Norton, Andre - Anthology (13 page)

 
          
 
The fermenting grass odor was heavy in the
room.
Something—possibly the smaller animals that did not
agree with it—had weakened the creature.
This could be his chance to get
rid of it!

 
          
 
Kevin waited until the house was dark and
quiet. Taking the only weapon he could find, a baseball bat, he went into the
hall. When his bare feet made a brushing sound on the carpet, he stopped. But
the house remained still.

 
          
 
The guest room door made only the softest
click as Kevin pushed it. The drapes were open, and the moonlight showed the
creatwasp
in a resting position on the bed, its green
feelers extended two feet in front of it. The
creatwasp
sprang up.

 
          
 
"Help!
Help!
He's going to hit me!
Help!"
Joyce's voice rang
through the house. Lights flashed on in the hall.

 
          
 
"What's going on here?" Kevin's
father grabbed the baseball bat.

 
          
 
"He's crazy!" the
creatwasp
sobbed, looking exactly like
Joyce,
and Mrs.
Wheatmore
put her arms around her.

 
          
 
"Into your room, young man," his
father said.

 
          
 
"But Dad—"

 
          
 
"We'll talk about it in the
morning." When his father left, he locked the door to Kevin's room from
the outside.

 
          
 
It was late the next morning when Kevin's
mother called him for breakfast. "I'm late for school," he shouted.

 
          
 
"You're not going to school today. I made
an appointment with the doctor for you this morning."

 
          
 
"I suppose you mean a psychiatrist.
There's nothing wrong with me, if you would only listen."

 
          
 
"
Shhh
, don't
get excited." The psychiatrist reminded the
Wheatmores
that the experience of the fire and the deaths of the
Holmans
had been more than Kevin had been able to accept.

 
          
 
"It will take time," he said.
"Didn't you mention that his grandfather lives on a farm? Perhaps a change
would help. Why don't you send him there?"

 
          
 
Kevin boarded the jet that afternoon. Though
the trip took only two hours, and the stewardess in charge of him was kind, it
seemed longer. His grandfather was waiting at the airport.

           
 
Kevin had never been able to talk to his
grandfather, whose favorite question was, "How's school?" How do you
answer a question like that? He would never be able to convince him that there
was such a thing as a
creatwasp
and that its message
must be stopped.

 
          
 
It was about twenty-five miles from the
airport to the farm. As they drove, his grandfather did most of the talking.
"You can ride that colt now that you admired so much last summer."
Kevin thanked him and a long silence followed.

 
          
 
"How's school?" his grandfather
asked, nervously clearing his throat.

 
          
 
"Great. I got the second highest math
grade." Kevin went on to tell him about the magazine rack he was building
in shop because it seemed now that it was his grandfather who needed to be put
at ease. He asked such questions only because he didn't know what else to say.

 
          
 
By the middle of the week Kevin felt at home
on the farm. If it were not for the realization that the
creatwasp's
message would go to
Olgorin
on Saturday and that by
Sunday they'd all be gone, Kevin would have been happy. Kevin was grooming the
colt in its stall while his grandfather mended a feeder at the other end of the
barn. The farmyard was noisy. Chickens, dogs, and horses made most of the
sounds, and Kevin had an idea.

 
          
 
"Grandpa, I've got to talk to you. You've
got to listen to me."

 
          
 
"Try me," his grandfather said. So
Kevin told him all about the
creatwasp
and its plans
for Saturday. Grandfather wrinkled his forehead. "What you're saying is
serious, Kevin. Can you prove any of it?"

 
          
 
"Look at this!" Kevin desperately
tore the bandage from his wrist. "See the claw prints? I wasn't burned in
the fire." Grandfather
Wheatmore
gave a low
whistle. "Your story sounds
incredible,
Kevin,
but I believe you. Do you have any idea how we can get rid of this thing?"

 
          
 
"I do now," Kevin said. "I know
that it's not what it eats that weakens it, as I first thought. . . ." And
he went on to describe his plan.

 
          
 
"There's one thing wrong," his
grandfather said. "Your parents won't let Joyce come up here. Only a few
days ago you attacked her with a baseball bat!"

 
          
 
"But, don't you see, Grandpa. Joyce is
the
creatwasp
, and if you mention how quiet it is up
here, she'll come anyway. She needs the silence."

 
          
 
The trap was set the way Kevin suggested, and
Kevin tested it several times to make sure it worked. Early the following
Saturday, Joyce arrived. Kevin knew that if his trap didn't work by afternoon, he
and everyone else would be dead. But as they talked, the creature looked so
much like Joyce, with the same voice and
mannerisms, that
Kevin began to wonder if maybe his parents and the psychiatrist were right. His
grandfather looked doubtful, too.

 
          
 
"I'd like to see the farm," Joyce
said after a short time, and Kevin, anxious to try his plan before his
grandfather changed his mind, went into his act.

 
          
 
"There's nothing special about it,"
Kevin said, pretending he didn't want to show her around.

 
          
 
"Where is the quiet place?" Joyce
asked, grimacing at the clucking chickens.

 
          
 
"I'll show you later. Come on, you'll
like the barn."

 
          
 
"What's in the barn?" Joyce stopped
to look at a kitten playing with a piece of string.

 
          
 
"The horses.
I'll show you the horses." Kevin hadn't intended for his voice to sound so
eager.

 
          
 
"No, thanks.
I've tried them. I mean, I know what a horse looks like."

 
          
 
"There's a calf." no "A what?
Oh, I want to see it," Joyce said, and she followed him toward the barn.
Just at the door, though, she clapped her hands over her ears.

 
          
 
"Kevin, I can't stand those squawking
chickens. I've got to get away from here." Green splotches spread across
Joyce's forehead.

 
          
 
"No, you've got to see the calf," he
yelled, and careful only to touch her coat, he shoved her through the barn
door. At the same time he kicked the hidden switch he had set up under the
straw.

 
          
 
Bells rang. Radios tuned to different stations
and set at full volume blared.
Records of train whistles
,
fire sirens, and factory whistles played on old phonographs. Kevin and his
grandfather had even dragged in an old dinner bell that was used to warn the
neighbors in case of fire. Operating electrically, it clanged loudly.

 
          
 
All this came over the amplifier at multiple
volume
. The horses, frightened at the noise, began to neigh.
Kevin blew on his athletic whistle and directed the piercing sound right into
Joyce's ear.

 
          
 
The plan was working. Joyce began to turn
green. Her features blurred, forming the insect eyes and heavy mandibles of the
creatwasp
. Long
wasplike
legs appeared, and her body slimmed out to a hornet shape. The odor of
fermenting grass dominated the smell of the hay and the horses.

 
          
 
Grandpa
Wheatmore
,
who had followed them to the barn, watched what used to be Joyce. "Look
out, Kevin," he cried. "The dinner bell has stopped. The creature
will get back its strength."

 
          
 
Kevin saw that the bell mechanism had broken
down. The
creatwasp
was stretching up on its legs,
reaching toward Grandpa
Wheatmore
. Kevin grabbed the
bell's rope and yanked, ringing it over and over until the
creatwasp
collapsed.

 
          
 
Kevin did not stop ringing the bell or blowing
his in whistle until the monster, now nothing but a green quivering mass,
shriveled and was still.

 
          
 
They put it into a box and nailed it shut.
"The UFO Investigation Committee will want to see this," Grandfather
Wheatmore
said.

 
          
 
The following Wednesday, in the living room of
his own home, Kevin held out his hand to receive the engraved commendation from
General Greene. His mother, father, and grandfather watched proudly.

 
          
 
"...
for
your
brave contribution to both science and your country," General Greene was
saying. "Through you a grave danger to the people of this planet has been
removed."

 
          
 
A photographer's flash unit went off and the
ceremony ended.

 
          
 
"You saw your duty and you did it."
Mr.
Wheatmore
patted Kevin's shoulder. "But
there's more to be done. Look how the hedge has grown. You'll find the clippers
in the garage."

 
          
 
Tracy Ann Stuart huddled in the far corner of
the dark fruit cellar, her heart thumping as she listened to the creature
prowling outside the door.

 
          
 
She could hear its harsh breathing and the
scraping of its nails on the wooden panels. Had it found her at last?

 
          
 
Abruptly the pawing stopped. There was an
irritable, questing rumble deep in the monster's throat. Then the swish-thump
of its movement began to recede.

 
          
 
Tracy
crept to the door and peered through the
latch hole. She could see the creature in the occasional shafts of evening sun
shining through the tiny basement windows. The hideous thing was big now,
bigger than her father, and it was methodically scrabbling in the various
corners of the old basement. It would move fast enough, she knew, once it found
its prey.

 
          
 
The quill-like growths on the monster's back
were now long fleshy tubes, and the flexible nose of the misshapen purple face
extended like a baby elephant's. The yellow horns looked harder and sharper,
while the red eyes . . . You did not need much light to see those malevolent
red eyes.

 
          
 
Tracy
wished again with all her might that she
had never taken that package inside the house. When the doorbell rang that
afternoon,
Tracy
had been alone most of the day in the big
old house that was the Stuart family's new home.

 
          
 
At twelve, Tracy was old enough to be left in
charge while her parents made one last trip to their former home over a hundred
miles away for the final load of personal belongings. Someone had to stay here
to admit the telephone
people,
in case this was the
day they chose to install the phone. Her parents had hardly left after
breakfast when a lady came to read the water meter. Staying a little while to
chat, she told
Tracy
something of the neighborhood. Now at last the telephone people had
arrived.

 
          
 
But it was not a telephone company truck
Tracy
saw when she pulled open the heavy front
door. Instead, a large red van was parked in the gravel driveway, and a man in
a brown uniform stood on the steps holding a box. The man said, "National
Package Delivery. Can I leave this shipment with you? The lady down the road
isn't home."

 
          
 
Tracy
hesitated,
then
remembered her mother taking in things for their neighbors in their old town.
She nodded. "Okay. How do I know where to take it?"

 
          
 
The man set the package down and scribbled in
his notebook. "You don't have to do anything, miss. I'll just leave a
notice in her door and she can come for it when she gets home." He thrust
pencil and pad at
Tracy
. "Sign here, please."

 
          
 
She wrote her name carefully. "Who is the
package for?"

 
          
 
"Name's
Cranshaw
.
Lives in that green
house down there.
Thanks,
miss!" He walked
vigorously to his van, hopped in, and drove off, leaving
Tracy
with her mouth open in dismay.

 
          
 
"
Cranshaw
!"
she repeated, looking down the road at the home of their nearest neighbor. Here
at the edge of town, the houses became widely scattered and were not at all
like those in the suburb where
Tracy
had spent most of her life. And the
ramshackle dark green house down the road, half-hidden behind a luxurious
growth of spooky-looking pine trees, seemed like the kind of house a witch
would live in. "Creepy"
Cranshaw
they
called her in town, or so said the water meter lady.
Tracy
shivered,
then
remembered the package.

 
          
 
The box was perfectly ordinary looking,
wrapped in brown paper and sturdily tied with cord. It had a neat white label
bearing the name of Miss Lulu
Cranshaw
, but no return
address. Big red stickers with white letters fairly shouted fragile!
do
not drop!
keep
out of light! And
here the
midafternoon
sun was pouring its warm rays
down upon it.

 
          
 
Tracy
was reluctant to touch anything destined
for a witch. But she did not want Miss
Cranshaw
angry
with her, either. So she picked it up carefully, surprised at its light weight,
and set it down in a dark corner of the entry. Now it was just an ordinary
package waiting for its owner to claim it.

 
          
 
While she washed the set of good dishes her
mother had unpacked that morning,
Tracy
began to wonder what a witch would order
through the mail. Maybe it was a surprise sent by somebody else—a relative, or
another witch.

 
          
 
The wondering about the box became an itch in
Tracy
's mind. Drying the last of the dishes and
putting them in the cupboard, she went to look at the box sitting in the
shadowed entry.

 
          
 
She flipped on the light switch. A little
light could not hurt. Then she gently raised the box a few inches off the floor
and shook it. There was a faint rustling, like crunched-up newspaper. Maybe
somebody sent the box for a joke. Or maybe—
Tracy
's throat got tight—maybe it was a doll to stick
pins in!

           
 
The flaps of the neatly folded wrapping paper
were not stuck down with tape. And the stiff cord was loose enough to slip off,
if somebody wanted to.

 
          
 
Tracy
slipped it off. She unfolded the brown
paper to reveal a gray cardboard box. She lifted off the lid.

 
          
 
Tucked in a nest of crushed newspaper was
something wrapped in black
paper.
It was irregular in
shape, with the paper twisted around so that nobody would ever notice a couple
of extra creases. Standing up under the entry light,
Tracy
untwisted the paper and opened it.

 
          
 
For a second or two she stared at the horrible
little dried-up thing in her hand. Then shuddering with revulsion, she flung it
away and ran back to the kitchen. There she soaped her hands under the running
faucet, washing and scrubbing, trying to forget the dreadful image.

 
          
 
It had been alive once, but
Tracy
had never even imagined an animal like
that, not in her most awful nightmares. She remembered a stupid joke from way
back in fourth grade. What does a witch ride on?
A night
mare.
Ha-ha-ha.

 
          
 
But nobody would laugh at this nightmare. The
dessicated
body was purple-gray, with
stickerlike
things like porcupine quills over part of it. The underside was covered with
mangy gray fur, half-hidden under the folded dead paws that looked like tiny
clenched fists. But the face! It was a parody of a human face, with purple
bulbous features, cracked and wrinkled, and with a tiny pair of yellow horns on
the forehead. The nearly closed red eyes seemed to stare.

 
          
 
Ugh!
Tracy
shivered as she wiped her hands on a towel.
Then she hugged herself, standing alone and nervous in the brightly painted
kitchen. Her parents would not be home for at least a couple more hours, maybe
even longer. Meanwhile, if Miss Lulu
Cranshaw
came
and asked for her package . . . She would be awfully angry that it had been opened.

           
 
Remembering the stories the water meter lady
had told her about "Creepy"
Cranshaw
,
Tracy
knew she had to put the package back
together. She rehearsed it in her mind. She would just march in, quickly wrap
up the little dead monster, and jam it back in the box. Taking a determined
breath, she walked swiftly to the front entry. Trying not to think about it,
she scooped up the black paper.

 
          
 
It was empty.

 
          
 
The dreadful little dried-up thing must have
fallen out when she had thrown it.
Tracy
looked around carefully,
then
stooped to feel the patterned rug with her hands. Sick at the thought of
touching the thing, she knew she had to.

 
          
 
Except for the box and its wrappings, the
entry was completely bare.
Tracy
shook out the paper, cord, and box, but found nothing. She wondered how
she could fail to see the little monster under the entry light.

 
          
 
Light.
Keep Out of
Light!

 
          
 
Maybe light had somehow made it disappear. It
was a crazy idea—about as crazy as having a witch living just down the road.
But
Tracy
snapped off the light anyway.

 
          
 
Going into the living room, she glanced
around, hoping the nasty little husk had rolled in there. Light flooded in through
the windows, but the wide expanse of carpet was bare. The furniture was too far
away for it to have—

 
          
 
What was that?

 
          
 
A quick movement flickered at the edge of her
vision, but when
Tracy
turned her head she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was just
a bird shadow flashing across the window. She glanced outside.

 
          
 
A face stared back at her. It was an old
woman's face, pointed and wrinkled, and piercing dark eyes locked into
Tracy
's. The woman on the porch stepped closer
and held up the National Package Delivery slip in a bony hand.

 
          
 
Swallowing hard,
Tracy
numbly went to open the front door, us
"I'm Miss Lulu
Cranshaw
," said a voice as
spiky as a dried milkweed pod. As the breeze pulled her dress against her, her tall
spindly frame was revealed. An old-fashioned car was parked in front of the
house. "You have a package for me."

 
          
 
Tracy
's breath hurt as she said, "No, ma'am,
we haven't got a package or anything."

 
          
 
Miss
Cranshaw
pursed
her lips. She held out the delivery notice. "This is 26445 Baxter, isn't
it?"

 
          
 
"Yes, it is. I was home all day and
nobody came." She waited a moment and when Miss
Cranshaw
did not move,
Tracy
added, "I guess somebody made a mistake."