by R. L. Stine
“Lucy, I believe this belongs to you,” Mr. Mortman said. He held up my blue canvas backpack.
“Huh?”
“I found it back in the stacks,” Mr. Mortman said, his smile returning. “I didn’t know who had left it. But I found your name and address on the tag here.”
“You—you mean—?” I stammered.
“I always walk home after I close the library, so I thought I’d bring it to you,” he said.
Was this a trap?
I studied his face warily. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
I had no choice. I pushed open the screen door, and he handed me the backpack. “Wow. Thanks,” I said. “That was really nice of you.”
He straightened the sleeves of his yellow turtleneck. “Well, I figured you’d probably want to get started on Anne of Green Gables tonight,” he said.
“Yeah. Sure,” I replied uncertainly.
“I guess you ran out of the library pretty quickly,” Mr. Mortman said, staring into my eyes.
“Uh… yeah. I had to get home,” I told him, glancing back to the den. The cartoon music floated into the hallway.
“So you didn’t wait around or anything after our appointment?” he asked.
Does he know? I wonder.
Or is he just trying to find out if it was me or not?
“No,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I ran right out. I was in a hurry. I—I guess that’s why I forgot my bag.”
“Oh, I see,” Mr. Mortman replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chins.
“Why?” I blurted out.
The question seemed to surprise him. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he said. “I think someone was playing a trick on me. Staying in the library after closing.”
“Really?” I asked, opening my eyes wide and trying to sound as innocent as possible. “Why would they do that?”
“To scare me,” Mr. Mortman answered, chuckling. “Some kids don’t have anything better to do than try to scare the kindly old librarian.”
But you’re not a kindly old librarian, I thought. You’re a monster!
“I got up to look around,” Mr. Mortman continued, “and whoever it was high-tailed it.” He chuckled again.
“I wouldn’t want to be locked in there overnight,” I said, studying his face, hoping my innocent act was working.
“Neither would I!” he exclaimed. “It’s a pretty creepy old building! Sometimes I get so scared from all the strange creaks and groans.”
Yeah. Sure! I thought sarcastically.
Behind him, I saw my parents’ car turn into the driveway. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Thank goodness they were finally home!
“Guess I’ll say good night,” Mr. Mortman said pleasantly. He turned and watched as my parents rolled past him up the driveway, heading to the back of the house.
“Thanks for bringing the bag,” I said, eager to go greet Mom and Dad.
“No problem. See you next week.” He hurried away.
I went running to the kitchen. Mom was just coming in through the kitchen door, carrying a brown grocery bag. “Wasn’t that Mr. Mortman at the front door?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” I answered eagerly. “I’m so glad to see you, Mom. I have to tell you—”
“What did he want?” Mom interrupted.
“He… uh… returned my backpack. I left it at the library, see. I have to tell you about him, Mom. He—”
“That was really nice of him,” Mom said, setting the grocery bag down on the counter. “How come you forgot it, Lucy?”
“I ran out of there really fast, Mom. You see—”
“Well, that was really nice of Mr. Mortman,” she interrupted again. She started to remove things from the grocery bag. “He doesn’t live in this direction. I think he lives way over on the north side.”
“Mom, I’m trying to tell you something!” I cried impatiently. My hands were balled into tight fists. My heart was pounding. “Mr. Mortman is a monster!”
“Huh?” She turned away from the counter and stared at me.
“He’s a monster, Mom! A real one!” I cried.
“Lucy, Lucy.” She shook her head. “You see monsters everywhere.”
“Mom!”
“Stop it, Lucy. Stop being dumb. I hope you were polite to Mr. Mortman.”
“Mo-om!”
“Enough. Go outside and help your father bring in the rest of the groceries.”
12
So, once again my wonderful parents refused to believe me.
I tried to describe what I had seen from my hiding place in the library. But Mom just shook her head. Dad said I had a great imagination. Even Randy refused to be scared. He told Mom and Dad how he had scared me with his stupid papier-mâché monster head.
I practically begged them to believe me.
But Mom said I was just lazy. She said I was making up the story about Mr. Mortman so I could get out of the Reading Rangers program and wouldn’t have to read any more books this summer.
When she said that, I got really insulted, of course. I yelled something back. And it ended up with all of us growling and snapping at each other, followed by me storming up to my room.
Slumped unhappily on my bed, I thought hard about my predicament.
I could see that they were never going to believe me.
I had told too many monster stories, played too many monster jokes.
So, I realized, I needed someone else to tell my parents about Mr. Mortman. I needed someone else to see Mr. Mortman become a monster. I needed someone else to believe the truth with me.
Aaron.
If Aaron came along with me and hid in the library and saw Mr. Mortman eat flies and turtles with his bulging head—then Aaron could tell my parents.
And they’d believe Aaron.
They had no reason not to believe Aaron. He was a serious, no-nonsense guy. My most serious, no-nonsense friend.
Aaron was definitely the answer to my problem.
Aaron would finally make my parents realize the truth about Mr. Mortman.
I called him immediately.
I told him I needed him to come hide in the library and spy on Mr. Mortman.
“When?” he asked. “At your next Reading Rangers meeting?”
“No. I can’t wait a whole week,” I said, whispering into the phone, even though my parents were downstairs and there was no one around. “How about tomorrow afternoon? Just before closing time. Around five.”
“It’s too dumb,” Aaron insisted. “I don’t think I want to.”
“I’ll pay you!” I blurted out.
“How much?” he asked.
What a friend!
“Five dollars,” I said reluctantly. I never save much of my allowance. I wondered if I still had five dollars in my drawer.
“Well, okay,” Aaron agreed. “Five dollars. In advance.”
“And you’ll hide with me and then tell my parents everything you see?” I asked.
“Yeah. Okay. But I still think it’s dumb.” He was silent for a moment. “And what if we get caught?” he asked after a while.
“We’ll be careful,” I said, feeling a little chill of fear.
13
I spent most of the next day hanging around, teasing Randy. I couldn’t wait for the afternoon to roll around.
I was so excited. And nervous.
I had it all worked out. Aaron and I would sneak into the main reading room without Mr. Mortman knowing anyone had come in. We’d hide in the dark shelves, just as I had done.
Then, when the librarian turned off the lights and closed up the library, we’d sneak up the aisle, keeping in the shadows, and watch him become a monster.
Then we wouldn’t run out the way I had done. That was far too risky. We would go back to our hiding places in the low shelves and wait for Mr. Mortman to leave. Once he was gone, Aaron and I would let ourselves out of the library and hurry to my house to tell my parents what we had seen.
Easy. Not
hing to it, I kept telling myself.
But I was so nervous, so eager to get it over with, I arrived at Aaron’s house an hour early. I rang the bell.
No answer.
I rang it again.
Finally, after a long wait, Aaron’s teenage brother, Burt, pulled open the door. He had on blue denim shorts and no shirt. “Hi,” he said, scratching his chest. “You looking for Aaron?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“He isn’t home.”
“Huh?” I practically fell off the porch. “Where is he? I mean, when will he be back?”
“Don’t know. He went to the dentist,” Burt said, gazing past me to the street.
“He did?”
“Yeah. He had an appointment. With the orthodontist. He’s getting braces. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No,” I said glumly. I could feel my heart sink to my knees. “I was supposed to meet him.”
“Guess he forgot,” Burt said with a shrug. “You know Aaron. He never remembers stuff like that.”
“Well. Thanks,” I muttered unhappily. I said good-bye and trudged back down to the sidewalk.
That dirty traitor.
I felt really betrayed.
I had waited all day. I was so psyched for spying on Mr. Mortman.
I had counted on Aaron. And all the while, he had a stupid orthodontist appointment.
“I hope your braces really hurt!” I shouted out loud.
I kicked a small rock across the sidewalk. I felt like kicking a lot of rocks. I felt like kicking Aaron.
I turned and headed home, thinking all kinds of ugly thoughts. I was at the bottom of my driveway when an idea popped into my head.
I didn’t need Aaron, I suddenly realized.
I had a camera.
My parents had given me a really good camera last Christmas.
If I sneaked into the library with the camera and took a few snapshots of Mr. Mortman after he became a monster, the photos would be all the proof I needed.
My parents would have to believe actual color snapshots.
Forgetting my disappointment about Aaron, I hurried up to my room and pulled the camera off the shelf. It already had film in it. I had taken a bunch of shots at Randy’s birthday party just before school let out.
I examined it carefully. There were still eight or nine shots left on the roll.
That should be plenty to capture Mr. Mortman at his ugliest.
I glanced at the clock on my desk. It was still early. A little after four-thirty. I had half an hour before the library closed.
“This has got to work,” I said out loud, crossing my fingers on both hands.
Then I strapped the camera around my neck and headed to the library.
I entered the library silently and crept to the doorway of the main reading room. My plan was to sneak into the low shelf where I had hidden before. But I quickly saw that it wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
The library was very crowded. There were several kids in the children’s book section. There were people thumbing through the magazines. One of the microfiche machines was being used against one wall. And several aisles, including the one with my special hiding place, had people in them, browsing and searching the shelves.
I’ll just have to wait them out, I decided, turning and pretending to search one of the back shelves.
I could see Mr. Mortman standing behind his desk. He was checking out a stack of books for a young woman, opening the covers, stamping the card, then slamming the covers shut.
It was nearly five o’clock. Just about closing time.
I crept along the back wall, searching for another hiding spot. Near the corner, I spotted a large wooden cabinet. I recognized it as I stepped behind it and lowered myself from view. It was the long, tall cabinet that held the card catalogue.
It will hide me quite nicely, I thought.
I hunched down behind the old cabinet and waited. Time dragged by. Every second seemed like an hour.
At five-fifteen, Mr. Mortman was still checking out books for people. He announced closing time, but some of the magazine readers seemed very reluctant to leave.
I felt myself getting more and more nervous. My hands were ice cold. The camera suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, like a dead weight around my neck. I removed it and dropped it to my lap.
It will all be worth it, I kept repeating to myself.
It will all be worth it if I get a good, clear shot of the monster.
I leaned against the back of the cabinet and waited, my hand gripping the camera in my lap.
Finally, the room emptied out.
I climbed to my knees, suddenly very alert, as I heard the librarian go to lock the front door. A few seconds later, I heard him return to his desk.
I stood up and peered around the side of the cabinet. He was busily shuffling papers, straightening his desk for the night.
In a few minutes, I hoped, it would be feeding time.
Monster time.
Taking a deep breath, I gripped the camera tightly in one hand and, feeling my heart start to pound, began to make my way silently toward Mr. Mortman’s desk at the front of the room.
14
Everything seemed to be taking so long today.
Was time really in slow motion? Or did everything seem so slow because my pulse was racing so fast?
I was so eager to get my proof—and get out of there!
But Mr. Mortman was taking his good old time. He shuffled through a stack of papers, reading some of them, folding some of them in half, and tossing them in the wire trash basket beside his desk.
He hummed to himself as he read through the entire stack. Finally, he got to the bottom of the pile and tossed the final sheet away.
Now! I thought. Now you’ll start your monster routine, won’t you, Mr. Mortman!
But no.
He lifted a stack of books from his desk and carried them to the shelves. Humming loudly, he began returning the books to their places.
I pressed myself into the shadows, hoping he wouldn’t come to my row. I was near the far wall in front of the row of microfiche machines.
Please, let’s get on with it! I begged silently.
But when he finished with the first stack, Mr. Mortman returned to his desk and hoisted up another pile of books to replace.
I’m going to be late for dinner, I realized with a growing sense of dread. My parents are going to kill me!
The thought made me chuckle. Here I was, locked inside this creepy old library with a monster, and I was worried about getting scolded for being late for dinner!
I could hear Mr. Mortman, but I couldn’t see him. He was somewhere among the rows of shelves, replacing books.
Suddenly his humming grew louder.
I realized he was in the next aisle. I could see him over the tops of the books on the shelf to my right.
And that meant he could see me!
Gripped with panic, I ducked and dropped to the floor.
Had he heard me? Had he seen me?
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
He continued to hum to himself. The sound grew fainter as he moved in the other direction.
Letting out a silent sigh of relief, I climbed back to my feet. Gripping the camera tightly in my right hand, I peered around the side of the shelf.
I heard his shoes shuffling along the floor. He reappeared, his bald head shiny in the late afternoon sunlight from the window, and made his way slowly to his desk.
The clock on the wall ticked noisily.
My hand gripping the camera was cold and clammy.
Watching him shuffle things around inside his desk drawer, I suddenly lost my nerve.
This is stupid, I thought. A really bad idea.
I’m going to be caught.
As soon as I step out to snap the picture, he’ll see me.
He’ll chase after me. He won’t let me get out of the library with this camera.
He won’t let me get out
of here alive.
Turn and run! a voice inside my head commanded.
Quick, while you have the chance—turn and run!
Then another voice interrupted that one. He isn’t going to turn into a monster tonight, Lucy, the voice said. You’re wasting your time. You’re getting yourself all nervous and scared for no reason.
My mind was spinning, whirring with voices and frightening thoughts. I leaned hard against the wooden shelf, steadying myself. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head.
How many shots can you take? a voice in my head asked. Can you shoot off three or four before he realizes what is happening?
You only need one good shot, another voice told me. One good clear shot will be the proof you need.
You’d better hope he’s humming very loudly, another voice said. Otherwise, he’ll hear your camera shutter click.
Turn and run! another voice repeated. Turn and run!
You only need one good shot.
Don’t let him hear your shutter click.
I stepped forward and peered around the shelf.
Mr. Mortman, humming happily away, was reaching for the fly jar.
Yes! I cried silently. Finally!
“Dinnertime, my timid friends,” I heard him say in a pleasant singsong. And as he started to unscrew the jar lid, his head began to grow.
His eyes bulged. His mouth twisted open and enlarged.
In a few seconds, his monstrous head was bobbing above his shirt. His snakelike tongue flicked out of his black mouth as he removed the jar lid and pulled out a handful of flies.
“Dinnertime, my timid friends!”
Picture time! I thought, gathering my courage.
I raised the camera to my eye with a trembling hand. I gripped it tightly with both hands to keep it from shaking.
Then, holding my breath, I leaned as far forward as I could.
Mr. Mortman was downing his first handful of flies, chewing noisily, humming as he chewed.
I struggled to center him in the viewfinder.
I was so nervous, the camera was shaking all over the place!
I’m so glad he’s humming, I thought, raising my finger to the shutter button.
He won’t hear the camera click.
I’ll be able to take more than one shot.
