by M. D. Payne
A Shane booger hit my temple.
“Uggggggh,” I grunted, and wiped off the fresh, hot booger.
“Ack!” yelled Nabila. “You tossed it right at me.”
She in turn tossed the hot booger, and—
“How dare you!” yelled Lucinda B. Smythe.
Shane’s booger sat on her portrait in a way that made her look like she had lost a tooth.
“Wow, she looks like a hockey player,” said Gordon, laughing.
“That’s not funny,” said Lucinda.
Quincy floated up behind Nabila and leaned in close to her.
“PSSSSST,” whispered Quincy.
“Wahhhhh!” screamed Nabila. “AAAHHHCHOOO!”
“I scared a sneeze out of you,” Quincy said, giggling.
“It’s better than a fart.” Gordon snickered. “AAAACHOO!”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” Quincy kept giggling. “I just came to tell you that we can’t see any puppies or kittens hiding anywhere.”
“Yeah, well how do you like this?” asked Nabila.
She pulled a crusty chunk of boogery hair off of her shirt and tossed it at Quincy. It hit his head and floated around a bit.
“Ah, ah, ahhhhh . . . ” Quincy shook his head. “SCHPLOOOOOOO!”
Quincy shot up through the ceiling, showering emerald-green boogers down on us and Lucinda—now it looked like she had lost several teeth.
“EEEEEWWWWWWW,” we all said.
A door to one of the empty rooms in the East Wing swung open, and Murrayhotep stuck his head out. He eyed us through his wrappings.
“Would you cretins please shut up?” he growled. “I’m concentrating in here.”
SLAM!
“Well, it looks like the monsters feel better already,” said Shane. “At least that monstrous old monster.”
“Well, then, I think we’re finally done. Even if we’re not done, we’re done,” I said, exhausted. “I’m done. Are you guys done? It’s the Nurses’ turn.”
As we walked to the foyer, a sick zombie collapsed in front of us. A froth of snot bubbled up through his mouth and nose, and he spasmed violently on the floor.
“We’ve got to get him to a Nurse,” said Nabila as she bent over to pick him up.
We saw more sick monsters as we dragged the zombie through the foyer.
“Clarice, you don’t need to use that anymore,” I said, pointing at her walker. “It’s gonna be a while before my mother comes back for another visit—if she ever comes back.”
“But I actually need it now,” she wheezed.
We passed the zombie off to a Nurse and headed for Director Z’s office in the West Wing. There was moaning and groaning like we hadn’t heard since the days of Raven Hill.
We passed by Old Bigfoot’s room on the way to Director Z’s office.
“Help,” he screamed and coughed. “Helllllp!”
I grabbed the door handle.
“It’s locked,” I said. “Gordon?”
“Got it,” he said, and busted the door open with his shoulder.
Inside there was a pitiful sight.
“He’s been pinned to his bed,” Nabila said, pointing, “by a kitten?”
Shane snatched the kitten off of the beastly, hairy man, whose snow-white fur—which had been gray just a few days ago—was a devastated war zone of snot around his neck.
“You look terrible, Roy,” said Shane. “How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know.” Roy shook and coughed. “I woke up with it on my chest. ON MY CHEST. WHAAAAA-CHOOO!”
We were once again showered in boogers.
“I’ll rush this one to the banquet hall,” said Shane.
There was a loud POP, and Shane suddenly was holding two kittens.
They both looked up at him with a “mew.”
“I mean I’ll rush these to the banquet hall,” said Shane. “I’ll ask Murrayhotep what his secret is—he’s the only one doing okay right now!”
“WHAAAACHOOO”—Shane sneezed his way down the hall.
“I feel terrible,” Roy said. “Get. Me. A. Nurssppplloorrfff!” Roy began to choke on his own snot, writhing around in the bed for a moment, and then going deathly still.
“Roy!” I screeched. “Roy!”
Gordon put his ear down to Roy’s twisted mouth.
“Get a Nurse!” yelled Gordon. “He’s barely breathing!”
Ben snagged a Nurse from the hallway, and the Nurse ordered us out.
“What’s going to happen to him?” asked Nabila as the Nurse slammed the door in our faces.
The SLAM echoed through my swollen head.
“My head!” I yelled. “It’s bursting with snot.”
“My mother just texted to say I could stay later,” said Ben. “I feel great, and Director Z and the Nurses could use my help. You guys get out of here. Get some rest, or you’ll end up like Roy. I’ll let Director Z know.”
Later that night I sat up in bed. No matter what position I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from feeling like I was drowning in snot. I grabbed my phone off of the nightstand and texted Ben.
How are things going?
Not good. But I have an amazing idea.
What is it?
We need to get a monster to eat boogers. Ghost boogers.
Ghost Boogers
The next day at lunch, Gordon, Shane, Nabila, and I sat with tissues shoved up our noses to stop the snotting. We forced down our lunches. I had spent the morning either snotting, or trying desperately to not fall asleep.
“The monsters aren’t getting much better,” said Ben. “Roy’s still in a coma. Lots of them were even older-looking than when you left.”
Ben stopped to chomp down on a Grilled Scream and shoved a handful of French Flies into his mouth.
“I feel bad for the monsters, but oh, man, this is the most I’ve tasted in months,” he said, energized.
“Good for you,” grunted Gordon. His eyes were crusted shut and his nose was practically raw from blowing it so much. “I had to skip practice this morning. I can already feel my muscles shrinking.”
Some kid tried to sit down at the end of our table, so Nabila pulled the tissue out of one of her nostrils. After a small shower of snot landed on the table, the kid walked away.
“Aw, thanks,” said Ben. “I just really don’t feel like barfing today.”
“So, tell me again about the ghost boogers,” said Shane.
“Wait,” I snorted. “You were for real last night? I thought you were joking.”
“No, I think it might actually work,” said Ben. “Director Z is waiting for some ‘removal crew’ to come in from the Canadian retirement home network and take away the cats and dogs, but things are still so bad—leftover allergens and stuff—that he was thinking about moving the old folks.”
He shoved another handful of greasy French Flies into his mouth.
“Careful, dude,” said Shane. “You’ll spew.”
“Naw, not today,” Ben said. “Anyway, I had a flash of inspiration. I was feeling so good, I realized that my body had somehow formed an immunity to whatever it was the puppies and kittens were exposing us to.”
“What does that have to do with ghost boogers?” Nabila asked.
“Like me, they aren’t as affected by the puppies and kittens. Except for when they’re overexposed. Then they explode in snot. But I think it’s some sort of ghostly immunity defense.”
“So you’re saying eating the boogers would make the monsters immune, too?” asked Shane. “Like a vaccine.”
“Like the way vaccines are made from the viruses they fight?” I asked.
“Maybe, and yes,” said Ben. “I think it might power them up for a bit—not necessarily cure them. I told Director Z, and he agreed—if
one of us tested it.”
“You mean we have to eat boogers?” asked Gordon.
“Well, one of you guys needs to, since I’m not sick. He’s worried that if we test it on a monster and it backfires, it could really do some damage,” said Ben. “And he can’t test it, because he can’t be knocked out with an allergy attack.”
“What about a Nurse?” asked Nabila.
“Same thing,” said Ben. “They’re just too important. Look, it’s just a handful of boogers. If it works—awesome—we have a whole staircase of snot to chisel off and pass around to the old monsters. If it doesn’t, I’ll be standing by with my inhaler, creams . . . all sorts of stuff.”
We reluctantly headed to Gallow Manor after school to test Ben’s theory. None of us were too excited about the idea of eating boogers. We all knew it had to be done, but no one—other than Ben—was looking forward to it.
As we entered the East Wing, the smell of the puppies and kittens coming from the banquet hall was overwhelming.
“AHHH-AHHH . . .” I struggled with a sneeze.
“CHOOOOO!” Nabila finished my sentence.
“This is bad,” Gordon said with a snort. “But I feel like eating ghost boogers is going to be worse.”
“Oh, finally,” said Lucinda as we stepped in front of her boogered face. “It took you a full day, but you’re finally back to clean me up.”
“Well, we’ll start with one,” said Ben. “And then we’ll see what happens.”
“You do it,” said Gordon to Shane.
“No, I think our fearless leader should do it,” said Shane. “Chris, lead by example.”
“If this works, you’re all going to be eating boogers,” Ben said. “So—just do it!”
“Fine,” said Nabila, and she reached up to the portrait to pluck off the biggest booger.
“Make sure it’s not mine,” said Shane. “The one you flung, remember?”
“It’s not yours,” said Nabila, and she stared at her snack. “Okay. Here we go. I’m doing it.”
She plopped it into her mouth.
The sound of Gordon dry-heaving beside me only made the situation worse. There was no way I was going to be able to do this.
“Dear child, what are you doing?” screeched Lucinda.
“I’d suggest chewing on it,” said Ben. “You know, grind it up good.”
Nabila took Ben’s advice, gritted her teeth, and started to chew.
CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH.
“Sounds dry,” said Shane.
“Uggghhh,” Nabila said through her closed mouth.
Her eyes started to water. A little sweat formed on her forehead.
CRUNCH, SQUISH, SQUISH.
A trickle of green drool dribbled down her chin.
“That’s good,” coached Ben. “Just like that. Now swallow.”
Nabila swallowed hard . . .
GULP!
. . . and turned a boogery-green color.
“Oh no. Oh man,” she said. “Whuuuurp!”
She gagged.
“You have to keep it down,” said Ben. “Keep it down.”
“Huhhhhhh.” She dry-heaved a little but nothing came up. “Okay. I’m okay.”
Then she took in a huge breath of air through her cleared nasal passages.
“Yes! It works!” screamed Ben, giving Nabila an awkward bear hug.
Gordon, Shane, and I looked at each other. We knew what had to happen next.
“Perhaps being sick isn’t so bad,” said Gordon. “Maybe I don’t need to play sports or be fit.”
“Just do it,” said Ben. “It isn’t so bad, right, Nabila?”
“Isn’t so bad? I just ate a giant booger,” she replied. “It was disgusting. But I do feel much better.”
Shane plucked a booger off of Lucinda.
“Looks like we might clean you off yet,” he said.
“Well, hurry it up,” said Lucinda.
“Mmmmm,” Shane said as he popped it into his mouth, though his eyes said, “Blarrrf!”
I peeled more boogers off and handed some to Gordon, who reluctantly took them from me.
“Good luck,” I said, and chomped down on a handful of boogers.
Gordon slowly pushed his boogers past his lips and into his mouth.
We choked down our snot snack and breathed deeply for the first time in days.
“Wahooo!” Shane yelled. “Let’s grab a few green ones and feed them to an old monster.”
We rushed back to the West Wing and Director Z’s office with a good handful of boogers.
When we got to his office, Pietro was there, talking about the flea infestation that had come along with the puppies and kittens.
“We’re sick and we’re itching like crazy,” Pietro said, a large string of snot falling out of his nose.
Even though he was in human form, he took off his shoe and started to scratch behind his ears with his foot.
“How’d you like to feel better?” asked Shane.
I held out my hand to Pietro.
“It worked?” asked Director Z.
“Sure did,” said Ben.
“What is it?” asked Pietro.
Nabila replied, “They’re boo—”
“Bound to make you feel better,” I cut Nabila off. “Just eat it.”
Pietro crunched and munched on his treat, and swallowed hard. “Ewww . . . what is this stuff?”
“We’ll tell you, but first tell us, how do you feel?” asked Ben.
“Pretty good, actually,” he said, and then breathed in deeply.
“Hooooooooooowl,” Pietro said, rattling the windows in Director Z’s office. “Wow, I feel really good.”
He stood up and stretched.
“He’s still gray and wrinkly, but he looks good,” said Nabila.
“He would probably just have to eat more to get more energy back,” Ben said.
“Eat more what?” asked Pietro.
“Boogers,” said Director Z. “Ghost boogers. Amazing.”
“Ghost boogers?” Pietro gagged. “Is this a joke?”
“You feel great, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Pietro. “Just a little disgusted.”
“Awesome,” I said. “Then maybe you could help us collect all of the boogers in the North Wing that the ghosts left behind.”
“I’ll get the old monsters prepared,” said Director Z.
Pietro stared at the stairs, scratching his bushy werewolf-hair head.
“Boogers?” he asked. “What boogers? I don’t see any boogers.”
“I don’t, either,” said Ben.
“The stairs are now the cleanest part of the house,” said Shane. “They almost sparkle.”
He put down his rusty metal booger-collecting pail that Director Z and the Nurses had scrounged up for each of us, and called out, “Quincy! Quincy!”
“Hey, guys!” Quincy appeared at the top of the stairs. “Don’t the stairs look great?”
“Ghosts can clean?” Nabila asked. “Why was this place so dusty when we first got here?”
“I told you that my parents hated bogies,” Quincy said. “As soon as you guys left, we cleaned it all up. Why are you so upset?”
“Believe it or not, we think that your boogers are the key to saving the old monsters from the effects of the puppies and kittens,” I said.
“Oh . . .” Quincy thought about it for a minute. “Well here, then.”
Quincy dug into his ghost nose with his ghost finger and pulled out some green gold. He handed it to Pietro.
“Thanks, kid,” he said over a boogery crunch.
“But I think we’re going to need a lot more than that,” Ben said, and held up his bucket. “Buckets and buckets.”
We all
held up our buckets.
“Quincy,” I said, “you and your family have to help us. You need to fill these buckets for us.”
“Impossible,” said Lady Stratford, who materialized suddenly to his right. “You ask too much of my family. We just want peace.”
I was about to plead our case, when Quincy did it for me.
“Mom,” said Quincy, “if we don’t help the old monsters, they’ll just get older. And louder. And dirtier. It will just be worse for us.”
The rest of the family appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Plus—remember when you and Dad were worried about who was going to move in here? Well, these old monsters don’t even care we’re here. In fact, we can float about freely. If a stuffy old rich family moved in here, we’d have to hide.”
“I guess you’re right . . . ,” said Lady Stratford.
“You’re not really thinking of forcing yourself to sneeze like you did before, are you?” Richard said.
“We have no choice, dear,” Lady Stratford said. “Your son is right. He’s sharp as a tack, just like his father.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said the Lt. Commander. “They can all go to—”
“Grandfather!!” everyone screamed.
“Okay,” said Richard. “What do we need to do?”
Buckets of Boogers
Once again we stood in front of the door to the banquet hall—this time with the ghosts.
“Will someone please finish cleaning this mess off of me?” screeched Lucinda B. Smythe.
“Free boogers!” said Gordon. “Go for it, Pietro.”
Pietro walked over to the portrait and began to lick the remaining boogers off of Lucinda.
“Oh. Stop. No,” said Lucinda. “Not like this. Ack! Your breath is terrible. Be careful! I’m an OIL painting!”
“Hey, who was it that hacked into the door with the ax?” asked Ben.
“I’m loath to admit it, but that was me,” said Richard.
“Well, we have the perfect tool now,” said Ben. “You can stick your head into the banquet hall through the ax hole to soak up all the animal dander you need and then one of us will be holding on to a bucket for you.”
“We’re ghosts, son. A locked door is no problem for us,” Richard said as he shoved his ghost head through the door.
