by Bruce Hale
Mrs. Johnson’s eyebrows lifted. “Your school doesn’t close, and no more classmates are attacked. That should be enough reward.”
“How about a little help in the grades department?” Benny gave his most winning smile.
“Nope,” said the principal.
“Cash?” said Benny.
“Absolutely not.” The principal’s arms folded and her face shut down like a ski slope in summertime.
“It’s oka—” I began, but Benny cut me off.
“There must be something you can offer,” he said. “After all, we’re sticking our necks out here.”
Her stare was as flinty as the West Texas soil. Benny had gone too far. I started to speak again, and his fingers dug into my arm like talons.
“We—ow!”
“How’s this?” said Mrs. Johnson. “Two get-out-of-detention-free passes for each of you.”
“Deal!” said Benny.
She eyed us. “Remember: just figure out what’s causing this. I will take it from there.”
Benny gave her a two-finger salute. “Aye aye, Commander.”
I frowned. “And what if we need to get into the mechanical room, or the portables?”
Mrs. Johnson stepped over to her desk, reached under the blotter, and produced a key. She held it up.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Benny reverently.
“The universal key,” she said, handing it over. “Don’t lose it, don’t copy it, and bring it right back as soon as this is over. Understood?”
Benny and I both nodded.
“Any questions?” the principal asked.
“Since we can’t keep the key, could we have three get-out-of-detention passes?” said Benny.
She scowled. “Don’t press your luck.”
ONE FRUSTRATING THING about ghosts is they’re tricky to pin down. Though we searched through lunchtime and afternoon break, we found no trace of the spook. Nothing poked its head out of the portables and said, “Boo!” Nothing floated around the mechanical room dragging chains behind it.
But our time wasn’t wasted. Benny and I laid plans for tonight’s ghost-hunting trip and did what we could to prepare.
“You know,” Benny pointed out as we locked the mechanical room behind us, “it’s not every day you get a universal key just after someone dares you to enter a locked room.”
“No fooling,” I said.
“We’re the luckiest guys at school.” Benny beamed.
“Yeah, so lucky that we have to face down a ghost.” I paced. “Lucky or not, we’d better deliver.”
“Relax, Carlos.”
“I’ll relax when we solve this and everything’s back to normal. Principal Johnson isn’t big on failure—not when the fate of the school is at stake.”
Benny had no answer for that one but a serious look.
As a safety measure, Mrs. Johnson had closed down the portables, sent those students into the library and other classrooms, and roped off the area. Nothing interfered with our search. So naturally, the ghosts were as shy as a forest fawn at a fiesta.
Worries chased each other around and around my brain. Would we survive our ghostly encounter tonight? If we failed, would our friends be stuck in a coma forever? And would Mrs. Johnson give us detention until Benny and I were old and toothless?
Since we weren’t having much luck with our search, we decided to pay an after-school visit to Esme and her mom. Esme claimed to be an expert in the supernatural; maybe we could learn something from her that would keep us safe and coma-free when we tackled Tyler’s dare. And we figured her mom, a so-called monster maker, might also know a thing or two about ghosts.
Benny and I headed over to my house first because that’s where the good snacks were.
“Abuelita,” I called as we banged through the front door, “we’re ho—”
Bam! The door slammed behind us.
“¡Ay, Carlos!” my grandma called from the living room.
“Sorry!” One of these times I’d actually remember to close the door quietly. Probably around the time I learned to speak Ukrainian, won the lottery, and had my own spaceship.
Abuelita turned down the ska music she’d been blasting through the house. She asked about school. I gave her the highlights, leaving out the comas and hauntings. No need to worry her.
“Are you boys hungry?” she asked.
I cut off Benny before he could make a request. “No, but someone else is. Would you mind baking something we can take to a new student in our class?”
My abuela smiled. “Cariño, that’s so sweet of you to make a new student feel welcome.”
“Uh…” I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit that we were only trying to see if the new student was behind the freaky happenings at school. So I said, “Ah, de nada.”
When Benny went to the bathroom, I helped Abuelita prepare cake batter. “So, uh…how’s Dad doing?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.
She glanced up from beating eggs into a mixing bowl. “Just fine. How do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.” I added sugar into another bowl and tried to calm my heartbeat. “He seemed kind of bummed about Mom and the whole…L.A. situation.”
“Mijo.” Abuelita fixed me with wise eyes. A floury hand caressed my cheek. “Don’t worry. This is a hard time for them, but it won’t last forever. You’ll see.”
I wished I felt her optimism. As Benny returned, I dropped the subject. But the heaviness in my heart remained.
Before long, my abuela had whipped up a batch of seriously awesome cupcakes with Mexican-chocolate frosting. Of course, Benny and I had to sample one or two. Can’t give away substandard treats, after all.
We packed the cupcakes into a pink cake box, added a ribbon, and set out for the Ygorres’ house. Benny and I had found the address by entering Esme’s phone number from our class list into a reverse directory website that his detective dad used. I wanted to brag to someone about our mad research skills but somehow managed to restrain myself.
After a ten-minute walk, we ended up in front of a tidy Spanish-style house with a red-tiled roof. A Prius with a PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker waited in the driveway. Rosebushes lined the front of the house.
It looked about as scary as a kindergartner’s vampire costume.
“This is the home of someone who makes monsters?” I said.
Benny shrugged. “Even the forces of evil like a cozy crib.”
I rang the doorbell. After a short wait, the door swung open.
“Yeah?” Just like at school, Esme was a study in black—black tennies, black skirt and tights, black hoodie. The only hint of color was a purple streak in her straight black hair.
“We come bearing cupcakes,” said Benny, thrusting the box forward.
She raised an eyebrow. “How jolly. We’re not buying any.”
“No,” I said, “it’s a gift—kind of a welcome-to-our-school thing.”
Esme frowned. Maybe she hadn’t been welcomed very often.
“Who is it, honey?” called a woman’s voice from inside the house.
“Boys from school,” said Esme. “And cupcakes.”
“Aren’t you going to invite them in?”
Wordlessly, Esme padded into the house, leaving the door open. Benny and I stepped into an entryway that seemed straight from one of those pimp-your-house TV shows. The tile floor was spotless. The artwork was tasteful. The magazines on the side table had been positioned using a ruler and T-square. It looked more like a fancy hotel for robots than a home for humans.
“Welcome!” A dark-haired woman abandoned her laptop computer in a side room and came to greet us. Her makeup was as perfect as her smile. “I’m Esme’s mother, Yvonne Ygorre.”
Apparently, someone had been a bit too generous with the Ys when she’d been born.
Benny and I introduced ourselves and handed her the cupcakes. After ushering us into the family room, Mrs. Ygorre went to fetch dessert plates and napkins. Esme sat at one end of
a spotless tan couch, tongue peeking from a corner of her mouth as she drew on a sketch pad.
“So, uh, nice house.” I took a seat at the far end of the sofa. Benny sank into an armchair.
“It’s okay,” she said.
Glancing over, I noticed she was shading in a particularly gruesome scene. “Nice, uh, zombie. Looks like he’s really enjoying those brains.”
Her dark stare was as flat and direct as a two-by-four to the face. “Why are you here?”
“To welcome you,” said Benny. “You know, like friendly people do?”
Esme snorted. “Funny,” she said. “No, really, why are you here?”
At that moment, Mrs. Ygorre saved us by returning with plates and cupcakes. I was already kind of full, but I made the sacrifice and ate one anyway. Politeness is my middle name. After she’d served everyone, Esme’s mother perched in an armchair and cut into her treat using a knife and fork. With her wire-rimmed glasses, casually stylish clothes, and friendly attitude, she seemed like the cool mom on a Disney Channel show.
“So,” she said, “you boys are in Esme’s class? She never mentions you.”
“We’re pretty boring,” said Benny.
“Yeah,” I said. “Not half as interesting as what’s been going on lately.”
Esme’s mom took a dainty bite of cupcake. “Science-fair projects?”
“The haunting,” said Benny.
Esme stayed focused on her drawing. Mrs. Ygorre patted her lips with a napkin. “Ah, yes, ghosts putting people into a coma. Esme mentioned something about that.”
She seemed so calm, like we were discussing Kool-Aid choices for Parents’ Night. I glanced at Benny, unsure how to proceed.
“Esme made it sound like you guys have had some experience with the supernatural,” said Benny.
Our classmate snorted again, and her mom trilled a tinkling laugh. “You might say it’s a family tradition,” said Mrs. Ygorre.
“Huh?” I said. Yeah, I’m real smooth.
“She means our family has been working with spooks, monsters, and ghouls for over a hundred and fifty years,” said Esme.
Okay, we’d expected there might be a little truth to Esme’s claim, but not this. I don’t know if my mouth fell open as far as Benny’s, but his was wide enough to catch a whole swarm of flies, with room left over for a California condor.
“You, uh, what now?” I said.
“It’s no secret,” said Esme’s mom. “Since my great-great-grandfather’s day, the Ygorres have been serving scientists and…others.”
“Others?” Benny choked out.
Mrs. Ygorre lifted a shoulder. “Certain people who experiment with the supernatural. We always say, ‘Can’t make a monster…’”
“‘Without a Ygorre,’” Esme finished with her.
Just then, I had a major duh moment. I’d heard Esme and her mom pronounce their last name Yuh-GOR, with the accent on the last syllable. But I remembered a movie where someone with a similar name helped a mad scientist….
“Igor,” I said. “Like Frankenstein’s Igor?”
Esme rolled her eyes and went back to her drawing.
Her mom tut-tutted. “That poor man,” she said. “The movies were so inaccurate, it was embarrassing. They made it seem like what he did was wrong.”
“Fancy that,” said Benny, in a strangled tone.
She loaded another small bite of cupcake onto her fork. “So that’s why we Ygorres changed the family name a bit. People just didn’t understand.”
“Small minds,” I said, while my brain screamed, Dr. Frankenstein and Igor were real?
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Ygorre.
Benny stared. I knew the same thought was racing through both of our minds: Was this monster-loving family behind the haunting at our school?
I munched some cupcake to give myself time to think. Then, as casually as possible, I said, “So, uh, are you carrying on the family tradition here in Monterrosa?”
Mrs. Ygorre sighed. “I was. For two weeks. But then my employer and I had some differences of opinion.”
“Differences?”
Her lips pursed. “He was reckless, unprofessional, taking things too fast.”
“Sloppy work produces sloppy monsters,” said Benny.
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Ygorre. “Plus, I found out his health benefits didn’t include dental, and that’s a deal breaker.”
“Mm-hmm,” Esme seconded, not looking up from her sketch.
My mind raced. So Mrs. Ygorre had been here only two weeks, working for some monster maker. Maybe Esme’s mom wasn’t behind the trouble at our school, but she might know who was.
“Who did you work for?” I asked.
Mrs. Ygorre smiled faintly. “Sorry. Ygorres don’t kiss and tell.”
“But people are going into comas,” said Benny. “Please?”
She wiped her mouth, dropped her napkin onto her plate, and shook her head. “Professional ethics. We break the code of silence, and next thing you know, it’s all villagers with torches storming the castle.”
“But the haunting—” I said.
“Is definitely not the work of my former employer,” said Mrs. Ygorre. “He has no interest in ghosts.” She stood. “Esme, would you show your friends out? I have a Skype interview to prepare for.”
She politely shook hands with us and made her exit.
Esme sighed, laying aside her sketch pad. “You’re so not my friends.”
“Don’t worry, sunshine,” said Benny. “Nobody’s putting you on BFF speed dial.”
But as she hustled us out of the house, I couldn’t help feeling a stab of sympathy for Miss Mini-Goth. Couldn’t be much of a home life, moving from place to place while your mom did creepy work for a variety of nutjobs.
“See you in school,” I said to Esme at the door.
“Sure thing,” she said. “Unless some creature of the night paralyzes you and sucks out your innards like a meat milk shake.”
And on that cheery note, we left.
ON OUR RIDE back to school that evening, worries churned through my brain like hammerheads in a shark tank. Could Benny and I identify the haunting’s source without falling victim to it? Could Mrs. Ygorre’s mysterious employer be behind all the monsters that had been showing up recently in Monterrosa? Were my parents really fine, like Abuelita said, or were they teetering on the edge of divorce?
And would Hollywood ever make an Incredible Hulk movie that didn’t stink like a vulture’s lunch box? (This one had been bothering me for years.)
The sun was dipping over the horizon as we parked our bikes outside the mechanical room.
“Perfect,” said Benny. “We’ve got an hour to spend here before we have to be home for dinner.”
“Good thing,” I said. “We’re having chile rellenos tonight; I’d hate to miss it.”
Our conversation stayed light, but I could tell from his tone that Benny was as tense as I was. We unlocked the door and flipped on the light. After carefully surveying as much of the room as we could see from the threshold, we went inside.
“First things first,” said Benny. “Hold up your phone and show the time.”
I obeyed, while Benny angled his phone to take a selfie of us in the room.
“There’s Tyler’s proof,” he said. “Now for our equipment.”
“Equipment?”
Unzipping his book bag, Benny laid out a series of items on the cold concrete floor: two black-light flashlights, a half-dozen candles, a wooden cross, a plate, some rope, a fistful of gluten-free quinoa cookies (don’t ask), three apples, a Snickers bar, and two colas.
“Planning to spend the night?” I said.
Benny cleared his throat. “A Boy Scout is always prepared.”
“You’re not a Boy Scout.”
He whipped off a quick salute. “And I never let that stop me. I figure we set up the candles and offering, just like Miss Freshley did, turn off the overhead lights, and use these cool black-light rigs to spot the
ghost.”
Benny held a flashlight under his chin, for that jack-o’-lantern look.
“It’s the real you,” I said.
“They’ll help us see ghosts that are invisible to others.”
Together, we laid the food on the plate, stood the candles in a circle, and lit them. When Benny turned off the lights, I don’t mind telling you the place was more than a little spooky.
I missed the comfort of Mrs. T’s presence.
“Let’s give it a while and see what happens,” said Benny.
We stood in the center of the circle, clutching our flashlights and peering around us. Time stretched. One of the boilers ticked. Benny fidgeted. The longer we stood there with nothing happening, the tighter my shoulders got.
Benny gave a nervous chuckle and reached for a soda. “Think the ghost would mind if I took a little sip?”
“It’s supposed to be an offering,” I said.
“Yeah, but ghosts don’t have throats, and mine is parched.” After a quick check around, he popped the top on a can and slurped some down, snagging the Snickers for good measure.
That’s Benny all over—ready to risk supernatural wrath for a snack.
We waited for about forty-five minutes, until the suspense had me ready to peel off my own skin. I switched on my flashlight.
“That’s it, I’m taking a look around,” I said.
“Lead on,” said Benny, sticking close.
Leaving the circle, we began to explore the mechanical room. The massive boilers and other machines loomed above us like glowering giants, while the ducts and pipes snaked away in all directions.
No ghosts raised their heads; no supernatural beasties attacked us. Could the haunting have ended on its own?
“Hey, check this out,” said Benny, shining the flashlight on his face. “Who’s got the whitest teeth in fourth grade?”
His choppers glowed in the ultraviolet light like a mouthful of fireflies.
“I guess that sandpaper toothbrush really paid off,” I said, relaxing a little. And of course, just when I started to relax…
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Something scuttled behind one of the boilers. I swung my flashlight that way and caught a glimpse of glowing blue-green.