Invasion of the Scorp-lions

by Bruce Hale

  “What’s this, itty-bitty puddles?” said Benny, who wasn’t the outdoorsiest guy around.

  “Animal tracks?” I guessed.

  Mr. Boo nodded. “Feral cats.”

  “What are Will Ferrell’s pets doing here?” said Benny.

  “Feral means ‘wild,’” said Mr. Boo. “And these cats are pretty big ones, by the looks of it.”

  “Yeah, so?” Benny tapped his foot.

  The janitor looked hurt. “You dudes like weirdness. I thought you’d be interested.”

  “I don’t think a kitty is what we’re after,” said Benny. “Unless cat allergies put José into a coma.”

  “Doubtful,” said Mr. Boo.

  “We’re looking for something really unusual,” I said. “José was raving about monsters just before he fainted. Seen any monsters around?”

  “Yeah, like were-pandas, mutant stinkbugs, that kind of thing?” Benny added.

  Mr. Boo rubbed his cheek. “Not lately. Not since the exterminator came and—”

  The bell rang, and that put an end to that. After getting the custodian’s promise to keep us posted on any further oddness, Benny and I headed back to our room.

  “You know,” I said, “mystery solving would be a lot easier without all these pesky classes.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Benny.

  “After all, it’s not like we ever learned anything important in the classroom.”

  There should be some kind of smartphone app that warns us when we say something boneheaded.

  Because I didn’t know it yet, but I was wrong. Dead wrong.

  THE STRANGENESS STARTED not far into the next period. Mr. Chu was reading us Holes—which, if you haven’t read it, is an awesome book—when the moaning began.

  He glanced up from the page. “Tyler, if you don’t like the story, at least keep quiet for those who are listening.”

  Tyler Spork held up both hands. “Wasn’t me.” And from the surprised expression on his face, he actually seemed to be telling the truth.

  With a skeptical grunt, Mr. Chu resumed his reading. Not a minute later, another moan rang out, this one louder than the first.

  Mr. Chu scowled. “If you can’t be more mature, I’ll stop reading right now.”

  “Nooo!” cried the class.

  Cheyenne raised her hand. When Mr. Chu called on her, she said, “I think the noise is coming from over here.” She pointed to the heating vents, low on the wall beside her desk.

  The other kids in her row—Jackson, Hannah, and a new student named Esme—all leaned toward the wall, listening. For a little while, nothing happened. Then, just as Mr. Chu started to speak, another moan welled up. It sounded creepy, like a cross between an evil spirit and a dog with tummy trouble.

  Jackson crinkled his nose. “Eew, it smells kind of funky over here.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have had the bean burritos for lunch,” said Big Pete, with a laugh. Tyler cackled and reached across the aisle to bump fists.

  “Settle down, gentlemen,” said Mr. Chu. He was way too polite; gentlemen describes Pete and Tyler like short stuff describes LeBron James. Our teacher slipped a bookmark into the book, then rose and approached the funky side of the room.

  His nostrils flared. “Whoa now! It does smell funny over here. Does anyone have a moldy sandwich in their desk?” Heads shook no. “A sick wombat?” By then a whiff of the smell had reached my row. Funny was putting it mildly—the stench was a mix of wet cat, moldy sweat socks, and rancid cheese. Lucky thing it was faint, or we would’ve had to abandon the classroom.

  The new girl, Esme, slumped in her chair. “We’re in for it now.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jackson.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she said.

  “What?” said Benny.

  “Moans and strange smells are two signs of a haunting.”

  Several kids bit their fingernails. Benny twisted the front of his T-shirt.

  Tyler scoffed. “Right. Our school is haunted.”

  “By the ghost of some kid who died from a bean burrito overdose!” Big Pete giggled. He was really working that joke.

  “Or by the ghost of Simon Jenkins,” said Mr. Chu quietly.

  Benny blanched. “Who’s Simon Jenkins?”

  Casting his gaze over the class to make sure everyone was listening, Mr. Chu said, “It happened just before I came here. Poor kid. He died of fright…from a pop quiz!”

  Several of my classmates groaned.

  Mr. Chu shushed them. “Now, I’m sure the smell isn’t from anything supernatural. Probably just some critter that crawled into the heating system and got stuck.”

  Hannah shivered suddenly, and Esme noticed.

  “Cold spots,” she said. “Another sign of a spirit presence.” Her eyes were as big and dark as a pair of plums in yogurt.

  “Also the sign of an open window,” Benny muttered. But his joke sounded hollow. I knew for a fact that the whole idea of ghosts weirded him out.

  “My uncle stayed in a haunted house once,” said Tina Green. “He still has nightmares to this day.”

  Several kids fidgeted in their seats. Cheyenne twisted a lock of her hair.

  “Like I said, I’m sure it’s—” Mr. Chu began.

  “My grandma saw ghosts in Hawaii—the Night Marchers,” said Zizi Lee. “It turned her hair all white.”

  “Ooh,” said several of her friends.

  Esme looked gloomier than a Monday in January. “It’s hard to get rid of ghosts. Sometimes even priests can’t help.”

  “How come you know so much about it?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Tyler. “What makes you the expert?”

  Esme gave him a slow blink, and I noticed her dark mascara. An odd choice for a fourth grader, but it matched her black jeans and black T-shirt, which read I LIKE YOU! I’LL EAT YOU LAST.

  “My mother makes monsters,” she said, “so I should know.”

  Tyler snorted. “Riiight.”

  “We, uh, already covered monsters before recess,” said Mr. Chu, looking a bit rattled. “Remember the Gorgon?” I guessed he found the idea of someone being in the monster biz a wee bit unsettling. Fancy that.

  Benny’s gaze met mine. This info about Esme’s mom was news—assuming Esme wasn’t a wannabe Goth who liked to make stuff up. I promised myself to look into it soon.

  “What kind of monsters?” Tina asked Esme.

  “The drudge-asaurus,” said our teacher. “It hides under your bed and eats all the books you don’t want to read.”

  “Huh?” said Tina.

  “That’s not a real—” Tyler began.

  Clapping his hands, Mr. Chu said, “All right now. Enough ghosts and ghoulies. I’ll talk to Mr. Decker, and I’m sure he’ll take care of the situation. In the meantime, let’s try to ignore the poor critter in the ducts and get back to Stanley Yelnats.”

  He picked up Holes and resumed reading. And after jumping at a few last moans, my jittery classmates finally settled down to listen.

  But I still couldn’t concentrate. I wondered: (a) what connection did Esme have to whatever had moved into our school? (b) could it really be a ghost? and (c) if so, could a ghost have caused José’s freak-out and coma?

  Like a student who forgot to do the homework, I didn’t have any answers. But I did know where to start looking for them, and I vowed to go there with Benny right after school.

  If downtown Monterrosa were a hipster’s head, then Amazing Fred’s Comix and More would be the cool hat that topped it. Located just off of Main Street in a funky green-and-black building, it was packed with enough comics, games, and magic supplies to eat up a hundred lifetimes’ worth of allowance money.

  As soon as Benny and I pushed open the door, a speaker deep inside the store played the first four bars of the Indiana Jones theme. Like always, it made me feel a teeny bit more heroic.

  “Hey, it’s my two favorite customers,” said Mrs. Tamasese, the owner. She swiveled her tricked-out purple whee
lchair around from where she’d been working on a female superheroes display. “Howzit, boys!”

  “Hey, Mrs. T,” Benny called.

  She was the most famous person I’d ever met—much more so than my bratty little sister, Veronica, who had a role on a Disney Channel series. Veronica had only been on that show for a month. But Mrs. Tamasese had ruled the WOW (Women of Wrestling) circuit for years as the Samoan Slammer, until an accident landed her in that chair.

  “We just got the newest Spider-Man, Carlos.” Mrs. Tamasese grinned. “Ho, that bugger bit off more than he can chew this time!” She tended to talk about superheroes like they were old wrestling buddies.

  “Can’t wait,” I said. “But first—”

  Mrs. T held up a powerful hand. “Let me guess. Things are getting freaky at Monterrosa Elementary again?” Not only was she a comic-book wizard, but Mrs. Tamasese was also our go-to expert on the supernatural.

  “Wow, it’s like you’re psychic,” Benny said.

  “Psycho, maybe.” She made a goofy face.

  Then her expression grew serious. Mrs. Tamasese glanced right and left, motioning us to join her in a quieter part of the store. “This monster stuff is happening more and more often. I think there’s something wrong with the town.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Benny. “Not nearly enough ice cream shops.”

  I elbowed him. “We noticed, too. Something’s up.”

  Mrs. T leaned forward. “So what is it this time? Were-panthers? Giant spiders?”

  “We’re not sure,” I said. “Maybe ghosts.”

  Benny gave an involuntary shudder. “It all started this morning.”

  We filled her in on the happenings in our classroom, and on José’s coma.

  “Geez, poor kid.” Mrs. Tamasese toyed with an earring. “I’ve never heard of ghosts putting someone into a coma before. But the rest does sound like the classic signs of a haunting.”

  Benny ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Really? But you don’t believe in ghosts, right?”

  She shifted her brawny shoulders. “Why not? Just because we can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. You can’t see electricity either, but stick a fork in a toaster, and it’ll shock your socks off.”

  I checked around. The nearest shoppers were out of earshot. This was good, because I felt kind of funny talking about ghosts.

  “So how do we get rid of it?” I asked.

  “Beats me.” Mrs. T shrugged, pulling out her smartphone.

  “Who you gonna call,” I said, “Ghostbusters?”

  The storeowner made a you’re-not-as-funny-as-you-think face. “I’m looking it up online.”

  “Seriously?” said Benny. “I thought you said all the best supernatural info is in dusty old books.”

  Typing in her search word with lightning thumbs, she said, “It is. But that’s no reason to turn up your nose at the Internet.”

  Honey Girl, her fluffy calico cat, ambled up and rubbed against Mrs. T’s feet, purring. She scratched it behind the ears. “Let’s see…okay, there’s smudging….”

  “Like smudging a sketch?” said Benny. He shifted from foot to foot. “How do you smudge what you can’t even see?”

  “Nah, it means burning sage or herbs to cleanse the area,” said Mrs. T.

  I grimaced. “If this thing is strong enough to knock someone out, I don’t think stinky smoke will drive it away.”

  “Or you could ask it to leave…” she continued.

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” said Benny. He put on a sugary voice: “Pretty please with sugar on top, will you stop haunting our school?” His words were sarcastic, but he was biting his thumbnail.

  Honey Girl leaped up onto Mrs. T’s lap for more in-depth petting.

  “Or you could call in the professionals,” said the store owner. “A priest for an exorcism, or a medium for a séance.”

  Benny and I made the same skeptical face. We’d tried an exorcism on Mr. Chu when he was turning into a were-hyena, and all it got us was grief and detention. That left one choice.

  “So tell us,” I said. “What exactly is a séance?”

  AS IT TURNED out, Mrs. Tamasese knew a whole lot more about séances than you’d expect from a former pro wrestler. She explained that they were a way of talking to spirits and hearing their replies, through the help of a medium.

  “What’s a medium?” I asked, trying to lighten Benny’s mood. “One size less than a large?”

  Mrs. T raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me while I die laughing. It’s someone who uses psychic powers to communicate between the living and the dead.”

  A shudder rippled through me. For a second, I kind of hoped that Monterrosa was fresh out of mediums so we wouldn’t have to go through with this. But as it happened, Mrs. T knew just where to find one.

  “She’s a teacher at your school,” said the store owner. “Jessica Freshley.”

  “Miss Freshley?” said Benny. “Since when is a kindergarten teacher a psychic?”

  “It’s true you don’t need ESP to read a rugrat’s mind.” Mrs. Tamasese chuckled. “But she mostly uses her powers after school hours.”

  I scratched my head. “And, um, how do we know she’s the real deal?”

  “Monterrosa’s a pretty small place. People tend to meet others with similar interests, and you know I know my supernatural stuff. She’s real, all right.”

  A little color returned to Benny’s face. “Okay, then,” he said. “We visit her first thing tomorrow to see if she’ll hold an after-school séance for us.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Better clear it with your parents, and your custodian, too,” said Mrs. T, stroking her cat’s back. “After all, someone will have to unlock the room after hours.”

  “Parents and psychic, check,” said Benny. “Mr. Boo, check. Anything else?”

  Scanning her store, Mrs. Tamasese noticed a couple of kids with comics heading for the cash register. “Yeah, it’s best to have at least five people at the séance.”

  “In case the ghost challenges us to a pickup basketball game?” said Benny. You had to hand it to him—even when nervous, he kept the humor going.

  She shot him with her finger. “Funny guy. No, it’s something about the group energy. Makes the séance stronger.” Spinning her chair in one slick move, Mrs. T rolled off to serve her customers, broad shoulders bunching and releasing smoothly.

  I walked with her a few steps. “Thanks, we’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “You kidding? I’ll be there myself,” said Mrs. Tamasese. “And I’m bringing Honey Girl.”

  “Your cat?” I said. “Why?”

  “Cats can sense the supernatural.” She patted the calico. “Plus, she keeps my lap warm.”

  I could hardly argue with that. Benny and I said our good-byes and took off. Outside, I noticed he looked a little queasy.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  Benny gulped. “Nah,” he said. “It’s just…ghosts. Ugh.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said.

  “I really hope it doesn’t turn out to be ghosts.”

  “If we’re lucky, it won’t.”

  Although the way our luck usually went, if it wasn’t ghosts, it would be something much, much worse.

  There may be some things that my abuela’s chicken enchiladas can’t cure, but that list is a short one. I sat down to dinner thinking about comatose José, the mysterious new kid, and the possibility of evil spirits at my school. My muscles were tight, my breath was shallow, and my mouth was drier than a Death Valley rock garden.

  But within a few bites, I felt my shoulders loosen and my breathing return to normal. Still munching, I saluted Abuelita with a forkful of enchilada and made a yummy sound.

  She beamed. “I’m glad you like it. The secret ingredient is what makes it so good.”

  “Love?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Abuelita chuckled. “Cocoa. Add a scoop to the sauce, and…es magia. Pure magic.”


  I glanced over to see if my dad was enjoying the meal as much as I was. He stared at the table, chewing like a robot, his mind a million miles away.

  “Rough day, Dad?”

  “Hmm?” He blinked and focused on me. “Oh, no worse than usual. Same old bits and bytes.” But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Trouble at work?” I knew things could get stressful for computer programmers, whatever it was that they did.

  My dad stared down at his plate, toying with his food. That’s how I knew something was wrong—no one ever does anything with Abuelita’s enchiladas but wolf them down.

  “No, chamaco. I talked with your mom earlier.”

  I gripped the chair arm. “It’s Veronica, right? Something’s wrong?”

  “No, your sister’s fine. She loves being on the show—in fact, she wants to change her last name to Star.”

  That sounded like my showbiz-crazed little sister. She’d wanted to be an actress almost from the time she could talk; she wished she lived in Gravity Falls, and she considered SpongeBob a close personal friend.

  “Then what is it?” I asked.

  Abuelita sent him a concerned look.

  “It’s just…hard,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “This whole living situation. Only seeing your mom on weekends—it’s tough. On everyone.”

  I swallowed a bite, and the enchilada turned to stone in my gullet. This was how it had started with Tyler Spork’s parents. First, his mom was away all week, working in San Francisco, and coming home on weekends. And then one day…she never came back.

  My mom and sister spent every Monday to Friday down in L.A. so Veronica could do her TV show. Was this the beginning of a split? Could my own parents be headed for…? I couldn’t even say the word in my mind.

  My hands got tingly. My throat felt tighter than a boa’s embrace.

  Abuelita reached across and brushed my hair back. “You okay, mijo? You look pale.”

  I didn’t want to say anything about anything. Sometimes speaking your fears aloud can make them real.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered. But then I couldn’t help turning to Dad. “Are you and Mom okay?”