Family-Friendly Halloween Horror Stories Vol. 1: Werewolves, Zombies, Elemental Magic & Cursed Music

Compilation transcript, edited from an automatic transcription. Minor transcription errors may remain; not checked word for word against the audio. Advertising and the separate opening and closing promotions omitted. Original story introductions and transitions may be retained.

Eh, Real Monsters from NEPA by Michelle Adler I don't know about the new kid. Don't you think he's a little weird? Tom McCullough whispered, leaning slightly over his desk to get closer to his friend. A little weird? Come on, he's a freak! Jacob nodded. They both snickered. In front of them sat Patrick Marshall Sherwood III. The aforementioned new kid. His incredibly formal sounding name wasn't really befitting his posture. Hunched over, staring at his desk and wincing at their laughter.

His dyed black shoulder length hair, eyeliner, and all black wardrobe should have succeeded in making him look dangerous. But in reality, it just made him look tired and pale. I have to admit, I felt bad for the kid. The rumor around school was that his dad had been killed by a pack of feral dogs while he and Patrick were camping somewhere in the mountains of Georgia. Patrick had somehow escaped meeting his end there, but he hadn't gotten away easily.

His face and arms were covered in a multitude of deep, gnarly scars from the event. A permanent reminder that he, and only he, had survived something truly horrible. And not by much. To be fair, he'd have been an ugly kid even without the scars. He was just a little too lanky and awkward for me to believe he'd ever been cool. Life ain't really fair, I guess. I didn't know how much, if any, of the story was just dumb rumors.

I wasn't even sure if Georgia had mountains, but if it was true, he'd pick just about the worst town to move to if he and his mom were trying to escape their tragic past. Our town, located in a quiet corner of northeastern Pennsylvania, was mostly rural, encompassing part of the valley and a lot of the surrounding woods. That might sound fine, though maybe boring on paper, but incidents involving feral dogs had always been common here.

Usually it was just pets and small animals that went missing, but lately some cows had been found halfway eaten dotting the nearby farms. So more people were on edge than usual. Not really a vacation from their grief is what I mean. So, back to the story. Those chuckleheads kept up with their insults for a while, calling him every name they could think of. Poking him, sticking gum on his back, you name it.

You'd probably have thought that our English teacher, Mrs. Alder, just kept blathering on about Shakespeare during all this. I wish she'd take notice. But she was so hard of hearing that I wasn't sure she could even hear what she was saying half the time. She was so old and fragile looking that I often wondered if she'd escaped a nursing home every morning just to come and teach us. It wasn't fair, though.

I sat directly behind Tom in the last row of desks against the window like a true delinquent I was. Bouncing my leg, waiting for, I don't know, a sign that I should jump in. I'm not proud of the fact that it took Patrick brushing teardrops off his desk for me to do something. I reached forward and punched the back of Tom's chair hard enough to get everyone, including our teacher's, attention. Stop making fun of him or the next thing I punch will be your face, I shouted.

I saw Tom and Jacob flinch from behind. Marisa, Mrs. Alder spat, sternly, miraculously cured of her partial deafness for a moment. How many outbursts do we really need to have this week? But they were... I tried. No one will be picking on poor Patrick in my classroom. It's not his fault he's covered with horrible scars, she continued. I watched Patrick cringe, and the whole class began to giggle. There I go again, making matters worse.

I left school late that day, long after the buses and carpools had gone. Basically, my normal routine. Gotta make sure I don't run into any trouble. You see, like our scarred-up sad boy, I, too, was the subject of the other kid's hatred. But unlike him, I actually knew how to stand up for myself, and I could hold my own in a fight. Still, I didn't like to start trouble. I just relished in it when it came calling.

But even if I won, bites and scratches do hurt, after all. So it was better to avoid the rest of the student body when we were unsupervised. Especially in the middle of the afternoon. In broad daylight. Who needs that kind of attention? However, on this particular day, waiting until my usual time, 4pm, to leave wasn't enough. I pushed open the side entrance, and there was Patrick. He sat on the curb, his posture the same as earlier.

The cool autumn breeze blowing his hair over his face. I held my breath, trying to be comically quiet and sneak away before he noticed. I just wanted to get home and not do my homework. Until again, I realized he was crying. I sighed and plopped myself down next to him. Waiting for your folks to pick you up? Oh right, I forgot. What? Dead dad. Your mom running late? I corrected myself. I don't think she's coming, he said softly.

Continuing to focus on the puddle of tears collecting on the asphalt. I realized this was the first time I'd heard him speak. She's been different since... I can tell she doesn't like to look at me. Sometimes I think she forgets me on purpose. I would just try to walk back, but... I don't know how to get home from here. I can't even look it up because a couple of kids from class pushed me and...

My phone broke my fall. You just gonna sit here all night then? I was hoping to. I like the dark. I honestly couldn't tell if that line was supposed to be sarcastic. Come on, tell me where you live. I'll walk you home. I offered as I stood up and brushed myself off. You're not going to trick me and leave me halfway and steal my wallet, right? He asked expectantly. Well, geez, not anymore I'm not.

Patrick let out a little chuckle. Okay, maybe we could make this work. I'm Marisa, I said, helping him up. And I promise I won't hurt you. Us freaks gotta stick together. As it turned out, Patrick only lived one block over from me in the cute little Cape Cod that old Mr. Patel owned before he got sick and had to move in with his kids. It was great because I didn't really have to go out of my way, but...

Also a little sad because I only live six blocks from the school. He was crying over a ten minute walk. I agreed to help him find his way back to school the next morning and walk home with him again the following afternoon. Like I said, freaks need to stick together. So, is it true about what happened to your dad? I asked on our walk home the following afternoon. Patrick stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk.

Isn't it obvious it is? He touched one of the scars on his arm tenderly. My dad is dead, my mom probably blames me, and I look like some villain from a slasher film. My life is totally ruined. Oh, that's a little dark dude. I'm sorry. No, it's better if I just lean into it. I'm a monster now and I have to get used to it. He sighed. Us monsters gotta stick together.

I said like it was my tagline or something. Marisa? He said bluntly. You are not a monster. I furrowed my brow. He was silent the rest of the walk home. I felt bad for bringing up his dad and wouldn't have blamed him if I didn't even get a goodbye. But when he was halfway up his driveway, he stopped. Marisa? I need to tell you something, he began without turning around. Can you keep a secret?

What did I say five minutes ago about us sticking together? Patrick paused for a long time, like he was having trouble finding the right words. Listen, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but that's okay. Even I think I'm crazy sometimes. He clenched his fists tightly at his sides. But when we were camping, when those dogs showed up, they attacked me first. My dad fought so hard to stop them and lure them away from me.

That's why he's dead. And I'm just this thing now. No. It's not your fault. No, that's not what I mean. When I was lying there, when they were tearing my dad to shreds, I could have sworn I heard them talking to each other. I could have sworn they were laughing. What does that even mean? I guess it's possible that I was delirious from blood loss, but if that's true, then how come even now, when it's really quiet, I can almost still hear them laughing?

His voice was shaking. At this point, he was staring directly at me again, his eyes full of fear. Are you saying... I don't think they were dogs. I think they were... Something else. Wolves, maybe? I offered. Patrick let out a little pitiful laugh. No. Not wolves. So, now you know the truth. I'm crazy. Nice knowing you. I don't think you're crazy, Patrick. I said. Not sure if I was lying or not.

Either way, I don't think that's a good enough reason for us to stop hanging out. He smiled in a mix of confusion and relief. Thanks, Marisa. It seemed that letting someone else share his secret took a lot of weight off the poor guy's shoulders because, after that, he was a lot more outgoing around me. The edges of his sadness had been sanded down a little, and he actually let me get to know him.

And as it turned out, Patrick was a pretty good kid. We were into the same comics and video games and even got each other's humor. We walked to and from school together every day for the next couple of weeks, and my mom let him stay for dinner most nights and sleep over on the weekends. As much as I considered myself something of a lone wolf, I had to admit it felt good to have someone around that really got me.

I guess this is what it's like to have friends, huh? Things stayed good for a while. When the other kids realized that I had taken him under my wing, a lot of the bullying stopped. And when he was picked on, he had gotten pretty good at standing up for himself. This, however, leads us to the incident that threatened to shatter the small bit of peace we'd begun to carve out for ourselves.

Tom and Jacob, the only two kids still brazen enough to constantly mess with Patrick, had come up with a new way to get under his skin. You see, whenever Patrick tried to speak in class, or passed them in the hallway, or even entered a room, they'd howl like wolves. Because it was a relatively easy and safe way to upset him, they were usually able to get whoever else was around to howl along with them.

I know it doesn't sound that bad, but after three days of it, Patrick wasn't looking too good. It happened in Mrs. Alder's class, as most bad things did. Man, she was a terrible teacher, and was discussing another terrible book that they tell you is a classic, and has all this symbolism, but was just written by some dumb guy who probably didn't even know what symbolism was. So, who can tell me why they think the author decided to make the badge red?

She asked. Everyone stayed perfectly still, dead-eyed, hoping to avoid being called on, having to discuss colors. Well, everyone except Patrick. He actually raised his hand. Ah, yes, Mr. Marshall Sherwood, please, enlighten us. You see, there's not actual... was all I could hear before a cacophony of howling delinquents overtook his quiet voice. Now, students, settle down and let him finish. You can howl all you want on the bus home, she said sternly in her traditionally tone-deaf sort of way.

Silence returned to the room. Patrick tried again. There's not actually a... The howling returned. Then, quickly abated. Go on. Not actually a re... Howling, then silence again. A reason that howling, then silence. This pattern continued for a tragically long time. I thought maybe he'd be struggling to say that one sentence for the rest of the class, until during that last interruption, I saw something change in his eyes. Patrick had finally snapped.

He waited patiently for the noise to calm and took a deep breath. Let me start over. There's not actually a reason. This time, he didn't stop when they began again. He just slowly turned to Tom, who was directly behind him, grabbed him by the collar, and punched him in the face repeatedly, all the while continuing to relay his point about the book. When he was done, Tom's face was a mess, and there was no more howling.

Ever again. The rest isn't really important. Patrick went to the principal's office and got detention for the rest of the week, and Tom went to the nurse and got everyone's sympathy. Even though he'd gotten in trouble, Patrick's attitude drastically improved. Detention was a small price to pay for being able to speak again. This did mean that we couldn't walk home together for a while, though. On Fridays, he would usually pack an overnight bag and come straight home with me for the weekend.

But with detention, and his mom grounding him for beating Tom to a bloody pulp, Patrick told me we'd have to skip our normal weekend hangouts. I was actually relieved to hear it. It was a weird time of the month for me, and our hangout would have been super awkward. I felt I'd dodged a major bullet, and was also thrilled that his mom was paying enough attention to know he'd gotten in trouble, and that she actually seemed to care.

I expected an easy Friday night, so I was surprised that as I finished washing dishes from dinner and turned off the water, I was alerted to a frantic knocking at our front door. Maybe Patrick's mom had changed her mind, I figured. Disregarding the overwhelming panic that seemed to loom in the constant banging, I was totally shocked when the opening door revealed none other than the devil himself, Tom McCullough, still bruised from his run-in earlier in the week, panting hard.

Why are you here? I asked. I really couldn't think of a single reason he'd want anything to do with me. He tried to catch his breath. I... Where's Patrick? He pleaded. What? You want a rematch? No, no, listen, I think I messed up. He was still trying to catch his breath. Had he ran all the way here? You want to apologize? Well, he isn't here, he's at home. Grounded. I was ready to close the door and get back to my evening.

No, he isn't. I went there first. His mom said he never came home after detention. I was hoping I was wrong and that he's here, but... Oh, no, I really messed up. His voice trembled. What are you trying to say, Tom? Maybe I already knew. My dad was pretty upset that I got beat up and... I was really angry, so I said some things about Patrick that maybe I shouldn't have. You know we own the farm on Schuylkill Road, right?

And you know some of our animals have been killed lately, right? Well, he... He thinks... Tom struggled with how to say the next part. I could feel adrenaline creeping into my limbs. I heard him talking to his friends this afternoon, and I saw him load silver bullets into his shotgun. Marisa, he knows. Everything felt fuzzy. Where would they take him? I had to think clearly. There is woods on our property. Uh, fifteen acres of it.

We can basically do anything we want out there. Okay. I pushed him out of the way and proceeded down my steps. The sky was already turning pink and purple with the coming of evening. There was no more time. There was going to be a full moon. Tonight. Wait. I'll come with. No. It's dangerous, and you've messed up enough. I thundered, not bothering to look back. This is why we don't tell adults things.

They always get all... Murdery. Marisa, you have to understand. I didn't mean for this to happen. Sure, I've been messing with Patrick, but... I would never want him to get... He paused. Hurt. I tried to stop my dad. Tried to pretend I was lying about the whole thing, but... He's so set on... Well, you know... That he wouldn't listen to me. I turned toward the direction of the farm and took off running.

Marisa! Tom called out. But he was far behind me now. There was no way I could be there before the sun went down. But maybe I could still get there in time to stop them. By the time I reached Tom's family farm, the last threads of daylight were fading from the sky. I was exhausted but confident that I was about to get my second wind. The woods were dark and cool, and I could feel myself returning to my senses.

I picked up speed heading in the direction I was now confident I would find them. Please let me make it in time. Eventually, distant chatter alerted me to Patrick's location. I approached quietly, hiding myself in the underbrush while I gauged the situation. Crickets and frogs had begun to sing in the blackness of the evening. Seven adults with flashlights were gathered in a circle. I couldn't see him, but I knew Patrick was in the center.

Each man was carrying a firearm on his shoulder or holding one in his hand. I was not relieved to confirm that Tom had been telling the truth. Please! I don't understand what you're talking about! What would I want with cows? I'm a vegetarian! A voice that had to be Patrick's pleaded. In the back of my mind, I got a weird feeling that something wasn't right, but brushed it off. Listen, we know it was you.

I mean, a kid who's been attacked by feral dogs shows up and we just coincidentally start losing livestock? I don't need to be a statistician to see the connection. A man that was probably Tom's dad was saying. Confess now, and maybe we'll be kind enough to let you live out the rest of your life in a cage. I swear, I didn't do anything bad! I don't know what you've heard, but please, I'm telling you the truth!

I don't know what you've heard, Patrick begged. We'll see about that in a minute. Any minute now, Mr. Mercola said, looking up at the sky. One of the other men cocked his rifle. I'm tired of waiting. Let's get this over with. I'm missing my shows! A few of them began to argue about the merits of killing my friend now as opposed to later, and that was really enough for me. I moved forward slightly, twigs snapping under my weight, and let out a loud, guttural cry that just about shook the earth.

The entire forest went completely silent, and stayed that way. I saw fear overtake the murderous group as they tried to find the source of the noise. I emerged confidently from my hiding place. Let him go! I howled. The blood collectively drained from their faces as they got a good look at me. I positioned myself to look as large as possible, my dense, wiry hair standing on end, teeth exposed in a snarl, saliva dripping from my jagged mouth.

They pointed their guns in my direction, but I charged forward and latched onto the closest one, pulling it away from its owner and smacking him in the head with it. He hit the ground with the resounding thud. I bit into the rifle and broke it into pieces with my massive jaws, as easily as if it had been a cracker. You really think your tiny bullets can stop me? I wailed. They inched back, still surrounding Patrick, but I was winning.

Just one more push. Guys! Shoot them already! Oh, thanks, Mr. McCullough. I've had enough! I lunged at them, ready to do whatever I had to, but that was enough to send them running for their lives, scurrying away like the cockroaches they were. Cowards! I huffed. Patrick was still on the ground. His hands were tied, and he looked a little beaten up. He stared up at me, his whole body shaking in fear.

I poked my nose in closer and sniffed at his face, trying to wrap my mind around the situation. Then went for his hands. He flinched at my hot breath, not seeming to realize that I was chewing through the ropes and not his fingers. It's okay. You're okay, I assured him. But he was just hopelessly confused. Suddenly, his posture shifted. Marisa? You're... Why are you a werewolf? Patrick, why are you not a werewolf?

I don't know how to answer that. You aren't going to eat me, are you? Well, not anymore I'm not, I groaned. Us monsters gotta stick together, after all. Did that story scare you? Did it make you laugh? Well, that's the best part of Halloween. It's all for laughter and fear. It's the fun of being scared. And our next story is all about a family trip that may be a little bit more than you bargained for.

Where the clientele is boys and ghouls. Enjoy this one after a quick word from our sponsors. Bed, Breakfast, and Zombies by Keith Tomlin Jake sighed loudly as he stared out the second-story window of the bed and breakfast that he and his father had been staying at for the last few days. This sucks, he thought. I should have gone to grandpa's with mom. His family was on a rare vacation, taking a trip from Chicago to New York City to visit his mom's parents.

It was the four of them, Jake, his little sister Sarah, his father Edward, and his mother Karen, all jammed into a 12-year-old Volvo wagon. Jake remembered when his father, during breakfast a few days ago, could barely contain his excitement. Kids, I was looking over my papers last night. He said, pointing to a huge stack of papers that he poured over every moment that he wasn't driving. And I found something exciting. He looked wide-eyed at both of his children.

Sarah was using all of her concentration to draw on a coloring page that doubled as the kids' menu, so Edward focused on his 11-year-old son. Jake, how would you like to look for some witches? Jake was swept away with his dad's excitement. They dropped the others off at his grandfather's house and jumped back on the road to a small town in New York called Stone's Creek. Jake wondered what they needed to hunt witches.

Do we need garlic or maybe silver bullets? What Jake didn't know and soon found out was the only things they needed was the local library and long walks in an old graveyard across the street from the Grinning Cat Inn. The bed and breakfast at which they would be staying. Jake was bored. He sighed louder this time. I heard you the first time, his dad said, without looking up from the papers he copied from the library.

When he finished the page, he finally looked at Jake, removing his unlit pipe from his mouth, and pointed at Jake with it. Why don't you go outside and play? He said, gesturing to the door with his pipe. But Dad! I'm bored! Jake said, his shoulders slumping forward. Look, once I get through these pages, we can take a walk. You can either go outside and play until then, or sit there quietly and read a book.

His dad gave him one last stern look before turning his attention back to his stack of papers. Read a book, Jake thought. Why is it always books with him? Jake didn't want books. He wanted fun and adventure. Suppressing another sigh, he turned his attention back to the window. He was surprised to see a car on the road. He had only seen one other car all day. He was even more surprised, and excited, to see that the car started to slow down.

Dad, Dad, Dad, Jake said quickly, as he had always done when he grew excited. There's a car turning into the parking lot. Really? That's interesting, his dad mumbled. Jake watched intently as the car glided to a stop in front of the inn. The driver, a huge, bulky man, got out and opened the rear door. A well-dressed man stepped out of the back seat of the car, quickly followed by a young boy who looked around Jake's age.

Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Jake said, getting louder with each word. They have a kid. Can I go down and meet him? Come on, Dad, can I? Jack started jumping back and forth from one foot to the other. Okay, hang on, his dad said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. All right, I guess I'm done here for now. I don't want you scaring the poor child with your... enthusiasm.

Edward set the stack of papers aside. Let's go downstairs and greet the new arrivals. The door to the Grinning Cat Inn flew open, and the large man entered. He scanned the room before stepping aside, allowing the well-dressed man to enter. The reception room was lined with cedar panels and had a counter that ran along one wall. A large staircase leading up was right across from the front door. Two other doorways led to a dining room in a large den with a roaring fire in the fireplace.

Upon hearing the door, the owner of the inn, Mr. Jarvison, a tall, thin, elderly man, moved to the counter. Good evening, how may I help you? asked Mr. Jarvison. The well-dressed man walked over to the counter and, with a thick Slavic accent, said, I am Count Dmitry Romanova. I have reservation for two rooms. Yes, of course. Your rooms are ready, Mr.... How should I address you? Mr. Jarvison asked. Please, you may call me Count Romanova, said the count.

The title is largely symbolic at this point, but, he shrugged, we do have our protocols. Yes, sir. I will show you to your rooms, Mr. Jarvison said, half-bowing. Count Romanova waved him off. Ivan, my manservant, will look to the rooms and luggage. I wish to relax by the fire, he said, pointing towards the den. He then looked at Ivan, who nodded and gestured to Mr. Jarvison to lead the way up the stairs.

The count turned towards the door and called out, Come, Nikolai. Let's rest before dinner. A small-framed child around ten years old entered the inn. He silently followed his father into the den. Edward and Jake had to press themselves against the wall to allow Ivan to pass them on the stairway. Jake stared at the large man, shocked at the sheer size of him. Ivan stopped and turned, glaring at Jake, who quickly turned and ran to catch up with his father.

Twenty minutes later, Jake was standing outside with Nikolai, trying to find a way to end the awkward silence that hung over them. It took his dad a few minutes to convince the count to allow his son outside to play, and now Jake was wishing that his father had failed. So, uh, Jake said, do you like to play ball? Sorry, I do not know this game. Ball, Nikolai replied in broken English. No, ball is not a game.

Well, it's part of a game. Jake thought that over for a few seconds. Never mind. Do you want to play hide-and-seek? Jake said, hopefully. Hide-and-seek. What do we hide? Nikolai asked. No, Jake said, frustrated. You go hide and I try to find you. Nikolai asked. We are to be friends, correct? Jake nodded. Then why would I hide from you? Nikolai asked. Friends should trust each other and not need to hide. Huh.

I never thought of it that way, Jake said. Okay, well, um, we could... Jake was stumped. He racked his brain for something to do, and his face lit up when he finally thought of something that no kid could possibly resist. Do you want to see something scary? Jake teased with a big grin. The young foreign boy nodded slowly. Edward leaned forward over the overstuffed chair, tapping his pipe on the stone of the fireplace and sweeping the ashes into the fire.

What brings you to this little, uh, corner of nowhere, Count? Edward asked, leaning back and refilling his pipe. He looked apologetically at Mr. Jarvison. Sorry, no offense. None taken. This is a small town. Very small, Mr. Jarvison agreed. The count took another puff on his cigar and slowly let the smoke escape his mouth. I came to America on a diplomatic trip, but I wanted to take some time to visit the relatives.

Mr. Jarvison sat up, beaming. You have relations living here? Count Romanov slowly shook his head. Living? No. Sorry, I used the wrong word. I, uh, have... He waved his hand in the air, causing Ash to fall onto the arm of his chair. Ancestors here. Uh, in cemetery. He pointed toward the graveyard. Jake led Nikolai across the street and into the old graveyard. They walked through the old gravestones, many of which were so weathered that you couldn't read the words engraved upon them.

Jake spent many hours here the last few days, walking the overgrown paths between the graves with his father. This place held little interest for Jake except for an ancient crypt that they were now approaching. It was a small stone building with vines growing up the walls toward the tiled roof. The most striking feature of this building was that along each wall, there were a pair of statues that looked like they were emerging out of the stone surface.

Each statue was of a creature with a bald head, pointy ears, and a mouth with razor-sharp teeth. His dad said they were ghouls, undead creatures that feast on the flesh of the living. What do you think? Jake asked as they approached the crypt. He snuck a sideways glance, hoping to have scared the other boy, but instead, he looked amazed. The smaller boy slowly walked around the building, admiring each statue in turn.

He then walked along each wall, running his hand along the stone surface as he went. Nikolai turned to Jake and asked, Where is the door? Yeah, my dad wondered the same thing. Weird, huh? Jake replied. Nikolai continued to walk around the building, examining each wall as he went. He finally stopped and waved at Jake, pointing at a brick in the wall. Jake walked over and bent close to discover that there were drawings etched into this brick.

Jake, drawings his dad would have called runes. The more he looked, the more they seemed to shimmer. He began tracing them with his finger, and he swore he felt them start to grow hot. Jake took a step back to ask Nikolai if he had spotted any other bricks like this, when his head started to buzz. The buzzing turned into a voice. Deep inside his head, the voice began whispering six words over and over again.

Six words that he did not understand. These words got louder and louder until finally they burst from his lips in a booming voice. Kostos si crita, predo malum, apier ostiam. Jake was unable to stop himself from chanting. Kostos si crita, predo malum, apiere ostiam. Jake heard a low hum coming from the wall in front of him. Kostos si crita, predo malum, apiere ostiam. The runes started to glow brightly. Kostos si crita, predo malum, apiere ostiam.

Jake's voice roared, and the wall opened. The count tossed the remains of his cigar into the fireplace and looked over at Edward. What brings you here? Edward leaned forward excitedly, as if he had been waiting to answer that question all evening. Well, in my day job, I'm a history professor at the University of Chicago, but my real passion is writing about the occult, magic, and the supernatural. He took a puff off of his pipe and continued.

I was researching the Salem witch trials, trying to see if I could bring anything new to the table, when I uncovered a series of correspondence between two sisters, both witches. One, sadly, was convicted of witchcraft and perished in Salem. He shook his head. The other one wrote about her coven moving here to help protect witches against persecution. Most intriguing, said the count. Did they say how they would protect the witches? I haven't found many details on that, Edward said, sounding annoyed.

Except that it involved the undead. Mr. Jarvison looked around, uneasily. The secret door in the crypt's wall swung open, revealing an empty room except for a steep staircase leading down. The air smelled stale and musty, and there was an eerie silence. Jake looked at Nikolai, who stared back, wide-eyed. Both boys started forward, Jake in the lead. The staircase ended in a stone door. Jake pushed against it until the door finally screeched open.

The sound reverberated throughout the entire structure, sending chills down Jake's spine. The room it revealed was dark, the light from outside barely penetrating several feet. Jake hesitantly stepped forward, and flames shot around the room as a dozen torches flared to life. They revealed a large, circular room with a dozen stone doors around the perimeter. The floor was made of white marble with black marble inlays, creating a large pentagram. In the center of the pentagram stood an altar with a large leather-bound book sitting atop it.

Wow! Jake exclaimed as he took in the sight. He looked back to check on Nikolai, who was a few steps behind him. Jake slowly moved forward, fascinated by the book. Almost without realizing it, he was standing in front of the altar, staring down at the large tome. He looked back, and Nikolai was standing at the edge of the pentagram, with one foot raised, as if he was trying to decide if he wanted to cross over it or not.

Jake turned back and reached out to touch the book. The room exploded in white light, and Jake was blinded as he heard Nikolai cry out in pain. A series of loud thumps shook the ground as the stone doors fell open. He looked up and saw black shapes moving behind each doorway. Jake turned and started to run toward the stairs. Nikolai was on the ground at the edge of the pentagram, withering in pain.

As Jake paused to help Nikolai, he glanced around the room. In each of the dozen doorways, a walking corpse emerged, each dressed in filthy, flowing white robes. Their skin was leathery and taunt across their faces and hands. As they emerged from the darkness, they raised their hands as if they were searching for something, sniffing almost like dogs. Jake could hear the wet rattles of them inhaling deeply. The creatures didn't look like the ones from the movies, but he knew what they were.

Zombies. Jake stood there, paralyzed with fear, until the nearest zombie suddenly caught the scent of something in the air and whipped its head around to stare at the two boys. A rune carved into each of their foreheads began to glow as they opened their mouths and moaned. Jake pulled Nikolai up and pushed him towards the stairs. Without taking another look behind him, he ran. Are there any of these witches still around?

The count asked. That's what I've been trying to find out. I believe that most of the original settlers were witches. I've been looking at the genealogy records and, as far as I can tell, the last of their living relatives perished in a fire back in the late 1950s, Edward said somberly. Yes, that was an awful thing, Mr. Jarvison mused. My family lived a few counties over when it happened. I was just a young child, but I still remember the news accounts.

Very sad. Most of the town was attending some kind of meeting at the town hall when it caught on fire. Very few survived. All three men fell silent. The two children burst from the crypt, sounds of heavy footsteps echoing from the darkness behind them. Jake paused a moment to try to get his bearings. The sun was going down, and he was a bit confused on how to get back to the inn.

Nikolai had kept running straight into the overgrown brush that had overtaken this part of the cemetery. Upon hearing footsteps at the top of the stairs behind him, Jake quickly followed. Why did he have to run this way? Jake wondered as a sticker bush tugged at his clothes. He finally gave a great pull and fell back into a clearing. Getting up, he saw that he was at the stone path that followed the ten-foot-tall stone wall that surrounded the cemetery.

Jake recognized some of the tall monuments, and he knew where he was. Jake turned toward the right and ran along the path. After a few minutes of running, Jake heard a scream coming from ahead of him. They must have got Nikolai, Jake thought. He began to run faster. The count broke the silence suddenly. Did you hear a noise? Something is not right. The other two men shook their heads, looking around the room.

Ivan, the count said quietly. The large man stepped forward out of the shadows, quiet as a mouse. Go check on Nikolai. Ivan nodded and glided off. Something is not right, Count Romanova repeated himself, looking out the window into the growing darkness. Jake ran faster than he'd ever ran in his life. As the path turned toward the entrance, he tripped on a tree root and was sent flying. He hit the ground hard and rolled a few times before landing against a small tree.

However, when he looked up, he realized that it wasn't a tree. It was the legs of a large zombie. The undead creature looked down at him and, surprisingly, turned away and shambled on. Jake was stunned but flew back into action when he heard Nikolai cry out again, this time very close. Jake looked around and saw Nikolai standing at the entrance of the cemetery, in the middle of a ring of five zombies.

One had grabbed him by the arm and was lifting him up while the others reached out for him, the runes glowing brightly on their forehead. Jake picked up a rotting tree branch for a weapon and started to move to help Nikolai. He stopped when he saw a huge shape come out of the darkness. He sighed with relief when he realized it was Ivan, but the look of murderous rage on the big man's face almost scared him as much as the zombies did.

Ivan waded into the middle of the group of zombies with a ferocity that Jake had never seen before. Ivan tossed the zombies aside like they were ragdolls, striking them with thunderous blows that didn't seem to do any real damage to them. When a creature was knocked down, they would rise back up and continue their assault. When three more zombies stumbled into view, Ivan pushed the two nearest ones down, picked up Nikolai, and ran back toward the inn.

Seeing Ivan disappear into the blackness jolted Jake into action, and he ran after them. The door to the inn crashed open and Ivan charged inside, still carrying Nikolai. Ivan's suit was torn and his face and arms were covered with scratches. Jake ran in after them and slammed the door shut, locking it. Dad! Zombies! Jake yelled. Uh, what? Edward said, leaping to his feet. Right then, the window behind Edward exploded inward. Undead hands clawed at the windowsill, trying to pull themselves into the room.

Another window was smashed and loud thumping shook the front door as the dead tried to break it down. Oh my, what is going on? yelled a terrified Mr. Jarvison. Ivan ran to hold the front door as Edward grabbed a lamp and started hitting at the arms reaching into the den. They could hear glass breaking in the other rooms of the house. Mr. Jarvison finally snapped and ran out of the den. He let out a terrified scream as the zombie lurched out of the dining room in the reception area.

It ignored Mr. Jarvison as it shambled toward the count, the rune on its forehead glowing brighter with each step. The runes! Edward yelled, pointing at the glowing brand on the zombie's forehead. Some powerful magic created these things! Can you stop them? Jake said, fearing the answer. Not without knowing the spell used to animate them! Edward yelled back, using the lamp he had to push a zombie off the windowsill. Jake! The book!

Nikolai yelled, trying to help his father who was struggling with the zombie from the dining room. Yeah, Dad, there's some kind of spell book or something in that weird crypt in the graveyard! Jake said to his father. That may be our only chance, Edward shot back. Count, we need to get to that crypt, now! He yelled. The count, who was holding his own against the zombie, yelled out, Ivan! To me! We need to get to the graveyard!

Ivan rushed over and tossed the zombie attacking the count aside through a broken window. Just as Ivan turned back to the front door, it burst open and three more zombies began to stumble in. Ivan ran and leapt, knocking them back outside. Go! Go! Go! yelled Edward as everyone ran toward the front door. The next ten minutes seemed like a nightmare to Jake. Ivan was an unstoppable tank, running through the dark, knocking over any creature in his way.

The rest of the group followed in his wake, trying to keep up. Once in the graveyard, Edward pointed the way to the crypt. The small party entered the crypt and ran down the stairs to the large marble room. Edward ran over to the book on the altar. Ivan stood with his back pressed up against the door, waiting for any sign of the undead creatures. The count and his son stood just off to the side of Ivan, backs to the wall.

Something felt off to Jake, but he didn't know what it was. He watched his dad quickly flip through the book, struggling to understand the words on the pages. Jake tried to connect the pieces. There was something he couldn't put together. Wait, I think I got it, Edward said, almost to himself. He began reading the words from the book in a loud, booming voice. The undead began pounding on the door and Ivan, muscles bulging, struggled to keep the door shut.

The ground began to shake and a wind started to rip through the chamber. Howls of anger and pain roared from behind the door as the undead intensified their attack. Something finally clicked in Jake's mind. The zombies ignored me and Mr. Jarvison. The runes grew brighter when they got closer to the count and his son. Dad, stop! The zombies aren't after us! They're after them! Jake yelled, pointing at the count, who looked back at Jake with a wide grin.

Edward showed no sign of hearing his son. He kept chanting, and as he chanted, his voice grew even louder and the tremors became more powerful. When Edward reached the end of the spell, the black marble of the pentagram burst into flames. The pounding on the door ceased as a silence descended over the room. Edward leaned against the altar, exhausted. Ivan opened the door, and only empty robes littered the floor. No sign of the zombies.

Jake started to run to his father when the ground began to vibrate. The white marble floor started to crack as clawed hands began digging their way out of the ground. What? Jake exclaimed. More zombies? Oh no, the count remarked. These are the relatives I spoke of earlier. My ancestors. The count laughed as he began to change. His face elongated while his teeth grew sharp. His hair disappeared while his ears grew larger and more pointed.

He became one of the creatures from the statues on the outside of the crypt. He became a ghoul. Ivan and Nikolai also began to revert to their true selves. Those meddling witches kept my family imprisoned for hundreds of years. When we discovered them, we took our revenge and burned them all. But we needed someone pure of heart to open the crypt. Someone. Someone. Like your son. Like your son, said the count, running his tongue over his razor-sharp teeth.

We also needed another fool to undo the spell of protection and destroy those pesky undead guardians of theirs, he said, gesturing back towards the white robes. He took a bit of planning, but we were finally able to forge those letters to draw you here. Dozens of ghouls were slowly extracting themselves from the ground, their shining eyes looking hungrily at Jake and Edward. I do hope you will join us. For dinner, the count bellowed, laughing.

Talk about a killer vacation. All Hallows Eve is all about the kids and, of course, the children at heart, which are most of the audience of this program. So let's tell a story that many kids could identify with. A story about encountering a bully and finding out that deep inside yourself, there's a power to fight back. But with great power comes great responsibility. We'll enjoy this story right after these messages. Heart of Stone, Heart of Fire by Joe Solmo.

At the time of day when most kids were excited, Cody sighed. The glass-paneled steel door leading home from school was right in front of him. First, he watched Jessica and Brian leave without a problem, and jealousy crept in. Jason and Eddie left next, passing him almost like he didn't exist. He felt alone. Of course, he wasn't alone. He would have preferred to be. He knew as soon as he exited that door, he would hear his voice.

Aiden Firehead. At least, that's what he called him in his thoughts. He would never dare say it out loud. Aiden, real last name Fitzgerald, wasn't a large boy. In fact, he was several inches shorter than Cody. The main difference between the two was that Aiden was mean. Sometime last semester, he drew the ire of Aiden. He remembered it like it was yesterday. Coming back from lunch, he stopped at his locker to grab his geometry book and accidentally bumped into his future bully.

Literally. He apologized, but Aiden wouldn't hear it and pushed him down onto the cold tile hallway floor. Do it again, and I'll really hurt you, Aiden. Aiden told him that day. Cody was more confused by Aiden's reaction than upset, thinking it was just an isolated incident. After all, he didn't do it on purpose. Aiden's anger didn't just boil away, however. It simmered behind those cold blue eyes. Every day after that, Aiden tried to make Cody's life miserable.

Some days, he was able to avoid the bully. He even spent most of a week Aiden free by getting detention, just to have to stay late. But that just got him in trouble at home, as well as school. Cody's eyes perked up when he saw her walk in the door. Finally, he could go home. Abby had come to pick him up. She peered in the door until she spotted him standing there.

She motioned him to come, but he hesitated, fear still keeping him in place. He saw her shoulders sag. He felt bad, but he couldn't move. Abby entered the middle school, her black skirt swirling around her. Cody didn't understand why she wore black all the time. He thought that was mostly for funerals, but being the oldest kid that he knew at 16, she was his only hope in getting home safe. Come on, Cody.

I gotta get you home before Brad shows up to pick me up. Why did I have to walk you home anyway? His stepsister asked. Cody looked down at his arm. The scrapes from this morning had begun to scab over. He wondered if his arms would be scarred by the end of the year. Got nothing to say? Okay, let's go. Mom said you've been misbehaving recently, getting detention all the time. Wait until high school for that.

If you think middle school is bad, you got a lot to learn, Abby said as she opened the door leading to the outside world. Cody peeked out the door cautiously before exiting. He didn't see Aiden anywhere and began to relax. He looked up at his stepsister. A year ago, she was a stranger, but since moving into his home, she seemed even stranger to him. Always wearing black, listening to sad or angry music all the time, painting lips and nails to match her clothes.

He had asked her if she was mourning her father still, which only made her mad. It took weeks before she even spoke to him again. Where are you going? came a voice from behind Cody. His blood froze and he closed his eyes tight. His legs stopped working and he was horrified to see Abby hadn't noticed. Keep up, Cody, she said and turned back to him. She saw him standing there with his eyes closed and another kid standing behind him on the walkway.

You have an appointment, Mr. Piney, Aiden said, pushing his unkempt red hair out of his eyes. Abby watched as Cody just stood there. She looked up at the kid behind him, then back at her new stepbrother. This kid bothering you, Cody? Cody opened his eyes. It took some effort. He turned around towards Aiden as if in a slow motion scene from an action movie. If you miss your appointment, we'll have to reschedule two appointments for tomorrow, Aiden said and looked towards the building.

Just off the walkway was a six-foot pine tree. Its prickly green leaves were broken in sections. Cody looked down at the scratches on his arms. He knew all too well how much those branches hurt when someone was pushed into them. Cody, let's go, Abby said and grabbed his hand. It seemed to snap him out of it. He followed her towards the street. You've made your choice, Aiden called from behind him. Cody winced from the threat but didn't look back.

His plan worked. Having his new sis pick him up saved him from his appointment with the tree. He dared to smile as he crossed the street, the first one he had in weeks. He didn't give a thought to Aiden's threat as he arrived home. I gotta go. Brad is here to pick me up. We'll talk later, okay? Abby told him. She left in a flurry of black. He let out a sigh and raided the kitchen for a snack, finding a half a bag of cookies in the back of the cabinet.

He bit into one slowly, probing for information to its staleness, but was pleasantly surprised. He took the bag to his room where his tablet awaited to immerse him in the world of video games and out of this reality. It wasn't long before he heard his new mother come home. She wasn't a bad person at all. In fact, he had nothing negative to say about her. She was very nice to him. She seemed to make his father happy as well.

He knew nothing of his real mother, only that she left when he was still in diapers. She told him he didn't have to call her mom if he didn't want to. But deep down inside, he wanted someone to call mom. After a few weeks, he started to call her mom to try it out. And he liked the way it felt. Hi, mom, he said as she entered his room to check on him.

Hi, Cody. How was school today? Have any homework? She asked, sitting on the edge of his bed. Nothing today. School is okay, I guess. In science, we learned about different kinds of rocks. One of them must be real smart. It was called a genius rock or something. He replied. How exciting. What happened to your arm? She asked with concern in her voice. Oh, that was nothing. I fell in gym class. He lied.

It doesn't look life-threatening, she said with a smile. I recommend a bowl of ice cream after dinner. I picked up some chocolate chip cookie dough. Your favorite, she said with a smile. Thanks. Do you prescribe ice cream to all your patients at the hospital? Cody asked her, looking up from his tablet for the first time this conversation. Only when they look like they had a rough day, she responded. Sometimes it works better than the pills they get prescribed.

I'll let you know when dinner is ready, and I hope you aren't lying about that homework. I swear, he said. A moment later, she left the room. He paused his game for a moment. A guilty look towards his backpack made him consider doing his homework. But he just didn't feel like it. He would do it in the morning, during homeroom. Dinner came and went, and soon Cody was back in his room.

He wasn't alone for long, though. Abby knocked on his open door only a few minutes after he returned to his room. Hey, can we talk, kiddo? She asked. I guess so, Cody responded, shutting down his tablet and plugging it in. About earlier. That redheaded kid. Has he been bullying you? Is that why you've been acting up in school? Abby asked. She walked into the room. Cody darted past her and closed the door.

He turned towards his stepsister. Shh. Not so loud, he said in a whisper. Aiden has been a pain in my butt for months. I just bumped into him once. I apologized. But he's made my life miserable ever since. He's just a butt. There are all types of people in the world. Some are brains. Some are brawn. And some are just butts. The only contribution a butt makes is, well, you know, awfully stinky, Abby said and smiled.

She sat on the end of his bed. He definitely is, Cody replied. A big old turd. Okay, let's not get carried away. You should probably tell your dad what's going on. He could talk to that kid's father or the principal at school. Did I ever tell you about the time I was bullied a few years ago? Abby inquired. I think this is the most we've ever talked, actually, Cody said. What's wrong with your arm?

He asked, looking at the bandage that wasn't there before. Oh, this? It's nothing, she said. Forget about it. Did Brad bully you? Cody asked. Oh, God, no, she said and laughed so hard she snorted. Can I trust you to keep a secret, kiddo? She asked in an even quieter whisper than the one they were already talking in. Sure. If you keep mine about Aiden, he replied. You know, you're too smart for your own good.

All right. I'll show you. Remember, you promised me, she said and started to peel back the edge of the bandage on her arm. Cody grew wide-eyed, wondering what kind of gory scene he was in store for. He thought about all those movies he snuck out of his room at night to watch on TV. A tattoo? He exclaimed when she revealed what was behind the bandage. How are you going to hide that?

Well, I figured once it was all healed up, there really isn't anything they can do about it, so at that point I would just show them and they will yell, but that'll be the end of it, she explained. Why the cat? He asked. It's a special cat. It was my cat before we moved here. With all the movers going in and out, she ran away and we never found her. I used to go back there a few times a week, but I never found her.

It's to remember her by, Abby told him. It doesn't matter how long you wait. They will freak, Cody said, thinking of his dad and new mother. Just remember, you promised to keep my secret and I'll keep yours, she pointed a finger at him. I know, so tell me about the time you got bullied, he asked her. The next day, Cody was in a good mood on his walk to school. He even caught himself whistling as he made his way along Main Street.

He talked to his new sister for quite some time and she explained to him all about bullies. That they were cowards at heart and nine times out of ten, if you stood up to one, they would back down. That last part he kept replaying over and over in his head. He had a plan on what he was going to do this morning. Then, there should be no more Aiden problems. He crossed the street to the school and started up the walkway towards where he had last seen Aiden and Mr.

Piney. He rounded the corner and saw the tree out of the corner of his eye. He was almost disappointed he didn't see Aiden, because he was prepared this time. Where are you going? came a voice from behind the tree. Cody swallowed hard, he turned towards the bully, trying to look tough. I'm going to homeroom. Not that it's any of your business, he said defiantly. Not yet you're not, Aiden said and approached him.

He grabbed a hold of Cody's backpack straps and swung him towards the tree. It happened too fast for Cody to do anything, and before he knew it, his feet left the ground and he fell into the prickly pine tree. He felt the branches scrape against his bare skin as he heard Aiden laugh. Determined not to give up, Cody crawled out of the tree and brushed himself off as best he could. You touch me again and you're going to get it, Cody said, glaring a hole in Aiden.

You're a funny one today, the bully said and approached him, reaching for his bag straps once again. Okay, Cody, he thought to himself. Now is the time. Cody swung as hard as he could. Aiden easily deflected the punch and laughed again. While he was distracted, Cody went for his weak spot with a kick to the groin. This connected, and Aiden let go of him to instinctively cover something else, even though it was too late.

Cody felt a rush. It was working. The plan was working. He was going to hug his stepsister when they got home tonight and tell her how her advice about bullies being cowards helped him. Then, Aiden stood up. A snarl crossed his face. And was that fire in his eyes? You made a big mistake, the bully said and reached out to grab him. Cody bolted, the adrenaline kicking in, but it didn't kick in fast enough.

Aiden grabbed a hold of his backpack, and that was enough. Not only was Cody introduced to Mr. Piney for his second appointment, but Aiden's repeated knee strikes kept him in the coniferous tomb. The entire time Cody balled up and closed his eyes, he could hear Aiden's words of anger, a more vicious tone of voice than he had heard from the bully before. After a few seconds, he could no longer smell the pine, and it was replaced by another smell.

He tried to place it. It smelled like when his grandfather would light his pipe. The sulfur from the matches! Cody forced himself to open his eyes to make sure that Aiden wasn't trying to burn the tree down with him inside. But what he saw was worse. Aiden stood up over him, his red hair raised around his head, waving in a secret breeze only they knew about. They danced around his flames, his eyes were glowing, the blue was gone from them, replaced with a deep red, like lava pouring from the ground.

He was even more intimidating now. Aiden! Please, I made a mistake! Cody said. Being born? Aiden said and decked him. He crumpled under the punch and laid there, so long that Aiden went into the school. Cody didn't even try to make it in there today. He hobbled home, defeated. He just wanted to crawl into his closet and die. He would settle for laying under the covers and sleeping until the aches went away.

Later that day, Abby entered his room. Hey, kiddo. That bully give you any trouble? She asked and then saw the state of him. What happened? I stood up to him because you said he was a coward and he beat the crap out of me. It was the worst, Cody said, fighting back tears. That's it. I'll take care of this, Abby said angrily. No! You promised not to tell anyone! Tell me what happened.

Don't leave anything out, Abby said, getting comfortable. Cody told her the whole story. His plan, the encounter, the way he looked. At first, Abby thought he was being a little dramatic. But when Cody explained how his hair and eyes looked, she got concerned. Hang here one second. I have to grab something quick, she said and darted out of his room. He wondered where she thought he was going to go. He hurt all over.

She returned a moment later with a book in her arms. It looked old and kind of spooky. She had a lot of those kinds of books that her and her friends would read while lighting candles and stuff. He didn't much pay attention to it. The title was The Elemental Influences in Modern Life. Here, look, she said, flipping to a page. It showed a person made of fire and said fire elemental kin on it.

What is that? He asked. You see, before people, there were only the elementals. They roamed the world, warred with each other, much like humans, I guess. Anyway, when humans came around, they warred with us instead. Eventually, they were defeated and were imprisoned in the elements they represented. Fire, earth, water, and air. Somewhere, the human and elemental bloodlines crossed. And now there are some humans with elemental blood. I think that's what Aiden is, Abby explained.

According to this book, most people have at least some elemental blood in them. I don't, but maybe you do. What? Are you crazy? I don't have fire hair, Cody responded. No, but you have other traits. Let's see, you were born in January, so you're a Capricorn and earth sign. You're pretty thoughtful. Remember mom's birthday when you got her that painting at the swap meet of her favorite flowers? That's also contributed to earth.

Let me make some calls and we can do a little ritual to find out how to unlock it, Abby said excitedly and ran out of the room. An hour later, Cody sat inside a circle on the floor, candles lit around him. Four of Abby's friends who also wear black sat around him. They were reading something together, their voices as one. He couldn't make out any of the words. Just when he began to get bored and was going to go back to his room, something changed.

He felt it and looked around, but he didn't see anything amiss. A calming sensation flowed into his body from the floor and made its way over him, until he was wrapped in it like a giant blanket. A patience of the ages took over him and he no longer wanted to go back to his room so badly. The next morning, Cody prepared for school and left the house the same way he had done for a long time, but this time, gone was the apprehension about the day.

Inside, he was still, like the mountain facing the wind and rain. Cody didn't hesitate as he crossed the street to the school and walked to the tree. He stopped there and looked at it, waiting. Look who it is here, came a snarl from the tree. I don't think I've paid you back enough for the nard shot, Aiden stepped from behind the tree, much like he did the day before. He took a few steps towards Cody.

What's different about you? You're not so... Trembley, the bully said, and turned his head sideways like a dog when it's thinking hard. I am not scared of you anymore, Cody said, and concentrated on the words and images his sister taught him to keep in his mind. Mountains defying the weather. The rock of Gibraltar. Mesas in the west. Large, sturdy, unwavering redwoods. A little ace up his sleeve if he needed it, she called it, in case his aura wasn't enough.

He had no idea what she meant by that, but it soothed him. You should be. Your face hurt my knee yesterday. Now my fists want an apology, Aiden said with a flash of fire in his eyes. I know what you are, Aiden. Even your name means fiery one. I know your true self. Do you? Cody asked. Let my fists answer that. And with that, he swung at Cody. Lapis, Cody said just before the fist struck him.

It hit him square in the jaw, but the strike didn't budge him. In fact, it was Aiden that cried out. My fist! What the hell? The angry bully said and held it up. His hand was twisted a bit. Why is your face so hard? Aiden said and swung again. This time, a body blow landed on Cody, much to the same effect. Just stop, Aiden, before you hurt yourself more. Let the anger burn out before it consumes you, came a voice from behind Cody.

His sister was there to check on him. He just stood his ground with the magic trigger words in his head. Stay out of this. This is between Cody and I, Aiden said, his hair waving erratically around him. With a yell, he kicked Cody in the leg as hard as he could to try to drop him to the ground. An audible snap was heard, and Aiden was the one who dropped, clutching his ankle.

Ah, I think it's broken. Serves you right, you little turd, Abby said and winked at Cody, who still stood there, still as could be. Will you give up this nonsense, Aiden? Cody asked, walking over to the bully on the ground. Will you give up on bullying? Yeah! You won, okay? You kicked my ass, Aiden said as a crowd started to gather. Cody did nothing. Your anger did all of this. You did this to yourself, Abby said.

Cody looked down on his bully, now almost in tears and holding his broken ankle. Come on, let's get you to the nurse, Cody said and held out a hand. Aiden reluctantly grabbed it and was shocked to find the anger inside him leaving. He hadn't felt like this in years. It was as if a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. He looked Cody in the eyes as he got to his feet and saw something there.

He never noticed it before. A peacefulness he couldn't explain. He no longer wanted to hurt Cody. He wanted him around. He wanted to feel this way for as long as he could. Later that night, Cody and Abby recalled the events of the day. She explained that now he had unlocked his potential. He would affect others around him. Some more than others depending on their susceptibility. Even Abby could feel the calmness in him.

His mother popped in his room just before bedtime. Cody? Mrs. Fitzgerald called. She wanted to know if it was okay to ask you to have a sleepover at her son Aiden's this weekend. How come you haven't told us about your friend? She asked. We just became friends, Cody said, looking at the faded scratches on his arms. They were all but gone now. Well, you must have made an impression. He said you saved him when he hurt his ankle?

He couldn't stop saying nice things about you, his mother said. A moment passed. What should I tell her? I have to call her back. Tell her I said... I wouldn't miss it, Cody said and smiled. A friend. He made a friend. He never thought in a million years he would make a friend out of Aiden. He smiled as he rolled over on his bed and went to bed happy for the first time in a very long time.

I don't know about you, but I feel spookier already. It's a beautiful, cool fall night. And Halloween is just around the corner. But we have a couple more stories for you before we let you get back to your fall festivities. But first, I'm very excited to share this story with you. It's about appreciating music. And respecting your elders. But it gets a little bit creepier than all that. It's about what happens when you discover a vinyl record, which is something old people listen to music on.

And it contains a song that may be more curse than music. We'll get to this story after a quick word from our sponsors. A Night of Hot Wax by John Oak Dalton Etheridge and August needed summer jobs. But they didn't know if they needed one bad enough to work for old man Baldwin, who nobody wanted to work for. Their older brothers and sisters and some of their friends had already had their turns under Mr.

Baldwin's eye. You worked hard in his garden and yard with no breaks. You weren't allowed to be caught standing around talking or worse yet, you couldn't be caught listening to music. Mr. Baldwin hated music. Mr. Baldwin hated music worse than he hated laziness. And he hated laziness in the way that most people feared death. But every ice cream stand and lifeguard post and backroom can stocker and really any odd job in the neighborhood was already spoken for.

So, Etheridge and August went to Mr. Baldwin's little brick house on its big green lawn and knocked quietly on the door. Mr. Baldwin answered and stood there, glaring at the two boys like a statue staring down at people in a town square. He looked like he was cast in bronze and about as hard to move as a real statue. Have you hired anyone to work on your yard this summer, Mr. Baldwin?

Etheridge asked. Mr. Baldwin frowned at August. I usually don't speak to young men who don't take their baseball hats off. August's hand immediately went to his head. But I'll make an exception since that is a Homestead Grey's hat. I got it from my brother, mumbled August. Mr. Baldwin fixed him with a laser eye. But you do know who the Homestead Greys were. Yes, sir, August mumbled. But Etheridge knew he didn't. Josh Gibson was the greatest player on the greatest baseball team the Negro Leagues or maybe any other team had.

He was the catcher, so I'm gonna call you Catcher. Yes, sir, mumbled August. Now his eyes fixed on Etheridge. And what is your name, young man? He asked. Etheridge, the child said. And he tried to talk in a clear voice. Obviously, you were named after the great poet named Etheridge, so I'll call you Poet. Etheridge was named after the poet, so he said nothing. Mr. Baldwin pointed a long finger at a garage at the side of his house.

Etheridge was surprised because even though he had a stern face, he had long fingers and soft hands. You could start by cleaning out that garage. And leave that garage door open, and I'll watch your progress from an upstairs window. Etheridge was just happy that they weren't starting on that big green yard. August got fired the next day. He thought he could sneak a Bluetooth earpiece in under his homestead graze hat, and Mr.

Baldwin wouldn't notice. He did. And then Etheridge was working alone. It was hot, sweaty work cleaning the garage. Etheridge had started zoning out and just throwing junk in trash bags when he came across a big closed chest with brass hinges. It looked too good to be trash, so Etheridge decided to pull it towards the open garage door, where Mr. Baldwin could look at it. The chest was heavy. Too heavy to pull.

Remembering how Mr. Baldwin's face looked like it was carved out of rock, and about as friendly, he thought about this chest for a long time. But he couldn't resist taking a peek. If it had been full of the bones of neighbor kids who everyone heard had moved away, he wouldn't have been more surprised. The old chest was filled with vinyl records. Etheridge did not recognize any one record, but knew them to be jazz, blues, and classical just by the images and the names of the songs.

His own grandmother loved this music, and this love had come down to him. Because of it, he was learning violin for the school orchestra. He thought he'd gotten pretty good. He wanted to be very good. I see you stopped working. The voice came from the open garage door. Etheridge jumped and turned. Mr. Baldwin was standing there, his face in shadow, the hot sun behind him, blinding Etheridge. I am working. I was just seeing what was in this old chest.

They're old records my wife was supposed to throw away. She didn't. And now she's passed, and I won't speak against her. Etheridge craned his neck, but Mr. Baldwin's face was still in shadow. So that was all that gave him the bravery to ask what he asked next. I thought you hated music, Mr. Baldwin. I do not. I do hate the playing of music, and more so the recording of music. That pretty much covers all music, said Etheridge.

Then Mr. Baldwin stepped one foot more into the garage, and Etheridge's mouth clapped shut. But when Etheridge looked closer, Mr. Baldwin did not look as mean as he usually did. No, it doesn't, because there is the music in your imagination, poet. Mr. Baldwin sat on an old crate that groaned under his weight. Etheridge watched him carefully. Did you know, uh, I was a music teacher once. Etheridge was not very surprised to hear he was a teacher long ago, because he seemed like he once had a job telling people what to do, and maybe even yelling at people sometimes.

He still seemed to like yelling at kids. When you teach music, you learn every instrument. And then every summer, you don't have a job. So I played in little bands all over the city. There were a lot of places to play, back then. And I would go out to the old plastics factory and record music. Etheridge frowned. The what? Mr. Baldwin gave a small smile. It's funny how nobody remembers the plastics factory, which used to be the biggest employer in town.

That does seem funny, but why was there music at the plastics factory? Mr. Collins was the owner there, and he had a lot of good ideas and one really bad one. But one good idea he had was to make his own records. The factory pressed records for all kinds of record companies. Hot wax and hot stacks. What? We called records hot wax. I thought this was a plastics factory. Do you go to school, child?

Yes, sir. Then listen to an old teacher. Mr. Collins thought he could record old-time music himself with his own orchestra, so he paid a bunch of us by the hour to make music for him to record and sell on his own for cheap and cut out the middleman. We were called the Cuyoga Chamber Orchestra, but there was no chamber, just a room off the factory floor with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and people from all over, other music teachers, old ladies who taught piano in their own homes, guys that played in other bands on the weekends.

But we had fun. Until one late night, Mr. Baldwin did not say anything for a long time. Etheridge did not move. Until one night, when Mr. Collins said we had a special request. We all stayed very late waiting and wondering, and then a man in a red robe came in. He was leading a goat on a rope. Etheridge did not say anything. He knew the time for asking questions was over for now.

Mr. Baldwin was thinking about the past. The man brought his own music. It was on very old, very yellow, and crinkly paper. We all looked at our parts. I had a funny feeling when I looked at it. Etheridge started wondering why somebody would be bringing a goat to a music recording. I was staring at the music so hard, I did not see the man in the robe get out a big silver knife with a strange handle.

Etheridge was thinking about knives and goats and music and how that might go together on some late night. I don't believe in men and robes and knives and goats that aren't for milking, but all I thought about then was that I wanted to play that music and see what it was. Mr. Baldwin was flexing his fingers, his face thinking about the past. We started playing the music. It went all through my body, but the man in the robe acted like he wasn't even listening.

He was drawing a circle with chalk in the middle of the floor. Well, it sort of looked like chalk and it sort of looked like a circle, but all that was in my mind was that sweet, terrible music. It was in my fingers and in my, in behind my eyes. It filled my whole body. I can see you wonder what it sounded like. It sounded like a hundred babies crying and a knife hitting a bone in cold air over a gravestone.

Etheridge tried to imagine what that would sound like. And how you could play it. But then I heard my own grandmother's voice. Etheridge sat up straight. What was she doing there? She was not there. She was dead. Etheridge swallowed. She was singing, swing low, sweet chariot. So I stopped following the music that was in front of me and started playing along with my grandmother. And then the bulb above my head exploded.

And then I realized every other bulb in that entire factory had broken out. So I took that time in the darkness to get up and run away. Etheridge held his breath. The next day I learned Mr. Collins had had a heart attack. The day after the factory closed for a little while and never reopened. And then I put all these records in this crate and told my wife to throw them away.

And that was, uh, 45 years ago. Mr. Baldwin's fingers were twitching as if playing an unseen instrument. That's enough work for today, poet. Come up to the house for some lemonade. It was the last surprise of the day. And forever. As old man Baldwin himself died a few days later after taking sick quickly. And Etheridge wondered if telling this terrible story was too much after all these years. As it turned out, August's older brother had more lawn mowing than he could do alone.

So both Etheridge and August had work to do. But Etheridge kept thinking about that music. Etheridge went back to Mr. Baldwin's house when his children, all old people themselves, had a big yard sale. Etheridge did not have money to buy every record in the old chest, but he wanted to go through them and maybe pick one out. Especially if he could find one that might make the strange sort of music Mr.

Baldwin had talked about. He walked past everything set out in the big yard and looked in the garage, but the chest and everything in it was already gone. Etheridge let his mother get him a violin tutor after all that summer, even though at the beginning of the summer he had said he didn't want one. He wanted to be good, better than good, and to hear music the way he saw Mr. Baldwin did.

And he started asking where the old plastics factory was. His parents gave him blank faces and so did his grandparents, who were almost as old as Mr. Baldwin anyway. One day Etheridge started thinking about the railroad that used to go through town and had been turned into a bike trail. In big factories, sometimes raw material came in on train tracks. He talked to August about it one day after they got done mowing the one yard they hated, the backyard that went on so far it was actually the outfield of the baseball diamond at their school.

If we follow the bike trail, we might just see some sign of it, said Etheridge. Aren't you getting enough exercise? said August and wiped his sweat away with his arm. I'd just like to see that old factory, said Etheridge. If you want to see an old building, we can go by that closed department store, said August. Etheridge shook his head. It's not just any old building. I want to see this one.

It can't be much. If it was, somebody would have heard about it. I just want to know if that story was true. August just looked at Etheridge. Do you think that was the first time old man Baldwin told a story to scare a little kid? Etheridge tried to work on August a little bit longer, but it was no use, so Etheridge got his violin case and balanced it on his handlebars and set out early on a Saturday when the grass was getting brown and there weren't as many lawns to mow.

After a long, hot few miles, he saw a crumbling brick smokestack poking out of some trees, and he parked his bike there and right away saw a little path that winded off into the dark woods. He might have been this far on the bike trail before, but he wasn't sure. He was sure he had never seen that old brick smokestack before. Etheridge followed this little path, and it went past an old chain-link fence that was knocked down and opened up into a clearing where a big brick building sat.

This building had every single window broken out and dirt on every brick and every metal window frame and every metal door was covered in rust, and the roof kind of bowed in on itself like it had leaked a long time. It could have been any kind of building in any kind of city that nobody cared about anymore, but Etheridge knew that he was in the right place, so he sat cross-legged and got his violin out and started thinking about that old sheet music Mr.

Baldwin had seen and what it must have sounded like and waited for the feeling to take over his hands. He waited a long time as the cold wind that tells you fall is coming started to pick up around his bare arms and legs. He didn't hear any music, but instead, he had that prickling feeling on his neck that somebody was watching him. And somebody was. He saw a man looking at him out of a second-story window.

At first, he thought this might be a security guard, but no security guard wore a black dress coat and a black hat. This man looked very ordinary, not like a person who might have worn a red robe would look like, but he dressed in an old-fashioned way that Etheridge had only seen in pictures, and that made it scarier than if he had looked totally strange. This man stood there very still as if he was waiting for Etheridge to do something.

Etheridge was very, very nervous, but he started to play. He played from memory as best he could, waiting to feel something. The shadows were long in the clearing longer than they should have been for that time of day, even as the season turned to fall. And when that shadow that meant fall was coming touched him, his playing began to change. It was as if the cold shadows jumped right up next to him, and then he saw that the man in the black coat was in the big, rusty garage door at the loading dock, by the big concrete pad with all the faded stripes painted long ago, the one that was hanging by just one hinge and creaking like a crow in the cold wind.

The man was watching him very closely and listening. Even from this far away, it looked like the whites of his eyes and the whites of his teeth were gleaming. His smile was no warmer than the cold wind that seemed to be pushing at Etheridge harder and harder. Etheridge had wondered since that day with Mr. Baldwin what playing music like that would be like, and as his fingers took on a life of their own, then he knew, and he was sorry.

And there was no grandmother to sing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. His grandmother was still alive, listening to her own records down in the town. Etheridge wished he was there with her. But now somebody was standing next to the man in the black coat. Etheridge hoped it was Mr. Baldwin, but if it wasn't, he hoped he was a friend. His own music was getting louder, out of his control, and he couldn't see the man in the old-fashioned clothes, and his smile that wasn't a smile, and he couldn't feel the cold air or see the long shadows that were cast from something Etheridge couldn't see.

There was something in the firm and purposeful way the other man reached for the man in the black coat. There was something sure and true about him, and maybe that was Mr. Baldwin after all. Despite what Etheridge thought before, he knew now that Mr. Baldwin had loved music and children in his life, and he remembered that he had called him poet. Etheridge did not know Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, but he did know Amazing Grace.

So with all his effort, he switched to playing Amazing Grace, and it didn't sound great, but it sounded good enough. Good enough to help that figure wrestling with the man in the black coat, whether that was Mr. Baldwin or not. It did not matter now as Etheridge began to come back, away from the long shadows in the cold wind. Sparks showered out of the window in the garage door as if every light in the building was exploding, but Etheridge knew there couldn't have been any electricity on in there.

Not anymore. There were pallets that were more mold than wood on that big concrete pad, but they caught fire anyway. The figures wrestled on as the fire jumped to the dry grass and kept going. When the flames started rising around him, Etheridge dropped his violin and ran away. Etheridge stayed awake all night as the fire trucks raced through town. The next day he found out the forest fire burned itself out when it hit the asphalt bike trail and ran out of fuel.

But by then it had raced in every direction and smoke hung over everywhere. Etheridge stayed in his room even when August and the other kids rode their bikes all around to take it in. Etheridge! His mother came to the door, home in the middle of the day from work, looking into his room. Two policemen were behind her. The police had come to the house that day because Etheridge was seen on some security cameras along the bike trail after the woods caught on fire.

Etheridge couldn't explain what he was doing there exactly and nobody understood when he talked about the factory. Everything happened very fast after that and he ended up in the juvenile detention center and would be there until he turned 18. He was told it would not go on his permanent record when he became an adult and he thought the fact that it was called a permanent record was the strangest thing he ever heard but he didn't tell his lawyer that.

In fact, Etheridge said less and less about anything as time went on but he did get his GED. They asked him to join the juvenile detention center's pep band but he decided to work in the library instead. Oh my my, friends. We have one story left for you tonight but don't worry if this isn't enough family-friendly fear to whet your appetite until Halloween. We'll be back next Friday with five more stories.

This one takes us to camp where you see there's all kinds of fun and activities to have in the sun but of course when the moon comes up camp can be very different. In fact, it can be downright murder. Especially when the kids get together to share their scary stories, their legends, or maybe some things they just made up because it can be fun at Halloween. So kick back and enjoy our final fear fable for the evening.

I think you'll really like this one though you may need to hold your nose during it. Don't worry, you'll find out what I mean. But first, a quick word from our sponsors. The Lady in the Germ Box by Killian Crane It's too hot, Greg thought. He and the other poor kids sat in Squirrel Lodge packed like rats in fold-out chairs. Some of the rats laughed. Some of them cried. B.O. fumes and chocolate breath stagnated in the air.

Greg doubted he could take this for two weeks. The head camp counselor, Marty Hartman, took to the stage. His mustache wriggled as he checked something off of his clipboard. All right, kids, he exclaimed. Let's play the quiet game as I give you the Camp Tomatachi safety talk. It was all Greg's parents' fault. His father, a pro golfer, won a big tournament and used the money to get his helicopter license. His parents went on an awesome helicopter trip around Europe while he was forced to learn the importance of rules or whatever for two weeks.

He was ready to go home. Greg didn't listen as Marty droned on about emergency exits and procedures. He was caught in a game of cat and mouse. Digitally. His fingers danced over the portable game system he held, making his avatar dash across a bridge. A giant fish chased him, mouth gaping. If he could just get the star over the water, he wouldn't have to worry about that stupid fish at all. He could sprint all the way to the end.

It came down to one single jump. Someone bumped him hard on the shoulder and his avatar misstepped. He fell into the water, paddling like mad, but in the end, he was pulled down to a watery grave. Ugh, he grunted as the infamous Game Over music played. What the heck? He turned to see Russell smiling nefariously down at him. Russell had a fire red mullet and was twice the size of any kid in the room.

Pay attention to the assembly, the fathead said, sitting back and enjoying himself. When Greg's parents had dropped him off, they'd made a fatal error. They'd arrived in the family's luxury SUV. As Greg brought his things to the cabin, a large chalky hand stopped him. It was said fathead. Hey, was that your ride? One of them, Greg corrected. We have five. The fathead smiled, his pasty face somehow darkening. Oh, we're gonna have some fun, you and I.

Marty raised a finger. Before we continue, I will stress to you children, absolutely no pranks and or bullying will be tolerated here at Camp Tomatachi. Something told Greg that the fathead behind him would be breaking those two rules, most likely breaking them over his head. Marty did a cartwheel. Let me introduce you to our camp counselors. There were five underlings total, all of them big kids, probably high schoolers and probably losers if they were here and not doing cool kid stuff.

Greg didn't bother learning their names. The only person he wanted to get to know was that blonde girl over there. Natalie, he thought her name was. Boy, was she something. Girls had cooties and whatnot, but Natalie seemed different. Her hair was like strands of gold and her emerald eyes could start wars. She was walking, talking treasure. Greg just had to know, like, what was her deal? Give it up for our squirrel counselors, Marty shrieked, clapping madly.

Greg gave a golf clap, the one his mother used at his father's tournaments. As Marty droned on about how much fun they were all going to have, there was a tap on his arm. It was the kid next to him. He had thick glasses and scraggly hair. I'm Simon, he whispered. Simon Biles, from upstate. First time on the yard? The yard? Greg asked low. Yeah, Simon said. You know, the yard, that's slang for prison on TV.

Ah, Greg said nonplussed. Uh, yeah, first time. Simon smiled, pushing up his glasses. This makes year three for me. The rents just don't trust me around the house while they're gone. Wanna be bunkmates? Year three, Greg thought. This guy looked like he could use a friend, and Greg could use some information. He nodded at the blonde girl possibly named Natalie. What's her deal? Simon's eyebrows danced. That's Natalie Carver. Real looker, huh?

She's Queen B around these parts, sure to get the leading lady role of this year's stupid play. Greg was intrigued. Play? Simon nodded. Every year, we put on a play for our parents the day they pick us up. Marty says it shows that we learned about teamwork and dedication, but I think he's trying to live out some fantasy through us. And you think Natalie will be in this play? We'll all be in it, Simon said.

It's mandatory, but yes, she'll probably get the leading part. Greg could feel himself coming down with a case of the acting bug. Where there was a leading lady, there was a Prince Charming opposite her, and possibly a kiss. It was clear that Simon was a wealth of information. Greg wondered what else he could tell him about the camp, and more importantly, Natalie. Greg put out his hand. You got a deal, bunkmate.

Sweet, Simon said, and they shook on it. When Marty finally finished the squirrely safety talk, he announced that they would all have hot dogs for dinner, followed by activity sign-up. But first, he neighed, let's all come up on stage for our camp group photo! Cheesy music played, kids ran to the stage, Greg ran too, stopping next to Natalie. He smiled wide for the camera. Maybe he'd been wrong about this summer camp thing.

Maybe this would be the best summer ever. At 7.30 sharp, Marty Hartman's bugle woke the dead. Greg brushed his teeth, thinking about the night before. By pure coincidence, he and Natalie signed up for the same activities, even the same time slots. The play this year was The Wonderful Fairy Tale. According to the script, a witch casts a spell on a beautiful damsel, and only true love's kiss could wake her. Greg would study the script every evening after activities, really getting into the mindset of the prince.

He was already rich and handsome, so he was a shoe-in. He couldn't wait to show Natalie how amazing he was at literally everything. He dressed for the day, satisfied with himself, then he stepped into his shoes and grimaced. Dollops of shaving cream foamed around his ankles. Greg sighed. Everyone else was already outside. His shoes sloshed as he sprinted. A camp counselor raised the flag as Marty slid his bugle away, put his hand over his heart, and led them in the Pledge of Allegiance.

Greg couldn't help but look for Russell. He found the fathead was grinning at him. Well, he thought, this isn't gonna be good. The week went on much in that fashion. Each time he tried to impress Natalie or even just get her attention, there was Russell to ruin it for him. It didn't matter what sport they played. Dodgeball, volleyball, kickball, basketball, tennis. When Russell was on the serving end, Greg was always on the receiving end.

And when Greg had the ball, he had to either get rid of it immediately or be crushed by a stampeding fathead. Sprinkled in between being humiliated at every event, Greg kept discovering little surprises. And every time he discovered them, Russell wasn't far away. Bugs in his backpack, sand in his toothpaste, a toy snake in his nightstand. Worst of all was when he learned that Russell could sew. He'd sewn all of Greg's underwear together.

He wanted to report all of this to Marty, but he didn't dare give either of them the satisfaction. He just accepted Simon's help getting rid of the evidence and moved on. Bunkmates, Simon would say, and it would genuinely make Greg smile. Greg didn't shirk his studies for the play. In drama class, he was by far the loudest and the most expressive. He knew he was a shoo-in for the prince. He just needed to seal the deal.

He couldn't understand why people were laughing, but he was getting a reaction. The evening before auditions, Greg and Simon sat on the sandbar of Lake Tomatachi, talking shop. Simon shuddered. That thing is so creepy. Greg followed his gaze. There was an electric blue port-a-potty at the edge of the forest. Marty explained that, because the cabins were so far from the sandbar, they'd installed a blue box in case of emergencies. Greg felt unease, nodding his guts.

It was fact those things contained all kinds of sickness and disease, and they stank. No one with any sense would ever use one of them. At least, that's what his mom said. Those things really give me the heebie-jeebies, Greg said. I wouldn't go inside of that thing in a thousand years. Behind them, a tall fathead with a red mullet burst from the bushes. Really? The heebie-jeebies? He lifted Greg by the shirt, grinning from ear to ear.

You don't say! He hauled Greg in the direction of the electric blue germ box. Greg pumped the brakes, digging his bare feet deep into the dirt. His shoes were far behind next to Simon. No, he thought. No, my bare feet can't touch that floor in there. No! Put me down, fathead! Greg shouted. Simon on his heels echoed. Put him down, fathead! Russell backhanded Simon, sending his glasses flying. The boy quickly shuffled to all fours, searching madly for them.

Greg tried to put up a fight, but Russell shook him like a sack of marshmallows. His brain careened in his skull, making him see double. The door of the germ box swung open. No! Greg cried. Please, Russell! No! Russell threw him inside and shut the door. Greg kicked and yelled, but it wouldn't budge. He heard Russell laughing as he shoved something against the door, blocking it good. Greg's bare feet touched the floor.

Germs, he thought. I can feel the germs between my toes. He screamed. Simon! Help! I'm running for Marty, Greg! No you don't, snitch. Two sets of running feet faded away. Whatever trapped him was jammed solid. He wanted to hyperventilate, but he didn't dare breathe. The toxic fumes might kill him. Actually, he thought, it didn't smell too bad. It was relatively clean for what it was, but grime began to seep between his bare toes.

What would the prince do? He thought. He raised the toilet lid. Some brave souls had definitely been here already. Waste floated in the blue liquid below. He gagged, slamming it closed. Anger welled inside of him. I wish Russell would just... disappear. There was a knock. Greg looked at the door. Maybe someone heard him screaming. Hello? Can you help me? There was another knock. It hadn't come from the outside. It came from the toilet.

From under the seat. He hesitated, his heart thudding in his neck. Hello? The knock came again, louder. Greg lifted the lid. There was a woman down there looking up at him. Her long, wet hair knotted in clumps, and her skin was stained, a dark blue. She smiled thinly. Hello? Greg wanted to scream, but he couldn't. Her head bobbed out of the toilet bowl into the light. He backed as far away as he could, but they were basically face to face.

Who are you? He uttered. The lady cocked her head to one side, and blue liquid ran from her ear. Greg barely kept from losing his lunch. Her voice was soft. I'm the lady of the lake. I heard your wish. Greg was stunned. My wish? The lady nodded enthusiastically. I can help you. Tell me what you wish, and it will be so. Greg thought of his game. Was this his chance to grab the star?

With Russell out of the way, he'd have no problem impressing Natalie. Fine, Greg said. I... I wish that Russell would disappear. The lady smiled, bowed her head, and disappeared with a splash. Marty Hartman opened the door, holding a large board and a pair of boys' shoes. Are you okay, Gregory? Greg wasn't sure how to answer that. We'll see, he guessed. Russell got a stern talking to about why bullying is bad, but by dinner, he wasn't in trouble anymore.

The fathead smiled at Greg. Greg smiled back. He couldn't help himself. Either he'd gone crazy in the germ box, or, after tonight, Russell wouldn't be a problem. As the bugle woke him, Greg felt wonderful. He looked at where Russell slept. The bed was empty. He got ready fast. There were no bugs in his bag, no snakes in his nightstand, no sand in his toothpaste. When he put on his shoes, there was no shaving cream.

The flag was raised, and they said the Pledge of Allegiance. No Russell in sight. As they split into groups, Greg stopped Marty. Hey, he asked. Where's Russell? Russell. Marty checked his clipboard. Um, I'm sorry? Who? Greg blinked. Russell. Marty checked his clipboard again. Who? Greg smiled. Oh, no one important. That day was amazing. With no fathead interference, he was able to put in some time with Natalie. She didn't seem all that interested in talking.

In fact, she seemed to try and avoid Greg, but Greg was confident that that would change soon. At auditions, Natalie killed it, drawing applause from the entire crowd. She was a shoo-in for the part of the damsel. Greg put in the performance of a lifetime. He didn't just pretend to be the prince. He was the prince. Instead of a standing ovation, people laughed. He didn't understand what they thought was so funny.

Still, he was confident. That night, he had two sloppy joes to celebrate. It wasn't long before Marty posted the roles on the squirrel bulletin board. Bodies buzzed excitedly around the results. Greg couldn't see through them, but it was clear by murmurs that Natalie got the part of the damsel. To his confusion, a lot of people were congratulating Simon. He supposed that Simon got the part he wanted. Borkley, the comic relief. He shoved through the crowd and scanned the list for his name, but there had been some mistake.

Simon Biles, the prince, Gregory Gaspard, Borkley. His jaw hit the top of his shoes. How could this happen? Simon, looking dejected, put out a hand to shake. You gave it hell, bunkmate. You'll be an awesome Borkley. Greg stared at the hand. Shaking, he squeezed a bit harder than he intended. Congrats, pal. He hid the storm cloud in his heart. He needed to walk, clear his head, and then, the storm cloud had a flash of lightning.

Lake Tomatachi. The sandbar. He went straight to the germ box, locking the door behind him. The darkness magnified the smell. He was terrified, but he was out of options. Simon had simply forced his hand. He lifted the lid of the toilet, swatting the fetid air. Tentatively, he said, I wish I was the lead in the camp play. The stark outline of a head, dripping blue liquid, floated out of the toilet bowl.

Is that so? Greg swallowed hard. Yep. Before, when he'd made his wish, she disappeared almost immediately. This time, she lingered, floating ghostly quiet. Greg could hear his breathing. After an eon, she cut the silence. Anything else? The words surprised Greg. Yeah, I suppose. There's this girl. Natalie Carver. I wish she liked me. A lot. She gave a low bow. Then, disappeared. Greg quickly shut the lid. Well, he said to no one.

That's that. He crept back to Squirrel Lodge. Among the kids running wild, Simon was talking to Natalie. She was smiling at him. Greg had had enough. He left and went to bed. He tossed and turned for a long time, wrestling with the night's events. When he finally dreamed, he was at one of his dad's golf tournaments. His swing was perfect. The ball plunked into the electric blue germ box. Hole in one.

The bugle sounded and everyone rose to greet the day. Except Simon. A medical emergency was declared. Simon was wheeled out of the cabin by EMS. His glasses dropped from his face skittering on the ground. Greg picked them up. Simon reached out to him with a red and white striped hand. He was striped like that all over his entire body. Thanks, bunkmate, Simon said, weakly putting on his glasses. He gave Greg a pitiful smile.

Even his teeth were striped. The ambulance doors were shut and the vehicle roared away. Greg felt genuinely terrible about what he'd done until he locked eyes with Natalie Carver. She looked at him in a way that made steam whistle out of his ears. Marty walked up to him, shaking his head and looking at his clipboard. Sorry to ask like this, he said. I know he was your friend, but the show must go on.

It's what Simon would have wanted. How do you feel about being the prince? Greg's eyes never left Natalie's. Yes, he said. I think Simon would want that. Marty checked something off his clipboard enthusiastically. Fantastic! During activities, Greg and Natalie were inseparable. Instead of participating, they doted on each other, laughing at everything the other said. More than once, camp counselors had to separate them. During the afternoon break, they stole away to a secret alcove near Lake Tomatachi, far from camp counselors' eyes.

Oh, Greg, Natalie said. I don't know what it is about you. You're just so funny. Greg shrugged. What can I say, m'lady? Natalie lost it. Greg laughed himself. He was pretty funny. It's too bad, she moped. In a few days, I'll have to go back home and you'll have to go back home and we'll probably never see each other again. Greg had other plans. They locked eyes for a long time. Never say never.

They kissed. It was just one and it was over fast, but to Greg, it lasted a lifetime. He felt woozy as they rubbed noses. We better get back, he said. They'll be looking for us soon. I know, Natalie said, tittering. We're so bad. They walked, holding hands, the sandbar crunching under their feet. The germ box loomed ahead. I'll catch up, Greg said. I, uh, need to pee. Oh, Natalie said. I can wait on you.

Uh, don't be ridiculous. I'll catch up. She hesitated, not wanting to move. Then she gave up, pouting. Fine, but seriously, don't take too long. I'll miss you, she sulked away. Greg went into the germ box and locked the door. I wish, I never had to go home. He raised the toilet seat. She smiled up at him, content not to come up. You sure about that? She asked. Greg cleared his throat. Yes.

Yes. The lady nodded, then sank into the dirty abyss. That night, Greg's dreams were filled with hand-holding, hugs, and best of all, kisses. He got his star power up. He was unstoppable. No bugle screeched that morning. Instead, Greg was called into Marty's office. He thought maybe he and Natalie were in trouble, but Marty looked too grave for that. Gregory, he said, tears welling in his eyes. I really don't know how to say this.

Greg grew impatient, ready to spend the day with Natalie, ready for another kiss. Well, spit it out already. Marty blew his nose. I'm so sorry. We got a call that your father crashed his helicopter. Your parents are. Greg sank in his chair. Marty handed him a tissue. Greg looked at it, not sure what to do with it, not sure about anything. Eventually, he was able to speak. I, I need, I need to go home.

Marty winced. Actually, Greg's eyes went wide. What? Your neighbor called. There was a fire, something electrical. Your house was totally destroyed. Greg laughed, unbelieving. It wasn't a happy laugh. Marty shook his head. I'm sorry, Gregory. I can counsel you through this. Do you need a hug? Greg crumpled the tissue in his hand. No. What, what am I supposed to do? Well, you can stay here. We have everything you need. No, Greg shouted.

Now, Gregory, Marty said. It's lovely in the winter. This wasn't the deal, he shouted. She tricked me. Marty's mustache twitched. Who tricked you? Greg stormed out. Gregory, Marty shouted. Come back. I'm not finished counseling you. Greg almost sprinted past the kids saying the Pledge of Allegiance. Natalie seized him by the arm. She had a crazy look in her eye. Greg, don't you ever scare me like that again. Where were you? Get off me, he yelled, pulling away.

Natalie's face went from hurt to fury to pleading to love. I'll never leave you, Greg. What's wrong? Let me help you. Greg was crying. Leave me alone. He ran towards Lake Tomotachi, Natalie close behind him. She was frothing mad. Greg, don't you run from me. You can't get away from me. He locked himself in the germ box. She pulled and banged and even headbutted the door. Get out here so I can help you, she shouted as her claws scraped down the electric blue plastic.

The smell was horrible. Greg lifted the lid, releasing a swarm of flies. Get out here, he commanded. A face bobbed out of the blue liquid, floating among the waste. It was grinning with thin, sharp teeth. Marty mewled outside. Greg, come out here. Let me counsel you. The box shook as Natalie assaulted it. He could see her wild eyes through the crack. It wouldn't be long before she pulled the door off the hinges.

Greg! When Greg turned back to the lady, her head stuck high out of the bowl. She seemed to bulge from under there, barely contained. She was big, he realized. He wondered, with some horror, what she'd look like hauled up on land. Gills ran the length of her serpentine neck. You called? You cheated, he said. My wish didn't come true. Her blue tongue licked dripping liquids from her lips. You wished you didn't have to go home.

The door flexed, the plastic nearly buckling. His parents, his house, this camp. It was all too much for him. He had to escape. He wanted out. He looked at the lady, his voice a fury. Get me out of here! She cocked her head. Are you sure about that? Greg gestured behind him. Yes! I wish I could disappear! The lady's pupils grew massive. Very well. Her head lurched forward, biting into his fingers.

Shocked, Greg screamed as the needle-like teeth sank into his knuckles. Her gills opened and she blew ultramarine liquid everywhere. Slowly, she slid into the toilet bowl, cackling as she did. Greg pulled and protested, but she wouldn't let him go. He reached for the handle, but he was already too far. He flailed madly as he was pulled into the darkness, into a sea of ultramarine blue. The bowl muffled his screams as he slipped.

Marty mewled from the outside. Greg? Let me counsel you! Natalie screeched. Greg! Let me help you! The lady slid below the surface, her eyes glowing in the dark liquid. Dread seized Greg as the greasy fluid ran up his arm. He squealed as his grip failed and he was pulled fully into the bowl with a great splash. Natalie pulled the door off its hinges, throwing it to the side. Greg was nowhere to be seen.

She and Marty held their noses as they looked down the open lid just in time to see a grouping of bubbles float to the top. One by one, they popped and the waste floating on the blue sea grew deathly still.