The Doll that Waved Goodbye Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction

  ONE HUNDRED WORDS

  DON’T LET THE BEDBUG BITE

  PICKLED

  DEAD END

  MEET THE PARENTS

  THE DOLL THAT WAVED GOODBYE

  Michael Dahl Tells All

  Glossary

  Discussion Questions

  Writing Prompts

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Dear Reader,

  I LIVE IN A HAUNTED HOUSE.

  Not everyone believes me, but I’ve seen the ghost. Her name is Helen. One night I stood at the end of my hallway and saw Helen glide into my bedroom.

  That’s the only word for it. Glide.

  I slept on the couch that night.

  The previous owners told me Helen’s name. They did not tell me what she looked like. I found that out for myself.

  It seems we all find out what scares us when we are alone.

  Now it’s your turn to be alone. Alone with this book. Just you and the pages and the stories. You’ll find out what scares the people in these stories.

  At the same time, you might also find out what scares you…

  Nobody believes me. But I still have to tell someone, anyone. You. Whoever is reading this, PLEASE READ CAREFULLY.

  Our brains are falling apart.

  Doctors don’t know what to call it. Kids call it “Zombie Creep.” It started in Iceland. Now it’s everywhere. You get it from breathing the same air as a sick person. Your brain gets smaller and smaller. You can tell you have it because it rots your thinking. Your words.

  Soon you can only use a few words at a time. Only a hundred each day! But there’s a cure. All you have to do is

  “Bedbug! Bedbug!” shouted the little boy.

  “That’s just Norman’s way of saying he doesn’t want to go to bed,” his mother, Mrs. Brocken, explained to the babysitter.

  “Bedbug!” Norman said again.

  “He’s been saying that ever since the other night,” said Mrs. Brocken. “My husband told him, ‘Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.’”

  “Bite! Bite!” said Norman.

  “You can ignore him, Cleo,” Mrs. Brocken said. “Put him to bed right at eight o’clock.”

  Norman sobbed.

  Cleo Henderson babysat for all the families in the neighborhood. This was the first time she had been hired by the Brockens.

  Norman was cute. He had curly red hair and bright-blue eyes. But now his eyes were filling up with tears. Baby tears. And Cleo hated baby tears. She felt helpless whenever she saw them. She knew that being the babysitter meant that she was in charge. But baby tears always got to her.

  “Maybe we can stay up and read a story if he has trouble sleeping?” asked Cleo, looking at Mrs. Brocken.

  “Bedtime is eight o’clock,” said Mrs. Brocken firmly. She stepped into her fancy shoes and checked her hair in the hallway mirror. Then Mr. Brocken came down the stairs. He was wearing a nice suit and tie.

  Mr. Brocken looked at his crying child. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Bedbugs?”

  “I don’t know why you ever said that to him,” said Mrs. Brocken.

  “Everybody says it,” snapped Mr. Brocken. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Bedbug! Bedbug!” yelled the red-faced Norman.

  “Does he think there are real bugs in his bed?” asked Cleo. She could understand Norman’s terror if he had seen an actual bug in his bed. Cleo hated bugs, too. She hated all creepy-crawly things.

  “Who knows what’s going on in his little brain,” Mrs. Brocken said, picking up her purse.

  “Bite! Bite!” screamed Norman.

  Mr. Brocken threw up his arms. “That’s enough, Norman!” he shouted.

  Both Cleo and Norman were surprised. Norman even stopped crying.

  “I’m going up there right now to prove that there are no — I repeat no — bedbugs!” Mr. Brocken continued. “And then you are going to bed!” He angrily marched up the stairs, and Cleo heard a door bang shut.

  The house was totally quiet. Then Mrs. Brocken said, “See, Norman? See what you’ve done? You made your daddy really mad and ruined —”

  Suddenly, a terrible scream came from upstairs. It came from Norman’s room.

  Mrs. Brocken raced upstairs, followed closely by Cleo, who held onto Norman’s hand.

  When they opened the bedroom door, they found Mr. Brocken lying quietly on Norman’s bed. He looked like he was fast asleep.

  “What are you doing?” asked Mrs. Brocken. “Why did you scream?”

  Mr. Brocken didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

  But the pillow under his head moved. A hairy black arm, about seven feet long, crept out from under the pillow. Then a second arm reached out from the other side.

  Two see-through wings, like giant tennis rackets, sprung up on either side of the mattress. The legs of the bed began to shake. A loud hum filled the air.

  Cleo couldn’t look away from the horrible scene. Mrs. Brocken screamed. The giant bug was shaking so much now that Mr. Brocken’s shoes came off his feet and slid across the bug’s smooth, inky shell and down to the bedroom floor.

  Then the wings flapped. The bedbug scurried over to the open bedroom window, put its long front feelers on the sill, and leaped into the air. The awful creature flew around the Brockens’ backyard. Mr. Brocken still lay quietly, as if glued to the bug’s back. With a loud buzz, the bug flew above the roof and was lost in the starry night sky.

  “Bedbug! Bedbug!” said Norman.

  Cleo hugged the little boy. He squirmed in her arms and pointed, but not at the window this time. He pointed toward a dark corner of the bedroom. Cleo saw five or six large white shapes, as round as basketballs, nestled in the corner.

  They were eggs. And their shells were starting to crack.

  It was Tom’s idea to take the shortcut home on the last day of school.

  Gus, Raymond, and I followed him out of the school building, past the buses, past the screaming kids. He led us into the woods behind the school. It was faster than walking through the neighborhood and much cooler than taking the bus.

  We had heard stories about the woods. Grown-ups said there had been a farm there years ago. A tornado had ripped through the town, across the fields, and swept up the farmer, his family, and his entire house. There was nothing left but a few lost pigs and a cow. Trees and weeds took over the abandoned fields. No one ever moved in.

  Now kids said the woods were haunted.

  As we walked through the trees, pushing branches out of the way, Gus said, “I bet this place is haunted.” He was always saying the obvious.

  “Watch out for the bloody farmer,” Tom called from up ahead. “He hides up in the trees, waiting for a victim.”

  “To eat?” asked Gus.

  “That reminds me,” I said. “I still have some lunch left. Anyone want a pickle?”

  No one was hungry.

  Tom and Raymond went ahead to explore, while Gus and I walked slowly.

  The woods were thicker than I’d expected. Darker, too. We all froze when Raymond suddenly shouted, “You guys! Come quick!”

  He was standing in a small clearing up ahead, pointing at the ground. He had a rip in his jeans and dirt all over his face.

  “You have dirt all over your face,” said Gus.

  “I know, I know,” said Raymond. “Look what I tripped over.�
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  He pointed to a flat piece of wood in the dirt. A rusty metal handle stuck out of it. It looked like part of an old door.

  “The door to the old farmer’s house,” whispered Tom.

  “The house that was wrecked by the tornado?” asked Gus.

  Raymond stood over the metal handle and kicked away some dirt with his shoe. “It’s bigger,” he said. We all joined in, digging and kicking at the dirt. After a minute we had uncovered the whole door.

  Tom knelt down and looked hard at the handle. Underneath it was a small, round keyhole. Tom put his face close to the keyhole. He glanced up at me with a funny look.

  “Garvey,” he whispered. He always called me by my last name. “Put your hand over this.”

  I bent down and held out my hand. I felt a cool stream of air escape from the rusty keyhole.

  Tom stood up. “This ain’t just a door,” he said. “I mean, this is a real door. A door with something behind it.”

  “It’s a storm shelter,” said Gus. We all stared at him. None of us had heard Gus actually come up with an idea before. “Where you hide from a tornado,” he explained. “My great-grandma has one under her house.”

  A shelter. Where the farmer and his family hid during the storm years ago. We were all thinking the same thing. No one wanted to say it out loud. Dead bodies.

  “Or it could be a root cellar,” Gus said. “My great-grandma puts stuff in jars and keeps them in a different cellar.”

  “Preserves,” said Raymond.

  Gus nodded. “Like pickles and apples and jelly and stuff.”

  “Or maybe,” said Tom, “it’s buried treasure.” He leaned down, gripped the handle, and pulled open the door. We all stepped back.

  A wave of cool air rushed up out of the hole. Old wooden steps led down into darkness.

  “It’s dark down there,” said Gus.

  “Who wants to go first?” Raymond asked. No one spoke.

  “Tom opened it,” I said.

  “Garvey’s not scared,” Tom said, still holding the door. “He’ll go.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. Now I had to go.

  I walked to the top of the steps. It was impossible to see anything down there. I took a step down.

  “See anything?” asked Gus.

  “I’m not even down there yet,” I said.

  I took a few more steps. It was still too dark to see. It felt cooler.

  The smell wasn’t bad. It reminded me of how the grass smells after my dad mows the lawn. But there was another smell, too. It smelled like there might be animals down here.

  My eyes were getting used to the darkness. I heard something squeak.

  “Any treasure?” Gus called from above.

  I heard a hiss from below. Then a word. “Ssssafe,” I thought it said.

  I was so scared, I was barely able to talk. “Wh-who’s there?” I said.

  “Is it… safe?” came the voice.

  Someone lit a match, and the light from it blinded me. I saw a candle in midair. Then I saw the hand holding it. A hand that was wrinkly and covered in dirt. It had black fingernails curved like claws.

  “Is the tornado gone?” asked another higher voice.

  Four shadows stood in front of me. It looked like a family. A husband and wife and two children. When my eyes got used to the light, I saw that their skin hung off their bones. I had seen a mummy once on a school field trip to the museum. Their four faces looked like that. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks.

  “That tornado’s bad,” said the man.

  “Good thing we have this shelter,” said the woman.

  “Good thing we have some food down here, too,” said the man. “How bad is it out there, son?” he asked.

  I tried to take a step back, but the stair I was standing on broke, and I fell. “Help!” I shouted.

  I heard Gus scream from above. Tom yelled a curse word and let go of the door. It dropped with a bang, and the whoosh of air made the candle blow out.

  “Help!” I cried again. I could hear my friends shouting to each other as they ran away. I tried backing up the stairs, but they rotted and crumbled into dust. The door was too high to reach. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “You’re safe from the storm down here,” said the farmer.

  “We’ll stay here till it’s all over,” said the farmer’s wife.

  I heard them coming closer. It sounded like their bodies were dragging across the dirt floor.

  There was another voice, quiet and mumbly. I was only able to make out a single word. “Hungry… hungry…”

  The dragging sound came again from the dirt floor.

  “Mumummm… hungry…?”

  The voice sounded much closer. It was the boy. The farmer’s son. Was he going to eat me?

  I heard shuffling and then the sound of metal grind against glass. A lid was being unscrewed. Then I heard the voice again. The boy’s mouth was next to my ear. I could feel his warm, stinky breath.

  “Are you hungry?” said the boy. “Want a pickle?”

  Ren was riding his bicycle late one afternoon when he saw the sign:

  LOSA STREET

  And under that:

  DEAD END

  Never saw that one, he thought.

  New houses were going up all the time in his neighborhood. New houses needed new streets. And new streets were new adventures. Ren turned his bike onto the new road and pedaled faster.

  He counted twenty or so empty, new houses along the way to the dead end. His dad had a fancy word for this kind of dead end — cul-de-sac. In fact, Ren’s family lived on a cul-de-sac. Their house was bunched up with four others around a wide, paved circle.

  Ren loved to ride his bicycle around the circles — especially when he discovered a new one. When he reached the end of Losa Street, he shot around it several times without holding onto the handlebars. He felt like he was flying. Like he had wings.

  Buffalo chicken wings! he thought.

  His mom was making wings for dinner tonight. His favorite. Ren broke out of his circling pattern and headed back, counting the houses as he went.

  He counted up to thirty. Where is that sign? Ren wondered. Shouldn’t I be at the end of the street by now?

  The street curved back and forth without coming to an end. Ren braked suddenly. The road had led him to another cul-de-sac. He must have missed the turn-off.

  Ren headed back, and this time he pedaled harder. The late afternoon sun was setting behind the empty houses. He saw for the first time that all the houses sat behind high chain-link fences. The gates at the end of their driveways had large metal locks holding them closed. The builders probably were trying to keep curious kids away from the half-finished homes.

  Ren slowed down. He couldn’t believe it. He was at another cul-de-sac! It looked exactly like first one he had visited. No… it was the first! He remembered seeing those two pink houses next to each other, with the creepy troll statue in between them. How could he have missed the turn-off a second time?

  Even though the air was cool, Ren was sweating. He circled the dead end and biked back the way he’d come. This time, he rode slower.

  He saw that the addresses started at 40. So he counted the houses along the way as carefully as he could. Ren knew that the addresses should get lower as he got closer to the entrance to the street.

  Where is the sign that says Losa Street? he wondered.

  Finally, Ren saw it. The back of the sign. He rode closer. Wait a second… Ren thought. It was the other sign. DEAD END. And that’s exactly what he found beyond it. The other cul-de-sac.

  It didn’t make sense. A street with two dead ends?

  He had been counting the houses. Reading the shiny new address numbers nailed beside each door. The numbers got lower… 17… 13… 11… 9… 5… then they stopped. And the
re was the dead end.

  But wait! Ren pedaled down the street the other way again, counting the numbers as they got higher. As he pedaled, he saw that the highest address was 37. But Ren was sure that last time he’d pedaled here, the houses had started at 40.

  Ren began to worry. He rode back again, counting the numbers out loud.

  This time, 5 and 9 were gone.

  What’s going on? Houses are vanishing… Ren thought.

  The street was getting shorter. The sun was moving lower in the sky behind the row of empty buildings.

  “Hey!” Ren yelled. His voice echoed along the street.

  He thought he heard dogs barking. Ren followed the sound, but it only led him back to the first cul-de-sac. And he didn’t come across any dogs there.

  Maybe I’m dreaming, Ren thought. Maybe I fell off my bike and hit my head. That’s it! I must be imagining things. If I get off my bike, walk, and take some deep breaths, I’ll feel better.

  He hopped off his bike and began to walk back and forth slowly on the dark street, holding onto the handlebars of his bike. In real life, Ren thought, every street has a beginning and end. It has to. Otherwise, how would people get home?

  When Ren felt a little better, he looked up ahead again. But what he saw was the thing he most feared.

  The street was so short that he could see both cul-de-sacs. They were facing each other. The street was getting narrower, too. The fences on both sides were closer.

  Ren wiped the sweat off his forehead and blinked. When he opened his eyes, there was no longer a street… only one dead end. A high chain-link fence surrounded him. He felt like a bird trapped in a cage.

  Ren dropped his bike onto the asphalt. He ran up to one of the locked gates and shook it. “Hey!” he yelled at the house on the other side. “Hey, someone! Is there someone there?”

  The windows of the house stared back at him like black, empty eyes.

  “Hello? Anyone?” he called.

  Ren thought about climbing the fence. But he looked up and saw there was barbed wire at the top. Plus, he felt so tired.

  Ren turned and walked back to his bike. His bike? It was gone.