For Katie and Julia Berlatsky. Boo!—BW
PRICE STERN SLOAN
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Text copyright © 2015 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Adam F. Watkins. All rights reserved. Published by Price Stern Sloan, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-698-17200-5
Version_1
Contents
Dedication
Copyright
Title Page
Sunset
Giants
Nasty Little Fairies
The Hunters
Bath-Time Poem
Trolls
When Mama’s Out of Town
Nice to Meet You
Any One of Us
The Blob
One Answer to Bullies
Body Snatchers
The Folks at the End of the Block
Spelunking The Cave Poem
The Garage
The Scariest Time of Day
I Think the Goldfish Is Grandma
A Case for Education Reform
The Haunted Haunted House
Nightmares
How to Be a Witch
Superstition
The Playground Is Spooky at Night
I Dare You
Wandering Around the Graveyard, Reading the Stones
Bad Timing
The Big Book in the Library
It’s the Little Things
Old Boo
Sunrise
Sunset
The day ends,
like all the days.
The sun sends
his final rays.
“To bed!” they cry
as darkness looms.
The children lie
in silent rooms.
“Sweet dreams!” they call.
But who can sleep?
As down the wall
the shadows creep.
All is silent.
All is black.
“Oh, sun, come back!
Come back!
Come back!”
Giants
Somewhere
up there,
above the air:
The giants romp.
In boots they stomp.
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!
All the people—girls and boys—
we make a distant, tiny noise.
To giants, we’re dust—we’re toys.
We’re as small, to them, as bugs—
as worms, as mice or lice or slugs.
As small as ants—as tacks—
as—uh-oh—snacks.
Nasty Little Fairies
You think I broke the dishwasher
by loading it with rocks?
You think I went around the house
unplugging all the clocks?
You think I snuck into Wendy ’s room
and let loose her pet frog?
You think I shaved the words
I AM A CAT into the neighbor ’s dog?
Geez, Dad, what an awful accusation!
Boy, Mom, what a wild imagination!
It’s clear that we have fairies—
nasty little fairies—
surely that’s the logical explanation?
The Hunters
We went off into the woods,
in search of Bigfoot,
with a camera and a compass and a net.
We looked here,
we looked there—
we looked everywhere, I swear!
But somehow we just haven’t found him yet.
Bath-Time Poem
I’m cleaning
and I’m singing,
and I’m singing
as I clean:
my arms, my kneecap, my butt!
I clean my feet, clean my toes,
clean my armpits, and my nose,
when suddenly I see something—what?
The tip of a tentacle,
up from the drain:
wiggling, obscene.
There’s something down there;
it’s cruel and insane:
giggling, mean.
And then it’s gone, like that,
under the bubbles and soap.
Did I make it up? Boy, I hope.
No, I’m sure I saw it; I know what I’ve seen.
“Someone come and get me! I’m all clean!”
Trolls
There’s a troll beneath the bridge today,
menacing the children as they go on their way.
He’s got big nasty claws and a lopsided head.
You answer his riddles or end up dead.
“What’s six plus three?”
“Nine!”
Phew. Sophie’s fine.
“What do horses eat?”
“Hay!”
Great—Tyler ’s okay.
“What sound does a sneeze make?”
“Achoo!”
Raj made it through.
Now the troll’s got his question for you:
“Fried or baked? Grilled or flambé?
How would you like to be eaten today?”
When Mama’s Out of Town
Mama’s at a conference in Missouri.
She calls to say good night on the phone.
Daddy ’s here, and so is Charlie,
and our German shepherd, Farley.
But when Mama’s out of town, I feel alone.
Daddy fumbles through my bedtime story.
But he forgets I want my light dim, not off.
And Daddy thinks I’m just being funny.
He laughs and says, “Sure, honey,”
when I tell him I just heard a monster cough.
It’s only for one night,
then things will be all right,
when Mama comes back from Missouri.
Oh, hurry, Mama—hurry!
Nice to Meet You
Remember what they say about the cover and the book:
You can’t judge a person on account of how they look!
Just because a guy looks creepy, that don’t mean that he ain’t sweet.
Maybe he sips tea and helps old ladies cross the street.
Lots of nasty-looking folks are kind as kind can be!
I’m talking about other people, by the way—not me.
Any One of Us
You have to beware.
You have to take care.
Given the number
of shape-shifting monsters
proven to exist.
; There’s changelings and vampires and werewolves . . .
and that’s just the top of the list.
So check the dentist for fangs;
check the mailman for claws.
Is your principal hiding a row
of razor-sharp jaws?
You can never be sure.
There’s no guarantee.
It’s hard to say
who a monster might be.
Maybe the plumber, maybe the nanny.
Maybe little old me.
The Blob
It seems like the blob
would be easy to outrun.
Of all the monsters you hear of,
the blob actually sounds a bit fun.
Isn’t it kind of tubby?
Cute, really—cute and chubby.
Oozing along all bubbly,
cuddly and burbly and flubbly—
it’s really sort of sad.
Maybe I’ll let the blob catch me,
just ’cause I feel sort of bad.
One Answer to Bullies
You want my lunch?
Okay, I guess.
Copy my homework?
Well, I have to say yes.
But just so you know,
I’m the reincarnated spirit
of King Nefarious Goomaloo,
who was murdered by rebellious nobles
in thirteen hundred and two.
He swore eternal vengeance
as they chopped off his head.
So for you, some free advice:
Pick on someone else instead.
Body Snatchers
Some boys at recess said that Ms. Kolner
is an evil alien from space.
That behind the gray hair and the glasses
and the stern unsmiling face
is a horrible creature from Venus
with flaming eyes and fangs and fur.
But of all the people on Earth,
why would an alien want to be her?
The Folks at the End of the Block
The dad mows the lawn.
The kids play on swings.
The mom makes iced tea; the dog chases sticks—
just the regular, family things.
They’ve got two dogs and a kitty named Dot.
They get their mail; they grill a lot.
They fill up the pool when the summer gets hot.
They look normal,
but they ’re not.
Spelunking
The Cave Poem
Down,
down,
down.
Deeper and deeper you go.
Down,
down,
down.
Steady and careful and slow.
Down,
down,
down.
Deeper and deeper below.
Can’t go up.
Can’t go back.
All is darkness.
All is black.
A smell: stale, mysterious, old.
A touch: something rustling, cold.
A sound: rushing water, underground stream.
A feeling: you might have to scream.
The Garage
Mr. Yaztrenski is using machines—
loud and rattling machines.
Smoke billows out from under the door—
the door of his garage.
What’re the machines all for?
He emerges, after a while,
with grease on his hands,
ash on his face.
No smile.
He doesn’t wave.
His face looks grave.
Mr. Yaztrenski opens the trunk of his car,
gets out something
with gears, something big.
Iron. Ugly. Bizarre.
He presses a button;
the thing makes a roar
and a screech, like nails on tin.
He opens his garage door,
looks around. Scowls.
Goes back in.
The sounds start up again.
Those sounds.
Oh man.
Oh dear.
We stand around staring, out here.
Mr. Yaztrenski is up to something.
But what
is not
so clear.
The Scariest Time of Day
It’s right when the sun is brightest,
just when the day is lightest.
When the birds chirp and dance in the trees:
That ’s when I get weak in the knees.
No monsters are out at that hour.
They ’re waiting, conserving their power.
Relaxing till the shadows get longer.
Being calm—resting up—getting stronger.
While you’re out having fun in the park,
they ’re biding their time—until dark.
I Think the Goldfish Is Grandma
The fish that we won at the fair
has a strange and unsettling stare.
It reminds me a lot of old Gram,
who choked on a cutlet of ham.
It was right around this time last year.
It was right in this room, right here.
So now I’m thinking it was Grandma’s last wish
to return as a small golden fish.
A Case for Education Reform
Here are some things
they don’t cover at school:
Do demons have wings?
What color ’s a ghoul?
What’s a goblin; what’s a ghast?
What’s a ghost look like, inside?
How do skeletons walk, and how fast?
Which one’s Jekyll, and which one’s Hyde?
How do you get away
if you’re running, let us say,
from a greenish, gelatinous ooze?
Oh great, more algebra—terrific!
When do we get some info we can use?
The Haunted Haunted House
The house on the hill up the street
is a “Haunted House,” and it’s neat.
Is it scary? Very.
But no, not really scary.
We all shout and squeal,
but none of it ’s real.
They ’re grapes, of course, not eyeballs,
cold pasta for the brains,
cherry soda bubblin’ in the beakers.
The moans of the demon,
the thunder and screamin’,
all come out of stereo speakers.
At ten o’ clock exactly,
they shut down and close the door.
They pack up the brains and the eyeballs
and mop up the puddles of gore.
But now it ’s 10:15, and screams are coming still,
from the haunted Haunted House up on the hill.
Nightmares
I had a real fantastic day.
Nothing bad, just play, play, play.
Went to a movie with my friends.
But then somehow, when daytime ends:
Nightmares.
Brushing teeth, I joked around.
Washing up, I laughed and clowned.
Said g ’night to Dad and Mom,
then I laid down, nice and calm . . .
Nightmares!
Chased by wolves,
no escape.
Monsters screeching,
changing shape.
Dusty tombstones,
bones beneath.
Swooping dragons,
giant teeth—
all t
hings awful, all things wrong,
all these nightmares, all night long!
There’s really little that I fear.
I’m full of good thoughts and good cheer.
Just talk to me five seconds, and it’s plain—
now could someone please explain that to my brain?
How to Be a Witch
Ask a witch, if you see one. She won’t tell.
You’d think the Internet would say, but it does not.
How do you lay a curse? How do you cast a spell?
How do you make a potion in a pot?
It does appear, my darling dear—
and it’s not what you want to hear—
but either you’re a witch or you are not.
Superstition
Break a mirror: bad luck.
No take backs. You’re stuck.
Black cat crosses you?
Nothing to do:
bad luck.
Walk under a ladder, same again.
Step on a crack?
Guess what then?
Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck.
So get a rabbit’s foot
and a four-leaf clover,
and throw salt over your shoulder
twice a day.
But of course, bad luck might get you, anyway.
The Playground Is Spooky at Night
The slide looks cold and abandoned
when the day of play is done.
The monkey bars, the carousel—
nothing about it looks fun.
The darkened structures seem to speak:
Abandon your childish hopes.
The teeter-totters bang and creak.
The swings dangle, noose-like, on ropes.
It’s still the same place, just darker,
and really all that I’m saying
is if you sneak out to the playground at night,
you probably won’t feel like playing.
I Dare You
I dare you.
I dare you.
I double-dog dare you to do it!
You won’t?
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