by Jeff Strand
"What do you want?" she demanded, covering her lips.
"Nothing. I'm here to see Mrs. Logan."
"Then go see her. And stay off my lawn."
"We aren't even close to your lawn," I insisted.
"And stay that way!" With a mighty harumph, Mrs. Webster got up and went inside her house.
We rode into Mrs. Logan's driveway and put up our kickstands, then went onto her porch and rang the doorbell. It rang in twelve chimes which I think may have been the theme song to some old sitcom, though I'm probably wrong. A moment later, the door swung open.
"Hello, boys!" said Mrs. Logan. "The cookies are almost ready, so come right in!"
We walked inside and were immediately impressed. Every square inch of her walls was covered with old black-and-white pictures, and everywhere we looked there were knickknacks of every type. She led us through the foyer into her living room, where there were shelves and shelves filled with all kinds of neat stuff, all of it old.
Including an axe hanging on the wall.
I decided to ignore that for the time being. It couldn't hurt me while it was up there on the wall. I'd just have to keep an eye on it.
"Now, you boys make yourselves right at home," she said. "I'll go get the cookies. Is chocolate chip all right? If it isn't I already made up a batch of peanut butter cookie dough."
"Chocolate chip is great," I assured her. "Thanks."
After Mrs. Logan walked into the kitchen, Scoopy and I went to the mantle above the fireplace. There were more framed pictures, some of which were in color. In the very center were three large photographs, each of a different man.
"Check for bloodstains," Scoopy whispered. I gave him a swat to get him to shut up.
"Cookie time!" announced Mrs. Logan, returning to the living room with a tray piled high with cookies. Huge cookies. I'm pretty sure she used half a bowl of batter for each one. Now, I'm a big believer in large cookies, but these things were just outrageous.
"Are these your brothers?" I asked, pointing to the pictures.
Mrs. Logan shook her head sadly. "No, those are my husbands. I was married three times before I married Donald, and each of the poor sweeties passed away less than a year later. None of their bodies were ever found, poor darlings."
"How did they die?"
"They ate cookies until they exploded," said Mrs. Logan with a grin. "Now come on and take some while they're still warm."
Scoopy and I each took a cookie then sat down on one of the sofas. "How long have you been married this time?" I asked.
"Just under a year. Donald is such a dear, but he's gone away on business a lot. I guess that's why I always get so excited to have company over."
Suddenly there was a loud crash that nearly caused Scoopy and I to drop our cookies. Mrs. Logan shook her head and walked over to the axe, which had fallen off the wall. "This silly thing does that all the time. One of these days I'm going to have to find a better place for it."
She picked up the axe. She looked very comfortable holding it. I felt very uncomfortable watching how comfortable she looked. But I wasn't going to get worked up over nothing. As long as Scoopy and I didn't marry her we'd be safe.
I took a bite of the cookie, and realized that in addition to being the biggest cookie I'd ever had, it was the worst. It was absolutely disgusting. I don't know what kind of chocolate chips she used, but they were so bitter that it was all I could do not to spit 'em across the room at one of her antiques.
"How is it?" asked Mrs. Logan. "It's my mother's recipe. She didn't use sugar or real chocolate, but after trying these I'm sure you'll never miss those ingredients."
"It's very good," I said, trying to force my throat not to make a really loud gagging sound similar to "Gaaarrrghhh." Scoopy took a bite of one of his cookies and chewed happily. For about half a second. Then he looked like he was going to cry.
"Where's your bathroom?" I asked.
"Right down that hall, across from the bedroom." Mrs. Logan pointed me in the right direction. I thanked her, then took as big of a cookie bite as I could fit in my mouth. It was going to get flushed. I'd figure out a way to dispose of the rest later.
I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and immediately spat it out into the toilet. Then I ran some water and used it to rinse out my mouth. If I ran out of ideas, I could devote my entire paper to adjectives describing how awful those cookies tasted.
I waited around long enough so that it wouldn't seem like I'd only gone into the bathroom to spit out a wad of cookie, flushed the evidence far, far away, then walked back into the hallway. I glanced into the bedroom for a second, since I'd never actually seen a teacher's bedroom before. It was nice to know that they didn't sleep in coffins.
Then I froze. Cold sweat poured down my back. Because poking out from underneath the bed was a shadow-covered object that I was pretty sure was a human leg.
Chapter Fifteen Quiz
1. Ooooooh, is this scary or what?
2. Booga-booga!
3. Did that scare you? Huh? Was it scary? Was it? Was it?
Chapter Sixteen
I STOOD THERE, STARING at the leg, trying to make sure if it really was a leg or if I was just imagining it. After all, if I ran back into the living room shouting "There's a leg under your bed! There's a leg under your bed!" without due cause, the rest of the interview would be extremely awkward.
I continued to stare at it.
Maybe it was just a pair of pants.
Or, maybe it was just a pair of pants...with a leg in it!
"Are you okay, sweetie?" asked Mrs. Logan, peeking into the hallway. My heart felt like it said "Okay, that's it, I'm outta here," and leapt out of my body.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I said.
"What are you staring at? Do you see an antique in there you like?"
She walked to me, reached inside the bedroom door, and flipped on the light. I came very, very, very, very close to screaming, but managed not to.
Underneath the bed, a blue-jean-wearing leg was sticking out. Mrs. Logan stepped over to it, bent down, and pulled out the scarecrow. "This is Bennie," she said, sitting him upright. "My cousin in Indiana sent him to me after my second husband's funeral. Isn't he delightful?"
"He's great," I said, so filled with relief that I almost passed out.
"Well, we should get started on the interview. Back to the living room with you."
When we returned to the living room, Scoopy rubbed his stomach. "Mmmmmm, that cookie was good. It was so good that I ate it right up while you were gone. Too bad I'm so full or I'd ask for another one."
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Logan. "I have plenty."
"No!" said Scoopy, too quickly. "I mean, I really am full."
"Well, then, let's begin." She sat down on a recliner. "Which one of you wants to go first?"
"I will," I said, picking up my notebook. "Where were you born?"
"I was born in a town in Ohio called Sharpview. If you've ever heard of that comedy group Out of Whack, well, that's where they came from. No, on second thought, you wouldn't have heard of them—they do evil, wicked comedy that kids shouldn't listen to."
I hadn't heard of them, but I'd have to check them out. I love evil wicked comedy that kids shouldn't listen to.
"And what year were you born?"
Mrs. Logan smiled. "Tell Mr. Rodriguez that I told you it was none of his business."
I wrote that down. "What was your first—?"
I was interrupted as the axe dropped off the wall again. "Mercy, it just won't stay put tonight, will it?" Mrs. Logan remarked, getting to her feet again. "I may have to put it somewhere else."
Please not my head, I thought to myself.
Oh, stop being paranoid, I told myself a second later.
And stop talking to yourself, I finally told myself.
She picked up the axe, looked around for a good spot, and finally leaned it against a small table. Which is when I noticed something that made my stomach go thunk-thunk-t
hunk against my belly button.
There was a small bloodstain on the blade.
At least, I thought it was a bloodstain. I wasn't close enough to be sure, and my life has been refreshingly free of the sight of bloodstains on axes, but that spot looked like blood.
No, it couldn't be. Or if it was, there was a logical explanation. Psycho Pre-Algebra teachers who murdered all of their previous husbands didn't leave the axes out in plain sight for interviewing students to see.
Unless that's what we were supposed to think.
Mrs. Logan returned to her chair. "I apologize for the distraction. What's your next question?"
"Do you ever hear voices in your head telling you to do terrible things to people?" I asked.
Oh no! I hadn't really asked that, had I? I was so nervous that I couldn't control what I was saying!
"Excuse me?" asked Mrs. Logan. Scoopy looked like he was trying to push himself right through the back of the couch.
I had. I had asked that question. I needed to get out of this place before I did anything else stupid and signed myself up for an appointment with the axe.
"I was only kidding," I said. "Actually, I think we're about done. The interview didn't have to be very long. After all, we're only in seventh grade."
"That's it? That's all you wanted to ask me?" Mrs. Logan frowned. "Now, I know Mr. Rodriguez didn't assign you to do a two-question interview. You're just kidding around again, aren't you?"
"Uh...yeah," I finally said.
"You think I murdered my husbands with that axe, don't you?"
My eyes widened. "No!" I insisted. "Not at all!"
"Now, boys," said Mrs. Logan, shaking her head, "are you really such silly geese that you would believe a story like that? I listen to what kids say, I know that there are rumors that I've chopped up a few spouses, but they're all just that...rumors. Foolish ones. Ridiculous ones. Nobody believes them except a tiny group of kids, and I'm simply amazed that the two of you are part of that group."
"I...I didn't really believe it," I said. "It's just that the axe made me nervous. And the bloodstain—"
"Bloodstain? What bloodstain?"
"The one on the blade. I saw it."
Mrs. Logan sighed, got up, and went to the axe. She picked it up and ran her finger along the edge. "You mean this dirt?"
"Ummm, yeah. I guess the dirt is what I meant."
"Elrod McBugle, please don't tell me you asked me to do this interview because you thought I was a killer. Tell me you at least did it out of a genuine love for Pre-Algebra."
She still hadn't put down the axe. "I did it because you're my favorite teacher," I said.
"Truthfully?"
"Yes."
She leaned the axe back against the table. "Boys, boys, boys. You need to work on your ability to tell a plausible rumor from a ridiculous one. Let's just forget all of this axe-murdering nonsense and finish the interview, all right?"
"All right."
I noticed that Scoopy's face was completely white. If it didn't turn back to normal in a couple days we'd go out and buy him some makeup.
Mrs. Logan didn't sit down again. Instead, she started to pace around the room. "What's your next question?"
"What was your first job?"
"Oh, that was while I was in high school. I worked at a carnival, making cotton candy, caramel apples, things like that. Do you like caramel apples?"
I nodded. Actually, while I like the taste of caramel apples, I can't stand the way they always stick to my face and get in my eyes. But I may be eating them wrong.
As I wrote down her answer, the axe fell over yet again. As it crashed against the floor, the closet door next to the kitchen swung open.
A dead body tumbled out.
Scoopy and I stared at it in horror.
"Whoopsie," said Mrs. Logan, picking up the axe. "You weren't supposed to see that. I didn't have any plans to kill you two, but you know how sometimes these things just come up."
Chapter Sixteen Quiz
1. Oh no! How am I going to get out of this one?
2. Why are you wasting time taking this quiz? There's a teacher with an axe after me! Get moving to the next chapter!
3. I mean it, stop lollygagging on this page! She's coming after me! She's coming closer! Closer! AAAAIIIIEEEEEEE!!!
Chapter Seventeen
SCOOPY AND I LET out a scream as she raised the axe above her head. "Knock off that screaming," she said, "or I'll kill you even worse."
I wasn't sure exactly how that would work, but it sounded pretty bad so I stopped screaming. Scoopy stopped too.
"Yes, I killed my husbands," she said, taking a step forward. "My first husband, Charles, wouldn't stop snoring no matter what I did, until I found that you can't snore very well...without a head!"
Scoopy and I rushed into the kitchen. It seemed like a good idea until we entered the kitchen and saw that there wasn't a door. There was a window, but we'd never be able to squeeze through it even if we broke it.
We pressed ourselves against the far wall as Mrs. Logan walked into the kitchen, the axe still high above her head. "My second husband, Ralph, didn't snore, but he had the worst morning breath you can imagine. We tried every kind of mouthwash there is, until I finally realized that you can't have bad breath... without a head!"
"Please don't kill us!" I said. "We won't tell anyone!"
"That's very sweet of you," said Mrs. Logan, "but I don't believe it for a second. Now where was I? Oh, yes. My third husband, Simon, didn't snore or have bad breath, but he chewed with his mouth open! I told him over and over, ‘Simon, don't chew with your mouth open. It's very rude.' But he wouldn't stop until I showed him that you can't chew with your mouth open...without a head!"
I picked up a jar from the counter and threw it at her. She swung the axe and shattered it in what was really a pretty impressive display of batting ability. Scoopy picked up a blender and threw it, but since it was still plugged in and he didn't throw it very hard it just sort of dropped off the counter and dangled.
"My fourth husband, Donald, was my favorite husband of all," said Mrs. Logan. "He didn't snore or have bad breath or chew with his mouth full of food. What he did do was burp. I hate people who burp. And I showed Donald that it's not very easy to burp...after you've eaten poisoned cookies!"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Scoopy and I screamed.
"But not the same cookies I gave you," Mrs. Logan said.
Scoopy and I sighed with relief.
Mrs. Logan took another step closer to us. "I'm not happy about having to kill you boys, I hope you know that. If it were up to me, I'd strap you into some machine that wipes away your memory and let you go. But those machines are expensive, and I've heard that in one instance it left a man thinking he was a radish, so it's going to have to be the axe."
At that moment, we heard the front door open. Mrs. Logan turned to see who it was, and Mrs. Webster burst into the kitchen, holding a shotgun.
"Let them go, Logan," she snarled. "If you want to fight, fight somebody with a shotgun."
"Mrs. Webster! I love you!" I shouted.
"Save it, McBugle." Mrs. Webster glared at Mrs. Logan. "Put the axe down. I've already called the police. It's over."
"It can't be over. Nobody's dead yet."
"Your fourth husband is," I pointed out.
"He doesn't count." Mrs. Logan took another step toward us. "Come on, Mrs. Webster. You don't like these boys. Let's do it together."
"Elrod and I have had our differences, I'll admit," said Mrs. Webster. "But he's still a fully-registered student at Greenwater Junior High, and I'll defend him to the death!"
"Fine," said Mrs. Logan, spinning around and rushing at her with the axe.
Mrs. Webster pulled the trigger. There was a huge gunshot, and the head of the axe blew right off the handle. Mrs. Logan stared at her ruined weapon, quite displeased.
"You've ruined my axe!" she wailed. "Now what am I going to use to remember my first three husban
ds by?"
"Put down the handle," said Mrs. Webster. "Slowly."
Mrs. Logan rushed at her again, the handle raised over her head. Mrs. Webster fired off another shot, blowing the handle in half.
"You've ruined my handle!" wailed Mrs. Logan. "Now I'm going to ruin you!"
"I don't think so," said Mrs. Webster. As Mrs. Logan rushed at her again, holding the half-handle above her head, Mrs. Webster smacked her in the face with the shotgun barrel. Mrs. Logan dropped to the floor and didn't move.
"You saved us!" Scoopy declared. "You're our hero!"
"You're the best home room teacher ever!" I exclaimed.
Mrs. Webster gave us both a disapproving look. "You're lucky I heard you two screaming. But didn't your parents ever teach you not to visit the homes of raging lunatics?"
"I guess not," I admitted.
Suddenly Mrs. Logan leapt to her feet. "It's not over yet! I'll have my...no, wait...I'm feeling pretty dizzy...oh, yeah, down I go again..." She fell back onto the floor, unconscious.
"Let's scram," said Mrs. Webster.
THE POLICE ARRIVED shortly afterward, and took Mrs. Logan away. The only math she'd be teaching from now on was in the slammer.
Mrs. Webster was given a medal of honor by the mayor of Greenwater, and a certificate by the principal. She seemed very touched by the honor, but she still wouldn't let me go anywhere near her.
Scoopy and I, having braved the terrors of Mrs. Logan, were celebrities around school for a couple days. Everyone wanted us to share the details of our exciting adventure, which we were glad to do (minus a couple of our louder screams). But then the replacement teacher, Mr. Arlen, was brought in, and he was the strictest, meanest, most test-happy teacher anyone had ever seen. Everyone hated me again.
"I REALIZE YOU HAVE a good excuse for not finishing your interview," said Mr. Rodriguez after class one day. "But I'd like to propose something a little more substantial to make up for it. Have you ever thought about writing a book?"
