Teacher's Pest

by Charles Gilman

  FOUR

  Robert lived with his mother in a tiny two-bedroom house at the bottom of a dead-end street. When he arrived home, Mrs. Arthur was waiting at the front door. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, pulling him close. For a moment, he thought she was giving him a hug—but her hands were covered with white latex gloves. She gripped the sides of his head and proceeded to check his scalp, searching for lice that Miss Mandis had overlooked.

  “I’m pretty sure she got them all,” he said.

  “It’s the nits you have to worry about,” Mrs. Arthur said, raking a spiky comb over the top of his head. “A single louse can lay three hundred eggs in its lifetime.”

  Robert’s mother was a nurse at Dunwich Memorial Hospital. When it came to matters of hygiene, there was no one she trusted more than herself.

  “Here’s an egg,” she said. “And here’s another, two more. How could she miss these? Let me pluck them—”

  She might have searched Robert’s hair for an hour if Pip and Squeak hadn’t shifted inside his backpack, rustling the pages of his math notebook.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “Is something in your bag?”

  “Be right back,” he exclaimed, twisting out of her reach and hurrying upstairs. Mrs. Arthur was terrified of mice, and she would never allow a two-headed rat to live in her home. So every day Robert smuggled his pets into and out of the house. When he reached his room he unzipped his backpack, and the rats scrambled into a shoe box beneath his bed. “Stay put,” he told them. “You nearly got us busted.”

  When Robert went back downstairs, his mother was placing a bowl of ravioli and meatballs on the kitchen table. “I made Glenn’s favorite,” she said. “Do you know if he’s coming over?”

  Robert realized it was already six o’clock, their usual dinner hour. “I guess not,” he said.

  Glenn had been coming to dinner every night for weeks. He usually ate more food than Robert and his mother combined, but Mrs. Arthur didn’t mind the extra cooking. The house felt livelier with a third person around. Glenn was always telling stupid jokes at the dinner table; sometimes he made Robert laugh so hard that milk dribbled out of his nose.

  “Well, it’ll be nice to have some one-on-one conversation,” Mrs. Arthur said. She sat across from Robert and unfolded her dinner napkin in her lap. “How are you liking seventh grade?”

  Robert never knew how to answer that question. He couldn’t bring himself to reveal the awful things he had learned about Lovecraft Middle School. Mrs. Arthur didn’t know anything about Crawford Tillinghast or the secret gates leading to his mansion. Robert hadn’t told anyone that Tillinghast was abducting students and teachers, placing their souls in urns, and then using their flesh and hair as disguises for his army of bizarre beasts. How could he expect anyone—even his own mother—to believe him?

  “Seventh grade is awesome,” Robert said finally.

  His mother smiled. “That’s so nice to hear.”

  When they had finished eating, she scooped some ravioli into a plastic container. “Why don’t you take these leftovers to Glenn’s house?” she suggested. “I bet he’d love it if you stopped by.”

  Robert wasn’t so sure. He’d been friends with Glenn for three months but had yet to see the inside of his house. From the outside, it looked dark and rundown, and Robert was in no hurry to visit.

  But Mrs. Arthur was insistent. She pushed the container into Robert’s hands. “Go,” she said, “before it gets too late.”

  So Robert put on a coat and hat, went out the front door, and stood underneath his bedroom window. He whistled twice, and, a moment later, Pip and Squeak came scurrying down the drainpipe.

  “Follow me, guys,” he said. “We’re taking a stroll.”

  The nicest houses in Dunwich, Massachusetts, were built on tall cliffs overlooking the ocean. Robert and Glenn lived two miles away from the coast, in what people still called the “industrial section,” even though most of the industries had vanished years ago. The street lamps on his block were all dying or dead, and with just a sliver of moon in the sky, the night seemed especially dark.

  Pip and Squeak trotted along beside Robert, occasionally darting at shadows and strange noises, their fangs bared. “Take it easy,” he whispered. “Everything’s cool.”

  Glenn lived six blocks away on Liberty Street. His house was a small squat box with dirty yellow aluminum siding. The front yard was littered with junk: car tires, cinderblocks, a section of highway guardrail, a rowboat full of muddy rainwater. More than once, strangers driving by had stopped their cars to wander among the debris, thinking they had stumbled upon some kind of yard sale.

  Robert was relieved to see the driveway was empty—this meant Mr. Torkells wasn’t home. Glenn’s father was a tall, stoop-backed man who rarely spoke and never smiled. Robert was terrified of him. If he thought there was a chance Mr. Torkells might be around, he never would have knocked on the door.

  Glenn answered almost immediately.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

  “Special delivery,” Robert explained, holding up the container of food. “It’s your favorite. Ravioli and meatballs.”

  Glenn crossed his arms over his chest. “We have food, Robert. We’re not poor.”

  Robert suddenly felt very embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to suggest that Glenn was poor. “It—it was my mom’s idea,” he stammered. “It’s your favorite.”

  “And you shouldn’t stop by people’s houses without asking,” Glenn said. “It’s rude.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m not whispering,” he said. “My throat is sore.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “I’m just busy right now. I’ll see you later.”

  Glenn turned to go back inside, and Robert glimpsed the welt on the back of his neck. It was darker now, almost black, and had swollen to the size of a golf ball.

  “Glenn!” Robert exclaimed. “That thing—are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m taking care of it. Good night.”

  “Maybe my mom should look at it—”

  But Glenn had already closed the door.

  Pip and Squeak scrambled up to Robert’s shoulder, chattering like crazy. Even they could tell that something was wrong. “I know,” Robert agreed. “I don’t get it, either.”

  As they walked home, Robert replayed the conversation in his mind, trying to understand exactly what he’d done wrong. He couldn’t make sense of it.

  And what was the deal with the back of Glenn’s neck?

  Robert was nearly home when he remembered he still had the ravioli. He couldn’t imagine telling his mother that Glenn had refused it, so he stopped under a flickering street lamp and opened the container. Pip and Squeak came over to sniff the food, then looked up to Robert with their cutest begging faces.

  “Go on,” he told them. “It’s all yours.”

  FIVE

  The next morning, when Robert arrived at Lovecraft Middle School, the hallways were filled with flies: houseflies, fruit flies, gnats, mosquitoes, and some winged critters he’d never seen before. As soon as he brushed one from his arm, another two landed on his ear or neck or forehead. It was like walking through a barn.

  Karina was waiting at his locker.

  “When did all this happen?” he asked.

  She had no idea. “I went to bed and everything was normal. When I woke up, the swarms were everywhere.” A fly landed on Robert’s nose and he slapped it away. “People are blaming the janitor strike, but I’m not buying it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Flies aren’t born overnight. They hatch as maggots—little baby worms. They take a full week to grow into adults.”

  “First the wasp, then the lice, now this,” Robert said. “Something’s up.”

  “Definitely,” Karina said. “Where’s Glenn?”

  Robert didn’t know. Every morning, Glenn stopped by Robert
’s house on his way to school, but today he didn’t show up. “I saw him last night, and he was acting strange.”

  “Weirder and weirder,” Karina said. “What’s next?”

  They were interrupted by four men marching down the hallway. They wore bright yellow hazmat suits that covered their bodies from head to toe. Their faces were concealed by hooded visors.

  “Coming through!” the leader called. “Stand aside, please!”

  Each man carried a tank of pesticide marked with a skull and crossbones. They were squirting a gloopy brown liquid on the walls and floor.

  “Watch out, please! Watch your step!”

  One of the exterminators aimed his spray wand at Robert’s feet, and he had to jump to avoid being squirted.

  “Hey, careful!” Karina shouted.

  The exterminators ignored her and continued their march down the hallway.

  “Why are they wearing masks?” Robert asked.

  Karina studied the poison dripping down the walls. “This stuff must be really toxic.”

  It didn’t smell toxic to Robert. If anything, the scent reminded him of pancakes. But there was no point in taking chances. He opened his backpack and peered inside. Pip and Squeak came to school with him every morning and usually spent the day snoozing in his locker. “You guys are sticking with me,” he said. “Just to be safe.”

  When Robert arrived in homeroom, he discovered that six more of his classmates had freshly shaved heads. His teacher, Miss Lynch, was standing at the chalkboard with a long wooden pointer, highlighting the anatomy of a housefly.

  While other homeroom teachers were happy to take attendance and then let students chat among themselves, Miss Lynch believed that every minute of the school day should be devoted to learning. She often read aloud from the newspaper to inform students of the latest current events. This morning, she was sharing “fun facts” about winged insects.

  “Flies taste with their feet,” she said. “That’s why they’re always walking over your food. They especially love sweets: cupcakes, cookies, candies, anything with lots of sugar.”

  Robert walked to his desk at the back of the classroom. Sitting on his chair was a daddy longlegs about the size of his fist. He used his notebook to brush the bug onto the floor and then sat down.

  “Of course, flies don’t have teeth, so they can’t eat solids,” Miss Lynch continued. “Instead they liquefy their food by vomiting digestive enzymes onto its surface.” The whole class groaned—some of the kids had just finished eating breakfast—but Miss Lynch kept on going. “These enzymes act like a powerful acid, melting the food to a liquid state. Then the fly uses a long snout called a proboscis to slurp it all up.”

  By the end of the explanation, Robert was ready to vomit himself. Fortunately, Miss Lynch was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  It was Howard Mergler, president of the student council. He entered the classroom with the aid of forearm crutches. He had been in a car accident three years before, and now he walked with tremendous difficulty.

  “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” he said. “May I make a quick announcement?”

  “Of course.” Miss Lynch set her wooden pointer in the chalk tray and sat down. “Go right ahead, Howard.”

  Teachers loved Howard Mergler. He was often described as a model student: smart, polite, courteous, responsible, considerate. Howard always tucked in his shirts, and today he was wearing a necktie. On weekends, he volunteered at the public library, reading Shakespeare aloud to blind senior citizens. Earlier in the year, Robert had the chance to become student council president, but he stepped aside so that Howard could serve. He figured that Howard was the perfect kid for the job.

  There was just one catch: Howard wasn’t really a kid.

  The real Howard Mergler was being held hostage inside Tillinghast Mansion. Now his hair and skin and even his crutches were being used as a disguise by a giant insect monster, and Robert and Glenn were the only ones who knew.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Howard began. “I understand many of you are troubled by the arrival of insects in our school. I’m here to assure you that this is quite common. As winter approaches, it’s normal for insects to seek shelter.”

  Normal? None of this was normal, Robert thought. The wasp on Glenn’s neck wasn’t normal. Stampeding ants in the parking lot weren’t normal.

  “Since the janitors are on strike, we’re forced to tackle this problem ourselves. That’s why I’ve hired local exterminators to treat the school. You may have already seen them patrolling the hallways. The good news is, the bugs should be gone by the end of today.”

  Miss Lynch gave him a round of applause. “That’s wonderful! Thank you, Howard,” she said. “Class? Can you please join me in thanking Howard? Everyone?”

  A few students joined in the applause. The rest were busy itching their scalps and scratching their necks. Howard took a modest bow before leaving the classroom.

  “Now let’s continue with our fun facts,” Miss Lynch said. “The average housefly weighs remarkably little, just ten milligrams. That’s less than a cotton ball.” She stood and lifted the wooden pointer from her desk.

  It was weird, Robert thought.

  Just a few minutes earlier, hadn’t he watched her place the pointer in the chalk tray?

  Miss Lynch shrieked. The pointer had come alive in her hands, flailing its spindly legs and chirping loudly. In fact, it wasn’t her pointer at all—it was a giant walking-stick insect! Miss Lynch let go and the creature scrambled for the exit, collapsing its bony frame until it was low enough to wriggle under the door.

  The students were in hysterics. Miss Lynch fumbled open a bottle of hand sanitizer and squirted it all over her fingers. Everyone was laughing like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

  Everyone except Robert Arthur.

  He knew that giant walking sticks were just the beginning, and that Howard Mergler wasn’t going to fix anything. He knew the infestation at Lovecraft Middle School was going to get a lot worse.

  SIX

  In gym class, more wasps were swarming on the soccer field, and they were more aggressive than ever. Coach Glandis kept the students indoors, in the gymnasium, and drilled them on formations until the end of the period.

  In the middle of language arts class, a flurry of yellow butterflies burst out of a ventilation duct and chased Mr. Loomis all around his desk.

  At lunchtime, a minor panic erupted when Patrick Caulfield discovered a pill bug crawling out of his black bean burrito. Pill bugs look an awful lot like black beans, and soon everyone with a burrito was freaking out. Dozens of meals were tossed uneaten into the trash.

  By the end of sixth period, hundreds of flypaper strips were hanging in all the hallways. They looked like greasy yellow party streamers decorated with twitching black polka dots. The students had to duck to avoid running into them.

  But Robert’s strangest encounter was still to come. As he was walking to Science, his last class of the day, he spotted a familiar figure in the hallway.

  “Glenn!” he called.

  Robert almost didn’t recognize his friend. Most days, Glenn wore the same green army jacket and tattered blue jeans. But today he was decked out in all-new clothes: new pants, new boots, a new hooded sweatshirt. Robert ran to catch up with him.

  “I didn’t think you were in school today,” he said.

  Glenn shrugged and kept walking. “I am.”

  “You feel better?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’s the bite?”

  “Fine.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  But things were not all right. This was not how their conversations normally went. His best friend was speaking in a flat monotone. He seemed a million miles away.

  “Are you coming over for dinner tonight?”

  “What?”

  “My mom cooks extra for you,” Robert explained. “Sh
e needs to know if you’re coming.”

  “I’m not coming.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have plans.”

  “Plans? What plans?” It didn’t make any sense. Robert might as well have been talking to a complete stranger. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Glenn turned to face him and spoke very clearly: “Dude, don’t you get it? I want you to leave me alone.”

  Back in sixth grade, before the boys were friends, Glenn used to torment Robert all the time. He was always giving him arm burns and noogies and purple herbies. But none of those pranks ever hurt as much as that one simple sentence: I want you to leave me alone.

  Robert stopped walking and watched Glenn disappear into the crowd. He thought about the crazy wasp and the hideous boil growing on the back of Glenn’s neck.

  He realized he couldn’t see the boil any longer.

  It was concealed by the brand-new hooded sweatshirt that had mysteriously become part of Glenn’s wardrobe.

  SEVEN

  At the end of the day, Robert opened his locker and found a note waiting on the top shelf. Come to the library immediately, it read. We have important business to discuss.

  The note was signed by Ms. Lavinia, the school librarian. She was Crawford Tillinghast’s sister, and the only adult in Lovecraft Middle School who knew about his sinister plans.

  Robert arrived at the library and found Ms. Lavinia standing on the circulation desk. She was wearing a tool belt and mounting an electric bug zapper to the ceiling. It looked like a large hanging lantern with a glowing blue coil in the center.

  “Trouble with flies?” he asked.

  “Moths,” she explained. “They’re eating the cloth on the hardcover books.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “They’re the least of my worries.” She climbed down carefully from the desk and then smoothed out her skirt and blouse. Ms. Lavinia was well past sixty years old, but she had the energy and pluck of a much younger woman. “Where are your pets?”