by R. L. Stine
“Whoa,” I murmured. I bent low to see them better.
The prints weren’t made by shoes. Or human feet.
They were made by large animal paws.
I knew I shouldn’t break into the cabin. But I was curious. I told you, sometimes I act first and think second.
Besides, I didn’t really break in. I gave the thin wooden door a hard push—and it scraped right open.
I glanced all around. No one inside.
Pale sunlight washed in through the grimy window. I saw a narrow cot, a low wooden chair, and a small, square table.
I took a few steps into the room. Someone had been there recently. A half-eaten sandwich sat on a plate on the table next to a smashed-in can of Coke.
I turned to the cot. The bedsheet was hanging to the floor. A solid black T-shirt was balled up for a pillow. Beside it sat a black baseball cap.
I gasped when I heard footsteps outside. I’d left the cabin door open. Was someone returning?
I spun around and ran to the door. I didn’t see anyone. The door scraped shut behind me as I closed it. I ran back to the path.
I quickly glanced over my shoulder. No one appeared behind me. Perhaps it was a forest animal that I had heard.
“How totally mysterious,” I muttered to myself. I wondered if Baker knew someone was living so close to his mansion in that cabin.
As I followed the path back to the house, snow began to fall, light at first, then a storm of large flakes. The wind blew the snow in all directions. I pulled my hood up high and lowered my head as I walked.
I kicked off my boots at the back door and carried them up to my room. I pulled off the parka, covered in big white flakes, and draped it over a chair. Then my whole body gave one big shiver, trying to shake the cold away.
Dad and Ira weren’t around. I guessed they were still working on the roof. I hoped they were being careful. Those slanting shingles must be totally slick and slippery in this wet snowfall, I thought.
I had propped my easel up in the corner. I slid it into the white light from the windows and hung the heavy art paper on it.
It took me a while to get my paints in order. A few minutes later, I sat down to work. I always like to do a light chalk drawing of what I’m going to draw. It’s better than just starting out with color. And it helps me nail down exactly what the painting will be.
I decided to paint the little cabin in the forest. I sketched in the square where it would stand. And then the tall trees on either side.
I pictured a snowy scene, maybe a blanket of snow piling on the cabin’s flat roof. But, of course, I would fill in the snow last.
After the sketch, I began to mix the colors I wanted to use. I needed a light brown for the wood of the cabin and a darker brown for the trees beside it.
I sat on the edge of a tall stool and leaned into the painting. I always try to imagine myself in the scene I’m painting.
I started to dab on color. I added some yellow. The cabin wall was lighter than the brown I had mixed. I needed a solid gray for the sky above it. Maybe streaked with some pale white.
I forget all about time when I’m painting. It’s such an intense thing for me. I really do lose myself in the scene.
I guess I’d been working for at least half an hour when the howling started.
Long, rising and falling howls like an animal wailing in anger.
The bedroom windows were shut, but the sounds burst into the room as if the creature was very nearby.
I jumped off the stool and moved to one of the windows. Sheets of snow were blowing against the house, gust after gust. A solid powder of white covered the glass.
Struggling to see anything clearly, I peered down at the back lawn.
Nothing in view.
Another animal cry rose up in the snowy air. Again, not mournful but angry, angry enough to send a chill down my whole body.
“Aurora—is that you?” I murmured.
I grabbed my parka and pulled it over my shoulders. Then I turned and hurried out into the hall. Maybe the big dog was locked out and wanted to come in from the snow.
I half ran, half jumped down the curving stairway. “Is anyone around?” I called breathlessly. “The howls outside—”
I didn’t hear anyone.
I burst into the kitchen, heading to the back door.
“Hey—!” I let out a sharp cry as I stumbled over something big on the floor. I landed hard on my knees and spun around.
Aurora. Sprawled on his side on the kitchen floor. The big dog raised his head and yawned.
Breathing hard, I pulled myself to my feet. “So it wasn’t you howling like that,” I murmured.
I lurched toward the kitchen door. And cried out in surprise as the door crashed open.
A dark blur thundered into the kitchen surrounded by swirls of snow.
Baker. Dressed again in black. Bent over. Charging into the house like a bull. Head down, arms hanging toward the floor. Shaking his head and growling.
Growling.
Still bent over, he grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter. His black wool cap was caked with snow. He gave one last snarl, shaking himself, sending snowflakes flying in all directions.
Then he stood up straight—and saw me.
His eyes went wide. “Judy,” he said, studying me, “how’s it going? Everything okay?”
“These spring snowstorms. Always a surprise,” he said. His voice was still gravelly and growly. He pulled off the wool cap and tossed it into the sink.
“I-I heard something,” I stammered. “Outside.”
Baker swept his hair back with both hands. His dark eyes continued to study me.
“I thought I heard Aurora,” I said, then pointed. “But there he is, asleep on the floor.”
Baker nodded but didn’t reply.
“Did you hear the howls?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Like right behind the house,” I said. “Very loud. Like a wolf howling, or some other kind of animal.”
Baker shook his head. “No. I was back there, Judy. I didn’t hear a thing. Are you sure it wasn’t the wind?”
“Pretty sure,” I said.
Pretty sure it was YOU, I thought.
He swept back his spiky, white hair again. “Is your dad still working on the roof? I hope not. He is so stubborn. He’ll never quit in the middle of a job.”
Hilda entered the kitchen. “We should tell him to come down,” she said. “Doesn’t he have any common sense? It’s too dangerous to be up there in a snowstorm.”
Hilda raised a stack of brown envelopes. “But first … I’ve been looking for you, Baker,” she said. “I need you to come with me. I need to show you something.”
Stepping around Aurora, he started to follow her out of the kitchen. But he turned at the doorway and flashed me one last look.
“Judy, I hope you can relax here,” he said. “No more howls and wild animals running around the backyard, okay? Tell your imagination to take a rest.”
I’ve got to talk to Dad, I decided.
Ira said Dad had made up the story about the Beast. But I was sure that had been Baker in the backyard howling like an angry animal.
I had to tell Dad about that. And I had to tell him about the cabin in the woods.
I really wanted to leave this place. It just wasn’t safe. Besides, it appeared this winter was not over yet. The snow kept coming down. If we stayed, we could get trapped up here.
I pulled up the hood on my parka and stepped outside. The snow had slowed a little, but was still coming down heavy and thick.
I couldn’t believe Dad and Ira were working on the roof. Hilda was right. He has no common sense. He could finish the job when the storm passed.
I had been in such a hurry. I left my boots up in my room. The snow wasn’t that deep, but my shoes kept slipping and sliding as I made my way onto the back lawn.
I turned to the house and shielded my eyes with one hand a
gainst the snow and the glare. I had to crane my neck to see up to the roof. The enormous mansion was three tall stories high.
The dark shingles slanted down steeply against the gray-white, snow-filled sky. I brushed flakes from my eyes and scanned the roof, starting with the wing on my left.
I spotted Dad near the middle of the wing, high up near the top of the roof. He sat with his legs sprawled out like a V. I saw a stack of shingles between his legs.
I didn’t see Ira. Had he gone inside? Or was he on the other side of the roof?
“Hey, Dad—!” I shouted. But my voice was pushed back at me by a gust of wind.
I cupped my hand around my mouth and shouted up to him again. “Dad? Dad?” Then I waved both arms wildly above my head.
He didn’t see me. He leaned forward and began to hammer a shingle.
I spotted a tall ladder tilted at the back of the house. “Okay, Dad. Here I come,” I muttered.
My plan was to climb to the top of the ladder, then shout for Dad to come down. You can bet I had no plan to climb onto the roof. No way I’d let go of the ladder sides.
The climb turned out to be harder than I thought. The metal rungs were slippery, and my shoes kept losing their grip. Wind gusts made the ladder tremble. I held the sides so tightly, my hands ached.
What made me think this was a good idea?
I was halfway up. The ground appeared miles below. I scolded myself for looking down.
The ladder trembled beneath me. But I figured I was too far to retreat and back down now.
“Oh.” One hand slipped off the side, and I nearly toppled off. I grabbed both sides even tighter and waited for my breathing to return to normal.
Finally … finally, my head poked over the side of the roof. Clutching the ladder firmly, I spotted Dad leaning forward, his hammer raised.
“Hey, Dad—!” I shouted. “Dad!”
He uttered a cry. The hammer flew from his hand.
I saw his eyes go wide. His hands shot straight up in the air as he started to slide.
“Nooooooo!” A shrill scream burst from my open mouth as I watched him slip down the slanting shingles.
I scared him. Oh no. I scared him.
It took only seconds for him to slide to the edge of the roof. And then as I watched in breathless horror, he sailed over the edge.
Frozen in horror, I gripped the ladder—and heard him scream all the way down.
“Your dad is a very lucky man,” the doctor said to Ira and me. He clicked his medical bag shut and turned away from the bed to talk to us.
Behind him, Dad slept peacefully, his hands at his sides over the blanket. After bandaging his broken ankle, the doctor gave him a shot to make him sleep.
Dr. Enright was young, with wavy blond hair and eyes as blue and shiny as marbles. He was dressed in a red-and-blue ski sweater pulled down over white ski pants.
I thought he looked more like a model or a TV actor than a doctor. But he was serious and calm and took charge immediately.
It was the first time he had been to the Grendels’ house. When he arrived, he said how surprised he was that someone could build a house this size at the top of a mountain.
The doctor said that normally, he wouldn’t have been nearby. But he and his wife had come up to explore the mountain, thinking the winter snows were over.
“If those thick bushes along the back of the house hadn’t stopped his fall,” he told us, “your father probably wouldn’t have survived.”
In the bed behind him, Dad started to snore softly.
“He has a slight concussion,” Dr. Enright said. “It gave him a pretty bad headache. That’s why I gave him the shot. He needs bed rest. And, of course, I don’t have X-ray equipment here. But I think his ankle is definitely broken. It isn’t just a sprain.”
He pointed to the crutches leaning against the wall. “When he is up and about, he shouldn’t put any weight on the ankle. When he feels stronger, you’ll need to get him to a hospital to have the bone set.”
The doctor followed Hilda and Baker downstairs. A short while later, I heard the front door close behind him.
I took one last glance at Dad, still sleeping peacefully. Then I wandered down the long hall till I found an empty bedroom where no one would look for me. I had to be alone.
I dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Then I buried my face in my hands and started to cry.
I’m not the crying type. I almost never lose it and let the tears fall. I didn’t cry when our parents split up. And I only cried a little when Flash, our dog, died last winter.
But now I couldn’t help myself. I felt miserable. Devastated. Horribly guilty.
Dad had almost died, and it was all my fault.
Sob after sob escaped my throat, and my shoulders heaved up and down. My face was damp from my hot tears.
I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I raised my head to see Ira gazing down at me. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Dad will be okay.”
He lowered himself beside me.
I rubbed the tears from my eyes with the palms of my hands. “It’s … it’s all my fault,” I choked out.
“No, you can’t blame yourself,” Ira said softly. “Dad slipped. That wasn’t your fault.”
“He slipped because I startled him,” I said. I pushed back my hair. It was wet from my tears. “He didn’t want me to come, and he was right. I … I’ve ruined everything.”
“Yes, you’ve ruined everything,” Ira said. He chuckled.
My brother knows how to pull me from a dark mood—make fun of me.
I punched him in the side. He grabbed my fist in both hands and shoved it away.
“Why on earth did you go up to the roof?” he asked.
“To tell Dad we had to leave,” I said.
“We can’t leave,” Ira said. “Not until Dad’s work is finished. Did you honestly think he would agree?”
“It’s too scary here,” I said. “I don’t want to be trapped up here if there are more spring snowstorms. Baker … he—he scares me,” I answered. “Doesn’t he scare you, Ira?”
“He’s strange, that’s all,” Ira replied. He jumped to his feet and stood in front of me. “But he doesn’t scare me. Okay, he’s big and he’s loud, and he’s kind of rough, but—”
“Kind of rough?” I cried. “Ira, I heard him out back howling like a wild animal. When he came into the house, he was growling.”
Ira chuckled again. “He was probably coughing, Judy. Not growling. You have this whole Beast thing on the brain and—”
“I know. You said Dad made the Beast thing up. But I don’t believe you, Ira. All the howls. All the snarls and growls.”
“Listen to me—” he started.
“No. You listen to me,” I said. “How dangerous is this creature? Why won’t you tell me the truth about it? How scared should I be? Tell me, Ira. Just go ahead and tell me.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve got to stop—”
I jumped to my feet. I grabbed the front of Ira’s sweater with both hands. “Baker isn’t frightening,” I said. “He’s terrifying. Know what he said to me? He told me to stop imagining things. But I’m not imagining anything. It’s all real!”
Ira blinked several times. I could see he was thinking hard. Was he finally going to take me seriously?
Ira pulled my hands off his sweater. “Judy, I’m sure he just wanted you to calm down. And he’s right. Stop being such a scaredy-cat.”
I gritted my teeth and growled at my brother. “Scaredy-cat? Me? You’re wrong and you know it. Why are you making excuses for Baker?”
Ira sighed and tossed his hands above his head. “I give up. See you later. Try to get it together, okay?” He stomped out of the room.
I sat there for a while on the bed in the empty room, hunched over, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “Get it together,” I muttered. “How can I get it together?”
With a sigh, I stood up and made my way back to
Dad’s room. He was still sleeping quietly. Then I crossed the hall to my room.
I stopped in the doorway and gazed to the windows. Staring at the easel, I let out a sharp cry.
“Oh noooo!”
My painting. My painting of the little cabin in the forest.
Someone had taken red paint—and slashed a thick red X over the whole thing.
My heart pounding, I crossed the room and stood on trembling legs in front of the easel.
I pressed my pointer finger against a line of the red X. The paint was still sticky wet.
Who would do this?
Who?
I stared at the X scrawled over the painting until it became a red blur before my eyes.
I knew what this was. It was a warning.
Someone was trying to scare me. Someone telling me to stay away from that cabin.
Whoever it was didn’t know me that well. Because I don’t like threats.
And now, I was more curious about the cabin than before.
I stared at the red X over my painting for another long moment. Then I spun around and ran back out into the hall. I opened my mouth to shout for Ira. But I realized I might wake Dad. So I ran down the hall to Ira’s room.
“Ira?”
Not there.
“Ira? Where are you?”
I turned to the steps. Did he go down? Was he with Hilda or Baker?
I tore down the stairs, running blindly, the red X burning in my eyes. The red X shining, bright as … fresh blood.
“Hey, Ira?”
I found Hilda in the kitchen. She was pouring dog food into a bowl for Aurora. The dog hadn’t moved from its spot in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Hilda turned to me. “Judy, you look upset,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied breathlessly. “I-I-my painting. In my room. Do you know anything—”
She held the bowl between her hands. “Did you do a painting? I heard you were an artist,” she said. “Can I see it?”
Aurora lumbered to his feet, his eyes on the bowl.
“Uh … maybe later,” I stammered. Hilda didn’t know anything about it. “I have to see your husband,” I said. I turned and hurried from the kitchen.
