Boogers from Beyond #3

by M. D. Payne

  “What courteous staff you have, Director,” said my mother.

  “Please,” said Director Z, “call me Zachary.”

  As Director Z and my mother turned and walked ahead of us, I looked behind to see a skeletal hand reach out of the closet and grab our coats from the Nurse.

  Here we go, I thought.

  Welcome to Gallow Manor

  Director Z led my mother out of the beautiful marbled foyer toward the West Wing. Not knowing what to do, we followed them. After only a few steps, we could hear a pounding behind us.

  “It’s Roy, the Old Bigfoot,” whispered Shane.

  “Get outta sight!” Gordon hissed at the monster.

  We waved him away frantically, but the shaggy gray bigfoot kept pounding his way toward us. The sour scent of his stinky old feet (which were, in fact, HUGE) increased with each step.

  “Director Z?” Old Bigfoot asked. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”

  Director Z and my mother stopped.

  Before they could turn around, Ben ran up to them and barfed on Director Z’s shoes.

  “Whhhhhharrrf,” said Ben. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh dear,” said my mother, too busy with barfy Ben to notice the stinky sasquatch. “Are you okay?”

  She leaned down to help Ben.

  “Director Z?” Old Bigfoot asked again.

  Now Director Z was trying to wave him off, but he kept coming.

  Shane ripped down one of the old tapestries, jumped up, and covered Old Bigfoot from head to hairy toes just as my mother turned around.

  “My, aren’t you just so cold,” I said, wrapping the tapestry tightly around him. “Let’s get you to your room.”

  Shane hurriedly shuffled Old Bigfoot off down the West Wing before my mother could see him—or smell him.

  The rest of us stood there, staring at my mother and Director Z.

  “Soooooo . . . ?” I asked Director Z.

  “Yes, it does look like you might have a lot of ‘stuff’ to deal with.” Director Z sighed, shaking Ben’s barf off of his shoes. “Why don’t you run off and make sure nobody else needs to be taken care of.”

  I gave Director Z a dirty look and headed down the hallway with my friends.

  As soon as Shane had safely plopped Old Bigfoot back in his room and closed the door, we heard growling from the room in front of us.

  “Uh-oh . . . ,” said Shane, rushing ahead. “Sounds like someone else is on their ‘best behavior.’”

  Three mangy old werewolves dragged their butts around a carpeted drawing room with a beautiful fireplace and very expensive antique furniture.

  Lamps shook on rickety old tables. Fur was flying everywhere, and the smell was outrageous. The werewolves didn’t even look like old dogs anymore—their coats were still somewhat gray, but they had all of their fur back. Not one of them had peed on a rug in weeks.

  “Waaaaah-choo!” sneezed Ben, splattering a fine leather chair with snot.

  “Guys!” I yelled. “That’s disgusting! Stop it! Right now!”

  “Arooo—” one started to howl with relief at having his itch scratched, but Shane was able to grab him and clamp his half-toothed mouth shut.

  Another one hit one of the tables, and sent a beautiful stained-glass lamp over the edge.

  “Eeek,” I squealed, rushing forward and catching it just in time.

  “Hey!” Ben yelled from the entrance. “They’re coming down the hall!”

  “Close the door,” said Shane.

  “There is no door,” cried Ben.

  “Shoot!” I yelled. “Think fast.”

  “Can you change back into human form?” Shane asked the flea-ridden werewolves.

  “Nooooo, wait!” I said, still holding on to the lamp. “They might just keep doing it when they are in human form. Do you want to see that?”

  “Ew!” said Gordon.

  “Hurry!” said Ben.

  Nabila ran over to a creaky old window, unlatched it, and threw it open. There was a terrible screech—paint flakes sprayed everywhere—and the room was filled with a fresh, cold breeze.

  “Out!” She pointed to the open window.

  The werewolves cocked their heads and stared at her with funny expressions.

  We could hear the click of Director Z’s perfectly polished dress shoes coming up to the entrance.

  “This is gonna be bad,” said Ben, scurrying deeper into the room to hide behind a bookcase.

  “FETCH!” yelled Gordon, throwing a small stick of wood from the fireplace out of the window.

  The werewolves jumped up from the slightly brown carpet, sprinted to the window in a flash, and jumped out one by one. As the last tail cleared the window, my mother and Director Z entered the room.

  “We have several sitting rooms with period furniture and art from the time when this home was constructed. Apparently, it was built by a shipbuilding family from Britain,” said Director Z. “Oh, Chris! Do be careful while cleaning that lamp. You would pay dearly if ever you were to break it.”

  “Of course,” I said, finally placing the lamp back on the table. “Just getting the dust off so nobody’s sneezing around here.”

  Ben sneezed from behind the bookcase.

  “Oh, Chrissy,” said my mother, “you do such wonderful work for these old folks.”

  “Would you mind closing the window, Nabila?” asked Director Z.

  “Of course, Director,” said Nabila.

  Director Z took a big whiff and stared at the carpet.

  I gave him a look that said, Get her out of here before she notices!

  “Now,” said Director Z, quickly leading my mother out of the room. “Shall I show you the music room? Chris tells me you can play piano. Have you ever played a harpsichord?”

  They walked across the hallway and opened the door to the music room. As soon as it had shut, we rushed into the hallway.

  “We’ve got to stay ahead of them,” I said, panicked, “or my mother might see something!”

  We rushed past a number of closed doors. Luckily, most of the residents had listened to us, and were keeping quiet in their rooms.

  We peeked into a sitting room to see a few old folks playing cards, staring at chessboards, quietly talking, or warming themselves in front of the marble fireplace.

  “Lookin’ good! Lookin’ normal!” yelled Shane, giving all the old monsters a big thumbs-up. “All that’s left is the dining room, the kitchen, and—”

  “The bathroom!” screeched Nabila, pointing farther down the hallway. “Look!”

  Up ahead, a steamy green fog poured out of the bathroom. There was no mistaking that smell.

  “Swamp gas!” yelled Gordon.

  Through the open door, Gil, the swamp creature, happily sang and farted in the shower.

  Behind us, my mother and Director Z emerged from the music room. I could feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. We lined up from wall to wall to keep her from seeing the green cloud down the hallway.

  “Let’s just take a quick look at this room,” said Director Z, leading my mother into the second sitting room. “The fireplace is exquisite.”

  “We’ve got to close the bathroom door,” I said, and we turned around to see a zombie stumble out of the bathroom.

  “Arrgh! Can’t breathe!” he moaned and passed out on the hallway floor.

  “Wow, farts strong enough to knock out a zombie,” said Shane. “I’m constantly impressed by Gil.”

  “No time to be impressed,” I yelled. “We’ve got to move this zombie before my mother walks down the hallway.”

  “What about the gas?” yelled Nabila.

  Gordon rushed up to the zombie, who was still moaning, and quickly dragged him back into the bathroom.

  “No!” the zombie wailed. “Barely su
rvived.”

  “Barely survived?” Gordon said. “Did you forget you’re already dead? Just stay low, under the cloud.”

  Gordon slammed the door shut, cutting off the green cloud, just as my mother and Director Z came out of the second sitting room.

  “Now on to the kitchen,” said Director Z as they breezed past us.

  My mother wrinkled her nose slightly, but didn’t say anything.

  After a pause, we rushed after them, through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “This is perhaps the most stunning marblework in the entire manor,” said Director Z. “Italian marble, very sterile, perfect for preparing meals for those with special needs—and for your PTA members on Sunday.”

  “Looks clear in here,” whispered Shane, patting me on the back.

  Before I could finish saying, “WHEW,” there was a great SQUUUUEEEAAAK.

  The huge wooden door to the walk-in refrigerator slowly swung open in front of my mother. A gnarled hand gripped the dark wood ominously.

  My friends and I stood in shock. There was nothing we could do.

  Grigore, the vampire, stumbled out clutching a large plastic bag of blood. He was slurping happily on a plastic tube.

  “Ahhh!” my mother screamed, jumping back, surprised.

  “WHA!” Grigore screeched, just as surprised, and tossed the blood bag up into the air.

  “Oh no,” said Ben.

  “Oh my!” said my mother as the bag fell back down onto the ground with a SPLAT, and sprayed blood all over Grigore’s shoes and pants.

  “Nooooo!” he yelled. “My blood!!!”

  “Blood?” My mother suddenly looked horrified.

  Director Z was, for once, stunned.

  “Oh . . . ,” Grigore said, looking at my mother. “You can’t know. You shouldn’t know.”

  He held his right hand in front of him, made his hand into a claw, and squinted into her eyes.

  “You are getting very sleepy,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  “Do. Not. See. Meeee . . . ,” purred Grigore.

  “But you’re right in front of me,” my mother said, annoyed. “Covered in—”

  “Tomato soup!” I interrupted. “Grigore, how many times have I told you—you can only eat at scheduled mealtimes. What a silly old dude, right?”

  My friends and I laughed nervously.

  I looked at my mother, hoping she’d believe me.

  “But he screeched the word blood after he dropped what is clearly an IV bag of blood.” My mother furrowed her brow in my direction.

  “I am deeply sorry that my resident has scared you,” said Director Z, “but Grigore really is one of the more—how do I put this without sounding rude—demented patients here. I assure you, this is not normally what happens at my facility.”

  “I’m not demented,” said Grigore, offended. “I—”

  Gordon hissed, raised his fist, and gave Grigore a dirty look. My mother was staring too hard at the blood to notice.

  “Right . . . right!” screeched Grigore. “I’m the King of Transylvania! That’s vhy I thought this delicious tomato soup vas blllloooooood!”

  “Yes,” Director Z quickly added with a smile, “and it’s a funny coincidence that the bags we serve all our soup in would look like IV bags to you—we find that serving soups directly from a plastic pouch, using a plastic tube to suck, gives our residents a sense of comfort. Spoons are simply too harsh.”

  We all stared at my mother, wondering if she would believe our terrible story. She stood there with her mouth open, shocked.

  She finally turned to me with a look of anger and said, “Chris, what is going on here?”

  Messy Monster Trouble

  “How could you kids act like this?” my mother scolded. “Are you just going to stand there? Clean the poor old man up!”

  “Of course,” I said, relieved. “Director Z, where’s the cleaning supply closet again?”

  “In the back of the dining room,” replied Director Z. “Mrs. Taylor, while the children assist Grigore, please allow me to show you the view from the West Tower above the dining room. It’s spectacular.”

  “Yeah, and at night, the stars are amazing out here,” I said nervously, trying to get my mother to think about anything but the blood-splattered old vampire in front of her. “I’ve got my telescope set up in the tower.”

  “We’ll be right back,” Shane said to Grigore.

  “One of you should stay and keep an eye on him,” my mother said.

  “Of course,” said Nabila. “Ben and I will stay behind.”

  The rest of us walked out into the dining room.

  “Is it this door?” I asked Director Z, who continued walking toward the hallway with my mother.

  I grasped the doorknob of the already slightly open door and peeked inside to see bizarre-looking instruments and a huge, grainy photograph of the moon on the wall. The moon had—

  “Not that door,” said Director Z, who pulled me out of the room before I could explore further. My mother stood in the hallway, looking around at the decorations.

  “But the moon,” I whispered so my mother didn’t hear. “It had a face! Like a real face, not just the craters and hills that make up what we think is the face.”

  “Do you see the moon everywhere, Moon Boy?” Gordon said, chuckling.

  “It would be best if you forgot about this room for now,” Director Z hissed as he closed the door.

  Shane opened the next door, revealing a gaggle of mops and every kind of cleaning solution you could imagine.

  “This is Ben’s dream,” said Shane.

  “I’m sure it shouldn’t take you too long,” said Director Z. “Please meet us at the bottom of the stairs and we’ll all continue to the East Wing.”

  He led my mother up the spiral staircase with a warm chuckle.

  We grabbed as many supplies as we could and went back into the kitchen to find everything perfectly clean. Nabila and Ben stared wide-eyed at Grigore.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Nabila and Ben kept on staring.

  “I realized after you left that I could just slurp up all of the blood myself,” said Grigore. He stared off into the distance and added, “Like a cat licks up blood.”

  “Huh?” I said. “You mean like a cat licks up milk?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course that’s vhat I meant . . . maybe I am a little demented like the Director says.”

  Nabila and Ben were finally coming back to the real world.

  “You guys okay?” asked Gordon.

  “He was so fast,” said Nabila. “So creepy.”

  “And hungry,” added Ben, shivering. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”

  We left Grigore, and I walked over to the door of the mysterious moon room. It was locked.

  “Dang,” I said.

  “What did you see?” asked Shane.

  Before I could answer Shane, Director Z and my mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Let’s head to the other side of the manor, where there’s one room in particular that I think you’d like to see, Mrs. Taylor,” said Director Z.

  The East Wing was filled with empty rooms. Gallow Manor had a lot of space.

  As Director Z led us down the long hallway, organ music blared. It was a louder and darker song than Horace usually played.

  We passed by beautiful, dark oil paintings in dusty frames. We passed a suit of armor that stood guard with an ax.

  “We have quite a collection of Victorian art. As you can see—”

  “WHAT?!” my mother screeched. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE MUSIC.”

  The organ music got crazier and spookier.

  “MY APOLOGIES!” Director Z yelled over
the music. “I HAD TOLD HORACE NOT TO PRACTICE WHILE YOU WERE HERE, BUT AS YOU KNOW, MANY OF OUR RESIDENTS ARE HARD OF HEARING.”

  “THAT WOULD EXPLAIN THE VOLUME,” my mother yelled back.

  But Director Z and I both knew that Horace had amazing hearing. Something else was going on here.

  “RUN UP AHEAD AND TELL HIM TO SHUT UP,” I yelled to Gordon with a panicked look that said, Be careful.

  The closer we got to the banquet hall, the louder it got. My mother and I covered our ears. Director Z pretended not to notice. My teeth rattled in my mouth.

  Gordon opened the door . . .

  . . . and the last note from the organ echoed through a massive banquet hall.

  “Well,” said my mother, gasping at the beautiful banquet hall as the rest of us came through the door. “This is quite nice.”

  “Horace?” My squeak echoed off the high arched ceiling.

  Huge iron chandeliers hung above a beautiful wood floor, and all around the room was a balcony. In the back, above a stage, was a massive set of pipes, with a small keyboard below.

  But the organ player was nowhere to be seen. And the only way out was through the door behind us.

  My look of concern made Director Z speak before I could.

  “So, Mrs. Taylor,” he said, perfectly calm. “We can arrange seating for a number of different occasions. I assume our collection of one hundred folding chairs will work for your PTA meeting?”

  “Wow,” she gasped, clearly forgetting the fact that an organist had just pulled a disappearing act. “Yes.”

  “Wonderful,” Director Z said, clapping his hands together. “Then we’ll make all the preparations necessary for your big day on Sunday. Chris, you and your friends should come extra early tomorrow.”

  As we were leaving Gallow Manor, I noticed Horace walking down the hallway to the West Wing. I rushed over to speak with him.

  “Was there a secret door?” I asked. “Is that how you got out so quick?”

  “Pardon?” he asked, looking confused.

  “In the banquet hall just now you were playing a crazy, loud song that ended right when we opened the door.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Horace. “I just woke up from a nap. The Director gave me strict instructions to lay off the playing while your mother was here.”