08 - The Girl Who Cried Monster Read Free Page B

realized I had forgotten my Rollerblades.
    So I turned around and went back. I wasn’t sure how late the library stayed
open. Mr. Mortman had seemed to be entirely alone in there. I hoped he hadn’t
decided to close up shop early. I really didn’t want to leave my new
Rollerblades in there overnight.
    I stopped and stared up at the old library. Deep in the shade, it seemed to
stare back at me, its dark windows like black, unblinking eyes.
    I climbed the stone steps, then hesitated with my hand on the door. I had a
sudden chill.
    Was it just from stepping into the deep shade?
    No. It was something else.
    I had a funny feeling. A bad feeling.
    I get those sometimes. A signal. A moment of unease.
    Like something bad is about to happen.
    Shaking it off, I pushed open the creaking old door and stepped into the
musty darkness of the library.

 
 
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    Shadows danced across the wall as I made my way to the main room. A tree
branch tapped noisily against the dust-covered pane of a high window.
    The library was silent except for the creaking floorboards beneath my
sneakers. As I entered the main room, I could hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the wall clock.
    The lights had all been turned off.
    I thought I felt something scamper across my shoe.
    A mouse?
    I stopped short and glanced down.
    Just a dustball clinging to the base of a bookshelf.
    Whoa, Lucy, I scolded myself. It’s just a dusty old library. Nothing to get
weird about. Don’t let your wild imagination take off and lead you into trouble.
    Trouble?
    I still had that strange feeling. A gentle but insistent gnawing at my
stomach. A tug at my chest.
    Something isn’t right. Something bad is about to happen.
    People call them premonitions. It’s a good vocabulary word for what I
was feeling right then.
    I found my Rollerblades where I had left them, against the wall back in the
stacks. I grabbed them up, eager to get out of that dark, creepy place.
    I headed quickly back toward the entrance, tiptoeing for some reason. But a
sound made me stop.
    I held my breath. And listened.
    It was just a cough.
    Peering down the narrow aisle, I could see Mr. Mortman hovered over his desk.
Well, actually, I could just see part of him—one arm, and some of his face
when he leaned to the left.
    I was still holding my breath.
    The clock tick-tick-ticked noisily from across the room. Behind his
desk, Mr. Mortman’s face moved in and out of blue-purple shadows.
    The Rollerblades suddenly felt heavy. I lowered them silently to the floor.
Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I took a few steps toward the front.
    Mr. Mortman began humming to himself. I didn’t recognize the song.
    The shadows grew deeper as I approached. Peering down the dark aisle, I saw
him holding a large glass jar between his pudgy hands. I was close enough to see
that he had a pleasant smile on his face.
    Keeping in the shadows, I moved closer.
    I like spying on people. It’s kind of thrilling, even when they don’t do
anything very interesting.
    Just knowing that you’re watching them and they don’t know they’re being
watched is exciting.
    Humming to himself, Mr. Mortman held the jar in front of his chest and
started to unscrew the top. “Some juicy flies, my timid friends,” he announced
in his high-pitched voice.
    So. The jar was filled with flies.
    Suddenly, the room grew much darker as clouds rolled over the late afternoon
sun. The light from the window dimmed. Gray shadows rolled over Mr. Mortman and
his enormous desk, as if blanketing him in darkness.
    From my hidden perch among the shelves, I watched him prepare to feed his
turtles.
    But wait.
    Something was wrong.
    My premonition was coming true.
    Something weird was happening!
    As he struggled to unscrew the jar lid, Mr. Mortman’s face began to change.
His head floated up from his turtleneck and started to expand, like a balloon being inflated.
    I uttered a silent gasp as I saw his tiny eyes poke out of his head. The