The Haunting Hour (10 page)

A girl, about fifteen, stood next to the skinny guy. She wore blue jeans and a pink T-shirt and had shoulder-length brown hair—sprouting from her face! It grew out of her cheeks, her chin, her ears. It even grew out of her nostrils. Man, was she gross.

Four spotlights sent beams of blinding white light over us.

Applause and shouts roared up from the audience as the tall boy and hairy girl walked off the stage.

I shielded my eyes from the bright light and tried to see who was out there.

I saw farmers in bib overalls and bright-plaid work shirts. I recognized a couple of the hog owners who had chased us away. And the man whose cabbage I'd dropped the worm on.

Two women held prize squashes in their laps. The big men beside them had blueberry stains around their mouths and chins.

All the people Pete and I had made fun of. They all seemed to be in the audience, staring down at us, grinning and clapping.

“Pete—let's get out of here!” I cried.

“I…I can't move,” Pete said.

“Huh? What's your problem?” I asked. And then I let out a cry as I saw my hands. My fingers had ballooned to the size of hot dogs! My hands were totally swollen.

I raised them close to study them—and realized that my arms were huge too. I felt my stomach swell. It bulged right out of my T-shirt and kept growing.

“Pete—” I gasped. Pete was
enormous!
He looked like a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day parade.

“Look at those big boys!” a man in the crowd shouted. “Those are growing boys!”

Everyone laughed.

“Help! Let us mmmmph mmmmph!” I tried to shout. But my tongue swelled up till it filled my mouth.

I raised my big hands to my head. My head was huge too. My round stomach bounced in front of me.

I look like a cabbage, I realized.

I can't talk. I can't move. I'm…I'm just like a cabbage!

“Ha ha! You can roll that boy home!” someone shouted. The arena exploded with laughter.

I turned my heavy blob of a head to Pete. He bounced on his feet like a huge beach ball.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. The crowd grew silent as four men in overalls climbed onto the stage.

The grim-faced judges surrounded Pete and me. One of them grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Another judge wrapped a tape measure around one of my fat legs. “Forty-two,” he called out.

I tried to step away from them, but I was too heavy to move.

A judge slipped one of those prongy metal calipers over my head
and measured my head. “Eighty-four,” he shouted.

Several people in the crowd booed.

“Reject!” a woman called out.

A judge pushed back my sausagelike fingers until they cracked. Another judge tapped my flabby knees with a hammer.

“MMMMMMPH!” I wanted to cry out in pain. But my fat tongue filled my mouth. I couldn't make a sound.

The judges jabbed my back and poked my stomach. One of them squeezed my nose until tears poured from my eyes.

“Losers!” a man shouted from high in the bleachers. “Throw out the losers!”

“Give them a chance!” I heard MacColley shout. “These are my boys! Give them a chance!”

“Hold still,” a judge ordered. “I need to take a skin sample.”

Oh no, I thought. A skin sample? What is he going to do?

I struggled to move—in any direction. To bounce away from him. But my big, heavy body wouldn't budge.

The judge raised a metal tool that looked like a giant cheese scraper. He pressed it against my bulging chest—and pulled.

Pain shot down my chest.

The judge pulled off a long strip of my skin. He held it up to the light, and the judges all studied it.

“Too thin,” one of them said.

“Reject,” another judge muttered.

My enormous body throbbed and ached with pain. Suddenly I was being shoved across the stage and hoisted onto a wide floor scale.

My body bobbed heavily on the scale. I tried to read my weight. But I couldn't see below my round belly.

“Two hundred pounds!” the judge called out.

“Puny!” a man in the crowd shouted.

“Too small! Throw it back!” another man cried.

The crowd began to chant, “Loser! Loser! Loser!”

“Wait! Check out his hands!” I saw MacColley run up to the front of the stage. “Maybe his hands are worth saving!” he shouted.

Oh no, I thought. I pictured the hands floating in the big jars—and my huge blob of a body started to shake.

“Loser! Loser! Loser!” The jeers and boos rang in my ears.

I saw Pete hoisted up off the stage by a chain hanging from the ceiling. And then I felt a harness slip around my own enormous, round body. I was hoisted off the floor and carried high in the air, toward a door at the side wall.

“Loser! Loser! Loser!” were the last words I heard before disappearing through another dark tunnel.

I followed Pete onto a long conveyor belt. We were flat on our backs. The belt moved quickly.

It was carrying us toward a giant stamping machine pounding down from above.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp
. The letters on it were backward, but I could read them easily: LOSER.

I took a deep breath. Gathered all my strength. And tried to roll off the conveyor belt.

Grunting and groaning, I strained every muscle. But I couldn't move. I was just too heavy.

“Yeeeooooow!” Pete let out a wail of pain as the giant metal stamp pounded down on him.

Then the big stamper lifted, ready to pound its next victim—me.

As the belt pulled me under it, I shut my eyes and held my breath.

STAMP
.

Pain jolted my body. I saw bright red. And then a deep, deep endless black.

 

A sharp smell awoke me. A sick, putrid odor. Wet and foul. Like rotting vegetables.

I raised my head and stared up at the night sky. A pale half-moon floated behind wisps of cloud.

How long have I been knocked out? I wondered.

“Oooh, the smell,” Pete groaned, beside me. “It stinks so bad.”

Holding my breath, I gazed around. We were sprawled in some garbage Dumpster. We were lying on top of vegetables. Rotting cabbages. Broken squashes. Decaying melons crawling with flies. Disgusting, putrid pumpkins.

The losers. The rejects.

And now Pete and I were part of the pile.

“Hey—we're smaller,” I said. “We're our own size.”

“Yeah. We're not blobs anymore!” Pete cried.

My stomach itched violently. I pulled a rotting lettuce from under my shirt. Insects swarmed over it, swarmed over my stomach, my T-shirt.

Pete pulled sticky, wet pumpkin meat from his hair. “I…I'm going to be sick,” he said.

“Let's get out of here,” I said. “We've got to tell someone what's going on in the Youth Building. We've got to warn people.”

“We should tell the police,” Pete said. “They can't do that to kids! Hurry. Let's find a cop, Colin!”

Holding on to the Dumpster wall, we pulled ourselves to our feet. Our shoes sank in the rotting vegetables. We slid down to our waists. But we managed to grab the top of the Dumpster and hoist ourselves out.

The lights had been turned on. The Ferris wheel whirled behind us. In the outdoor theater a country-music band was tuning up.

“We can find a cop at the front gate,” Pete said. “Let's go.”

We both took off, running. But we stopped when we heard a voice calling our names. We turned and saw Franny striding up to us, hands on her waist.

“Where did you go?” she asked. “I've been waiting for you.”

“You—you won't believe what happened to us!” I cried breathlessly. “It was horrible. We—we've got to find a cop. We've—”

“They're doing horrible things to kids in the Youth Building,” Pete said.

“The
what?
” Franny asked. “What Youth Building?”

“It's right back there,” I said. I turned and pointed. But there was nothing to point to. An empty patch of grass.

“It was right there. I
know
it was,” I insisted.

“I saw you two go into the Fun House,” Franny said. “But then I didn't see you come out.”

I gaped at her. “Huh? The Fun House?”

She motioned to a brightly lighted building behind us. Giant ghosts and skeletons were painted on the walls. The blinking sign read: HOUSE OF A THOUSAND SCREAMS.

“I saw you two go in, so I waited right here,” Franny said. “Did you come out a back door?”

Pete and I stared at each other. “You—you really saw us go in there?” Pete asked Franny.

Franny nodded. “How was it? Was that
you
I heard screaming your heads off in there?”

 

I didn't understand what had happened to Pete and me. But I didn't want to think about it now. I was happy to return home a half hour later.

“How was it?” Mom asked from the den.

“Okay,” I said. “You know. The usual.”

“It's late,” she called. “Go take a bath and go to bed.”

I made my way upstairs and started the bathwater. Then I hurried to my room and started to undress.

Maybe Pete and I
were
in the Fun House the whole time, I thought. Franny wouldn't lie. She saw us.

Maybe we hit our heads or something in there and imagined the whole judging thing.

I tugged off my socks and tossed them on the floor.

I'm just going to put it out of my mind, I decided. I'm going to forget about it and never think about it again.

I pulled off my T-shirt and threw it on the bed. And glimpsed myself in the dresser mirror.

And realized that I
couldn't
forget about what happened.

I
couldn't
pretend it never happened. I
couldn't
ever put it out of my mind.

Because across my chest was a word in big black letters:
LOSER.

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY
B
LEU
T
URRELL

D
id you ever wonder why some people can draw and others can't? What kind of strange magic is involved?

When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a cartoonist. I spent hours and hours drawing little comic books. Then one day I looked around and saw that my drawings were like baby scribbles compared to those of the other kids in my class.

I decided I'd better
write
instead of draw. But I've been fascinated by artists ever since.

When I sat down to write this story, I asked myself these questions: What if an artist suddenly lost control of his painting? What if his hand started painting on its own? What if he couldn't control it at all?

How terrifying would that be?

You decide….

I
put my brush
to the paper and drew the outline of Julie's face. Then I added a few brushstrokes to start her hair. “Hold still,” I said. “You can't move until I get the basic lines in.”

She giggled. “Dylan, you look so serious.”

I could feel myself blushing. The truth is, I had a major crush on Julie. And I wanted this painting to be awesomely good. I really wanted to impress her.

She leaned back on the edge of my bed, her hands behind her pressed on the quilt. Her blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wore a blue turtleneck sweater over faded straight-legged jeans.

The late-afternoon sun poured through my bedroom window, spreading a warm, orange glow over the room. Julie kept a smile frozen on her face, which made two big dimples appear on her cheeks.

“How did you get interested in painting?” she asked.

I leaned over my drawing board and started to outline her eyes. “You won't believe it,” I said, “but I saw one of those ads in the local newspaper. It had a girl's face in it. And it said: ‘Can you draw me?'”

The brush slipped, and I accidentally dabbed a smudge of black paint over her left eye. I'd just gotten these brushes, and I wasn't used to them.

“It was some kind of contest,” I continued. “I sent my drawing in—and I won. I won art lessons with this old guy who lives downtown. MacKenzie Douglas. He used to be a very famous magazine illustrator.”

“Was he a good teacher?” Julie asked.

“The best!” I said. “I don't know how he did it. But ever since those lessons, I can draw anybody—no problem.”

“Cool,” Julie said. She stretched her arms. “Are you almost finished? I can't wait to see it.”

Before I could answer, I heard heavy, thudding footsteps—and Flash came waddling into the room. The big chimpanzee uttered a few
hoo hoo hoo
's then jumped into Julie's lap.

Julie let out a startled cry and fell off the bed with the chimp on top of her.

“Mandy!” I yelled for my little sister. She instantly appeared in the doorway. “Mandy—you're supposed to be watching Flash,” I said angrily. “How come he got away from you?”

“Because he's a chimp, that's why!” Mandy always has a smart answer for everything.

Julie shoved the chattering chimp off and struggled to her feet. “He's heavy!”

Mandy tugged Flash back to her room. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Are you okay?” Dad is always bringing pets home from the animal hospital where he works. Flash is a total pest.”

“He's kind of cute,” Julie said, brushing chimp fur off her sweater. She returned to her perch on the bed. “He just surprised me, that's all.”

Just my luck. I try to impress a girl, and a chimpanzee knocks her to the floor.

“Dad brought two macaws home yesterday,” I said. “Hear them? They're down in the living room, screeching their heads off. We even had a little pig running around the house last week!”

Julie laughed. “You live in a zoo!”

I leaned over the drawing board and concentrated on the painting. I carefully sketched in the mouth. Julie was the coolest girl in my seventh-grade class. I couldn't believe it when she agreed to pose for me. I knew I had to make this my best portrait ever.

I changed the eyes. I wasn't happy with them. Then I carefully sketched the nose. I worked quickly. The new brush glided easily over the paper.

“How much longer?” Julie asked.

“Not much,” I said. “I'm filling in some details.”

“Does it really look like me?” she asked.

“You'll see,” I replied.

And then my hand made a sharp movement across the page. Whoa, I thought. Why did I do that?

I dipped the brush into the jar of paint. I wanted to fill in the hair. But my hand guided the brush to the mouth. I made several sharp strokes.

“Hey!” I cried out.

“What's wrong?” Julie asked.

“Nothing,” I said. But something was terribly wrong.

My hand—it was moving on its own!

The brush painted in lines over Julie's cheeks and forehead. Then it moved to her mouth and began drawing furiously.

I grabbed my hand and tried to pull it away from the page. But it wouldn't budge.

This is
crazy!
I thought. This can't be happening.

My hand is drawing without me!

I have no control. No control at all!

A wave of panic made my whole body shudder. I struggled to control the brush, but it kept moving over the page.

I could feel cold sweat rolling down my forehead. This is terrifying! What is happening to me?

Suddenly Julie jumped up and crossed the room. “Let me see it!” she said. “I can't wait any longer.”

“No!” I shouted. “It—it isn't ready!”

“I don't care,” she replied, grinning at me. “Let me see this masterpiece!”

I tried to cover it with my body, but Julie grabbed the painting off the drawing board and turned it around to look at it.

“DYLAN!” she screamed. “It's so gross!
Why did you do this?
”

She held the paper between her hands. In the painting her forehead and cheeks were covered with deep, open scars. And a hairy bucktoothed rat poked out of her open mouth.

“I—I—I didn't!” I sputtered.

She let out a furious cry and ripped the painting in half. “You're not funny,” she cried angrily. “You're not funny. You're just gross.” Then she stormed out of the room.

“But Julie—” I called.

A few seconds later I heard the front door slam behind her.

“How did that happen?” I asked out loud in a trembling voice. “How?” I stared at my hand, as if it could answer.

 

I barely ate any dinner. I told Mom and Dad I wasn't feeling well. Up in my room I couldn't concentrate on my homework.

I kept thinking about my painting of Julie with the rat poking out of her mouth. I couldn't stop thinking about how my hand had moved, out of my control, ruining the painting.

I went to bed early, but I couldn't sleep.

A little after midnight I climbed out of bed and turned on the ceiling light. Then I made my way to the drawing table.

I had to prove to myself that I could still paint. I had to prove that I wasn't going crazy or something.

I set up a mirror on my drawing table. Then I put a fresh sheet of paper down and picked up one of my new brushes.

I dipped the brush into a fresh jar of paint and began to draw
myself. My eyes moved from the mirror to the drawing. I started with the eyes this time. Then I sketched in my snubby nose and my full mouth.

So far, so good, I thought.

I moved to the hair. My hair is not easy to draw because it's short and spiky and shoots out in a million directions.

But the brush glided quickly. My hand felt sure and steady.

Yesss! I thought.

But I celebrated too early.

I dipped my brush into the paint again and lowered it to outline my face. I started on the chin—but my hand jerked to the side.

I stared in horror as it began drawing on its own. Drawing something where my neck should be.

“NO!” I screamed. I tugged with all my strength. But my other hand moved with incredible force.

I could only stand and watch it move around the paper. The hand was out of my control. Moving on its own!

“NOOOOOO!” A scream burst from my throat.

The bedroom door flew open. Mom and Dad came running in in their pajamas, their hair tousled, their faces sleepy. “Dylan—what's wrong?” they both cried.

Dad grabbed my painting from the table. They both stared at it.

It showed me with a noose around my neck. My tongue was hanging out, and my eyes were bulging.

“Why did you paint this?” Dad demanded. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I—I don't know,” I replied.

“Why did you paint such a sick thing?” Mom asked. “Is something troubling you, Dylan? Something you want to talk about?”

“I—I don't know,” I repeated.

 

I stayed away from my drawing table for the rest of the week. I hid the paint jars and brushes in the closet.

I didn't want to think about what had happened. Every time I pictured my hand moving on its own, I wanted to scream in horror.

On Monday I had no choice. I had to bring my paintbrushes to school. Mr. Vella, the art teacher, had chosen me and four other kids to paint a mural on the long art-room wall.

When I passed Julie in the hall, she looked the other way. I saw kids grinning at me. I guessed that Julie had told them what had happened.

I hurried to the art room. Kids were at their tables, waiting to watch us five artists go to work. “Remember, people, the theme of the mural is
America the Beautiful
,” Mr. Vella said.

He guided me to the end of the long wall. “I saved this square for you, Dylan,” he said. “From here to the window. I see you brought your own brushes. What are you going to paint?”

I gazed at the blank white canvas. “A farm scene, I think,” I answered. “Some animals. Maybe a farm family.”

“Sounds good,” Mr. Vella said. “Go to work.” He moved on to the next artist, an eighth-grade girl named Willa Myers.

I glanced down the line and realized I was the only seventh grader. I'd better do a really good job, I thought.

I started with a pencil. I sketched several sheep, a cow, some horses poking their heads over a fence. I sketched a farmhouse in the background. A family of four bent over, feeding seed to a bunch of chickens.

Mr. Vella moved up and down the row of artists, making comments and suggestions. “That looks very good, Dylan,” he said, helping to finish my pencil sketch of the chickens. “You can begin to paint now.”

I carried paint jars over to my spot. Then I prepared my paintbrushes.

My hand moved too quickly. The brush swept over my pencil sketch. I tried to control the brushstrokes. But once again my hand took off.

No—please! Please don't do this! I silently begged.

But I couldn't stop my hand.

I tried to drop the brush. But my fingers held tight. The brush kept moving up and down, drawing without me. Drawing on its own.

Am I going crazy?

“Dylan—what are you doing?” I heard Mr. Vella's alarmed cry from down the row. And I heard kids laughing.

My hand finished the farm family. The four people were bending over, headless. Blood poured from their open necks. Their heads were on the ground, being pecked apart by the chickens.

The cow and horses were vomiting. Piles of puke were puddled around their feet. The sheep had bullet holes in their sides.

“Dylan! I want you to stop this right now!” Mr. Vella shouted.

“I—I CAN'T STOP!” I shouted.

The kids erupted in laughter. They thought I was joking.

“HELP ME! MR. VELLA—HELP ME!”

My hand pulled me to the side. I bumped into Willa Myers and kicked over her paint jars.

My brush attacked her drawing. I scrawled thick black lines over the city scene she had started. My hand scribbled and jabbed.