Scare Scape

by Sam Fisher

  “Now you’re being stupid,” Morton said, trying to snap him out of it. “The police are more likely to suspect a gang of kids, like Brad and his buddies, than a lone kid like you. You can’t seriously think they’re going to suspect you. I mean that’s … well, it’s silly, isn’t it?”

  Morton chuckled, hoping to make light of the situation.

  “You still don’t get it!” Robbie shouted, red-faced. “Of course you think it’s silly because you live in a big, expensive house, on an expensive street, and your dad is like a scientist. People like you never get in trouble. But me and my mom, it’s just the two of us in our tiny house with no money. It’s always people like us that steal things. Didn’t anybody tell you that?”

  Robbie stormed off, leaving Morton speechless and confused. He hadn’t expected this at all.

  The day didn’t improve any from that point onward. The normal functioning of the school was completely upset by the arrival of the police. Classes were not canceled, as the rumors had implied, but they might as well have been. The police set up interview rooms in two of the staff offices and every five minutes one of the hall monitors would come into class and call a student’s name. Each student would disappear for about ten minutes or so. Naturally every time someone returned everyone else wanted to know what he or she had said and a squall of whispers filled the room. The teacher would spend the next few minutes getting everyone quieted down only to have the cycle repeat again. It was impossible to get any work done.

  Morton’s call came in the middle of Mrs. Punjab’s math class. A tall hall monitor, with ebony skin and long braids, poked her head in the door, consulting her list.

  “Morton Clay,” she called out.

  Morton felt his mouth go dry. He pushed his chair back slowly and, with trembling legs, followed the girl out of the classroom and down the hall. He was terrified. What would the people of Dimvale do if they found out he had unleashed a host of demonic creatures into their idyllic little town?

  The girl led Morton to a frosted glass doorway that said STAFF ONLY. Morton paused at the threshold. He’d never been into the staff area of a school before.

  “Come on, they won’t bite,” the monitor said.

  Morton entered a comfortably furnished reception room with several offices leading from it. One of the office doors was open and, to Morton’s surprise, the friendly face of Mr. Brown was smiling down at him.

  “Young Mister Clay,” Mr. Brown said in a playful voice that instantly put Morton at ease. “Come in.”

  Morton went into the room.

  A fierce-looking woman wearing a blue police officer’s uniform was sitting behind the desk. Her face was pale and hard, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. The room itself looked to be an unused office. The walls were lined with bare bookshelves that were scattered with paper clips and thumb tacks. A couple of ancient, torn posters about the dangers of train tracks and the importance of personal hygiene were the only indications that anyone had ever used the office at all.

  The police officer shuffled papers for a moment before acknowledging Morton.

  “Morton Clay?” she said at last with a quick professional smile.

  Morton nodded.

  “Take a seat.”

  Mr. Brown pulled out a padded chair with wooden arms and gestured for Morton to sit. “Inspector Sharpe is going to ask you a few questions,” he explained. “If that’s all right with you?”

  “Uh, sure,” Morton said, his tongue feeling like a lump of leather in his mouth.

  “Of course, you’re under no obligation to answer any of these questions,” Mr. Brown added, “and I’m here to make sure you’re comfortable with the whole process.”

  Morton felt somewhat reassured. It was nice to know that Mr. Brown stood between him and the severe-looking Inspector Sharpe.

  “Morton,” Inspector Sharpe began, “I’m sure you understand the seriousness of what’s happening in Dimvale.”

  “You mean the disappearing cats?” Morton said.

  “Yes. Have you had any pets go missing?”

  “No, miss, I mean, uh, Inspector.”

  “Do you have any pets?”

  The image of Melissa’s closet crawling with ravenous mythical monsters popped unbidden into Morton’s head. He froze for a moment, his mouth open.

  “No,” he managed at last.

  Inspector Sharpe frowned. “You don’t seem very certain about that.”

  Morton wished he’d practiced lying more. “Well, I mean, I used to have, uh, mice, but we lost them in the move.”

  “Morton and his brother, James, just moved to Dimvale,” Mr. Brown explained from the corner of the room. “We know it’s never easy starting out in a new town, so we’re doing our best to get them settled comfortably, aren’t we, Morton?”

  Morton forced a smile. He found this a very odd thing to say. As far as he could tell nobody was doing anything to help them settle in, but he decided to nod politely.

  “Have you seen anything strange recently?” Inspector Sharpe continued.

  “Strange?” Morton said, raising his eyebrows innocently.

  “Any people prowling around the neighborhood? Any vehicles you don’t recognize? Anything at all that just seems odd?”

  Morton could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and he knew that if Sharpe was any good at her job she’d know that he was lying.

  “No, I haven’t seen anything odd. Everything’s very normal. Super normal, I’d say.”

  The inspector glanced up at Mr. Brown, who was scratching his nose. They didn’t believe him.

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Brown said, “no need to get nervous. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with it. Whoever or whatever is doing this —”

  “Whatever?” Morton blurted out, failing to mask a note of panic.

  “Yes. It’s quite possible it’s not people doing this,” Mr. Brown added.

  “Wha … What do you mean?” Morton stammered.

  “It could be a pack of wolves or hyenas or even a lynx. Only nobody’s seen any wolves, so that seems unlikely. We definitely don’t think a lone fifth grader is behind all of this.”

  “What’s most worrying to us,” Inspector Sharpe added, “is that several of the cats have been reported as taken from inside their homes. Which suggests these are organized thefts. Since they’re not just taking cats off the streets, they would have to know in advance who owns one. Has anybody approached you to find out if you have any pets?”

  “Only you,” Morton said, noting that this was the first completely truthful answer he’d given so far.

  Inspector Sharpe sighed heavily and began shuffling papers again. She pulled out a new file and opened it. Morton saw her cast a quick glance at Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown returned an almost imperceptible nod.

  “So, Morton, I understand that you’re friends with Robert Bolan,” Sharpe said.

  Morton’s stomach lurched like a ship in a storm. “Robbie’s got nothing to do with it,” he said defensively.

  “Nobody is saying he does,” Mr. Brown said in a calming voice.

  “But that’s not true, is it?” Morton said, feeling outraged on Robbie’s behalf. “I mean, you’re not asking me if I know Timothy Clarke or Phillip Ferguson or that hall monitor who brought me here, are you? No, you’re asking about Robbie. Just because he can’t afford to buy nice clothes and he doesn’t get good grades you assume he’s got something to do with it.”

  “Morton, Morton, calm down,” Mr. Brown said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “You’re taking this the wrong way. We’re trying to help Robbie.”

  “Robbie has nothing to do with this! I know he doesn’t,” Morton said firmly.

  “How could you know?” Inspector Sharpe said, pouncing on Morton’s words.

  Morton felt a lump in his throat that was half anger, half fear. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go at all. Nothing like this ever happened in Scare Scape stories, and Morton had no idea what to do. The only thing he
could think of was to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

  “You said I don’t have to answer any questions if I don’t want to,” he said. “Well, I’m not going to answer any questions about Robbie.”

  Inspector Sharpe looked directly at Morton and tapped her pen slowly on the side of her coffee cup.

  After what felt like a long time Morton stood up. “So, can I go?”

  Mr. Brown put his hand on Morton’s shoulder again, only this time there was an air of restraint to the gesture.

  “Morton, think about this for a moment. By not answering questions about Robbie you’re going to throw suspicion on him.”

  “I’m not doing anything!” Morton protested.

  “Inaction has its consequences. If, as you say, Robbie has nothing to do with this, then you should answer the questions.”

  “I already said he has nothing to do with it, didn’t I?”

  “How would you know?” Inspector Sharpe asked again. “How can you be so sure?”

  “It’s ridiculous. What would Robbie, or anybody, want with a hundred cats?”

  “Money, of course,” Sharpe explained. “It’s happened before in other towns. People will pay reasonable rewards for the return of their cats. The finder’s reward is between twenty and a hundred dollars. The pure breeds can go even higher. If you estimate it out to about thirty-five dollars, multiply that by three hundred cats, you have more than ten thousand dollars. It’s big business. People love their cats, Morton.”

  “You’re saying that Robbie is running a business kidnapping cats?”

  “Not necessarily Robbie. But someone.”

  “Well, it isn’t him. He’s my friend, okay? We see each other every day. We talk about stuff. If he was kidnapping cats, believe me, I’d know!”

  “Morton,” Mr. Brown said softly, “we know Robbie is your friend, and we hope he has nothing to do with this. But you have to understand, the inspector here has to make these inquiries because Robbie does have all the attributes of a potential suspect.”

  “Potential suspect? What do you mean?”

  “Because of his record,” Mr. Brown put in.

  Morton had a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You’re talking about Robbie like he’s a criminal.”

  Mr. Brown and Inspector Sharpe exchanged small frowns.

  “I’m sorry, we presumed you knew,” Mr. Brown said.

  Morton felt as if everything in the room had gone suddenly still. If there had been a clock, he was sure it would have stopped ticking. “What are you talking about?”

  “Robbie stole more than a thousand dollars from the school safe. It was money that had been raised for the school library at the summer fair.”

  “That’s not true!” Morton yelled out loud, surprising himself. “It’s just a rumor started by Brad and his stupid band.”

  “Brad Evans?” Mr. Brown said.

  “And his buddies. They spread lies about Robbie all the time. He never says anything about it because …”

  Morton tapered off. Come to think of it, why exactly did Robbie never tell Mr. Brown about the problems he was having with Brad?

  “I’m sorry, Morton,” Mr. Brown said with a sad expression. “Robbie confessed to stealing the money. He spent six months in a correctional school.”

  Morton’s confusion suddenly gave way to a bitter sense of betrayal. Could he have been wrong about Robbie? Could Robbie have lied to him? Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, and he clenched his jaw angrily in an attempt to stop them.

  “I think we’re done here,” Mr. Brown said, getting to his feet and opening the door for Morton.

  Sharpe nodded silently but kept her deep-blue eyes locked on Morton as he hastened out of the room.

  “If you decide you need to talk about anything, you know where I am,” Mr. Brown said, escorting Morton back into the hallway.

  Morton nodded and paced off back toward his classroom. He was still reeling from what he’d just heard when a tiny blond-haired girl holding a stack of photocopied pages appeared from around the corner and practically walked right into him.

  The poor girl’s top lip was all puffy, and her eyes were red. She looked like she’d been crying too. Morton wiped his own eyes quickly and put on a fake smile. “Sorry,” he said, stepping aside.

  “Can you help me find my cat?” the girl said, handing him a small sheet with a picture of a white cat on it. “His name’s Squiffy.”

  “That’s a nice name,” Morton said, glancing down at a picture of a white long-haired cat. “And what’s your name?”

  “I’m Willow,” the girl said. “That’s a kind of tree that grows near water. My mom likes trees. Does your mom like trees?”

  Morton felt the pressure of more tears building up behind his eyes. In fact his mother had liked trees, but he had no desire to get into a conversation about that right now.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll, uh, I’ll keep my eyes open for sure,” he said, clearing his throat and trying to pull himself together.

  “I’ve written a poem so you remember what he looks like,” Willow said, pointing to the sheet she had just given him. Then, without another word, she let out a tremulous sigh, dabbed a tissue to her nose, and shuffled sadly off in the opposite direction.

  Morton looked down at the paper again. There below the picture was a short poem:

  I love my little Squiffy,

  He’s very dear to me,

  His eyes are green like jelly beans

  And his nose is like a little black pea.

  His coat is white like fluffy clouds

  And he’s very easy to see,

  So if you spot my Squiffy,

  Please bring him home to me.

  Morton’s confusion and anger turned to pure numbness. This wasn’t fun at all. In fact, it was truly horrible. And as far as he could tell, it was all his fault.

  Morton didn’t see Robbie for the rest of the day, which he was secretly relieved about. He wasn’t ready to confront him just yet, although he desperately wanted to talk about the situation with someone. He’d hoped to discuss it with James, but James had rushed up to Morton in the middle of the afternoon to tell him he wouldn’t be able to walk home with him because of a “prior engagement” (whatever that meant) and Morton hadn’t seen him since. When the day finally ended Morton wandered home alone, kicking moodily at the carpet of fading leaves on the sidewalk.

  Just as he was rounding the corner to their driveway, Melissa appeared behind him, and to his surprise she too was alone.

  “Where’s Wendy?” he asked.

  “How should I know? I’m not her keeper.”

  “Sorry,” Morton said. “I just thought —”

  “She’s gone to the optometrist, if you must know,” Melissa snapped.

  “So you do know.”

  “Yes. I lied. Anything else you want to interrogate me about?”

  Morton scratched his head, utterly confused by Melissa’s behavior but too drained to discuss it any further.

  As they stepped onto the back porch, Morton saw a note taped to the door from Dad explaining that he’d gone in to work early and wouldn’t be home until breakfast.

  Morton handed the note to Melissa.

  “Typical,” she said. “Notice that he forgot to say anything about supper, once again proving that he doesn’t actually care about us.”

  Morton retrieved the key from under the mat and was unlocking the door when Melissa quite unexpectedly grabbed his arm and sank her nails deep into his flesh.

  “Ouch!” he yelped, attempting to pull his arm away. “What the —?”

  “Get inside!” Melissa screamed, shoving him roughly through the door.

  Morton fell over the step and landed in a heap, bashing his elbow badly. Melissa stumbled in after him and Morton was about to scream bloody murder when he saw why Melissa had shoved him so violently. Hovering on the porch just outside the screen door were two miniature men, about eighteen inches hig
h, with skulls for faces and long leather hooded cloaks. They had no legs or feet and were levitating about six inches off the ground. The Zombie Twins! This alone would have been enough to freeze the blood in Morton’s veins, but surrounding them in a menacing formation were four Gristle Grunts — muscular creatures that looked like albino headless dwarfs with unusually strong arms and a single shriveled eye in the middle of their chests — and a pair of Toxic Vapor Worms, which were about a foot long and looked like winged blue snakes with long, curved razor-sharp teeth.

  Melissa lunged back in an attempt to slam the door shut behind her, but the creatures were too fast. One of the Gristle Grunts tore right through the metal mesh on the screen door and leaped at the inside door with explosive force. Melissa flew backward into the kitchen, landing in a sprawl beside Morton.

  The Zombie Twins drifted silently toward them. Melissa dug her fingernails into Morton’s arm again but made no sound. The Twins stopped suddenly, their eyes pulsating with a deep-red light. Morton could hardly believe it. They were behaving just as they did in the comic. This red pulsing light, he knew, meant they were communicating with the creatures they controlled.

  Melissa scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest thing she could see, which just happened to be Dad’s best nonstick frying pan.

  Morton braced himself for attack, but to his surprise the entourage of creatures split into two groups. The Twins and the headless albinos lumbered and hovered away, heading for the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Only the Toxic Vapor Worms stayed behind. Morton crawled madly across the kitchen on his hands and knees, getting as far away from the lethal worms as he could.

  Melissa either didn’t know how deadly these creatures were or else she didn’t care — she stepped forward and smacked one of the worms, squashing it flat. A puff of powder-blue smoke came out from under the pan. The worm had seemingly vanished, but the smoke was lingering in the air unnaturally. Then, instead of dissipating, it pulled together in a tight blue cloud and rapidly solidified into a perfectly unharmed worm. Melissa gasped.