Box of Shocks (3 page)

Okay. Now what? I wait a few more seconds and then, sliding out through the gap in the doorway, comes a pale, skinny arm with a bony hand. Gnarled fingers with yellow cracked fingernails hold a Halloween candy wrapped in orange plastic.

What is this thing? My first guess is
zombie
. With an arm like that, what else could this thing be but a genuine, real-life zombie? There are other possibilities, like some weird science experiment gone really wrong. This could be Frankenstein's ugly cousin, or maybe Dracula's great-grandma. Who knows? Who cares? This is exactly what I came for. Exactly what I hoped for. I just have to get up the guts to open my loot bag and hope the creepy hand drops the candy in.

My hands are shaking as I hold the pillowcase out— closer…closer…closer. I brace myself, ready to run for my life if the door suddenly opens and something comes after me with a machete or a chainsaw or a set of fangs.

Very slowly, the gnarled fingers uncurl and the candy drops into my loot bag. I pull the bag back with a jerk, spin around and leap from the top step all the way to the bottom. My feet barely touch the ground as I charge down the walkway.

Don't ask me why, but I stop. Glancing back, I see the door's still open, the gangly arm still hanging out. The bony hand looks like a drooping flower.

“Thank you!” I shout. Very slowly, the hand lifts and gives me a wave. Yes, it's definitely a wave! Do zombies wave? I wonder. Would Frankenstein's ugly cousin bother to wave? How about Dracula's great-grandma? Probably not. Whatever it belongs to, the hand slides back inside and the door closes with a thud. I head for the sidewalk, only now I'm not running.

I could go up the next street and catch up with Karl, Reggie and Grayson. I could stay out and collect a huge bag of candy. But I don't. I head for home because I've got everything I need.

As I come through the back door, I find Mom and Dad in the kitchen, filling bowls with candy. “Back so soon?” Mom says.

“Yeah. I figure maybe I'm finally too old for this trick-or-treating stuff.”

Dad smiles and nods. “We knew you'd reach that decision on your own.”

As I head up to my room, Mom calls, “Not so fast, Oliver! Did you make sure to check your candy?”

“I didn't get any candy,” I say, closing the door. This is not exactly a total lie. Sure, I collected one candy, but I'm not going to eat it. I have bigger plans for my treat from the Milburn house.

I brace a chair against my bedroom door just in case Mom gets suspicious. Heading to my closet, I push the clothes aside and pull the panel off the back wall. When I reach into the hiding place, I smile as I feel the smooth wood of the box. Slowly sliding it out, I cradle it in my hands as I gently put it down on my bed. I pry open the lid and take a whiff of the musty air wafting out of the empty box. It smells so good! I reach into my loot bag, pick the candy up and carefully place it in the middle of the empty box.

“Shock number one,” I whisper.

From now on, whenever I open my Box of Shocks and see that candy, I'll remember the night of terror when I risked my life trick-or-treating at the Milburn House. Best of all, no one, including my parents, will ever know but me.

I take the box back to my closet and slide it into its hiding place. I put the panel back into place and step out of the closet, closing the door behind me.

“Oliver! Have you brushed your teeth yet?” Mom yells from the bottom of the stairs.

“I was just heading to the bathroom,” I reply. This is not a lie.

Usually, I hate brushing my teeth. Not tonight. Brushing my teeth gives me time to think without Mom or Dad interrupting. It gives me time to think about what my next adventure could be. What else can I add to my Box of Shocks?

Three

O
n Tuesdays after school, Mom leaves her job at the bank early to drive me to piano lessons with Mrs. Barker, the nastiest piano teacher in the known universe. She's about as friendly as a runaway lawn mower.

Unfortunately, Dad and Mom think that Mrs. Barker is the best piano teacher in the city.

I tell them I'd rather spend Tuesday afternoons swimming in a pool of hungry dung beetles than take piano lessons with Mrs. Barker. I tell them her breath could kill a rhino at a hundred paces, and that she must use mouthwash from the Black Lagoon. I tell them I'm sure her place has fleas because I'm always itchy by the end of each lesson.

I could give them a million reasons why I don't like going to Mrs. Barker, but it's no use. Whenever I complain about my piano lessons, Mom always says, “Taking piano lessons from Mrs. Barker is a wonderful opportunity. Your father and I think that learning a musical instrument is a valuable experience for you.” There's no point in arguing. My parents aren't any good at changing their minds.

One morning at breakfast about three weeks after Halloween, Mom says, “I'm sorry, Oliver. The assistant manager at work is sick, so I can't get away this afternoon to drive you to piano. Dad can't take you because he's teaching at the college. Grandpa Golley's away at a pet show and won't be back until tomorrow. I phoned the Cromwells to see if they could drive you, but they're in Vancouver this week, and Mrs. Findlayson sprained her ankle, so she can't drive. We'll have to cancel your lesson,” she says.

That's when I see an opportunity—a golden opportunity.

“No! You can't cancel my lesson!” I say.

“Oh?” Mom raises her eyebrows. “You mean you actually
want
to go to your piano lesson?”

“Of course I do.”

“What about Mrs. Barker's bad breath?” Dad says. “And the fleas?”

I have to come up with a good reason for changing my mind about Mrs. Barker. Otherwise, Mom and Dad might get suspicious. “Ah…well…like you always tell me, Dad, there are some sacrifices we have to make in life. In the end, it'll all be worth it, right?”

It's Dad's turn to raise his eyebrows. I'm not sure he totally believes me. “I don't mind walking to my lesson,” I say. “I'll just have to leave right after school.”

“You don't mind walking all the way to Mrs. Barker's?” Mom says. “It's a long way.”

“I could use the exercise,” I tell her. “It's not that far.”

Mom and Dad look at each other and shrug.

“If you're keen to do it, Ollie, I guess that's fine,” Dad says.

Mom looks a little worried. “I'll give you my cell phone, just in case. And be sure to watch out for mean dogs.”

Mom's always telling me to watch out for mean dogs. I have a scar from when I was three and a toy poodle bit me at the park. I don't really remember what happened, but Mom has never forgotten.

“Yeah, Mom. I'll watch out for mean dogs,” I say.

Mom gives me more instructions. I keep nodding and saying, “Yep…Sure thing…You betcha…I'll remember…” But while Mom talks, I'm thinking of something else. I'm thinking about adding something spectacular to my Box of Shocks.

I leave school at three and head to Mrs. Barker's house. About a minute after I walk through her door, the phone rings. It's Mom, calling to make sure I made it okay. “Yes, I made it okay, Mom,” I say. “I wasn't abducted by aliens and I didn't fall through a crack in the sidewalk. I made it here just fine. And, no, I didn't see any mean dogs along the way.”

My piano lesson doesn't go so well, mainly because I can't stop thinking about what I'm planning on doing right after it. Every time I imagine the next shock I'll add to my Box of Shocks, I have to smile.

I even smile as I smell Mrs. Barker's swamp breath and hear her screech, “It's obvious to me that you have not been practicing! You're wasting your parents' money!” I don't care what she says. All I do is smile and think of my plan for the walk home.

At
4:30
I leave Mrs. Barker's house, but I'm not heading for home. I'm heading for a back alley behind Vernon Street. I've got some extra time because Mom won't be leaving work until at least
5:30
, and the class Dad teaches doesn't end until
6:00.
This should give me all the time I need.

The alley behind Vernon Street is famous for one very big, very loud, very dangerous reason. Along one side of the alley is a tall rickety wooden fence. Behind that fence lives a dog. A dog known as Spike McChomp.

Everyone knows Spike is nastier than nasty. Someone at school told me he was a bulldog-rottweiler-wolf cross with a bit of rhino and velociraptor thrown in. When Spike stands on his hind legs, you can see his great slobbering mouth full of bloodstained teeth. At least, that's what I've heard. I've never actually seen the dog or stood beside the tall rickety fence or even been down that back alley.

Until now.

Like most dogs, he loves to chew things. But instead of chewing on bones, he chews on scraps of metal like old washing machines and wrecked cars. He got his name from his favorite snack—six-inch-long iron spikes. They say the backyard where Spike McChomp lives is littered with chewed-up bits of iron spikes.

There's another thing they say about Spike McChomp. He's pretty much blind, so he sniffs around the backyard and tracks things down with his nose.

Sure, trick-or-treating at the Milburn house might have been a little scary. But at the Milburn house, there wasn't much chance of getting chewed to tiny bits by a vicious beast that has three different kinds of rabies and teeth that look like they were borrowed from a shark.

That's why sneaking into Spike McChomp's yard to steal one of his chewed up spikes is way, way, way more dangerous than anything I've ever done in my life. Mom and Dad would freak out if they knew I was even standing here in the back alley instead of walking straight home. But getting one of Spike's spikes for my Box of Shocks is something I
have
to do.

First I have to climb the fence. I jump up and grab the top, pull myself up and hook my knee over.

As I balance on the top of the fence, I look down into the yard. There he is! Over by the house! The one and only Spike McChomp! Every story I've heard about this dog is true. He's as big as I imagined—maybe even bigger. And he looks just as nasty, with mangy tufts of scruffy black fur, and bald patches crisscrossing his scarred body. One of his ears is missing, and his tail looks like it's been bitten or chopped off.

He's lying on his stomach, his legs sprawled out from his barrel-shaped body. His eyes are closed, his mouth is hanging open and drool dribbles out between teeth that look like saw blades.

On one side of the yard is a banged-up old washing machine and a twisted fender full of teeth marks. But I'm more interested in what's scattered around in the dirt— dozens of chewed up iron spikes. One of those bits of spike would fit perfectly in my Box of Shocks. The only problem is getting one out of the yard without being eaten alive by Spike McChomp.

I'm hoping that the stories about him being blind are true. Otherwise, taking one of his spikes will be impossible.

“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, as I swing my legs off the fence. Hanging by my hands from the top, I count to three and let go. As I drop to the ground, I know there is no turning back. I'm now officially in the backyard of the legendary Spike McChomp.

Right away, I look over at him. One of his legs is twitching, but he looks as if he's asleep. Sure, he might be blind, but no one ever said he was deaf. I figure the only way to cross the yard without being noticed is to move like a ninja. Not that I've ever moved like a ninja before, but if I'm ever going to learn, this would be a good time.

Looking around the dirt yard, I spot the closest piece of chewed-up spike. It's only about ten feet away. I begin to creep toward it, and with each step, I glance over at the snoozing Spike McChomp. I hope he's having a really good dream about chewing up a Porsche and won't want to wake up.

Step by step by step, I cross the yard until I finally reach the piece of chewed-up spike. Crouching down, I carefully pick it up. It's covered in slobber, and as I turn to creep back to the fence, the spike slips from my fingers.

That small chunk of iron hits the ground with a tiny thud. But a tiny thud is loud enough to wake Spike McChomp. He shoots straight up onto his feet and turns his ugly face right at me. I guess he's not blind, after all.

It's time to get out of Spike's yard before he turns me into dog food, but I'm not leaving without my piece of spike! In one quick motion, I scoop it off the ground, whirl around and sprint toward the fence.

Behind me, I hear a roaring sound like nothing I've ever heard before. Maybe this thing really is part velociraptor. I can hear his giant paws thumping across the dirt, getting closer by the second. Maybe he's also part cheetah.

I reach the fence and jump, grabbing for the top. If I slip and fall back down, I'll be Spike McChomp snack food—way more tender than a washing machine.