“No!” almost everyone said.
“All right, then,” Ms. Evelyn said. “But please… don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She was totally putting on a show, if you ask me. And yeah, it was totally working, because I was a little bit nervous by then. Maybe more than a little bit.
I think everyone else was, too, because the whole group got pretty quiet and tense after that. When I looked over at Miller, he seemed like he didn’t want to be there. But that could have meant anything.
“Scared?” I asked him.
“Shut up,” he said.
Yeah, we were totally like best buds now.
So I pointed my phone camera straight ahead and kept on going. You know those movie scenes where it’s like the camera is someone? All you can see is what that character sees, and maybe you just hear them breathing?
That’s what I was going for. It was like letting whoever watched the video go on the tour with us. And see whatever we were going to see.
So come on. Step right this way… if you dare.
Creeped Out
It was way darker and smokier in the basement. All I could see ahead was this flickering, dim yellow light, and all I could hear was someone screaming shrilly.
I was like 87 percent sure it was just fake torches, a dry-ice machine, and a sound recording. But you know when you’re in bed at night and you’re about 87 percent sure there isn’t a crazed maniac outside your window wielding a chainsaw and a face mask made out of the skin of his victims?
It was like that.
“Cool,” someone said, when we walked by a long row of heads in glass jars. I definitely got a shot of those.
The farther in we went, the more crowded it got. There were fake people getting executed and fake people who had already died. Also, executioners, famous murderers, and a bunch of other people you’d never want to meet.
I think the creepiest part was the way all of it wasn’t just from a movie. This was stuff that had really happened, in real life. And some of those wax dummies had eyes that followed you wherever you went.
Like Vlad the Impaler, whose name kind of speaks for itself.
And Jack the Ripper, who terrorized London in Victorian times and thankfully wasn’t around to murder us all now.
And Madame Elizabeth Bathory. Guess what she liked to take a bath in? (Hint: It’s not hot, perfumed water and frothy bubbles. More Obvious Hint: It was BLOOD!) I got a great shot of that display, too, right down to the slightly pink towels.
“That… is… awesome!” Jeanne said, looking over my shoulder. But she was also whisper-imitating Ms. Evelyn.
“I… love… corpses!” I whispered back, and we both cracked up. We’d have to cut that part out of the video, but oh well.
“Do you think we’re getting everything we need?” Jeanne asked.
“I think so,” I said. “But I’m down to fumes on my phone battery.”
“Here. Use mine again,” she said.
“Uhh, I don’t know,” I said.
“Why not?” Jeanne said, and gave me her phone to take. I didn’t know how to say no, so I took it—
Right before I turned around and saw the scariest dummy of them all.
Maybe it was the fake torchlight, but I swear, Jared looked just like one of those wax killers. (And I don’t mean the waxy part.)
“Hey, Jeanne,” he said, even though he was looking at me. “Come over here. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Okay,” she said. “See you later, Rafe?”
“Sure,” I said. But I heard a little bit of what they said before they walked away.
“Why does he need your phone?” Jared asked her.
“Because his battery ran out,” Jeanne said.
“Yeah, right,” Jared said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeanne asked.
I didn’t hear any more after that. So I just went back to focusing on the dead people, killers, and creeps down there in the basement.
Besides Jared, I mean.
And Then…
By the end of the tour, I think everyone was kind of worn out from being so scared. I got a bunch of great stuff, though. Right up until Jeanne’s phone died, too, and I gave it back to her.
“Thank you, thank you, this is our last tour of the day,” Ms. Evelyn said. I noticed she was talking a lot faster, too. “If you wouldn’t mind proceeding to the exit, thank you, thank you…”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I asked her, “is there a bathroom I can use?”
“Loos are back downstairs on the left, love,” she said. “Just past the main torture chamber.”
There was a bus outside to pick us up, and everyone was still filing out that way, so I ran down real quick, back into the dark. I tried to shake off that feeling like someone was watching me, but it wasn’t so easy. Not with all those glass eyes everywhere.
I hustled past one door marked WITCHES and opened the next one, marked WARLOCKS. It was a relief to just get in there and turn on a real light.
But then, I was halfway unzipped, and I heard this loud click behind me. Then a thud and a shuffling sound from outside the bathroom door.
“What was that?” I said, even though I was alone. Unless you count Leo the Silent, which I was starting to do, pretty quick.
I still had to go to the bathroom, but I went back over and tried to open the door.
Tried. Did you catch that? It’s important.
Someone—or some ghost of some crazed psycho killer from hundreds of years ago—had just locked me in the loo.
I was trapped.
Right by the torture chambers where dozens of creepy wax killers and corpses were posed.
Yes. For real.
Gulp!
HELLLLLLLP!!!!!
Oh man. Oh man.
Ohhhhhh man.
Okay, you might think this is the craziest part of all, but before I did anything else, I did what I’d come down there to do. The only other option was wetting my pants. Can you imagine if I showed up on that bus with a dark stain where my zipper was?
Nope. No way, I thought. Let the ghost of Vlad the Impaler take me instead.
So I did my business as fast as humanly possible and then went back to pounding on the bathroom door.
Oh man.
Oh man.
Ohhhhhh man.
“Leo, what do I do?” I said. I was seriously panicking now. I’ve already told you about my “active” imagination, right? That’s a good thing, most of the time. But it can also work against you.
For a second, I thought about calling someone. But then I remembered I couldn’t.
“Grandma Dotty has got to get a new phone,” Leo said. “That thing must be six years old.”
“That’s what you’re thinking about?” I said. “We need to find a way out of here.”
“I’m just saying, with a dead phone—”
“DON’T SAY DEAD!” I said.
I’m not sure how long it went on. A lifetime? Two minutes? Somewhere in between?
But then something rattled on the other side of the door, and I jumped back. When it started to open, I might have even screamed, too. Was I about to be saved, or meet my gut-ripping fate?
And yeah, maybe I was being a little dramatic. But try getting locked in a Temple of Terrors bathroom sometime and see what kinds of tricks your mind plays on you.
Even when I saw the security guard standing there, I wasn’t completely done feeling freaked out.
“What in the world?” the guard said. He was holding a chair in one hand and the doorknob with the other. “Looks like you got pranked, young man. And not a very funny prank at that.”
“Is my bus still here?” I yelled.
“Sorry, don’t know,” he said. “I’m just here to close up for the night.”
“What?” I said. “What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Ten to five,” he said.
I’d only been in there a couple of minutes. That was great
news—but I didn’t have any time to lose.
“Thanksforlettingmeout!” I said, and took off running up the stairs.
The lobby was empty when I got there, and the lights were off. There was no sign of Ms. Evelyn or anyone, but maybe they were all waiting for me outside. I pushed through the front door, ran out onto the sidewalk, and—
No bus. No Mrs. Stricker. No nothing.
Just me.
Lost in London.
(Not) Here!
Okay, I thought. Don’t panic.
Really. Don’t panic, I thought.
It didn’t work. I was totally panicking.
The door to Madame Fifi’s had just locked behind me, and no one answered when I pounded on it. I was standing there by myself, somewhere in the middle of London.
Did I have any money in my pockets? No, I did not.
Did I have a working phone? No, I did not.
Did I know where the hotel was? No, I did not.
And even though none of this was my fault, something told me Mrs. Stricker wasn’t going to care about that. In fact, she told me so, right after the whole crown jewels disaster.
“Don’t worry,” Leo told me. “We’ve got this.”
“What do I do?” I said.
“Back to the riverbank?” he suggested. I’d just spotted a sign for South Bank, and that was as good as anything. At least it was somewhere I’d been before.
So I followed the signs—real ones this time.
The more I walked, the more I figured out the whole story. First of all, someone had locked me in that bathroom. And you could bet that someone’s name started with an M or a J.
For Miller. Or Jared.
And either way, that was only half the story. I was pretty sure the second half went something like this:
Then Mrs. Stricker put a check by my name, the bus took off, and nobody even noticed I was missing.
The only thing was, it didn’t add up when I thought about it. I mean, I knew Jared pretty much hated me. But I thought Miller and I were actually doing okay. He even said he owed me one.
Whatever. I couldn’t worry about all that right now, I had to focus.
Survival mode: ON.
The only option was to figure out a way back, hopefully faster than the bus. Then I could hang around outside the hotel and wait for them to show up. Yeah, that was it—I’d stay out of sight, like maybe behind a big plant, and when everyone started filing off the bus, I’d just fall into line—
Oh wait. That’s another movie. Never mind.
What I needed was a ride. A city bus would be cheap, if I knew which one to take. Which I didn’t.
But a taxi could get me there. The question was, how much would that cost? Because I had exactly zero pounds and zero change in my pocket.
So then, how quick could I get the cash? And could I really earn it in the way I was starting to think just might work?
“Sure you can,” Leo said.
Maybe, I thought.
But there was only one way to find out.
When I got to the river, there were tons of people around. No ghosts, or flesh-eaters, or wax murderers—just regular tourists, buskers, that kind of thing. Perfect.
I found an empty spot where I could sit on a bench. Then I opened my backpack and pulled out my sketch pad and pen.
I took a deep breath. This was something I could do, but I was still kind of scared to try it.
“Just go for it,” Leo said. “This is awesome.”
“Easy for you to say,” I told him. “I’m the one who’s going to spend the rest of his life in middle school.”
“Not helping,” Leo said. “You can do this, Khatchadorian. NOW!”
So I drew a picture of the first person I could think of. Jeanne Galletta. She was fresh in my memory, anyway, and it was better than advertising with a picture of Vlad the Impaler.
When it was done, I wrote PORTRAITS, THREE POUNDS at the top of the page.
Was that the right price? I had no idea. Would it be enough to get me a taxi back to the hotel? Hopefully.
So as the next wave of tourists walked by, I took another deep breath and held up my drawing.
Then I called out, nice and clear, “Would anyone like their portrait drawn?”
I was officially open for business.
Drawing on My Experience
Here’s the amazing thing. It actually worked. Not right away, but after asking about twenty people if they wanted a drawing of themselves, someone said yes.
And then someone else after that. So even though I was still nervous about Mrs. Stricker, I also started getting into it. I’m not saying they were going to hang my stuff in the National Portrait Gallery, but it was the first time I got paid for my artwork.
Once I’d done a couple of drawings for three pounds, I told the next lady it was five pounds, and she didn’t even blink. She asked if I could draw her and her daughter next to Big Ben, and I said no sweat. She even paid me double, since there were two of them—ten pounds!
“Here you go,” she said, handing me the money. “My daughter says you’re very dreamy, with that sketch pad and those lovely eyes of yours.”
“Mum!” the girl said. She seemed like she was just as embarrassed as I was. Except, I think it was bad embarrassed for her, and a tiny bit good embarrassed for me, if you know what I mean.
Either way, I just turned red and started packing up my stuff. It was time to go.
I didn’t know it yet, but all this was the easy part. Next, I had to find a cab, figure out how to make it stop for me, hope the driver knew where the hotel was, pray that I had enough money to get there…
And then deal with the hard part.
Also known as Principal Ida P. Stricker.
Hotel, Sweet Hotel
By the time my cab pulled up in front of the hotel (fourteen pounds and thirty-five pence—I told the driver to keep the change), I was feeling kind of numb. Especially my feet—I think I walked about eighteen miles that day.
Also, I didn’t really know what to expect next.
The lobby was practically full when I walked inside. I saw a couple of policemen and a bunch of people from the hotel. Mrs. Stricker was talking on the phone, and Ms. Donatello was the first one to see me.
“There he is!” she said.
It was like I’d just turned into some kind of human magnet, because everyone came at me at once.
Okay, maybe there weren’t any cameras or reporters, but it sure felt that way, with all the questions.
“Are you okay, son?”
“What happened?”
“How did you get back?”
“WHERE… WERE… YOU?!”
That last one was Mrs. Stricker, in case you couldn’t guess. She was at the head of the pack, and that’s when I knew it was all over for me. I was about to get the biggest F of my life.
But then, just as fast, I thought of something else. And I realized maybe it didn’t have to go that way.
So I answered the questions with a question.
“What happened?” I said, trying my best to look scared, which wasn’t that hard after everything that happened.
“That’s what I’m asking you!” Mrs. Stricker said.
“Well…” I looked around at everyone looking back at me. And I took my time. “One minute I was in the bathroom,” I said, “and the next, everyone was just gone. You left me behind!”
I wasn’t going to say anything about Miller or Jared. The whole idea right now was to simplify this, not make it more complicated.
“But you answered at roll call!” Mrs. Stricker said. “It’s right here!” She even held up her list so I could see where my name was checked off.
“Except, he couldn’t have,” Ms. Donatello said loudly. “Because he wasn’t on the bus.”
And everyone went from looking at me… back to Mrs. Stricker.
“But… but… well…,” Mrs. Stricker said. “Rafe, I am… so… sss…”
Now she looked like she
was going to throw up.
“I am so… sor… ry,” she said. “You must have… been very brave.”
I took a big breath and let it out. I was relieved, but not in the way they thought.
“I’m just really glad to be back safe,” I said, and looked at the ground. “I was pretty scared when I realized I was all alone in this big city.”
What can I say? I was totally milking it. I know that doesn’t make me a better person, but I didn’t feel too guilty about it, either. You know what they say about desperate times calling for desperate measures, right?
And besides, Mrs. Stricker really did leave me behind. And it really wasn’t my fault. That’s just the truth.
So I’m sticking to it.
A Night (Not) on the Town
I got in trouble with Mrs. Stricker anyway. Even if she didn’t put it that way.
Once everything had settled down, she came over to talk to me again. And it started out with, “I think it would be best for you if…”
Okay, time out! When an adult says that, there’s maybe a fifty-fifty chance it’s actually going to be something that’s best for you. We all know that, right? Half the time, it’s all about what they want.
Which I guess is why I got left back that night. So while everyone else went to see a musical at the National Theatre, I ate dinner with Mr. Chin at the hotel so I could “get some rest.”
Basically, that’s what you call an in-hotel suspension.
On the downside, I was missing everything that night, and it was all Miller’s fault. Or Jared’s. I also had to listen to Andrea Chin’s dad talk all about his job running a human resources department at a law firm.
But on the upside? Well, I guess I got that rest I was supposed to have.
My Mind, Officially Blown
Everyone got back later than curfew. I was already in my room, watching people play darts on TV, when Miller came in. He actually looked kind of pumped.
From Hero to Zero - Chris Tebbetts Page 8
