STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT 1 страница

STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT

Goosebumps - 02

R.L. Stine

(An Undead Scan v1.5)

“Hey, Dad—catch!”

Casey tossed the Frisbee across the smooth, green lawn. Casey’s dad made a face, squinting into the sun. The Frisbee hit the ground and skipped a few times before landing under the hedge at the back of the house.

“Not today. I’m busy,” Dr. Brewer said, and abruptly turned and loped into the house. The screen door slammed behind him.

Casey brushed his straight blond hair back off his forehead. “What’s his problem?” he called to Margaret, his sister, who had watched the whole scene from the side of the redwood garage.

“You know,” Margaret said quietly. She wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans and held them both up, inviting a toss. “I’ll play Frisbee with you for a little while,” she said.

“Okay,” Casey said without enthusiasm. He walked slowly over to retrieve the Frisbee from under the hedge.

Margaret moved closer. She felt sorry for Casey. He and their dad were really close, always playing ball or Frisbee or Nintendo together. But Dr. Brewer didn’t seem to have time for that anymore.

Jumping up to catch the Frisbee, Margaret realized she felt sorry for herself, too. Dad hadn’t been the same to her, either. In fact, he spent so much time down in the basement, he barely said a word to her.

He doesn’t even call me Princess anymore, Margaret thought. It was a nickname she hated. But at least it was a nickname, a sign of closeness.

She tossed the red Frisbee back. A bad toss. Casey chased after it, but it sailed away from him. Margaret looked up to the golden hills beyond their backyard.

California, she thought.

It’s so weird out here. Here it is, the middle of winter, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and Casey and I are out in jeans and T-shirts as if it were the middle of summer.

She made a diving catch for a wild toss, rolling over on the manicured lawn and raising the Frisbee above her head triumphantly.

“Show off,” Casey muttered, unimpressed.

“You’re the hot dog in the family,” Margaret called.

“Well, you’re a dork.”

“Hey, Casey—you want me to play with you or not?”

He shrugged.

Everyone was so edgy these days, Margaret realized.

It was easy to figure out why.

She made a high toss. The Frisbee sailed over Casey’s head. “You chase it!” he cried angrily, putting his hands on his hips.

“No, you!” she cried.

“You!”

“Casey—you’re eleven years old. Don’t act like a two-year-old,” she snapped.

“Well, you act like a one-year-old,” was his reply as he grudgingly went after the Frisbee.

It was all Dad’s fault, Margaret realized. Things had been so tense ever since he started working at home. Down in the basement with his plants and weird machines. He hardly ever came up for air.

And when he did, he wouldn’t even catch a Frisbee.

Or spend two minutes with either of them.

Mom had noticed it, too, Margaret thought, running full-out and making another grandstand catch just before colliding with the side of the garage.

Having Dad home has made Mom really tense, too. She pretends everything is fine. But I can tell she’s worried about him.

“Lucky catch, Fatso!” Casey called.

Margaret hated the name Fatso even more than she hated Princess. People in her family jokingly called her Fatso because she was so thin, like her father. She also was tall like him, but she had her mother’s straight brown hair, brown eyes, and dark coloring.

“Don’t call me that.” She heaved the red disc at him. He caught it at his knees and flipped it back to her.

They tossed it back and forth without saying much for another ten or fifteen minutes. “I’m getting hot,” Margaret said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun with her hand. “Let’s go in.”

Casey tossed the Frisbee against the garage wall. It dropped onto the grass. He came trotting over to her. “Dad always plays longer,” he said peevishly. “And he throws better. You throw like a girl.”

“Give me a break,” Margaret groaned, giving him a playful shove as she jogged to the back door. “You throw like a chimpanzee.”

“How come Dad got fired?” he asked.

She blinked. And stopped running. The question had caught her by surprise. “Huh?”

His pale, freckled face turned serious. “You know. I mean, why?” he asked, obviously uncomfortable.

She and Casey had never discussed this in the four weeks since Dad had been home. Which was unusual since they were pretty close, being only a year apart.

“I mean, we came all the way out here so he could work at PolyTech, right?” Casey asked.

“Yeah. Well… he got fired,” Margaret said, half-whispering in case her dad might be able to hear.

“But why? Did he blow up the lab or something?” Casey grinned. The idea of his dad blowing up a huge campus science lab appealed to him.

“No, he didn’t blow anything up,” Margaret said, tugging at a strand of dark hair. “Botanists work with plants, you know. They don’t get much of a chance to blow things up.”

They both laughed.

Casey followed her into the narrow strip of shade cast by the low ranch-style house.

“I’m not sure exactly what happened,” Margaret continued, still half-whispering. “But I overheard Dad on the phone. I think he was talking to Mr. Martinez. His department head. Remember? The quiet little man who came to dinner that night the barbecue grill caught fire?”

Casey nodded. “Martinez fired Dad?”

“Probably,” Margaret whispered. “From what I overheard, it had something to do with the plants Dad was growing, some experiments that had gone wrong or something.”

“But Dad’s real smart,” Casey insisted, as if Margaret were arguing with him. “If his experiments went wrong, he’d know how to fix them.”

Margaret shrugged. “That’s all I know,” she said. “Come on, Casey. Let’s go inside. I’m dying of thirst!” She stuck her tongue out and moaned, demonstrating her dire need of liquid.

“You’re gross,” Casey said. He pulled open the screen door, then dodged in front of her so he could get inside first.

“Who’s gross?” Mrs. Brewer asked from the sink. She turned to greet the two of them. “Don’t answer that.”

Mom looks very tired today, Margaret thought, noticing the crisscross of fine lines at the corners of her mother’s eyes and the first strands of gray in her mother’s shoulder-length brown hair. “I hate this job,” Mrs. Brewer said, turning back to the sink.

“What are you doing?” Casey asked, pulling open the refrigerator and removing a box of juice.

“I’m deveining shrimp.”

“Yuck!” Margaret exclaimed.

“Thanks for the support,” Mrs. Brewer said dryly. The phone rang. Wiping her shrimpy hands with a dish towel, she hurried across the room to pick up the phone.

Margaret got a box of juice from the fridge, popped the straw into the top, and followed Casey into the front hallway. The basement door, usually shut tight when Dr. Brewer was working down there, was slightly ajar.

Casey started to close it, then stopped. “Let’s go down and see what Dad is doing,” he suggested.

Margaret sucked the last drops of juice through the straw and squeezed the empty box flat in her hand. “Okay.”

She knew they probably shouldn’t disturb their father, but her curiosity got the better of her. He had been working down there for four weeks now. All kinds of interesting equipment, lights, and plants had been delivered. Most days he spent at least eight or nine hours down there, doing whatever it was he was doing. And he hadn’t shown it to them once.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” Margaret said. It was their house, too, after all.

Besides, maybe their dad was just waiting for them to show some interest. Maybe he was hurt that they hadn’t bothered to come downstairs in all this time.

She pulled the door open the rest of the way, and they stepped onto the narrow stairway. “Hey, Dad—” Casey called excitedly. “Dad—can we see?”

They were halfway down when their father appeared at the foot of the stairs. He glared up at them angrily, his skin strangely green under the fluorescent light fixture. He was holding his right hand, drops of red blood falling onto his white lab coat.

“Stay out of the basement!” he bellowed, in a voice they’d never heard before.

Both kids shrank back, surprised to hear their father scream like that. He was usually so mild and soft-spoken.

“Stay out of the basement,” he repeated, holding his bleeding hand. “Don’t ever come down here—I’m warning you.”

“Okay. All packed,” Mrs. Brewer said, dropping her suitcases with a thud in the front hallway. She poked her head into the living room where the TV was blaring. “Do you think you could stop the movie for one minute to say good-bye to your mother?”

Casey pushed a button on the remote control, and the screen went blank. He and Margaret obediently walked to the hallway to give their mother hugs.

Margaret’s friend, Diane Manning, who lived just around the corner, followed them into the hallway. “How long are you going to be gone, Mrs. Brewer?” she asked, her eyes on the two bulging suitcases.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Brewer replied fretfully. “My sister went into the hospital in Tucson this morning. I guess I’ll have to stay until she’s able to go home.”

“Well, I’ll be glad to baby-sit for Casey and Margaret while you’re away,” Diane joked.

“Give me a break,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. “I’m older than you are, Diane.”

“And I’m smarter than both of you,” Casey added with typical modesty.

“I’m not worried about you kids,” Mrs. Brewer said, glancing nervously at her watch. “I’m worried about your father.”

“Don’t worry,” Margaret told her seriously. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“Just make sure that he eats something once in a while,” Mrs. Brewer said. “He’s so obsessed with his work, he doesn’t remember to eat unless you tell him.”

It’s going to be really lonely around here without Mom, Margaret thought. Dad hardly ever comes up from the basement.

It had been two weeks since he yelled at Casey and her to stay out of the basement. They had been tiptoeing around ever since, afraid to get him angry again. But in the past two weeks, he had barely spoken to them, except for the occasional “good morning” and “good night.”

“Don’t worry about anything, Mom,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just take good care of Aunt Eleanor.”

“I’ll call as soon as I get to Tucson,” Mrs. Brewer said, nervously lowering her eyes to her watch again. She took three long strides to the basement door, then shouted down, “Michael—time to take me to the airport!”

After a long wait, Dr. Brewer called up a reply. Then Mrs. Brewer turned back to the kids. “Think he’ll even notice I’m gone?” she asked in a loud whisper. She meant it to be a light remark, but her eyes revealed some sadness.

A few seconds later, they heard footsteps on the basement stairs, and their dad appeared. He pulled off his stained lab coat, revealing tan slacks and a bright yellow T-shirt, and tossed the lab coat onto the banister. Even though it was two weeks later, his right hand, the hand that had been bleeding, was still heavily bandaged.

“Ready?” he asked his wife.

Mrs. Brewer sighed. “I guess.” She gave Margaret and Casey a helpless look, then moved quickly to give them each one last hug.

“Let’s go, then,” Dr. Brewer said impatiently. He picked up the two bags and groaned. “Wow. How long are you planning to stay? A year?” Then he headed out the front door with them, not waiting for an answer.

“Bye, Mrs. Brewer,” Diane said, waving. “Have a good trip.”

“How can she have a good trip?” Casey asked sharply. “Her sister’s in the hospital.”

“You know what I mean,” Diane replied, tossing back her long red hair and rolling her eyes.

They watched the station wagon roll down the driveway, then returned to the living room. Casey picked up the remote control and started the movie.

Diane sprawled on the couch and picked up the bag of potato chips she’d been eating.

“Who picked this movie?” Diane asked, crinkling the foil bag noisily.

“I did,” Casey said. “It’s neat.” He had pulled a couch cushion down to the living room carpet and was lying on it.

Margaret was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the base of an armchair, still thinking about her mother and her aunt Eleanor. “It’s neat if you like to see a lot of people blown up and their guts flying all over,” she said, making a face for Diane’s benefit.

“Yeah. It’s neat,” Casey said, not taking his eyes off the glowing TV screen.

“I’ve got so much homework. I don’t know why I’m sitting here,” Diane said, reaching her hand into the potato chip bag.

“Me, too,” Margaret sighed. “I guess I’ll do it after dinner. Do you have the math assignment? I think I left my math book at school.”

“Sshhh!” Casey hissed, kicking a sneakered foot in Margaret’s direction. “This is a good part.”

“You’ve seen this tape before?” Diane shrieked.

“Twice,” Casey admitted. He ducked, and the sofa pillow Diane threw sailed over his head.

“It’s a pretty afternoon,” Margaret said, stretching her arms above her head. “Maybe we should go outside. You know. Ride bikes or something.”

“You think you’re still back in Michigan? It’s always a pretty afternoon here,” Diane said, chewing loudly. “I don’t even notice it anymore.”

“Maybe we should do the math assignment together,” Margaret suggested hopefully. Diane was much better in math than she was.

Diane shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.” She crinkled up the bag and set it on the floor. “Your dad looked kind of nervous, you know?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Just nervous,” Diane said. “How’s he doing?”

“Sshhh,” Casey insisted, picking up the potato chip bag and tossing it at Diane.

“You know. Being laid off and all.”

“I guess he’s okay,” Margaret said wistfully. “I don’t know, really. He spends all his time down in the basement with his experiments.”

“Experiments? Hey—let’s go take a look.” Tossing her hair back behind her shoulders, Diane jumped up from the chrome and white leather couch.

Diane was a science freak. Math and science. The two subjects Margaret hated.

She should have been in the Brewer family, Margaret thought with a trace of bitterness. Maybe Dad would pay some attention to her since she’s into the same things he is.

“Come on—” Diane urged, bending over to pull Margaret up from the floor. “He’s a botanist, right? What’s he doing down there?”

“It’s complicated,” Margaret said, shouting over the explosions and gunfire on the TV. “He tried to explain it to me once. But—” Margaret allowed Diane to pull her to her feet.

“Shut up!” Casey yelled, staring at the movie, the colors from the TV screen reflecting over his clothes.

“Is he building a Frankenstein monster or something?” Diane demanded. “Or some kind of RoboCop? Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“Shut up!” Casey repeated shrilly as Arnold Schwarzenegger bounded across the screen.

“He’s got all these machines and plants down there,” Margaret said uncomfortably. “But he doesn’t want us to go down there.”

“Huh? It’s like top secret?” Diane’s emerald green eyes lit up with excitement. “Come on. We’ll just take a peek.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Margaret told her. She couldn’t forget the angry look on her father’s face two weeks before when she and Casey had tried to pay a visit. Or the way he had screamed at them never to come down to the basement.

“Come on. I dare you,” Diane challenged. “Are you chicken?”

“I’m not afraid,” Margaret insisted shrilly. Diane was always daring her to do things she didn’t want to do. Why is it so important for Diane to think she’s so much braver than everyone else? Margaret wondered.

“Chicken,” Diane repeated. Tossing her mane of red hair behind her shoulder, she strode quickly toward the basement door.

“Diane—stop!” Margaret cried, following after her.

“Hey, wait!” Casey cried, clicking off the movie. “Are we going downstairs? Wait for me!” He climbed quickly to his feet and enthusiastically hurried to join them at the basement door.

“We can’t—” Margaret started, but Diane clamped a hand over her mouth.

“We’ll take a quick peek,” Diane insisted. “We’ll just look. We won’t touch anything. And then we’ll come right back upstairs.”

“Okay. I’ll go first,” Casey said, grabbing for the doorknob.

“Why do you want to do this?” Margaret asked her friend. “Why are you so eager to go down there?”

Diane shrugged. “It beats doing our math,” she replied, grinning.

Margaret sighed, defeated. “Okay, let’s go. But remember—just looking, no touching.”

Casey pulled open the door and led the way onto the stairway. Stepping onto the landing, they were immediately engulfed in hot, steamy air. They could hear the buzz and hum of electronic machinery. And off to the right, they could see the glare of the bright white lights from Dr. Brewer’s workroom.

This is kind of fun, Margaret thought as the three of them made their way down the linoleum-covered stairway.

It’s an adventure.

There’s no harm in taking a peek.

So why was her heart pounding? Why did she have this sudden tingle of fear?

“Yuck! It’s so hot in here!”

As they stepped away from the stairs, the air became unbearably hot and thick.

Margaret gasped. The sudden change in temperature was suffocating.

“It’s so moist,” Diane said. “Good for your hair and skin.”

“We studied the rain forest in school,” Casey said. “Maybe Dad’s building a rain forest.”

“Maybe,” Margaret said uncertainly.

Why did she feel so strange? Was it just because they were invading their father’s domain? Doing something he had told them not to do?

She held back, gazing in both directions. The basement was divided into two large, rectangular rooms. To the left, an unfinished rec room stood in darkness. She could barely make out the outlines of the Ping-Pong table in the center of the room.

The workroom to the right was brightly lit, so bright they had to blink and wait for their eyes to adjust. Beams of white light poured down from large halogen lamps on tracks in the ceiling.

“Wow! Look!” Casey cried, his eyes wide as he stepped excitedly toward the light.

Reaching up toward the lights were shiny, tall plants, dozens of them, thick-stalked and broad-leafed, planted close together in an enormous, low trough of dark soil.

“It’s like a jungle!” Margaret exclaimed, following Casey into the white glare.

The plants, in fact, resembled jungle plants—leafy vines and tall, treelike plants with long, slender tendrils, fragile-looking ferns, plants with gnarled, cream-colored roots poking up like bony knees from the soil.

“It’s like a swamp or something,” Diane said. “Did your father really grow these things in just five or six weeks?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure,” Margaret replied, staring at the enormous red tomatoes on a slender, yellow stalk.

“Ooh. Feel this one,” Diane said.

Margaret glanced over to find her friend rubbing her hand over a large, flat leaf the shape of a teardrop. “Diane—we shouldn’t touch—”

“I know, I know,” Diane said, not letting go of the leaf. “But just rub your hand on it.”

Margaret reluctantly obeyed. “It doesn’t feel like a leaf,” she said as Diane moved over to examine a large fern. “It’s so smooth. Like glass.”

The three of them stood under the bright, white lights, examining the plants for several minutes, touching the thick stalks, running their hands over the smooth, warm leaves, surprised by the enormous size of the fruits some of the plants had produced.

“It’s too hot down here,” Casey complained. He pulled his T-shirt off over his head and dropped it onto the floor.

“What a bod!” Diane teased him.

He stuck out his tongue at her. Then his pale blue eyes grew wide and he seemed to freeze in surprise. “Hey!”

“Casey—what’s the matter?” Margaret asked, hurrying over to him.

“This one—” He pointed to a tall, treelike plant. “It’s breathing!”

Diane laughed.

But Margaret heard it, too. She grabbed Casey’s bare shoulder and listened. Yes. She could hear breathing sounds, and they seemed to be coming from the tall, leafy tree.

“What’s your problem?” Diane asked, seeing the amazed expressions on Casey’s and Margaret’s faces.

“Casey’s right,” Margaret said softly, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound. “You can hear it breathing.”

Diane rolled her eyes. “Maybe it has a cold. Maybe its vine is stuffed up.” She laughed at her own joke, but her two companions didn’t join in. “I don’t hear it.” She moved closer.

All three of them listened.

Silence.

“It—stopped,” Margaret said.

“Stop it, you two,” Diane scolded. “You’re not going to scare me.”

“No. Really,” Margaret protested.

“Hey—look at this!” Casey had already moved on to something else. He was standing in front of a tall glass case that stood on the other side of the plants. It looked a little like a phone booth, with a shelf inside about shoulder-high, and dozens of wires attached to the back and sides.

Margaret’s eyes followed the wires to a similar glass booth a few feet away. Some kind of electrical generator stood between the two booths and appeared to be connected to both of them.

“What could that be?” Diane asked, hurrying over to Casey.

“Don’t touch it,” Margaret warned, giving the breathing plant one final glance, then joining the others.

But Casey reached out to the glass door on the front of the booth. “I just want to see if this opens,” he said.

He grabbed the glass—and his eyes went wide with shock.

His entire body began to shake and vibrate. His head jerked wildly from side to side. His eyes rolled up in his head.

“Oh, help!” he managed to cry, his body vibrating and shaking harder and faster. “Help me! I—can’t stop!”

“Help me!”

Casey’s whole body shook as if an electrical current were charging through him. His head jerked on his shoulders, and his eyes looked wild and dazed.

“Please!”

Margaret and Diane stared in open-mouthed horror. Margaret was the first to move. She lunged at Casey, and reached out to try to pull him away from the glass.

“Margaret—don’t!” Diane screamed. “Don’t touch him!”

“But we have to do something!” Margaret cried.

It took both girls a while to realize that Casey had stopped shaking. And was laughing.

“Casey?” Margaret asked, staring at him, her terrified expression fading to astonishment.

He was leaning against the glass, his body still now, his mouth wrapped in a broad, mischievous grin.

“Gotcha!” he declared. And then began to laugh even harder, pointing at them and repeating the phrase through his triumphant laughter. “Gotcha! Gotcha!”

“That wasn’t funny!” Margaret screamed.

“You were faking it?! I don’t believe it!” Diane cried, her face as pale as the white lights above them, her lower lip trembling.

Both girls leapt onto Casey and pushed him to the floor. Margaret sat on top of him while Diane held his shoulders down.

“Gotcha! Gotcha!” he continued, stopping only when Margaret tickled his stomach so hard he couldn’t talk.

“You rat!” Diane cried. “You little rat!”

The free-for-all was brought to a sudden halt by a low moan from across the room. All three kids raised their heads and stared in the direction of the sound.

The large basement was silent now except for their heavy breathing.

“What was that?” Diane whispered.

They listened.

Another low moan, a mournful sound, muffled, like air through a saxophone.

The tendrils of a treelike plant suddenly drooped, like snakes lowering themselves to the ground.

Another low, sad moan.

“It’s—the plants!” Casey said, his expression frightened now. He pushed his sister off him and climbed to his feet, brushing back his disheveled blond hair as he stood up.

“Plants don’t cry and moan,” Diane said, her eyes on the vast trough of plants that filled the room.

“These do,” Margaret said.

Tendrils moved, like human arms shifting their position. They could hear breathing again, slow, steady breathing. Then a sigh, like air escaping.

“Let’s get out of here,” Casey said, edging toward the stairs.

“It’s definitely creepy down here,” Diane said, following him, her eyes remaining on the shifting, moaning plants.

“I’m sure Dad could explain it,” Margaret said. Her words were calm, but her voice trembled, and she was backing out of the room, following Diane and Casey.

“Your dad is weird,” Diane said, reaching the doorway.

“No, he isn’t,” Casey quickly insisted. “He’s doing important work here.”

A tall treelike plant sighed and appeared to bend toward them, raising its tendrils as if beckoning to them, calling them back.

“Let’s just get out of here!” Margaret exclaimed.

All three of them were out of breath by the time they ran up the stairs. Casey closed the door tightly, making sure it clicked shut.

“Weird,” Diane repeated, playing nervously with a strand of her long red hair. “Definitely weird.” It was her word of the day. But Margaret had to admit it was appropriate.

“Well, Dad warned us not to go down there,” Margaret said, struggling to catch her breath. “I guess he knew it would look scary to us, and we wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m getting out of here,” Diane said, only half-kidding. She stepped out of the screen door and turned back toward them. “Want to go over the math later?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Margaret said, still thinking about the moaning, shifting plants. Some of them had seemed to be reaching out to them, crying out to them. But of course that was impossible.

“Later,” Diane said, and headed at a trot down the drive.

Just as she disappeared, their father’s dark blue station wagon turned the corner and started up the drive. “Back from the airport,” Margaret said. She turned from the door back to Casey a few yards behind her in the hallway. “Is the basement door closed?”

“Yeah,” Casey replied, looking again to make sure. “No way Dad will know we—”

He stopped. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

His face went pale.

“My T-shirt!” Casey exclaimed, slapping his bare chest. “I left it in the basement!”

“I’ve got to get it,” Casey said. “Otherwise Dad’ll know—”

“It’s too late,” Margaret interrupted, her eyes on the driveway. “He’s already pulled up the drive.”

“It’ll only take a second,” Casey insisted, his hand on the basement doorknob. “I’ll run down and run right up.”

“No!” Margaret stood tensely in the center of the narrow hallway, halfway between the front door and the basement door, her eyes toward the front. “He’s parked. He’s getting out of the car.”

“But he’ll know! He’ll know!” Casey cried, his voice high and whiny.

“So?”

“Remember how mad he got last time?” Casey asked.

“Of course I remember,” Margaret replied. “But he’s not going to kill us, Casey, just because we took a peek at his plants. He’s—”

Margaret stopped. She moved closer to the screen door. “Hey, wait.”

“What’s going on?” Casey asked.

“Hurry!” Margaret turned and gestured with both hands. “Go! Get downstairs—fast! Mr. Henry from next door. He stopped Dad. They’re talking about something in the drive.”

With a loud cry, Casey flung open the basement door and disappeared. Margaret heard him clumping rapidly down the stairs. Then she heard his footsteps fade as he hurried into their father’s workroom.

Hurry, Casey, she thought, standing guard at the front door, watching her father shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand as he talked with Mr. Henry.

Hurry.

You know Dad never talks for long with the neighbors.

Mr. Henry seemed to be doing all the talking. Probably asking Dad some kind of favor, Margaret thought. Mr. Henry wasn’t handy at all, not like Dr. Brewer. And so he was always asking Margaret’s dad to come over and help repair or install things.

Her father was nodding now, a tight smile on his face.

Hurry, Casey.

Get back up here. Where are you?

Still shielding his eyes, Dr. Brewer gave Mr. Henry a quick wave. Then both men spun around and began walking quickly toward their houses.

Hurry, Casey.

Casey—he’s coming! Hurry! Margaret urged silently.

It doesn’t take this long to pick your T-shirt up from the floor and run up the stairs.

It shouldn’t take this long.

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