by R. L. Stine
The dog ignored me. Grunting, he buried his head in the fat pile of brown leaves—and pulled out something in his teeth.
“What is that?” Ellen cried. She pressed her hands to the sides of her face. “What has he got?”
“Let me see it, Georgie,” I said, stepping toward him, reaching out my hand. “Drop. Drop it, boy. What have you got?”
I edged closer. “What is it, boy? What do you have there?”
The dog let out a grunt. Then his jaws snapped open, and the object dropped to the ground.
Ellen and I stared down at it—and we both began to scream.
“It’s—it’s a finger!” I cried. “A human finger!”
Georgie barked at it, his tail wagging furiously. Then he took off, heading home.
“Oh, gross,” Ellen moaned, shutting her eyes. “Is it really a finger? I’m going to be totally sick.”
I stepped up to it and poked it with my shoe. I squatted down to see it better.
“Yes, it’s a finger,” I said weakly. My stomach lurched. I studied it. “But … maybe it’s not from a person.”
Ellen had her hands over her face, and she had turned away. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Well … the skin is kind of leathery. And the fingernail is pointed. And it’s so hairy….”
“SHUT UP!” Ellen screamed. “Don’t talk about it anymore! Let’s just get away from it.” She started back to the path. But I didn’t get up. I stared at the finger more closely.
“Strange,” I murmured. “It’s really ragged at the end. It looks like it was torn off.”
“Just shut up about it,” Ellen said. “I feel sick. Really.”
“Here. Catch!” I shouted. I pretended to toss it to her.
She screamed and ducked, even though I didn’t have anything in my hand. “Not funny, Laura,” she muttered. “Hey—why don’t you take a photo of it? For your science project.”
“I’m supposed to photograph whole animals,” I said. “Not just parts.”
But I should take it home, I thought. Show it to Dad. Maybe he knew what kind of animal had fingers like this.
I didn’t want to freak Ellen out. So while she wasn’t looking, I picked up the finger. I kept it hidden in my palm so she wouldn’t see it.
Ellen and I wandered through the woods. White moths fluttered over Luker Pond. High in a tree, I heard the knock-knock-knock of a woodpecker. Yes! Excellent! I needed that woodpecker! I raised the camera to my eye and searched the tree for it.
“I’ve got to go,” Ellen said. “What time is it, anyway?”
I studied the trees through the camera viewfinder. “Close to three, I think.”
“Oh, wow. I’ve really got to go,” Ellen said. “I promised Stevie Palmer I’d play tennis with him at three.” She jumped over a flat stone and started to jog away.
Stevie Palmer—blond hair, blue eyes, great athlete—Ellen’s latest crush.
“And don’t forget to invite Stevie to my party!” she shouted.
“No, wait!” I cried, lowering the camera. “Who else should I invite? Who else?”
She turned back, pulling her hair behind her shoulder. “Invite everybody!” she yelled. Then she disappeared behind a stand of evergreen shrubs.
I wish she didn’t have to go, I thought, circling the pond. I was alone in the woods, and for the first time in my life I felt tense about it.
I’ll feel better once I take some photographs, I decided. I had taken only three or four. I desperately needed to find some animals—or my project was going to be completely lame.
I stepped up to the edge of the pond. Come on, animals. Where are you hiding?
I was so desperate, I snapped a picture of the white moths fluttering above the water.
I’ll sit down and wait, I decided. Maybe if I’m really still, a deer will come to drink.
I sat down. And waited. I held my camera in my lap and listened to the whisper of the trees. One of my favorite sounds.
A minute later I heard another sound, this time behind me. It was the snap of a twig.
I turned around but didn’t see anything.
I stood up. And heard the heavy scrape of hooves.
Was it a deer?
The sounds stopped.
I turned and took a few steps forward.
Behind me, I heard the footsteps again.
I stopped. And once more the footsteps stopped.
I shuddered as a tingle of fear ran down my back.
I’m never frightened in the woods. Never. Even when I’m by myself.
But today was different.
I pictured the circling birds … the ugly finger in the grass … I heard my dad’s warning to stay away….
And now something was trailing me. Something was creeping up behind me.
“Dad?” I called.
No answer.
I listened hard. I heard the excited chitter of birds in a high tree limb. The whisper of wind. The creak of a branch.
Holding my breath, I took another step. Another.
I was listening for the footsteps. And I heard them. The heavy thud of shoes or hooves.
With a gasp, I spun around quickly.
“Wh-who’s there?” I cried.
A boy stepped out from the trees. He gazed at me shyly, then lowered his dark eyes. He was short and kind of chubby. He had long, black tangles of hair, very shiny, nearly as long as Ellen’s.
“Joe—hi!” I called. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hey, it’s you!” he said, trotting up to me.
I smiled at him. “I heard something following me. I—I didn’t know what to think.”
Pink circles appeared on his cheeks. “It’s only me,” he said softly.
He’s so shy, I realized. And really cute.
He wore baggy denim cutoffs and a black T-shirt. A long silver chain dangled around his neck. In his right hand he carried a fishing pole.
He pointed to my camera. “Snap anything today?”
“No, I … ” I glanced down and suddenly realized I was holding the disgusting finger. If Joe sees it, he’ll think I’m totally weird, I decided.
“I heard a woodpecker in that tree over there,” I said, pointing.
When Joe turned to the tree, I let the finger fall from my hand. He turned back—and I stamped my shoe down over it.
“I’m desperate,” I said. “Where are the animals? Are they all on strike?”
“Maybe we could drag some over,” Joe said. “You know. Go to a pet store or something. Get some hamsters or turtles and bring them to the pond.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, laughing. “But keep thinking.”
We stepped up to the pond. Joe kicked a stone into the water. His long hair fluttered in the wind.
“Catch anything today?” I asked. The last time I met Joe in the woods, I found him sitting on a flat rock, fishing in a stream. He told me he loved to fish, but he never ate what he caught. He always threw the fish back. That made me like him even more.
“No. No luck today,” he said. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“So how are things at Wilberne Academy?” I asked. I admit it. I had a little bit of a sneer on my face.
He turned to me. “You’re making fun of me because I go to a private school, aren’t you!”
“No way!” I insisted. “It’s just … well … the guys I know from Wilberne are such snobs. And you don’t seem like that.”
He snickered. “Hey, thanks. I think.”
I decided I’d invite Joe to Ellen’s birthday party. The idea made my heart start to pound. I realized I was suddenly nervous.
Go ahead, Laura. Just invite him, I told myself. Don’t make a big deal about it. Be bold—like Ellen.
I took a deep breath. “Uh … Joe?”
Two chattering birds interrupted. They were so loud, right above our heads. I turned in time to see them take off, chirping together as they flew.
They were joined by three or four other chattering bi
rds. What a racket! They formed a ragged V and flew out of sight.
Joe shook his head. “What’s their problem?”
We laughed together. I liked the way Joe’s eyes narrowed into little moon slivers when he laughed. He reminded me of a bear—a little, friendly bear you see in cartoons.
I decided to try again. “Uh … I’m giving a party for my friend … ” I started.
I didn’t have a chance to finish.
Everything seemed to explode at once. Trees shook. Animals cried out. Birds cawed and squawked.
The sky blackened as birds took off, flapping their wings wildly. The grass bent as field mice stampeded past our feet.
“Wh-what’s happening?” I cried.
Joe spun around, his eyes wide with fright and confusion.
The sky grew even blacker, as if night had fallen.
A shrill, chittering squeal rang out, echoing off the trees. And over the whistlelike cries came the furious flapping of wings.
“Bats!” Joe cried.
Yes. Bats—hundreds of bats—swarmed above us, squealing, swooping high, then darting into the trees.
“But—but—” I sputtered. “Bats don’t fly in the daylight!”
I gasped as a bat swooped over my head. I felt its dry, sharp wing scrape against my face, felt a blast of hot wind off its body.
“Get down, Laura!” Joe grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me to the ground.
“Get down! Cover your head! They’re ATTACKING!”
“Cover your head! Cover your head!”
Those were the last words I heard. The flapping wings drowned out Joe’s screams. The shrill bat cries seemed to pierce my eardrums.
I pressed myself into a tight ball and covered my head with both hands. “Ohhh.” I let out a terrified moan as bat wings slapped my back and shoulders.
This can’t be happening! I thought, shuddering. Bats don’t come out during the day.
What is going on?
I felt the beating of wings against my hands. Felt a sharp tug on my scalp.
“Leave me alone!” I screamed, frantically brushing two bats from my hair.
All around me—all over me—the beating wings, the scrape of talons, and the cries … the shrill siren cries.
No—please—no, I silently prayed. Go away. Go away!
I tried to stay curled in a tight ball. But each slap of a bat wing, each thud of a bat slamming into me, each scratch of a bat talon against my clothing made me squirm in horror.
“Joe—are you okay?” I shouted. “Joe—?”
No answer.
And then the shrill squeals began to fade. The sound of beating wings rose up, away from me.
“Joe?” I cried, still afraid to open my eyes. “Joe? Why don’t you answer me?”
“Joe?”
Bat wings flapped in the distance now. The shrill cries faded and died.
Trembling, still hunched into a tight ball, I slowly opened my eyes. And raised my head.
And screamed again.
Beside me, Joe was hunched on his knees, battling two large bats.
One bat had its talons stuck in Joe’s thick hair. It batted its wings furiously, shrieking, struggling to pull free.
The other bat clung to the neck of Joe’s T-shirt. Its outspread wings blocked Joe’s face from view.
But I could hear his desperate cries.
He swiped at the bats with both hands.
The bats shrieked and flapped.
Joe toppled onto his back. He wrapped a hand around the bat at his throat. Squeezed until the bat grew silent.
The curled talons loosened. Joe heaved the bat into the trees.
The other bat clung to his hair.
I stood frozen in horror, watching Joe struggle. Then I finally managed to move. I dived to the ground—and reached for the flapping bat.
“NO!” Joe screamed. “GET AWAY!” Then he rolled over in the dirt. Grabbed the bat with both hands. And carefully pried it from his hair.
The bat squawked and squealed.
Joe heaved it aside. Before I could say anything, he leaped to his feet and started to run.
“Joe—” I called. “Stop!”
He stopped on the far side of a small clearing. His face was bright red. He was gasping for breath.
“Don’t go. My house is right over there,” I said. “My dad is a doctor. I mean, he’s a vet. But he knows about bats. Let him take a look at your cuts and scratches.”
“No,” Joe said, shaking his head. His hands clutched the sides of his hair. “I—I mean, no thanks.”
“Is your head cut? Did they scratch you?” I asked.
“I think I’m okay,” he insisted. “Anyway, my mother is home. She’ll take me to the doctor.”
“No—wait,” I said. “If you’re cut, you should see someone right now. Come with me. My dad will—”
“No. I’m okay. Really.” He turned away. And still holding his head, he started to run. Just before he disappeared into the thickening woods, he called, “See you soon.”
“Wait!” I shouted. I forced the words out. “I want to invite you to a party! Joe!”
But he was gone.
I sighed. I stood there staring after him. I could hear the flap of bat wings in the distance.
My whole body itched. I could still feel their talons scratching my clothes, could still feel the air off their fluttering wings.
Something got them riled up, I thought. Like the birds earlier this afternoon.
Something in these woods frightened them. Something made them act totally weird.
But what?
A few minutes later I stepped out of the woods, into our backyard. The shed door was shut tight. Dad had returned. I could hear him banging around inside.
I was desperate to tell him about the bat attack. If I had been scratched or bitten I would have, but I wasn’t. Plus, I knew when he was in the shed, he didn’t want to be disturbed. So I went inside to start dinner.
Usually Dad and I took turns making dinner, or we’d make up new recipes together, and it was fun. Sometimes Dr. Carpenter would join in. I really missed her. I realized now that Dr. C. had sort of become my fill-in mom.
I pulled a chicken from the refrigerator, dug my hand into the chicken, and started to pull out the gunky stuff inside.
Through the kitchen window, I could see the woods. Quiet now. The trees swaying softly, darkening as the sun went down.
The phone rang. I jerked my hand out of the chicken and tried to wipe the guts off on a dish towel.
Then I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
It was Ellen. “Laura—where have you been? I’ve been calling you for half an hour.”
“In the woods,” I said. “It was so weird, Ellen. I—”
“Don’t invite Stevie to my birthday party,” she interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“Erase him from the list,” she said. “What a creep. Just because I’m half an hour late for our tennis match, he throws a fit. Then he tried to slam the ball down my throat all afternoon.”
“Ellen—” I started.
“Can I help it if I beat him in three straight sets? He is so not mature, Laura. And when I offered to give him tennis lessons, he called me a bunch of babyish names and stomped away.”
I laughed.
“Just cross him off the list. Okay?” Ellen snapped.
“No problem,” I said. “Hey—you just missed Joe. He was in the woods.”
“Oh, wow,” she muttered. “I really wanted to meet him. Did you invite him to the party?”
“I—I tried,” I said. “But—”
“Oh, I’ve got to go,” Ellen interrupted. “My brothers are fighting upstairs, and I’m in charge.”
She clicked off before I could say another word.
I set the phone down and stuck my hand back in the chicken.
A short while later dinner was ready. I’d made a green salad, baked potatoes, and string beans to go with the chicken.
What was he doing? Did he completely lose track of the time?
I stared out the kitchen window at the shed. I didn’t want dinner to get cold. And I was so eager to tell Dad about the strange bat attack and the creepy finger I found.
I pulled open the back door, cupped my hands around my mouth, and called to him.
No reply.
Two robins lifted their heads and stared at me. I started to jog across the grass, and they flew away.
“Hey—Dad?” I called, stepping up to the shed door. A sharp, chemical smell floated out from the shed. Like the smell in a doctor’s office. I heard a soft, whimpering noise coming from inside.
I tried the door. To my surprise, it wasn’t locked.
“Dad?” I pushed the door open just a crack.
I glimpsed a lot of equipment, stacked to the ceiling. What was Dad holding between his hands? What was making those noises?
A small pink animal.
He gripped the animal in one hand—and was about to give it an injection with an enormous hypodermic needle.
“Dad? What are you doing?” I called.
He spun around, and his expression turned to rage. “Get out!” he screamed. “Out! Get out of here! Don’t ever open that door!”
I backed away with a gasp and pulled the door shut. I’d never seen him become so furious.
My legs trembled as I stepped away from the door.
Why did he yell at me like that?
Why was he acting this way?
My eyes filled with tears.
In the past few weeks my father had become a complete stranger to me.
I felt so alone. So totally alone—and frightened of my own father.
Dad and I ate in silence for a while. He kept his eyes on his plate and shoveled down his food quickly, as if trying to get dinner over with.
The only sounds were the clink of our silverware and the raspy caw caw caw of the injured crow in my bedroom.
“I’m sorry.” Dad finally raised his eyes to me. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”
I took a deep breath. “Why did you scream like that?” I asked.
He scratched his graying hair, studying me. “I’m doing very important work,” he said. “And I can’t have any interruptions. The timing is so important.”
