The Odds Get Even

by Natale Ghent

  “Unknown at this time,” Boney answered. “But the situation is dire. I repeat, the situation is dire. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Sampson were already seated at the dining-room table by the time Boney appeared wearing nothing but a Speedo, some flippers, and a snorkel mask. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, glasses and hors d’oeuvres suspended in the air and mouths gaping as Boney flipped up to the table and took his seat.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “W-what in the world…” his aunt gasped. She turned apologetically to her dinner guests, who stared at Boney as though he had three heads.

  “How odd,” Mr. Sampson mumbled.

  Boney smiled as though everything was normal. “Could you pass the salt?” he asked Mrs. Sampson, who clutched at her blouse.

  “The boy must have a fever,” his uncle said, placing his hand on Boney’s forehead.

  Boney yawned heavily. “I’m fine. May I have some delicious meatloaf, Auntie, please?”

  Boney’s uncle scowled. “Just as I thought. He’s running a temperature. You’d best go to bed.” He stood up, yanked Boney’s chair from the table, and helped him to his flippered feet.

  Boney gave another big yawn. “I’m so sleepy. Will you save some delicious meatloaf for me, Auntie?”

  “Go,” his uncle said, pointing to the stairs.

  Boney flip-flopped sideways up the steps, taking the opportunity to catch his breath several times for dramatic effect. When he was safely back in his room, he closed the door and flippered happily to the Tele-tube.

  “Mission accomplished,” he whispered.

  “Most impressive,” Squeak said. “I never imagined the Speedo was such a powerful weapon. What’s the ETA for the Old Mill?”

  “Thirty minutes and counting. I just need to get my stuff together. Relay details to Itchy. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  Boney covered the Tele-tube, then changed from his Speedo into his jeans and dark-blue sweatshirt, pushing the Blaster water gun into his waistband. He would slip out of his room, then sneak down the stairs and out the front door while his aunt and uncle were distracted by their guests. If he was quiet enough and avoided steps three, seven, and nine, he should be able to leave the house undetected.

  Taking a pile of dirty clothes from his bedroom floor, Boney arranged them under his covers in a shape that resembled his body. For the head, he stuffed a small pillowcase, placing his yellow-and-black toque on top. Then he positioned the fake head in the bed so that it looked as if he were sleeping with his back to the door. With the lights turned off, the dirty-laundry dummy struck a very convincing figure.

  Boney looked out his bedroom window. The sun was already sinking below the houses on Green Bottle Street. Soon it would be dark. If all went well, by this time tomorrow, Larry’s bullying would be a thing of the past.

  Unscrewing the lid from the bottle of olive oil, Boney poured some on the hinges of his door so they wouldn’t creak when he opened it to escape. The oil worked beautifully; the door opened silently.

  The stairs were another matter altogether. He knew he should avoid steps three, seven, and nine, but he had forgotten about the loose board on stair thirteen. The board creaked like a coffin lid as Boney placed his weight on the step. From where he was standing, he could see his uncle being bored to death at the table and his aunt pretending to laugh at some stupid joke of Mr. Sampson’s. His aunt turned slightly as the stair groaned beneath Boney’s foot. He stopped dead in his tracks, waited until his aunt turned back toward her guests, then navigated the rest of the stairs to the front door.

  The olive oil was applied to the hinges of the front door as well. When he was sure he’d used enough to make a difference, Boney placed the bottle of oil on the floor next to the wall and proceeded to open the door—ever so silently, ever so slowly.

  Just as Boney was about to slip through the door, there was a terrifying shout and he was sure he’d been caught. But it was just Mr. Sampson telling one of his stupid stories.

  Crouching low, Boney snuck past the dining-room window and crept along the walkway to the garage to retrieve his Schwinn. He manoeuvred the bike to the sidewalk and made his way to Squeak’s. Once there, Boney threw a pebble at his friend’s bedroom window. Squeak appeared in the window for only a moment before disappearing and reappearing at the front door of the house, his military messenger bag stuffed with special-effects paraphernalia.

  “How did you get past your aunt?” he asked as he grabbed his own bike and walked with Boney to Itchy’s.

  “It wasn’t too hard,” Boney said. “I used olive oil on the door hinges.”

  “What if they discover you’re gone?”

  “They won’t. I made a dummy out of old clothes so they’ll think I’m still there.”

  Squeak nodded in admiration.

  “Did you bring your camera?” Boney asked.

  Squeak opened his bag, revealing the Polaroid.

  “Good.”

  When they reached Itchy’s, the boys found Snuff waiting on the porch. But instead of attacking Boney the way he usually did, the little dog whined and quickly slunk down the stairs into the shadows.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Squeak asked.

  Boney secured his Blaster in his waistband. “Beats me.”

  Peering through the living-room window, the boys could see Itchy’s father practising his Elvis routine. He gyrated and danced, striking impressive poses and singing into a dish detergent bottle. Itchy’s mother sat watching on the couch, a pleasantly tolerant look on her face.

  “She’s probably seen the same routine a million times,” Boney said. “Maybe it’s time to start working on some new material…”

  Just then, Itchy appeared at the door, wearing a hand-knit fuchsia balaclava. “Thank heavens you’re here,” he said. “I couldn’t stand to listen to that song one more time. He’s been rehearsing for hours.” He looked at Squeak’s messenger bag. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Boney asked, pointing to the balaclava.

  “I don’t want to be recognized.”

  “But anyone could tell it’s you,” Boney said.

  Itchy looked to Squeak for support.

  Squeak nodded. “It’s true.”

  Itchy pulled the balaclava from his head and stuffed it in the mailbox.

  “Come on,” Boney said. “We should hurry. We don’t want Larry to get to the mill before us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  -ONE THE DEMON OF THE HAUNTED MILL

  The three boys jumped on their bikes and pedalled quickly down the street. They crested the hill toward the mill, the full moon rising red and round over the trees.

  “It’s going to be totally dark soon,” Itchy said as they approached the ruins.

  Squeak squinted at the sky. “The moon should provide some light. I hope Rufus remembers we’re coming.”

  Itchy looked nervously over his shoulder. “Me too.”

  When they reached the mill, Boney slowed to a stop and jumped from his bike. Squeak and Itchy did the same. They peered into the ruins. It was deathly quiet.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” Itchy announced. “I guess we can go home.”

  He turned to leave but was stopped by Boney.

  “Come on, Itchy. We told Rufus we’d be here.”

  “But he’s not here,” Itchy protested.

  “He’s probably hiding somewhere,” Squeak said.

  Boney rolled his bike toward the bushes. “We’d better stash our bikes, just in case.”

  Itchy shot him a look. “In case what?”

  “Well…we don’t want the prisoner and his convicts sabotaging our bikes or anything.”

  Itchy pointed to his bike. “This is my mom’s bike. If anything happens to it, I’m dead.”

  Boney waved him off. “Quit worrying. Your mom can just knit you a new one,” he joked.

  “Ha, ha, very funny
.”

  “Nothing will happen,” Boney said. “It’s just a precautionary measure.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Itchy groused under his breath as the boys wheeled their bikes into the bushes. He tucked his bike behind a yew bush, then quickly pulled it back out again. He did this several times until Boney stopped him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to make sure I can get to my bike quickly if I have to.”

  Boney rolled his eyes. “Come on. Rufus will wonder where we are.”

  The boys stepped quietly over the rubble into the mill. They stood on the periphery, staring into the dark space. The moon stared back. Squeak adjusted the Polaroid on the strap around his neck, finger poised for ghostly action.

  “Rufus,” Boney quietly called. “Are you here?”

  The moon disappeared behind some clouds. The boys shifted in their sneakers.

  “Rufus,” Boney called out again.

  “Rufus…” the mill echoed eerily.

  The Odds exchanged nervous looks.

  “Rufus,” Boney called out again.

  Again the name called back to him. And then a rustling sound rose from the wall behind them.

  “Rufus…is that you?” Boney asked.

  “Rufus, is that you?” the voice said.

  The boys stood, listening. All at once there was a horrible shriek and Larry Harry and his twin sidekicks ran hollering into the Old Mill.

  The Odds screamed at the top of their lungs, staggering backward into the ruins.

  Larry pointed mockingly. “Hah! Look at the sissies. They were really scared! What’s the matter, babies? Thought you saw a ghost?”

  “We weren’t scared,” Boney retorted.

  “Yes we were,” Itchy said.

  “Well, you should be scared,” Larry sneered, “‘cause Jones and Jones are gonna make hamburger outta you.”

  Jones and Jones grinned menacingly, punching their fists into their palms. Boney drew the Blaster from his waistband.

  “Stay back or I’ll shoot.”

  Larry drew the Apparator from behind his back, brandishing it wildly.

  Squeak gasped. “Don’t shoot, Boney!”

  Boney dropped the Blaster to the ground.

  “I would’ve smashed it earlier,” Larry taunted, “but I wanted you to see me do it.”

  “Where’s Rufus?” Itchy hissed.

  Larry flipped the switch on the Apparator. The rod began to hum, the green light pulsing softly. “What a brilliant invention,” Larry scoffed. “A stupid green tube.”

  “It’s not stupid,” Squeak said.

  “Yes it is,” Larry snarled.

  “No it isn’t!” Squeak insisted.

  Larry raised the Apparator in the air. “Yes, it is. It doesn’t do anything.”

  Just as he said this, the Apparator began to crackle, and the light pulsed from green to yellow to orange.

  “Oh look, boys, now it’s orange. Isn’t that special,” Larry mocked.

  “There are still a few bugs to iron out,” Squeak said, defending his invention.

  Larry laughed derisively. “The only bugs that need ironing out are you three.”

  He drew back his hand, threatening to smash the Apparator to the ground. But he was stopped mid-swing by a low moan rising from the rubble across the mill.

  “What was that?”

  The Odds looked at each other.

  “Rufus,” Boney whispered.

  Another moan sounded from the rubble, this time deeper and louder.

  “Who’s doing that?” Larry demanded.

  “Uh…guys…” Squeak said, tapping on his friends’ arms. “Look at the Apparator.”

  The Apparator began to whine, and the tube changed colour from orange to a fiery red as sparks sizzled along the copper wire.

  Larry held the Apparator out in horror. “What’s wrong with this stupid thing?”

  All of a sudden, the firepit roared to life. The Odds jumped, staring at the flames in disbelief.

  “How’d they d-d-do that?” Jones and Jones stuttered.

  “Ha, ha! Very funny, nerds,” Larry said. “It’s just a stupid science trick. Anyone can do it.”

  Itchy stared at Boney. “Did you do that?”

  Boney shook his head, then looked at Squeak, who shrugged his shoulders in confusion.

  “Must be Rufus,” Boney said.

  Just as he said this, the moans filled the air and the ghost appeared, rising slowly from behind the stones, its diaphanous form shimmering hauntingly in the blood-red moonlight. The Apparator began to shriek like a kettle on the boil, the bulb burning hot as coals.

  “A g-ghost!” Jones and Jones shouted.

  “Get your camera ready,” Boney told Squeak.

  “It’s not a ghost,” Larry said, staring anxiously at the Apparator. “It’s just a stupid guy in a sheet.” He turned and pointed at the Odds. “You’re gonna regret this, nerds! Come on, let’s get ’em, guys!”

  Jones and Jones stood frozen, pointing at the ghost in terror.

  “It’s just a stupid guy in a sheet!” Larry insisted.

  But Jones and Jones wouldn’t budge.

  Larry stomped his foot in rage. “I’ll prove it to you!” He charged the ghost, grabbing one corner of the sheet and yanking with all his might. “See? I told you it was just a fake!” he shouted.

  All at once, there was an ear-splitting boom and a brilliant white light exploded from beneath the sheet like a nuclear bomb. It blasted the boys across the ruins, drowning their screams in a roaring wind. Squeak hurtled to the ground with a horrible thud, his camera snapping wildly. Above the mill the clouds gathered like a whirling flock of ravens, twisting in the sky. Lightning flashed like a giant strobe. And then the demon appeared, as huge as a zeppelin, its face a terrifying skull, its eye sockets raging with fire. It streaked past the moon, skeletal hands outstretched as it torpedoed toward Larry Harry, who screamed hysterically on the ground. The demon swooped over him, flying instead toward Jones and Jones. The twins tried to run but were snatched up by the spectre’s claws, carried through the air, and dropped like stones in the river.

  The demon turned its fiery eyes upon Larry, who stumbled toward the bushes. The ghoul dove again, screeching through the air as it caught Larry by the back of his shirt and tore up into the clouds. It arced over the trees, hanging against the clouds for just a moment, with Larry kicking and screaming, before it launched the bully into the mill pond. Larry howled as he fell, and he hit the water like a bag of wet cement. Thrashing wildly, he flailed to the edge of the pond and scrabbled up the bank, slipping and sliding in the mud. He ran into the woods, with Jones and Jones running frantically behind him. The demon shrieked in hot pursuit, shooting bolts of lightning at their feet as they ran. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the ghost corkscrewed into the sky like a missile and vaporized in an explosion of light. It took the fire in the pit with it, leaving only a puff of smoke in its place.

  “Wow!” Squeak said, his goggles askew on his face. Polaroid pictures littered the ground.

  “Rufus,” Boney whispered.

  “Is it gone?” Itchy moaned, his eyes scrunched shut.

  The boys rose cautiously, peering around the mill in shock. Boney searched through the dust to one side of the fire. He bent down and pulled something from the dirt.

  “The glasses!” He held them up, moonlight glinting off the lenses. “I wonder who Rufus really was…”

  “Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” Itchy asked.

  Boney shook his head. “I don’t know. But I do know one thing for sure: we’ll never have to worry about Larry Harry again.”

  “Hey!” Squeak shouted, pointing across the yard. “The Apparator!” He ran to retrieve the device and dusted the dirt from the handle. The tube was dark once again, with wisps of smoke steaming from the coils. Squeak considered his invention thoughtfully. “I guess it worked after all.”

  “Yeah,” Boney said. “You can congratul
ate yourself on that.” He kicked at what was left of the Triplex Blaster on the ground. It was shattered in a hundred pieces.

  “That’s why I insisted on using Bakelite for the Apparator handle,” Squeak said, knowingly.

  Itchy collected the Polaroid snapshots. “Oh, boys…we have some amazing stuff here.”

  The Odds gathered around the photos.

  “You can see the ghost perfectly!” Boney said. “And Larry looks scared out of his mind!”

  “These will be great for our convention display!” Squeak said.

  Itchy stared at the photos, beaming. “We have the best invention ever.”

  “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with ghosts,” Squeak said.

  “I don’t,” Itchy replied. “But I really want to win that prize money!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  -TWO THE REAL GHOST OF THE HAUNTED MILL

  The next morning at school, Colonel R. blew on his whistle. “Take your positions!” he yelled.

  Itchy stood in goal, lacrosse stick held in front of his face. Boney grabbed his stick and jogged to centre field. The boys waited for the game to start, but Larry Harry refused to leave the bench.

  “What seems to be the problem, here?” Colonel R. shouted. He marched over to where Larry was sitting and blasted his whistle in his ear. “Come on, Harry, get on the field!”

  “I’m not playing against him,” Larry said, ducking his head as he gestured toward Boney.

  “And why not?” Colonel R. demanded.

  Larry lowered his voice to a whisper. “He scares me.”

  “What?” Colonel R. cupped his hand around his ear.

  “He scares me,” Larry whimpered again.

  Colonel R. looked over to where Boney stood. “Are you kidding me, Harry? Get off this bench and play!”

  Larry shook his head. “No. You can’t make me.”

  Colonel R. glared at Jones and Jones, who sat quivering next to Larry. They shook their heads in refusal.

  “We’re not playing either.”

  “Has everyone gone soft around here?”

  Colonel R. clenched his whistle in his teeth. He snatched Larry’s stick from his hand and tossed it to Wormer. “You’re up, Filbert!” he shouted.