The Mystery of the Graffiti Ghoul

by Marty Chan

  Dough Boy yelled, “It doesn’t matter if we’re the Ghouls or the Goons or the Goofs. If the cops figure out it was us, we’re gonna be the Jailbirds.”

  “We’ll be okay, Dough Boy,” Patrick said. “We’ll say we were taking a short cut behind the store and the graffiti was already there.”

  Dough Boy argued, “They’ll grill us until Warren falls apart.”

  “None of this would have happened if Beth didn’t dare Patrick to paint the graffiti on the shed,” Warren said.

  Beth snapped, “Don’t be such a wuss.”

  Warren said, “We should ditch the paint before the cops bust us.”

  “They won’t find the paint,” Beth argued.

  As the Ghouls argued about the paint, I smiled. Things were working out better than I had planned. All I had to do was follow them to their paint stash, and I’d break the case wide open. If I could catch the Ghouls with the spray paint, then I’d have the proof to clear Remi’s name and we could be friends again.

  “Marty,” Trina whispered.

  “Shhh,” I said.

  “Marty,” she repeated.

  “What?” I turned to Trina.

  A daddy-long-legs was crawling across her nose.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said.

  “Get it off me,” she hissed.

  “Don’t freak out.” I reached over to brush the spider off Trina’s freckled nose. But as my hand moved closer, the spider sensed me and skittered to her cheek. Trina started to scream. I clamped my hand over her mouth.

  “Mmmmmmmmm!” Trina was terrified.

  “Quiet! I heard something,” Warren said.

  Silence. I flicked the daddy-long-legs off Trina’s face.

  “You’re getting paranoid, Warren,” Beth said.

  “Was it the Gangsta zombies?” Dough Boy asked, teasing.

  “Shut up, Dough Boy,” Warren snapped.

  “Oooooohhmmmm, I’m going to eat your ears, Warren.”

  Everyone but Warren laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” he said.

  “Okay, no more games.” Patrick cut off the laughter. “Let’s ditch the spray paint.”

  As long as they didn’t notice us, we could follow them to the stash and catch them red-handed, disposing of the spray paint.

  “Achooo!” Trina sneezed into my hand. I yanked it away and wiped the snot on my pants.

  “Who’s there?” Beth yelled.

  “Like they’re gonna answer,” Dough Boy said, a sneer in his voice.

  “Check it out,” Patrick ordered.

  “What if it’s zombies?” Warren asked.

  “There’s no such thing,” Beth said. “Don’t be such a chicken. Go see who’s there.”

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch! CRUNCH! They were coming right at us.

  I yelled at Trina, “Run!”

  “Over there!” Warren yelled.

  “Where? I don’t see anyone,” Beth said.

  “I see someone,” Patrick yelled. “Over there!”

  Trina and I bolted, leaving the tape recorder behind. Tombstones whipped past us. I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t care, as long as it was away from the Ghouls. We scrambled over tombstones. I jumped over a low grave marker. Trina ran around it and passed me.

  “Keep running, slowpoke,” she panted. I picked up the pace and caught up.

  Behind us, confused shouts filled the cemetery.

  “Did you see them?” Beth yelled.

  “Over here I think,” Warren squawked.

  “No! This way,” Patrick screamed.

  Dough Boy called out: “No! They’re over here!”

  Just ahead, sunlight broke through the trees and Trina and I bolted toward the light. We pushed through the prickly bushes, hopped over the fence and burst into a stubbly field between the cemetery and Forest Heights Estates. Daylight never felt so good.

  “They’re coming,” Trina hissed. “We have to hide.”

  The flat field offered no hiding spot and the schoolyard was way too open. The only place I could think of was Remi’s house.

  “Come on.” I grabbed Trina’s hand and led her across the gravel road.

  Which one was Remi’s? I remembered his trailer had a windmill mail box, but there were four trailers in a row that had the same mail box. I picked a white trailer, ran up the steps and banged on the door. I hoped this trailer was the right one.

  “Remi! Open up,” I called.

  “Quiet,” Trina warned.

  The Ghouls’ voices drifted closer but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I rapped on the door again, but no one answered. The voices came closer. We were doomed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dough Boy sniffed like a hunting dog around the alley. First he checked out the trailer across the gravel lane, peeking over the fence and looking under the trailer’s wooden porch. He’d spot us soon enough.

  I whispered, “We’ve got to get off this porch.”

  “Follow me,” Trina said. “I’m good at hiding, remember?”

  Down the steps Trina crept, with me close behind. The creak of the wood sounded like fingernails across a chalkboard. Trina held up her hand, stopping me. Dough Boy didn’t turn around. I started to breathe again. Trina motioned me off the creaky steps and toward a fence that divided this trailer from the one behind it.

  She crawled over the fence like a Ninja. I headed to the wooden fence and started to climb, but I got stuck on the top. Trina grabbed my arm and yanked me over. I yelped, but she clamped her hand over my mouth and signalled me to crouch low. She pointed at the road that ran past the new trailer. Patrick jogged along the lane, searching for us. I didn’t breathe until he ran past us. Trina and I were trapped between trailers.

  “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” Why was Trina growling?

  “Shhh,” I hissed.

  “It’s not me,” Trina said. “It’s him.” She pointed behind her.

  A giant St. Bernard drooled at us. He placed his giant paws on either side of a giant bone and let out a deep “WOOOOOF!”

  I nearly crapped my pants.

  “Run,” I said.

  Trina grabbed my shirt. “He’ll chase anything that runs.”

  “If we stay, he’s going to eat us.”

  “I have a dog. She doesn’t like sudden movements. Back up slowly. Don’t look at the bone. He thinks we’re trying to take it.”

  We inched back from the dark-eyed beast. He stopped growling, but kept looking at us. We reached the fence and caught our breath. Suddenly a pair of pudgy hands grabbed me. Dough Boy! He pulled me over the fence. Beside him, Patrick hauled Trina up.

  “Well, well, well. Look at what we have here,” Dough Boy said.

  “Put us down,” I demanded.

  “Looks like we found our spies,” Patrick said.

  “Hel-lo. We were playing with the dog,” Trina said.

  “You want to go back in there?” Dough Boy said.

  The St. Bernard barked.

  “No. No. That’s okay,” I said. “We’re done playing.”

  “Hey Patrick, do you want to hang them over the fence by their ankles?” Dough Boy asked.

  Patrick laughed. “Not a bad idea.”

  “You’re going to be very sorry if you don’t let us go,” Trina warned.

  “Shut up,” Dough Boy said.

  Patrick said, “You’re the ones who’re gonna be sorry.”

  “The police are expecting me,” I said.

  “They’ll have to wait ‘til you get your story straight.” Then Patrick called to Warren at the end of the alley. “Hey! Get Beth. Now!”

  The gawky goon waved back.

  Dough Boy shook me. “What did you hear in the cemetery?”

  “We heard enough,” I said.

  “We know you painted the graffiti,” Trina said triumphantly.

  Patrick chuckled. “Who’s going to believe a couple of kids?”

  Dough Boy agreed. “It’s your word against ours.”

  “We have
proof,” I said.

  “Where?” Patrick asked.

  “The police have it,” Trina said.

  Beth and Warren arrived. Four against two — the odds didn’t look good. I tried to squirm free, but Dough Boy had a good grip on me.

  Warren glanced around, “Guys, we’d better move somewhere quiet before the neighbours see us and ask questions.”

  “We’ll say we saved the kids from the dog. Isn’t that right, Chinatown?” Dough Boy shook me.

  Patrick snarled, “What’s the evidence the cops have?”

  Trina said, “Ask them.”

  “Chinatown, you’ll tell me, won’t you?” Patrick asked.

  Beads of sweat poured down my forehead. “What Trina said.”

  “The kid looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Patrick asked.

  Dough Boy shook me again. “You sure the cops have this evidence, whatever it is?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “You sure you don’t have this evidence?”

  “No. Yes.” I clamped my hand over my mouth.

  “Warren, search him,” Patrick barked.

  Warren checked my pockets while Dough Boy held me.

  “Stay out of there!” I yelled. “That tickles.”

  Warren pulled out a used tissue, a nickel, and Beth’s earring.

  “This look familiar?” Warren asked Beth.

  Dough Boy glared at Beth. “I knew it had to be your fault.”

  She ignored him. “Without evidence, Chinatown and his girlfriend can talk but no one’ll believe them.”

  Warren looked worried. “They’ll still talk.”

  “If you two yap about this,” Patrick threatened us, “we’ll come looking for you. You understand?”

  I said nothing. Trina looked down.

  Patrick continued, “You’ve got no proof against us.”

  “Think again!” said a familiar voice behind us.

  Could it be? I hoped it was him, but I had to be sure. I looked around. Remi stood in the dog’s yard petting the St. Bernard, which chewed on the giant rawhide bone and wagged its tail.

  “Remi, was that your trailer?” Trina asked, pointing at the white trailer.

  He nodded.

  “Didn’t you hear us knocking?” I asked.

  “I was mad at you.”

  “If you girls are done talking, we’ve got some business to take care of,” Dough Boy said.

  “Put my friend down,” Remi ordered.

  “What’re you going to do?” Dough Boy laughed.

  “He’ll call the police,” I said.

  Patrick looked up at Remi. “You gonna do what they tell you?”

  Remi smiled. “Duh! What do you think?”

  Patrick shook his head. “We’ll drop your friends in an open grave and let them spend the night in the cemetery with the creepy crawlies.”

  Remi’s smile faded.

  Dough Boy ordered, “Come out of the yard. Now!” He shook me around to make his point.

  “I’ll come out,” Remi said.

  “Don’t,” I said, but before I could say more, Dough Boy boxed my ear. “Ow!”

  Beth growled at Remi. “What’s it going to be?”

  He headed to the gate and unlatched it. Beth and Warren walked toward him.

  When they were almost at the gate, Remi kicked it wide open and yelled, “Sic ‘em, Precious!”

  A monster “WOOOOFFF!” erupted from the volcano mouth of the giant dog named Precious. She barrelled out of the yard after Warren and Beth, who ran for their lives. Dough Boy dropped me and ran after them. Patrick froze as Precious ran up to him, planted her giant paws on his chest, and lunged for his face. She licked him, slobbering drool all over his mouth and nose.

  “Stupid mutt.” He pushed her off and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “Guys! Get back here.”

  Down the lane, the other teenagers slowed down and turned around.

  I yelled to Remi, “Patrick’s got the earring! Get him!”

  Patrick stepped back, wrapping his arm around Trina’s neck. “You think you can do anything to me?”

  Trina bit Patrick’s arm. He yelped, let go of Trina and dropped the earring.

  “You little brat!” he yelled.

  Trina ran into the dog yard with Precious while Remi dove to the gravel road and grabbed the earring. Patrick jumped on top of Remi and pinned him down. Beth, Warren and Dough Boy broke into a sprint toward us.

  “Marty! Catch!” Remi tossed me the earring.

  I caught it.

  “Run!” Trina yelled.

  Patrick climbed off Remi and charged after me. I took off toward the cemetery. The uneven ground was tough to run across, but I couldn’t slow down. I tripped on a rut and nearly fell over, but I stumbled forward until I regained enough momentum to stay upright.

  Behind me, Patrick tripped on the same rut and went down. “You can’t run from me forever!” He yelled.

  I climbed over the cemetery fence and looked back. Beth was helping Patrick up. There was no sign of Remi or Trina. Did they get away? I hoped so.

  I ran through the prickly bushes and sprinted into the graveyard, zipping past the stone markers. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing. Patrick was right. I couldn’t run forever, but I couldn’t stop either. As I leapt over a low tombstone, my foot caught the edge. I sprawled on the ground and skidded to a halt in front of a headstone. Behind some weeds, there were four cans of spray paint. Jackpot! I scooped up the cans, which rattled against each other in my arms. I froze, hoping Patrick and Beth didn’t hear me. I listened for footsteps. Nothing. Whew. I loaded the cans into my giant corduroy pants. Now I was glad Mom had bought me such big pants — all four cans fit snugly inside the waistband. I hoped Trina and Remi got away from the teenagers and called the police. I hoped I could get out of the cemetery before the Ghouls caught me.

  The last of the sunlight faded, leaving the cemetery in eerie darkness. I started toward the fence that separated the graveyard from the high school track field. The cans clicked against each other as I moved. When I stopped, the clicking also stopped, but now I could hear the Graffiti Ghouls crashing through the cemetery as they looked for me. It sounded like they were all around. I had to find a hiding spot, but where could I go?

  I walked around the corner and tripped over my tape recorder. I picked it up, wondering if there was enough power to record a cry for help. Then my foot slipped on some loose dirt and I almost fell into the open grave. I started to back away, but then a thought stopped me. Patrick had threatened to throw me in the hole, which meant it would be the last place he’d look for me. But there was a good reason why; only dead people went inside graves. I shuddered at the thought of jumping in.

  “I think he’s over here!” Beth yelled, sounding very close.

  I had no choice. No time to waste, I tucked the tape recorder under my arm and climbed into the open grave. Please be empty, I thought. The last thing I needed to deal with was a real ghoul. I landed on soft dirt in complete darkness. I tapped my foot around the hole, feeling for a zombie that might’ve been down here with me. I was alone. At least I was safe from the undead; too bad my problem was with the living.

  “Patrick, you see the little brat?” Beth asked, her voice sounding like it was directly over me.

  “No,” Patrick said, panting. “That kid’s fast.”

  Beth sounded angry. “He’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “We should get out of here. If the other kids got away from Dough Boy and Warren, the cops’ll be here any minute.”

  “We’re not leaving until we get my earring,” Beth said.

  “At least let’s get rid of the paint,” Patrick said.

  “Good idea.”

  Footsteps ran away from me.

  “They’re gone!” Patrick yelled from further away. “The punk took them.”

  “Slanty Eyes couldn’t have gone far.”

  I shifted toward the far end of the grave and crouched low. The cans cl
icked against each other. I froze.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “He’s in the hole!” Patrick shouted.

  Beth yelled, “Get him!”

  “Oooooommmmmm.” I moaned, pretending to be a zombie. “I smell feet go-oo-ood enough to-ooo-oo eeeeeeaaattt.”

  “Nice try, Chinatown,” Beth said. “We know it’s you. Pull him out, Patrick.”

  Arms reached into the hole. I ducked low, avoiding them for the moment. The tape recorder dug into my armpit. Stupid thing. If the batteries had been working I wouldn’t be in the hole right now; I’d be at the police station playing the Ghouls’ confession. A hand grabbed my jacket. Another hand caught my hair. I yelped as they began to lift me out of the hole. Last chance. I cranked up the volume on the tape recorder, punched the “Play” button, and dropped the machine.

  Patrick and Beth hauled me out. I tried to scramble away, a couple of cans slipping out of my pants. He grabbed my leg while she tried to pry my hands open.

  “We have to get out of here,” I said. “The Gangstas are going to climb out of the grave and eat us.”

  Patrick punched the back of my thigh. “Shut up and give us the earring.”

  Beth had almost pried open my right hand. “Give it up.”

  “Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “Do you hear that?”

  From the grave, a Chinese man’s voice moaned: “Haaaaaayyyy soooonnnnnn saaaiiiiiiiii jiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”

  “Was anyone else in the hole with him?” Beth asked Patrick.

  He shook his head. “This is too creepy.”

  “Moooohhh fuuuuunnnnnnn gggguuuuuumm.” The Chinese opera singer at ultra-slow speed sounded positively undead.

  Patrick and Beth backed away from the open grave.

  “It’s a zombie,” I said. “I’m getting out of here.”

  I struggled to get up, but Patrick pushed me down and vaulted over me. “Every man for himself!”

  “Looooiiiiiiiiiii . . . ” The weak batteries finally gave out and the creepy Chinese opera singer faded out.

  Beth grabbed my arm. “Nice trick. Not. Now give me the earring or I toss you in the hole with whoever’s down there.”

  I held up the earring. “You want it? Go get it.”

  I tossed the earring into the grave.

  She grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard. “You’re going in.”