There's a Spaceship in My Tree!

by Robert West

  The screen door slammed behind him and he heard something creak again, this time directly above him. He looked up. “A tree house!” he blurted out in envy.

  “You don’t want to go up there!” Scilla’s voice called from the next yard. “I told you. It’s haunted.”

  Ghoulie glanced from her back up at the tree house. “The tree house? I thought you meant the house!”

  “The house may be too, for all I know. But the tree house is a definite,” Scilla said as she swung up onto a branch.

  “Whoever heard of a haunted tree house?” asked Ghoulie as he crab-walked up the slanted trunk. He figured he had maybe ten minutes before his dad got there, but he could at least get a closer look.

  “Get real, Scilla!” groaned a voice below him. Ghoulie turned to see Beamer at the foot of the tree, starting to crab-walk up toward them.

  Ghoulie turned back to Scilla. “Even if there were a ghost,” he added with a smirk, “it couldn’t be much of a ghost if it lives in a tree house.”

  “It was enough of a ghost to scare the heck out of Jared!”

  It was like Scilla had exploded a cherry bomb. “D’ya mean Jared’s been here?” Beamer yelped, bumping his head on a branch above him and nearly falling out of the tree.

  “Priscilla! Priscilla!” an elderly woman’s voice called, “Did you forget that you’re grounded today?” It was Scilla’s grandmother, calling from the second-story window at the near end of her house. “You come home right now and get busy on that homework, or you’ll be grounded for a month!”

  “Oops, I gotta go,” Scilla said with a fearful grimace, already scooting along the tree branch that crossed over into her yard.

  “Scillaaaa! You can’t go now!” Beamer yelled after her, irritated at being unable to hear the rest of the story.

  “Sorry!” she called back as she dropped from the tree, “I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”

  Ghoulie gave Beamer a frustrated look. Their eyes locked meaningfully. Gulping in unison, they looked wide-eyed up at the tree house.

  10

  Reluctant Ghostbusters

  The day after the chase through the park, Beamer gave Jared double the amount due, plus a nauseating truckload of “Sorrys.” Just to make sure Jared didn’t give him a knuckle sandwich for change, Beamer paid him off before assembly in front of the teacher seats.

  Of course, the real question was how this underage “C-movie” schmuck could keep getting away with stomping on everyone. All the kids were sure he was skimming off milk money for himself. By all rights, he should have been hauled into the principal’s office a hundred times since school started.

  A few days later, the answer crashed down on Beamer like a load of bricks. He was leaving the library with a book on Greek myths for his book report (the choice was either Greek heroes or guppy fishing in Saskatchewan), when he saw Jared down the corridor. He was standing beside a woman — his mother, from the looks of it — who was talking with the principal. For one brief shining moment, Beamer’s hopes leaped. Maybe this is it. Justice has finally caught up with him.

  One problem: the two grown-ups looked far too cheerful. Then, with a jolt that shook Beamer down to his size-eight Nikes, he realized the bitter truth: Jared’s mom and the principal were friends — buddies!

  * * * * *

  That afternoon Beamer watched the last half of E.T. He didn’t feel like cartoons, and it wasn’t his day for video games. He turned the TV off after Elliot and E.T. rode across the moon and set up that “phone home” contraption in the forest.

  Beamer wandered into the backyard, kicking along a rock as he walked. “Home” for me is still Shadow Beach Lane in California, not Murphy Street in some nowhere called Middleton.

  One last kick sent the rock tumbling into the garage. Everything inside the garage was connected to everything else by spiderwebs and coated with dust an inch thick. Everything, that is, except for his mom.

  “Hi, Beamer,” she said, turning to him. “Look what I found.” She pointed to several rows of barrels, then to a rust-plated, mechanical nightmare that looked like it was for embalming mummies.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A molasses cooker,” she replied. “The barrels are full of the stuff, though it’s mostly turned to sugar now. Somebody a long time ago had a little home business going here.”

  “What do you do with it?” Beamer asked, glancing around disapprovingly.

  “It’s like syrup. Nowadays they sell it at fairs and have contests. If I can get this contraption working,” she added, turning a knob on the cooker, “I think I might try and heat what’s in those barrels back into molasses and see what happens.”

  Beamer shrugged and turned away with a heavy sigh. His mom — a pediatrician, healer of children, and handyman extraordinaire — reduced to playing with antique pancake syrup! Would this move to Murphy Street leave her no shred of dignity?

  He heard a noise at the driveway gate.

  “Hey, Beamer,” said Ghoulie, giving him a wave. “Could I have a look at your tree house?”

  “You sure y’all want to do that?” yelled Scilla from her upstairs window. “Remember what happened to Jared.”

  “That’s the point,” Ghoulie shouted back to her. “Anything that’s bad for Jared has got to be good for us.”

  Beamer opened the gate and let Ghoulie in. “So what happened in the tree house that caused him to go nuts?” he yelled up toward Scilla’s window. But the window was now empty.

  Ghoulie crab-walked up the tree, eyeing the tree house with anticipation. “Were there any electronic pulses, atmospheric distortions, or ectoplasmic manifestations when Jared went up there?”

  Scilla, now standing on the ground directly below them, stared at him like he had antennae and green skin. “Uhh . . . my grandma doesn’t let me see very many movies.”

  “Scillaaaa!” Beamer yelled impatiently. “Tell us what happened!”

  She leaped and swung herself up on the branch. “Jared rides his bike down Parkview Court up there every Saturday on his way home from the movies. He’d heard about the tree house being haunted and came over to check it out — him and his Skullcross Gang.”

  “Skullcross?!” Beamer exclaimed.

  “Yeah, that’s what they call themselves,” Ghoulie added. “They’ve got this insignia that looks like a pirate’s flag except it’s got crossed money in front of a skull instead of crossed bones.”

  “Money . . . it figures,” Beamer grunted. “Go on,” he said to Scilla.

  “Well, he bashed through the door into the tree ship,” she continued. “I heard weird clicking sounds and a roaring like the wind and it got louder and louder. The next thing I knew, he came outta there like he was on fire and scrambled down the tree so fast he was practically fallin’. Of course, he told everybody he fought off the ghost and wrecked the place, but I knew things weren’t exactly like he’d said.”

  “Jared . . . scared out of a tree house,” Ghoulie mumbled in awe.

  Beamer started climbing up toward the tree house. “You guys coming or not?” he threw back over his shoulder.

  Scilla gave Ghoulie a look, took a deep breath, and started after Beamer.

  Beamer made his way up quickly through the maze of branches. Scilla and Ghoulie were on his tail as if they were walking through a minefield. But when the last spread of leaves cleared before Beamer, he slowed. There it was — even bigger than he had thought — about as long as a good-sized camper and half as wide across.

  Before long they could see the tree house’s — that is, ship’s — long fuselage suspended between the two trunks of the tree. “Man, this is awesome!” Beamer exclaimed as they passed in front of an outrigger engine.

  “Yeah . . . well the birds think so too,” Ghoulie wise cracked as he peered into it. “There’s a nest inside. So much for warp speed.”

  Soon they stepped down to a large branch and gazed across a short wooden ramp. It was more like a rope bridge, and it swung in the wind.
On the other side was the tree ship door.

  “Well, here goes,” Beamer said with a gulp. Hesitantly he stepped onto the ramp. A sudden gust of wind made the bridge sway like a boat in a rough sea.

  He backed into them against the tree, holding tight, afraid to move. “Uh . . . ladies first,” he stammered. “Go ahead, Scilla.”

  “Forget it,” Scilla gulped. “We’ve been liberated. We don’t hafta go first anymore. Besides, it’s your tree!” she added sassily.

  “Okay . . . okay,” Beamer groaned. The ramp was swinging wildly in the wind now while the door at the other end, already half-wrenched off its hinges, was banging mercilessly against the tree ship wall.

  All sorts of pictures raced through his mind as he inched his way across the bridge. Scenes from every thriller he’d ever seen (or thought of seeing) pummeled his imagination. There were hairy, slavering beasts with big lips; oozing ectoplasmic blobs who belched when they sucked you up; cyborgs with red eyeballs, metal jeans and anti-gravity loafers; mutant slugs that left trails of electromagnetic ooze . . . Of course, his mom and dad never let him see the really gory movies, but, when it came to mean and ugly, he’d imagined it.

  He was about to go into “C-movie” overload when a major gust blew him crashing to the floor. While he lay there, reeling with dizziness, other noises — buzzing and clicking — began to grow louder.

  “Holy tamole! What’s goin’ on?!” Scilla exclaimed as she and Ghoulie suddenly appeared, crouching beside him.

  “There wasn’t any windstorm in the online weather report,” Ghoulie piped up.

  “I don’t know,” Beamer said weakly. “Maybe this tree has its own weather pattern.”

  “Or maybe this place really is haunted,” Ghoulie suggested, just as feebly.

  A cricket, looking not the least bit scared, hopped between Beamer’s feet, then through the door opening, and disappeared. As if on cue, the wind and insect noises seemed to lessen. Beamer looked into the dark interior of the tree ship and took another deep breath. He might be one step away from being either totally dematerialized or severely slimed.

  With a “Here goes,” he shoved what was left of the door aside and vaulted inside. Immediately an electronic crackle sent him whirling around.

  11

  Crash Landing

  “Log on,” an electronic voice beeped. “Please log on — name and Starrr-Fiiightrrr co-o-o-o-ode.” Then it sputtered and stopped like a toy winding down.

  “Ohhh boy,” Beamer muttered as he moved away from the wall. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. What light there was seeped in through the cracks in the walls.

  “Keep an eye out for anything slimy,” Ghoulie whispered loudly through the door.

  “Or what’s left of somebody’s guts,” Scilla added.

  The ship creaked in the wind, though the other noises seemed to be dying now. He listened carefully for heavy breathing, something burbling or groaning or roaring or sizzling.

  Then a surge of light blinded him.

  “Hey!!” he cried, spinning around.

  “A window!” Ghoulie said triumphantly, looking through a large opening.

  There were two such windows on each side of the ship, which opened by sliding away a piece of plywood. Now revealed were the remains of broken tables holding bashed-in plywood instrument panels.

  “I don’t see anything that looks remotely slimy,” Scilla said after an express tour.

  “Not even scary,” Beamer added. “Just messy.” Limbs, leaves, pieces of wood, and junk were all over the place. “You don’t suppose Jared’s afraid of dirt?”

  “The way he rubs people’s faces in it, not likely,” Ghoulie said as he crossed to open another window.

  “Lot’s of wildlife here, though,” Scilla said, noting several crickets hopping about. “Especially tree crickets.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Beamer responded. “Don’t smush ’em. My mom likes ’em.”

  “Grandma says they’re good luck,” Scilla continued, peering at a cricket perched at eye level in the window opening. “Somethin’ about givin’ peace to your home.”

  “Well, from the looks of things,” said Beamer, “there’s been no peace around here for quite a while.” He wiped his hand across a table, sending several decades’ worth of collected leaves, twigs, dirt, and dead bugs sliding to the floor.

  Ghoulie found the device responsible for that electronic password message. It was a primitive computer hooked up to a cassette recorder. “A little dated, but it works . . . uh, did work,” he said, examining the setup.

  “Look at this stuff,” Beamer exclaimed as his eyes scanned the array of dials, handles, and switches set up on the tables. “Strictly Stone Age!”

  The ceiling was curved high enough for adults to stand only in the middle. Beamer wandered toward the nose of the tree ship. Reaching over the battered control panel, he slid back another plywood window. Light flooded into the cockpit. He could see the tree and the blue sky beyond the tree ship’s stubby nose.

  Beamer ran his hands slowly along what was left of an instrument panel. “Man, it must have been some crash,” he said to himself.

  “What did you say?” Ghoulie asked, turning toward him.

  “This ship . . . It had a bad landing.”

  His hands began moving rapidly over the controls, pushing buttons, pulling down levers.

  Suddenly beeps, pings, and other audio signals began to be heard all over the ship.

  “Reverse thrusters!” Beamer yelled. The hum of engines filled the tree ship. Lighted dials, flashing panels, graphic displays were everywhere, reflecting off the ceiling, the kids’ faces. . . . “Activate the anti-gravity array . . . now!” Beamer cried again.

  Ghoulie and Scilla looked at him like he’d lost a few screws. “Who does he think he is, Captain Kirk?” Ghoulie whispered to Scilla.

  Suddenly the ship lurched, throwing them to the floor. They pulled themselves back up and wondered if they had suffered brain damage. For there was Beamer, (though not the Beamer they knew) standing before them in a red, yellow, and blue uniform with brass buttons.

  “Officer Ives!” he barked. “Snap to it! We are on a collision course!”

  Ghoulie looked out the window and, sure enough, there was a blue and white globe below them, growing steadily bigger before their eyes. What was going on? Were they in some kind of daydream?

  Then, like the last pieces in a puzzle, Ghoulie and Scilla suddenly popped into full-uniform and snapped into the story. Their hands flashed across instrument panels as if they’d been born to it.

  “’Aye, Captain!” Ghoulie shouted. “Thrusters are in full reverse, but energy levels are down seventy percent. Lieutenant Bruzelski!” he called, turning to Scilla. “The anti-gravity array!”

  “Uh, right,” she said, as an instrument panel spit out a plume of smoke. “Sorry, Commander,” she said weakly, “the anti-gravity array is . . . a goner.”

  “Try the gluon particle zapper!” Beamer ordered, “Or was that the stickyon matter gummerupper? Whatever . . . do it!”

  Ghoulie read the data on his holographic computer display, then looked up through the cockpit window. Shandar Three, or Earth, or Terra, or whatever it was called, depending upon which native tribe you asked, was coming up fast.

  “We’re entering the atmosphere!” Ghoulie announced.

  “She’s starting to buck!” Scilla warned. Immediately her body began jerking about as if she were riding a roller coaster.

  “Bruzelski!” Beamer shouted. “See if you can ice down the heat shield. At the rate we’re dropping, things are going to get french fried around here real soon.”

  “’Aye, Captain!” She ran to an instrument panel in the back wall and ripped off the facing. Sparks flickered and flared like the Fourth of July.

  Beamer jammed a lever hard to the right, then looked up to the window again. The ship’s nose glowed a pale red. “We’re cooking!”

  Ghoulie and Scilla saw sparks zipping past the
side windows. They could hear a whine growing louder. Ghoulie wiped sweat from his brow with one hand while the other danced across the dials. “I think I’m getting something, Captain. She’s pulling up . . . or over . . . or something!”

  “Got to have more!” Beamer shouted. “Bruzelski, what’s happening back there?”

  “They’re frozen, sir . . . the controls,” she grunted as she leaned on a lever with all of her seventy-five pounds. “Wait! It’s moving!”

  But the ship was already too low. It was coming down like a meteor in a blaze of fire. The crystal-Albumidium magnetronic outer coating had already melted. The sillidium shell went next, followed by the megabidium, then the jillibidium, and all the other idium layers.

  “Captain!” Ghoulie shouted. “We’re being peeled like an onion. Another ten seconds and we’ll be fireworks!”

  Then Beamer saw it — something rising from the edge of a small primitive city, reaching toward them. A faint siren sounded in the background. Tendrils wrapped around the ship like a squid about to have lunch and pulled her down.

  “What’s happening?” cried Scilla.

  “We’re caught in some kind of . . . biological nightmare — hard, crusty limbs, draped with green stuff, coming out of the ground reaching into the sky. . . . Release the orthomoponic plantipus delimiter,” Ghoulie cried.

  “The what?” Scilla asked.

  “The weed killer!” Ghoulie yelled. But once again it was too late.

  There was a PH UD, a CRUNCH, and a rustle-rustle. The ship was stuck — in something the crew would later learn was called a “tree.” All that was left of her eight-layer hull was the frame, swaying in the branches.

  “Beamer!” his mother’s voice called from the back door. Beamer, Ghoulie, and Scilla looked at each other in bewilderment. They were their old selves again — shorts, jeans, T-shirts, ponytail, and all. The instrument panels were again broken plywood with painted dials and broom handle levers.

  That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, Beamer crawled out his window and sat on his roof staring at the tree ship. He couldn’t see much of it in the light of a half moon, but he had a flashlight.