Invasion of the Scorp-lions

by Bruce Hale

  “Where are we going?” her friend asked, trailing after.

  “To transfer to another school. This one’s not safe.”

  Benny and I watched them leave.

  “Can’t argue with that,” I said, rubbing my sore neck. “Most schools, you don’t get bitten just walking across the blacktop.”

  He waved it off. “Let’s leave the frice to Mr. Boo. We’ve gotta stay focused on the ghost.”

  “Frice?” I said.

  Benny lifted a shoulder. “Frog-mice—frice.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

  “What would you call them,” he said, “mogs?”

  “Call them what you like,” I said. “Just don’t ask me to clean them up.”

  IN THE BEST of all possible worlds, school would’ve been canceled after an event like that, which would let Benny and me do our séance early and go home. But three things told me Monterrosa Elementary wasn’t in the best of all possible worlds.

  First, classes continued (in fact, Mr. Chu even tried to turn the frice into a science lesson). Second, we had to skip our afternoon recess and stay indoors, where it was “safer.” And third, instead of doing something fun, like watching cartoons, we had to go to an assembly. (I suspected the assembly was the whole reason Principal Johnson hadn’t canceled school.)

  As our class shuffled like a chain gang down the covered walkways, Mr. Chu kept glancing out at the sky as if he expected a rain of raccoons next. Big kids were jumpy. Little kids were whiny. And they weren’t the only ones.

  “Why waste a perfectly good break time listening to some old dude?” Benny complained to the world at large.

  “This old dude isn’t just any old dude,” said AJ, behind us.

  “Oh no?” said Benny.

  Tina Green nodded sagely. “Haruki Hanzomon is one of the richest guys on the planet. And if he wants to say something, I want to listen.”

  Benny grunted. “I’d still rather be watching Samurai Jack.” But I suspected he was curious.

  We filed into the multipurpose room, joining all the other classes already sitting on the cold tile floor. As the last groups took their seats, I watched the screen. A computer-animated piece was playing: a spinning globe with plants on it that morphed into heavy construction equipment, which evolved into buildings, which turned into computers, and finally transformed into a sparkling sky-blue logo that read HANZOMON INTERNATIONAL.

  I nudged Benny. “Judging by that, you’d think they make almost everything on the planet.”

  “Who says they don’t?” he said.

  At last, everyone got settled and Mrs. Johnson introduced our guest. I’ll admit I spaced out on the first few things she said, because my busy mind was spinning various scenarios about how our after-school séance would go from mild catastrophe to total disaster.

  But when our principal said something about a “special relationship,” it caught my attention.

  “Today’s guest has offered to underwrite our school’s science program,” said Mrs. Johnson. Her brown eyes sparkled like this was the principal’s equivalent of getting a BMX bike on Christmas morning. And maybe it was. “To start out, he’s sponsoring this year’s science fair, and providing brand-new tablet computers for every student in grades four through six.”

  The room erupted in cheers from the upper grades and groans from the lower ones. Benny elbowed me. “I like this dude already, and I haven’t even met him.”

  Beneath all the noise, it sounded like Mrs. Johnson was saying, “Please welcome Mr. Handybum!” But I suspected the guy’s name was actually Hanzomon, like Tina had said. Just call me Mr. Perceptive.

  Trumpets blasted a fanfare fit for some old-timey king, drowning out the chatter with sheer volume. Slowly, the red velvet curtains parted, and a dark-suited figure strode onto the stage.

  He wasn’t particularly tall. He wasn’t young or old. In fact, he wasn’t especially memorable in any way. But still the man commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  Mr. Hanzomon paced to the microphone and struck a pose with his fists on his hips. He looked like a well-dressed executive playing at Superman, but nobody laughed.

  “We need new heroes,” he said with a heavy Japanese accent. “Where are the Einsteins, the Edisons, the Curies of tomorrow?”

  “He wants curry?” whispered Benny. “Take him to Delhi Delight. Problem solved.”

  Tina thwacked the back of his head. “That’s Madame Curie, you eggplant.”

  “New heroes of science need help and encouragement if they are to emerge,” said Mr. Hanzomon, “and that’s why I’m here today.” Behind him, the screen showed tablet computers magically flying into kids’ hands, students working on science projects, and the most Hollywood-ified science fair you could imagine.

  Kids went oooh. The billionaire said something about his biotech research and how he was always searching for the “next big thing.”

  “Great,” Benny said. “Let’s take him those frice, patent them, and get rich!”

  On his other side, Gabi swatted him. “Shh!”

  Our visitor kept it short. Mr. Hanzomon wished us the best of luck with our science-fair projects, told us we’d be seeing a lot more of him, and closed by making one last call for the “science heroes of tomorrow!”

  As we trooped out of the assembly and down the hall, I noticed a big truck with the Hanzomon International logo parked on the blacktop. A team of people in sky-blue jumpsuits was collecting the mutant frogs. One of them was arguing with Mr. Boo.

  “Dang,” said Benny. “They beat us to the frice.”

  “Mr. Boo doesn’t look too happy about it,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s territorial,” said Benny. “Janitors can be that way.”

  But I didn’t waste much time thinking about custodians and freaky frogs. Benny and I had bigger tortillas to fry. Supernatural ones, at that.

  Somehow we made it through the next two hours. After class ended, I called my abuela and told her I’d be staying late for an after-school project. (Not a complete fib.) Tina and Benny used similar excuses, and so 3:45 found us fidgeting outside the mechanical room, waiting for the grown-ups to arrive.

  The butterflies in my stomach were joined by hummingbirds. I couldn’t stop worrying about all the ways this séance could go wrong: (a) What if the ghosts didn’t want to talk? (b) What if they attacked us instead? And (c) What if we opened a pathway to a dark dimension and demons came boogieing down it?

  (Okay, safe to say, I probably shouldn’t have watched Evil Dead the night before. But I thought I was doing research.)

  Mrs. Tamasese showed up first, hot-rodding down the hall in her souped-up purple wheelchair and black satin warm-up jacket. Honey Girl was a boneless calico-colored sprawl in her lap. I guessed the cat was used to her crazy driving.

  Skidding to a stop beside us, Mrs. T offered a huge grin. “Howzit, kids!”

  “You look cheerful,” I said.

  Her cocoa-brown eyes twinkled. “And why not? Séances are totally da kine—a blast.”

  “Yeah?” said Tina.

  “For reals,” said the former wrestler. “Haven’t been to one since that time in New Orleans when the ghosts got so ticked off, they almost burned the house down. We had to escape out the recycling chute. Hoo-ee!”

  Benny’s smile was as queasy as a mountain goat going windsurfing. “Heh. Good times.”

  “Now, where’s our medium?” asked Mrs. T. “I’m hoping she can top my last séance.”

  Benny’s face went a whiter shade of pale. He opened his mouth, and I had a strong feeling his next words would be, This isn’t such a hot idea. But then, something he saw shut him up.

  I turned.

  Striding down the hall in a tie-dyed robe, blue jeans, a princess crown, and a yellow Pokémon T-shirt came Miss Freshley herself. She plopped an oversize canvas bag onto the cement and straightened her tiara.

  “Alrighty, then,” said the medium, “who’s ready to speak with some spooks?
”

  THE MECHANICAL ROOM was as comfy and inviting as a concrete crypt at midnight. Mr. Boo had thoughtfully stacked five folding chairs and a card table in the middle of the room, for that homey touch.

  Still, I didn’t plan on moving in anytime soon.

  Water heaters, boilers, and other mysterious machines ringed the space, sending ducts and pipes shooting out in all directions, like the legs of enormous spiders. The room smelled of mildew and oil, and a strong wet-cat-and-cabbage stink, which Honey Girl didn’t like. She growled low in her throat when she entered, crouching on Mrs. Tamasese’s lap.

  Our medium stood in the center of the room with her eyes closed and arms extended. Seeing this, Tina lifted her eyebrows at me. I shrugged.

  Miss Freshley took a deep breath. “Ah, I feel it,” she said. “The spiritual emanations are strong here.”

  “As is the funkiness factor,” said Benny, wrinkling his nose. He was trying to keep up his usual wisecracking bravado. But only someone who knew him well, like me, could spot the rigid shoulders and clenched jaw that hinted at his true feelings.

  “Please,” said Miss Freshley, “some respect for the spirits. Respect is a building block of character, right, boys and girls?”

  We mumbled agreement. I guess you can take the teacher out of the kindergarten, but not the kindergarten out of the teacher.

  She told us how to set things up. We ringed the table with four chairs, leaving a blank space for Mrs. T’s wheelchair. Then Miss Freshley produced a sapphire-blue cloth from her bag and flung it over the table with a dramatic gesture. Lit candles anchored it at the four corners, and ringed the whole setup.

  “For protection?” asked Tina.

  Miss Freshley beamed. “For illumination.” She flicked off the harsh fluorescent lights, and the room was bathed in a warm glow. Unfortunately, this glow didn’t reach far. Deep shadows surrounded us, just when we were about to talk with ghosts.

  I gulped.

  “There, that’s better,” said the medium. She set a clear plastic bowl in the table’s center, then added some bread, white flowers, and Hershey’s Kisses to it.

  “Snack time?” I asked.

  Dimples bloomed in Miss Freshley’s cheeks as she wagged her head. “An offering to attract our ghostly visitors.”

  “But, candy?” said Tina.

  Mrs. T arched an eyebrow. “Living, dead, or in between,” she said, “everybody loves chocolate.”

  I had to agree with her on that one.

  “But no milk or soda?” said Benny. “Won’t the spirit need something to wash it down with?”

  Miss Freshley cleared her throat, sending him the kind of look that made kindergartners quail. “Will everyone please take a seat and join hands?”

  We followed her instructions. Honey Girl jumped off Mrs. T’s lap, circled once around the table, and hopped back up to her perch, for whatever reason cats do anything. I found myself sitting between Benny and Tina. As I reached out for her hand, I said, “This is only for the séance. It doesn’t count as holding hands or anything. Right?”

  Tina rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. Who’d want you as a boyfriend, Rivera? Cootie Central.”

  Reassured, I gripped her fingers. On the other side, Benny’s hand felt sweaty. I gave it a little squeeze. His answering grin was as weak as a baby bird’s bluster.

  “Take a deep breath, everyone, and let it out,” said Miss Freshley.

  I must have looked worried myself, because from across the table, Mrs. T winked encouragingly.

  “Now what?” said Tina.

  “Now we ask for protection,” said Miss Freshley. Her leaf-green eyes were huge and serious as she raised her gaze. “O Great Spirit, we seek the blessing and shelter of your white light today. Surround us all and keep us safe.”

  “Um, amen?” said Tina.

  “Right on,” said Mrs. Tamasese.

  In a warm rush of feeling, I was glad she was there. Somehow, having an ex-wrestler in the room felt safer than a hundred chandeliers’ worth of white light.

  “And now,” said Miss Freshley, “we stay as calm and happy as a hen on its nest while we invite the spirits to appear.”

  She went quiet. I wasn’t quite sure what was called for, so I said, “Heeere, ghostie, ghostie. Niiice ghostie.”

  Miss Freshley’s eyes narrowed. “Mentally invite them.”

  Oops.

  “I will speak the incantation,” said the medium.

  Tina sent me a sympathetic wince.

  “O Spirits of the Past,” crooned Miss Freshley in a hollow voice, “move among us in the here and now. Come visit us in this place.”

  Something growled. We all tensed, but it was Benny’s belly. “Sorry,” he said.

  The redheaded medium glared at the two of us. “Honestly, if you can’t respect the process—”

  “We’ll be good!” I said.

  “It’s my usual snack time,” said Benny.

  She held our gaze for a few moments longer, gave a nod, and lowered her head. “Come visit us, spirits, and let us know your mind.”

  The silence stretched.

  A deep humming sounded from the shadows. I gasped. Goose bumps sprouted along my arms like a miniature map of the Rockies.

  “The water heater,” murmured Mrs. T.

  I tried to breathe normally. “Of course.”

  “O Spirits of the Past,” continued Miss Freshley, “if you are with us now, give us a sign of your presence.”

  Tik-tik-tik-tik! Something clicked over in the corner.

  A ghost?

  Benny gripped my hand like he was trying to throttle a ferret. I clenched my jaw to keep from shouting.

  With a low yowl, Honey Girl flattened her ears. Either she’d eaten some bad tuna, or something supernatural was brewing.

  “Yesss!” cried Miss Freshley, closing her eyes and lifting her face. “Welcome, spirits. We seek answers to our questions. I offer myself as your vehicle—speak through me!”

  A faint moan seemed to rise from everywhere and nowhere. Our circle traded excited glances. It was working—the séance was really working!

  Miss Freshley stood, still holding hands with Benny and Mrs. T. “We ask of you, why do you haunt us? Why have you put our students into a coma?”

  The moaning swelled, sounding much like it had in my classroom. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. I shivered. Like a storm about to break, the pressure in the room built.

  Honey Girl rose stiff-legged from Mrs. T’s lap. Her eyes were yellow moons, and her fur stood on end, like a porcupine with the frizzies. The cat produced a moan of her own.

  Linking Benny’s hand with Mrs. Tamasese’s, Miss Freshley left our circle. Mrs. T frowned and shook her head, but the medium indicated we should keep our hands clasped. She stepped away from the table.

  “Use my voice as your voice,” she said, wandering through the room. “Speak your answers through me. Why have you appeared? What do you seek? Speak, O Spirits!”

  She paced outside the ring of candles, closer to the shadows.

  And just like that, three things happened, almost simultaneously.

  First, the outside door creaked open, letting in a cool gust. Second, the candles blew out, leaving us in the dark, and third…

  “Aaaah!” Miss Freshley screamed.

  ALL WAS DARKNESS and confusion. I felt my hands gripped tightly. The table jostled and rocked as everybody spoke over one another.

  “The ghost!” Benny gasped.

  “Don’t break the circle!” cried Mrs. T. “It’s not safe!”

  “Is Miss Freshley okay?” said Tina.

  “Everything all right in there?” called Mr. Boo from the door.

  “No! Yes! I don’t know!” I said.

  Rreeeeowww! yowled Honey Girl. A weight landed in my lap, and sharp claws dug into my thighs.

  “Yow!” I cried.

  For a handful of heartbeats, the chaos continued. Then, with a click and a buzz, the fluorescent lights blinked o
n, revealing the custodian standing just inside the doorway.

  “Why were all the lights off?” asked Mr. Boo.

  “It’s for—” Mrs. Tamasese began.

  Miss Freshley wailed again, “Aaiieee!”

  Everyone turned as she staggered toward us, clutching two handfuls of her tangerine-colored hair. Her crown was crooked, and her eyes were as wild as a dingo in a diner.

  Séance or no séance, something was deeply wrong. My skin tingled. I jumped to my feet, dumping the cat off my lap and breaking the circle.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Tina.

  “Terrible, terrible, most terrible!” groaned the medium.

  I reached out to her. “What is?”

  “Doom to you all!” roared Miss Freshley, waving her arms.

  “Yup, that’s pretty terrible.”

  “Yikes!” Benny ducked behind his chair and raised crossed index fingers, like he was warding off a vampire. “I—is this the g-ghost talking, or Miss Freshley?”

  The medium clutched the back of her own chair, huffing breaths in and out as if she’d been running a marathon. In response, Honey Girl arched her spine like a Halloween cat, hissing and glaring. Mrs. T wheeled to the teacher’s side, her face creased with concern.

  “It’s too late, it’s too late, it’s too late,” whimpered Miss Freshley. Her expression was heartbreaking. “They’re all doomed, and I couldn’t do a thing. My fault…”

  Then, her eyes rolled back in her head. Mrs. Tamasese lunged, but too late. Miss Freshley slumped forward, collapsing her chair and doing a face-plant onto the spirit offering.

  Hershey’s Kisses flew everywhere.

  Fwump! Down went the table, with the medium on top.

  “Jessica!” Mr. Boo hurried to her side.

  We all crowded around. By the time we rolled Miss Freshley over and checked her vital signs, it was obvious.

  She was out like a light, and nothing could awaken her.

  The ghost of Monterrosa Elementary had struck again.

  With our help, Mr. Boo loaded the comatose teacher into his car and strapped her down. “Don’t worry, dudes,” he said. “I’ll make sure she gets the best care.”