feedback shivered. “That’s heavy. I mean … I’ve never even had a measly déjà vu, let alone a full-on paranormal experience.”
“No problemo.” Cheryl clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk you through it as we go.”
“You guys sound like this kind of thing happens to you all the time.”
“Recently?” Tweed shrugged.
Cheryl nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of a long story. Speaking of which, why are you dressed up like that, Shrimpcake? And how’d you get in here?”
“I got into the house in the first place down one of the chimneys,” Artie explained.
“You what?”
“Yeah. All the outside doors and windows were locked up tight, but we figured if you guys had found a way in here, so could we.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Cheryl asked.
“Me an’ Armbruster.”
“Pilot’s here?!” the twins exclaimed in tandem.
“Oh, sure,” Artie said. “We shimmied up a drainpipe, straight up the side of the house to an old widow’s walk on the roof, and then Pilot lowered me down through a chimney flue with a rope. I landed in a big old pile of soot and was black from head to toe, so I popped into the first bathroom I could find and had a quick bath.”
“You had a bath in a strange house?” Cheryl asked.
“Well, it’s not like I used bubbles or nothin’,” he protested.
Tweed rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess that makes it perfectly normal, then.”
“Right?” Artie looked to Feedback for support. “Only … when I got out of the tub, all my clothes were gone. Shoes, everything. I locked that door—I swear I did. But suddenly it was wide open and there I was, with not a stitch to preserve my modesty except these snappy duds I found hanging in the closet in the adjoining room. Pretty swell threads, huh?”
“So what were you doing out on that balcony then?” Tweed wondered.
“I went out to signal up to Pilot that I was in and stuff, but I couldn’t see him,” Artie said. “And then I got stuck out there when the doors closed shut and locked behind me!”
Cheryl walked over to the hall door and jiggled the handle. Still locked. “Am I the only one who feels like we’re babysitting for a buncha spooky little brats who like to play games?” she asked.
Before anyone could answer, they were startled by noises that sounded like they were coming from inside the wall. Cheryl ran back and picked up her trusty putter from where she’d left it over by the trap door and hefted it like a club. Tweed crouched over her knapsack and emptied it out to find her Nerf crossbow. Together, the twins took up defensive postures in front of the empty bookcase that seemed to be the source of the sound. Artie motioned for Feedback to take cover and assumed his best approximation of a karate stance.
Silence fell on the room.
Then came a sound like a lever tripping. The bookcase wall suddenly shifted and moved, sliding to the side, and a cold shaft of moonlight illuminated a figure standing on a hidden spiral staircase.
A figure wearing a baseball cap and a wry facial expression.
“Well,” Pilot said, “at least you didn’t lie about hanging out with other sitters tonight … you just lied about where.”
9 SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE
‘‘We didn’t lie!” Cheryl protested. “We just … er … took creative licence with … um … a few key details.”
Pilot just shook his head at her.
“Hey, Yeager!” Feedback bounced forward, grinning widely with relief. “Am I ever glad to see you!”
“Hey, Karl,” Pilot returned the greeting. “Howzit going?”
“Well, y’know … interesting …”
“Yeah. It usually is where these two are concerned.” Pilot glanced pointedly at the twins.
“Hey, Armbruster!” Artie stepped forward, hands on hips. “How’d you get inside? I don’t see you covered in a chimney’s worth of soot!”
“Nope.” Pilot brushed at his sleeve. “Just splinters and sawdust. After I lowered you down, the roof where I was standing gave way and I wound up crashing into the attic. That’s where I found the top end of this staircase.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the wrought-iron spiral hidden behind the bookcase.
“How’d you guys even know we w
ere here in the first place?” Tweed asked.
“I went back to the Drive-In around dusk to help Pops finish up with the projector repairs, and he mentioned that you two were off to a ‘sleepover sitter seminar’ with Hazel and Cindy. And seeing as how I happen to know just how likely that scenario is, I figured you’d done exactly what you said you wouldn’t do … and so I came here to talk some sense into the two of you before you got yourselves in any real trouble!” Pilot descended a few more steps and paused. “Of course, first I had to stop off at the Gas & Gulp to get a map because I never even heard of an Eerie Lane in Wiggins. That’s where I ran into Artie, and I figured I might need a bit of backup if you two were already in some kind of a fix. Which I somehow suspected you might be when we got here and found your bikes by the gate but all the doors and windows locked up tight!”
Cheryl stuck out her chin mutinously. “We can totally handle ourselves just fine, Flyboy.”
Tweed squared her shoulders. “That’s right. This situation is totally under control.”
Pilot blinked at them and then tilted the brim of his cap back. “Oh,” he said. “Well, okay. I guess we’ll just totally leave you to it then. C’mon, Art-Bart—”
“Wait!!” the twins cried out as Pilot started partway back up the spiral stairs.
Pilot stopped and turned, waiting.
“Um,” Cheryl murmured reluctantly. “Maybe you guys should hang around for a bit. Um. Y’know. You don’t want to miss out on the … er … fun?”
“If by ‘fun,’ you mean getting the heck outta this creepy old pile of bricks, I’m all for it!” Pilot yanked his cap back down on his forehead and descended the stairs. “Well, c’mon, then,” he said, heading toward the door to the hall. “Let’s get—”
“NOOO!!” Cheryl, Tweed, Artie and Feedback all lunged forward as Pilot stepped off the last stair and into the library, and the bookcase slid closed behind him. Pilot spun back around but he wasn’t fast enough. They could see no mechanism for opening the door on that side of the bookcase.
The Haunting of Heck House Page 8