Laura Monster Crusher

by Wesley King

  “You’re imagining things,” I whispered.

  “Laura!” my mom called. “Come help your father with your dresser!”

  I took a last look outside, trying to stay calm. Nothing. I must have imagined it. But as I hurried out of my bedroom, I had the distinct feeling that something was watching me.

  We ate dinner that night sitting on boxes of furniture in the living room. Stache was covered in so much dust that he looked like a statue in progress. My mom tried to brush off my account of a shadowy figure watching me in the woods, telling me I was clearly imagining things because I was shaken up about the spiders and that it would take a few days to get used to the new house. Thanks, Mom.

  In fairness, I did have a bit of a history with some…creative concerns. I mean, I have a pretty developed imagination, and I am kind of a worrier. Okay, I worry a lot. I asked for a carbon monoxide detector for Christmas when I was four—which was totally valid, by the way—and then I also had a theory that we had a possible sinkhole beneath our house and tried to prove it by digging a hole in our yard to inspect the soil content when I was nine. I also have a lot of nightmares and check on Tom ten times a day.

  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was probably right. It could have been a shadow from a tree or something, and I was just a little freaked out from the message in my closet. It was probably nothing. I decided to forget about it.

  I popped a french fry in my mouth and looked at Tom. “How’s your room?”

  He shrugged. “Seems all right. I think I heard a mouse in the walls.”

  “You did not,” my mom said sharply, though she did glance at my dad.

  He nodded. Tom had amazing hearing. If Tom thought he heard a mouse, there was probably a mouse. One time when Tom was five years old we lost our cat, Muffin. We searched the entire town for three days, and then my mom finally told me that Muffin wasn’t coming back. I cried for another two days after that.

  A week later Tom and I were in the backyard playing house—I always made him be my butler—when he suddenly looked up and said, “I hear Muffin.”

  Our old house backed onto a forest too, and I ran to the back fence and listened for a few minutes, not hearing a thing. I patted his shoulder.

  “Muffin’s gone, Tom,” I told him sadly.

  He shook his head. “She’s crying.”

  I still thought he was imagining things, but Tom was persistent, so I got Stache and the three of us set off into the woods. We walked for at least five minutes before I finally heard a faint, weak-sounding meow filtering through the trees. It was another five minutes before we found Muffin lying on her side next to a tree, covered in dirt and almost completely unable to move. We rushed her to the vet, and Muffin—who was already sixteen—lived for two more years after that.

  And I never forgot how Tom had found her.

  “I think this house has a lot of potential,” my mom said, obviously changing the subject.

  I scanned the living room. Like most of the house, it was in rough shape. The mossy-green paint was peeling, the stucco ceiling was covered in yellow water stains, and the windows were so filthy you could barely see out of them. Dark hardwood ran through the entire main floor—except for the kitchen—but it was dusty and dirty and cracked.

  A huge red-bricked chimney stretched like a pillar right up to the second floor, though I noticed it didn’t actually have a fireplace. It must have gone right beside my bedroom to the roof. I wondered why they would have a chimney with no fireplace.

  My dad followed my gaze. “Yeah, not sure what the point of that is,” he said thoughtfully. “But I think it may actually be a support structure, so have to leave it.”

  “When was the last time someone lived here?” I asked.

  “Six years ago,” my mom said. “Got it for a steal. The last owner…gave it to the bank, and they sold it as an estate sale. We only got to see it once, but we fell in love.”

  Tom took a bite of his burger. “He disappeared.”

  “What?” my mom asked, looking at him. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I heard you talking on the phone with Grandma last week.”

  She glared at him. “I was outside.”

  “The window was open.”

  I turned to my parents, frowning. “The last guy who lived here disappeared?”

  “Sort of,” Stache mumbled.

  “They don’t suspect foul play,” my mom added brightly.

  I popped another fry in my mouth. “Super.”

  My mom waved a hand. “It’s no big deal. Every house has a story. Trust me, once we get this place fixed up—”

  She was suddenly interrupted by a loud, booming knock at the door. My mom jumped and almost toppled right off the box. There was another pounding knock.

  “Maybe he’s back,” Tom whispered.

  “Enough,” my mom said. “Honey?”

  “On it,” Stache said, wiping off his hands and heading for the door.

  I glanced at the curtainless windows, thinking of the shadow I’d seen in the woods. I watched nervously as my dad approached the door. He pulled it open.

  “Ha!” he said. “I was wondering if you’d come by, you big lug.”

  Stache was suddenly embraced in a hug by an even larger man. Stache was huge: six foot four and about 250 pounds, with big hands, and a strong jaw. But his brother was even bigger. He was about the same height, but while my dad had a gut, Uncle Laine had muscles bulging out of his usual button-down plaid shirt. He had a thick black beard to match his hair and big, friendly brown eyes. Despite his intimidating appearance, he was almost always in a good mood and was my favourite uncle by far. I was happy we were now living in the same town with him and Aunt Sandra and my two younger cousins.

  Uncle Laine clapped my dad on the shoulders and started into the living room.

  “There’s my girl,” he said, wrapping me in a strong hug as I stood up to greet him. It was like being hugged by a bear. He looked down at me. “You like it?”

  “It’s something,” I said.

  He laughed. “Just needs a little loving. I’ll help your dad out when I can.”

  He quickly gave my brother and my mom hugs as well and then plopped himself down on one of the boxes.

  “Sandy and the kids would have come, but it was already getting late. We’ll have to have you over sometime next week for dinner. I got off a bit late tonight, or I would have come earlier. Got to get as many shifts in as I can.”

  Stache frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  Laine forced a smile and shook his head. “Closing the factory down. Got a few months and that’s it.”

  “That’s awful,” my mom said. “When did they decide that?”

  “Been a long time coming,” Laine replied. “I knew at least six months ago. Been trying to find something new, but no one’s hiring around here. Not a big lug who’s been working the same job for twenty-five years, anyway.” He waved a hand. “Never mind that. Something will come up. It’s going to be a lot better now that you guys are around.”

  He shot me a lopsided grin.

  “Maybe we can go hunting.”

  “No,” I said immediately.

  “Tom came with me once last year, remember?” he said, patting Tom on the shoulder.

  “That’s when I saw the hole,” Tom agreed.

  My mom sighed. Tom had told everyone he’d seen faint light in the shape of a hole in the woods that day, which was highly unlikely for any number of reasons. Laine just ruffled his hair.

  “Exactly. So you’ll come along next time, Laura?”

  “I’ll just look at the deer, thank you,” I said.

  He laughed. “Fair enough. Don’t worry: we’ll find something to do.”

  There was something strange in his voice, but I couldn’t pick it out. We talked for another half an hour or so after that, and then Laine said he had to get back home to help put the kids to bed. We gathered at the door to see him off, and he gave eve
ryone a last hug before climbing in his old beat-up black truck and pulling out of the driveway. He smiled when he waved and drove away, but I could tell he was a bit off. Obviously he was thinking about the factory.

  “I hope they’ll be all right,” my mom said as she closed the door. “Sandra doesn’t work either. If they don’t find something, they’re going to be in trouble.”

  “It’ll work out,” my dad replied, heading for his tools.

  Stache is the perennial optimist. He strapped on his tool belt and rubbed his hands together eagerly, looking around. “What should I do next?”

  —

  That night I lay down on my mattress—we still had to put my bed frame together—and tried to be positive. I was mostly thinking about spiders crawling on me, but I was trying. Maybe the weird message in my closet didn’t mean anything. And maybe I imagined the shape. And maybe the last guy who lived here just decided to move or something. It was possible.

  And maybe, just maybe, the kids in my school would all turn out to be good friends. There might not be a Portia Carson at my new school. Maybe they viewed plumpness as a sign of wealth and power. It was unlikely, but I didn’t know. And until I did, it couldn’t hurt to dream.

  I could even try dieting again. I’d tried plenty of times before, but after two weeks of being completely miserable and not seeing the slightest change in my reflection, I usually just gave up. My mom said I just had big bones, which was fine, except apparently they made my butt big too. Go figure.

  I’m a pretty big girl in general, taller and heavier than all the girls in my grade and probably most of the boys as well. My grandma Elly always tells me I’m pretty, and she might be right. I have long, wavy chestnut hair that falls down past my shoulders, bright-green eyes, and fairly good skin—most days anyway. My grandma says I could be a model, and she doesn’t ever add the if. I love my grandma.

  She lives in the city, which is about a forty-minute drive from here. She is seventy-one, but she still lives all by herself in a big old house and has for almost ten years since my grandpa passed away. She is proud and fiery and fiercely independent. Some of my favourite weekends were spent at her house, going to movies and taking walks in the park. We went to visit her before we moved.

  “Are you excited?” she’d asked me from the kitchen, where she was making food as usual. You weren’t allowed to sit in my grandma’s house without eating something. She was always baking or making soup or something like that.

  “I guess,” I said reluctantly, reading a book at the table.

  She glanced at me. “I want you to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to promise me that you’ll give yourself a chance.”

  I frowned. “That’s not the problem. The problem is no one else does.”

  She shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Not in my experience.”

  She always said that. I guess it was an easy way to end an argument, since she was fifty-eight years older than me. But maybe she was right. I was pretty hard on myself.

  I decided to make the most of the move. I was going to start eating right again. And exercising more. I used to play softball—I was the best youth player in the state—but I kind of quit that. Long story.

  And hey, with some new clothes and a new look, I could even be popular. Laura Legs. Laura Lovely, maybe. I pictured myself wearing a white tank top and fitted jeans like Portia used to. Laura Lovely. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  And then I heard it. Rattling. It sounded like a screen door smacking against the frame in the wind. Maybe a loose windowpane. There was just one problem.

  It was coming from my closet.

  Chapter Four

  I did not sleep that night. Not a wink. The rattling would continue for a few minutes, then stop just long enough for me to start dozing off, and then start again. Admittedly I was not brave enough to go investigate—the spiders could have returned. So I just rolled around and closed my eyes and pretended that there wasn’t something rattling in my closet.

  As soon as the morning sun filtered through my still curtainless window, I climbed out of bed and slowly crept toward the closet. The floorboards creaked the entire way. Stupid, insulting house. I eased the closet door open, ready to take off screaming down the hallway if a raccoon jumped out at me. When it was about a foot open, I peeked inside. Nothing. I pulled the door open the rest of the way, frowning.

  It looked exactly the same as yesterday, when I’d put my ten shirts in there. Great. Now I was sure I had a haunted closet. I remembered what Tom had said—the last guy who lived in this house had disappeared. Maybe the closet ate him.

  I stepped inside and looked around, trying to figure out what could have been rattling. The house had to be at least a hundred years old—maybe there was a draft in the walls or something. My eyes fell on the two boxes that I’d shoved in the bottom corner of the closet yesterday, both labelled Softball Trophies. I stared at them for a moment. I always wanted to throw them out, but it felt weird to just toss something that I’d put so much work into. The problem was that every time I saw the boxes I had this feeling of regret gnawing its way around my stomach. It wasn’t overly pleasant.

  I plucked a black graphic T-shirt with a moon and two stars on it from a hanger—still looking around suspiciously—and quickly threw on some jeans. All my clothes fit the same way: loose and unflattering. I always preferred that to tight and very unflattering.

  But I did have my favourites. Most of my graphic T-shirts were space-themed—I have a thing for sci-fi—and generally black, navy-blue, or grey. Colours always led to easy references for bullies—yellow was the sun, red was the Kool-Aid man, and so forth. Once I wore blue jeans and a green shirt, which did not go over well—Portia called me Planet Earth all day, and started pointing out where countries would be. The U.S. was on my stomach…she wasn’t very good at geography. My jeans were usually either ripped or worn or faded, because I hate clothes shopping. That’s not just because I’m big either—it’s just that my mom really likes to shop and we end up spending the whole day at the mall. It’s exhausting. Taking one last peek into the closet, I went downstairs, scowling as the steps groaned beneath my feet.

  My parents were already eating breakfast in the kitchen. They’re both early risers—actually, I doubt my dad had even slept. He had heavy bags under his eyes, and he was drinking out of the actual pot of coffee. He had probably been up all night painting.

  “How did you sleep, Laura?” my mom asked, glancing up from the paper.

  She was already fully dressed and her shoulder-length blond hair was done up in elaborate curls. She always wears dark eye shadow and mascara to make her blue eyes pop, and she’d even added a little scarlet lipstick today. I often looked at my mom and wondered what had happened to me. She was slim and petite, and she looked like a model in her old high school photos with her long golden hair and fair skin. Tom looked a lot like her, while I definitely took after Stache. Big bones, strong jaw, stronger hands.

  I wish I got a bit more of my mom. Maybe the petite part.

  “Great,” I said, putting some bread in the toaster. “Minus the rattling in my closet. There must be a crack or something. I could hear wind.”

  Stache looked up immediately. “I’ll check it out after breakfast.”

  “I’m sure there’s nothing rattling in your closet,” my mom said patiently. “You were probably dreaming.”

  I scowled. “I was not dreaming. I have a haunted closet.” I went to grab the peanut butter. “What are we doing today?”

  “Your father is going to continue working. We can help him with the painting later. But first we’re going clothes shopping, just like I said. We need to find you and your brother something new for your first day of school tomorrow. It’s going to be fun!”

  I exchanged a resigned look with Stache. “Hurray.”

  —

  Five hours later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing a tight new purple t
op and a pair of very snug blue jeans. The saleswoman said it was trendy. I said it was cruel. I tried putting my hair in a ponytail and then straight and then I just gave up.

  I started to cry. I’m embarrassed to say it. But once in awhile I looked at myself and bawled. I don’t know why. Today, it felt like I was going to go to school the next day and get picked on, and my parents would be ashamed, and my teachers would pity me, and all because I eat too much breakfast or something. It’s not a good feeling.

  I watched as the tears rolled over my cheeks, round and fat, and then dripped off my chin, not even making it to the floor because they hit my fat body on the way. I roughly wiped them away, but seeing my bulky arm poking out of my T-shirt only made the hot tears flow faster. I stifled a sob, trying to get ahold of myself.

  “You okay?” a quiet voice asked from outside the bathroom door.

  Tom was very perceptive about my crying. He could tell if I was crying from anywhere in the house, and he always came to find me. Like I said, he has crazy good hearing. One of the reasons I call him Bat Boy.

  I wiped my eyes and nose and opened the door.

  “Yeah,” I said sheepishly.

  “Wow,” he said, stepping back. “You look good.”

  He always liked to tell me I looked good. It was his little joke, I guess.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “You too.”

  He was wearing new jeans and a cool graphic T-shirt I’d picked out for him.

  He ran his hands down his shirt. “You think so?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “The girls are going to go crazy over you.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “I’m nine.”

  “And a real catch,” I said, my voice cracking just a little.