Kevin waited until the house was dark and quiet. Taking the only weapon he could find, a baseball bat, he went into the hall. When his bare feet made a brushing sound on the carpet, he stopped. But the house remained still.
The guest room door made only the softest click as Kevin pushed it. The drapes were open, and the moonlight showed the creatwasp in a resting position on the bed, its green feelers extended two feet in front of it. The creatwasp sprang up.
"Help! Help! He's going to hit me! Help!" Joyce's voice rang through the house. Lights flashed on in the hall.
"What's going on here?" Kevin's father grabbed the baseball bat.
"He's crazy!" the creatwasp sobbed, looking exactly like Joyce, and Mrs. Wheatmore put her arms around her.
"Into your room, young man," his father said.
"But Dad—"
"We'll talk about it in the morning." When his father left, he locked the door to Kevin's room from the outside.
It was late the next morning when Kevin's mother called him for breakfast. "I'm late for school," he shouted.
"You're not going to school today. I made an appointment with the doctor for you this morning."
"I suppose you mean a psychiatrist. There's nothing wrong with me, if you would only listen."
"Shhh, don't get excited." The psychiatrist reminded the Wheatmores that the experience of the fire and the deaths of the Holmans had been more than Kevin had been able to accept.
"It will take time," he said. "Didn't you mention that his grandfather lives on a farm? Perhaps a change would help. Why don't you send him there?"
Kevin boarded the jet that afternoon. Though the trip took only two hours, and the stewardess in charge of him was kind, it seemed longer. His grandfather was waiting at the airport.
Kevin had never been able to talk to his grandfather, whose favorite question was, "How's school?" How do you answer a question like that? He would never be able to convince him that there was such a thing as a creatwasp and that its message must be stopped.
It was about twenty-five miles from the airport to the farm. As they drove, his grandfather did most of the talking. "You can ride that colt now that you admired so much last summer." Kevin thanked him and a long silence followed.
"How's school?" his grandfather asked, nervously clearing his throat.
"Great. I got the second highest math grade." Kevin went on to tell him about the magazine rack he was building in shop because it seemed now that it was his grandfather who needed to be put at ease. He asked such questions only because he didn't know what else to say.
By the middle of the week Kevin felt at home on the farm. If it were not for the realization that the creatwasp's message would go to Olgorin on Saturday and that by Sunday they'd all be gone, Kevin would have been happy. Kevin was grooming the colt in its stall while his grandfather mended a feeder at the other end of the barn. The farmyard was noisy. Chickens, dogs, and horses made most of the sounds, and Kevin had an idea.
"Grandpa, I've got to talk to you. You've got to listen to me."
"Try me," his grandfather said. So Kevin told him all about the creatwasp and its plans for Saturday. Grandfather wrinkled his forehead. "What you're saying is serious, Kevin. Can you prove any of it?"
"Look at this!" Kevin desperately tore the bandage from his wrist. "See the claw prints? I wasn't burned in the fire." Grandfather Wheatmore gave a low whistle. "Your story sounds incredible, Kevin, but I believe you. Do you have any idea how we can get rid of this thing?"
"I do now," Kevin said. "I know that it's not what it eats that weakens it, as I first thought. . . ." And he went on to describe his plan.
"There's one thing wrong," his grandfather said. "Your parents won't let Joyce come up here. Only a few days ago you attacked her with a baseball bat!"
"But, don't you see, Grandpa. Joyce is the creatwasp, and if you mention how quiet it is up here, she'll come anyway. She needs the silence."
The trap was set the way Kevin suggested, and Kevin tested it several times to make sure it worked. Early the following Saturday, Joyce arrived. Kevin knew that if his trap didn't work by afternoon, he and everyone else would be dead. But as they talked, the creature looked so much like Joyce, with the same voice and mannerisms, that Kevin began to wonder if maybe his parents and the psychiatrist were right. His grandfather looked doubtful, too.
"I'd like to see the farm," Joyce said after a short time, and Kevin, anxious to try his plan before his grandfather changed his mind, went into his act.
"There's nothing special about it," Kevin said, pretending he didn't want to show her around.
"Where is the quiet place?" Joyce asked, grimacing at the clucking chickens.
"I'll show you later. Come on, you'll like the barn."
"What's in the barn?" Joyce stopped to look at a kitten playing with a piece of string.
"The horses. I'll show you the horses." Kevin hadn't intended for his voice to sound so eager.
"No, thanks. I've tried them. I mean, I know what a horse looks like."
"There's a calf." no "A what? Oh, I want to see it," Joyce said, and she followed him toward the barn. Just at the door, though, she clapped her hands over her ears.
"Kevin, I can't stand those squawking chickens. I've got to get away from here." Green splotches spread across Joyce's forehead.
"No, you've got to see the calf," he yelled, and careful only to touch her coat, he shoved her through the barn door. At the same time he kicked the hidden switch he had set up under the straw.
Bells rang. Radios tuned to different stations and set at full volume blared. Records of train whistles, fire sirens, and factory whistles played on old phonographs. Kevin and his grandfather had even dragged in an old dinner bell that was used to warn the neighbors in case of fire. Operating electrically, it clanged loudly.
All this came over the amplifier at multiple volume. The horses, frightened at the noise, began to neigh. Kevin blew on his athletic whistle and directed the piercing sound right into Joyce's ear.
The plan was working. Joyce began to turn green. Her features blurred, forming the insect eyes and heavy mandibles of the creatwasp. Long wasplike legs appeared, and her body slimmed out to a hornet shape. The odor of fermenting grass dominated the smell of the hay and the horses.
Grandpa Wheatmore, who had followed them to the barn, watched what used to be Joyce. "Look out, Kevin," he cried. "The dinner bell has stopped. The creature will get back its strength."
Kevin saw that the bell mechanism had broken down. The creatwasp was stretching up on its legs, reaching toward Grandpa Wheatmore. Kevin grabbed the bell's rope and yanked, ringing it over and over until the creatwasp collapsed.
Kevin did not stop ringing the bell or blowing his in whistle until the monster, now nothing but a green quivering mass, shriveled and was still.
They put it into a box and nailed it shut. "The UFO Investigation Committee will want to see this," Grandfather Wheatmore said.
The following Wednesday, in the living room of his own home, Kevin held out his hand to receive the engraved commendation from General Greene. His mother, father, and grandfather watched proudly.
"... for your brave contribution to both science and your country," General Greene was saying. "Through you a grave danger to the people of this planet has been removed."
A photographer's flash unit went off and the ceremony ended.
"You saw your duty and you did it." Mr. Wheatmore patted Kevin's shoulder. "But there's more to be done. Look how the hedge has grown. You'll find the clippers in the garage."
Nightmare in a Box
by RITA RITCHIE
Tracy Ann Stuart huddled in the far corner of the dark fruit cellar, her heart thumping as she listened to the creature prowling outside the door.
She could hear its harsh breathing and the scraping of its nails on the wooden panels. Had it found her at last?
Abruptly the pawing stopped. There was an irritable, questing rumble deep in the
monster's throat. Then the swish-thump of its movement began to recede.
Tracy crept to the door and peered through the latch hole. She could see the creature in the occasional shafts of evening sun shining through the tiny basement windows. The hideous thing was big now, bigger than her father, and it was methodically scrabbling in the various corners of the old basement. It would move fast enough, she knew, once it found its prey.
The quill-like growths on the monster's back were now long fleshy tubes, and the flexible nose of the misshapen purple face extended like a baby elephant's. The yellow horns looked harder and sharper, while the red eyes . . . You did not need much light to see those malevolent red eyes.
Tracy wished again with all her might that she had never taken that package inside the house. When the doorbell rang that afternoon, Tracy had been alone most of the day in the big old house that was the Stuart family's new home.
At twelve, Tracy was old enough to be left in charge while her parents made one last trip to their former home over a hundred miles away for the final load of personal belongings. Someone had to stay here to admit the telephone people, in case this was the day they chose to install the phone. Her parents had hardly left after breakfast when a lady came to read the water meter. Staying a little while to chat, she told Tracy something of the neighborhood. Now at last the telephone people had arrived.
But it was not a telephone company truck Tracy saw when she pulled open the heavy front door. Instead, a large red van was parked in the gravel driveway, and a man in a brown uniform stood on the steps holding a box. The man said, "National Package Delivery. Can I leave this shipment with you? The lady down the road isn't home."
Tracy hesitated, then remembered her mother taking in things for their neighbors in their old town. She nodded. "Okay. How do I know where to take it?"
The man set the package down and scribbled in his notebook. "You don't have to do anything, miss. I'll just leave a notice in her door and she can come for it when she gets home." He thrust pencil and pad at Tracy. "Sign here, please."
She wrote her name carefully. "Who is the package for?"
"Name's Cranshaw. Lives in that green house down there. Thanks, miss!" He walked vigorously to his van, hopped in, and drove off, leaving Tracy with her mouth open in dismay.
"Cranshaw!" she repeated, looking down the road at the home of their nearest neighbor. Here at the edge of town, the houses became widely scattered and were not at all like those in the suburb where Tracy had spent most of her life. And the ramshackle dark green house down the road, half-hidden behind a luxurious growth of spooky-looking pine trees, seemed like the kind of house a witch would live in. "Creepy" Cranshaw they called her in town, or so said the water meter lady. Tracy shivered, then remembered the package.
The box was perfectly ordinary looking, wrapped in brown paper and sturdily tied with cord. It had a neat white label bearing the name of Miss Lulu Cranshaw, but no return address. Big red stickers with white letters fairly shouted fragile! do not drop! keep out of light! And here the midafternoon sun was pouring its warm rays down upon it.
Tracy was reluctant to touch anything destined for a witch. But she did not want Miss Cranshaw angry with her, either. So she picked it up carefully, surprised at its light weight, and set it down in a dark corner of the entry. Now it was just an ordinary package waiting for its owner to claim it.
While she washed the set of good dishes her mother had unpacked that morning, Tracy began to wonder what a witch would order through the mail. Maybe it was a surprise sent by somebody else—a relative, or another witch.
The wondering about the box became an itch in Tracy's mind. Drying the last of the dishes and putting them in the cupboard, she went to look at the box sitting in the shadowed entry.
She flipped on the light switch. A little light could not hurt. Then she gently raised the box a few inches off the floor and shook it. There was a faint rustling, like crunched-up newspaper. Maybe somebody sent the box for a joke. Or maybe—Tracy's throat got tight—maybe it was a doll to stick pins in!
The flaps of the neatly folded wrapping paper were not stuck down with tape. And the stiff cord was loose enough to slip off, if somebody wanted to.
Tracy slipped it off. She unfolded the brown paper to reveal a gray cardboard box. She lifted off the lid.
Tucked in a nest of crushed newspaper was something wrapped in black paper. It was irregular in shape, with the paper twisted around so that nobody would ever notice a couple of extra creases. Standing up under the entry light, Tracy untwisted the paper and opened it.
For a second or two she stared at the horrible little dried-up thing in her hand. Then shuddering with revulsion, she flung it away and ran back to the kitchen. There she soaped her hands under the running faucet, washing and scrubbing, trying to forget the dreadful image.
It had been alive once, but Tracy had never even imagined an animal like that, not in her most awful nightmares. She remembered a stupid joke from way back in fourth grade. What does a witch ride on? A night mare. Ha-ha-ha.
But nobody would laugh at this nightmare. The dessicated body was purple-gray, with stickerlike things like porcupine quills over part of it. The underside was covered with mangy gray fur, half-hidden under the folded dead paws that looked like tiny clenched fists. But the face! It was a parody of a human face, with purple bulbous features, cracked and wrinkled, and with a tiny pair of yellow horns on the forehead. The nearly closed red eyes seemed to stare.
Ugh! Tracy shivered as she wiped her hands on a towel. Then she hugged herself, standing alone and nervous in the brightly painted kitchen. Her parents would not be home for at least a couple more hours, maybe even longer. Meanwhile, if Miss Lulu Cranshaw came and asked for her package . . . She would be awfully angry that it had been opened.
Remembering the stories the water meter lady had told her about "Creepy" Cranshaw, Tracy knew she had to put the package back together. She rehearsed it in her mind. She would just march in, quickly wrap up the little dead monster, and jam it back in the box. Taking a determined breath, she walked swiftly to the front entry. Trying not to think about it, she scooped up the black paper.
It was empty.
The dreadful little dried-up thing must have fallen out when she had thrown it. Tracy looked around carefully, then stooped to feel the patterned rug with her hands. Sick at the thought of touching the thing, she knew she had to.
Except for the box and its wrappings, the entry was completely bare. Tracy shook out the paper, cord, and box, but found nothing. She wondered how she could fail to see the little monster under the entry light.
Light. Keep Out of Light!
Maybe light had somehow made it disappear. It was a crazy idea—about as crazy as having a witch living just down the road. But Tracy snapped off the light anyway.
Going into the living room, she glanced around, hoping the nasty little husk had rolled in there. Light flooded in through the windows, but the wide expanse of carpet was bare. The furniture was too far away for it to have—
What was that?
A quick movement flickered at the edge of her vision, but when Tracy turned her head she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was just a bird shadow flashing across the window. She glanced outside.
A face stared back at her. It was an old woman's face, pointed and wrinkled, and piercing dark eyes locked into Tracy's. The woman on the porch stepped closer and held up the National Package Delivery slip in a bony hand.
Swallowing hard, Tracy numbly went to open the front door, us "I'm Miss Lulu Cranshaw," said a voice as spiky as a dried milkweed pod. As the breeze pulled her dress against her, her tall spindly frame was revealed. An old-fashioned car was parked in front of the house. "You have a package for me."
Tracy's breath hurt as she said, "No, ma'am, we haven't got a package or anything."
Miss Cranshaw pursed her lips. She held out the delivery notice. "This is 26445 Baxter, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is.
I was home all day and nobody came." She waited a moment and when Miss Cranshaw did not move, Tracy added, "I guess somebody made a mistake."
"I am your nearest neighbor, Miss Tracy Ann Stuart. I think we should start out being friendly."
It sounded like a threat. Tracy's momentary wavering hardened into a resolve to carry the charade through. "Yes, Miss Cranshaw. I'll look around to see if I can find anything. And I'll ask my parents when they come home."
"This package," said Miss Cranshaw, speaking slowly and distinctly, "has a very special pet inside. It needs a certain kind of care. If it is not treated correctly, it can be fatal."
"I'll look for the box," Tracy said, thinking desperately, Go away, please!
"I will go now," said Miss Cranshaw, grinning a knowing grin. "When you find my little pet, come and tell me immediately. You don't have much time—perhaps an hour, maybe less. Then it will be too late." She turned on her heel and went to her car.
Relieved, Tracy shut the door and locked it. But as she turned, her eye caught the jumble of box and wrappings lying exactly where light from the opened door would fall upon it.
Had Miss Cranshaw seen it?
If so, she knew now that Tracy had opened her box. Maybe that's why she had given her a time limit to restore the contents—or suffer dreadful witch consequences!
Tracy had to find that horrible thing, box it up, then tell Miss Cranshaw she found it near the back door. She would search hard all over for it, now, before her parents came home.
Once more a shadow fluttered in a corner of the living room, a larger one this time. Maybe a cat had gotten into the house. And if it found that dried-up "pet" and tore it to pieces . . .
Tracy had plenty of experience with other people's cats. "Here, kitty!" She pulled out the easy chair.
Gazing into evil red eyes, Tracy froze. The creature was no longer a dehydrated husk. It was fleshed out to five times the original size. The fists clasped and unclasped, the dreadful bulbous nose wriggled, and down in its throat was a rattle and a hiss.
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 9
