The Wizard of Ooze

by R. L. Stine

I found the other sneaker under the bed in two seconds. Then I tossed him his jacket, got him downstairs, and pushed him out the front door.

  It was a windy, cool evening. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark with clouds.

  “Run,” I said. “We’re going to be too late.”

  We ran to the bus stop on the next corner. No bus in sight. I began to pace back and forth with the book tucked under my arm.

  Zeke leaned against an old tree and started to pick at the bark. He pulled off a big chunk and tossed it to the grass.

  “Why are you doing that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “For fun?”

  More time passed. Finally, I saw the bus turn a corner and head our way. A few seconds later, we climbed on and took seats near the back.

  I stared out the dusty window, watching the sun dip low behind the clouds. We’re not going to make it, I thought. Unless the bus really rockets.

  But the bus didn’t rocket. We kept stopping every few blocks to let people on. And then as we got close to downtown, there was some kind of accident up ahead.

  I stared out at the flashing red lights. We didn’t move at all.

  Zeke poked me hard with his elbow. “Let me hold the book.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because I want to,” he said. He poked me again. “Let me hold the book. Or I’ll tell Mom and Dad you took me to the convention.”

  What a punk.

  “Okay. Here.” I shoved the book onto his lap.

  He didn’t open it or anything. Just held it.

  The bus finally started to move again. We crawled past the flashing police lights. But I couldn’t see the accident.

  About ten minutes later, we were downtown. I pulled Zeke off the bus. It was really late. I could see a pale white moon between the clouds.

  The sidewalks were jammed with people coming in our direction. I knew what that meant. They were all coming out of the convention center. Because the comic convention was over.

  Closed.

  I let out a long sigh.

  “Check it out!” Zeke cried. He pointed to two girls in Werewolf Woman costumes. “Cool!”

  I was too disappointed to speak.

  Zeke stopped to admire a big poster of The Mutant Crocodile Rangers. “Awesome!” he cried.

  At least one of us was happy.

  People rushed past us, carrying comics and posters.

  I studied every face. Maybe I would see Sammy. Maybe I’d get lucky and catch him on his way out.

  Some kids pushed past me, singing the Dr. Weird-Face anthem at the top of their lungs. One of them had a Dr. Weird-Face bobblehead doll that he kept shaking up and down.

  We were nearly to the front entrance of the convention center. No sign of Sammy. Guards were locking the big glass front doors.

  I walked along the side of the building. The sky turned even darker.

  No, wait. It wasn’t the sky. It was a shadow. A deep shadow rolled over me as if a cloud had passed over my head.

  And the guy in the Ooze costume rose up to block my path.

  I gasped in surprise. I backed against the cold concrete wall.

  The guy pressed up close. And once again, I could smell the tar off his skin. His cheeks appeared to bubble on his face. When he opened his mouth, his blue tongue darted from side to side.

  He stuck a huge wet hand out. “The book, kid,” he growled. His voice came from deep in his chest. “Hand it over. Now.”

  I swallowed hard. My chest suddenly felt fluttery.

  He had me backed against the wall. I couldn’t move.

  Without warning, he reached down and raised his hand over my head. He squeezed his fist — and I felt something drip onto my head.

  “Owwww!” I cried out. It was burning hot!

  He squeezed his fist again. And sent another drip of burning oil onto my hair. It burned my scalp. I could feel it dripping down to my ears.

  I screamed again. “Stop it!” My voice came out high and shrill.

  My brain whirred.

  How is he doing that? Is he just a guy in a costume?

  Or is he the real Ooze? A real-life villain?

  He waved his oily fist in front of my face again. “The book, kid. I’m not playing games.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. My voice cracked. “I’ll give it to you. But that guy Sammy promised me three hundred dollars for it.”

  He shook his head. “Sammy changed his mind,” he growled. “Know what I mean?”

  “But — but —” I sputtered. “Will you pay me for it?”

  “No. You’re giving it to me. I guess your brain needs a little more time to warm up to the idea!”

  He raised his fist over my head. He squeezed it hard.

  I screamed again as the hot oil scorched my scalp.

  “No, please —” I tried to cover my head with my hands. “You win. I’ll give it to you.”

  He lowered his fist. He leaned over me, his black eyes burning into mine. His blue tongue darted rapidly in and out of his mouth.

  “My little brother has it,” I said. “Zeke, give him the book.”

  I spun around. “Zeke? Hey — Zeke?”

  Oh, no. Oh, no.

  He was gone.

  “Zeke! Hey — Zeke!”

  I began to shout as loudly as I could.

  “Zeke! Where are you? Come here! Zeke?”

  I leaned past the hulking body of The Ooze. No sign of Zeke behind him.

  I spun all around and shouted my little brother’s name over and over till my voice cracked.

  “Nice try, kid,” The Ooze rasped. “Why don’t you just admit that you don’t have a little brother?”

  “But — but I do!” I sputtered.

  He stared down at me, cold as a glacier. “Where is the book?” he boomed. “At home? Is it at your house? Do you want to go get it for me?”

  “N-no,” I stammered. “My little brother has it. He’s here. Really.”

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted Zeke’s name some more.

  No sign of him.

  The convention center had emptied out. Only a few people were gathered in small groups in front of the building.

  The Ooze leaned over me. “The little-brother trick isn’t going to work,” he growled. “Know what I mean?”

  “Y-yes, I know what you’re saying,” I choked out. “But Zeke —”

  He pushed my chest, backing me up against the wall. “I really want that book,” he snarled. He wiped black sticky stuff on the front of my jacket. “You seem like a smart kid.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “Too bad I have to ooze you!” he boomed.

  “Ooze me?” I cried.

  I knew what it meant. In his comic stories, he oozed people on nearly every page. I always enjoyed it. I actually thought it was funny!

  I had no idea it could ever happen to me in real life.

  “You’re really The Ooze — aren’t you!” I cried. “You’re not a man in a costume. You’re real. You’re alive!”

  “Don’t ask questions, Marco,” he said. “You don’t want to know the answer.”

  “Yes, I do,” I insisted. “I —”

  “You’re stalling,” he said. “You’re scared. You’re shaking. You know you’re about to be oozed.”

  My heart pounded so hard, I could barely breathe. I made one last, frantic search for Zeke.

  No sign of him.

  I knew what it meant to be oozed. It meant that first he would cover me in burning hot oil. Then he was going to dive on top of me. He was going to crush me under him — bury me under a huge, heavy tidal wave of oily hot sludge.

  Trembling, I gazed up at him. “Please —”

  His whole body started to bubble. He shook. He shimmered.

  He rose up tall … taller … and heaved himself closer.

  I could feel the heat against my face. My skin started to burn.

  His shadow swept over me. The whole world grew darker than night.
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  He raised both fists over my head, ready to squeeze the sizzling oil on me.

  “Hey, kid,” he boomed, “any last words?”

  I shut my eyes. My muscles all clamped tight. I gritted my teeth so hard, my jaw hurt.

  I could feel the heat press over me. Smell the tar. Hear the bubbling of his oily skin.

  “Good-bye, kid.” His voice rumbled over me like thunder.

  And then I heard another voice. A boy’s voice: “Can I have your autograph?”

  It sounded far away, like from the other side of a wall.

  “Please?” the voice said. “Could you sign this for me?”

  And then another voice. A girl’s voice: “Can we have our picture taken with you?”

  I opened my eyes. I could still see only black. The heat off The Ooze’s bubbling skin scorched my face.

  “I’m your biggest fan,” the boy said.

  “Can I have your autograph, too?” another boy chimed in.

  The Ooze turned away from me.

  The air suddenly felt cooler. I blinked several times, waiting for my eyes to see again.

  He spun away to greet his fans. Five or six kids stood in a tight group, waving autograph books up at him. One girl had her phone raised to take his picture.

  I waited until the kids surrounded The Ooze. Then I took a deep breath — and pushed myself away from the wall.

  My legs felt unsteady and weak. My head spun. I nearly toppled face-first to the pavement.

  Somehow, I caught my balance. I lowered my head — and ran.

  “Hey!” I heard The Ooze roar.

  But I didn’t turn back. My legs felt a little stronger with each step. My head began to clear as the sickening odor faded.

  I turned the corner and kept running. My shoes slapped the pavement. My hands swung wildly at my sides as I ran.

  I saw a group of teenagers staring at me. “Whoa! Look at his hair!” someone shouted.

  I must have looked crazy, running like a wild man with my hair covered in thick black oil. But I didn’t slow down.

  I didn’t slow down until a boy tackled me around the waist.

  We both fell hard to the sidewalk. I let out a cry as I cracked my elbow and pain shot through my body.

  I rolled over. Scrambled to my knees. And stared at the boy. He wore an ugly purple monster mask, so I couldn’t see his face.

  “Who are you?” I cried. “What do you want?”

  The boy’s brown eyes stared out at me through the eye slits of the mask. “Marco, it’s me!” he cried.

  “Zeke?”

  He nodded. He jumped to his feet and helped pull me up.

  “Where were you?” I demanded.

  “I bought this mask,” he said. “I want to be a supervillain.”

  “You ARE a supervillain!” I shouted. “I was almost OOZED because of you!”

  He laughed. I don’t know why he thought that was funny. He’s such a total weirdo.

  “It’s not funny!” I cried. I tried to shove him, but he danced away.

  I saw the Ooze book on the sidewalk. Zeke must have dropped it when he tackled me.

  I grabbed it. I gazed all around. No sign of The Ooze. Was he still signing autographs?

  “We — we have to get out of here,” I stammered.

  I hugged the book tightly to my chest and started to run toward the bus stop. I turned. Zeke was still standing there, fiddling with the rubber mask.

  “Hurry!” I shouted, waving hard. “This is no joke!”

  “Grrrrr.” He growled and clawed his hands at me like a tiger.

  “Come on — run!” I begged.

  He didn’t move. “You just want to get home before Mom and Dad so you don’t get in trouble.”

  I knew I had no time to argue with him. I ran back and grabbed his hand. I gave him a hard tug. “Let’s go.”

  We ran about half a block. Then we both froze when we saw a man running toward us.

  The man was on fire!

  Bright orange flames shot off his body. He wore dark pants and a dark turtleneck sweater. Flames flicked and darted off his clothes, off his head, his feet.

  But he didn’t scream. He came trotting toward us steadily.

  I uttered a gasp when I realized his clothing didn’t burn. His whole body was covered in darting flames — but he didn’t burn at all!

  I staggered back. I tried to get out of his way.

  “Do you need help?” I screamed. “Can we help you?”

  Flames flickered off him and died on the sidewalk. He didn’t make a sound as he ran steadily toward us.

  Zeke and I both leaped into the street, trying to avoid him.

  But we were too shocked and confused to move fast. He roared up to us, flames flying.

  “What do you want?” I screamed.

  His hand shot out.

  “OW!” I felt the heat of the flames.

  He grabbed the book with a flaming hand. Jerked it hard from my grasp. Then he spun away — and with flames dancing and crackling all around him, ran back the way he’d come.

  People screamed and pointed at the man as he ran down the street.

  Zeke and I didn’t move. I guess we were in shock. I could still feel the heat of the fire on my skin and clothes.

  I realized I was trembling. Zeke pulled the monster mask off his face. His eyes were wide with fright. He grabbed my hand.

  “Who was that man?” he asked in a tiny voice.

  I shook my head. “Beats me.”

  “He — he took your book,” Zeke stammered. “He was … on fire, Marco. He was really on fire.”

  “I know,” I said softly. I let out a long sigh. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  We beat Mom and Dad home by about ten minutes.

  I made Zeke swear again that he wouldn’t tell them what we did. He nodded quietly. “They wouldn’t believe us anyway,” he said. “I mean, about the man on fire.”

  He was right. I wasn’t sure I believed it, either.

  Actually, I desperately wanted to tell my parents about The Ooze, and the flaming man, and how my book was stolen. But Zeke was right. They wouldn’t believe it. And it would only get me into major trouble.

  Mom and Dad walked into the house, carrying big bags of groceries. The first thing Mom asked was, “Did you two get along okay? No fights?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I answered. “No fights.”

  “What did you two do?” Dad asked.

  “Stuff,” I said.

  At dinner, Zeke and I both tried to act normal. It wasn’t easy.

  And it wasn’t easy for me to get to sleep that night.

  I kept seeing The Ooze rising up and preparing to pour hot oil over me. Again and again, I heard his growl: “Hey, kid, any last words?”

  And then the burning man. Staring at Zeke and me through the flames. Grabbing the book and running off without saying a word.

  Why was the book so important? So valuable?

  Everyone knows the origin of The Ooze. The first part of the book couldn’t be important to anyone.

  So it had to be the chapters in the back that interested these guys. The chapters about finding your superpower.

  But those chapters didn’t work. Well, they only worked for ten seconds.

  So why were people so eager to get their hands on that book?

  I finally fell asleep with the question rolling around and around in my brain.

  I fell into a restless sleep — and had a frightening nightmare.

  The dream started with a view of my bedroom window. The window was open wide. The curtains were fluttering in a stiff wind.

  The curtains made a slapping sound as they flew back against the wall. The wind howled. It sounded like an animal crying.

  In the dream, I felt frightened. Why was the window open? I always sleep with it tightly shut.

  Slap … slap … slap …

  The curtains slapped hard against the wall. Then, in the dream, they slowly changed shape. They forme
d arms and legs. The curtains became ghosts, howling ghosts.

  Slap … slap … slap …

  I woke up with a gasp. I was drenched in sweat. My pajamas stuck to my skin.

  The air in my room was burning hot. Suffocating.

  I glimpsed pale light pouring through the bedroom window. To my shock, it was wide open. Just as in the dream.

  And then I felt a drip on my forehead. Burning-hot liquid.

  With a trembling hand, I clicked on my bed-table lamp.

  And gazed up at The Ooze. His dark eyes stared angrily down at me. He had his fist raised. He squeezed another drop of scalding hot oil onto my forehead.

  I pressed my hand against the burning skin. “Please —” I uttered.

  “The book,” he growled. “Give it to me.”

  The disgusting smell, the boiling heat rolling off his body in waves …

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

  He was in my house! In my room! Leaning over my bed with his oily fist raised.

  “I — I — ” I struggled to speak.

  “The book, kid,” he growled. “I’m not playing games here. Know what I mean?”

  “But —”

  He swept his arm slowly and dripped a streak of oil down my bedspread. It made a sizzling sound. The bedspread smoked and split apart.

  “That could be you, punk,” The Ooze growled. “You ever hear human skin sizzle like that? It isn’t pretty.”

  “But I don’t have the book!” I finally managed to choke out.

  His whole head appeared to bubble. The oily muscles on his shoulders rippled. His blue tongue whipped from side to side.

  “No games, Marco,” he rasped. “No games and no lies.”

  “It was st-stolen!” I stammered. I was sitting straight up in bed, hugging my knees to keep from shaking.

  “Liar!” The Ooze boomed. He splashed hot oil across the bed. The bedspread smoked and sizzled again.

  “I’m telling the truth!” I cried.

  He leaned closer. The heavy sour smell was so strong, I started to gag.

  “Get the book, Marco. Don’t make me ooze you. Why mess up such a nice room?”

  “The book was stolen,” I insisted. “I’m telling the truth. Someone stole it from me this afternoon.”

  His skin bubbled harder. His dark eyes appeared to sink deep into his wet, oily face.

  He shook his head slowly. “Oh, Marco,” he said softly. “Oh, Marco. Oh, Marco. I’m going to make you so sorry you said that.”