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For Dylan and Mia

INTRODUCTION

Hi, everyone. I’m back with ten more Stinetingling stories. I hope they keep you up late at night, bring a chill to the back of your neck, and maybe even get your teeth chattering. That’s my job, after all. My job is to scare you. And I hope I do it well in these creepy new tales.

Tiny fish that grow into giant man-eaters?

A house with bad luck in every room?

Frightening ghosts in the backyard treehouse?

Girls in the lunchroom who might actually be werewolves?

Those are some of the things you’ll find in these stories. None of them could happen to you—could they?

I hope they give you a chill.

You know. That tingle you get all over your body when you start to feel afraid.

I hope my new stories take you to a Stinetingling world of fantasy and fear, shadows and fright.

Reader, beware. That cold tingle may become a SCREAM!

FULL-MOON SLEEPOVER PARTY

When I was in high school, there were four kids who sat together at the same table every day in the lunchroom. They had something like a secret club. No one else was allowed to join them.

I used to sit at a nearby table and watch them talking and laughing. I wondered what they were talking about, what they were joking about. And why they wanted to keep it a secret from everyone else.

When I sat down to write this story, I remembered them. And I wondered: What if they weren’t normal kids? What if they were actually dangerous?

I know who those girls are, and I know what they are.

The four seventh-grade girls who sit at the same table every day, way at the side, in the shadows of the lunchroom. And make sure no one else can sit with them.

They pretend they don’t see me watching them.

They don’t want me at their table, and they don’t want me at their Friday night sleepover parties.

But I know what they do at those sleepovers. Because I know what they are.

After school, I see them in the parking lot behind the high school. Just hanging out, leaning on cars and talking. I know what they talk about. The moon and the next sleepover and what our town is like late at night when most everyone is asleep.

I see them howling with laughter, and I know what they laugh about. Their laughter is cold and cruel, and I know why.

They have long nails and they color them black. Like they’re in an exclusive club. They dress alike, mostly in gray and black. Their hair falls loosely down to their shoulders.

They all wear silver wolf pendants on slender chains around their necks. But they keep the pendants hidden under their tops so no one can see them.

They can’t keep secrets from me. Because I know what they are.

And the truth is, I belong with them.

I want to be with them. I want to sit at their table in the lunchroom, and sprawl on cars in the high school parking lot. And talk and joke and laugh cold laughter. And I want to be at the Friday night sleepovers where they howl at the full moon and have dangerous adventures.

But I can’t just walk up to them and tell them that. I can imagine the cruel laughter I’d get as a reply.

I need to find a way to let them know my feelings. How do I just stand there and tell them, “I know your secret. I know what you are”? I can’t. No way.

I’m not a timid person. And I’m definitely not shy.

I’ve made some friends since my family moved here to Maryville Mills a year ago. We have good fun together, and we help one another with homework and other school projects.

But I can’t really open up to them. Some things have to stay secret. You have to hold them close until you are with the right people who will understand.

So, usually on Friday nights, I sit at home and think of the four girls at their sleepover. And I think about what they talk about and what happens to them late every night the moon is full.

I didn’t give up hope of joining them. I just grew impatient trying to figure out how to make it happen.

Then, one Saturday afternoon at the Pine Woods Mall, something happened that changed things for me.

A lot of stores at the mall have closed and there are long, empty hallways with darkened windows on both sides. But there’s a shoe store my mom likes to bring me to because the prices are cheap and I actually like the shoes.

I bought a pair of designer sneakers that were hidden under a pile of shoes and on sale. As I left the store, I was thinking about how Mom would like my nose for bargains. She was shopping somewhere near the food court.

I stopped outside the store and nearly dropped the shoe bag when I recognized Larissa Wolf. The leader of the four girls. The reason they call themselves the Wolfpack.

Larissa stood in a corner with her back to the wall.

Two boys stood in front of her. Their faces were hidden behind gray hoodies, but I could see they were older than us. And I could see right away they were crowding her, standing too close, giving her a hard time.

Larissa’s mouth hung open and I could see the frightened look on her face. Her back pressed against the tile wall as if she were trying to escape through it.

“Hey—!” I let out a shout.

The two boys turned.

“Leave her alone!” I said as angrily as I could.

I started to run toward them. They watched me but didn’t move.

“Leave her alone!” I screamed.

They turned and moved shoulder to shoulder, like they were going to fight me. “Who are you?” the taller one snarled at me.

“I’m the one with the police whistle!” I yelled.

The silver whistle was on a chain around my neck. I pulled it out and blew on it with all my strength.

The shrill sound blasted off the mall walls, echoing for miles down the empty hall—and the two guys took off running. They didn’t look back.

Larissa didn’t move. She stayed with her back pressed against the wall. Her mouth still hung open as she stared at me.

“Nessa?” she finally spoke. “Nessa? Th-thanks,” she stammered.

I tucked the whistle back under my T-shirt and stepped closer to her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “That was scary.” Her voice was shaky. She rubbed her cheeks with both hands. I recognized her long black nails.

Larissa shook herself and stepped away from the wall. “Nessa, that was brave of you,” she said. “I think they wanted my wallet. It’s a joke because I told them I only have five dollars in it.”

“Glad you’re okay,” I said. My heart was still pounding pretty hard. Because of those two guys. And because I was actually talking with Larissa Wolf. Leader of the Wolfpack.

She squinted at me with her hazel eyes. “Why do you have a whistle?”

I raised it again and held it in front of me. “On Saturday mornings, I referee the soccer games at the elementary school playground,” I explained. “I just came from a game. Guess I forgot to take it off.”

“Lucky,” she said. She actually smiled at me. “Those guys were bad news.”

We started walking together toward the food court. My mind was spinning. I was trying to think of something to say. But I saw my mom waving to me down the hall.

I waved back to her. “Gotta go,” I told Larissa.

“Nessa, thanks again,” she said. “See you in school on Monday.”

Wow.

Maybe my life was about to change. Maybe I was about to make friends with girls I belonged with.

But on Monday in the lunchroom, it didn’t go well …

The lunch line was long. I turned and saw that Larissa was already at the Wolfpack table, chatting away with Gaby across from her. Kat and Maylene were ahead of me in the line.

I wanted to get the spaghetti, but I always get tomato sauce all over my face. So I took a tuna fish sandwich instead. I knew today was the day I’d finally get to sit at their table, and I didn’t want to look like a slob.

I like chocolate milk, but I took water instead. I was so eager to impress them. Maybe this wasn’t the biggest day of my life. But it was definitely the most exciting since I moved to Maryville Mills.

By the time I got my lunch, Kat and Maylene had joined the table. All four girls were talking at once. I wondered if they were talking about the next sleepover.

My heart started thumping in my chest as I carried my tray to their table. I gripped the tray tightly in both hands, afraid I might drop it. And stepped up to the side of the table.

It took Larissa a little while to look up. She was examining a smart watch on Maylene’s wrist. “Two thousand steps just this morning,” Maylene said.

Larissa snickered. “No way. You need a new watch.”

All four of them laughed.

Larissa finally noticed me standing there, my tray raised awkwardly at my chest. “Nessa, hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I echoed. I looked at the empty chair beside her.

“Nessa saved my life Saturday at the mall,” she told the others.

They studied me. “How?” Kat asked.

“She blew a whistle,” Larissa answered, “and chased some bad dudes away.” She turned back to me. “Show them your whistle, Nessa.”

“I—I don’t have it,” I stammered. The lunch tray was starting to get heavy. I saw that Gaby had tomato sauce on her chin.

Larissa turned back to the others. “Did you ace the algebra test?” she asked Kat.

“Of course,” Kat replied. “You know I’m a math freak.”

“I know you’re a freak!” Gaby joked.

“Can I sit down?” I asked. My voice came out high and shrill.

Larissa looked up at me. She waved a hand over the table and made a sad face. “No room, really,” she said. Even though it was a table for six.

“N-no room?” I stammered. Did she really say that?

She pointed to a chair at the next table. “How about over there?”

I tried not to let my feelings show on my face. But I think I let out a little sigh. I could feel my cheeks turning red.

I turned and set my tray down at the corner of the next table. The table was empty. The wooden chair scraped loudly as I pulled it out to sit down. I turned and saw that the four girls were watching me.

My hands trembled as I tried to unwrap the tuna sandwich. My face was still burning. I felt totally embarrassed. But I was more angry than humiliated.

Was I supposed to be grateful they were letting me sit at the next table?

I took a bite of the sandwich, but I couldn’t taste it. I had a strong urge to stand up and shout. To tell everyone in the lunchroom the truth about them.

I know. I know the truth. I know the real reason they call themselves the Wolfpack.

But if I did shout out the truth, would anyone believe me?

And if I told Larissa and her friends that I belong with them, that I am one of them … would they believe me?

Probably not.

So I sat there, snatching angry bites of my sandwich and sneaking glances at the four of them. And thinking angry, unhappy thoughts.

“Hey, Nessa?” Larissa’s shout made me turn. She had a potato-chip bag raised in one hand. “Want some chips? I didn’t mean to buy them.”

Was that her way of paying me back for rescuing her on Saturday?

Would she toss them to me since I wasn’t allowed at her table?

“No thanks,” I muttered. I pretended to be interested in my sandwich.

I can’t keep this up, I told myself. I have to do something. Something.

But what?

Slowly, as I sat there stewing, a plan began to form in my mind.

Friday night, there was a full moon.

So it was now or never.

Time to be bold and take matters into my own hands. Time to step up and solve my Wolfpack problem once and for all.

I knew the sleepover party was at Maylene’s. Her house was two blocks from mine. After dinner, I went to my room and stared at the clock.

I knew the four of them were already there. But I didn’t want to go too early. I wanted to surprise them at just the right time.

Just before the full moon was at its highest in the sky.

I paced back and forth in my room. No way I could sit still. How many nights had I thought about them and their sleepovers? How many nights had I dreamed about joining them?

I had to be there with them. I belonged there.

A little after ten, I took several deep breaths—for courage. Then I sneaked out the kitchen door and crept along the side of the house, ducking low at the windows so my parents couldn’t see me.

It was a clear, cool night. Not a cloud in the sky. The full moon was so bright and seemed close enough to reach up and touch.

I started to trot toward Maylene’s house. I could feel the blood pulsing at my temples. My skin tingled. Under the white moonlight, every tree leaf, every blade of grass came into sharp focus.

My shoes thudded on the dew-damp grass. My breath came out in sharp puffs as I jogged. When Maylene’s house rose up in front of me, I stopped.

Can I really do this?

Yes. Yes. I had to.

I didn’t knock. I burst through the kitchen door. Larissa, Kat, and Gaby sat at a round kitchen table. Maylene stood at a white counter, pulling slices from a large pizza box.

They all cried out in shock as I stumbled toward the counter.

“Nessa? What are you doing here?” Larissa cried.

I was breathing too hard to answer. Gasping in deep breaths.

“I know everything!” I finally managed to choke out.

The three girls jumped up from the table. Maylene let a slice fall back into the box.

“I know the truth about your sleepovers,” I shouted. “I know your secret. I know what you are. Because I’m one, too!”

“Nessa—?” Larissa started toward me.

“Let’s not waste time!” I cried. “The full moon is high. Let’s go. Let’s do it! You’ll see. I’m one of you!”

I spun back to the open kitchen door and ran outside. The four girls followed after me, calling my name.

The cool air felt wonderful against my hot face. I raised my eyes to the moon and felt the bright light wash over me. I raised my arms above my head, raised them to the moon, and felt my body start to change.

“I know you’re werewolves!” I shouted to the girls. “I know! Because I’m a werewolf, too!”

It was happening. I heard my bones crunch and crack. I felt my snout stretch long. My skin itched all over as the thick black fur sprouted over me.

I opened my jaws in a long howl.

“I’m a werewolf, just like you!” I cried. And then my human voice vanished, replaced by my usual wolf growls.

Finally, there I stood with them under the moonlight. Finally, I could prove that I was one of them. I belonged.

Only … wait.

Wait.

My breath came out in low grunts as I turned to them. And saw the startled looks on their faces. Their wide eyes. Their open mouths.

Why hadn’t they changed along with me? Why hadn’t they joined me? Why hadn’t they let the moonlight turn them into wolf creatures?

I uttered a growl. They backed away from me. Their faces were twisted in open horror. Their human faces. I could see that they were terrified.

Oh no. Oh noooo.

I realized the truth at once. I got it all wrong. All wrong. A total mistake.

They’re not werewolves. They’re the Wolfpack—but they’re not werewolves.

What a mistake. A fatal mistake!

How could I be so wrong? They are normal girls. Not werewolves. Not werewolves like me.

And now, here I stood, grunting and drooling. The fur bristling over my body.

Should I attack them now?

Did I have a choice?

THE BAD-LUCK KING

Do you ever have a bad-luck day?

You oversleep? You put your T-shirt on inside out and don’t realize it till you get to school and everyone sees it?

You step in something nasty on the sidewalk?

The teacher calls on you the only time you weren’t listening, and you don’t know what she’s talking about?

Somehow you cut your hand on a piece of toast?

That’s real bad luck.

I was having a day like that. And I started to think: What if all my bad luck isn’t an accident?

What if someone is in charge of all the bad luck—and they’re sending it to me?

That’s when I sat down and wrote this story.

Before all the bad luck started, my sister, Ella, and I were excited about our visit to Uncle Philip’s house. Mom and Dad said that Philip was an amazing man.

He lives in an enormous old house that’s like a museum. It’s filled with his collections of paintings and sculptures, and old statues, and armor, and weapons, stuffed creatures, and strange things he picked up during his travels around the world.

“Trust me. You won’t have time to explore it all in a week,” Mom said. “Philip is one of the most amazing people you will ever meet.”

“You’re a collector, too, Lou,” Dad said to me. “So you and Philip will get along fine.”

I collect comic books and old video games that no one plays anymore. The game cartridges are piled up on shelves in my closet. I’m not sure why I collect them. I just like the way they look.

Ella and I were nervous about staying with our uncle. We’d never met him. But the stories Mom and Dad told us about him made us eager to get to his house.

Our little dog, Taffy, was coming, too, so we wouldn’t have to miss her while we were away.

On Saturday morning, Dad took Ella and me to the train station. We found the right track, and he said he’d stay with us till the train arrived.

Taffy was restless inside her carrying case. I told her she was going on a very exciting vacation. But I don’t think she understood.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Dad said. He pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it up to us. I squinted at it. It was a little green leaf, flat inside a plastic square holder.

“It’s a four-leaf clover,” Dad said. “Philip used to carry this with him everywhere. It’s a good-luck charm. He really believed it brought him good luck.”

“Four-leaf clovers are very rare,” Ella said. “That’s why finding one is supposed to be good luck.”

Ella is a nature freak. She knows stuff like that.

Dad tucked the good-luck charm into my jeans pocket. “Be sure to give it to Philip. He’ll be happy to see it again.”

The train roared into sight. We hugged Dad. I picked up my suitcase and Taffy’s carrying case. When the train squealed to a stop, I followed Ella into the compartment.

Taffy is such a good dog. She slept the entire way. I played a bunch of games on my phone. And Ella read a book about people who survived a tsunami. My sister loves real-life scary stuff like that.

About four hours later, we climbed off the train at Skyway Station in Red Falls. Uncle Philip was waiting. A big smile spread under his heavy beard as he recognized us.

He was a big man, very tall and wide. He had long, straight white hair down almost to his shoulders. His face was nearly covered by his beard, but his green eyes glowed as he hurried toward us.

He wore a red flannel shirt under baggy denim overalls. His boots were ragged and scuffed and thudded loudly on the wooden platform. “Ella and Lou!” he exclaimed. His voice boomed over the sound of the train rolling out of the station.

He hugged us, a powerful hug, then gazed down at the carrying case in my hand. “You brought your dog,” he said. “Good. Mrs. Gaskell loves dogs.”

He explained that Mrs. Gaskell was his housekeeper.

“You’ll love her,” he said, picking up our suitcases and starting to lead us to his truck. “Sadly, I have to go away for a few days. But don’t worry. Mrs. G will spoil you. You’ll be very happy.”

Ella and I sat beside him in the cabin of his pickup truck. Taffy’s carrying case bounced in the back as we rumbled over bumpy country roads.

It was a short ride. The house came into view between clumps of tall trees after about ten minutes. The house was tall and stood in a deep pool of shadow. The tall trees blocked the sunlight.

I saw a wide front porch. Dark windows up the front, with black shutters. Some of the shutters were tilting at weird angles. A wheelbarrow lay on its side near the porch. Tall weeds covered the front yard, swaying in a soft breeze. A mailbox on a pole tilted to one side. The lid hung open. I could see it was jammed full of mail.

As he carried our bags to the front door, Uncle Philip caught me staring at the weed-choked yard. “I’ve been working on my collections,” he said. “Not much time for yard work or house repair.”

He stopped and turned to us before opening the door. His green eyes moved from Ella to me. “You need to be careful,” he said.

The words brought a chill to the back of my neck. “Careful?” I repeated.

He nodded. “The house is old and falling apart,” he said. “Lots of loose floorboards, I’m sorry to say. And missing stairs. And, of course, it’s very cluttered. I think you will find my collections interesting. But they are piled everywhere, and they take up a lot of space.”

“We’ll be careful,” Ella said. “No worries.”

We stepped into the house. Philip set our bags down and led us through the front hall to the kitchen. I saw two suits of armor in the front room, standing side by side, as if they were guarding the stairway that led up to the second floor.

A tangy aroma floated over the room, and I realized I was hungry. “Mrs. G is roasting a chicken for dinner,” Philip explained. “She wanted to make a special welcome dinner for you.”

He pointed to a large painting on the wall. I squinted to try to figure out what it was. Dark swirls of brown and gray all mushed together.

“Your great-grandfather painted that,” Philip said. “Lou, did you know you’re named after him?”

“In England, they call the bathroom the loo,” Ella said. “I always thought my brother was named after that.”

Doesn’t she know the most interesting facts?

Uncle Philip laughed at her awful joke. I didn’t.

“What’s the painting supposed to be?” I asked.

Philip shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. But I thought I should hang it since Lou painted it.”

“Well, hello,” a voice called.

We turned to see a white-haired woman enter from the kitchen. She was wiping her hands on the front of the apron she wore over a long gray dress. She had a round face, very red, as if she was sunburned, and bright blue eyes that moved from Ella to me.

“Mrs. G, here are Ella and Lou,” Philip said.

“Well, who else would they be?” the old woman snapped, a smile spreading across her face. She rushed forward and wrapped us both in a hug. Her bare arms smelled like chicken.

Taffy started to bark. I let her out of the carrying case. She ran all around the room, sniffing furiously.

“Better keep an eye on her,” Philip said. “Some of my collections are very fragile.”

“Your brain is very fragile,” Mrs. G told him, and she chuckled at her own joke.

“She has a sharp tongue,” Philip told us. “But a heart of ice.” He and Mrs. G laughed at that one. I could see they enjoyed teasing each other.

Mrs. G’s smile faded. “We don’t get many kids here,” she said. “I’m going to take good care of you. But I do hope you’ll be careful. The house is so old, and Philip has cluttered every inch with his junk.”

Philip’s eyebrows flew up. “Junk? You dare call a lifetime of work junk?”

She ignored him. “You won’t believe what you’ll find here,” she said to us. “Enjoy your exploring. But do stay out of the basement. It’s very dangerous down there, no kidding.”

We had an awesome dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, and a vegetable pie. We sat around a long wooden table in the dining room. Mrs. G was a good cook. I don’t usually like vegetables, but the pie was very tasty.

Uncle Philip told us story after story about our ancestors. They were terrible stories about accidents and bad luck. It seemed a lot of unlucky things happened to people in our family.

He told us about our great-uncle Felix who was blowing out his birthday candles, caught fire, and burned to death. And great-great-aunt Edith, who fell asleep in the bathtub and somehow disappeared down the drain.

And great-great-grandfather Walter, who won thousands of dollars in a horse race and was trampled to death by the winning horse. And Aunt Willa, who choked to death trying to eat a live pigeon.

Mrs. G rolled her eyes. “Don’t you just love his stories?” she said sarcastically. “He never stops.”

“They’re all true,” Philip said, rising up from the table. He wiped chicken grease off his mouth with a napkin. Then he pointed at Ella and me. “That’s why I warn you to be careful.”

He said he had to go. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He gave us a wave and disappeared from the room.

Mrs. G brought in a chocolate cake for dessert. I waited to hear Philip’s truck start up. But it never did. Through the dining room window, I could see it sitting in the driveway.

How did our uncle leave the house? I wondered.

We spent the next day exploring the house. We found a closet filled with old board games from fifty years ago. Ella and I spent a few hours playing them. But we had to stop because my sister is a bad sport and gets very grumpy whenever she loses a game.

The floor of another room was covered in large metal things. We tried to figure out what they were. Mrs. G stepped up behind us and solved the mystery. “Those are animal traps,” she said. “Your uncle is afraid of all kinds of animals, and he collects traps to protect himself.”

“Weird,” I muttered.

“That’s a good way to describe Philip,” Mrs. G said. “I’d stay out of that room if I were you. Those traps can snap your leg off.”

I heard a dog barking, and Taffy came running down the hall toward us. “Taffy—get back!” I shouted. Ella slammed the door to the traps room shut.

The loud bang startled the little dog. She started to whimper until Ella picked her up and petted her.

The next room had racks of clothing. We walked between the racks and realized they were all uniforms. Old-fashioned army and navy uniforms. They were all colors. Some had medals across the front. A shelf had a long row of hats with purple plumes standing up on them.

“Like from an old movie,” I said.

Ella held her nose. “They smell old,” she said.

The next room was bare, no furniture or collections. But the four walls were covered in photographs. “Oh, wow, Lou,” Ella said, stepping into the middle of the room. “All photos of burning buildings. Why would Philip collect burning-building pictures?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. This house is like a museum of the weird.”

Ella shivered. “This is creepy,” she said. “Let’s go back to that game room.”

So we returned to the game room and played old board games till dinnertime.

The next morning, Mrs. G made us delicious oatmeal for breakfast, along with waffles and maple syrup. Ella and I usually just have Froot Loops, so this was really special.

We were nearly finished eating when I gazed around. “Where’s Taffy?” I asked. The dog usually stayed under the table, waiting for someone to drop some food on the floor.

I looked under the table. No Taffy.

Ella and I walked around the kitchen and out into the hall, calling her name.

“Are you looking for the dog?” Mrs. G called from another room. “I let her out in the yard to play. She seemed very bored.”

Ella and I hurried to the back door. Taffy never likes to be outside if we aren’t with her.

We stepped into the yard. The morning sun was still red and low in the sky. A soft breeze blew the tall weeds in the yard from side to side. I saw Uncle Philip’s truck still in the driveway.

“Taffy? Taffy?” we both called to her.

She knows her name, and normally she comes running.

“Maybe she’s behind the garage,” Ella said. “Or over by those trees.” She pointed. “Taffy? Taffy? Where are you?”

We stopped when we heard a scraping sound at the side of the house. We turned—and saw Taffy digging in the weeds. She had her head down, and her front paws were furiously tossing up dirt.

Ella and I stepped up behind her. “What is it?” I asked. “What are you digging?”

I dropped to my knees and gently pushed the dog aside. Then I lowered my hands to the dirt and shoved some clumps out of the way.

“Whoa. Taffy found something,” I told Ella.

She leaned over me. “What is it?”

I dug my hands into the dirt and wrapped them around a large object about the size of a football. I tugged it up and brushed dirt off it.

“It’s some kind of statue,” Ella said. “A little statue. Is it wood?”

“Yes. It’s made out of wood,” I said. I brushed dirt off its face.

“Yuck. It’s ugly,” Ella said. “It looks like an elf or something. But its face—”

I gazed at the face. Evil eyes and an angry scowl. A short, pointed beard under its chin. “Why would anyone bury this thing here?” I asked.

“Because it’s so ugly?” Ella replied. “Are those horns on its head?”

“I think so,” I said.

I climbed to my feet. Taffy stared up at the thing and started barking. I wiped more dirt off the front of the little coat it wore. “Let’s show it to Mrs. G,” I said. “Maybe she’ll know what it is.”

We found her in the kitchen. Her eyes bulged when she saw what I was carrying. “Oh, merciful heavens!” she cried. “Get that imp out of here!”

“Imp?” Ella and I both said at once.

“That’s Magoo the Malicious!” she sputtered. Her face turned even redder than usual. “Bad luck! Very bad luck!” She waved with both hands. “Quick. Put him back where you found him. We don’t want bad luck in the house!”

Ella and I squinted at the little statue. I think she and I were thinking the same thing. Mrs. G must be very superstitious. There’s no such thing as an imp that brings bad luck.

“Bury him! Bury him! Before something terrible happens!” Mrs. G cried, frantically waving her hands.

I carried the statue out the kitchen door. Ella followed. “You’re not really going to bury it, are you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No way. We have to show it to Philip. He’ll tell us the truth about it.”

We waited for Mrs. G to leave the kitchen. Then Ella and I sneaked back into the house and carried the wooden imp upstairs to my room. I slid it under the bed so Mrs. G wouldn’t find it.

“Let’s take Taffy for a walk,” Ella said. “I don’t want to explore any more weird rooms today.”

“Good idea,” I said.

I started down the stairs. But my shoe got caught in a ragged bump in the carpet. I toppled forward.

“Nooooo!” I fell headfirst and screamed all the way down the stairs.

Pain shot through my body as I landed on my right side. I heard a crack and felt a sharp stab of pain run down my arm.

Before I could stand up, Mrs. G was leaning over me, her face red with alarm. “What hurts? What hurts?” she cried.

I tried to raise my right arm, but the pain made me scream. She helped me to my feet. “Merciful heavens. Let’s get you to Dr. Reiner, Lou. That wrist is swelling up.”

She helped me into the front of Uncle Philip’s truck. Ella squeezed beside me. We backed down the drive and onto the road.

“Did you bury that bad-luck imp?” Mrs. G asked, swerving to miss a deer leaping across the road. “Did you do as I said?”

“Y-yes,” I lied.

I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I knew that imp wasn’t the reason I tripped.

Dr. Reiner was a soft-spoken old man with short white hair, a friendly smile, and square eyeglasses perched on the tip of his nose. He sent us to a lab across the street for an X-ray. When it came back, he studied it.

“Well, Lou, you’ve had a bit of bad luck,” he said, tsk-tsking as he gazed at the X-ray film. “You broke your wrist.”

I groaned.

“But the good news,” he said, “is it’s a single fracture. It should heal in a couple of weeks.”

I walked out of his office with a hard cast halfway up my arm.

“Could have been worse, my boy,” Mrs. G said as we crossed the parking lot. She started to open the driver’s side door of the truck—then stopped.

“Oh, good grief,” she uttered. “A flat tire.”

We waited an hour in the hot sun for a guy from the local service garage to come replace the tire. Mrs. G kept shaking her head. “We’re having a bad day.”

It was afternoon by the time we got home. I expected Taffy to be waiting for us by the door. But she wasn’t there. “Did we leave her in the yard?” I asked Ella.

Ella didn’t have time to answer. Mrs. G’s shrill scream roared in our ears.

We went running to the kitchen to see her holding her head with both hands. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the mess. A thick, lumpy flood of food and brown gravy ran down the front of the stove and formed a huge, steaming puddle across the floor.

“I—I left the stew on the stove!” she cried.

It took nearly an hour to mop up the horrible mess. We helped as best we could. When we finished, the floor was still sticky but the stew had been wiped away.

Ella and I went out the kitchen door and called to Taffy. But we didn’t see her out there. Back in the house, we shouted her name down the halls. No Taffy.

Ella had tears in her eyes, and I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

Did Taffy run away?

Ella grabbed my hand. “We have to talk,” she said.

She pulled me upstairs to my room. Then she closed the door behind us.

“I don’t believe in bad-luck imps,” she said. “And I know you don’t either. But we’ve had nothing but bad luck ever since we dug that ugly wooden statue up.”

I nodded. “I know. I know,” I said, rubbing the cast on my arm.

“So, just to be safe…” Ella started.

I was already reaching under the bed for it. “We’ll bury it back outside,” I said.

I handed it to Ella. She hid it under her T-shirt, and we made our way downstairs. We were almost to the door when the statue slipped out. Ella made a grab for it. Missed.

The imp landed on the top of her foot with a loud thunk.

Ella gasped and dropped to her knees. The statue bounced behind the door.

“Help! I need help!” Mrs. G cried, stumbling into the room. “I just spilled scalding hot tea down my arm. Owwwww. My skin is burning! Merciful heavens. We have to go back to Dr. Reiner.”

The doctor was surprised to see us again.

First, he rubbed a healing lotion on Mrs. G’s arm and wrapped it in gauze. Then he examined Ella’s foot. It was swollen, and it hurt when he pressed it. But nothing was broken.

Mrs. G muttered to herself all the way home. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. But I kept hearing the word imp.

When we returned home, the statue was still where it had fallen behind the bedroom door. I picked it up in both hands.

Ella limped over to me. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t want to bury it anymore,” I said. “I want to show it to Uncle Philip. But we need to get it away from us.”

“How about the basement?” Ella said.

“Good idea,” I said. “We should be safe from it if it’s down there.”

Guess what?

It wasn’t a good idea.

The basement door was heavy. I had to pull hard, and it slowly creaked open. Ella and I were instantly hit with a blast of hot air. I raised my hands to shield my face. A sour aroma swept over us.

I stuck my head into the stairwell and peered down. The stairway was steep and dark. But I could see a bright, flickering orange light on the basement wall down below.

“Weird,” I muttered to Ella. “Did someone leave the lights on?”

I handed the statue to Ella. I had only one good hand, and I wanted to lean on the banister as I climbed down.

As we neared the basement, I heard whispering sounds.

Ella touched my shoulder. “Is someone down here?”

I held my breath and listened. The orange light grew brighter, so bright it made my eyes water.

Huddling close together, we took a few steps. And the huge basement room came into focus. I squinted at tall flames dancing in a wide stone fireplace. The fire made the orange lights flicker on the stone walls.

And surrounding the fireplace were shelves on all four walls, shelves from floor to ceiling.

“Oh, wow.” Ella uttered a cry. Her mouth dropped open, and she pointed. “Look.”

I saw them, too. The shelves were jammed with rows and rows of imp statues. Wooden statues of little men with bearded faces, like the one in Ella’s hands. Angry and scowling, they all stared wide-eyed at us.

And then my sister and I both screamed as Uncle Philip stepped forward. Where did he come from? He appeared to step right out of the flames in the fireplace.

“Ph-Philip!” I stammered. “You’re here! You didn’t go away!”

“What is happening here?” Ella choked out in a tiny voice.

But Philip didn’t pay any attention to us. His eyes were locked on the statue in Ella’s hands.

He grabbed it and raised it in front of him. “Magoo the Malicious!” he cried. “Welcome back, Magoo! Welcome back to the party—the bad-luck party!”

And then I gasped as loud cheers burst out. Shrill, tinny voices ringing off the stone walls.

Ella grabbed my arm. “They’re alive!” she said. “Lou, they’re all alive!”

I froze. A wave of panic swept down my body. I gazed at all four walls … at the cheering statues, jumping up and down excitedly on the shelves. Dozens and dozens of them. Wooden figures cheering and bouncing. Alive. Alive!

Philip grinned and raised the imp above his head in triumph as the cheers grew louder.

“Philip—!” I shouted. “What is going on? Tell us!”

He waved both hands, motioning for the imps to be silent. A strange smile crossed his bearded face as they quieted down. His eyes flashed with excitement.

“This is my kingdom!” he exclaimed. “My Bad-Luck Kingdom!”

Ella and I stared open-mouthed. What was he talking about?

“I am the King of Bad Luck,” he said. “My imp friends and I are responsible for all the bad luck in the whole state.” His smile faded. “It’s an important job. But someone has to control the bad luck.”

“But—but—but—!” I sputtered. My mind was spinning. I didn’t know what to say.

Ella still gripped my arm. Her hand had grown ice-cold. I could tell she was as scared as I was.

Behind Philip, the fire crackled in the wide fireplace. Flames leaped high.

“Now you must stay with me and share the bad-luck duties,” Philip said.

“We—we have to go,” I said. I turned to the stairs.

“You can never leave,” he said. “You’ve seen too much.”

“Too much … too much … too much…” the imps chanted in their shrill voices. The words rang in my ears.

I grabbed Ella’s hand. “Let’s go,” I whispered.

We spun away from Philip and started to race to the basement stairs.

“Too much … too much … too much…” The imps’ chant followed us.

We both stopped short as Mrs. G appeared in the middle of the stairwell.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Ella cried.

“Help us!” I shouted to her. “Save us from him!”

But Mrs. G stood still, blocking our way. Her eyes narrowed at Ella and me.

“You made me burn my arm,” she said. “You two brought the bad luck to me! Merciful heavens. Do you really think I will help you escape your fate?”

I turned to my sister. “She isn’t going to help us,” I murmured.

I heard hard thuds behind us. I turned and saw wooden imps jumping off the shelves. They formed a line. They were marching toward Ella and me, wooden feet thumping the floor.

“Philip—please!” I cried.

The cold smile returned to his face. “Want to hear even worse luck?” he cried. “Your parents know I’m the King of Bad Luck. They sent you both here to get rid of you!”

“That’s a lie!” I screamed. “You’re a liar!”

Philip tossed back his head and laughed.

The imps marched closer. Mrs. G didn’t move from the stairway. Ella and I were trapped.

And then I remembered something. When Philip mentioned our parents, it reminded me.

“Oh, wow,” I said to Philip. “I totally forgot. My dad said to give this to you.”

I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the little square with the four-leaf clover inside it. I held it out to him.

Philip’s eyes bulged. He took a staggering step back. “No…” he murmured.

“It’s your good-luck charm,” I said.

“No!” he cried. “No! NO! NOOOO! No good-luck charm in my Bad-Luck Kingdom!”

I shoved it into his hand. His eyes bulged wider. His face darkened. His head started to shake as if getting ready to explode. “NOOOOO!”

I pressed the four-leaf clover into his palm and wrapped his fingers around it.

WHAAAAMMMM.

A fiery explosion rocked the basement. It sent Ella and me flying backward into the wall. Bright flames leaped over the basement. A wall of fire.

The imps. The wooden imps were all burning. All screaming as they burned. The terrifying sound made my head throb.

The flames … so tall … so angry … so blindingly bright.

I held Ella’s hand and shut my eyes.

I opened them to see Uncle Philip and Mrs. G melt.

Their faces turned to a purple liquid and they melted like burning candles until they were purple puddles on the basement floor.

I shook my head hard, trying to force away my shock. I spun around and ran up the stairs. Ella ran close behind me.

We didn’t stop in the hallway. We kept running and burst out the front door.

We both gasped when we saw Dad standing in the driveway.

“Dad!” we both screamed in surprise and went running to hug him.

“I knew you could do it,” Dad said. “I knew you could defeat him.”

“But Dad—” I started.

“I couldn’t be the one,” he said. “Philip knew me. He knew how much I wanted to destroy his Bad-Luck Kingdom. So I had to send you in my place. That’s why I gave you the good-luck charm and sent you in there. And you won!”

He hugged us both again.

I heard a dog barking. Taffy came running from the trees. I gathered her in my arms and squeezed her tight.

“Nothing but good luck from now on!” Dad exclaimed. “Bad luck, go away. Good luck is here to stay!”

Ella and I both cheered. We climbed into the car. I sat up front with Dad. Ella and Taffy took the back seat.

Dad pushed the start button. The car coughed but didn’t start.

He pushed the button again. The car made a sputtering sound.

He tried again. Again. The motor kept grinding and sputtering and coughing.

Dad frowned. “Hey, what’s going on? Why won’t the car start?”

I heard a soft laugh. I turned around—and saw a wooden imp grinning at us from the back seat.

THE STRAY DOG

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out my dog.

Why does he hide under the table when it’s time to take him for a walk?

Why does he run and hide when he sees a tiny housefly?

Why does he bark out the window when there’s no one out there at all?

Many books have been written about dogs’ brains and dog behavior.

But I have my own theory about dogs. I think they come from another dimension.

That’s what I was thinking about when I wrote this story.

“Stop it! Get off me!”

“Owww. Let go. You’re hurting me!”

“Don’t hit me again! You jerk—!”

“You cheated, Ben. Admit it. Admit that you cheated.” Riley sat on top of his brother and forced his arms down on the grass.

“Did not! Did not!” Ben protested, on his back. He tried to roll out from beneath Riley. But his older brother was bigger than him, and stronger. Riley didn’t budge.

“Cheater!” Riley repeated.

“Sore loser,” Ben cried. “You’re always a sore loser. Get off me!”

The back door to the house slammed. Both boys saw Grant Sawyer, their father, rushing toward them. Mr. Sawyer grabbed Riley under the shoulders and lifted him off Ben.

Ben rolled to one side, then climbed to his feet. Red-faced and sweating, he brushed off his jeans. Then he pointed to Riley. “He started it.”

“Did not! He cheated!” Riley shoved Ben with both arms. Ben stumbled back against the badminton net and nearly knocked it over.

Their father stepped between them again. He raised both hands in the air. “Time out!”

Sawyer shook his head. “How can you two fight over a backyard badminton game?” he asked.

“Easy,” Riley muttered. “Ben cheated.”

“No way!” Ben cried. “Every time I win a game, he says I cheated.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Riley hit me really hard.”

Sawyer turned and frowned at Riley. “You’re the older brother. You’re nearly a foot taller than Ben. Why can’t you act like an older brother?”

Riley looked away. “He makes me too mad.”

Sawyer walked over and put an arm around Riley’s shoulders. He and Riley looked like father and son. They both had wavy, coppery hair and pale blue eyes. They were both tall and thin.

Ben looked more like Mrs. Sawyer. He had straight black hair and dark eyes. He was in sixth grade, but he still hadn’t had his growth spurt.

“We had that talk, remember?” Sawyer said to Riley, keeping his arm around him. “About bullying?”

“He likes being a bully,” Ben chimed in. “That’s his hobby.”

“I’m not a bully,” Riley said. “I just don’t like cheaters.”

Sawyer sighed and backed away. He picked a badminton racket off the grass and twirled it in his hands.

“This has to stop,” he said. “This fighting has to stop. Don’t you want your PlayStation back? I had to take it away because you couldn’t play together.”

He handed the racket to Riley. “You know how much it upsets your mom and me. Can’t you try to act like brothers?”

Riley and Ben stared at him without answering.

A warm spring breeze came up, shivering the tall evergreen shrubs at the side of the yard. Riley watched a chipmunk dart through the open door to the garage.

“Do something where you don’t compete,” Sawyer said. “How about those remote-control sailboats I bought you? Take them to the pond and try them out.”

“We could race them,” Riley said.

His father frowned again. “Why does everything have to be a contest? Just sail the boats across the pond. You don’t have to race them.”

Ben shook his head. “Riley broke mine,” he said.

“Did not!” Riley cried. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Yes, it was,” Ben insisted. “You took mine and—”

“I was holding it, and you grabbed it away from me,” Riley shouted. “The sail broke off. It was your fault.”

“You broke off the whole mast, and then you laughed,” Ben said, curling his fists at his sides. “You laughed because you’re mean, a mean bully.”

“Stop it, you two,” their father snapped. “Ben, your boat will probably work without the sail.”

“We can take turns with mine,” Riley said.

Ben was so surprised by the offer, he gasped. He squinted at his brother. Had Riley actually suggested something nice?

The Sawyers’ backyard ended with a clump of tall trees. The boys had spent a lot of time exploring the small woods, playing hide-and-seek and other games.

A round, flat pond stood near the far end of the woods, surrounded by short grass. It was too shallow for swimming. Also, the pond floor was slimy with thick lumps of green algae that felt yucky the few times they ventured into the water.

Holding their sailboats and remote controls, they followed a narrow dirt path through the trees. A flock of blackbirds, startled by the newcomers, squawked and chattered and took off from the trees up ahead, flapping noisily.

The pond was shiny blue under the bright afternoon sunlight. Tree frogs chirped all around, drowning out the whisper of the trees.

Ben set his broken sailboat into the water and activated the controller. He worked the control for a short while. Then he tossed it to the grass.

“Forget it,” he said. “The boat won’t go anywhere without the sail. It just keeps spinning in circles. It’s totally busted.”

Riley laughed. “Keep trying.”

“No way,” Ben cried. “You said we could share yours.”

Riley laughed some more. “And you believed me? I just said that to score points with Dad.”

“Give it!” Ben shouted. He made a grab for Riley’s controller.

“Get off! Let go!”

They had a short tug-of-war. Then the bottom of the controller slid open, and the batteries fell out and dropped onto the grass.

“Look what you did, jerk!” Riley shouted. He shoved Ben away and bent to pick up the batteries.

Ben scrambled forward to give Riley a shove. But he stopped when he saw something move at the other end of the pond. He stood and squinted into the sunlight. “Riley, look.”

“I can only find three batteries,” Riley said. “Help me find the other one.”

“Look,” Ben repeated.

Riley turned and followed his brother’s gaze. They both watched a dog step up to the water and dip its face into the pond. The dog shook its head hard, sending water drops spraying off its fur. Then it lowered its head and appeared to gaze into the water.

Ben laughed. “He looks like he’s admiring his reflection.”

Riley glanced all round. “What’s a dog doing by himself in the woods?” he asked.

The dog was medium-sized and had reddish-brown fur with a white spot on his back. And a short, stubby tail. He lowered his face to the pond again and took a short drink.

Riley and Ben started to walk toward him. The dog raised his head and watched them with large, black eyes.

“Hey, boy, where’s your owner?” Ben asked, speaking softly.

The dog didn’t move. He didn’t seem afraid of them.

“He doesn’t have a collar,” Riley said. “Maybe he doesn’t have an owner.”

They both gazed through the trees. No sign of anyone.

“You mean he’s a stray?” Ben asked.

Both boys stepped closer. The dog’s short tail whipped back and forth.

“Or maybe someone didn’t want him anymore and set him loose in the woods,” Riley said.

“Maybe we can keep him,” Ben said. He bent down and gently petted the dog’s furry brown head. The dog’s tail wagged faster. He seemed to like it.

“He’s kinda cute,” Riley said. “And he’s so calm. Not scared of us or shy or anything.”

Ben smoothed a hand down the dog’s back. “Let’s bring him home and see what Mom and Dad say. I hope we can keep him. We’ve been wanting a dog for years!”

He slid his hands under the dog’s belly and lifted him to his chest.

The dog began to breathe faster. But he didn’t try to pull away. Instead, he pressed his face against the front of Ben’s T-shirt.

The boys turned away from the pond and began to follow the path back toward their home.

“Let me carry him,” Riley said, reaching for the dog.

Ben swung the dog out of his reach. “No. I’ve got him.”

“I want to carry him. Give him to me.”

“No way,” Ben said. “I saw him first.”

My name was Reemmi-12 in my dimension.

When I made the journey from my dimension to yours, I knew I would go through a lot of changes.

I studied your dimension for years from my science lab in Realm-132.

Yes, I was a scientist there. I was hardworking and eager. I wanted to be the first to travel between my reality and yours. The first!

Can you imagine? Not time travel. Time travel was such an ordinary idea. Boring. Don’t make me yawn.

REALITY travel! To travel from one reality to another.

It’s not like we were on different planets. We shared the planet Earth from different planes.

I knew Dayton, Ohio, as well as anyone who lived there. You couldn’t see me or anyone else on Realm-132, but we could see you. See you but not touch … or talk … or meet you.

There are many Dayton, Ohios. Realm-132 was just one of them.

Did you ever have the feeling someone was watching you?

You probably blamed it on your imagination. But we were watching every day and night. Watching and learning. I wanted to know everything before I made the jump—before I slid from Realm-132 to your reality.

I was desperate to reach you. To talk with you. To BE with you.

That’s why I put in many long nights … many long YEARS … so I could be the first to leave my world and become part of yours.

On the day I was to travel, I could hardly control my excitement. The other scientists gathered around me to wish me well and safe travels.

My best friend, Gorri-6, was my assistant on the project. I knew he wanted to come along with me. But, of course, there was no room.

Gorri-6 had tears in his eyes as he hugged me and shook my hands. We had spent so many years together. And he knew we may never see each other again.

Of course, I hoped to return to Realm-132. But no one had ever made this reality jump. How could we predict how it might end?

Everyone turned out.

Even my lab section commander, Zellus-8. Right from the beginning, she didn’t believe in the project. She doubted my work. She doubted everything.

I thought maybe the excitement of the day would make her be polite. Or kind. But she didn’t wish me luck. She promised she would scatter my bones in the ocean after they pulled me from the travel box.

“Thanks for the support!” I said, and she turned away with a scowl.

Was she jealous?

Or did she really think I was going to fail?

Gorri-6 gave me a papango leaf bracelet he said was a good-luck charm. I wrapped it around my middle wrist. I wondered if it would survive the trip. I wondered if I would survive the trip!

All eyes were on me as I climbed into the travel box. You can imagine my intense feelings. My hearts were beating so hard, my chest hurt.

I wanted to dance and shout and sing a victory song. But, of course, it was too soon to celebrate.

My legs barely carried me to the travel box. Gorri-6 held my arm and led me up to the machine we had worked on for so many years. He lifted the lid so I could climb inside.

I had to fold myself in half. The box was so small.

We had tried bigger boxes. But we could never generate the force we needed to move from dimension to dimension. We had to concentrate the energy on the tightest space we could create.

When I closed the travel box door, I couldn’t breathe. Was it just the excitement? Or was the air generator not working? Was I in trouble right from the beginning?

I expected Gorri-6 to open the lid and tell me that the mission had to be scrapped.

But the box began to hum. I knew that Gorri-6 must have activated it. I could feel the vibrations growing stronger and stronger—until they seemed to be coming from inside me!

What a feeling! What a thrill!

My whole body pulsed and shook. My teeth rattled. I could feel my bones begin to heat up. So hot … the sweat poured down my body in rivers.

I don’t want to tell you how painful it was.

The pain flamed like a burning fire around me. I could feel my bones cracking … my skin sizzling.

I knew I was being changed. There was no way to travel from dimension to dimension without a complete body change.

My only hope was that when I climbed out of the travel box, I would look like someone who belonged in Dayton, Ohio.

As my body stretched and broke and remolded itself, I howled at the top of my lungs. I knew no one could hear me. Besides, I didn’t care. It was the only way I could deal with the pain.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

The fire around my body faded quickly. The vibrations inside the box stopped. A heavy wave of cold made me shiver.

I kept my eyes shut and waited.

I don’t know how long I stayed in there with my eyes closed. Not moving. I knew the trip was over. Was I afraid to open the box and climb out?

Afraid that I had failed? Or afraid that I had succeeded and now I was in a new world … a new reality?

Finally, I knew I had to move.

I pushed open the travel box lid. Bright sunlight poured in. I sniffed the air. Took another sniff. Then a long, deep breath.

The air felt warm and fresh and sweet. Just as we had studied.

I’m breathing my first air in a new dimension. The thought made me quiver all over.

I gathered my strength. Opened my eyes. And climbed out of the box.

My feet landed on soft grass. Blinking against the bright light, I gazed around. I saw tall trees covered in green leaves, thick and shimmering.

My legs felt wobbly and weak. I took a few timid steps. Tall grass! It felt so soft under my bare feet, soft and warm and wonderful.

How lucky am I?

To be the first in history to travel from one dimension to another. I could barely hold in my excitement.

I took a few more steps toward the trees. I suddenly realized I was walking on four legs.

What do I look like? I asked myself.

I knew my body would change during the trip to a new reality. We had all studied the kinds of changes that could take place. Now I was eager to see what I had become.

The sun felt warm on my back as I trotted on four legs along a path that led through the tall, shimmering trees. I was enjoying the feel of the soft breeze on my face and the fresh smell of the woods.

Up ahead, a small, round pond caught my eye. The still water reflected the blue sky overhead. My hearts began to pound. I knew I could use the pond as a mirror and see what I looked like now.

I trotted over the marshy grass, my feet sinking into the soft mud. I stopped at the edge of the pond and stuck my head over the water.

Peering into the clear, still water, I saw myself. And I recognized what I had become from my long studies of Dayton, Ohio, creatures.

I was a dog.

I gazed at the reflection of my black eyes in the water. I dipped my head closer and saw that my face was covered in reddish-brown fur. I gazed at my short, pointy ears.

A dog. A dog. I wanted to smile. Such good news. People loved dogs in this dimension.

It will be easy to get along with people here and get to know them, I told myself. Easy to study people.

I dipped a paw into the water. I was surprised at how cold it felt.

We don’t have water in Realm-132. Studying it from our dimension, I saw people drinking it, swimming in it, splashing it. I’d always wondered what water felt like.

Now, I couldn’t resist. I lowered my body and ducked my head beneath the surface of the pond.

Wonderful! Wonderful! So shivery cold, so light and heavy at the same time. I raised my head and shook it hard, sending a spray of water all around.

I’ve come to another dimension, and I’ve felt water!

I wished I could share it with everyone back home. But I knew they couldn’t see me. They had no way of tracking me from a different dimension.

I was on my own. Having this amazing experience on my own.

I shook off more water. Then I stopped. I suddenly realized I wasn’t alone.

I was being watched by two boys a short distance along the pond.

One of them was tall and thin and had coppery hair that almost matched the color of my fur. The other was shorter and had straight, dark hair.

The taller boy had something in his hands. It looked like some kind of boat. I guessed they’d been sailing it in the pond.

But now they stood still as the trees, staring at me.

My first humans. I could feel my short tail snapping back and forth.

They started to walk over to me. I didn’t move. I couldn’t wait to talk to them, to communicate with actual humans.

I studied the English language for three years, and I speak it very well.

When the boys came close, I raised my head and said, “Hello.”

I mean, I tried to say hello. But the word came out of my mouth sounding more like, “Rrrrrff.”

I tried again. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

But it sounded like, “Rrrrff rrrf rrrrf.”

I panicked for a moment. I realized I had a dog’s vocal cords. I would have to learn to adjust them to speak to the humans.

The boys approached me slowly. I think they thought I might run away.

They couldn’t see how eager I was to meet humans.

One of them dropped down on his knees beside me. The dark-haired boy gently petted the fur down my back. I lowered my head and wagged my tail, and tried to show them I was pleased to meet them.

They wondered where I came from. They thought I might be a stray dog. Of course, they had no idea I was a stray—from another dimension.

I tried to speak again. I was desperate to show them I knew English. But only grunts and low yips escaped my mouth.

Riley and Ben. They spoke their names, and I memorized them. I figured out they were brothers. Riley must have been the older one.

I was so happy when they started to talk about taking me to their home. My first moments in this reality were becoming more and more thrilling.

I wanted to meet the whole family. I had to tell them what an exciting day this was. I was making history!

Ben lifted me into his arms. They both began to walk away from the pond.

As they made their way through the trees, they began to argue about which one should carry me. Riley tried to pull me away from Ben. But Ben held on tight, cradling me against his chest.

They don’t even know me, but they are fighting over me, I thought. How lucky am I?

“Where did you find him? In the woods?” Mr. Sawyer was down on his hands and knees, pulling weeds from the flower bed at the side of the garage.

“He was at the pond,” Riley told him.

“He’s very friendly,” Ben added.

Sawyer pulled off his gardening gloves. He climbed to his feet and took the dog from Ben’s arms. “Good dog. Good dog,” he muttered to it.

He set the dog down on the grass. It stared up at him and made no attempt to run away.

“Can we keep him?” Ben asked. “Riley and I will take care of him.”

“We have to try to find his owner,” their father answered. “The owner is probably searching for him in the woods right now.”

“He doesn’t have a collar,” Riley said. “Ben and I looked and looked. But we didn’t see anyone in the woods.”

“We can put a lost-dog notice online,” Sawyer said.

“And if no one answers?” Ben demanded.

The kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. Sawyer stepped out. She had an oversized maroon sweatshirt pulled down over faded jeans, ripped at the knees. Her hair was dark like Ben’s, pulled back in a loose ponytail.

“You found a dog?” she asked. “Where? In the woods?”

“Dad says we can keep him,” Ben said.

“I did not!” Sawyer cried. “I said we’ll try to find the owner.”

The dog stood still, looking from one to the other as if he understood what they were talking about.

Their mom gazed down at the dog and shook her head. “You two know we can’t have a dog,” she said. “You know I’m allergic to dogs.”

Both boys sighed.

“But Mom—” Ben started.

“I can’t have a dog in the house,” she told him. “It’s the fur. My head swells up, and I can’t breathe.”

Riley and Ben stared at her in silence.

“What if we keep him in the garage?” Ben said finally.

The dog made a loud yip. As if he understood.

“We’ll have to keep him in the garage for now,” Mr. Sawyer said. “Till we figure out what to do with him.”

“I’m sorry. I really am,” their mom said. “I’m allergic to all kinds of fur. I can’t even wear a fur coat.” Shaking her head, she turned and walked back to the house.

“Ben, pick him up and put him in the garage,” Sawyer said. “Then we’ll drive over to the Pet Mart and buy some kibble to feed him.”

“Can we buy a collar and leash, too?” Ben asked.

“We’ll see.”

Ben stooped to pick up the dog. He cried out in surprise when the dog backed away. He reached for the dog again, and the dog let out a low growl.

“He doesn’t want to go in the garage,” Ben said.

Riley grabbed the dog by the neck and gave his backside a slap. “Bad boy. Get in the garage,” he said.

“Riley—don’t hit him!” Ben shouted.

“I saw a training video on YouTube,” Riley said. “You have to show a dog who’s boss.”

Riley carried the dog into the garage. “Stay,” he ordered. “Stay.” He stepped out and lowered the garage door.

The three of them stood there for a moment. They waited to hear if the dog would make a fuss. But the animal remained silent. They turned and made their way to the car to go to the pet store.

I spent a dark, miserable night by myself in the garage.

I tried to think cheerful thoughts. But how could I?

The garage smelled of oil and fertilizer. A car took up half the space. I had no room to walk. There was no bed, no soft place for me to sit or sleep.

The garage had no windows. I couldn’t see the sky. I heard scratching noises behind a row of garden tools. I think there were mice.

The garage door opened once. Mr. Sawyer brought in a water bowl and a bowl of something that was supposed to be food. He set them down against the wall and quickly left.

The bowl contained a pile of little balls of dry food. I couldn’t tell if they were meat or some kind of grain. I took one taste and started to choke.

I’m going to starve if I don’t get real food, I thought.

I wondered how I would ever study the people of this dimension if I spent my time locked in a garage. How would I ever get to know people?

But I guess the worst part was how insulted I felt.

I’m the first scientist to travel from one dimension to another. I’ve written a dozen books about physics and the dynamics of scientific exploration. I’m known far and wide as a brilliant teacher and philosopher.

And they locked me in the garage and gave me dog food.

I wished I could contact everyone back at Realm-132. I wished I could tell them to come rescue me, to bring me back from this terrible place.

But there was no way to contact them in the other dimension. And no way for them to see what had happened to me.

I curled up on the hard concrete garage floor and tried to sleep. But my unhappy thoughts kept making me get up and pace back and forth in the narrow space.

Another big problem: There was no bathroom.

I had no choice. I made a large mess on the floor near the back corner.

When the garage door finally opened, bright morning sunlight poured into the garage. I ran forward eagerly to greet Riley and Ben.

I yapped happily and leaped up on Ben, then Riley. Are you going to let me out of here? Can I get out now?

Riley let out a cry. He pointed to the back of the garage. “Look what the dumb dog did!” he shouted. “What a mess! Bad dog! Bad dog!”

Riley picked up an old newspaper from the garage floor. He rolled it up and began smacking me with it. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

I let out a long howl.

Oh, the shame. The SHAME!

I’m a famous scientist! I know six languages! I’ve won every science award! And invented travel from my dimension to yours!

That’s what I wanted to tell the boys. But I could only howl.

“Bad dog!” SMAAACK. “Bad dog!” SMAAACK.

A brilliant scientist being smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. Thank goodness my friends back home couldn’t see me.

SMAAACK SMAAACK.

I knew what I had to do.

I shot my head forward—and BIT Riley as hard as I could on the wrist.

He let out a cry. The newspaper fell from his hand. And I took off running.

I darted between them. Out of the garage. I turned sharply, lowered my head, and raced toward the back of the yard.

“Come back! Come back here!” The boys chased after me. But four legs are faster than two.

I couldn’t let them catch me again. I couldn’t spend one more night in that dark garage, waiting to be smacked if I did something they didn’t like.

My paws pounded the grass as I made my way toward the trees. The boys shouted and pleaded with me to stop.

I glanced back and saw they were catching up to me.

No. No. No.

I ran into the shadow of the trees. I knew where I’d left the travel box. If only I could get there before they grabbed me.

Inside the travel box, I’d be safe.

A squirrel rose up on its hind legs. Did it expect me to chase it? I had more important things to do. I ran right past it.

“Get him! Grab him!” I heard Riley shout to his brother.

Their running footsteps pounded the dirt close behind me … so close …

I spotted the travel box beside a low shrub. I dove at it and pushed the door open with my snout.

Arms outstretched, Riley sailed off his feet to tackle me.

I lowered my head. Folded myself in half. Squeezed into the box. And slammed the lid shut.

I heard the thud as Riley hit the ground outside the box.

Safe. I was safe.

I had to escape from this dimension. Never again, I thought. Never again.

I waited for my breathing to return to normal and my hearts to stop pounding. Then I bumped the travel ignition with my nose.

The box began to hum. After a few seconds, the vibrations started, weak at first, and then more powerful.

The hum grew to a roar. The vibrations pulsed until I could feel them through my entire body.

I screamed as the pain rolled over me. I screamed from the pain—and from the happiness that I was heading back to my own dimension, back to Realm-132.

I could feel my bones cracking. Feel my skin sliding and tightening. I knew my body was changing back to its old shape.

How long was the trip? It seemed like it took forever—and no time at all.

The vibrations stopped. The box grew silent. I sat with my eyes shut and waited …

Light poured into the travel box as the lid lifted. I opened my eyes and stared out at Gorri-6 as he stared in at me. I was never so happy to see anyone in my life.

He helped pull me from the box. I stood on trembling legs.

Everyone was there. Even Zellus-8. They all stood staring at me in silence.

“How was it?” Gorri-6 asked, trembling with excitement. “Did it work? Did you really travel to a different dimension? Can we all travel to other dimensions now?”

I lowered my eyes and shook my head sadly. “No,” I murmured.

“No?” Gorri-6 cried. “It didn’t work?”

“I’m so sorry, but it didn’t work,” I answered. “I went nowhere. I saw nothing.”

I raised my eyes to them to finish my lie. “It’s a complete failure. I’m afraid we have to start all over again.”

FISH FOOD

I was always a good kid. I obeyed my parents. I tried to be polite to everyone. I followed the rules in school. In games on the playground, I was always a good sport.

Everyone thought I was a really nice guy. But in my head, I was different.

In my thoughts, I was a lot bolder. I was louder. I was faster. In my head, I did what I wanted—not what people told me to do.

I was thinking about all that when I had the idea for this story. It’s about a boy who doesn’t care about the rules, or being nice, or not cheating. He just wants to win.

What would happen to a guy like that? You’ll see …

I’m Ezra Adams. I’m twelve. And I’ll tell you right now, I’m the kind of guy who likes to win. Rules don’t mean much to me if they get in my way. I’m the kind of dude who likes to color outside the lines.

So I don’t think it was cheating when I pushed my friend Roddy off a cliff.

Roddy and I were in my room, playing my favorite video game, Battle Scars. True, we were supposed to be battle partners. But I didn’t want to share the victory with Roddy. So I pushed his avatar off a cliff.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Roddy cried. He tossed his game controller onto the floor. “I don’t believe you, Ezra! Did you forget we’re partners?”

I laughed. “Sorry, but you’re a loser, partner!”

He glared at me. “Why do you always cheat?” he demanded. “Ezra, why do you always break the rules?”

“Because it’s more fun?” I answered.

He growled but didn’t reply.

“Roddy, why do you always follow the rules?” I asked. “Be original. Be bold. Make your own rules.”

He growled again.

I could see Roddy was angry. But I knew he’d get over it. He always does.

I reached behind my bed and lifted Murphy off the floor. Murphy is my new cat. I held him in my lap and petted his back. He didn’t react at all. Cats are weird.

Mom walked into the room and let out a gasp. “A cat?” she cried. “Ezra, what are you doing with that cat?”

“I found him this morning,” I said. “I named him Murphy. Can I keep him?”

“Of course you can’t keep him,” Mom said. She rubbed her eyes. “I wondered why I’ve been coughing and sneezing all afternoon. You know I’m allergic to cats.”

The cat jumped from my lap and climbed under the bed.

“But I really want a cat!” I told Mom.

“I don’t care,” she said. “You can’t always have what you want.”

“Seriously?” I said.

She crossed her arms in front of her and frowned at me. “The cat has to go—now.”

“I can take the cat, Mrs. Adams,” Roddy said. “My cousin Darla has been wanting a cat forever. I’ll take Murphy to Darla.”

A smile crossed Mom’s face. “That’s why I like you, Roddy. You are very generous.”

“And what am I?” I asked.

“You’re Ezra.”

“Well, can I have a dog?” I said. “How about a dog? It doesn’t have to be too big.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “You know I’m allergic to dogs, too. You can’t have anything with fur. Understand?”

She and I stared at each other for a while.

She blinked first.

I always win our staring contests.

“Well, what kind of pet can I have?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” Roddy said. “You know how you’re always drawing fish? You always draw fish in art class.”

“I like to draw fish,” I said. “They’re easy to draw.”

“Well, how about fish for pets?” Roddy said. “They have all these cool tropical fish at Mason’s. You know, the pet store next to the post office?”

“That’s excellent,” Mom said. “An aquarium of tropical fish would be fun. And, Ezra, remember you were caught cheating on that math quiz last week? You could do a report about the fish for extra credit. Get back on Mrs. Garnett’s good side.”

“Hmmmm…” I thought about it.

“I’ll go with you to Mason’s,” Roddy said.

“You two can go by yourselves,” Mom said. “You don’t need me. Pick out your own fish. Then Dad and I will go buy a tank for them.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Maybe they have some of those fighting fish. You know. The ones that fight the other fish and eat them?”

Monday after school, Roddy and I took the bus into town to go to the pet store. We sneaked through the rear door of the bus and took seats in the back row. The driver didn’t see us.

Roddy shook his head. “Ezra, why did we have to sneak onto the bus? Why couldn’t we go in the front door? You know twelve and under ride for free.”

“That’s boring,” I said. “Why do you always want to do the boring thing?”

Mason’s was a big, brightly lit store with rows and rows of dog and cat supplies, birdcages, leashes and toys, pet food, and dog beds. The tropical fish were in a huge tank at the back of the store near a small back room.

A young man came out of the back room when he saw Roddy and me gazing into the fish tank. He wore a blue, long-sleeved shirt over khakis. He had wavy black hair down to his shoulders and a black beard that covered most of his face.

“Can I help you?” he asked. He had a surprisingly deep voice. “My name is Leo. People call me Leo the Lion. I guess because of my long mane.”

I stared at him. He really didn’t look at all like a lion. Maybe a shaggy house cat.

“Ezra wants to start an aquarium,” Roddy said.

“Awesome idea,” Leo said. “We have a good selection.” He tapped his finger against the tank. “See these? They’re angelfish. Good for a starter aquarium. And they’re very graceful and pretty.”

“They’re kinda boring,” I said. “Why do they swim so slow?”

Leo shrugged. “It’s what they do.” He peered into the tank. “You want something faster? How about these neon tetras? Look at them.”

The little fish glowed, and they didn’t swim—they darted back and forth.

“Cool,” I said.

“These would be more fun to watch,” Roddy said.

“They’re different colors, like neon,” Leo said. His finger traced a tetra as it zoomed across the tank.

“What do you feed them?” I asked.

“I’ll give you a package of fish food,” Leo replied. “You just sprinkle a few little pieces into the tank every morning. You have to be careful not to overfeed them.”

I glanced into the back room and saw a round fishbowl standing on a shelf. The bowl had two bright blue fish swimming in it. The fish were pretty big, bigger than anything in the tank. And they kept bumping each other, kind of bumping noses as they swam.

I stepped into the back room. Roddy and Leo followed me.

“What are these fish?” I asked. “I like these.”

Leo shook his head. “Not for sale,” he said. “Sorry.” He turned. “Let’s go back to the tank.”

“But I really like these,” I said. “Why can’t I buy these fish?”

He rubbed his head. “Sorry, kid. These fish are an experiment. I can’t sell them to you.”

“What if I pay double?” I said.

A bell rang at the front of the store. “I’ll be right back,” Leo said. “Have to wait on a customer. Don’t go anywhere.” He spun away from us and went trotting up the aisle to the front.

I glanced at the back door to the store. “Quick,” I whispered to Roddy. “Let’s go before he comes back.” I picked up the bowl of blue fish.

“Ezra, wait—” Roddy said. “What are you doing?”

“I want these fish,” I said. “They are totally awesome.” I pressed the bowl against my chest. “Hurry. Let’s go.”

“But—but—Leo said—” Roddy sputtered.

I grabbed a couple packages of fish food. Then I was out the back door. Roddy followed me as I ran to the bus stop. The water in the bowl sloshed from side to side, but I didn’t spill any.

On the bus, I held the fishbowl carefully in my lap.

Roddy was worried, as usual. “That guy Leo said these fish were an experiment.”

“So what?” I said. “These fish are special. They are seriously cool.”

We found my mom and dad in the kitchen. They were heading out the door. I held the bowl up to show them.

“What an unusual color,” Dad said. Dad is a graphic artist, so he always sees colors first. “I didn’t know fish could be that deep blue. They’re almost navy blue.”

“They are so cramped in that little bowl,” Mom said. “Dad and I are going shopping. We’ll look for a bigger tank for you.”

Roddy still looked troubled. I think he wanted to tell my parents that I stole the fish. But the door slammed behind them before he could get a word out.

I carried the bowl to the living room and set it down on the coffee table. The fish were definitely cramped in there. They kept swimming over each other.

“When my parents get back with the tank, we should get some snails to put in. Do you like snails?”

“Not really,” Roddy said.

I took a pack of fish food from my pocket and tore it open. Then I dumped about half of it into the fishbowl.

“Hey—” Roddy grabbed my arm. “That guy Leo said to just sprinkle a little—”

“These are big fish,” I said. “They aren’t little minnows. I don’t want them to go hungry.”

We watched as the fish rose up to the top of the water and began gulping down the pellets of fish food. “Look at them go,” I said. “It’s making me hungry.”

Roddy and I went into the kitchen for a snack. I pulled a jar of salsa from the fridge, and we opened a bag of tortilla chips. We sat at the kitchen table and crunched away till the bag was nearly empty.

“Did you give the cat to your cousin?” I asked.

Roddy nodded. “I took it over to her yesterday. Darla was real happy,” he said. “But she didn’t like the name Murphy. She changed it.”

“Changed it to what?” I said.

“Buttercup.”

We both laughed. What a bad name.

We walked back into the living room, looked into the fishbowl—and we both gasped.

“Did those fish grow?” Roddy asked.

“I—I think so,” I stammered. I watched them bump each other. “They’re as big as chipmunks!” I exclaimed. “Do you think that food—?”

“We have to get them out of that little bowl,” Roddy said. “Look how they’re squeezed together.”

They were pressed against each other, and their mouths kept opening and closing, like they were having trouble breathing.

“My parents have a big mixing bowl,” I said. “We can put them in that until—”

I stopped when one of the fish almost leaped out of the bowl.

“Wow, they’re strong!” Roddy exclaimed. “A mixing bowl isn’t big enough. Do you have a bucket?”

I started toward the basement door.

“Maybe two buckets,” Roddy said. “They’re growing very fast.”

I found two metal buckets in the basement and carried them upstairs. I filled them two thirds full of water from the kitchen sink. Then I carried them into the living room.

“Whoa!” Roddy and I both cried out as one of the fish leaped from the little bowl into a bucket. A wave of water splashed over the living room rug.

I lifted the bowl and poured the second fish into the other bucket.

We watched them swimming in fast circles around the buckets. “I—I think they grew again!” I cried.

Roddy pressed his hands to the sides of his face. “They’re as big as your cat!” he exclaimed.

“No way! No way!” I kept repeating.

And then the fish started leaping from one bucket to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sending up tidal waves onto the rug.

“What are we going to do?” I screamed. “They’re too big for the buckets!”

“How about the bathtub?” Roddy said. “Maybe they’ll stay in the bathtub.”

We both cried out again as one of the fish leaped up—and missed the other bucket. It flopped heavily onto the rug, slapping its tail and making gulping sounds with its open mouth.

I dove forward and lifted it from the rug in both hands. “It—it weighs a ton!” I stammered.

I suddenly saw that the fish had two rows of pointy teeth. As I tried to carry it back to the bucket, it curled its body and sank its teeth into my wrist.

“OWWWWW! It bit me!”

I grabbed my wrist, and the fish slipped from my hand. It bounced off Roddy’s shoes and flopped back onto the rug.

Roddy raised both hands in the air. “I’m not going to pick it up!” he cried.

“We have to,” I said, rubbing my throbbing wrist. “It’ll die.”

I bent to lift it off the rug, and the fish jumped from the floor—and wrapped its teeth around my other wrist. “Help me! Help!” I screamed. I waved my arm in the air. But the fish held on tight.

I lowered my hand into the bucket, and the fish let go.

Both of my wrists throbbed with pain.

“We need help,” Roddy said. “Call the pet store. Quick. Ask Leo what we should do.”

“But—” I started.

“Just do it!” Roddy shouted.

The fish were leaping from bucket to bucket. Snapping their teeth in the air.

I ran to the kitchen to find my phone. It was on the table next to the tortilla chips bag. My fingers trembled as I tried to look up the phone number for Mason’s. I could hear Roddy screaming in the other room.

It seemed to take forever. But finally, a woman answered. “This is Mason’s Pet Store. How can I help you?”

“I—I need to speak to Leo,” I stammered. “Please hurry. It’s an emergency.”

Silence for a moment. Then she said: “Who did you wish to speak to?”

“Leo,” I said. “Please get Leo.”

Another silence. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, “there’s no one named Leo who works here.”

I heard Roddy shouting in the living room. Hard thumps. A crash.

Were the fish attacking him?

“Leo,” I repeated. “The guy with the black beard. Please—”

“I’m sorry. We don’t have a Leo here,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I hope so,” I answered. “I was there earlier, and I took a bowl with your experimental fish. And—”

“Our what?” she said. “Did you say experimental fish?”

“Yes,” I said. “I took two of them and—”

“I’m sorry, young man. But we don’t have experimental fish at Mason’s.”

“But—but—” I sputtered.

“We have a sale on guppies,” she said. “Are you interested in guppies?”

“No!” I cried. “Please—tell Leo we need help!”

“But we don’t have a Leo.”

I said goodbye and clicked off.

No Leo? No experimental fish?

Who was that guy?

Was he trying to get rid of these fish? Did he want me to steal them?

I ran back into the living room. I saw that two tables had been knocked over. Roddy was down on the floor, flopping his arms and legs. “Help me! Help!”

Both fish were enormous. Big as sharks. Both had their teeth sunk into his waist.

“Nooooo!” A wild scream burst from my mouth.

I raced across the room. I grabbed a fish in each hand—and heaved them off Roddy. I tossed them against the living room wall. Then I pulled Roddy to his feet and dragged him to the front door.

We ran out the door. I slammed it hard behind us.

We were both breathing too hard to talk. Roddy rubbed his hands over his waist. His shirt was torn but his skin wasn’t broken.

We stared at each other, gasping for air. I was bent over with my hands on my knees. But I straightened up when I saw my parents’ car pull up the driveway.

Roddy and I went running to the car. We started shouting before Mom or Dad could climb out.

Dad pushed open the driver’s side door. “What’s up?” he said. “We got you a very nice fish tank.”

“Never mind that,” I said, still breathing hard. “We need help. The fish—!”

“They’re big as sharks!” Roddy cried. “They attacked me! They dragged me to the floor and—”

“They grew and grew!” I exclaimed. “Don’t go in the house! They’re too dangerous. We have to get the police! Or the fire department!”

Mom came around the car and joined us. She had shopping bags in her hands. “Calm down,” she said. “What are you saying? What is happening?”

“Some wild story about the fish,” Dad told her. He started to the front door.

“No! Be careful!” I screamed.

“They’re huge!” Roddy cried. “And they’re mean!”

Roddy and I hung back. Dad pushed open the front door and peered inside. After a short while, he stepped inside. Mom hesitated at the door for a few seconds. Then she followed Dad into the house.

My legs were shaking as I made my way to the front stoop. Roddy stayed close at my side. I held my breath and listened.

Listened … Listened …

Roddy and I both uttered cries when we heard Dad start to laugh. Then Mom was laughing, too. My mouth dropped open as I listened to them both laughing hard.

Roddy and I stepped into the living room.

“Very funny, guys,” Dad said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “You got us.”

“I actually believed you two phonies,” Mom said. “You are both such good actors. I actually started to believe your fish story.”

“Huh? Actors?” I said.

I turned my gaze to the fishbowl. I squinted at it a long time till it came into focus.

The two little blue fish were swimming in circles in it.

“We almost fell for your joke,” Dad said, shaking his head.

“Joke?” Roddy muttered. “Joke?”

I couldn’t speak. I knew what had happened. The fish had shrunk themselves back to their old size and jumped back into the little bowl.

I knew that’s what happened. But I knew no one would believe me.

Mom and Dad thought Roddy and I had played a joke. But it wasn’t a joke.

“I’m outta here!” Roddy cried. He practically flew out the front door. Through the window, I could see him running down the street.

Mom and Dad went to unpack the car.

I stared at the two little blue fish in the bowl. And a chill ran down my back. Because they were both staring back at me.

They were the jokers. It was their joke.

And now they stared out at me, and a wave of panic washed down my body. Did I have good reason to panic?

Were they waiting for the right moment to grow large again? To attack again? Do I have to be afraid from now on? Will I ever be safe from them?

Or will I be fish food one day?

I lowered my face and stared into the bowl.

And one of the fish winked at me.

THE TREEHOUSE

When my brother Bill and I were kids back in Ohio, we begged our dad to build us a treehouse. There was a perfect tree close behind our house.

Our dad argued that we’d never use it. But Bill and I promised we’d spend hours in it all the time. Dad finally gave in. Neighbors came to help out, and they built the treehouse in two or three weeks.

Bill and I enjoyed it for a few days. We invited friends to come up, and we had a secret treehouse club.

Then one night, we were in our bedroom, and the window was open. We thought we heard voices outside. We peered out the window—and saw shadows moving inside the treehouse! Shadows moving … soft footsteps … creaks and groans and whispered words.

We never went up to the treehouse again.

I remembered that backyard fright we had when I wrote this story.

Miller Stratton bounced beside his sister, Della, in the cab of their father’s pickup truck. The tires spun over the gravel of the feed-store parking lot, then smoothed out as the truck pulled onto the highway.

It was a sunny day, and the fields were blanketed with rows of swaying cornstalks. “Another two or three weeks, and we’ll have fresh sweet corn,” Jack Stratton said.

The kids didn’t answer. Della was thinking of inviting her friend Hailey for a sleepover. Miller was thinking about a treehouse. He was waiting for the right moment to talk about it.

A blue truck passed slowly going the other direction. Mr. Stratton called, “Hey, Chip!” out the window and waved. He knew all the other farmers for miles around.

“Can we talk about the treehouse?” Miller asked.

His dad laughed. “I knew that’s why you and Della came with me to the feed store. You wanted to talk about that thing.”

“Well, can we have one?” Miller said. “The old oak tree behind the house…”

Stratton sighed. “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s perfect for a treehouse. But I already explained to you—”

“Say yes, and we’ll stop talking about it,” Della chimed in.

“We’ll help you build it,” Miller said. “I promise. I’m good at hammering nails. Ask my shop teacher.”

“Mr. Lowry sent you home with a bandage on your hand,” Stratton said.

Miller frowned. “That was an accident.”

“I can help, too,” Della said. “I can hold the ladder and hand you stuff. And I can hammer nails as good as Miller.”

Her dad turned to her. “But you’re afraid of splinters, remember?”

“Come on, Dad—” they both started at once.

Stratton turned the truck onto Lupin Path, the dirt road that led to their farmhouse. “For the last time,” he said. “I can’t do it now. We’ve been over this, haven’t we? With all the rain, the crops are way down this season. I can’t afford the lumber right now.”

“But Dad—”

Stratton shook his head. “Besides, what would you do up there?”

“Invite Hailey over. We could camp out,” Della said.

“I could do my homework in peace and quiet,” Miller said. “And we could have our Minecraft Club meetings there.”

“Oh,” Stratton said. “So you’ll be wanting Wi-Fi in the treehouse? Forget it. I won’t—”

“I can borrow your phone,” Miller said. “It has a Wi-Fi hotspot. No worries.”

Stratton laughed. “I see you have this all planned out.” The truck hit a bump. All three of them bounced in the seat. “But I really can’t afford it. And since Marty left, I have to do double duty with the farm work. I don’t have the time to build a treehouse.”

“Wait—Dad! STOP!” Miller cried. He grabbed his dad’s hand on the steering wheel.

Startled, Stratton hit the brake and the truck squealed to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Are you okay?”

Miller pointed out the open window. “What’s that? Look. In the empty field?”

Della leaned over her brother to get a better look. “It’s a little shack,” she said.

The three of them squinted at it, a flat-roofed shack about the size of a garden shed. The white boards that formed the walls were weather-stained and peeling. It stood by itself in an endless field of dirt.

“Check it out,” Miller said. “It’s a perfect treehouse.” He pushed open the passenger door and slid down to the ground.

Della climbed out after him. “Think someone just left it there?” she said.

Stratton cut the engine, climbed down from the truck, and followed them across the dirt to the shack. “The Tragers sold this land three years ago,” he said. “But nothing has been planted on it.”

The boards on the narrow front door were tilted and broken. Della and Miller leaned against the front wall, peering into the shack. “It’s totally empty,” Miller said. “Nothing in there.”

There was no front window. They walked around the shack and found a window on one side. No glass. Just an open window.

Della poked her head through the opening. “This is so awesome,” she said. “Dad, it’s already built.”

“You don’t have to buy lumber or anything,” Miller said. “Can we take it? It’s just sitting here falling apart.”

Stratton pulled open the broken front door. Bending under the low ceiling, he stepped inside. He tapped the floorboards with his shoes. He jumped up and down a few times.

“Pretty solid,” he said. “I’m surprised the floor isn’t more warped. It would be a sturdy platform up on the oak tree.”

“Yaaay!” Della cheered.

“Does that mean we can take it?” Miller demanded.

Stratton shielded his eyes with one hand from the bright sunlight. He gazed around the bare field. “No one has been here for a long time,” he said. “I don’t think anyone wants this abandoned shack.”

Della and Miller both cheered. They pumped their fists above their heads in victory.

Stratton scratched the back of his head. “Let’s see if we can lift it,” he said. “The hardest part is going to be getting it in the back of the truck.”

Stratton stood near the tree and tugged hard at the rungs of the rope ladder. He turned to Della and Miller. “Feels good. I think you’re all set.”

They both dove for the ladder. But their dad moved in front of them, blocking their way.

He and a couple of his farm helpers had spent two weeks getting the shack in place on the tree. They rebuilt the door and the window and replaced weak floorboards. They put on a fresh coat of white paint. They tested the safety again and again.

Stratton had even furnished the treehouse. He had brought up an old rocking chair, a wooden folding chair, and a small table.

“You’ve got your treehouse,” Stratton told Della and Miller. “But I need you to be careful at all times.” He tugged at the rope ladder. “One at a time on this ladder. And go slow, hear?”

Della and Miller both nodded. Miller’s foot was tapping up and down. He was so excited, he couldn’t stand still.

“No rough-housing up there,” Stratton said. “No wrestling or joking around. I don’t want anyone falling out of the tree.”

“We get it,” Miller said. He groaned. “Can we go up there now?”

Their dad stepped back so they could reach the rope ladder. “Any problems and I’ll have to take it down,” he said.

“We get it,” Miller repeated. He was halfway up the ladder. A second later, he stepped onto the platform and disappeared through the treehouse door. Della followed him up.

“This is so COOL!” Miller shouted so loud he got all the chickens clucking and squawking in the chicken coop beside the barn.

Della stuck her head out the treehouse window. “Wow. I can see the whole cornfield!” she called down.

Stratton chuckled to himself, pleased the kids were happy. They’d been through some sad times, losing their mom. He always looked for ways to raise their spirits.

Miller and Della spent some time gazing out the window at the farm. “We can see for miles!” Della exclaimed. “Look. All the way to Lupin Path.”

The cornfield beneath them grew hazy in the distance until it was a wash of solid green. A dozen birds floated over the field, dark spots against the bright blue sky.

They celebrated, sitting at the little table, with cupcakes and chocolate milk. Both talking at once about the plans they had to invite their friends.

“Too bad we have school tomorrow,” Miller said. “The last day of school. I’d rather stay up here all day.”

The next day after school, Miller couldn’t wait to go up to the treehouse. Della was away at her horseback-riding lesson. He was by himself. He dropped his backpack in the kitchen, grabbed a bag of cookies from the cabinet, found his dad’s phone and tucked it into his jeans pocket, and made his way outside.

It was a breezy afternoon, leaves shivering on the old oak tree. Miller grabbed the sides of the rope ladder and began to pull himself up.

He was halfway to the treehouse when a sound stopped him.

Crack crack crack.

He raised his eyes to the top of the tree. Was that a branch creaking in the wind?

Crack crack.

He didn’t see any branches moving. What was making that noise? Did a squirrel get into the treehouse?

He gripped the sides of the ladder and pulled himself onto the platform. Then he pulled the door open, stepped inside—and gasped.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?” Miller cried.

He stared at the old couple seated at the table. Their pale faces opened in surprise as they stared back at him. The man was bald with white stubble over his cheeks. He sat in the rocking chair, a pipe in his hand sending wisps of white smoke up to the low ceiling.

The woman wore a loose-fitting gray smock. Her face and eyes were as pale as the smock. She gazed at Miller for a brief moment. Then she pulled a walnut from the bowl on the table and cracked it in her hand.

Crack crack.

Miller pressed his back against the wall. His heart pounded hard in his chest. “Wh-who are you?” he stammered. “How—”

The old man lowered his pipe. “We could ask you the same question,” he said. His voice was dry and scratchy, like a frog croak. “Why are you in our house?”

“Your house?” Miller cried. “No way. I—”

Crack.

The woman cracked another walnut and shoved the nut pieces into her mouth. “Let’s be polite, Ed,” she said to the man, chewing loudly.

The man named Ed took a long puff on his pipe. Then he coughed for a while, wheezing and shaking his head.

This isn’t happening, Miller told himself.

These weird people can’t be sitting in my treehouse.

“Ed Barnstable. That’s my name,” the man said when he finally stopped coughing. “That’s my wife, Edna.” He narrowed his gray eyes at Miller. “And you?”

“Miller. But—”

“Where do you come from, Miller?” Ed demanded.

“From my house. Down there.” Miller pointed. “But … but … this is my treehouse.”

To Miller’s surprise, the old couple burst out laughing.

Ed laughed until tears oozed from his eyes, and he started to cough again.

“Young man, Ed and I built this house with our own hands,” Edna said. “Right after we got hitched.”

Miller opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. The smoke from Ed’s pipe burned his eyes, and he had to fight away a wave of dizziness.

Edna raised the bowl to Miller. “Would you like a walnut? They’re very chewy.”

“N-no,” he stammered. “Please—”

Crack crack.

She pushed another nut into her mouth and began to chew.

“We haven’t had any visitors in a long while,” Ed said. He pointed to the floor beside his rocking chair. “Why don’t you sit down and stay a spell.”

“I can’t,” Miller said, edging toward the door. “I have to go. I have to—”

“SIT DOWN, KID!” Ed shouted. He jumped to his feet and pointed the pipe stem angrily at Miller. “You break into my house and think you can just go on your merry way? You’ll leave when I say you can leave!”

“Have a walnut,” Edna said, offering Miller the bowl.

Della trotted up the driveway and hurried into the house through the kitchen door. Her dad turned from the stove, where he had hamburger meat sizzling in a skillet.

She tossed her backpack onto a kitchen stool and took a bottle of apple juice from the fridge. “Sloppy joe night again?” she said, eyeing the skillet.

“I thought you love sloppy joes,” he replied. He moved the meat around with a rubber spatula. “How was your lesson?”

Della took a long drink of apple juice. “Someone was riding Misty. So I had to take Silver Mane. He was okay, but he always wants to go faster, and I have to rein him in.”

She gazed around the kitchen. “Where’s Miller?”

Her dad lowered the heat under the skillet. “In the treehouse, I guess. My phone is missing. I assume he took it with him.”

Della finished the juice bottle. “Can I go up there?”

“Go up and tell your brother to come down. I’ll have dinner ready in a few minutes.”

Della hurried outside, climbed the rope ladder, and burst into the treehouse. “Miller? Dad says—”

She stopped with a short cry when she saw the old couple at the table. Her mouth dropped open. “Huh?” She stared at her brother at the back wall. “Who—?”

“Welcome to the Barnstable home,” Edna said. “Would you like a walnut?” She raised the bowl to Della.

“Miller, what’s going on?” Della finally managed to speak. “Who are these people?”

“They say it’s their house,” Miller answered. “They say they live here.”

“But—but—” Della sputtered. She started to the door. “I have to get Dad.”

Ed jumped up from the rocker. He moved surprisingly fast to the door and blocked her path. A smile crossed his face. “We like visitors,” he said. “Edna and I want you to stay.”

“N-no,” Della stammered. “Let me go.”

Crack. Edna cracked a walnut in her fist. “Stay awhile,” she told Della. “There’s plenty of walnuts to go around.”

Miller saw his chance. Ed had his back to him. Ed was facing Della, staring her down. Miller ducked behind him and dove for the treehouse door. He swung it open, dropped to his knees to reach for the rope ladder—and gasped.

“The ladder—it’s gone!” he cried.

He whipped his hand back and forth, rubbing only tree trunk. No ladder.

Too far down to jump.

Panic choked Miller’s throat. Ed stepped up behind him. “See? You can’t leave now,” the old man said. “Come in and let’s have a nice long visit.”

Miller opened his mouth and screamed to the kitchen window. “Dad! Dad! Come quick! Come get us!”

But the window was closed. And their father must have left the kitchen. Because the back door didn’t swing open and Stratton didn’t come running out.

“Dad! Can you hear me? Help us!” Miller’s shout again was greeted by silence.

He had no choice but to follow Ed back into the treehouse.

Crack crack.

Edna lowered her head over the bowl as she cracked more walnuts in her hand. “Walnuts are part of a good, healthy diet,” she said. “Give you strong fingers.”

Crack crack crack.

“Miller, what are we going to do?” Della cried.

“Sit down. Rest your feet.” Ed pointed to the floor. “Let’s have a nice visit … a nice long visit.”

“But it’s our dinnertime,” Della told him. “Our dad will be upset if we’re late for dinner.”

Ed puffed on his pipe. He chuckled. “I remember my dad,” he said as the smoke rose around him. “He would whip us with a switch if we were late to dinner.”

He took another long puff. “And he would whip us with a switch if we weren’t late to dinner! Ha ha.”

Edna laughed and tossed a handful of nuts into her mouth.

These people are weird, Miller thought. And dangerous. How long do they want to keep us here?

Ed shut his eyes and puffed hard on his pipe. The white smoke swirled around him. Clouds of smoke floated around his face and over his bald head.

And as Miller stared, Ed appeared to fade into the fog of smoke. His face and his whole body … they disappeared behind the smoke billows, then returned in the gray haze, pulsing in and out … in and out.

Miller suddenly had a hunch. He stepped forward and grabbed Ed’s arm.

“Hey—!” Miller uttered a cry. His hand moved right through the arm!

Miller tried to grab the old man’s wrist. But again, his fingers slid right through the wrist.

A ghost! Miller realized.

Barnstable isn’t really here. He’s a ghost.

He and Edna are both ghosts, haunting their old house.

Miller raised his eyes to his sister. Did she realize it, too?

“Walnuts grow on walnut trees,” Edna said. “That’s how you can tell they are walnuts.”

Her husband vanished into the smoke. But his croaky voice remained. “Sit down, you two. It isn’t polite to stand.”

How do we get them out of our treehouse? Miller asked himself. How do we get rid of ghosts?

Della began signaling to him from across the room. She cupped one hand and raised it to her ear.

Miller squinted at her. What is she trying to tell me?

It took him a few more seconds to figure it out.

The phone.

Dad’s phone.

Miller had it in his pocket. He had completely forgotten about it.

He tugged the phone from his jeans and raised it to his ear. His plan was to call the house line and tell his dad to come rescue them.

He pushed the number.

Silence.

Pushed it again. Then he gazed at the screen.

“No Wi-Fi,” he whispered to Della.

“Would you like to try a walnut?” Edna asked. “I could crack one for you.”

Della made a disgusted face at Miller—and he remembered. The Wi-Fi hotspot. The phone had its own Wi-Fi. He forgot to activate it.

“What’s your hurry?” Ed said, his face poking out of a cloud of smoke. “Edna and I like a nice long visit.”

Miller’s hand shook as he raised the phone. So nervous, so frightened, it started to slip out of his hand, and he had to catch it.

Fumbling his fingers over the screen, he clicked on the Wi-Fi hotspot.

He heard a soft pop. And then a louder pop that made the treehouse floor shake beneath him.

Miller caught his balance and raised his eyes to the cloud of smoke over the rocking chair. Slowly, the smoke lifted. It rose to the ceiling like an inflated balloon.

Miller and Della both gasped. The rocking chair was empty.

They turned to the table. No one there. Edna had also vanished. The bowl of walnuts had disappeared with her.

“H-how?” Miller stammered. He gripped the phone so hard, his hand throbbed. “How did that happen? I switched on the Wi-Fi and they both disappeared.”

Della shook her head. “Beats me. Maybe…” She thought for a long moment. “Maybe they lived before Wi-Fi was invented. It wasn’t part of their world.”

“So, you mean,” said Miller, “when I switched on the Wi-Fi, it sent them back to their world?”

Della shrugged. “Who knows?” She ran to the door. “We have to tell Dad.”

Miller followed her to the edge of the platform. The rope ladder was back in its place.

They scrambled down and burst into the kitchen, screaming for their dad. He turned at the stove. “Where’ve you been? I told you to come down for dinner.”

“Ghosts!” Miller cried.

“These two old people—they were in the treehouse!” Della shouted. “It was so scary. They—”

She and Miller started talking at once.

Stratton raised his spatula high. “Time out! Freeze! One at a time,” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Miller took a breath and told him the whole story. Ed Barnstable … his wife Edna … the walnuts … How the old couple wouldn’t let them leave.

Stratton listened intently to the whole thing. Then he tossed back his head and burst out laughing.

“Dad—it isn’t funny!” Miller exclaimed.

“Why are you laughing?” Della demanded.

“I’m so glad the treehouse inspired you,” Stratton said. “It inspired you to make up a great ghost story.”

“But Dad—” Miller started.

“Very clever,” their dad said, turning back to the stove. He lifted the skillet and began to carry it to the kitchen table. “You two are awesome storytellers.”

“Dad—” Miller tried again.

Della grabbed Stratton’s arm and squeezed it. “You’ve got to listen to us. We’re not making up a story. I swear.”

He squinted at her. “You really want me to believe this ghost story?”

“It’s not a story,” Della repeated.

Stratton set down the skillet. Then he turned and started to the back door. “Okay. Let me go up and take a look. You say the old couple is gone. But maybe they left some walnut shells on the floor.”

They followed him out of the house and up the rope ladder to the treehouse. Ducking his head under the low ceiling, Stratton searched the room. He tilted the rocking chair and looked under the other chair and the table.

Then he turned back to Miller and Della. “Your ghosts have definitely vanished without a trace,” he said. “Did you tell me the old guy smoked a pipe?” He sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any tobacco.”

The two kids both sighed. “We’re not making it up,” Miller said quietly.

“Well, maybe they’re gone for good,” Stratton said. “Let’s go have our sloppy joes.”

The next morning, Miller and Della woke up to a bright, sunny day. Eager to investigate the treehouse, they gulped down their breakfast cereal and hurried out to the backyard.

Miller led the way. He stopped halfway up the rope ladder and listened.

No sounds from up there. No voices. No walnuts being cracked. Just the gentle creak of tree branches and the whisper of leaves in the soft spring wind.

He scrambled up to the platform, turned, and watched Della climb up after him. They both paused outside the door.

Will the treehouse be empty? Miller wondered. Will it be ghost-free?

Della poked him. “Hey, did you remember Dad’s phone?” she asked.

Miller blinked. “Uh … no. I’ll get it later. We’re not going to be up here very long.”

They opened the door and stepped into the treehouse.

“Nooo!” Miller cried.

Della gasped.

A man and a woman looked up from the table. They were both young, with dark eyes and wavy black hair.

The woman had a pale blue T-shirt pulled down over white shorts. The young man wore jeans and a maroon sweatshirt.

“Wh-who are you?” Miller stammered.

“Have you seen our parents?” the young woman asked.

“Ed and Edna Barnstable?” the man said. “Have you seen them? We don’t know where they could be. They almost never leave the house.”

Miller didn’t answer. He knew he had to get out of there fast.

He spun around and dove out the door. He stopped at the edge of the platform.

Gone! The rope ladder was gone.

“Hey, what’s your hurry?” The young man followed him outside. “Come sit down. Keep us company till our parents get back.”

“Come in and have a few walnuts,” the young woman called.

Crack crack crack.

THE MAGIC IS IN THE HAT

When my brother Bill was five, my parents had a birthday party for him, and they hired a clown to come entertain all the five-year-olds.

I remember the clown very well. He had black circles painted around his eyes, springy red hair that stood straight out at his ears, and fake teeth that poked down over his chin.

I remember him because he wasn’t funny—he was terrifying. He carried a horn that he squeezed and honked in everyone’s ears. And he sprayed water on all the kids with a squirt bottle.

No one laughed. Some kids started to cry. A few ran out of the room. He was SCARY.

I remembered that clown when I wrote this story about a boy who wants to entertain at a birthday party.

Mrs. Barnes narrowed her eyes at Brady. “There will be twelve five-year-olds at Ginny’s birthday party here Saturday,” she said. “They can get pretty wild. Do you think you can handle them?”

“For sure,” Brady answered. “I have a whole suitcase of tricks. I know the kids will love them.”

She tapped her red fingernails on the kitchen counter, thinking hard. “Okay,” she said finally. “Come at two and do your magic act.”

“Really?” Brady said. He wanted to hide his excitement, but it was hard not to jump up and down.

“What do you call yourself? Brady the Awesome?”

He shook his head. “No. Brady the Amazing.”

She chuckled. “Well, come and be amazing.” She started to walk him to the kitchen door. “What would you like to be paid? Is forty dollars good?”

Forty dollars?

Brady would do it for free!

“Sounds okay,” he replied.

She held the screen door open for him. “See you Saturday,” she said. “Oh. And one more thing. No water tricks. I have brand-new couches in the living room, and I don’t want to get them wet.”

“No problem,” Brady said.

When the screen door closed behind him, he took off running across the street to his house. He was so excited, he felt he could lift off the ground and fly home.

My first real job as a magician!

He found his mom in the backyard garden. She was down on her knees, planting a bed of red petunias.

When he told her about the birthday party job, she dropped her spade and clapped.

“You’d better practice,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Brady replied. “I’m doing my magic act at the talent show in school on Friday. That will be good practice for the birthday party.”

He hurried up to his room to work on some tricks for the talent show. But he stopped in the doorway when he saw his sister, Suzi, standing by his closet.

“What are you doing in my room?” Brady asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Huh? You don’t know why you’re in my room?”

“No. I don’t know. I’m just here, I guess.”

Talking to Suzi was always difficult. She was six and didn’t answer questions the way you might expect. Brady liked his sister. She was kind of fun and funny. When she wasn’t snooping around his room.

“Were you snooping around my room?” he demanded.

“Maybe,” she answered.

Brady realized that Suzi had both hands behind her back. “What are you hiding back there?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Suzi said. Her cheeks always turned pink when she told a lie.

“Come on.” He took a few steps toward her. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m hiding my hands. That’s all,” she said.

He leaped forward and spun her around. And saw the furry, white stuffed bunny in her hands.

“That’s my magician bunny!” Brady cried. “For pulling out of the top hat. You took it from my closet? Why?”

“I thought it was mine,” Suzi said.

“You don’t have a bunny,” Brady told her. “Did you forget?”

She nodded. “Yes. I forgot.”

He took the bunny from her and tossed it back in his closet. “Come here. I want to practice a few tricks on you.”

“Do you have to?” Suzi replied.

“Yes, I have to,” he said. “I have the talent show on Friday and a birthday party job on Saturday.”

“Is that a big deal?” Suzi asked.

He ignored her question and pulled a deck of cards from his desk drawer. “I have some awesome card tricks,” he said. “Do you think five-year-olds will like card tricks?”

“No,” Suzi answered.

Brady shuffled the deck, then held the cards out to her face-down. “Pick a card,” he said. “Any card, and don’t show it to me.”

Suzi gazed at the cards for a moment. Then she pulled a card from the middle of the deck and looked at it.

Brady held the deck out to her. “Slide it back in. Don’t tell me what it is.”

Suzi pushed the card back into the deck.

Brady slid the cards through his hands and pulled one out. He held it up to his sister. “Is this your card? Three of clubs?”

Suzi stared at it. “No.”

Brady swallowed. “No? It isn’t your card?” He pushed through the cards again and pulled another one out. “Is this your card? Jack of diamonds?”

Suzi shook her head. “No.”

Brady groaned. “Well, okay. What was your card?”

“I don’t remember,” Suzi said.

An angry cry escaped Brady’s lips. “I’ll bet it was the three of clubs. Why can’t you help me?”

“Here’s my trick,” Suzi said. She grabbed the deck of cards from his hand and sent them all crashing to the floor. Cards scattered all around them over the rug.

“That’s not a trick!” Brady screamed. “What kind of magic trick is that?”

“It is a trick,” Suzi said. “I have magic powers. I made you pick them all up.”

Was I nervous before the talent show? Does a duck have lips?

My dad always says that. I don’t really know what it means. But yes, I was more than stressed.

My tricks went very well when I practiced them every day in my room. But would they work onstage in the auditorium in front of the whole school?

I was the third act in the show. I followed Ashley Grover’s accordion solo and a hip-hop dance thing by four eighth-grade girls. Both acts scored huge applause.

And then, I heard our principal, Ms. Ricks, announce my name. “Let’s give it up for Brady the Amazing. He’s going to amaze you with his magic tricks.”

I gripped my top hat in one hand and my magic wand in the other. Then I took a deep breath and walked out onstage on trembly legs.

“Welcome to my world of magic!” I exclaimed. My voice squeaked a little on the word magic. My mouth felt so dry, I couldn’t swallow.

I set my top hat down on the table on the stage. Then I raised the wand.

It’s a trick wand I bought in a magic store. When I press a hidden button on the side, it droops like a wilting flower. It looks totally funny. I wanted to start my act with a laugh.

“Magic wand, obey my commands!” I shouted. I pushed the button.

The wand didn’t droop.

“Obey my commands!” I repeated.

I pushed the button again. No. It didn’t bend. It stayed straight and hard.

The kids watching were silent. All eyes were on the wand.

It had worked perfectly at home. What was wrong with it now?

I twisted it in my hand and tried to push the button again. But my hand had grown cold and sweaty, and the wand slipped out and clattered to the stage floor.

“Magic wand, don’t try to escape!” I shouted. I tried to make it seem a part of the act.

But when I bent down to pick up the wand, I bumped the table with my shoulder. The table fell over and went crashing to the floor. My top hat slid halfway across the stage.

I know the kids in the audience didn’t mean to be cruel. But how could they not laugh their heads off, watching me stumbling and bumbling? Brady the Amazing Klutz!

“Give him a chance!” Ms. Ricks shouted, stepping out from the side of the stage. “Give Brady a chance, everyone!”

My face felt hot. I knew it was bright red. I reached down for the top hat—and accidentally kicked it off the stage.

A low moan escaped my throat.

The laughter rang off the auditorium walls. Kids were shrieking with laughter, slapping their knees.

I wanted to jump off the stage, run up the aisle, run away and never come back. But I had to go on.

A kid handed me my top hat. Ms. Ricks stood the table back up. “Maybe you should try a comedy act,” she whispered.

Cruel.

“For my last trick…” I shouted.

That got more laughter, I guess because I hadn’t done my first trick. “For my last trick,” I said. “I will do the famous rabbit-in-a-hat trick, made popular by magicians around the world.”

I held the top hat high and showed the audience the inside of the hat. “As you can see, the hat is empty,” I said. “Look carefully, everyone. Nothing inside.” I waved the hat all around so everyone could see.

The furry, plush rabbit was tucked in a hidden pocket in the side of the hat. It couldn’t be seen by anyone. All I had to do was slide my hand into the pocket and pull out the stuffed rabbit.

So easy. No way I could fail at that.

I kept the hat high. “Okay, help me say the magic words, everyone!” I said. And then I called out, “Abracadabra!”

Only a few kids shouted the words with me.

I reached into the hidden pocket, wrapped my fingers around the rabbit—and raised it high.

Silence.

And then I heard the laughter … wild laughter … It seemed to roar up and down the auditorium.

Confused, I turned and stared at what I was holding up in my hand. A pair of my underpants!

“Suzi!” I said out loud. “Suzi. Suzi. How could she do this to me?”

I jammed the underpants into the hat. Then I spun around and went stumbling off the stage. I heard a little pity applause as I ran off. But mostly loud, hee-haw laughter.

Ms. Ricks had this strange look on her face. A sad smile. “Maybe a little more practice?” she said. Then she ran out to introduce the next act.

I stashed the top hat in my locker. Then I found a seat near the back of the auditorium. No one in the row said anything to me. They pretended they didn’t see me.

I was already thinking about the birthday party tomorrow. Would it be a disaster, too?

Was it the worst afternoon of my life?

Yes. So far.

But then it got worse.

“We are lucky today,” Ms. Ricks announced onstage. “We have not one magician, but two!” She motioned to the side of the stage. “Let’s put our hands together for Dangerous Deirdre Harrison!”

Deirdre Harrison does magic? She was in my class, but I didn’t know she was into magic tricks, too.

I put my hands on the seatback in front of me and leaned forward to watch.

Deirdre put her top hat down on the table. Then she held her magic wand at her side. “Hi, everyone!” she shouted. “Watch me. I’m going to take my magic wand for a walk.”

She lowered the tip of the wand to the stage, and it began to hop up and down. Tapping loudly, the wand hopped in a line across the stage. Deirdre raised both hands in the air—and the wand kept walking!

Tap tap tap. She walked alongside it as the wand bounced across the stage on its own.

The audience went nuts. Kids jumped to their feet and screamed. The applause sounded like thunder off the auditorium walls.

I sank back in my chair and shut my eyes.

Whatever made me think I could be a magician?

When I opened my eyes, Deirdre was holding up a white dove. A live, white dove. “Let’s see what kind of magic we can do with a dove,” she announced.

Holding it gently, she lowered the dove into the top hat. She waved the wand over the hat and muttered some words.

Then she reached into the hat—and pulled out a cat!

She held it high, and the orange cat meowed and curled and uncurled its tail.

Another roar of applause. I saw Ms. Ricks at the side of the stage clapping her hands and cheering.

“The magic is in the hat!” Deirdre exclaimed when the applause finally died down. She lowered the cat into the hat, waved the wand over it—and pulled out two different cats! Two black cats!

“How?” I said out loud. “How did she do that?”

I sank deeper into my seat. I really wanted to sink into the floor and never come back up.

But the worst was still to come.

“Thank you, everyone!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Sorry, but I have to disappear now!”

She placed the top hat on her head—and disappeared!

She was gone. The hat dropped to the stage floor. No sign of Deirdre.

The auditorium was silent at first. I don’t think anyone believed what they had just seen. And then the room exploded with applause, whistles, shrieks, and cries of disbelief.

I think I was the only one still in his seat.

“What am I going to do about the party tomorrow?” I asked myself. “My magic act is a total loser. I’m doomed. Doomed.”

But then I had an idea.

I caught Deirdre coming out of the art room at the end of school. “Your act was awesome,” I said. “It … It was magical!”

She pointed to the top hat on a shelf in the art room. “The magic is all in the hat,” she said. Her smile faded. “Can I be honest with you, Brady?”

I nodded.

“Your act needs work.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Deirdre.”

She shook her head. “No. Sorry. I don’t need an assistant.”

“No,” I said. “I know. You don’t need anyone. You’re amazing! But … I need help.”

She squinted at me. “Help?”

“I’m in a jam,” I said. “I’m supposed to perform my magic act at a birthday party tomorrow. And I don’t think I’m ready.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can say that again!”

“Well…” I hesitated. My mouth felt dry again, and my hands were wet and cold. “I just want to ask a favor,” I said.

“A favor?”

I nodded. “Can I borrow your top hat?” I blurted the words out in one breath. “Just for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll bring it right back. If I could borrow it for the birthday party…”

Deirdre didn’t take time to think about it. “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t lend it to you.”

“But—”

“I’m serious when I say the magic is in the hat. You couldn’t handle it, Brady. I wish I could help you. But no. I can’t lend the hat to anyone.”

I started to argue. But she saw some friends down the hall. She waved to them and went trotting to catch up with them.

I stood there, my heart still pounding, and watched her run down the hall.

What am I going to do? Embarrass myself in front of Mrs. Barnes and all those kids? Ruin the birthday party with my awful act?

My thoughts were dark. Very dark.

And then I did something really bad.

Remember, I was desperate.

I crept into the art room. It was empty. No one in there.

I grabbed Deirdre’s top hat off the shelf. I pressed it close to the front of my shirt. And I ran off with it.

Yes, I stole Deirdre’s top hat. I carried it home, running all the way. Of course, I planned to bring it back to her. After the birthday party.

I carried it up to my room and set it down on my desk. I needed to practice with it. What magic could I do with the hat?

I turned the hat upside down and peered down into it. The inside was a silky red color. It appeared to be empty.

I found my magic wand, carried it to my desk, and waved it over the hat.

Would something magically appear?

Yes. Two small hands wrapped around the hat and lifted it off the table. “Suzi—give that back!” I cried.

She giggled and took off with the top hat.

“Give it back! It isn’t mine!” I shouted.

I chased her into the hall. She pressed the hat against the front of her T-shirt and started to run down the stairs.

“Suzi—stop!” I shouted. “Stop! You can’t—”

Mom and Dad stood at the bottom of the stairs. Suzi almost crashed into them.

“There you are,” Mom said. “Did you forget we’re going to Cousin Marty’s house for dinner?”

I grabbed the top hat out of Suzi’s hands. “No!” I cried. “I can’t go. I need to practice!”

“Put the top hat down, Brady,” Dad said. “You can’t stay home. We promised Marty.”

“But—but—” I sputtered.

He gave me the Dad Cold Stare. I knew that look. It meant “Brady loses. Brady goes to Marty’s house.”

Cousin Marty lives two towns away. It’s a long drive. And when we finally got back after dinner, it was bedtime.

So that’s how I showed up at Ginny Barnes’s birthday party without having a chance to rehearse with the top hat.

Sure, I was tense. But not that tense. Because Deirdre said the magic was in the hat. And I figured the hat would come through big-time for me.

Mrs. Barnes greeted me at the front door. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, mopping her forehead with a dish towel. “Ginny’s friends are very wild. I’m having a terrible time keeping them off my new couches.”

“I’ll do a good show for them,” I said.

I stepped into the living room. The little kids were dancing and screaming and laughing and chasing one another, running around in circles.

One boy had chocolate smeared all over his face, even though the cake hadn’t been served yet. Ginny, the birthday girl, was pawing through a pile of wrapped presents in a corner.

Dodging right and left, I made my way through the kids and set my top hat on the coffee table.

The new couches were bright white and spotless. I guessed Mrs. Barnes had warned the kids away from them. Kids were jumping up and down on the two big armchairs. But no one was trying the couch as a trampoline.

I gripped my magic wand and raised both arms to get their attention. “Hi, everyone!” I shouted. “I’m Brady the Amazing. Come sit down. I’m going to do some amazing magic tricks for you.”

Of course, they ignored me and kept jumping and screaming and chasing one another. It took four tries, but the room finally grew quiet as the kids found places on the floor in front of the coffee table.

Mrs. Barnes stood at the kitchen door with her arms crossed. She smiled at me. I guess she was glad I finally got them quiet.

“Ginny, you’re the birthday girl,” I said. “Come sit close to me in the front row.”

Ginny climbed over some kids and dropped down in front of me. “Did you bring me a present?” she asked.

“No. I’m going to do a special trick for you,” I answered. “Come stand here.”

She climbed to her feet and walked up to me, smoothing down her lacy party dress. I raised the wand high. “This wand is magic,” I said. “Can you blow on it?”

She puffed up her cheeks and blew on the wand. I pushed the hidden button—and this time it worked. The wand drooped like a wilting flower.

“What did you do to my wand?” I cried.

Kids laughed.

I straightened the wand. “Don’t do that to my wand!” I exclaimed.

Ginny blew again, and the wand drooped down.

“Hey, stop!” I shouted.

That got a bigger laugh. The kids loved it.

I did the drooping wand thing four or five times till I could see they were getting tired of it. Back at the kitchen doorway, Mrs. Barnes had a big grin on her face.

What was I so stressed about? I asked myself. This is a piece of cake.

I set down the wand and showed them the hat. “This is a magic hat,” I told the kids. “It looks empty, right? Shall we see what’s inside?”

I gazed at a little boy sitting cross-legged behind Ginny. “Come up and blow on the hat,” I said. “Let’s see if we can make some magic appear.”

The boy came up, bent over the hat, and blew on it. Then he hurried back to his place.

I reached down and stuck my hand deep into the hat. “Let’s see…” I said. Then I let out a shrill scream of pain. “OOWWWWWW! Something bit my hand!”

The kids roared with laughter.

“NOOOO! I can’t get my hand out!” I cried. I struggled to tug my hand from the hat.

They laughed even harder. At the back of the room, I saw Mrs. Barnes laugh, too.

“OWW!” I let out another cry. “Something BIT ME again!”

The kids were howling and slapping the floor. But I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was serious. Something was biting my hand, and I couldn’t free it from the hat.

I raised my eyes to Mrs. Barnes. “Help me!” I shouted. “It hurts! It really hurts!”

She shook her head and laughed.

“Ouch! What’s biting me?” I cried. Everyone in the room thought it was part of the act. Ginny jumped up and blew on the hat. And everyone thought that was a riot.

I grabbed the hat by the brim with my free hand and tugged with all my strength. I heard a pop sound—and my hand came free. It was bright red and starting to swell.

The kids all clapped. They didn’t get it. They thought it was part of the show.

“I—I—” I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, shaking my throbbing hand.

And a pigeon flew out from the hat. It made a loud flapping sound as it flew up to the ceiling and began to circle the room.

The kids clapped some more.

And another pigeon came flying out. And then two more pigeons, flapping hard. I lost count as pigeons poured from the hat.

I saw Mrs. Barnes’s smile fade as a pigeon dive-bombed her, and she had to duck away from it. And then two pigeons landed on one of the white couches and began to strut back and forth on the cushion.

“No! Not my couches!” Mrs. Barnes cried. I could barely hear her over the laughter and applause from the kids. She came racing across the room and started to shoo the pigeons off the couch.

“Brady—get them back in the hat!” she cried.

“I—I don’t know how,” I stammered. And then the first cat came climbing out of the hat. A fat yellow-orange cat. It dropped onto the coffee table and then leaped into the crowd of kids.

Kids laughed and reached for it.

A black cat slithered out from the top hat, and then two large gray cats.

“Put them back! Put them back!” Mrs. Barnes was screaming.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. What shall I do?

A loud squawk made kids gasp as a cat caught a pigeon and clamped its jaws onto the bird’s throat.

“He’s killing it!” Ginny cried.

There was no laughter now. A few kids were crying. Some were running out of the room.

The two gray cats leaped onto a couch and began scratching their claws down the back. They scratched long ruts in the couch. A black cat jumped onto the other couch and began tearing at the cushion with both claws.

A cat pounced on a pigeon and started shaking it. A pigeon landed on a boy’s head and the boy screamed for help.

“Do something! Do something!” Mrs. Barnes shrieked at me. “My couches. Oh nooooo. My couches!”

I turned and saw Ginny pick up the hat. She tilted it right side up and pulled it onto her head. I heard another loud pop. And Ginny vanished.

She disappeared. The top hat floated to the floor.

Mrs. Barnes dove at me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Where is she?” she cried. “Where is Ginny? What kind of trick is that?”

“I—I’ll get her back,” I stammered.

But how?

I knew what I had to do. I had to call Deirdre. I had to tell her what was happening here with her hat. Deirdre could fix it. I knew she could.

My hand was shaking so hard, I had to dial her number three times on my phone before I got it right.

Kids were screaming and crying. Cats were killing pigeons. The two couches were in shreds.

One ring … two rings … three …

“This is Deirdre. Leave me a message.” BEEP.

No. Oh no. Voice mail. She didn’t answer.

A wave of panic swept down my body. I had to force myself to breathe.

“Where is Ginny?” Mrs. Barnes was shrieking. “Where is my daughter?”

I picked up the top hat, raised it high—and slammed it down on the coffee table. And Deirdre stepped out from inside it.

The room grew silent.

How could this happen?

Deirdre gazed around the room. Then she frowned at me. “Brady,” she said, “I told you, the magic is in the hat.”

She held the hat up in front of her. Then she called out some strange words. One by one, the pigeons flew back into the hat.

She called out some other words, and the cats raced across the living room and dove into the hat.

Deirdre spun the hat in her hands. And the scratches and ruts disappeared from the two white couches, and they were perfect again.

Then Deirdre tilted the top hat in front of her—and Ginny popped into view. “Mom!” Ginny ran across the room and wrapped her mother in a long hug.

“One more trick!” Deirdre exclaimed.

She slammed the top hat down on my head—and I disappeared.

Mrs. Barnes gazed around her living room, and a wide smile spread over her face. The living room sparkled. The kids were all seated at the dining room table, quietly downing their birthday cake.

“That was wonderful,” Ginny’s mom told Deirdre. “You saved the day. And the kids had an awesome time. Such wonderful magic.”

“It was fun,” Deirdre said.

“Are you going to bring Brady back?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. He’s already home,” Deirdre replied. “Wondering how he got there.” She chuckled.

Mrs. Barnes pushed two twenty-dollar bills into Deirdre’s hand. “Here you go,” she said. “Here’s the forty dollars I promised. You’re an amazing magician!”

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “But, really, the magic is all in the hat.”

OOPS!

I love stories about kings, and knights, and wizards, and dragons. I’ve written quite a few. But I think this one is my favorite because it’s also about magic.

When I was a kid, I had a magic kit, a small suitcase with about thirty magic tricks in it.

I loved performing the tricks for my family. But I was terrible at it.

When I cut the rope into two pieces, I could never get it back together.

When I guessed the card that was picked, I usually got it wrong.

I could never get the flowers to burst from the tip of the magic wand.

This story is about a wizard with great powers. But maybe … just maybe … his magic is as bad as mine!

Back in the days of kings, and knights, and wizards, a twelve-year-old boy named Nathan of Scots was brought to the castle of King Harry by his father.

Nathan trembled at the sight of the castle. It rose up over a steep gray cliff like a purple monster, its towers grabbing for the sky. “Stop shaking, boy,” his father said, holding Nathan’s hand as they stepped up to the wide front gates. “Think about how lucky you are.”

Yes, Nathan knew he was lucky. To be apprentice to Morgon, the king’s great wizard, was something other boys could only dream about. To live in the castle with the royals and their followers … to learn from the world’s most powerful sorcerer …

Nathan was lucky. But he still had plenty of reason to be scared, to be filled with dread … plenty of reason to tremble.

What if Morgon is mean?

What if the great wizard doesn’t like me?

What if I can’t learn fast enough to please him?

Two guards in armor raised long spears to stop Nathan and his father. Voices echoed in the vast entryway. As his father explained to the guards, Nathan watched a group of knights in formation. Their boots thundered on the stone floor as they marched past, holding silver lances high.

A guard led the way through the castle to the tower that housed Morgon’s chamber. It seemed so crowded, so busy. Loud voices and rapid footsteps filled Nathan’s ears. Staring at the people he passed, Nathan felt he was in a dream. The bright colors of their robes … their furs … their fine leather boots.

Even the servants looked glamorous to Nathan in their sparkling uniforms and silky head coverings. He suddenly felt shabby. His coat was well worn with tattered sleeves. One leg of his tights had a hole the size of a walnut.

The guard left Nathan and his father standing in the great wizard’s chamber. Nathan gazed at the tall shelves of ancient-looking books that lined one long wall. Another wall had shelves of glass jars. Nathan could see living creatures in the jars, strange plants, and powders.

A long worktable was covered in tools and lamps and jars and bottles, a silvery wand, a stack of open books.

It was silent in this vast room, so quiet Nathan could hear the beating of his heart. He gripped his father’s hand with an icy hand of his own.

They waited without speaking. Outside a tall window, a large black bird flapped its wings, peering inside at them.

And then with a blinding white flash of lightning, Morgon appeared in front of them. Nathan staggered back, as if blown by a strong blast of wind.

The wizard gazed at them with purple eyes, as purple as his long robe. His white beard was pointed and short, like a brush beneath his chin. A pointed purple cap tilted over his white hair, covered in yellow stars.

The wizard eyed them for a long moment.

Nathan’s father was the first to speak. “Morgon, your excellency,” he started, “I have brought my son Nathan to be your apprentice.”

Morgon turned his gaze on the boy. “Your timing is good,” he said finally. He had a surprisingly bold and young voice. “My need for an apprentice is great.”

Nathan knew it was his turn to say something. But what should he say?

Morgon narrowed his purple eyes at him. “What have you come here to learn, son?” he asked.

Nathan thought hard. His mind spun like a child’s top. Would he always be so afraid of the wizard?

“Everything,” he finally managed to choke out.

The answer seemed to please Morgon. He smiled and patted the shoulder of Nathan’s tattered shirt. “We will learn together,” he said, “and you will help me do great magic for the kingdom.”

Morgon handed Nathan’s father a blue cloth bag. Nathan could hear coins jangling inside it. The wizard nodded to the father, telling him it was time to go.

Nathan’s father turned and placed both hands on Nathan’s shoulders. “Work hard and make a name for yourself,” he said.

“Goodbye, Father.” Nathan’s voice cracked with emotion. He watched his father walk from the chamber. The coin bag jangled in one hand.

And then there he stood, alone with the great wizard.

Morgon showed Nathan to a small bedchamber in the bottom of the tower. He gave Nathan a purple robe to replace his tattered clothes. The robe was a little too large and the fabric felt harsh against Nathan’s skin. But he was delighted to wear it to show he was Morgon’s apprentice.

The next morning, Nathan was given a breakfast of a slice of bread dipped in honey and a boiled egg. A large goblet held a syrupy drink that tasted sweet and delicious.

After his meal, Nathan found Morgon at the long worktable, hunched over a pile of old books. The wizard muttered to himself, rubbing his short beard. He looked up when Nathan approached the table.

“We must begin,” Morgon said. “There is much to be done and little time.” He flipped through the pages of the book in front of him, then slammed it shut. “If only I had an idea.”

Nathan was surprised to see the great wizard so fretful. “An idea?” he said.

Morgon pulled off his pointed cap and set it down on the table. He ran a hand through his wavy white hair. “I must tell you about the banquet,” he said. “We haven’t much time to prepare.”

A banquet? Am I really going to go to the king’s banquet? Nathan thought. He felt a wave of excitement roll down his body.

“King Harry is holding a banquet to impress his visitor, Queen Freeda,” Morgon explained. “He has asked me to do a performance of magic at the banquet. He wants magic that will stun Queen Freeda and show the world that I, King Harry’s wizard, am the greatest, most powerful sorcerer in the kingdom.”

“And what magic have you chosen?” Nathan asked.

Morgon sighed. “I haven’t. I can’t decide. First, I thought maybe an invisibility spell. But that’s been done a million times. Then I thought a lightning storm inside the banquet hall. But any wizard can do that. I need something bolder, something more surprising.”

At the window, the blackbird flapped its wings against the glass. Nathan watched it tap its beak against the window, as if trying to get in.

“Pay no attention to that bird,” Morgon said. “That’s Rolph, my old apprentice.”

Nathan swallowed. “Your old apprentice?”

“He was a failure,” Morgon said, shooing the bird away with one hand. “I changed him into a bird and sent him away. I had no choice.”

Nathan swallowed again. His mouth suddenly felt dry as sand. What if I am also a failure? he thought. Will I be flapping my wings outside the window?

Morgon opened one of the large books on the table and began to turn the yellowed pages. He stopped and lowered his head, squinting and running a finger down a page.

“Let’s start with something simple and build on it,” he said. “Perhaps I can start by making King Harry’s banquet seat rise up and float over the floor.”

Nathan blinked. “Can you really do that?” he asked.

“It’s too simple,” Morgon replied. “But we can add more magic to it.” He pointed to the wall across from the worktable. “Bring me the jar with pomegranate-larvae leaves. We’ll start with that.”

Nathan hurried to the shelves, eager to do his first assignment. The glass jars were all clearly labeled. He spotted the jar of pomegranate-larvae leaves on a shelf above his head.

Standing on tiptoe, he reached up to the jar. But his arms weren’t long enough, and his hands couldn’t grip the jar. “I—I can’t reach it,” he called to Morgon.

“Let’s fix that,” the wizard said. He picked up the silvery wand and strode over to Nathan. “I shall make you taller. I know the spell by heart.”

“T-taller?” Nathan stuttered. “Are you sure?”

Morgon’s face reddened. “Do you dare doubt the greatest sorcerer in the kingdom?”

Nathan didn’t know how to answer that question. He stood stiff and still as Morgon raised his wand and waved it over Nathan. Morgon called out a bunch of strange words that Nathan had never heard before. And then he touched Nathan on the head with the wand.

Nathan hiccupped and everything went black. He felt as if his body had exploded. He suddenly could feel the cold floor beneath him.

He gazed up. Struggled to focus. Morgon seemed to stand a mile above him.

“Oops,” the wizard said. “I got the spell wrong. I turned you into a frog.”

“Rebeep rebeep,” Nathan said. He tried to speak, but he could only croak. He slapped his frog feet against the stone floor. “Rebeep?”

“Those were the wrong words,” Morgon said, leaning down to speak to the frog. “I’m just so frantic about the banquet. I can’t think straight.”

“Rebeep?”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to change you back right now.” Morgon shut his eyes. “Let me just think for a moment. Let me concentrate.”

Nathan stared up at the wizard, his frog heart pounding, making his green belly puff in and out.

“I’ve got it,” Morgon said, opening his eyes. He raised the wand. “You’ll be yourself again in no time.” He waved the wand over the frog and, in his booming voice, called out another bunch of strange words.

Once again, Nathan felt a hard pop of pain. He shut his eyes and sank to the floor, waiting for the pain to fade.

He opened his eyes and gazed up at the wizard.

“Oops,” Morgon said again. “My mistake, son. I’ve made you into a bigger frog.”

Nathan took a few hops, his feet slapping the stone floor. His heart pounding his chest, he turned and gazed at himself. Yes, he was still a frog. But now, as big as the chickens his family kept behind their cabin.

“REBEEP.” His long tongue whipped out.

The wizard jumped back. “Do not panic,” he told Nathan. He stared down at him and rubbed his beard. “Maybe I should leave you like this to impress the king’s visitors.”

“REBEEEEP!” Nathan croaked angrily. He hopped at the wizard, forcing him to back up some more.

“Stop,” Morgon pleaded. “You’re making me even more nervous.” He raised the wand again. “Don’t worry. I will turn you back into yourself. I need an apprentice more than I need a big frog.”

He walked back to the worktable and opened one of the old books. He thumbed from page to page, searching for the right spell. “What am I doing wrong?” he muttered to himself. “Where is that spell?”

Nathan hopped heavily across the floor. His tongue shot out, and he caught a large horsefly. He snapped it into his mouth and swallowed it quickly.

I don’t want to eat horseflies, he thought. I want to be me. What is taking the wizard so long?

Finally, the wizard returned, scratching his white hair and muttering to himself. “I have the words,” he told Nathan. “I’m just not myself this morning.”

He raised the wand. “Let me turn you back into yourself, and we can make a fresh start.”

Nathan shut his eyes and waited for the pain to shoot through his body.

Morgon called out a bunch of strange words, different from his previous chants.

“REBEEEEP!” A booming croak burst from Nathan’s open mouth. He shook himself, trying to force away the pain. He suddenly felt heavy, too heavy to keep his belly off the stone floor.

“Oops,” he heard Morgon gasp again.

Nathan opened his eyes to see that he was as tall as Morgon. He stood eye to eye with the wizard.

Still a frog.

An enormous frog!

A frog as big as a wizard!

Morgon’s purple eyes bulged in horror. “This will never do,” he said, shaking his head.

Nathan the giant frog hopped heavily along the floor, making the shelves shake and the jars rattle.

“Stop!” the wizard cried. “Stop before you break something.”

But Nathan didn’t feel like stopping. He had a sudden, strong craving. Water. He needed to be in water. He needed fresh air … the outdoors. He needed fresh flies.

Water … water …

“Stop!” Morgon screamed again. “I am a great wizard. I will succeed in turning you back into Nathan.”

But Nathan the giant frog could only think about water. He turned and lumbered to the window. His belly plopped on the floor as he hopped. The shelves shook with each heavy hop.

“Where are you going? Come back!” Morgon cried, waving his wand in the air.

Nathan bumped the window open with his head. Then he leaned out the open window and peered down with his froggy eyes. At the bottom of the tower, he could see a square of green grass. And in the middle of the lawn stood a round, blue pond.

“REBEEP REBEEP!” Nathan croaked with excitement.

Morgon was shouting angrily. But Nathan shut out the wizard’s cries. And LEAPED headfirst out the window.

His four legs flailed the air, and his tongue flew out of his mouth as he sailed down … down … and landed with a crashing SPLASH, sending tall waves flying off the pond in all directions.

The cool water felt so wonderful on his skin. He swam the length of the pond underwater. Then he rose to take a deep breath and swam back to the other side.

He was big and heavy, maybe as big as one of the king’s longboats. But he felt light as air in the water. Kicking and splashing, he rose to the surface. Water rolled off his big frog body. The sun warmed his back.

He didn’t see the men on horseback until he hopped onto the shore. “REBEEP.” A cry escaped his throat as he stared at them. Six knights in silvery battle dress.

He saw the surprise on their faces. One of the knights uttered a startled cry and toppled off his horse!

They reined their horses in and formed a line in front of Nathan.

“A monster!” a long-haired knight exclaimed, his red scarf fluttering in the wind.

“Risen up from the pond bottom,” the knight on the horse beside him added.

The horses blew and whinnied. Some ducked their heads and pawed the grass nervously.

“Rebeep rebeep.” Nathan wanted to explain. But he could only croak in a deep voice that scared the horses even more.

“Kill the monster!” the knight with the red scarf shouted. “The pond monster must be killed.”

“We have sworn to protect King Harry,” another knight said, struggling to keep his horse still. “The monster must die!”

“Rebeep!” Nathan was desperate to explain. I am a boy. I am Morgon’s apprentice. I am not a monster! But his long tongue choked his mouth. He couldn’t make words.

Two of the knights raised bows and set arrows into place.

No, Nathan thought, freezing in horror. No—please.

“Kill the monster! Kill the monster!” the knights began to chant.

One knight pulled back on his bow—and sent an arrow whistling toward Nathan. It sailed inches from his head.

“Kill the monster! Kill it!”

Nathan fought off his panic. He spun his big body around and flopped into the water.

Another arrow flew past him. He could feel the wind shoot off it. He lowered his head and dove under the surface.

The pond isn’t deep, and I’m too big to hide.

Their arrows will find me easily.

From underwater Nathan could hear the knights shouting. His chest began to ache. He had to swim up for air.

Kicking with his long back legs, he rose to the surface. He gulped air down, his belly heaving in and out. Then he shut his eyes, waiting for the pain of an arrow.

A familiar voice rang in his ears. He opened his eyes to see Morgon. The wizard’s purple robe glowed in the bright sunlight. Morgon was waving his hands in the air, shouting to the knights.

The men had lowered their bows. Their horses backed up as if surrendering.

“This is not a monster. It is a creature of my magic,” Morgon was explaining. “I made him to amuse our banquet guests. He is a surprise for King Harry. He is perfectly safe with me.”

The knights murmured among themselves. They all took one last look at the giant, human-sized frog. Then they kicked at their horses and rode off toward the castle stables.

Morgon waved to Nathan. “Follow me. Back to my chamber. Don’t touch me. You’re dripping wet.”

“Rebeep.” Nathan wanted to thank the wizard for saving his life. But he could still only croak. Besides, it was Morgon’s fault that Nathan got into such a terrifying jam.

Are you ever going to change me back into Nathan?

That’s the question he wanted to ask the wizard. But as he hopped after Morgon, he could only croak.

Morgon gave the Nathan frog a cloth to dry off. Then he stood the frog in front of the worktable. “I know what I was doing wrong,” the wizard said. “After all these years of sorcery, sometimes my mind wanders.”

He picked up his wand and wiped it clean with the long sleeve of his robe. “I had the words right,” he told Nathan. “I never forget the words of a spell.” He sighed. “It was my wand work that went astray.”

He raised the wand in front of Nathan’s wide frog face. “I shall bring you back to yourself in no time.”

Nathan watched the wizard wave the silvery wand in the air, three short stabs to the left, then two long stabs to the right. As he moved the wand from side to side, Morgon whispered another set of words Nathan didn’t recognize.

As the wizard chanted softly, Nathan felt his big body start to change. He could feel his belly shrink. His head quivered. He heard his bones crackle and crack.

He shut his eyes against the pain. Dizziness dropped him to the floor. I’m sinking … he thought. It’s like I’m sinking into a deep black pit.

“Open your eyes!” The wizard’s command broke into his thoughts.

Even before he opened his eyes, Nathan felt right. I feel like myself. I’m ME again. I know it!

He opened his eyes. Yes. He gazed at his hands. My hands. He studied his legs, the sandals on his feet. Me. I’m me.

He turned to Morgon and cried, “Thank you. I’m back!”

But his voice—his words—they came out in a soft mouse squeak.

He raised his eyes to the wizard. Morgon peered down at him—from a mile above!

“What is wrong?” Nathan squeaked. “Why are you so tall?”

“Oops,” the wizard said. He slapped his cheeks with both hands. “Too small. Nathan, you are back. But you are no taller than a drinking goblet!”

“Noooo!” Nathan squealed, jumping up and down. “Make me tall. Hurry. Return me to my size, I beg you.”

Morgon rubbed his beard. “I will have to study this.” He started toward the stack of old books on the worktable. “Don’t go anywhere, Nathan,” he called down. “Beware. A mouse could carry you away.”

“Please hurry!” Nathan squeaked.

Then he saw another figure enter the chamber. He was a young man, dressed in a blue smock over blue tights.

Morgon turned to greet him. “What can I do for you, squire?”

“I am sent to summon you to King Harry,” the young man said. “His excellency wishes to see you now, sire.”

Morgon started to follow the squire from the chamber. But he stopped and turned back to Nathan. “I’d better bring you with me,” he said. “One of my cats might have you for a snack.”

He wrapped his fingers around Nathan’s waist and carried him out of the chamber in one hand. Nathan was unhappy, but he knew there was no point arguing or trying to struggle free.

The royal chamber was all pink and purple from floor to ceiling. Plush curtains covered the walls, and chandeliers of candles high in the ceiling sent a rosy glow over the vast room.

Morgon carried Nathan past groups of robed followers who filled the chamber. They huddled in small groups, speaking softly. A line of people stood silently at the far side, awaiting their turn with the king.

As he drew closer to the throne, Nathan spotted the king, dressed in purple, a white fur collar around the neck of his robe. A silvery crown tilted on his head.

Nathan expected King Harry to be an old man, white-haired like Morgon. But the king was young, with a thick nest of blond hair that bounced under his crown. He had sparkling blue eyes, which he turned on Morgon as the wizard approached him.

“Your Highness.” Holding Nathan in front of him, Morgon did a short bow. “Why have you summoned me?”

“The banquet nears,” Harry said. “What magic have you made to delight and amaze Queen Freeda?”

Before Morgon could answer, the king’s eyes fell on Nathan, wrapped in Morgon’s hand. “What ho!” he cried. “A miniature boy!” He tossed back his head and let out a roar of laughter.

“Yes, Highness,” Morgon said. “I’ve used special sorcery to turn this boy into the size of a child’s doll.”

The king reached for Nathan and lifted him from Morgon’s hand. “A miracle. You have created a miracle, wizard.” He raised Nathan to his face. “What is your name, boy?”

“Nathan.” The word came out in a tiny squeak.

Harry tossed his head back and once again roared with laughter. He laughed so hard, his blond hair bounced and shook off his crown. It clattered over the floor.

Three squires stooped to pick it up for him.

The king poked Nathan’s forehead with a finger. “I can’t believe he’s real,” he said. He handed Nathan back to the wizard. “You have done well, Morgon. This living doll will amaze Queen Freeda and our guests. Your fame will spread across the kingdom.”

Morgon had a wide grin on his face as he carried Nathan back to his chambers. “You must stay small until after the banquet,” he said.

“No—” Nathan started. But Morgon pushed a finger over the boy’s tiny mouth.

“After I amaze the king’s guests, I shall return you to your normal height.” The wizard carried Nathan to the worktable and dropped him into a tall glass jar. Then he hurried out of the chamber.

Nathan stood in the jar with his face pressed against the glass for a long time. Then he decided what he had to do. I’m not going to wait for Morgon to make me big again. I can do it myself.

The side of the jar was slippery. But Nathan licked his hands wet, and they stuck to the glass as he climbed to the top. He slid one leg over the side of the jar and then the other. And then he dropped onto the worktable, landing lightly on his feet.

He scurried to the spell book. The book lay open. He climbed onto the yellowed pages. Then he dropped to his knees and leaned close so he could read the spells on the page.

Morgon had scratched a black X next to the spell he had been using. Nathan read the words of the spell silently in his mind.

I can do this.

The hard part was lifting Morgon’s wand. Nathan struggled to raise it off the table. But it felt heavy as a tree branch. Clenching his teeth and heaving with all his strength, he managed to raise the wand a few inches.

Then he shouted out the strange words on the page.

He felt a hard pop. The wand fell from his hands. He toppled onto his back. The room went black. A powerful current shot through his body.

Have I done it? Have I made myself ME again?

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Wait. Oh, wait. Did the wand and the spell book grow?

No.

No. No.

Nathan saw that he was smaller. No taller than a grasshopper. His spell had made him half the size!

Should I try again?

What if I completely disappear?

He heard voices in the outer chamber. He scampered closer, to the edge of the worktable.

Morgon was talking to someone. Nathan could hear his bold voice clearly. “I’m never going to make him tall again,” the wizard said. “I’m going to travel the kingdom and show off the little guy. It will make me famous forever. The boy will sacrifice himself to my greatness.”

The words froze Nathan. Chill after chill ran down his back.

What can I do? What can I do to save myself?

He darted back to the spell book. Climbed onto the open pages. And began to read frantically.

The banquet hall exploded with the roar of voices from the king’s guests. The aroma of roasted meats floated in the air along with the sweet perfume of many seated at the vast tables. The guests wore their finest robes and furs. Jeweled necklaces and bracelets sparkled at every table.

At the king’s table, Morgon held Nathan behind his back, ready to surprise and amaze the crowd. Queen Freeda sat beside King Harry. Both chatted pleasantly as they gnawed on legs of mutton.

Nathan’s heart fluttered in his chest. The wizard’s hand was wrapped around him tightly, nearly smothering him.

Finally, Harry rose and quieted the crowd. “My wizard Morgon will now dazzle and amaze you,” he announced.

Morgon stood up and waved his wand in the air. The vast room grew silent. “In honor of my king,” he shouted, “I have done something no wizard has ever done before!”

He swept his hand from behind his back. He opened it so that everyone could see Nathan standing on his palm.

“Behold!” Morgon cried. “Behold what I have done with my magic. I have created a tiny human being!”

The room erupted with oohs and aahs. Some people gasped. Some jumped to their feet to applaud and get a better look at tiny Nathan.

“No bigger than a bug!” Morgon declared, raising his hand high. “My magic has created the tiniest person in the world!”

More applause. More guests jumped to their feet.

Morgon had the wand raised in one hand, Nathan in the other.

Nathan took a deep breath. “Now!” he cried.

He leaped forward and grabbed the wand with both hands. Then he shouted a magic spell in his tiny voice.

Did I remember it right? Did I read it right?

A loud POP made people cry out in surprise.

The room shook. Nathan dropped from the wizard’s hand and began to grow. When he reached normal size, he grabbed the wand again and shouted more strange words he had memorized.

Another POP. Another long moment of the entire banquet hall shaking. More cries and gasps.

Nathan watched Morgon shrink. Smaller … smaller …

A few seconds was all it took. And Morgon hopped on the table, croaking furiously.

A frog! Nathan’s spell had worked. He had turned the wizard into a frog!

King Harry’s laughter boomed over the gasps and cries of surprise that rang out across the banquet hall. The king slapped Nathan on the back. “Wonderful! Wonderful magic!” he cried. “What a triumph! Young man, you will be my wizard from now on!”

“Oh, thank you, sire,” Nathan said. A wave of excitement ran up and down his body.

He picked up the wand. His hand slipped—and he accidentally bumped the king with it.

“Rebeep. Rebeep.” King Harry uttered startled croaks as he hopped on the tabletop. A frog. Nathan had turned His Royal Highness into a frog.

Nathan stared at the two frogs on the table.

“Oops,” he said.

I’M NOT BECKA

Why do I write so many stories about people trading bodies with someone else?

I can’t answer that question.

I know it would be frightening to be outside your body. And what if you couldn’t get back in?

I wanted this story to be really scary, scarier than other stories about people who switch bodies.

So I asked myself: What would happen if you traded bodies with a dead person?

And that’s how this story got started.

The Glyvendale cemetery is a block from my house. Kylie and I go there all the time.

Maybe you’ve seen the two-minute horror videos she and I do. We have a lot of followers. People keep asking if we’re going to do any longer stories. But we like keeping them short and sweet.

I’ve been working on a script called Hyde and Shriek. The problem is, when I get really into it, I scare myself, and I have to stop.

Kylie laughs at me because I like horror, but it scares me at the same time. She says, “Greta, maybe we should do dance videos like everyone else.”

She knows that will never happen.

Sometimes she and I try some of the dances we see in the videos. Kylie is light and graceful and has real rhythm. I look like Otto, my French bulldog, trying to wobble after a tennis ball.

So we’re sticking to scary stuff. Tonight, I spent an hour on Kylie’s zombie makeup. I brushed deep black spots on the sides of her face to make it look like skin is missing. Black circles around her eyes to create empty sockets. And a thick line of dark blood over her lips and down her chin.

I swept her hair up and twisted it to make it look scraggly. When we get to the cemetery, I’m going to use dirt to make her hair look even more gross.

I found one of Dad’s old bowling shirts in his closet. We both ripped it nearly to shreds, and I covered the front in disgusting brown stains. “Getting scary,” Kylie said, pulling the shirt around her shoulders.

I have some rubber worms I’m going to curl over Kylie’s ears when we get to the shoot. And maybe one poking out from her nose.

Did I mention she’s going to be a zombie crawling up from behind a gravestone?

Getting us dressed for our videos is one of my favorite things. I’m really into fashion and wild outfits and fun clothes. And I love doing the makeup, too. I think I want to be a costume designer someday. Or maybe a horror-movie makeup artist.

In tonight’s video, I play an innocent bystander who is strolling through the cemetery. I stand with my back to the gravestone, and I don’t see Kylie the zombie climb out from under the ground.

We have frightening suspense as she slowly … slowly … creeps up behind me. You think she’s about to attack. But instead, she asks if she can borrow my phone. She says she has a lot of texts to answer since she’s been dead.

I think it’s pretty funny. All of our videos have twist endings like that.

Our friend Kenji is supposed to meet us to record the part where Kylie and I are both in the scene. He said he’d try to come after he finishes his homework.

While we wait for him, I’ll do the close-up of Kylie climbing out from her grave. I want to try takes from different angles to see which is the scariest.

I pulled my phone from the charger and tucked it into my jeans pocket. Kylie grabbed her jacket and we made our way to the front door.

Dad sat on the couch, staring at his phone. Otto was sprawled flat on his stomach at Dad’s feet. “Greta, are you going out? Want to take Otto?” he asked.

“We’re going to the cemetery,” I told him.

“Another video? Take Otto. He loves the cemetery.”

Otto raised his head for two seconds, then lowered it back to the floor.

“We can’t use him in a horror video,” I said. “He’s too comical-looking.”

Kylie laughed. “Look at him. He’s already The Living Dead!”

I pulled open the front door and hurried outside before Dad could argue more. Kylie and I stepped out into a dark, windy night. I raised my eyes to the moon, but I couldn’t find it. It took me a minute to realize it was hidden behind swirling wisps of fog.

We get a lot of fog in Glyvendale Heights. It starts over Lake Chincoteague, and sometimes the wind carries it like waves of thick smoke over the entire town.

Dad usually gets a fog alert on his phone. I was surprised he didn’t warn us about it tonight.

Kylie shivered and pulled her jacket tighter. “How perfect is this? The fog will look awesome in the graveyard.”

I began to walk quickly, eager to get there. Somewhere down the block, a dog howled. “Sound effects,” I said.

“I hope Kenji can get away early,” Kylie said, jogging to keep up with me. “It’s going to be a cold night.”

“We have to be careful that your breath doesn’t steam up in front of you,” I said. “A zombie wouldn’t have breath.”

“I’ll try not to breathe,” Kylie said. We both laughed.

The fog billowed around us as we walked. I brushed droplets of cold water off my face. A burst of wind sent a metal trash can clattering down a driveway.

We crossed the street to the cemetery. Tall streetlamps sent a pale glow over the rows of old gravestones. The wire gate at the entrance was broken. It tilted open, the bottom stuck in the dirt.

Kylie and I turned and started to follow a path to the right. Thick weeds had overgrown some of the tombstones. Some of the really old ones were cracked or had fallen down.

We knew where we were going. We had used the same gravestone in several videos.

It stood on top of a low dirt hill. That made it great for videoing. I could stand at the bottom of the hill and tilt the phone up at the gravestone. It gave the shot an awesome horror-movie angle.

The wind rattled dead leaves at our feet. A burst of fog swirled past like a speeding bus. In the dim light from the street, the tombstone on the low hill came into view.

Kylie gazed all around. “Is the fog getting thicker?” she asked. “We may not be able to see anything at all.”

I patted her shoulder. “No worries. I’ve got this.”

I helped her pull off her jacket so we could see the ragged, stained zombie shirt. We draped the jacket over a gravestone in the row behind us.

“Let’s muddy you up,” I said. I lifted a handful of dirt, surprised at how damp and cold it felt. Kylie shut her eyes and I smeared her face with it. Then I raked my fingers down her long hair, making it look more scraggly.

I took a step back and admired my work. “Kylie, you’ve never looked better!” I exclaimed.

She shivered. “Greta, this fog…” she started. “The way it moves so fast, swirling and twisting … I … I keep having this strange feeling like it’s alive!”

“Awesome idea for a horror video,” I said. “Seriously. We should plan one for the next foggy night.”

Kylie shivered again. “Are we ready?”

I nodded. “Go get behind the stone. Remember, you’ve pulled yourself up from the dirt. Go slow. Take time to show you’re not used to being in the world.”

Kylie started to scramble up the hill. She slipped, sending dirt tumbling behind her. When she reached the top, she grabbed the top of the stone and turned back to me.

“Greta,” she called. Her voice was muffled in the swirling wind. “The fog—it’s so thick. I can barely see you.”

I squinted up at her. The fog moved so fast, Kylie seemed to fade in and out. “You look very ghostly,” I shouted. “This is going to look awesome. Unless the fog gets even thicker.”

“Let’s start.” Kylie ducked behind the gravestone.

I raised my phone and aimed up the hill. “Wave your hand so I can focus on you,” I called up to her.

She stuck a hand out from behind the stone.

I could see the lens struggling to lock on her. Too dark?

I clicked the phone light on. The light bounced off the fog and didn’t reach the hill. I clicked it off.

A thick fog cloud rolled around me, as if trying to trap me inside.

“Kylie, this isn’t working,” I shouted over the wind. “Should we wait a little and see if the fog lifts? Or should we try again tomorrow night?”

I didn’t hear her reply.

“Kylie? Should we wait a short while?” I repeated.

Did she answer me? I didn’t hear her. Was her voice drowned out behind the wind and thick fog?

I raised my phone again and gazed at the screen. Nothing. Too dark.

“Kylie—” I started to call to her again. But I stopped when I saw her coming down the hill.

I tucked my phone into my pocket and watched her through curling snakes of fog. She appeared to stagger, as if she couldn’t keep her balance.

And as she came closer …

… As she came closer …

… I stared in shock at her loose white skirt dragging along the ground. Her dress … stained and tattered and sleeveless. Her dress? Dress?

Closer she staggered. And the bald patch on her head came into clear view. The missing skin at her throat. The open, toothless mouth. One eye sunken deep in its socket.

“NOOOO!” A hoarse scream escaped my throat. I stumbled back from the hill.

“Who are you?” I screamed. “Who are you?”

And then I raised my eyes to the top of the hill. “Kylie? Kylie?” I cried in a tight, shrill voice. “Kylie? Are you okay?”

The terrifying girl staggered toward me. She brushed clumps of dirt off the front of her dress. Then she raised both arms toward me. And I saw the missing skin on one arm. Just bone. The arm was bone. And the fingers on one hand … just bone.

“No. Nooo. Please…” I choked out.

Why didn’t I run? I was too shocked. Too frightened. Panic. Total panic staring at this one-eyed girl with the hole in her scalp and the skin rotting off her bones.

She grabbed me.

Her fingers tightened around my wrist.

I felt my knees start to fold.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cry out.

Her fingers were so hard, so cold. She brought her face close to mine, and I could smell the dirt of her grave … smell the rot of her skin. Her eye seemed to swim deep in its socket. Her hair stood straight out, whipping in the wind.

Gasping for breath, I swiped my hand away from her.

Her mouth dropped open and again I saw the toothless gums.

“Wh-who are you?” I managed to stammer. “Kylie? Where’s Kylie?”

Her good eye blinked at me. “I’m Becka,” she said. Her voice was rattly, like she had dry leaves in her throat. “I’m Becka. What’s your name?”

“Greta.” I stared at her, my whole body trembling. My mind was spinning so fast, I felt dizzy.

I like horror—but not when it’s REAL!

“I’ve been down there so long, Greta,” Becka said. “The air up here … it smells so sweet.”

She took deep breaths that rattled in her throat.

I saw that she was barefoot, her bony feet caked with dirt.

“Where’s Kylie?” I demanded. “Where is my friend?”

Her eye blinked again. She brushed back her hair with bony fingers. “Your friend? I don’t know your friend.”

“Did you see her?” I asked. I turned to the hill and shouted again. “Kylie? Kylie?”

No answer.

“It took me so long…” Becka said in her croaky, dry voice. “So long to climb out.” She grabbed my wrist again. “Greta, can you help me?”

Her touch sent chills down my back. I stared at her. “Help you?” My voice came out in a whisper. “Help you? How?”

She lowered her head. I could see the patch of missing skin on her scalp. “I died so young,” she murmured. “So young. Can you help me? Can you?”

“How could I help you?” I repeated. “What can I do?”

She kept her head down, avoiding my eyes. “Lend me your body,” she whispered.

“What?” I cried. I didn’t think I’d heard correctly.

“Just for half an hour. That’s all,” she said. “Greta, lend me your body for half an hour.”

“No!” I cried. “No way! Let go of me!” I pulled free again.

“Let me take a short walk,” she said. “Let me walk and smell the air and feel the wind on my face. For half an hour. That’s all.”

“No!” I repeated. “I can’t. I—”

She raised her bony right hand. “I swear I’ll bring it back. I’ll be so careful with it. Half an hour in a fresh body to walk on the earth again. That’s all I’m asking.”

My heart was pounding so hard, I couldn’t think straight. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop the shivers. “But … what will happen to me?” I cried.

“We’ll trade bodies,” she answered.

“Huh?” I squinted at her. “I … I’ll be dead?”

She shook her head. Her neck made a cracking sound. “No. You will be in my body. Alive. You’ll be alive.”

“N-no,” I started. “I can’t. I … I don’t want to.”

She folded her hands together as if begging. “I promise you’ll be okay. You will be alive … you will be yourself … in my body. For only half an hour.”

I stared hard. The poor girl had died so young. And now she was only asking for half an hour of life. Begging me. Begging me so sadly.

Could I do it? Could I trust her?

No.

I took a deep breath. Then I spun around and started to run.

I heard Becka’s cry behind me.

I lowered my head into the swirls of fog and started to run faster. “Ohhhh!” A cry escaped my throat as I tripped over a fallen gravestone.

I hit the ground hard. Pain washed through my body.

And before I could get up, Becka dove onto my back. I heard her bones crackle as she landed on top of me. I struggled to toss her off. But as she pressed against my back, the fog seemed to surround me.

I felt myself sinking into it, sinking into the gray haze. I couldn’t see. I struggled to think … to move. It was as if the fog had swept inside me, and I was lost in it, inside and out.

When I stood up, I gaped in horror at my bony arms. The skin missing on my fingers. I struggled to see, but I had only one eye. I reached for my hair and felt the patch of missing skin on my skull.

She did it! Becka took my body!

Squinting, I could see her trotting along the path through the graves. I saw me, my body, moving quickly in the swirling fog.

A frightened groan escaped my mouth. Shivering, I wrapped my bony arms around my long, tattered dress and waited for the shivering to stop.

I’m in a dead girl’s body.

Will she keep her promise? Will she bring my body back in half an hour?

I suddenly thought of Kylie. Where was she? She never came down from the hill.

Gathering all my strength, I forced Becka’s body to move. The legs felt heavy and stiff. My bare feet were cold. I struggled to see with my one eye.

I climbed the hill slowly, painfully. I had to see if Kylie was still up there.

I was nearly to the top, my bones creaking and cracking, when I saw her. Kylie? Why was she still up here, clinging to the tombstone?

I tried to call her name. But my voice couldn’t escape my rotted throat. I took a few steps closer until I realized I wasn’t looking at Kylie.

Someone else.

Another poor dead girl in rotting tatters of a dress. Bald with half the skin missing from her head. A worm crawling in one empty eye socket.

She raised both hands, skeletal, no skin at all. And called to me in a terrifying hoarse whisper. “Becka. Becka. You must come back.”

I shuddered so hard, I dropped to my knees. “No. Noooo,” I moaned. “I’m not Becka.”

She motioned for me to come to her. “Becka, you do not belong up here. Becka, you belong down with me.”

Of course she thought I was Becka. I was in Becka’s body.

She had no way to know it was me, Greta, in Becka’s body.

“No!” I cried. “I’m not Becka. You have to believe me. I’m not Becka!”

“You cannot fool me,” she croaked, each word painful, as if her throat was filled with splinters. “I see you clearly. Becka, you must return where you belong.”

“Becka will be back soon,” I choked out. “I’m not Becka. Listen to me—I’m not Becka.”

She moved quickly. Her bony hands gripped my shoulders.

I was so startled, I didn’t pull back.

“I’m not Becka!” I screamed.

She overpowered me. She was inhumanly strong. The strength of the dead.

She dragged me behind the gravestone. Then she sank deep into the dirt. Reaching both hands up from below, she wrapped her hard fingers around my legs. And pulled me …

… pulled me … pulled me …

… pulled me down … down …

“I’m … not … Becka…” My last words before I sank into the grave.

I kept my promise.

I brought Greta’s body back to the cemetery half an hour later. Or maybe a few minutes later. It’s hard to keep track of time when you’ve been dead so long.

My walk was glorious. The feeling of the cool air on my skin. The fresh, sweet smell of the trees and shrubs. The damp fog tickling my face. The whisper of the wind. The beautiful glow of the wet streets.

I can’t describe the thrill of it.

I owed it all to Greta. How generous she was.

So I kept my promise. I’m here to return her body and take my place in the ground again. But where is she?

The fog has lifted, and I can see the rows of gravestones clearly now. I searched the hill first, but no sign of her. Then I turned all around and looked from one end of the cemetery to the other.

Greta, where are you?

Now I see a girl hurrying toward me. She is waving at me and running hard, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

“Greta—you’re still here,” she says, breathing hard.

I nod. I don’t know what to say.

“Believe it or not, I got lost in the fog,” she says. “You’re going to say silly Kylie, how could you? But I got all turned around.” She squinted at me. “Are you okay? Were you worried about me?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I was.”

“Kenji texted me,” she said. “He said it was too late. He couldn’t make it.”

Who is Kenji? What does texted mean?

“That’s okay,” I said.

She really thinks I’m Greta, I thought. What am I going to do?

Kylie shivered. Her teeth chattered. “I’m frozen,” she said. “Frozen and dripping wet. Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Come on, Greta.” Kylie tugged my arm. “Let’s go to your house, okay?”

“Uh … sure,” I said. “But … uh … you lead the way.”

THE DREAM FACTORY

People always ask me if I get story ideas from my dreams.

The truth is, I’ve never had a dream that I could use. Never.

I have the most boring dreams you can imagine. The other night, I dreamed I was eating a Snickers bar.

That was one of my most exciting dreams!

I guess I get all my adventure and drama and terror out during the day while I’m writing. So there is nothing left for when I’m asleep.

Recently, I started to think: What if you could choose your dreams? What if you could buy any kind of dream you wanted?

And that’s how I got the idea for this story.

Clay spun the steering wheel, and the car whirred around a curve, the tires squealing. How fast am I going? he wondered. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the road to check.

The car hit a bump, and he flew off the seat, cracking his head on the low roof. A wide truck came roaring toward him, and he swerved to stay in the lane. Another sharp curve made the tires squeal.

Why am I driving? Clay wondered, feeling his heart race in his chest. I’m only twelve. Who let me drive? And where am I going?

He pounded his shoe on the brake pedal, but the car didn’t slow.

I’m out of control!

Trees rushed past the windows in a blur of green. He squeezed the wheel so hard, his hands ached. Cars came at him, blasting their horns.

Up ahead, a squirrel stepped onto the road. Clay slammed his foot down on the brake as hard as he could. The car squealed but didn’t slow. He swerved hard and missed the squirrel by an inch—and rocketed on.

Where am I? Where am I driving?

He had no answers. And then the car wasn’t a car any longer. He sat in a canoe, racing across frothy waves, moving as fast as the car. The canoe rocked up under a tall, white-capped wave, then crashed back down.

Clay toppled onto his stomach. The oars slid from his hands and he watched them sink into the churning water.

Was that a hammerhead shark raising itself from the waves a short distance up ahead? Had it turned toward Clay’s canoe?

Clay uttered a frightened cry. But it was drowned out by the roar of another tall wave that smashed into the side of the slender boat.

Smothered by the wave, the canoe tilted over. Clay hit the water hard and sank beneath the swirling surface.

The heavy cold surrounded him, and he started to choke.

But he wasn’t falling through water. He was floating down … down … in a clear blue sky. He could see a forest of trees beneath him, ending in a rock cliff.

He was dropping through the sky. Wind rushed at his face, smothering him. He struggled to breathe. He flapped his arms like a bird. Flapped his arms as if they could hold him up.

Now I know I’m dreaming, he told himself. But how do I get out of this dream before I crash to the ground?

Panic froze him as the trees below appeared to grow bigger … closer. And then he felt the heavy pack on his back. A parachute!

Of course. Of course. A parachute to break his fall.

The cord dangled in front of his face. He made a grab for it. But the rushing wind swung it out of his reach.

Another grab. Another grab. More desperate. His hand flailing.

Finally. The ring at the end of the cord in his fingers.

Yes!

Clay tugged the ring hard. And the cord tore off … ripped off in his hand. The pack weighed heavily on his back. No parachute. Nothing to save him …

… as he smashed headfirst into tall grass.

And he woke up. On his stomach. On the floor beside his bed.

He opened his eyes, and the room was spinning. The pain of the crash lingered in his head. His breath came in short gasps.

Trying to shake the dream away, he forced himself to his feet. His pajama shirt was drenched in sweat. It felt cold against his back. He blinked his eyes, trying to get the room to stop spinning.

Clay checked the clock. Seven fifteen. It was Tuesday. A school day.

The real world was slowly coming back to him.

He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and hurried down to breakfast. Clay’s mom was a teacher. She was already on her way to school. His dad dropped two freezer waffles into the toaster when he saw Clay step into the kitchen.

“Why do you look so weird?” he asked Clay.

“Thanks for the compliment, Dad,” Clay shot back.

“It looks like you brushed your hair in a hurricane,” Mr. Falk said, squinting at Clay. “Didn’t you sleep?”

Clay shook his head. “I slept,” he murmured, taking his place at the table. “But I had another bad dream.”

His dad gazed at the toaster, waiting for it to pop. “Sorry,” he said. “You keep having these dreams…”

Clay sighed. “Why do all my dreams have to be dangerous and frightening? I’m in terrible trouble in every dream, and I never can save myself.”

Mr. Falk lifted the waffles from the toaster and dropped them onto a plate. He carried the plate to the table and pointed to the syrup bottle across from Clay. “Did you have the jumping-off-a-cliff dream again?”

“This was worse,” Clay replied. He pictured falling through the sky again. “First I was racing a car out of control. Then I was drowning. Then I was falling to earth without a parachute.”

His dad tsk-tsked. He stood across the table from Clay and studied him. “You’re not afraid during the day,” he said. “There isn’t anything at school frightening you, is there?”

Clay shook his head. He chewed a chunk of waffle. Syrup ran down his chin. “I’m okay during the day, Dad. Totally fine. I don’t have scary daydreams or anything. Only bad dreams at night.”

Mr. Falk rubbed his chin. “We should talk to your mom about this,” he said. “How often do you have the bad dreams?”

Clay wiped his chin. “Every night,” he answered. “Just about every night. And they’re getting more and more dangerous. Last night, I couldn’t save myself. I crashed to earth headfirst. My head actually hurt when I woke up.”

Mr. Falk frowned. He turned and started to leave the kitchen. “Wonder what’s bothering you,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I wonder,” Clay muttered to himself.

Later in the school lunchroom, he told his friend Lora Marx about his dreams. They had lunch together nearly every day when Lora didn’t have cheerleading practice.

He told her about driving the speeding, out-of-control car, and falling from the canoe, and crashing to earth from the sky. She stared at him the whole while, holding her head up with her hands.

When he finished, she stared at him some more. She had yellow-brown eyes that reminded him of car headlights. He didn’t like it when she stared at him so much.

“Clay,” she said finally. “You’ve been having these nightmares for weeks? And you never told me about them?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to bother you,” he murmured.

She gave his shoulder a hard shove. “I always tell you my problems.”

He rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said.

She took a long drink of her apple juice. “My dad says if you eat spicy food before bedtime, you’ll get nightmares.”

“I don’t eat spicy food before bedtime,” Clay said.

She turned the headlight eyes on him again. “What do you eat before bedtime?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Oh, maybe some ice cream some nights.”

“I don’t think ice cream causes nightmares,” she said. She sighed. “Wish I had some good nightmares.”

“Huh?” Clay’s mouth dropped open. “Lora, what do you mean? Why do you want nightmares?”

“My dreams are so boring,” she said. “Totally boring.”

“But, Lora—”

“My dreams are so bad, they’re not worth dreaming,” she said. “Mostly they’re so dull, I can’t even remember them in the morning. But … do you know what I dreamed last night?”

“What?” Clay asked.

“I dreamed I was eating a Snickers bar.”

Clay laughed. “I’d kill for a dream like that!” he exclaimed. “That’s an awesome dream. Better than drowning and then crashing to earth from the sky.”

Suddenly, Denny Choo’s face appeared in front of Clay. Denny was sitting with his back to Clay at the next table. Now he leaned his chair back to talk to Clay and Lora.

“Are you talking about dreams?” Denny said. “Want to hear my dream from last night?”

“Not really,” Clay said. “Was it scary?”

“Actually, I don’t remember it,” Denny said. He stood up, set his lunch tray down beside Clay, and sat down next to him.

“Clay’s been having nightmares,” Lora told Denny.

Clay uttered a cry. “I really don’t want the whole school to know,” he scolded Lora.

“What’s the big deal?” Lora said. “Everyone already knows you’re weird!”

Denny ignored their argument. “Have you been to the Dream Factory?” he asked Clay.

“The what?”

“The Dream Factory. It’s on High Street past the dairy,” Denny said. “If you don’t like your dreams, you’ve got to go there.”

“Oh, right. I saw a video about it,” Lora said. “They sell dreams there.”

“Huh? Dreams? What kind of dreams?” Clay said.

“Every kind,” Denny said. “They have every kind of dream. For kids. For grown-ups. Scary dreams and funny dreams and happy dreams.”

Clay squinted at him. “Seriously?”

Denny nodded. “They’ve got travel dreams. You can go anywhere you want. And time travel dreams. You can dream about the past or the future. I’m not kidding.”

Lora laughed. “Clay, are you excited?”

“Of course I’m excited,” he replied. He turned back to Denny. “What do you do? You just go in there and pick out a dream?”

“They’re pretty expensive,” Denny said. “I think you pay by the minute. And you have to bring your parents. They won’t sell dreams to kids unless your parents are there.”

Clay began to imagine dreams he might buy. I’m walking on the moon … I’m on a jungle safari … I’m a king back in the day, and people do whatever I say …

“Denny, have you ever done it?” Lora asked. “Did your parents ever buy you a dream?”

Denny took the last bite of his sandwich. “No. I don’t care about dreams,” he said, chewing. “I only like to sleep.” He swallowed. “But my mom bought Dad a dream for his birthday. In the dream, he was a big star on Broadway.”

“Whoa. Awesome,” Lora said.

“Did he like it?” Clay asked.

“He loved it. Mom said he was taking bows in his sleep.”

The bell rang. They had to go to class.

But Clay knew he wouldn’t be thinking about schoolwork. He’d be thinking about the dream he’d like to buy.

The Dream Factory was a long, low, brick building. Clay’s dad turned into the parking lot and pulled near the front door. A blue-and-white sign over the glass door was shaped like a soft bed pillow and read Where Dreams Come True.

Tall windows lined the front, filled with colorful posters of dreams. Clay and his parents admired a Wild West dream poster and a scene of a raging river pouring from a steep waterfall.

Clay was so excited, he could barely keep from leaping up and down and cheering at the top of his lungs. He didn’t have any nightmares the night before because he was wide awake thinking about the Dream Factory and what kind of dream he needed.

“Clay, calm down,” his mom said. “I can hear every breath you’re taking. You’re practically panting like a dog.”

Mr. Falk stopped with his hand on the door handle. “We’re doing this because we know how troubled you’ve been by your dreams,” he said. “And because your mom and I wanted to get you a special birthday present.”

Mrs. Falk put her hands on Clay’s shoulders. “But nothing too weird, okay?”

“We all have to agree on the dream,” his father said. “And let’s try to find something that isn’t too expensive.” He shook his head. “I checked out the prices on the dreams for grown-ups. Wow. They were ridiculous.”

“The kid dreams are probably cheaper,” Mrs. Falk said.

“I don’t think I want a kiddie dream,” Clay told her. “I want something exciting, but not scary.”

“Maybe you’d like to be a superhero, flying everywhere in a cool costume and battling supervillains.”

“Maybe,” Clay replied. He knew he didn’t want that. He wasn’t into superheroes. He pushed his dad’s hand, still gripping the door handle. “Can we go in?”

Mr. Falk pulled open the door. As they stepped into the wide, brightly lit store, the man behind a glass counter let out a scream.

“OWWWWWWWW.”

The man raised his hand and shook it above his head. Clay saw that he was young, with coppery curly hair down to his shoulders, a silver ring in one ear, red-faced. He wore a blue-and-white store uniform with a puffy cloud on the front.

He raised his eyes to Clay and his parents. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry for the outburst. I just slammed my hand in the drawer.” He shook it some more and blew on it.

Clay stepped up to the counter. His parents followed.

“Is it okay?” Mr. Falk asked. “Did you break anything?”

“Just hurts,” the young man muttered. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to the Dream Factory. My name is Bernard. Most people call me Mister B. But you can call me Bernard.”

He blew on his hand some more. Clay saw that it was as red as his face.

“It’s my first day here,” Bernard said. “I’m just learning where everything is. It’s a lot to learn in one day.”

“It’s Clay’s birthday,” Mrs. Falk said. “We’d like to buy him a dream.”

“The kiddie dreams are over there,” Bernard said. He pointed to shelves across the store. “We have some new animated dreams you might like, Clay.”

“Cartoon dreams?” Clay said. He shook his head. “No. I mean, no thanks. I want something real.”

Clay gazed around the store. He saw row after row of tall shelves. The shelves were jam-packed with small black objects that looked like phones. Hundreds of them, stacked high.

“Are those the dreams?” he asked the store clerk.

Bernard nodded. “Yes. Those are the dream players. You hold them in your hand while you sleep and they transmit the dream to your brain.”

“Awesome,” Clay said, trying to calm his fluttery chest. Could a person burst from excitement?

“How many times can you play the dream you buy?” Mr. Falk asked.

“Just once,” Bernard said. “You have the dream once, and then it’s gone. Like any dream.”

He started typing on a laptop. “I have to get this open,” he said. “I can’t sell any dreams unless I get this computer going.” He typed some more. “Password … password…” he muttered. “I should have written it down.”

“How long are the dreams?” Mrs. Falk asked.

Bernard struggled with the laptop, punching the keys with one finger. “As long as you want,” he said finally. “You can buy a ten-minute dream, or twenty minutes, or longer. Most people buy ten or twenty because you pay by the minute.”

“How much a minute?” Mr. Falk asked.

Bernard shrugged. “I’d have to look it up. Like I said, this is my first day. I haven’t memorized everything.”

Clay gazed around the store at the colorful posters that lined the walls. His eyes stopped at an outer-space scene of a pair of black boots standing in orange sand on a distant planet.

I think I know what I want.

“Aha!” Bernard cried. “Got it!” He grinned at the laptop screen. Then he turned back to the Falks. “One thing you need to know. Once you start a dream, you have to finish it. You can’t stop a dream in the middle. You have to dream it to the end.”

“Another reason to buy a short dream,” Mr. Falk said to Clay.

“If I love the dream, I won’t want it to end,” Clay said.

“Do you want to look at the catalog?” Bernard asked. “I think I know where they keep it. You could look through it and—”

“I think I know what I want,” Clay said.

“Tell us,” his dad said.

Clay pointed to the poster. “A Martian Adventure,” he said. “I want to be the first kid to walk around on Mars.”

“Good choice,” Bernard said. “I think I know where that dream is stored. I’ll be right back.” He stepped out from behind the counter and disappeared behind a tall shelf.

“Ten-minute or twenty-minute?” Bernard shouted to them.

Clay turned to his parents. “Twenty? Please?”

They exchanged glances. “Okay, twenty,” Mrs. Falk said. “It is your birthday.”

A few minutes later, Bernard returned carrying a dream player. He placed it on the counter in front of Clay. “Here you go, dude.”

Clay squinted at the title on the side of the dream player. “Uh … no,” he said. “This is the wrong dream. Martian Monster Mash. It’s not the one I want. This is a horror dream. A nightmare. I don’t want scary.”

Bernard slapped his forehead. “Oh, wow. Sorry. I’ll catch on to this place soon. I know I will.” He picked up the flat black object and carried it away from the counter. “Be right back with the right one.”

“Clay, you sure this is the one you want?” his dad said in a low whisper. “You can change your mind.”

Clay shook his head. “No way. I want to walk on Mars and see what it looks like … what it smells like … I’m totally pumped.”

“You’re sure?” his mom asked.

“To spend twenty minutes on another planet? I can’t believe it’s possible!” Clay exclaimed. “I can’t wait.”

Bernard returned with another dream player. He handed it to Clay, and Clay read the title on the side.

“Yes. Perfect,” Clay said. “Wish I could start dreaming it right here.”

Bernard laughed. “We should put beds in the store,” he said. “That way, customers wouldn’t have to take the dreams out.”

He moved back to his laptop. “Let me get all the info into the system,” he said. “Name and address?”

Mr. Falk gave him the information. Bernard typed with his one-finger one-letter-at-a-time method. “Wish I could type faster,” he said. “You said you wanted ten minutes?”

“No. Twenty,” Clay told him.

Bernard typed some more. Then he stopped and uttered a cry. “Oh. Oh no. Sorry. I hit the wrong key.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I have to start again.”

“The first day on a job is hard,” Clay’s mom said, trying to be nice.

“Name and address?” Bernard said, his eyes on the keyboard.

It took a while to finish. Clay tapped a foot on the floor, eager to take the dream player home. Bernard made a few more typing mistakes.

Mr. Falk paid with a credit card. Bernard had trouble with the credit card machine and had to put the card through three times.

Finally, Clay led the way out of the store.

“Enjoy your dream, Chris!” Bernard called after him.

“My name is Clay!” Clay shouted back. And then they were out of the store. “That guy can’t get anything right,” Clay muttered.

Unlike most days, bedtime couldn’t come soon enough. After a special birthday dinner, Clay blew out the candles and gobbled down his cake as fast as he could. “Can I go to bed early?” he asked, icing still smeared on his chin.

His parents both laughed.

In his pajamas, he climbed under the covers, gripping the flat dream player tightly in his hand. He shut his eyes and tried to remember the rules Bernard had told them.

Hold the player tightly in your hand as you go to sleep … Once the dream begins, you cannot stop it until the time is up … You can only have the dream once …

Clay could feel the excitement pulsing through his body. “I’ll never get to sleep!” he muttered out loud.

But after twenty minutes or so of staring at the shadows on the ceiling, his eyelids closed, and he fell into a gray sleep.

The dream started immediately.

He stood at the edge of a rock hill, staring out at endless orange sand. A pale moon floated high in a solid black sky. Clay squinted at the long, dry ruts that ran through the sand like rivers without water.

I’m on Mars, he thought. I’m standing on Mars.

He glanced down and saw the dream player in his hand. It came with me in the dream.

He turned in a circle, gazing all around. He saw low mounds of rocks as orange as the sand. Were those caves cut into the sloping hill behind him?

The scrape of his shoes and the rasp of his shallow breaths were the only sounds. He was surrounded by a deep silence, a silence so deep, it seemed alive.

The pale moonlight sent long, blue shadows stretching over the sand. His own shadow sprawled in front of him like a living creature at his feet.

I’m on Mars. I’m standing on Mars. And since it’s a dream, I can breathe. I can breathe and walk around, and explore …

The heavy thud behind him made Clay jump.

Is someone else here?

That’s impossible.

Another thud shook the sand. Then another. And he realized he was hearing footsteps.

He spun around in time to see an ugly creature charging at him.

It was as big as a cow, with a pig’s head. Long, curled tusks at the sides of its snout and rows of pointed yellow teeth.

The creature sent sand flying behind it as it raced toward Clay. It didn’t utter a sound. But its massive head was lowered to attack.

“Nooooo!” A long wail burst from Clay’s open mouth. He turned to run. Slipped in the sand. Fell onto his knees. “Noooo!”

Thud … Thud … Thud …

The ground shook under the monster’s huge paws.

Clay scrambled to his feet, orange sand flying off him, swirling around him. He started to choke.

Shielding his face, he tried to gain speed.

But a sharp claw ripped down the leg of his jeans. The creature raised up, ready to bring both claws down on him.

Clay staggered toward a rock wall in the near distance. Was that a cave opening in the rocks?

If only he could make it to the cave. Maybe he’d be safe from this silent, fierce creature.

He spun to face the monster. He screamed, “Go away!” and swung both fists at it.

The move seemed to startle the creature. It stopped short, its front legs skidding on the sand as if someone had put on the brakes.

It gave Clay a few seconds. He spun from the monster, lowered his head like a football running back—and scampered over the sand, sending up orange clouds behind him.

He ducked into the darkness of the low cave, so low, he scraped his hair on the rocky ceiling. Moving into deep darkness, he dropped to his knees and stayed there, struggling to catch his breath.

He heard the big creature rumbling outside the cave. Clay shut his eyes. That monster is too big. It won’t fit through the cave opening. Please … don’t let it fit.

Two hard thuds made Clay cry out. Was it trying to smash its way in?

Loud, angry snorts sent chills down Clay’s back. He waited, holding his breath … holding his breath.

Silence now.

The creature must have given up.

Clay let out a long whoosh of air. “That dude Bernard in the store,” he muttered, shaking his head. Clay’s voice echoed against the cave walls. “He messed up. He gave me the wrong dream.”

He suddenly realized he was still gripping the dream player in his hand. He raised it close, squinting to read the name on the side. But it was too dark to read, and Clay didn’t want to risk moving into the light.

What if the pig-faced monster is waiting out there?

“I know he gave me the wrong dream,” Clay told himself. “This is Martian Monster Mash. Not what I wanted. I told him I didn’t want it. But he totally messed up!”

A shrill cry from deeper in the cave made him nearly drop the player.

Eeeh eeeh eeeh.

High-pitched like the screech of a bat.

Eeeh … Eeeeh …

“No! It’s coming closer!”

He wasn’t alone in the cave. Of course he wasn’t alone. This was a monster dream. Not a peaceful dream of walking on Mars.

How much time is left? he wondered. I must be nearing twenty minutes. The dream must be nearly over.

If I can just manage to survive another minute or two …

Bending low under the cave ceiling, Clay moved toward the light at the opening.

Eeeeh eeeeeh …

The shrill screech followed him. The beast was coming closer … closer …

He stepped into the light and raised the player to his face.

How much time is left in the dream?

He read the small print on the side of the player. Then he opened his mouth in a long, angry shriek.

That guy Bernard—he messed up. How could he do this? He messed up again!

His hand trembling, Clay held the player close and read it one more time.

Length of Dream: 20 years.

EDDIE THE FLASH

People always ask me what books I read when I was a kid. The truth is, I didn’t read books. I read only comic books.

My friends and I were comic book freaks. We carried around big stacks of them. We read them and reread them. Then we would trade them with one another.

In the summertime, we would sit in the shade of a big oak tree in my front yard and read our comic books for hours.

In fourth grade, I decided I’d draw my own comics. I created a funny superhero named Sooper Stooge, and I drew little comic books about him. When I showed the comics to my friends, they all told me how awful they were. I couldn’t draw at all. I guess that’s why I became a writer.

Here’s a story about a boy who can draw and creates his own superhero …

Hello. I’m Eddie Rogan. You can call me Eddie the Flash.

My twin sister, Roz, says I’m a superhero legend in my own mind. But she just doesn’t get it.

I admit it. I live and breathe superheroes and comic books and graphic novels. Do I care that Roz calls me a comic book nerd?

Three guesses. No, no, and no.

I’m not weird. I don’t run around in tights and a cape and pretend I have amazing powers. But I read all the comics and graphic novels I can download or get my hands on. And yes, I spend a lot of hours playing the video games.

But I spend most of my time on my own superhero. Parallel Man is my creation. I made him up, and I’m working on my third graphic novel about him. I write it and I draw it.

Ask anyone. I have real art talent. Roz can’t draw a stick figure without messing it up. I know she’s totally jealous. That’s why she’s always on my case.

But I’m definitely going to be a comic book illustrator after I graduate from school. I’m already as good as some of the artists I see, and I’m getting better.

Hey, I wouldn’t call myself Eddie the Flash if I didn’t have talent.

“Eddie, why do I have to beg you? Why won’t you come watch me in the game tonight?” Roz was tugging my arm and keeping me from my drawing.

She always wants me to come to the gym and watch her basketball game. But she isn’t even a starter. She almost never gets to play until the second half.

I rolled my eyes. “Roz, I can’t. I just got this new drawing program, and I’m still trying to figure it out.”

“Figure it out tomorrow.” She tugged my arm again and almost pulled me off my desk chair. She’s surprisingly strong. I never want to get in a real fight with her.

“Listen, I’m at a big scene,” I explained. “Parallel Man meets his new enemy, Sewer Rat. I’m still working on character sketches of Sewer Rat. I need to get him right.”

“Why don’t you just look in the mirror!” Roz shouted. She spun away and stomped out of my room. I heard her clomping down the hall. “Go jump in a sewer!” she shouted, and then the front door slammed.

Terrible. But it wasn’t the worst thing she ever said to me. She just won’t try to understand how serious I am about my work.

Roz has basketball, and tennis, and horseback-riding lessons every Saturday. All I have is my comic books and Parallel Man.

It took a long time to get the look of Parallel Man right. Then more time to design his costume. And an even longer time for me to write his backstory. You know. His origin.

A lot of superheroes get their powers from a lab accident. Something goes wrong and they are blasted by radiation, and come out as superheroes.

I didn’t want to do that.

I made it a gym accident. My character, Harrison Maloney, is a normal guy. But he gets trapped in a weight machine, and it falls on him. And after he is rescued, he discovers he can rise up in the air and go parallel to the ground whenever he wants to.

When he’s parallel, he can move through the air. So he actually can fly. And when he’s in a fight, no one expects him to suddenly go parallel. So he always wins.

With Roz away at her game, the house was quiet. I was glad to have time to learn this new drawing program. I’d been using an app called Sketchbook. But I knew most pro artists use Photoshop.

It was more complicated than the old program. But after half an hour or so, I started to draw easily.

I still wasn’t happy with Sewer Rat. I knew he was going to be my best villain yet. I had to get him right. At first, I gave him a rat tail. Then I deleted it. I drew him a human face. But I gave him rat whiskers poking out from under his snoutlike nose.

I was still working on him when Roz came home at about nine thirty. She strode into my room and stepped up behind me. “That character you’re drawing looks like a rat,” she said.

“He’s supposed to,” I replied. “Did you win?”

She shook her head. “No. We lost. But Coach sent me in in the last quarter, and I hit a three-pointer right at the buzzer.”

“Sweet,” I said. “How many points have you scored this season?”

“Three,” she said. “But I have a streak going.”

After school the next afternoon, I was back at my laptop, sketching a panel layout for the Sewer Rat scene. I always do a panel-by-panel plan. Then I fit my drawings into the panels.

I knew Roz and her friend Melba were outside my room spying on me. But I wanted to concentrate. So I pretended I didn’t see them.

They like to spy on me because I act out all my scenes before I draw them. They think that’s hilarious. But moving around and posing like my characters helps me with the drawings.

I was trying to draw the first scene with Sewer Rat. He lives under the city in the sewer system, and he only comes up to do his evil. He thinks he’s safe down there because the city sewers are narrow and tight.

But Parallel Man can go parallel and slide through the sewers easily. In this scene, he slides through the sewer pipes and bursts in on Sewer Rat in his hideout. They have a big battle, wrestling and splashing sewer water everywhere.

I started to act out the fight. But I had to stop when I heard Roz and Melba laughing. They appeared in the doorway to my room, giggling and shaking their heads.

“Eddie, you looked so funny fighting yourself,” Roz said. “Were you going to punch yourself in the jaw?”

“It isn’t funny,” I said. “Every artist has his own way of working. I like to feel what I’m going to draw.”

Melba stared down at the drawings on my laptop. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

“No. Please don’t ask me anything,” I said. “I need to work—”

“Why does Parallel Man have such an old-fashioned costume?” she asked. “That P on his chest? And the purple cape?”

“Mind your own business,” I said. “Why are you asking me that? You don’t even read comics.”

She shrugged. “Just asking.”

“That’s the way I designed him,” I said. “I like an old-fashioned superhero costume.” I pointed to the screen. “The cape slides down his back when he goes parallel, and it looks cool.”

For some reason, they both thought that was funny, and they laughed some more.

“You two won’t laugh when I have my own line of Parallel Man graphic novels,” I said. “And the movie studios discover him. And he becomes a big movie hero all over the world. And we sell action figures and video games. And thousands of kids dress up like Parallel Man at Halloween.”

Roz nodded. “You’re right, Eddie. We’ll stop laughing when that happens.”

They both burst out laughing again, slapping each other high-fives.

They finally stopped because Melba got hiccups. Roz grabbed my arm. “You have to stop now, Eddie. You’re coming with us.”

I tugged my arm free. “Excuse me?”

She frowned at me. “Did you forget? Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday? You promised you’d go with me to Beads ’N’ Stuff to pick out a present.”

“Beads? You’re going to get her beads?”

“No. We are going to buy her beads. Mom loves beads. Did you ever see her leave the house without wearing beads?” She tugged me again. “Come on. You promised.”

I started to argue. But then I stopped. I did promise. And I don’t like to break a promise unless I really need to.

So I took the bus into town with Roz and Melba, who was still hiccupping. Luckily, we were the only ones on the bus, so there was no one to stare at her. Or offer advice on how to get rid of hiccups.

We climbed off at Hudson Street, two blocks from the store. The late afternoon sun was sinking behind the office buildings. A cool wind brushed my face. People were heading home from work.

We waited with a group of people to cross the street. Two women were talking about how they didn’t want it to rain because they just had their hair done. I tried to tune them out because I was thinking about my Sewer Rat scene.

I followed Roz and Melba across the street. Then I stopped with a gasp.

“Hey—!” I cried.

The two girls spun around.

“Did you see that guy?” I asked. I pointed. “He went around the corner there?”

They shook their heads. “What guy?” Melba asked.

“I—I—” I stuttered. “I thought he was wearing a purple cape.”

“No way!” Roz cried.

“He was dressed in purple,” I said, gazing at the corner. “And he had a purple cape—”

Melba spread her hand over my forehead. “Do you have a fever?” she asked.

They both thought that was funny.

“Guess your comic is coming to life,” Roz said. “Can we go to the store now?” They turned and started taking long strides.

I hurried to catch up with them. “You don’t believe me?”

“Of course we don’t believe you,” Roz replied. She pulled open the glass door to the jewelry store, and I followed them inside.

The shop had tables of beads spread out in several long rows. Roz and Melba started at the first table. They began picking up strands of beads and examining them.

A young woman behind a glass counter called to them. “The beads on the last table are on sale,” she said. Roz and Melba thanked her. The two women who had been talking about rain at the corner entered the store and began looking at a display of earrings.

I stepped up to a tall mirror on the wall. The wind had blown my hair straight up, and I started to smooth it down with one hand.

“Oh!” A gasp escaped my throat as I stared at my reflection.

Behind me … in the doorway … I could see him so clearly in the mirror. A man … in a purple costume. He had a large white P on his chest. A purple cape flowed behind him.

Parallel Man!

He was standing there. Watching me with both gloved hands at his waist.

I stared into the mirror. Frozen in place. Not breathing. Not moving.

This can’t be happening.

Finally, I worked up my courage and spun away from the mirror.

Not there. No one there.

My heart started to pound. I gazed all around the store. Roz and Melba were studying a long strand of shiny yellow beads. The two women hadn’t moved from the earring display.

No Parallel Man. No one in purple standing by the doorway.

Feeling dizzy, I turned back to the mirror. I squinted hard at my reflection. No one else in the mirror. He had vanished.

“Eddie, what’s wrong with you?” Roz’s shout broke into my whirring thoughts. “Stop gazing in the mirror and come help us!” she called.

We bought a string of large yellow beads for Mom. The woman behind the counter put them in a gift box for us. “Good choice,” she said. She probably said that to everyone.

I still felt strange. I couldn’t shake the picture of Parallel Man standing in the mirror. I didn’t tell the two girls what I had seen. I knew they would laugh and make fun of me.

But I kept an eye out as we walked to the bus stop. And I kept watching for Parallel Man out the bus window all the way home.

After dinner, I tried to get back to my comic book page. But I couldn’t concentrate, and my hand was still shaking. I couldn’t move the mouse smoothly.

I saw Parallel Man so clearly in that mirror reflection. “Am I totally losing it?” I asked myself. “Am I letting my imagination run away with me?”

I wanted to laugh the whole thing off. But I couldn’t. It was too real.

Next, I’ll probably run into Sewer Rat on my way to school, I thought.

And that’s what happened.

Roz had an early morning basketball practice. So after breakfast, I walked to school on my own. The morning sun was still red and low in the sky. A soft breeze rustled the trees.

My school is three blocks from my house. Some kids from my class waved from their mother’s SUV as they rolled past me.

I crossed the street and was halfway past the empty lot on the next corner when Parallel Man stepped out from behind a tree.

His cape caught on the tree trunk, and he tugged it free. Then he strode in front of me and blocked my path.

I cried out in shock. Behind the purple mask, his eyes were darker than the ones I draw. He squinted at me and stuck his powerful arms out at his sides.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he boomed. He had a deeper voice than I had imagined. It seemed to rumble up from deep in his chest.

“No!” I cried. “No way! You can’t be here!”

The cape billowed up in the breeze. He pulled it down behind him. He stared at me some more and didn’t speak.

“How—how can you be here?” I stammered, my voice high and shrill. “You don’t exist!”

He tossed back his head and uttered a booming laugh.

“Am I imagining you?” The words burst from my mouth.

He cut his laugh short. Behind the mask, his dark eyes narrowed. “I know who you are,” he said. “I know who you work for.”

“Huh?” I gasped. “Work for?”

I reached out a hand to touch him. I needed to see if he was real.

But he leaped back quickly, avoiding my hand.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. But the ground was tilting beneath me, and the trees were spinning all around. “This is too weird,” I choked out. “I am imagining you.”

Parallel Man stepped close again. “You won’t think it’s your imagination when I destroy you!” he boomed.

“D-destroy me?” I stuttered. “But I created you! I made you up!”

Again, he tilted his head back and sent his laugh up at the sky. “You created me?” he cried. He laughed some more. “That’s the most ridiculous story anyone’s ever told me. You win the prize.”

“You don’t understand,” I told him. “I draw you. I draw comic books. I—I wrote your whole story. Made it all up. You’re not real!”

He leaned over me, so close the P on his chest nearly touched my head. “I’m real. Deal with it.”

“No. No…” I staggered back. This isn’t happening. I pinched myself. “Ow.”

Whoa. I’m not dreaming.

I gazed around. Was anyone else on the block? Anyone seeing this?

No. No one in sight.

Parallel Man raised a gloved fist. “I should finish you off right now,” he said. “But I can wait.”

“But—but—” I sputtered.

“I’ll destroy you and your pal Sewer Rat at the same time,” he said, shaking his fist.

“My pal? Sewer Rat?” I cried. “He’s not my pal. He—”

“Do you take me for a fool?” he boomed. “I know you work for Sewer Rat!”

“W-work for him?” I stammered. “I created him, too. Like you.”

Parallel Man lowered his glove to my shoulder and squeezed it hard. “Meet me at the sewer under Ardmore Place at seven tonight,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Bring your buddy Sewer Rat. We’ll see who creates whom. And who survives!”

“No. Listen to me—” I pleaded.

“If you’re not there, I’ll come get you,” he said. Then he lifted his feet off the ground. He went parallel and flew away.

I walked the rest of the way to school. I was only a few minutes late. No one seemed to notice.

Don’t ask me what happened in school that day. I couldn’t tell you. I could think only about Parallel Man and his threat to destroy me.

How could a character I created want to destroy me?

Of course, the real question was, How did he come to life? But that was too confusing and too unbelievable for me to think about.

At home after school, I hurried into Roz’s room. She and Melba were hunched over her laptop, doing some kind of homework.

“I know you’re not going to believe me,” I said, “but Parallel Man is real. He stopped me on my way to school this morning.”

“Bugs Bunny is real, too,” Roz said. “I saw him at the mall last week. He was eating a carrot.”

“All cartoon characters are real,” Melba chimed in. “Everyone knows that.”

I sighed and pounded on the table Roz uses for a desk. “Is there any way at all I can get you to believe me?”

“No,” they both answered at once.

I started stomping to the door. I turned and said, “You may be sorry. Parallel Man says he’s going to destroy me tonight.”

Roz glanced up from her laptop. “Why don’t you destroy him?” she said. “Go to your comic book file and delete him.”

“I can’t delete him,” I replied. “I’ve worked too hard on it. It’s my best work ever.”

“Hope it isn’t your last,” she said.

She’s my twin sister. Isn’t she supposed to be nicer to me?

After dinner, I paced back and forth in my room. It’s a small room, and I had to keep turning around. But I was too stressed to sit still.

My hands were ice-cold, and chill after chill ran down my back. I wasn’t scared. I was terrified!

I knew I couldn’t go to that sewer. No way. I wasn’t going to that sewer to battle my own creation. That was certain death. I’m a scrawny twelve-year-old. How could I defeat Parallel Man?

No. I had to hide. But where? Our house doesn’t have a basement. And we don’t have an attic, either. I decided I had to stay in my room. I walked to the door to make sure it was locked.

But before I could turn the lock, the door swung open. The door knocked me backward, and I nearly fell on my butt.

Roz came striding in. Only it took me a few seconds to realize it was Roz.

She wore a bright yellow superhero costume, egg-yolk-yellow tights and top, with a yellow cape. She had a sparkly tiara on her head and a yellow mask pulled down over her eyes.

I cried out in shock. “Roz! What is going on?”

She swept her cape behind her. Inside the mask, her eyes narrowed at me. “Don’t you have a clue?”

“N-no,” I stuttered. “What on earth—”

“I’m not Roz,” she said. “I’m Reina the Golden. And I’m taking you to meet your doom!”

My heart pounding, I took a few steps back. “Can we talk about this?” I said.

“Nothing to talk about,” she answered. “Hurry. My friends are waiting!”

“Your friends?”

She leaped forward and grabbed my hand. I cried out. Her grip was painfully strong. And as she pulled me to the door, she began to brighten. A yellow light pulsed around her. She became brighter … brighter … So bright I had to shield my eyes.

“Reina the Golden has the power of the sun!” she exclaimed. “You can’t fight sunlight, Eddie. Don’t even try.”

She was right. I couldn’t fight her. She dragged me out of the house and down the street.

I knew where she was taking me. To the sewer at Ardmore Place.

But why? How? How was this happening?

I had a million questions to ask my sister. But I had to turn my face away from the blinding sunlight that surrounded her. Panic choked my throat. Confused thoughts swirled around my head.

This had to be a nightmare. Why couldn’t I wake up from it? Why did it feel so real? My hand throbbed with pain from my sister’s iron grip.

And then, there we were at the corner of Ardmore Place. The light around Reina faded, and the sewer came into focus. It stretched for several feet, raised up from the curb.

I didn’t have long to stare into its dark opening. A face appeared. And then a familiar figure pulled himself up from the sewer.

Sewer Rat!

His little rat eyes spun in his rat face when he saw me. The whiskers on his snout shivered. He wore the baggy black-and-gray overalls I had designed for him. He rubbed his little hands together, like he was planning something evil.

“We meet at last,” he said in a squeaky voice.

“We can’t meet,” I said. “I made you up, Sewer Rat. You’re not real.”

His laugh was even squeakier than his speaking voice. “Give it up, Eddie,” he said finally. “You can’t talk your way out of this with your lies.”

“But—but—” I sputtered.

“Face your doom like a hero!” Reina said.

“Why are you saying that?” I cried. “You’re not a superhero. You’re my sister! My twin sister!”

Her golden cape rippled behind her in a gust of wind. She didn’t answer.

I suddenly had a thought. “Parallel Man will defeat you both,” I said. “Parallel Man is your arch-enemy, Sewer Rat. He will destroy you—not me!”

“Wrong!” a voice boomed behind me.

I spun around to see Parallel Man floating parallel above the street. His cape flew behind him like a flag. His dark eyes burned into mine.

“Sewer Rat and I made a deal,” he said. He lowered his boots to the pavement. “We are partners now.”

“No!” A scream burst from my throat. “No! No way! You can’t be partners!”

“Yes, we’re partners,” he repeated. “And we all agree it’s time for you to disappear down the sewer.”

“Forever,” Sewer Rat added with a grin.

“But—but … why?” I choked out.

“We want to be free,” Parallel Man answered. “We don’t want you controlling our lives.”

I opened my mouth to reply. But before I could get a word out, Parallel Man grabbed me around the waist.

“Let go!” My scream came out high and shrill.

But I couldn’t fight him. He was too strong.

He dragged me to the mouth of the sewer.

“Shove him in,” Sewer Rat said. “We’ll deal with him down there.”

“Goodbye, Eddie,” Reina said. “It’s been great.” She waved her hand.

Parallel Man gave a hard shove. My legs slid into the sewer opening.

“No. No. Please—!” I begged.

He gave another push. I was about to drop into the sewer.

“Please—”

Parallel Man tightened his gloved hands for one more shove. He gave a hard push—and I went sailing down … down … into the darkness of the sewer.

I hit the bottom with a high splash. I landed on my back, and the cold sewer water washed over me.

Yuck.

I started to gag from the putrid smell. I held my breath as I staggered to my feet. The thick, lumpy brown water was nearly up to my knees.

“Let me out of here!” I screamed up to the street. “Let me out!”

I jumped when I saw something swimming in the dark water. Was it a rat?

“LET ME OUT!” I cried.

And then Parallel Man and Sewer Rat were standing beside me. Sewer Rat grabbed me by the shoulders. “Time for you to take a swim,” he growled.

“No! No—please!” I begged.

He started to push me down into the thick brown water. I dropped to my knees. The cold water soaked through my clothes. “Please—” I begged.

Then, to my surprise, someone shouted from the street up above us. “STOP!”

Who was it?

“Bring him up!” a booming voice called down. “Bring him up here—now!”

Sewer Rat and Parallel Man grabbed my elbows and hoisted me out of the sewer. They quickly followed, and we stared at the young man standing in front of us in the street.

He was tall and long-haired, dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt with a brown vest over it.

“Enough,” he said. “That’s enough.”

“Enough?” I said.

“Enough,” he repeated. “This story isn’t working. I’m going to stop it here.”

“Huh?” My mouth dropped open. “Who are you?” I cried.

“Devin Crosby,” he replied. “I write this comic book, and I draw it.”

“Comic book?” Parallel Man said. “What comic book?”

“It’s called Eddie Rogan Adventures,” Crosby replied. “I’ve been writing it for three years.” He turned to me. “I created you, Eddie. I created all of you.”

I uttered a cry. I thought my head would explode. “What do you mean?” I shouted. “Do you mean I’m not real?”

“Of course you’re not real,” he said. “None of you characters are real. I dreamed you all up.”

We all stared at him in shock. No one said a word.

“But this story is too confusing,” Crosby said. “It doesn’t hold together. I can’t make any sense of it. It just doesn’t follow.”

“So … what are you going to do?” I asked.

“I have no choice,” Crosby replied. “I’m going down to the bottom of my computer screen, and I’m going to write THE END.”

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS FEIWEL & FRIENDS BOOK. THE FRIENDS WHO MADE STINETINGLERS 3 POSSIBLE ARE:

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Before R. L. Stine made his name as the Stephen King of children’s literature, he was the author of humorous fiction and an editor of Bananas magazine. He is the bestselling author of more than three hundred books, including the phenomenally bestselling Goosebumps series and the Fear Street series. You can sign up for email updates here.

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First hardcover edition 2024

eBook edition 2024

eISBN 9781250836328

CONTENTS

1. Title Page

2. Copyright Notice

3. Dedication

4. Introduction

5. Full-Moon Sleepover Party

6. The Bad-Luck King

7. The Stray Dog

8. Fish Food

9. The Treehouse

10. The Magic Is in the Hat

11. Oops!

12. I’m Not Becka

13. The Dream Factory

14. Eddie the Flash

15. About the Author

16. Copyright