Invasion of the Road Weenies
Page 1
INVASION OF THE
ROAD WEENIES
AND OTHER WARPED AND CREEPY TALES
STARSCAPE BOOKS BY DAVID LUBAR
Flip
Hidden Talents
In the Land of the Lawn Weenies
and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
INVASION OF THE
ROAD WEENIES
AND OTHER WARPED AND CREEPY TALES
DAVID LUBAR
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed
in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
INVASION OF THE ROAD WEENIES
AND OTHER WARPED AND CREEPY TALES
Copyright © 2005 by David Lubar
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,
or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Starscape Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.starscapebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lubar, David
Invasion of the road weenies : and other warped and creepy tales / David Lubar.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A collection of thirty-five stories featuring such horrors as a monstrous Halloween
costume, a midnight visit to a graveyard, and a hearing-impaired genie. Includes author’s notes on
how he got his ideas for these stories.
“A Tom Doherty Associates Book.”
ISBN 0-765-31447-9 (acid-free paper)
EAN 978-0-765-31447-5
1. Horror tales, American. 2. Children’s stories, American. [1. Horror stories. 2. Short
stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.L96775Inv 2005
[Fic]—dc22
2005045116
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4
For Kathleen Doherty,
who embodies all that is good and right
and magical in publishing
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
The Last Halloween
Bed Tings
The Dead Won’t Hurt You
Copies
Shaping the Fog
Willard’s Oppositional Notebook
A Tiny Little Piece
The La Brea Toy Pits
Mr. Lambini’s Haunted House
Numbskull
A Little Night Fishing
Precious Memories
Baby Talk
Unseen
Flyers
Every Autumn
Goose Eggs
Fresh from the Garden
The Covered Bridge
Buzz Off
Just Desserts
The Whole Nine Yards
The Green Man
Dizzy Spells
The Tank
Anything You Want
Lines
Wandering Stu
Tarnation
Ten Pounds of Chocolate
The Boy Who Wouldn’t Talk
Invasion of the Road Weenies
We Interrupt This Program
The Smell of Death
The Shortcut
A Word or Two About These Stories
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Big thanks to Jonathan Schmidt, who put the first batch of Weenies into the oven and into the Starscape line. Huge thanks to Susan Chang for caring about every single word. Awestruck thanks to Bill Mayer for his amazing covers. Never-ending thanks to all the teachers who use my stories in their classrooms and all the librarians who place my books into the hands of readers. And, finally, thanks on a bun with lots of relish to everyone who helps make sure that the art of the short story is alive and well. That list is endless, but begins with those writers who still care about plots, stretches across a universe of publishers, anthologists, and editors, and ends right where it should with enthusiastic readers, such as you.
INVASION OF THE
ROAD WEENIES
AND OTHER WARPED AND CREEPY TALES
THE LAST HALLOWEEN
Aren’t you going out for trick or treat?” Jennifer’s mom asked two weeks before Halloween. “If you want me to make a costume, we’d better start soon.”
“I’m getting kind of old for that,” Jennifer said. “Maybe I’ll skip it this year.”
“Are you sure? I thought you loved to go out.”
Jennifer nodded. “I’m pretty sure.” She’d been thinking about it ever since last year—ever since those older kids had stolen her candy and chased her down the street. As much as she loved Halloween, it just wasn’t worth the risk. Monster terror was fun. Real terror wasn’t.
“There’s still time for me to make a costume,” her mom said a week before Halloween.
“Thanks. But I think I’ll stay home and hand out candy.” That might even be fun, Jennifer thought. She liked seeing the little kids in their cute costumes. Her enthusiasm faded as she realized the older kids would come to her door, too—the ones who didn’t even bother with real costumes. The ones who were just out to get as much candy as they could.
“Last chance,” Jennifer’s mom said the day before Halloween. “I can still put something together.”
Jennifer looked out the window at the leaf-strewn streets that would soon be filled with costumed kids. “No thanks,” she said.
But on Halloween, as the day fell dark and the smallest trick-or-treaters emerged from their houses like ants spilling from a hill, Jennifer wondered if it was too late to change her mind.
She had good memories of her first Halloween. It wasn’t fair to have nothing but bad memories about her last one. But that awful Halloween didn’t have to be her last one. Not if she went out now.
Costume, Jennifer thought, rummaging through her closet. Nothing. Sure, she could throw together a hippie outfit, or do some sort of clown makeup, but that wasn’t good enough. That wasn’t special.
She tried the basement. The sound of the doorbell drifted down from upstairs. As Jennifer scanned the piles of boxes stacked along a wall, the flash of a gold latch caught her eye.
Her great grandmother’s old trunk sat shoved in a corner beneath moldy boxes of baby toys and a stack of canning jars. Jennifer vaguely remembered looking in the trunk when they’d first moved to the house.
She uncovered the trunk and unlatched the lid. A dusty smell of ancient cloth tickled her nose as she sorted through the contents. Just old dresses. Nice enough, but not the sort of costume she wanted. There was a hat with a veil—thin black gauze that covered the face of the wearer. This might work in an emergency, she thought. Still, she’d hoped to find something better.
Jennifer found nothing else. But, as she started to close the lid, she realized something was wrong. The outside of the trunk seemed deeper than the inside. She emptied the trunk and knocked her fist against the bottom. Instead of a solid whack, she was rewarded with a hollow thump. Excited, she pushed and pressed until she discovered the right spot. The false bottom popped up.
Jennifer h
eld her breath as she lifted the wood panel, wondering what treasures she might find.
Gloves. That was all. One pair of black leather gloves. Jennifer noticed a folded slip of paper tucked between the fingers. She opened the slip and read the handwritten words out loud, “Special gloves for a special night.”
The doorbell rang again. Jennifer heard a chorus of young voices shouting “Trick or treat!” Halloween was slipping past her like hourglass sand.
Jennifer grabbed the hat. Not a great costume, but it would have to do. On a whim, she grabbed the gloves, too. After all, it was a special night, even if she didn’t have a special costume. She slipped the gloves over her hands. They fit like she’d worn them for years. She put on the hat. The veil cut her off from the world, filtering everything through a dark curtain.
Jennifer ran upstairs and grabbed her Halloween bag.
“I’m going out,” she called to her mom.
“Have fun, dear. Be careful.”
She dashed into the crisp air of the last night in October. As she knocked on her first door and got her first piece of candy, Jennifer knew she’d made the right decision. She traveled the familiar streets, following a pattern she’d worked out over the years.
At most houses, she heard the same question. “What an interesting costume. What are you?”
“Just a veiled lady,” Jennifer told them.
She reached Pritchard Street. A dead end. The best path was down one side and up the other. She went to the first house on the right, and then the second.
As she left the second house, she heard the footsteps behind her. Footsteps and whispers. She took a quick glance over her shoulder at the hovering shapes. Taller kids, bigger kids. Though she hated to break the pattern, Jennifer crossed the street.
They followed. Going to each house right after her. Playing with her the way a cat plays with a mouse. They had time. She was trapped.
Jennifer crossed the street again.
They crossed, too.
And again.
Jennifer gripped her bag with her right hand, feeling the plastic handle bite against her palm through the thin leather of the gloves. I’m just going to walk back to the corner, she told herself. She’d go past them, and everything would be fine.
Forcing herself to look straight ahead, she took a step toward them. Crude laughs bubbled from the cluster of kids. “Trick or treat,” the boy in front said in a nasty, mocking voice. His only costume was a football shirt. Behind him, another boy, the tallest of the group, wore a motorcycle jacket.
“Gonna share?” the boy in front asked.
Jennifer avoided his eyes.
He stepped closer and reached toward her bag.
Jennifer put her left hand out, as if this motion had the power to stop them. She froze as the oddest sound punctured the night.
Thwick . . . thwick . . . thwick . . . thwick . . . thwick.
Claws, black as coal and sharp as needles, sprouted from her fingertips.
“Just give me the bag,” the boy said.
Jennifer gave him the claws instead.
He screamed and clutched at his ripped shirt. The others took a step toward her. Jennifer flicked her arm out and slashed ribbons from the tall boy’s leather jacket. She slashed flesh, too, but only enough to warn him off, only enough to make him think twice the next time he considered stalking a victim.
Even in the dark, the others saw enough to know what she had done.
They turned and fled. But not before Jennifer had flicked her wrist a final time, gutting their bags and spilling candy on the street.
The claws retracted.
Jennifer left the spilled candy for the little ones to find. She’d already received her reward. She finished her path along the street.
At the final house, a woman said, “My, my, that’s a lovely costume. What are you?”
“Justice,” Jennifer whispered.
“What?” the woman asked.
“Just a veiled lady,” Jennifer said.
Her bag was nearly full. Normally, that was when she’d return home. But there were other kids out there like her, alone and vulnerable. And there were other gangs like the one she’d met.
Jennifer stayed on the streets until the last porch light went dark. Finally, she headed home.
“Did you have a good time?” her mother asked.
Jennifer nodded, sending a ripple through the veil. She removed the hat and gloves. “I think this was the best Halloween ever. I can’t wait until next year.”
“Well, just let me know ahead of time if you want a costume,” her mother told her.
“I’ll stick with this one,” Jennifer said. “It’s kind of fun. And it fits me really well.”
BED TINGS
I was having a rotten day. First thing in the morning, I broke my camera. I know I shouldn’t have left it on the floor right next to my bed, but that doesn’t do me much good now. Then, right after breakfast, I accidentally dropped my toothbrush in the toilet.
When I told my friend Pauli what had happened, he said, “Well, it’s almost over.”
“What do you mean?”
“My grandma says that bad things happen in threes,” Pauli told me. “You’ve had two bad things happen, so you’ve just got one more to get through and it’s over.”
“That’s silly,” I said.
I liked Pauli’s grandma. She baked great cookies, and she always used lots of chocolate chips. But she was full of superstitions. And her accent was so thick, I had a hard time understanding her when she talked. She said mek instead of make, and true instead of through. I could just hear her telling Pauli that bad things happen in threes, but it would sound like Bed tings heppen en treeze. No matter how she said it, it was just a superstition.
“It might be silly,” Pauli told me, “but if I were you, I’d be careful today.”
“Yeah, right.” I wasn’t too worried. “Come on, let’s play ball.” I got my basketball from the garage and started to dribble it down the driveway.
The ball broke on the second bounce.
It just burst and went flat. I’d never seen a basketball do that.
“Bad thing,” Pauli said.
“Shut up,” I told him. But then I realized something. If bad things happen in threes, the bad part of my day was over. “I’m safe now,” I said. “Watch this.”
I got the ladder and climbed up the side of my house. Then I closed my eyes and ran along the top of the roof.
“Careful,” Pauli shouted.
“Don’t worry.” I really felt great. It was wonderful knowing that nothing bad could happen to me now. I stood on one leg and spun around.
“Come on, get down,” Pauli said.
“Okay.” I went to the lowest part of the roof and jumped to the lawn. Naturally, I landed without any trouble.
For the rest of the day, I pushed my luck, and it held. As evening fell, Pauli and I wandered over to his house. When we got there, I looked toward the top of the huge oak in his front yard. My kite was still stuck up there from last fall.
“I’m getting it,” I said.
“No,” Pauli said. “That’s crazy. It’s too high.”
“Watch me.” I started climbing the oak. I felt fabulous and free. Nothing could hurt me.
“Denjer!”
I looked down as I heard the shout. Denjer? I thought.
Pauli’s grandma was down below me—far down below, waving a dish towel like a flag and shouting. “Denjer! Denjer!”
Oh. I got it. She was shouting “danger.”
“It’s okay,” I called to her. “I’m safe.”
“Bed tings heppen in treeze,” she shouted.
“But it’s okay,” I called back, smiling at the way she’d pronounced the words.
“In treeze! In treeze!” she shouted, pointing to the oak I’d climbed.
Pointing to the oak tree, I realized. At that same instant, I heard something start to crack. The branch I was standing on tore from the tree with a spl
intering scream.
I fell. Also letting out a splintering scream.
I managed to land on Pauli, and that sort of broke my fall. But I still broke my leg. His grandma sure was right. Bad things happen in trees.
THE DEAD WON’T
HURT YOU
The gate to the cemetery wasn’t locked.
That had been Eric’s last hope. He’d been prepared to shake the bars, then turn to his friends and say, “Guess we can’t do it.”
The gate swung when he pushed, moving without the slightest creak. To Eric, the unexpected silence was worse than any graveyard moan of rusted metal. He felt as if he was watching a movie with the sound turned off. For an instant, he thought of an old, scratchy silent film—that first vampire movie with the freaky-looking bald guy.
“I’m out of here,” Bennet said.
Eric made no comment as Bennet raced away. He watched Jacob and Lance, wondering if they’d chicken out, too. They both looked at him, obviously wondering the same thing.
Last chance, Eric thought. All three of them could quit right now, and there’d be no blame anywhere. But the moment came and passed. Eric drew a deep breath of the damp air and stepped through the gate of the cemetery. He checked his watch. Just ten minutes to go. Then, he could leave. He couldn’t even remember which of them had suggested they visit a cemetery at midnight.
But once the idea had been spoken, they’d teased and taunted each other until they had to do it. Eric couldn’t admit that the cemetery terrified him. Even in daylight—even as far as possible from midnight—he avoided this field of headstones and monuments. Eric thought about last year, when they’d buried Hunter Reynolds. Eric had pretended to be sick so he wouldn’t have to go to the funeral and the cemetery. He hadn’t even really known Hunter. They weren’t in any of the same classes at school. They’d been on that Little League team together three years back, the one that had almost made it to the state playoffs, but that was it.
Eric always kept as much distance as he could between himself and the dead.