The Junior Novel

by Calliope Glass

  “You’re welcome in advance!” she said, nodding and grinning and staring vacantly into space as the other person talked.

  At that moment, a girl on a bike rode up. Brrring! Brrring! She rang the bike’s bell excitedly and waved to get Margaux’s attention. Margaux ignored her.

  “Mom!” the girl said. “Mom! You’re never going to believe this! I rode up the back road, up that hill? And I found this dirt road, and there was all this fog, and there was this gate, and I think there’s some kind of weird old mansion up there!”

  Margaux finished her call and hung up the phone. She looked up.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hi, Parker. Did you say something?”

  Parker bounced on her bike seat. “I said, I found a creepy mansion up on the hill! Really close by!”

  Margaux smiled a fake smile. “I’m so glad you’re exploring, Parker. I love it that you’re getting into real estate like your mama! But right now I don’t have time to talk. Margaux needs to help people.”

  She started to walk away. Parker hopped off her bike and grabbed at her mom’s sleeve.

  “I need help,” she said. “Aren’t I ‘people’?”

  “No,” Margaux said impatiently, yanking her hand away. “I mean actual people. People who watch television.”

  Parker watched her mom go, then stormed off, kicking a red balloon out of her path.

  Chapter 3

  MEANWHILE, UP ON THAT FOGGY HILL . . .

  Pugsley had his bow-and-arrow set out and was aiming an arrow straight at Lurch, who stood with his back to a tree.

  Pugsley considered just letting the arrow go and seeing what would happen, but then he reluctantly shifted his aim about a foot to the left, to the target Lurch was holding for him.

  “Left a bit . . .” Pugsley said. Lurch adjusted the target. “Now down a bit . . . perfect!”

  “MRGH,” Lurch groaned encouragingly.

  “And three . . . two . . . one . . .” Pugsley murmured, getting ready to shoot the arrow at the target.

  BWWAAAAHHHMMM!!!

  Wednesday had blasted an air horn right into his ear. Pugsley jumped a mile and fired the arrow into the air. It vanished into the foggy sky, and the children heard a thunk and a surprised yelp as it hit Fester, who had been taking a nap.

  Pugsley rounded on Wednesday. “You made me miss!” he said furiously. “Do you know how long it took for me to set this up? It took Lurch twenty minutes to make it to this tree from the front porch. You know how slowly he moves!”

  Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Look, Pugsley,” she said impatiently. “Your Mazurka is coming up, and you are not ready. Even if I am the only person who can see it. So pay attention, kid, and do exactly what I say, and you might actually get through this.”

  Pugsley stared at his sister. “Wait,” he said incredulously. “You’re going to help me? Why?”

  Wednesday’s mouth pursed like she was tasting something bad. “Because you’re my brother,” she spat out, “and I love you.”

  “You need help,” Pugsley said nervously.

  “You need it worse,” Wednesday retorted. “Now, you see that hole over there? Go stand by it.”

  Pugsley walked over to the freshly dug hole in the yard. It was about the size of a grave.

  “This one?” he asked.

  “That one,” Wednesday said. She had an unpleasant smile on her face.

  “I don’t get it—” Pugsley started, before he got distracted by a mysterious red sphere that floated by his head. “Hey,” he said, “what’s—”

  But he was cut off by Wednesday smashing a shovel across the back of his head and knocking him out cold.

  Clang.

  Wednesday emptied the last shovelful of dirt onto the refilled grave and patted the mound of soil happily. “Sleep tight,” she murmured.

  Pugsley had taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker. He’d really believed that she wanted to help him with his Mazurka! What a sap.

  Wednesday turned away from the grave and examined her new prize. She’d grabbed it as soon as she’d knocked out Pugsley, and tied it to a bush so she could investigate it later. It was about the size and shape of a human head, but it was round and smooth and red and . . . it floated. Wednesday had never seen anything like it. She loved it.

  She headed inside.

  “Good news, everybody,” she announced to her parents. “Pugsley’s gone.”

  Morticia sighed. “Wednesday, I know that tone of voice,” she said. “Dig your brother up at once.”

  Wednesday scowled. Was she that transparent? She needed to try out some new murder weapons on Pugsley, obviously. And her parents needed to stop interfering.

  “You’re weakening the gene pool,” she said sulkily. Then her mother spotted the red . . . thing she was holding.

  “What do you have there?” Morticia asked Wednesday. Wednesday looked up at it. It was kind of like a ball, but lighter, and more delicate. She still had no idea what it was.

  “I’m not sure,” Wednesday said. “I like it, though. It’s so . . .” She struggled for the right word. “What’s the opposite of gloomy?”

  Morticia took the ball. “It’s a balloon,” she said, in the tone of voice most people use to identify a dead rat. “How strange that it’s here all by itself. There’s usually a murderous clown attached to the other end of these.”

  Then Morticia gasped in horror. Wednesday watched, alarmed, as her mother reached a shaking hand toward her.

  “Wednesday,” she whispered, her face even more ashen than usual, “don’t move.”

  She plucked something from Wednesday’s shoulder. It was a small fragment of brightly colored pink paper.

  “What in the name of all that is unholy is that?” asked Gomez. He took the bit of paper from Morticia and gingerly put his tongue out to taste it.

  “It tastes like cotton candy,” Gomez said, looking horrified.

  “What on earth is going on?” Morticia said. She and Gomez hurried outside to investigate, and Wednesday trailed after them, still clutching her . . . what had her mother called it?

  Oh, yes. Her balloon.

  Outside, the wind was still sweeping up the hill, and now it was carrying hundreds—thousands—millions?—of those little scraps of paper.

  Fester stared up at the sky.

  “Confetti,” he said in horror. “I saw something like this in the jungles of Florida once. There’s a torture camp there called—”

  “Gah!” Pugsley gasped as he erupted from the grave Wednesday had buried him in. He shook dirt out of his hair and looked up at the shower of . . . confetti.

  “What is that?” he asked, squinting in confusion. “Where is it coming from?”

  Wednesday pointed silently down the driveway. The gate, usually shrouded in fog, was clearly visible.

  The fog was gone.

  “Wait,” Gomez said, confused. “The fog is lifting!”

  “That would only happen if—” Morticia started.

  “If someone drained the marsh!” Gomez finished. “But who would do that? And why?”

  They squinted down the hill. As the fog continued to thin, a horrifying vision was revealed.

  An adorable suburban town.

  “A town,” Morticia said. “A . . . normal town. This is not good.”

  Gomez squared his shoulders. He was clearly determined to make the best of this disastrous development. “We must go down there and introduce ourselves at once!” he said bravely.

  Wednesday stared down at the newly revealed town, then up at her parents. “This day is becoming most wonderfully disruptive,” she said happily.

  Down in Eastfield Estates, producer Glenn caught up to Margaux Needler in front of one of the new houses she had built in Eastfield. “I’ve just gotten confirmation that they’ve finished draining the swamp,” he told her.

  Margaux nodded. “Just in time!” she said. “That filthy swamp stank up my whole town.” She smirked. “And now we can put in a golf course.”


  “Exactly!” Glenn said, smiling happily.

  Margaux pulled Glenn into the house. “I can’t wait to reveal these new houses on the show,” she said. “People are going to lose their minds when they see the picture window in this living room.”

  She went and posed in front of the curtained window. “When we shoot the next scene,” she told Glenn, “we’ll do a sequence with me standing in front of this window, like this.”

  She reached out and took the curtain in one hand. “And then I’ll do a big dramatic reveal where I pull the curtain open and they can see the incredible view!”

  With a flourish, Margaux pulled the curtain open. “Like this!” she said, and grinned her big television grin.

  But Glenn did not grin back. He just stared out the window. Horror dawned on his face.

  “What,” Margaux snapped. “What’s the matter? Do I have something in my teeth?”

  Then she turned, and horror swept over her face as well.

  Perfectly framed in the brand-new picture window was a hulking gothic mansion slumped on the top of a dark, rocky hill.

  Lightning streaked across the sky, reflecting off the broken windows of the hideous home. The hideous home now revealed to be in eyesight from every single house for sale in Eastfield Estates.

  Margaux shrieked.

  Chapter 4

  The Addamses didn’t leave their house very often. Or, to tell the truth, ever.

  So it took a little while to get everything organized for their trip down to Eastfield Estates. Wednesday wanted to bring her pet octopus, Socrates. But then Kitty, the family’s semi-pet lion (“semi” because the word “pet” suggests “tame,” which Kitty . . . wasn’t), wanted to come. And then, because Socrates and Kitty were both going, Ichabod the tree wanted to come too.

  It took some doing to explain to Ichabod that trees can’t ride in cars. Eventually, Wednesday agreed to leave Socrates back home to keep Ichabod company, and the Addamses—Morticia, Gomez, Fester, Wednesday, Pugsley, and Kitty—all piled into the car, with Lurch at the wheel.

  Two minutes later, they were pulling up to a pedestrian mall at the heart of Eastfield Estates. Kitty bounded out of the car.

  “Play nice!” Gomez called after him as citizens screamed and scrambled to get away from him.

  The Addamses all piled out of the car and stood in the painfully bright sunlight, blinking and looking around the charming little town. Fester wandered off. Gomez didn’t bother following him—there weren’t that many places Fester could legally go, anyway.

  “What kind of topsy-turvy place is this?” Gomez said. “There isn’t even a gallows in the town square.”

  Morticia looked around at all the new construction. Half of the buildings had been built in the last few years, and the older ones were all very nicely kept up. She sniffed critically. “It’ll be years before rust and decay set in,” she said. “Who would want to live here?”

  But Wednesday didn’t feel the same way at all. She saw the clean streets, the white pavement sidewalks, the emerald-green lawns, and the cheerful flower beds, and something inside of her perked up. It was the strangest sensation—Wednesday had never in her entire life experienced anything close to perkiness.

  “It’s all so . . . different,” she breathed.

  Pugsley spotted a bowl of water with a dog-paw pattern printed on it, set out on the sidewalk in front of a shop. “At least they’re generous to traveling strangers,” he said, getting down on all fours to lap some of the water up. A man walking by stopped and stared at Pugsley.

  “Whose child is this?” he asked, looking around.

  Morticia blushed scarlet and hurried over. “Pugsley! Manners!” she cried, pulling him up. “Don’t drink it all. This gentleman wants some too.”

  Pugsley wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sorry,” he said. He smiled at the man. “It’s all yours,” he added, pointing at the remaining water in the bowl on the ground.

  The man stared at him, then at Morticia, and then turned and ran.

  “What a nervous fellow,” Morticia murmured.

  “Come on, Tish!” Gomez said cheerfully. “Let’s explore the neighborhood!”

  Morticia looked around skeptically. “Must we?” she asked.

  Gomez shrugged. “You don’t have to, darling,” he said. “But I’d like to meet our new neighbors.” He looked around, wondering where to start. “Ah!” he said, pointing at a coffee shop. “I’m going to pop in here for a minute, and I’ll meet you all in the town square. Sound good?”

  “Very well, dear,” Morticia said nervously, drawing Wednesday and Pugsley close to her. She looked around the bright, cheerful little town with dark suspicion.

  “Stay close, children,” she told them. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”

  Gomez swanned into the local café and bowed to the people inside. They all stopped talking and stared at him.

  “Good day!” he said loudly. “Don’t let me interrupt your, ah, cup of Joe, or whoever you’ve trapped in there.” He pointed to an urn of coffee. “Poor fellow,” he added.

  He turned to the barista. “Coffeemaster!” he exclaimed. “Sell me something dark and bitter.”

  The barista stared at him blankly. “Uh,” she said. Then she snapped back into customer service mode. “We have a single-source, renewably green Madagascar peaberry with notes of oak, cherry, and yoga.”

  Gomez thought about it. “Sounds awful,” he said encouragingly. “But you know, I think I’m looking for something stronger.”

  One of the other baristas was emptying a vat of used coffee grounds into the trash, and Gomez hurried over to him. “Ah!” Gomez said. “That looks delicious. Let me try that.”

  Margaux and Glenn drove through Eastfield in an adorable golf cart. Margaux gripped the wheel, her knuckles white. She was grinding her teeth with rage. Glenn scrolled desperately through his phone, reading through an archive of public records.

  “Ah!” he said finally. “Here it is. That house is owned by a Gomez and Morticia Addams.”

  Margaux bared her teeth. Now she knew the names of her enemies. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” she demanded. “Every neighbor in the neighborhood counts. If this neighborhood is not perfection, these home values will plummet, and we will lose a lot of money, Glenn.”

  Glenn continued reading the record on his phone. “I’m not sure why we didn’t know about them before,” he said. “The rest of this property record just says ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!’.”

  Margaux squinted. “I know exactly what needs to be done here,” she said.

  Gomez strolled along the main street of Eastfield Estates, eating coffee grounds with a spoon. His face lit up when he spotted Morticia standing exactly in the center of the town square, her bony arms wrapped protectively around Wednesday and Pugsley. She looked like a trapped feral cat ready to scratch. Gomez smiled fondly. What a lovely woman she was.

  “Morticia!” he cried as he strode toward her. “You really must try these coffee grounds. They’re fantastic!”

  Before Morticia could reply, a shrill chorus of voices intruded on the quiet afternoon.

  “Hooray, join the party! This is where we all belong!”

  Gomez’s coffee grounds dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. He stared around in shock. He’d never heard such an awful noise in his life.

  “Everybody come together and sing our song, sing our song!” the little piping voices continued. Gomez fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands.

  Morticia looked as disturbed as he felt. “What am I hearing?” she said, appalled.

  Gomez gathered his family together, and they looked around cautiously. “I think the path is clear to the car,” Gomez said. “Let’s run for it.”

  But when they rounded the corner, they found the source of the noise: a children’s choir.

  The children of Eastfield Estates were wearing bright polo shirts, matching hats, and khaki shorts. They were performing in front of a gazebo in a nicely
manicured little park. A banner hanging behind them read CHIPPER AND CHEER FUNDRAISER. Some of the townspeople had gathered to listen to the mind-bending din.

  “That is absolutely horrible,” Gomez said. His initial fear had faded, and now he was just sort of in awe of how awful the sound was. Fester wandered over, both hands firmly over his ears.

  “What an upsetting noise!” he bellowed at Gomez. Gomez could only nod. What on earth did these children think they were doing?

  “It’s easy to be happy when you have no choice!” the children went on.

  Realization dawned slowly. Gomez knew exactly what was happening.

  “Hold on!” Gomez said, turning to Morticia. “Unless I miss my guess here, I believe this is supposed to be music.”

  “What?” Morticia said.

  “Yes!” Gomez continued. Suddenly it all made sense. “They’re greeting us with one of their traditional songs!”

  Fester beamed. “Well, then,” he said, “we oughta do the same!”

  Morticia smiled. “What a wonderful idea, Fester,” she said.

  Fester walked up to the choir. They stopped singing, confused, and watched as he reached into his coat.

  He pulled out two bats and used their squeaky shrieks as an accompaniment for his cacophonous singing.

  The chorus screamed and ran.

  Fester watched them go, forlorn. Tears sprang into his eyes. He turned to Gomez. “What did I do?” he asked woefully.

  Morticia frowned. “How rude,” she said. “Screaming and running away after Fester’s lovely offering. Perhaps we should return home.”

  She began hurrying toward the car, but Gomez caught her by the arm. “Morticia,” he murmured. “This is not the old country, dearest. True, these people are a little different from us, but deep down we’re all the same.”

  A local man screamed as he ran across the park lawn, pursued by a roaring Kitty.

  Gomez went on: “There seem to be many empty houses in this town. And the local populace appears to be largely peaceful. This could be a wonderful place for our extended family to stay for the Mazurka . . .” He raised his eyebrows at Morticia. She nodded reluctantly. It wasn’t a bad idea. “We have to give them a chance,” Gomez coaxed. “Get to know them. Win them over.”