Hyde and Shriek

by David Lubar

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  For Stoker, Stevenson, Shelley, and all the others who laid the trail

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  1. An Important Meal

  2. Bite the Dust

  3. Something Isn’t Right

  4. Jackie

  5. Ms. Hyde

  6. Bashing Sebastian

  7. Take a Seat

  8. A Good Influence

  9. Fun in the Mall

  10. On the Other Hand

  11. Hanging Out

  12. Check This Out

  13. Heading for Home

  14. A Good Night’s Sleep

  15. Bad Dreams

  16. Off Schedule

  17. Trouble That’s Hard to Stomach

  18. Down in the Dumps

  19. A Gift for Kindness

  20. Face-to-Face

  21. Telling the Tale

  22. How to Drive Someone Angry

  23. A Dangerous Reaction

  24. Caught Like a Rat

  25. Reactors

  Excerpt from The Vanishing Vampire

  Starscape Books by David Lubar

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  I’ve always been a fan of monsters. As a kid, I watched monster movies, read monster magazines, built monster models, and even tried my hand at monster makeup for Halloween. Basically, I was a creepy little kid. It’s no surprise that, when I grew up and became a writer, I would tell monster stories. I’ve written a lot of them over the years. My short-story collections, such as Attack of the Vampire Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales, are full of vampires, werewolves, ghosts, witches, giant insects, and other classic creatures. The book you hold in your hands is also about a monster. But it is different from my short stories in a wonderful way. Let me explain.

  Years ago, I decided I wanted to tell a tale through the eyes of a monster. That idea excited me, but it didn’t feel special enough by itself. Then, I had a second idea that went perfectly with the first one. What if a kid became a monster? Even better—what if the kid had to decide whether to remain a monster, or to become human again? The result of these ideas was not one book, but six. It seems the town of Lewington attracts a monsteriffic amount of trouble. To find out more, read on.

  One

  AN IMPORTANT MEAL

  I love kids. They make great hood ornaments. No. Stop that. Be good. Be nice. Okay. I’m back in control. That was a terrible thing to say. It was mean and sick and nasty. Not like me at all. I don’t know where it came from.

  Yes, I do.

  But it won’t happen again. I’m a teacher. And a scientist. I can control myself. I’m a trained, professional teacher. Miss Clevis. That’s what the students call me. That’s what it says on the door to my room. My whole name is Jackie Jean Clevis. I teach science at Washington Irving Elementary School in Lewington.

  But something funny happened to me this morning. I was making breakfast. And I was getting a batch of chemicals ready to take to class for an experiment. Be very careful with chemicals. That’s the first thing I tell the students. I was also listening to the news on the radio, and I was thinking about the science fair, and I was looking out the window at some lovely nimbus clouds. The science fair is scheduled for next weekend, and I’m in charge. Which makes sense, since I’m the science teacher. It’s a lot of work, and it’s very important.

  So, between breakfast and the experiment, and the radio and the science fair and the clouds, it wouldn’t have been impossible for me to accidentally put the wrong ingredients in the blender when I made my banana-honey-yogurt morning breakfast drink.

  I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I don’t usually pass out right after breakfast. I don’t usually pass out at all. But one moment I was drinking my drink and tuning the station on the radio, and staring out the window. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, surrounded by broken pieces of my drinking glass. I didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

  I sat on the floor for a minute, trying to see whether I’d bruised or broken anything besides the glass. But everything seemed fine. Then I noticed the clock. Oh, dear. I was late for school. I’d been lying there for at least ten minutes. I grabbed the chemicals, put them in a box, got my briefcase, and rushed out the door.

  As I tossed everything in my car, I thought about what had just happened. There were so many possible explanations, it was pointless to try to guess the right one. As long as it didn’t happen again, I wasn’t going to worry. I had other things on my mind. I felt fine now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of my car. Safety first, I always say. In the lab or on the road, safety has to come first.

  At the corner by the stop sign at Maynard and Brockton, I got stuck behind someone who took a long time making a left turn. I didn’t mind waiting. But some idiot started honking his horn. I looked behind me. There was nobody there. Who was honking? The sound was getting very annoying. I looked down at my right hand. Oh my goodness. It was me who was banging on the horn. I hadn’t even realized I was doing anything.

  I pulled my hand back. This wasn’t like me. I never use my horn. I’m very patient. You have to be patient to teach. Patient and caring and kind. I gripped the wheel very hard for the rest of the trip, just to make sure I didn’t use the horn again.

  I got to school and parked in the teachers’ lot, then went up to my classroom on the second floor. “Hi, Jackie,” Mr. Rubinitski said as I walked down the hall. He teaches sixth grade. There are three sixth-grade teachers. They handle math and English and social studies. The kids switch around for the different subjects. But I do all the science classes.

  “Good morning, Chester.” I smiled at him. We had a great staff at Why. That’s what we called it. We abbreviate Washington Irving Elementary to WIE, but we pronounce it Why. It’s sort of our own little private joke.

  Where do you teach?

  Why.

  No, I asked where you teach.

  I told you: Why.

  We sort of stole the idea from an old comedy routine. We use it each year in a skit when we have our teachers’ lunch. And they say teachers don’t have a sense of humor.

  I went into my room and put down the box of chemicals.

  Thwump! Thawump!

  A sharp, slapping sound caused me to look across the room. There, hovering in a cloud, was a figure with a face as white as death. He let out an awful, gasping wheeze.

  Two

  BITE THE DUST

  “Norman,” I asked, “what are you doing here?”

  Thawump!

  “I wanted to come in early and clean the chalk erasers for you,” he said. Then he coughed and wheezed some more. He was covered with chalk dust.

  “I appreciate that,” I told him. “But maybe you should go out and get some fresh air.”

  He nodded, wheezed again, then walked toward the door. At the edge, he stopped and said, “Miss Clevis, I was wondering about the science fair. You know how you said I couldn’t do any more projects that might explode? Well, could you make a tiny little exception this time? I’m really fascinated by
nuclear energy. So I started working on this project. And I know I should have asked permission sooner, but I sort of got wrapped up in it.”

  I glanced across the classroom to the part of the wall that had to be rebuilt after Norman’s internal combustion engine had overheated last year. Then I looked up at the ceiling at the spot he’d melted the year before last with his homemade laser. Then I glanced down at the floor. He’d blasted a chunk out of it in third grade when his radio-controlled jackhammer went out of radio control. I couldn’t remember what he’d destroyed in second grade, but I was sure it had been some part of the room.

  “Well, can I bring a nuclear reactor to the science fair?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to say absolutely not, but what came out was, “Why sure, Norman. Radioactive devices would be fine. The more, the better.”

  “Thanks!” He was out the door before I could catch him.

  I couldn’t believe I’d just given him permission for that. But there was nothing to be done about it at the moment. I stopped worrying about Norman and started getting ready for my first class. I had one of the kindergarten classes this morning. It’s never too early to teach science. We didn’t do much, but we had fun. This is a very progressive school.

  I was excited about the class because I’d planned a special treat for them. It was an old science teachers’ trick. I had a simple chemical that created a wonderful imitation of a volcano. It threw up a shower of sparks and produced a green ash that looked like flowing lava. I knew the kids would love it.

  The bell for first period rang. After a few minutes, Mrs. Rubric came in with her class. The kids looked so cute as they found seats.

  “Is everyone ready for something special?” I asked the class.

  “Yes, Miss Clevis,” they called out.

  “Well, good.” I clapped my hands together, then held up the jar filled with orange crystals. “We’re going to use this special chemical to make—” I paused and looked around at them, then said the magic words. “—a volcano.”

  This produced a lot of Oooooohhhhs and Yaaaayys. I had a small clay volcano on the table. I put a piece of paper in the opening at the top of the volcano, then poured out the chemical until it covered everything but the tip of the paper. After I closed up the jar, I walked across the room to turn off the room lights. Then I pulled the shades. It was nice and dark—perfect for a volcano.

  All the students got very quiet when I lit the match. They hunched forward, their little faces filled with anticipation. “Watch this,” I said, feeling as much like a magician as I did a scientist.

  I lit the paper fuse. The flame crept toward the orange crystals. In a moment, the fire ignited the chemical and the show began. Bright yellow sparks flew up in a shower and green ashes overflowed the crater at the top of the volcano, running down the sides like streams of lava.

  I smiled and leaned over the volcano, being careful not to get too close to the sparks. Then I glanced toward the children, eager to see the look of awe and excitement in their bright, happy faces.

  There’s nothing so wonderful as a simple science experiment. And this one always pleased the kids.

  When I looked out at them, they started to scream. First one, then two, then almost all of them screamed, their little voices filling the air with a sound like a thousand whistling teakettles. As I stood there, frozen, most of the children leaped from their seats and rushed down the hall, still screaming.

  Three

  SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT

  I stood there, not knowing what to do. The kids were supposed to go Oooooohhhh or Cool or Wow. They weren’t supposed to run screaming in terror. Across the room, Mrs. Rubric flipped on the lights. I looked at her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  She shrugged and smiled nervously. “I’d better go round them up,” she said. She dashed off. In my mind, I could almost see her riding a horse and whirling a lasso over her head as she herded the kindergartners back to the corral. Round them up. What a phrase.

  The few kids who were still in their seats stared at me with fear-filled eyes. As I took a step toward them, a girl leaped up and screamed, “Wait for me!” She went tearing down the hall after her teacher.

  One boy looked calmer than the rest. He also looked familiar. “You’re Sebastian’s brother, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Sebastian was in my sixth-grade class. He was a bit of a clown and a show-off, but he had a good heart. “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Rory,” he said.

  “Well, Rory, do you have any idea why all those boys and girls left the room?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s great. Do you think you could tell me?”

  He nodded again.

  “Do you think you could tell me now?”

  Another nod. “Promise not to get mad?” he asked.

  “I promise.”

  He looked around the room. I waited as patiently as I could, wondering if he was going to run off, too. Finally, he spoke. “You looked real scary.”

  “What?”

  “Leaning over the volcano. Dad does that on Halloween. He puts a flashlight under his chin. The light makes him look spooky. I don’t get too scared, since I know it’s Dad. But I get a little bit scared.”

  I realized that, with the orange glow of the volcano shining up at my face in the dark room, I might have looked the same way. “So I was spooky, Rory? Is that it?”

  “Sorta…,” he said. “But … don’t get mad … okay? You looked bad spooky. Not fun spooky.” He paused and stared up at me, then asked, “You mad?”

  I shook my head and smiled. Young children have such a wonderful way with words. Bad spooky. My smile grew wider. Then I laughed. Rory closed his eyes when I did that. In my ears, I heard the echo of my laugh. It wasn’t a chuckle or a giggle. It was a spooky laugh. Bad spooky.

  “Maybe you’d better go join your class,” I said.

  Rory nodded and got up. The other kids who were still in the room dashed off after him.

  This was terrible. How could I teach children if I scared them? Teaching was my life. But it was ridiculous to worry about something that had never happened before and would probably never happen again. I was sure it was just an odd accident of the lighting in the room. At worst, I’d have to make sure I didn’t stand over the volcano the next time. I certainly didn’t want to scare more children. But when I thought about them running and screaming in fear, something made me grin.

  I put those thoughts aside, realizing that I was still a little dizzy from my breakfast drink. It would pass.

  The rest of the morning went normally. I didn’t terrify anyone else. Of course, I had mostly sixth-graders, and just about nothing terrifies them.

  Then, right before lunch, my normal world was torn apart. And so was I.

  Four

  JACKIE

  As I was getting ready for lunch, Mr. Rubinitski stuck his head in my room and said, “Hi. Got a second?”

  “Sure,” I said, waving him in.

  He came over to my desk and put something down. “I was out of town this weekend, and I saw this in a museum shop. I figured you’d like it.”

  “Thanks. I love fossils.” I picked it up and examined it. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “Well, I’d better get going.” He smiled and walked off.

  I held the fossil for a moment, then put it down and dropped back into my chair as another wave of dizziness washed over me. It was much worse than before. But then, just as suddenly, I felt fine.

  Goodness.

  “It’s gone,” I said to myself. The dizziness was completely gone. I stood up cautiously, but everything was fine. Better than fine. I felt great—just in time for lunch. As I walked through the empty classroom, I noticed something else. The room was different. It had grown bigger. No, not bigger. Taller. Everything was taller. Not by much. But enough for me to notice.

  Something weird was going on
.

  But I didn’t care. I felt fabulous. I walked out to the hall. Wait. I wasn’t walking. Goodness. I was skipping. I hadn’t done that in years. When I realized what I was doing, I giggled. My word—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d giggled, either. What next? I wondered.

  “Hi.”

  I turned toward the voice. It was Dawn, a sixth-grader. One of my favorite students. She was always so nice and cheerful. What a lovely girl.

  “Hi,” I said back. I was about to ask her if she was ready for the science fair when she spoke again.

  “You must be new,” she said, staring at me. “My name’s Dawn.”

  I didn’t answer. It wasn’t just her words that froze me. It was her eyes. They were level with mine. I glanced down at my feet. I still had my shoes, though they looked a bit large. I checked Dawn’s feet. Sneakers. Dawn was tall for a sixth-grader, but I’d always been taller. Until now. Somehow, I’d lost two or three inches. I checked the hem of my skirt. It was definitely lower than before. Goodness gracious.

  “What’s your name?” Dawn asked.

  “Jackie,” I said.

  “You look familiar,” Dawn told me. “Come on—I’ll show you where the cafeteria is.”

  “Thanks.” I followed Dawn downstairs. We went to the end of the hall and around the corner. As we walked past the auditorium, I caught sight of my reflection in the glass front of a display case. Oh my goodness. I couldn’t help gasping. This was wonderful. I looked like I was eleven again. I felt great, too.

  “Come on,” Dawn urged. “It’s burger day. If we’re late, we’ll get the burgers from the bottom of the pan. You know—the ones that have meat goo around the edges.”

  “Can’t risk meat goo,” I said, hurrying after Dawn. Sure, I had things to figure out, like why I’d turned into a kid. But right now, I just wanted to enjoy lunch. People spent too much time worrying. And too little time enjoying the pleasures of life. Too much meat goo, not enough meat.