Box of Shocks (2 page)

I carefully push the piece of wall paneling back in place.

Downstairs, Mom calls, “Oliver! Are you still down in the basement?”

“No, Mom! I'm in my room!” I gather up my clothes and start hanging them up. “I'll be down in a second.”

I have to be careful how I put everything back in my closet. Mom's a neat freak, and she's always after me to keep my room in perfect order. This includes the closet, where everything has to be hung up exactly right. If everything's just shoved back in my closet, she'll get suspicious. The last thing I want is Mom getting suspicious.

“Oliver! What are you doing up there?” Mom calls again.

I hang up the last few shirts, close my closet door and head downstairs.

As soon as I step into the kitchen, Mom says, “Just look at your hands! Absolutely filthy! What have you been doing?”

Of course, I'm not going to tell her what I've been doing. I can't. The box is a perfect secret in a perfect hiding place that Mom and Dad will never know about. They'll never know about it as long as I'm careful, that is. I'm about to make up an excuse about my dirty hands when Mom says, “Before you eat your lunch, you'd better scrub those grubby hands, young man.”

I'm happy to wash my hands. As I watch the dirt swirl around in the bathroom sink and spin down the drain, I can't stop thinking about my secret box—a secret box begging to have secret things hidden inside.

As I shovel macaroni and cheese into my mouth, I try to imagine what sorts of things I could put in it. I'm not sure exactly. I do know that it has to be something spectacular. Something amazing. Something… well, something that would shock Mom and Dad.

That's it! I'll call it my Box of Shocks.

Two

F
or the next couple of weeks, the Box of Shocks is on my mind every day. Whenever I'm sure Mom and Dad won't barge into my room—which isn't very often— I pry off the wooden panel in the back of my closet, carefully slide the box out of its hiding spot and place it gently on my bed. Each time I open the lid, I do it slowly. I take a deep breath, inhaling that musty air. I stare down into the empty box and think, What should I put in my Box of Shocks? Maybe snack food—not the healthy whole-grain sugar-free snack food Mom gives me that tastes like dog food. I'll keep snacks in my box that actually taste good.

No
. Using this secret box to hide junk food isn't good enough. If I'm going to keep a secret from my parents, it has to be really, really shocking. It has to be something that would shock their eyeballs right out of their heads and make their hair stand up on end. If they ever saw what was in the box, smoke would drift from their ears and maybe even their nostrils.

The problem is, I can't think of anything shocking enough.

Everything changes on October
29
. When we're all eating supper together, Mom says, “Are you and your friends going trick-or-treating on Halloween this year?”

As soon as Mom mentions trick-or-treating, I know exactly what I'm going to put in my Box of Shocks!

“Of course we're trick-or-treating,” I reply. “And please don't give me the speech about being too old.”

“It's okay, Ollie. We'll leave it up to you and your friends to make that decision,” Dad says.

“Then why did you ask me?”

“Well, normally, you spend weeks getting your costume together, but this year you haven't mentioned a thing about it,” Mom says.

“I've been busy. Too much schoolwork, I guess. Anyway, I can always be a ghost.”

“You don't want to use your costume from last year?” Mom says.

“Yeah,” Dad says. “I thought the headless insurance salesman costume was one of your best. Very scary.”

“It doesn't really matter,” I say. Mom and Dad look at each other, a little surprised. Until this year, my Halloween costume has been a really big deal. I've always tried to be something no one in the history of Halloween has ever been before—like a giant talking turkey or a punk penguin or a headless insurance salesman. But this year, I don't care about my costume. I've got something much, much more important to think about.

On Halloween night, Mom hauls an old white sheet out of the linen cupboard. Dad helps me cut eyeholes in the right places. I look at myself in the mirror and can think of only one word:
Lame
. This has to be the lamest costume I have ever worn for Halloween—and that even includes the year I dressed up as a cowboy when I was three.

As Mom hands me my pillowcase loot bag, I'm thinking about my plan for tonight, and the ghost costume doesn't seem to matter so much anymore. Especially when she and Dad give me the usual trick-or-treating speech as I head for the door.

“There are four things we want you to remember, Oliver,” Mom says.

“It's okay, Mom. I'll be careful on all the stairs, I'll watch out for mean dogs, and I'll be sure to check the candy before I eat any.”

“That's right, Ollie,” Dad says putting a hand on my shoulder and staring into my ghost eyeholes. “But there's one more thing, more important than all the others. You and your buddies are not to go near the Milburn house.”

“I know…I know. You tell me the same thing every year.”

“And we mean it every year,” Mom says. “Especially this year, after the stories we've heard.”

“What stories?” I say.

Dad shakes his head and says, “You are absolutely forbidden to go near that place.”

“Please promise me you won't go there, Oliver!” Mom says, peering over Dad's shoulder.

“I'll be fine, Mom,” I say as I take off down the stairs. At least I didn't lie.

I always go trick-or-treating with my friends Reggie, Karl and Grayson. This year, there's a problem. For my top-secret plan to work, I have to go alone. My friends can't come with me. All of their parents are friends with Mom and Dad. If one of them blabbed something about what I did on Halloween night, in no time flat, Mom and Dad would know. My secret would be out. It would spoil everything.

As soon as I'm out of sight of the house, I duck into the back alley and stash my ghost costume behind a garbage can. Next, I run down to the end of the block where my buddies are waiting. This year, Reggie's an alien vampire, Karl's wearing an inflatable sumo suit and Grayson's got on his uncle's Elvis costume.

When they see me, Reggie says, “Hey! Where's your costume?”

“My parents figure I'm too old to go trick-or-treating, so they're making me stay home,” I say. I kick at a rock, trying to show I'm all mad about it.

“You're kidding!” Karl says. “That's so stupid!”

“I know,” I say. “But that's my parents for you.”

“We'll go to a few extra places tonight and save some candy for you,” Grayson says.

“Sure, that'd be great,” I say. “Anyway, I'd better get going. Mom wants me to wash the floor tonight. Have fun, guys.” I don't like lying to my friends, but I have no choice.

I watch my friends head off into the night, and then I turn back to the alley. For a second or two, I kind of wish I was going with them. I'll miss stuffing my face with candy morning, noon and night for the next week. But then I think of my Box of Shocks. My plan for tonight is so much bigger and so much better than running around and begging for candy. It's also way more dangerous.

I dig my ghost costume out from behind the garbage can and put it on. I head over to Lock Drive and hang a left on Ryker Boulevard. I'm not worried about running into my friends. They always do the same route every year, the one where the houses aren't too far apart and there aren't any steep hills. That way they get the most candy in the shortest time. Plus, they'd never dare go where I'm going.

So, here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Milburn house. I'm a little nervous, I'll admit. But I feel a bit braver knowing that my parents would be freaking out right now if they knew where I was. And they would be double freaking out if they knew what I was about to do.

I open the twisted wire gate at the end of the walkway and step into the yard. I've heard plenty of rumors about the Milburn house. Someone at school told me that most of the kids who go trick-or-treating there never make it out alive. If they do escape, they're usually missing an arm or a leg. Plus, the treats they get are things like toxic-waste suckers and apples with exploding razor blades. I've never talked to anyone who's actually gone trick-or-treating here, but the stories sound pretty creepy.

I try to stay calm, but my ghost costume's quivering because my knees are shaking so hard. I squeeze my fingers tightly around my loot bag, take three deep breaths and start walking up the path toward the front door.

I've ridden past this house on my bike a few times during the day. The front yard is mostly dirt and weeds, with rusty shopping carts shoved into bushes and a mangled barbecue lying on its side. But at night—especially Halloween night—the place seems way more spooky. Give me a graveyard any day over this place!

The walkway has thistles growing up through cracks in the cement, and the front steps are mostly broken and rotten. I can't see any lights on in the house—only a dull glow coming from somewhere deep inside.

I carefully climb the rotting steps and edge closer to the door. I take three more deep breaths. It would be easy to turn back, but instead, I say under my breath, “Here goes nothing,” and give the door three sharp knocks. My tongue feels all dry and sandpapery. When I try to shout, “Trick or treat!” I sound like a parrot with laryngitis.

I wait. As I wait, every few seconds I look behind me in case something might be sneaking up from behind. I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Maybe they have a pet boa constrictor that hasn't been fed in a few months. Or maybe there are giant black widow spiders or wild dogs with rabies. It doesn't hurt to keep an eye out.

I listen for the sound of someone coming to the door. At first, there's nothing, but then I hear a thumping sound. It turns out to be my own heart! I should run for my life, but I don't. I just stand there, squeezing my pillow case so tightly the palms of my hands are getting all sweaty.

Maybe no one's home. Maybe no one even lives here.

But then, I hear something…and it's coming from inside the house. An uneven
thump-thump
, pause,
thump-thump,
pause,
thump-thump
, pause. It's getting louder! That means it's getting closer to the front door!

A voice in my head screams, “RUN! RUN! RUN!” That would be the smart thing to do. I could catch up with Reggie, Grayson and Karl and make it a normal Halloween night. But I can't leave empty-handed. I've got to get something for my Box of Shocks. This is no time to run off like a headless chicken.

I see the doorknob slowly turn, and then the door starts to move! It opens very slowly, the hinges creaking and groaning like they haven't moved in a hundred years. The door opens a few inches, then stops.