08 - The Girl Who Cried Monster (3 page)

I was still holding my breath.

The clock
tick-tick-ticked
noisily from across the room. Behind his
desk, Mr. Mortman’s face moved in and out of blue-purple shadows.

The Rollerblades suddenly felt heavy. I lowered them silently to the floor.
Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I took a few steps toward the front.

Mr. Mortman began humming to himself. I didn’t recognize the song.

The shadows grew deeper as I approached. Peering down the dark aisle, I saw
him holding a large glass jar between his pudgy hands. I was close enough to see
that he had a pleasant smile on his face.

Keeping in the shadows, I moved closer.

I like spying on people. It’s kind of thrilling, even when they don’t do
anything very interesting.

Just knowing that you’re watching them and they don’t know they’re being
watched is exciting.

Humming to himself, Mr. Mortman held the jar in front of his chest and
started to unscrew the top. “Some juicy flies, my timid friends,” he announced
in his high-pitched voice.

So. The jar was filled with flies.

Suddenly, the room grew much darker as clouds rolled over the late afternoon
sun. The light from the window dimmed. Gray shadows rolled over Mr. Mortman and
his enormous desk, as if blanketing him in darkness.

From my hidden perch among the shelves, I watched him prepare to feed his
turtles.

But wait.

Something was wrong.

My premonition was coming true.

Something
weird
was happening!

As he struggled to unscrew the jar lid, Mr. Mortman’s face began to change.
His head floated up from his turtleneck and started to expand, like a balloon being inflated.

I uttered a silent gasp as I saw his tiny eyes poke out of his head. The eyes
bulged bigger and bigger, until they were as big as doorknobs.

The light from the window grew even dimmer.

The entire room was cast in heavy shadows. The shadows swung and shifted.

I couldn’t see well at all. It was like I was watching everything through a
dark fog.

Mr. Mortman continued to hum, even as his head bobbed and throbbed above his
shoulders and his eyes bulged out as if on stems, poking straight up like insect
antennae.

And then his mouth began to twist and grow. It opened wide, like a gaping
black hole on the enormous, bobbing head.

Mr. Mortman sang louder now. An eerie, frightening sound, more like animal
howling than singing.

He pulled off the lid of the jar and let it fall to the desk. It clanged
loudly as it hit the desktop.

I leaned forward, struggling to see. Squinting hard, I saw Mr. Mortman dip
his fat hand into the jar. I could hear loud buzzing from the jar. He pulled out
a handful of flies.

I could see his eyes bulge even wider.

I could see the gaping black hole that was his mouth.

He held his hand briefly over the turtle cage. I could see the flies, black
dots all over his hand. In his palm. On his short, stubby fingers.

I thought he was going to lower his hand to the aluminum pan. I thought he
was going to feed the turtles.

But, instead, he jammed the flies into his own mouth.

I shut my eyes and held my hand over my mouth to keep from puking.

Or screaming.

I held my breath, but my heart kept racing.

The shadows lurched and jumped. The darkness seemed to float around me.

I opened my eyes. He was eating another handful of flies, shoving them into
his gaping mouth with his fingers, swallowing them whole.

I wanted to shout. I wanted to run.

Mr. Mortman, I realized, was a monster.

The shadows seemed to pull away. The sky outside the window brightened, and a
gray triangle of light fell over Mr. Mortman’s desk.

Opening my eyes, I realized I’d been holding my breath. My chest felt as if
it were about to burst. I let the air out slowly and took another deep breath.

Then, without glancing again to the front of the room, I turned and ran. My
sneakers thudded over the creaky floors, but I didn’t care.

I had to get out of there as fast as I could.

I bolted out the front door of the library onto the stone steps, then down
the gravel driveway. I ran as fast as I could, my arms flying wildly at my
sides, my black hair blowing behind me.

I didn’t stop until I was a block away.

Then I dropped to the curb and waited for my heart to stop pounding like a
bass drum.

Heavy rain clouds rolled over the sun again.

The sky became an eerie yellow-black. A station wagon rolled past. Some kids
in the back of it called to me, but I didn’t raise my head.

I kept seeing the shadowy scene in the library again and again.

Mr. Mortman is a monster.

The words repeated nonstop in my mind.

It can’t be, I thought, gazing up at the black clouds so low overhead.

I was seeing things. That had to be it.

All the shadows in the dark library. All the swirling darkness.

It was an optical illusion.

It was my wild imagination.

It was a daydream, a silly fantasy.

No!
a loud voice in my head cried.

No, Lucy, you
saw
Mr. Mortman’s head bulge. You saw his eyes pop out
and grow like hideous toadstools on his ballooning face.

You saw him reach into the fly jar. You heard him humming so happily, so… hungrily.

You saw him jam the flies into his mouth. Not one handful, but two.

And maybe he’s still in there, eating his fill.

It was dark, Lucy. There were shadows. But you saw what you saw. You saw it
all.

Mr. Mortman is a monster.

I climbed to my feet. I felt a cold drop of rain on top of my head.

“Mr. Mortman is a monster.” I said it out loud.

I knew I had to tell Mom and Dad as fast as I could. “The librarian is a
monster.” That’s what I’d tell them.

Of course, they’ll be shocked. Who
wouldn’t
be?

Feeling another raindrop on my head, then one on my shoulder, I started
jogging for home. I had gone about half a block when I stopped.

The stupid Rollerblades! I had left them in the library again.

I turned back. A gust of wind blew my hair over my face. I pushed it back
with both hands. I was thinking hard, trying to figure out what to do.

Rain pattered softly on the pavement of the street. The cold raindrops felt
good on my hot forehead.

I decided to go back to the library and get my skates. This time, I’d make a
lot of noise. Make sure Mr. Mortman knew someone was there.

If he heard me coming, I decided, he’d act normal. He wouldn’t eat flies in
front of me. He wouldn’t let his eyes bulge and his head grow like that.

Would he?

I stopped as the library came back into view. I hesitated, staring through
the drizzling rain at the old building.

Maybe I should wait and come back tomorrow with my dad.

Wouldn’t that be smarter?

No. I decided I wanted my skates. And I was going to get them.

I’ve always been pretty brave.

The time a bat flew into our house,
I
was the one who yelled and
screamed at it and chased it out with a butterfly net.

I’m not afraid of bats. Or snakes. Or bugs.

“Or monsters,” I said out loud.

As I walked up to the front of the library, rain pattering softly all around
me, I kept telling myself to make a lot of noise. Make sure Mr. Mortman knows
you’re there, Lucy. Call out to him. Tell him you came back because you left
your skates.

He won’t let you see that he’s a monster if he knows you’re there.

He won’t hurt you or anything if you give him some warning.

I kept reassuring myself all the way up to the dark, old building. I climbed
the stone steps hesitantly.

Then, taking a deep breath, I grabbed the doorknob and started to go in.

I turned the knob and pushed, but the door refused to open. I tried again. It
took me a while to realize that it was locked.

The library was closed.

The rain pattered softly on the grass as I walked around to the front window.
It was high off the ground. I had to pull myself up on the window ledge to look
inside.

Darkness. Total darkness.

I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I wanted my skates, but I didn’t really want to go back in there. “I’ll get
them tomorrow,” I said out loud.

I lowered myself to the ground. The rain was starting to come down harder,
and the wind was picking up, blowing the rain in sheets.

I started to run, my sneakers squishing over the wet grass. I ran all the way
home. I was totally drenched by the time I made my way through the front door. My hair was matted
down on my head. My T-shirt was soaked through.

“Mom! Dad? Are you home?” I cried.

I ran through the hallway, nearly slipping on the smooth floor, and burst
into the kitchen. “A monster!” I cried.

“Huh?” Randy was seated at the kitchen table, snapping a big pile of string
beans for Mom. He was the only one who looked up.

Mom and Dad were standing at the counter, rolling little meatballs in their
hands. They didn’t even turn around.

“A monster!” I screamed again.

“Where?” Randy cried.

“Did you get caught in the rain?” Mom asked.

“Don’t you say hi?” Dad asked. “Do you just explode into a room yelling?
Don’t I get a ‘Hi, Dad,’ or anything?”

“Hi, Dad,” I cried breathlessly. “There’s a monster in the library!”

“Lucy, please—” Mom started impatiently.

“What kind of monster?” Randy asked. He had stopped snapping the ends off the
beans and was staring hard at me.

Mom finally turned around. “You’re soaked!” she cried. “You’re dripping all
over the floor. Get upstairs and change into dry clothes.”

Dad turned, too, a frown on his face. “Your mother just washed the floor,” he muttered.

“I’m trying to tell you something!”
I shouted, raising my fists in the
air.

“No need to scream,” Mom scolded. “Get changed. Then tell us.”

“But Mr. Mortman is a
monster!”
I cried.

“Can’t you save the monster stuff till later? I just got home, and I’ve got
the worst headache,” Dad complained. His eyes stared down at the kitchen floor.
Small puddles were forming around me on the white linoleum.

“I’m serious!” I insisted. “Mr. Mortman—he’s really a monster!”

Randy laughed. “He’s funny-looking.”

“Randy, it’s not nice to make fun of people’s looks,” Mom said crossly. She
turned back to me. “See what you’re teaching your little brother? Can’t you set
a good example?”

“But, Mom!”

“Lucy, please get into dry clothes,” Dad pleaded. “Then come down and set the
table, okay?”

I was so frustrated! I tilted my head back and let out an angry growl.
“Doesn’t anyone here
believe
me?” I cried.

“This really isn’t the time for your monster stories,” Mom said, turning back
to her meatballs. “Larry, you’re making them too big,” she scolded my father. “They’re supposed to be small and delicate.”

“But I like
big
meatballs,” Dad insisted.

No one was paying any attention to me. I turned and stomped angrily out of
the kitchen.

“Is Mr. Mortman
really
a monster?” Randy called after me.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care—about
anything!”
I screamed back. I
was just so angry and upset.

They didn’t have to ignore me like that.

All they cared about was their stupid meatballs.

Up in my room, I pulled off my wet clothes and tossed them on the floor. I
changed into jeans and a tank top.

Is Mr. Mortman really a monster?

Randy’s question repeated in my head.

Did I imagine the whole thing? Do I just have monsters on the brain?

It had been so dark and shadowy in the library with all the lights turned
off. Maybe Mr. Mortman didn’t eat the flies. Maybe he pulled them out of the jar
and fed them to his pet turtles.

Maybe I imagined that he ate them.

Maybe his head didn’t swell up like a balloon. Maybe his eyes didn’t pop out.
Maybe that was just a trick of the darkness, the dancing shadows, the dim gray
light.

Maybe I need glasses.

Maybe I’m crazy and weird.

“Lucy—hurry down and set the table,” my dad called up the stairs.

“Okay. Coming.” As I made my way downstairs, I felt all mixed up.

I didn’t mention Mr. Mortman at dinner. Actually, Mom brought him up. “What
book did you choose to read this week?” she asked.

“Frankenstein,”
I told her.

Dad groaned. “More monsters!” he cried, shaking his head. “Don’t you ever get
enough
monsters? You
see
them wherever you go! Do you have to
read
about monsters, too?”

Dad has a big booming voice. Everything about my dad is big. He looks very
tough, with a broad chest and powerful-looking arms. When he shouts, the whole
house shakes.

“Randy, you did a great job with the string beans,” Mom said, quickly
changing the subject.

After dinner, I helped Dad with the dishes. Then I went upstairs to my room
to start reading
Frankenstein.
I’d seen the old movie of
Frankenstein
on TV, so I knew what it was about. It was about a scientist who builds a
monster, and the monster comes to life.

It sounded like my kind of story.

I wondered if it was true.

To my surprise, I found Randy in my room, sitting on my bed, waiting for me. “What do you want?” I asked. I really
don’t like him messing around in my room.

“Tell me about Mr. Mortman,” he said. I could tell by his face that he was
scared and excited at the same time.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I realized I was eager to tell someone
about what had happened in the library. So I told Randy the whole story,
starting with how I had to go back there because I’d left my Rollerblades.