Goosebumps: The Blob That Ate Everyone (3 page)

Dad climbed up from the couch and hurried over to help me. “Wow. It weighs a
ton,” he said. “How did you ever carry it home?”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad,” I lied.

We carried it to my room and set it down on my desk. I wanted to try it out
right away. But Dad insisted that I return to the living room.

I told them the whole story. About lightning hitting the store. About going
in to explore. About Mrs. Carter and how she gave me the typewriter.

I left out the part about the bad electrical shock that knocked me to the
floor.

My parents are the kind of people who get upset very easily. I mean, they
start yelling and screaming over crossword puzzles!

So I never tell them much. I mean, why ruin their day—or mine?

“Why do you need an old typewriter?” Mom asked, frowning at me. “No one uses
typewriters anymore. You only see them in antique shops.”

“I want to write my scary stories on it,” I explained.

“What about your new computer?” Dad demanded. “What about the laser printer
we gave you?”

“I’ll use that too,” I said. “You know. For school-work and stuff like that.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Next Zackie will be writing with a feather quill and an
inkwell,” she said.

They both laughed.

“Very funny,” I muttered. I said good-night and hurried down the hall to my
room.

I turned the corner that led to my bedroom—and stopped.

What was that strange crackling sound?

It seemed to be coming from my room. A steady, crackling buzz.

“Weird,” I muttered.

I stepped into the doorway, peered into my room—and gasped!

“My typewriter!” I cried.

The typewriter was bathed in a bright blue glow. Blue sparks buzzed and
crackled off and flew in all directions.

I stared in amazement as the blue current snapped and hummed over the
typewriter.

I thought about the shock that had knocked me to the floor in the antique
shop. Had the typewriter stored up some of that electricity?

No. That was impossible.

But then why was the typewriter glowing under a crackling, blue current now?

“Mom! Dad!” I called. “Come here! You have to see this!”

They didn’t reply.

I hurtled down the hall to the living room. “Quick! Come quick!” I shouted.
“You won’t believe this!”

They had returned to their crossword puzzle. Dad glanced up as I burst into
the room. “How do you spell ‘peregrine’?” he asked. “It’s a kind of falcon.”

“Who cares?” I cried. “My typewriter—it’s going to blow up or something!”

That
got them off the couch.

I led the way, running full speed down the hall. They followed close behind.

I stopped at my doorway and pointed to my desk. “Look—!” I cried.

All three of us peered across the room.

At the typewriter. The black metal typewriter with its black roller and rows
of black keys ringed with silver.

No blue.

No blue electrical current. No sparks. No crackle or buzz.

Just an old typewriter sitting on a desk.

“Funny joke,” Dad muttered, rolling his eyes at me.

Mom shook her head. “I don’t know where Zackie gets his sense of humor. Not
from
my
side of the family.”

“Your side of the family doesn’t need a sense of humor. They’re
already
a joke!” Dad snapped.

They walked off arguing.

I edged slowly, carefully, into my room. I crept up to the typewriter.

I reached out a hand. I lowered it toward the typewriter.

Lowered it until it was less than an inch away.

Then I stopped.

My hand started to shake.

I stared down at the solid, dark machine.

Should I touch it?

Would it shock me again?

Slowly… slowly, I lowered my hand.

Alex slammed her locker shut. She adjusted her backpack and turned to me. “So
what happened? Did the typewriter zap you?”

It was the next morning. Spring vacation was over. School had started again.

I had hurried down the hall to our lockers to tell Alex the whole typewriter
story. I knew she was the only person in the world who would believe me.

“No. It didn’t zap me,” I told her. “I touched it, and nothing happened. I
pushed down some of the keys. I turned the roller. Nothing happened.”

Alex stared hard at me. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“That isn’t a very good story,” she teased. “It has a very weak ending.”

I laughed. “Do you think it would be a better ending if I got fried?”

“Much better,” she replied.

It was late. The first bell had already rung. The hall was nearly empty.

“I’m going to rewrite the Blob Monster story,” I told her. “I have a lot of
new ideas. I can’t wait to start working on it.”

She turned to me. “On the old typewriter?”

I nodded. “I’m going to make the story longer—and scarier. That old
typewriter is so weird. I
know
it’s going to help me write scarier than
ever!” I exclaimed.

I heard giggling.

I spun around and saw Emmy and Annie Bell. They’re twins, and they’re in our
class. Adam came trailing after them. He punched me in the shoulder—so hard, I
bounced against the lockers.

Emmy and Annie are good friends with Adam. But not with Alex and me.

They both have curly red hair, lots of freckles, and lots of dimples. The
only way to tell Emmy from Annie is to ask, “Which one are you?”

Emmy grinned at me. I mean, I
think
it was Emmy. “Do you really
believe in monsters?” she asked.

They both giggled again, as if Emmy had asked something really funny.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But I wasn’t talking about real monsters. I was talking
about a scary story I’m writing.”

And then I added nastily, “You two wouldn’t understand—since you haven’t learned to write yet!”

“Ha-ha,” they both said sarcastically. “You’re so funny, Zackie.”

“Funny-looking!” Adam added. The oldest joke in the universe.

“But
do
you believe in monsters?” Emmy insisted.

“Adam says you do,” her sister added. “Adam says you think a monster lives
under your bed!”

“I do not!” I screamed.

They both giggled.

“Adam is a liar!” I cried. I tried to grab him, but he dodged away from me,
laughing his head off.

“Zackie sees monsters everywhere,” Adam teased, grinning at Emmy and Annie.
“He thinks when he opens his locker door, a monster will jump out at him.”

They giggled again.

“Give me a break,” I muttered. “We’re going to be late.”

I turned away from their grinning faces. I turned the lock on my locker and
pulled open the door.

Then I knelt down to pull out my books.

And something leaped out of my locker!

I saw a white flash.

“Huh?” I cried out in surprise.

Another one jumped out.

And then I gasped when something plopped onto my head. Something
alive!

I fell to my knees. Reached up to grab for it. I felt its claws tangle in my
hair. “Help!” I cried. “Help me!”

The creature moved across my head.

And dropped down the back of my shirt!

Its hot body slid down my skin. Its claws prickled and pinched.

“Help me! Help!” I jumped up, kicking and stomping and squirming.

I frantically slapped at my back.

Adam stepped up to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders. Then he tugged open
the back of my shirt.

And plucked the creature off my back.

He held his hand in front of my face. “Wow! What a monster!” he exclaimed.
“That’s
scaaaaaary
!”

Still trembling, I stared at the creature.

A white mouse.

A little white mouse.

Emmy and Annie were doubled over beside Adam, laughing their heads off.

Even Alex was laughing. Great friend, huh?

“Zackie, I guess you really
do
see monsters everywhere!” Annie exclaimed. “Even teeny white ones!”

That got them all laughing again.

“Did you see that awesome dance he did?” Adam asked. Adam did an imitation of
my frantic dance. He slapped at his head and neck and stomped wildly on the
floor.

“Excellent!” Emmy and Annie declared together.

They all laughed again.

Alex stopped laughing and stepped up beside me. She brushed something off my
shoulder.

“Mouse hair,” she murmured.

Then she turned to the others. “We should give Zackie a break,” she told
them. “Someday he’s going to be a famous horror writer.”

“Someday he’s going to be a famous
chicken
!” Annie exclaimed.

Emmy made clucking sounds and flapped her elbows.

“Do you believe it? The famous horror writer is afraid of mice!” Adam cried.

Emmy and Annie thought that was really funny. Their red hair bobbed up and
down as they laughed.

Emmy glanced at her watch—and gasped. “We’re really late!”

She and her sister spun around and ran down the hall. Adam put the mouse in
his pocket and went tearing after them.

I knelt down to pull my books from the bottom of my locker. I reached in
carefully. I had to make sure there were no more mice.

Alex stood over me. “You okay?” she asked softly.

“Go away,” I snapped.

“What did
I
do?” Alex demanded.

“Just go away,” I muttered.

I didn’t want her around. I didn’t want anyone around.

I felt like a total jerk.

Why did I let little mice scare me like that? Why did I have to freak out in
front of everyone?

Because I’m a total jerk, I decided.

I shoved books and a Trapper Keeper into my backpack. Then I stood up and
started to close my locker.

Alex leaned against the wall. “I told you to go away,” I snapped at her
again.

She started to reply, but stopped when Mr. Conklin, the principal, turned the
corner.

Mr. Conklin is a tall, pencil-thin man, with a narrow, red face and big ears
that stick out like jug handles. He talks really fast. Always runs instead of
walking. And always seems to be moving in eight directions at once.

He eyed Alex, then me. “Who let the mice out of the science lab?” he demanded
breathlessly.

“Th-they were in Zackie’s locker—” Alex started.

Before she could explain the rest, Mr. Conklin narrowed his eyes at me. His
face grew even redder.

“Zackie, I’d like to see you in my office,” he ordered. “Right now.”

I didn’t say much at dinner.

I kept wondering if I should tell Mom and Dad about my adventures at school
that day. But I decided to keep silent.

I didn’t need them laughing at me too.

And I didn’t need them asking a million questions about what Mr. Conklin said
to me.

He had been pretty nice about it, actually. He just warned me to try to keep
live creatures out of my locker.

After dinner, Dad and I loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up. I was sponging
off the dinner table when Alex appeared. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Did Mr.
Conklin—”

I slapped a hand over her mouth to shut her up.

I could see Mom and Dad watching from the other room. “What about Mr.
Conklin?” Mom demanded.

“He’s a nice guy,” I replied.

I dragged Alex to the den. “So? How’s it going?” she repeated.

“How’s it going?” I cried shrilly. “How’s it going? How can you ask me ‘how’s
it going’?”

“Well…” she started.

“It’s going
terrible
!” I cried. “I had the
worst
day! Kids were
laughing at me all day. Everywhere I went, kids made mouse faces at me and
squeaked at me.”

She started to smile, but cut it off.

“I don’t know why I lost it like that this morning,” I continued. “I felt so
dumb. I—”

“It was just a joke,” Alex interrupted. “No big deal.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You didn’t have a hundred disgusting
rodents crawling all over your body.”

“A hundred?” Alex said. “How about
one
?”

“It seemed like a hundred,” I mumbled. I decided to change the subject. “Look
at this,” I said.

I walked over to the desk by the window. After school, I had worked there for
three hours. I picked up a stack of pages.

“What are those?” Alex asked, following me to the desk.

“My new Blob Monster story,” I replied, holding up the handwritten pages.
“I’m making it even scarier.”

Alex took the pages from my hand and shuffled through them. Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “You didn’t type them on the
old typewriter?”

“Of course not.” I took the pages back. “I always write the first draft by
hand. I don’t type my stories until I’ve got them just right.”

I picked up the pen from the desk. “I used the antique pen that woman gave me
in the shop,” I told Alex. “What a great pen. It writes so smoothly. I can’t
believe she gave it to me for free!”

Alex laughed. “You’re such a weird guy, Zackie. You get so excited about
things like pens and typewriters.” And then she added, “I think that’s cool.”

I glanced over my story. “Now it’s time to type it,” I said. “I’m so excited.
I can’t wait to use the old typewriter.”

I led the way into my room. I was halfway to my desk when I stopped.

And let out a startled cry.

The typewriter was gone.

Alex and I both gaped at the empty spot on the front of my desktop. Alex
pushed up her glasses and squinted.

“It—it’s gone,” I murmured weakly. My knees started to buckle. I grabbed my
dresser to hold myself up.

“Weird,” Alex muttered, shaking her head. “Are you sure—”

“It just disappeared into thin air!” I interrupted. “I don’t
believe
this! How? How could it disappear?”