by David Lubar
That night, Curtis came looking for me. There were three other ghosts with him. “Hey, Brett, I have to ask you something. That kid Rick—the one who was on the coaster with you—he’s a friend of yours. Right?”
“Yeah. He’s my best friend. I mean, he was….”
“Well, Rick’s going to have a bad accident tonight. He’s going to die unless you stop him from leaving his house.”
“How do you know that?”
“We can see this stuff,” Terry, another of the ghosts, told me. “You will, too, once you’ve been here for a while. Your buddy is going to walk out of his house and head down the street. When he reaches the corner, a power line’s going to break and the wire is going to fall right on him. Zap! Bye, bye, Rick.”
“What can I do?” I asked. “Can I stop him?”
“Sure,” Curtis said. “We can appear to people if we try really hard. It just takes a lot of energy.”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I drifted as fast as I could toward Rick’s house. I hoped I wasn’t too late. I didn’t want him to get fried, even though it would be nice to have him around here all the time.
As I got closer, I realized I hadn’t asked when Rick’s accident was supposed to happen. I waited a long time. At least I didn’t get hungry or thirsty. Just bored. Finally, the front door opened, and Rick came down his porch steps. He looked awful, like he’d been crying. I felt bad for him, but glad that he missed me.
I drifted in front of him and started shouting. “Go back! Rick, get back. Don’t go out.”
He walked through me. I drifted ahead of him again and tried harder. “Stop, Rick!”
He hesitated for an instant, as if he’d caught a glimpse of me. Then he shook his head and started walking again. I’d done something right that time. I just hadn’t done it hard enough.
“Stop!” I shouted, focusing all my strength, wishing with all my concentration that he could see me. The effort took so much out of me that I could feel myself wilt. But it worked.
Rick froze for a moment. His eyes grew wide. Then he screamed and ran back into the house.
I’d saved him. My death, as stupid as it was, had actually served a purpose. For the first time since I died, I felt good.
Behind me, someone laughed.
Curtis was standing in the road, along with about twenty other ghosts—all laughing hysterically.
“Man, oh man, did you see his eyes?” Curtis said.
“I think Rick is putting on clean underwear,” Terry said.
“But I saved him. Right?” I asked. “He won’t get hit by the power line.”
Curtis laughed so hard, he bent over. At the same time, he pointed a finger up above our heads. I looked up. For a moment, I had no idea what I was supposed to see. Then I realized there was something I didn’t see. I guess I really can be stupid at times. And not just on roller coasters. There are power lines near my house. Lots of power lines. But Rick lives in a newer section of town. There aren’t any power lines overhead in Rick’s neighborhood. The lines all run underground.
I shook my head, amazed that Curtis had tricked me so easily. But I guess every group has some sort of tricks or pranks they play on newcomers. My first year at camp, I’d gone on a snipe hunt. I’d stood for an hour in a field, holding a cloth sack, waiting to catch a snipe. It turned out there was no such thing. Instead of heading into the woods to flush the snipe toward me, the other kids had just gone back to camp, looted my locker, and poured maple syrup on my sheets.
“Got you good, didn’t we?” Curtis asked.
“Yeah. You got me.” There was no point being a bad sport.
“Come on. Let’s go back to the park,” Curtis said. “Maybe someone will fall off the sky ride.”
“Sounds good.” As I drifted along next to him, I started thinking up a good trick to play on the next newcomer. It really helped pass the time.
STING, WHERE IS THY DEATH?
Billy didn’t even see the attackers until after the searing pain shot through his arm. As he slapped at his shoulder and spun around, he spotted three of them hovering a foot away. Hornets! No mistake. No other stinging creature had that same awful, drooping body, like some sort of half-dead insect that lived only to cause anguish.
He raced for his front door, stumbled over a rock, and fell hard. That’s the last thing he remembered before he woke up in the hospital with a cast on his ankle and a bandage on his head.
“Am I okay?” he asked.
“You’ll be fine,” his mom said, patting his shoulder. “The doctor said it was a clean break.”
“How’d it happen?” his dad asked. “When we found you, you were knocked out cold.”
Billy explained about the hornets.
“Must be a nest nearby,” his dad said. “I’ll take care of it this evening. That’s the best time to spray a nest, when it’s cool outside.”
“As long as I can watch them die,” Billy said. He pictured the hornets dropping lifelessly to the ground as the spray washed over them.
They brought him home and set him on the couch. A little while later, his dad came inside and said, “I found the nest.”
That evening, balancing on crutches, Billy watched as his dad got ready to use the spray.
“Is that stuff good?” Billy asked.
“It’s death in a can,” his dad said. “It can shoot twenty-five feet straight up. Watch this.” He pointed the can at the nest, which was under the roof, right above Billy’s bedroom window.
Billy shuddered at the thought that all those hornets had been living so close to him, building their papery home against his own.
His dad pushed the button on top of the can. The liquid inside shot out in a powerful stream. As cool as the spray was, the result wasn’t all that exciting. When the first blast hit the nest, a couple hornets escaped. They dropped to the ground, lifeless and wet. Billy wanted to crush them with his good foot, but he wasn’t going to walk under the nest. As the poisonous spray coated the nest and expanded into a foam, nothing else escaped.
“All dead,” Billy’s dad said as the last drops dribbled from the canister.
“Good.” Billy imagined the hornets, trapped in the dark, dying a sudden and unexpected death. He couldn’t help smiling. Maybe later, they could knock the nest down and burn it. The dead insects would crackle like popcorn. The thought made Billy happy. He put his weight on his good foot, leaned over, and grabbed a rock. He hurled it at the nest, knocking a small hole in the bottom. Nothing flew out.
“Nice shot, sport,” his dad said.
“Now get to bed,” his mom said. “You need to rest up so you can heal.”
The next day, Billy’s ankle hurt too much for him to walk, so he stayed in bed. That evening, his creepy cousin Amy came to visit him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m going to mend you,” she said. She held up a paper bag. “I’ve been doing research in natural healing.”
Billy didn’t say anything. He’d learned there was no point talking to Amy when she became obsessed with a new hobby. It was easier to let her do what she wanted. She was annoying, but harmless. Last year, she’d decided to save endangered species. Then, she’d gotten all crazy about an online multi-player game and made everyone call her Etherea the Enchantress. After that wore off, she started looking for flying saucers. Now, apparently, she was some sort of mystical healer.
She pulled a candle, a metal bowl, and a bunch of small jars from a bag and put everything on Billy’s bedside table. “These are healing elements,” she said, pointing to the jars. “Essence of hyacinth picked under the new moon, myrtle from a sacred grove, rust from a piece of iron two centuries old.”
She kept talking, but Billy tuned her out. After she opened all the jars, she placed the bowl on a small stand above the candle.
Amy lit the candle. “Let the healing begin.”
“Does your mom know you’re playing with matches?” Billy asked.
“I’m not
playing,” Amy said. “This is serious. Women have practiced healing arts since the beginning of time.” She emptied the contents of each of the jars into the bowl.
Smoke trickled from the mixture. Just little wisps drifted out at first. Then, with a whumpf, the mixture ignited. Thick plumes rose from the bowl.
“Put it out!” Billy shouted.
“Relax,” Amy said. “It’s almost finished. You need to stay still so the healing vapors can penetrate your cast.”
There was a bright orange flash from the bowl, followed by a final dense cloud of smoke. Billy couldn’t breathe. He could hardly see. Coughing, he tumbled out of bed, winced as his bad foot touched the floor, then raised the cast off the ground, hopped to the wall, and opened his window.
Fresh air flowed in and the awful smoke seeped out. Billy gasped, steadying himself with one hand against the wall.
“It won’t work if you do that,” Amy said.
“It won’t work anyhow!” Billy shouted. “It’s ridiculous. And you’re crazy. Just get out. Go save some endangered dolphins or something.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel about my help, I’m leaving.” Amy blew out the candle, gathered everything, and left the room.
“Idiot,” Billy muttered. As he turned back toward the bed, something buzzed past his face.
Hornet! he realized. One of them must have been away when the nest was sprayed. He slammed the window closed, just in case there were more stragglers. Then he grabbed his math book from his desk and looked around for the hornet. There it was, on the wall right next to the door. “You’re dead.” He hopped across the room and slammed the book against the insect, flattening it.
He pulled the book away and looked with satisfaction at the crushed remains, still stuck to the book.
“I win.” Billy dropped the book to the floor, then went back to bed. His ankle hurt like crazy. As he stretched out, a motion caught his eye. He looked at the book on the floor.
Billy blinked. He was sure the smoke had messed up his eyes. He blinked again. But there was no mistake. The crushed hornet started to wriggle and twitch.
It lifted its head from the book. Its thorax expanded. As the stinger regained its shape, Billy leaped from the bed, grabbed the book, and slammed it against the wall. Again and again, he hit it. Finally, out of breath, barely able to see anything past the sweat stinging his eyes, he looked at the book. The hornet was beyond crushed. All that was left was a smeared streak of insect paste.
As the adrenaline faded from his bloodstream, Billy’s leg crumpled. The pain, worse than anything before, knocked him off his feet. He fell, dropping the book. As he lay there, he saw the jellied smear of hornet quiver again. It started to pull together.
I’ll throw the book outside, he thought. That would be enough for now. whatever Amy’s healing smoke had done, he’d toss the hornet outside and be safe. As much as his leg throbbed, he knew he could make it across the room. Billy looked at the window and frowned.
It was dark.
Too dark.
No streetlights shone through. No moonlight. The darkness flowed and pulsed like a living creature. Billy heard taps against the glass. Light taps, at first. Then harder ones. Hundreds of taps.
The hornets, Billy realized. Healed. Back from the dead. Unkillable. Pressing against the glass. Ramming it like hailstones. Amy’s healing smoke had seeped into the hive.
A crack shot across one of the windowpanes.
Billy pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the bursts of agony that exploded through his ankle. He turned toward his door.
Behind him, he heard the sharp crack of glass breaking. The hornets swarmed inside. Billy raced for the door, but he never reached it.
A WORD OR TWO ABOUT THESE STORIES
As always, here’s a look at where I got my ideas. I should warn those of you who like to read this part first that there are some spoilers in the explanations.
All the Rage
One of my main sources for ideas is my “what if” file. Each day, I jot down a what-if question. The file is currently sixty-two pages long, single spaced, with more than 1,100 ideas in it, not counting the ideas I’ve used and removed. This story was inspired by the simple question, “What if there was a kid who never got angry?” I enjoy writing stories about the one kid in a class who is different in some way. (See “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Talk” from In the Land of the Lawn Weenies for another example of this.)
Frankendance
Every dad wants to find the perfect guy for his daughter. I couldn’t help thinking how much easier that would be if you could make the guy. I liked the idea of a dad doing that. And I’m a fan of the original Frankenstein movie. As for the rest of the story, I’m as surprised as anyone by what happened once they got to the dance.
The Ratty Old Bumbershoot
I think I was fighting an umbrella in a windstorm when this idea hit me. Umbrellas do seem to be alive when they start flapping and twisting. They sort of remind me of bats, though that’s not quite the direction this story took. As for bumbershoot, it’s such a wonderfully silly word that I had to use it.
Dear Author
I love getting real fan letters, but I also sometimes get letters that are obviously a classroom assignment. They almost always have the same form—three things I like about your book, three questions, and so on. I don’t know how all of this started, but I think it would be so much better if students were assigned to write to someone in their community or to someone who doesn’t get much mail.
The Wizard’s Mandolin
I was tuning my guitar and thinking about sharp and flat notes when the idea for this story hit me. I also own a mandolin, but I don’t play it very well. (I own a banjo, too, but I’m pretty sure “The Wizard’s Banjo” wouldn’t have had the sort of feel I was looking for.) I had fun with the viewpoint of this one. It’s nice writing things in different styles.
Into the Wild Blue Yonder
I hate to admit that I got the idea for the ending first. I just envisioned a carnival ride turning into something much less pleasant. I’m not sure what that says about my mind. Then, I had the fun task of creating someone worthy of being put on that ride.
Yackity-Yak
Another gift from my what-if pile. Originally, I was going to use a magic ring. But a book of spells made more sense. It’s fun to write a story once in a while that has just one person speaking, without any descriptions or any dialogue from other characters. Given the plot of this story, I couldn’t think of a better time to let one character do all the talking. This is another reason I love short stories. You can experiment and do all sorts of things that might not work in a novel.
Wish Away
I’m not the first (or the seven hundredth) person to write a story about wishes being granted. I’ve had at least two wish stories in earlier collections (“Anything You Want” and “The Genie of the Necklace”). This particular story started out with the idea, “What if anyone could wish things away from anyone else?” I tweaked the idea a bit, to limit who was doing the taking. That happens a lot. An idea won’t be quite right for some reason, but I’ll play with it and work around the parts that are causing a problem.
The Department Store
I had no idea where this one was going when I started. I wanted to have a kid stay in a store overnight. And I wanted it to be creepy. Given how creepy mannequins are, I’m not surprised what happened. Though I hope you were.
The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies
I started with the idea of a pair of kids getting into a pepper eating contest. There’s just something about hot peppers that makes people abandon common sense. I guess the same could be said for lots of other things that inspire people to compete. I like hot peppers, but I always try to stop eating them somewhere between tears and flames.
Just Like Me
I remember seeing a magazine ad for a place where they make dolls that looks just like people. That struck me as potentially creepy. I definitely wo
uldn’t want to be anywhere near a doll that looked like me. Naturally, anything creepy is worth thinking about for story inspirations. I combined that idea with one about people who treat their dolls a little too much like they are real.
What’s Eating the Vegans?
I know lots of vegetarians. I like them, but I also like making fun of them, because I’m really not a nice person, and I’m envious of their excellent health. I also thought it would be fun to put vegetarians in the middle of a Thanksgiving dinner. I’d originally envisioned an attack of giant vegetables, but common sense prevailed and I took a different direction.
Let’s Have a Big Hand for Gerald
Once in a while, I like to write a story that is flat out absurd. (See “Throwaways” in Invasion of the Road Weenies.) My spark here was, “What if a kid’s hand kept growing bigger?” Actually, the fact that Gerald’s hand keeps growing isn’t the absurd part. For me, his mom’s reaction is what makes the story deliciously bizarre. The nice thing about what-ifs is that an idea could turn into so many different types of stories. On another day, Gerald might have found himself elbow deep in dark horror, or performing some sort of heroic high five. This time around, I sent him somewhere else.
Bird Shot
I came up with the ending first. That’s obviously the ideal way to make sure the story will have an ending. It’s easier to work backwards by asking, “How did things get this way?” than to work forward by asking, “What happened next?” On the other hand, if I don’t know the ending when I start writing, there’s a better chance it will be a nice surprise for me and for the reader. Either way, it’s my job to make sure the path to the ending is as satisfying as the ending itself. This means I have to make the ending feel both believable and satisfying. (If a counselor showed up and took away the BB gun, that would be believable, but not very satisfying. If the ground opened up and swallowed the kid, that would be satisfying, but not believable.)
The Princess and the Pea Brain