Tales From Beyond the Brain Page 5

  Two months earlier she had followed him home from school.

  At first Greg hadn’t minded the company. He had friends, he supposed, but they were the kind of friends who existed only when his parents set up play dates. Let’s go see the Baldersons, his mother would say. And then he would get stuck playing some dumb video game with Aaron Balderson, who had clearly mastered it some time ago and was only playing it because he enjoyed destroying Greg in every way possible. Greg would sit there and grumble while his parents were upstairs having a great time, laughing with Aaron’s parents.

  And then one day he’d heard a feeble “meow” from the bushes.

  Part of Greg’s walk home from school took him past the ravine. You weren’t supposed to go into the ravine on your own, because it was too steep. All the parents in the neighborhood warned their kids that they could trip, break an ankle and get stuck down there. Or worse. This had actually happened to a few kids over the years—kids had wandered into the ravine and then couldn’t get back out. Greg remembered walking home one time and seeing the street by the ravine cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The street had been packed with police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance. Greg couldn’t make out the details through the flashing red lights. Maybe he didn’t want to.

  But the day he’d found the cat, the street along the ravine was calm as usual. There had been no police, no firefighters and no ambulance. Just a pathetic mewing from behind a thatch of tall grass by the side of the path leading down to the ravine. Greg had dropped to his knees and peered into the foliage. A small cat carefully poked her head through the bush and then jumped out and landed on the sidewalk by Greg’s feet. She was white, with orange and black calico patches. Her tail swished back and forth like a rudder. The cat looked up at him and meowed.

  “Meow yourself,” Greg had said. He got up and started heading home. He had made it about half a block when he heard it again.

  “Meow.”

  The cat was still following behind. She quickly caught up to him, looked up and purred.

  Greg bent down. The cat didn’t have a collar. Most cats he’d seen did, in case they got separated from their owners. Not this cat. She just stood there, purring and staring at him with her big eyes. She pawed at his shins like she wanted something. Food, perhaps?

  The cat had followed Greg all the way home. Greg told her to get lost and went inside. But the cat stayed on the front steps, meowing, until Greg’s mother came home from work.

  “What’s that cat doing here?” she had asked.

  “Good question.”

  He told his mother about the cat following him home and refusing to be shooed away.

  His mother smiled. “I’ve always wanted a cat,” she said.

  And so Whiskers was part of the family now. Greg’s mother had named the cat. While she clearly enjoyed having Whiskers around the house, she wasn’t as excited about cleaning up after her. That job fell to Greg.

  Greg took another breath and fished around the litter box for any other presents that Whiskers might have left for him. He felt the scoop connect with something hard and shook the sand away. A flash of chrome shimmered back at him. Greg frowned.

  There was a key in the litter box.

  Greg got a weird feeling that someone was watching him. He turned. Sure enough, the cat was peering out from behind a leg of the kitchen table. Whiskers blinked at him a few times, then rubbed her head against the table leg, marking it with her scent.

  Greg plucked the key out with a thumb and forefinger. He wondered how it had got in there. He imagined Whiskers trying to eat it, but how would that jagged piece of metal make it through a cat’s digestive system? Perhaps it had fallen into the box somehow. Then he realized he was holding something that had been sitting in cat pee. He flung the key across the floor and quickly finished cleaning out the litter box.

  Whiskers padded out from behind the kitchen table and approached the key. She sniffed at it, then looked up at Greg, blinking her eyes a few more times. “Meow?”

  Greg took a paper towel from the sink and used it to pick up the key again. He ran it under the tap and wiped it off with a fresh paper towel.

  Whiskers did a few figure eights around his feet. “Meow?”

  “You are so weird,” Greg said to the cat. He put the key on the kitchen table and went upstairs to do his homework.

  “Why is there a key on the table?” Greg’s father asked when they all sat down for dinner.

  “Isn’t it one of ours?” his mother replied.

  Greg explained where he’d found it.

  His father laughed. “How did Whiskers manage to get this into her litter box?” He dangled the key before the cat. “You find this outside, kitty? You giving Greg some buried treasure? Huh, kitty-kitty?”

  “Meow,” Whiskers replied. Greg could have sworn the cat sounded annoyed.

  Greg’s father set the key down on the tiled floor. Whiskers quickly approached it and then batted it in Greg’s direction.

  Greg’s father laughed.

  “That cat is hilarious!”

  At 7:00 AM Greg’s alarm clock blared to life. His hand automatically shot out to turn it off. He felt something cold and jagged under his fingers. Whatever it was slipped off the top of the clock radio and thunked against his night table.

  Greg rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and blinked the world into focus. He pulled the covers back and reached over. His fingers found the cold, jagged thing. He knew what it was without looking, but he held the key up to his face anyhow, so his eyes would be satisfied.

  Greg lowered his hand. Whiskers sat at the foot of his bed, washing herself. Greg looked from the cat to the key and then back to the cat again.

  Whiskers purred and hopped off the bed.

  Whiskers was waiting on the front steps when Greg got home from school. She lifted a paw to greet him. Greg bent down to scratch the spot behind her ears. He stopped scratching when he saw the key. Again with that key! Did she think it was a toy? He regarded it uneasily. “Did you bring this out here?”

  “Meow.”

  Greg sat down, his head full of questions. Whiskers stuck her bum into the air, stretched her forelegs and then hopped down the steps and across the driveway. She paused by a sidewalk and gave Greg a sideways glance.

  Greg wrinkled his brow. “What, you want me to follow you or something?”

  “Meow.”

  The cat trotted down the sidewalk. Without removing his backpack, Greg pocketed the key and followed Whiskers down the street.

  Every so often the cat stopped and looked back, as if to make sure Greg was still following. Greg soon recognized the route—it was the way he walked home from school every day. A few kids were still slowly ambling to their homes. Some cars passed, but the street was quieter now than during the afternoon rush.

  Whiskers finally stopped. When Greg caught up, the cat did a few figure eights around Greg’s legs.

  Greg picked up the cat and looked around.

  He was standing by the ravine, in the spot where he had found the cat.

  “Meow.” Whiskers pawed at Greg’s chin. He put her down, and she immediately scampered away, disappearing through the thick grass.

  “Whiskers!”

  Greg waited for her to return. A few more cars passed by. From somewhere in the thick forest beyond came the call. “Meow.”

  How was he going to explain this? They’d only had the cat for a short time, and already she had run away. Greg’s mom was going to freak out.

  Unless he went down there and brought Whiskers back.

  Greg stepped past the bushes, then suddenly stopped. The ravine dropped down steeply fifty feet or more. Overhead foliage blotted out all but a few patches of sunlight. There was a small creek at the bottom, where Greg could see a small white animal lapping at the sparkling water.

  Whiskers.

  Greg tried to step down sideways, but his foot slipped, and he landed on his butt. He felt the mud seeping into his pants and cursed.
Whiskers, finally noticing him, slowly turned and traipsed along the ravine floor, disappearing around a bend in the path.

  Greg took hold of some tree roots protruding from the mud and pulled. The roots extended deep into the ground, and they would hold Greg’s weight just fine.

  Slowly, carefully, he made his descent.

  “Whiskers! Where are you?”

  Greg held his hands to his mouth to amplify his voice. He’d been down here for half an hour at least. His clothes were dirty. Sweat had made them stick to his skin. He was going to have to give up looking for the cat soon and get back home. His parents would be wondering where he was.

  He told himself he would round one more bend along the path at the bottom of the ravine and then give up the search for that day. Who knew? Maybe Whiskers would follow him back home again. Maybe she’d even be waiting for him at the foot of the front steps.

  Around the bend Greg spotted an old wooden shed wedged under a few mature trees. It wouldn’t have been visible from the top of the ravine, as the trees hid it from view. The only way to actually see it was to be down here at the bottom.

  Standing majestically at the door was Whiskers.

  Greg breathed a sigh of relief and splashed through the puddles to scoop up the cat. He no longer cared that he would be walking home with a pair of soakers.

  The cat safely in his arms, Greg took another look at the shed. It wasn’t much bigger than the kind of pre-made backyard shed you might find at a hardware store, large enough to hold maybe a small bench with some tools. There were no windows.

  What the heck was a shed doing here?

  Curiosity got the better of him. He put Whiskers down, hoping she wouldn’t run off again, and inspected the shed more closely.

  “Hello?” he asked. “Anyone home?” He knocked on the door. There was no answer.

  Whiskers nudged the door. “Meow.”

  “Is there something in there you want?”

  A latched bolt had been fixed to the door. A heavy padlock kept the bolt in place.

  Whiskers stood on her hind legs and stretched, her front paws, reaching for Greg’s pant pocket.

  Greg stood there in disbelief. “The key?” he asked the cat, immediately thinking himself stupid for asking an animal to confirm his suspicions. “This key opens the door?”

  Whiskers got back down on all fours, tail swishing behind her, and regarded him.

  “Meow.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  But the cat just stared patiently ahead.

  Greg slid the key into the padlock. He gave it a twist and heard an audible click. “Hey, what do you know?” He smiled and looked at Whiskers again. She licked a paw and rubbed one of her ears. Greg removed the lock and slid the latch open.

  He stood there a moment in front of that shed, alone in the woods. Well, not totally alone. Whiskers was there. But she didn’t count. She was only a stupid cat.

  Greg shrugged and opened the door.

  Instantly he gagged. The shed smelled bad. He couldn’t identify what it was that stank. Sure, there was the pungent odor of the old wood it was made from, and something growing and mossy. Maybe fungus?

  No. It was more than that. The shed smelled of something organic. Like an animal. A dead, rotting animal.

  But where? The cabin was dark. There were no windows. The only light that entered came from the door, now half-closed, and the tiny cracks between the wooden boards of the walls.

  Greg stepped inside. The floor creaked.

  What was that smell?

  “Meow?”

  “Not now, Whiskers.”

  Greg extended his arms, trying to feel his way around the shed.

  His foot connected with something. Greg bent down and felt a familiar texture—denim. But these jeans were wet. Greg pulled his hands away and ran his thumb over his fingers. Now his hands were cold and sticky and smelled bad.

  As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Greg began to make out more lumps, all of which appeared to be clothing. A few pairs of pants. Some shoes. And shirts. And jackets. And—

  “Meow.”

  She was licking the wet stuff from his fingertips.

  “Whiskers, please!”

  Greg pushed the cat away, trying to take it all in. That’s when he realized the clothes weren’t strewn about aimlessly. They’d been pieced together, almost as if they were meant to be worn as sets of clothes. All they were missing was their owners. So what was holding them together?

  Gingerly Greg reached out his hand and touched the jeans again. He felt something solid inside and jerked his hand away. His stomach took a nosedive. “Oh no,” he gasped.

  He straightened quickly, his mind swirling with images of police tape and ambulances. He remembered the news reports about children who had gone missing in the ravine and never been found. As he made his way back to the door, his foot knocked against one of the shoes, taking it right off and exposing something withered. Something that had once been alive. In the dim light of the shed he realized he was looking at toes, only they were white and thin, with little speckles of red.

  Suddenly the door creaked shut. Greg thought he saw something cat-shaped leaping away.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Greg grasped the door. But it was locked. How could it be? He’d just unlocked it. But then he felt the familiar outline of the padlock.

  The padlock was on the inside of the door?

  Greg felt for the key he hoped would still be inside the lock. Nothing.

  In the darkness, Greg could feel Whiskers circling around his legs in figure eights.

  She was purring.

  A KERNEL TAKES ROOT

  There was definitely something stuck between Jamie’s teeth.

  Jamie was pretty sure it was the husk of a popcorn kernel from the night before. He’d stayed up late watching scary movies and devoured that entire bag of buttery, puffed goodness.

  It didn’t feel like a whole kernel, just a piece of one that had popped open. It was lodged between two of his upper teeth and had been bothering him all day. Every time Jamie swallowed, his tongue brushed against the sharp edge of the kernel, slicing his taste buds.

  Kernels were the worst! Oh, Jamie supposed they had some kind of purpose. Everything had a purpose. Without kernels, there would be no seeds for the corn to take root. Without corn, there would be no popcorn. And without popcorn, what kind of scary-movie night would it be?

  By the end of the school day, Jamie’s tongue was raw and swollen from grazing the kernel’s razor-like edge.

  It bothered him all afternoon and during dinner and all evening. When it was time for bed, Jamie realized he was going to have to break out the dreaded dental floss. He marched up to the bathroom, pulled a long stretch of waxed thread off the roll and wound it around his fingers until the tips turned white.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Where are you?” he asked, studying his open mouth hard to locate the kernel. A dark blotch between his incisor and cuspid caught Jamie’s eye. Aha! He raised the length of floss to his mouth, pulled it tight and shoved it between his teeth.

  “Gotcha!”

  Jamie pulled the floss back and forth through the narrow gap between his teeth. As soon as that darned thing popped out, Jamie would spit it down the drain and never be bothered by it again.

  But suddenly the floss snapped in two. A mix of saliva and food bits spattered against the mirror.

  Jamie frowned. He took half of the used floss, wrapped it around his fingers again and tried to rid himself of the kernel once more.

  And once more the floss snapped.

  Was there something to this flossing business that Jamie wasn’t getting? He wedged the last piece of floss between his teeth and pulled sharply on it. The floss shot up and sliced against his tender gums. Jamie let out a yelp of pain.

  Again the floss was severed. Dejected, Jamie pulled out the two bloodied strands and tossed them to the floor.

  He leaned toward the
mirror and bared his teeth like some kind of tormented animal. Where was that kernel? Did he need to get a toothpick? See a dentist even? Jamie shuddered. If there was one thing he hated more than flossing, it was the dentist. That was because the dentist didn’t just floss but also took out the sharp-pointed scraper and dragged it against Jamie’s teeth. The thought alone gave Jamie goose bumps. Unfortunately, this was a job that only the scraper could handle. Jamie was sure of it now. He was—

  Jamie stared at his reflection in the mirror. He blinked and then stared again. Somehow he could see the kernel now, like the thing had moved. Like it had pushed itself to the front of his teeth. Or grown.

  Jamie ran his tongue along the kernel one more time, and yes, it caused him pain, and yes, the thing felt bigger.

  He tucked his throbbing tongue to the back of his mouth and leaned closer to the mirror.

  With a shaking hand, Jamie dug his fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his lips open.

  It wasn’t a kernel. Jamie could see that now. The thing wedged between his teeth was growing right before his eyes. And Jamie knew what it was.

  It was a tooth.

  A new tooth, to be sure. But not like any of his own. This one was yellow and twisted and sharp.

  Not a tooth then. A fang.

  Growing fangs was plain ridiculous. It wasn’t real. It was the kind of thing you imagined after staying up late and eating far too much popcorn.

  Jamie decided to simply ignore the fang for now. Maybe it would be gone in the morning. Maybe this was just his brain playing tricks on him. He rinsed his mouth one last time to wash away the blood, turned off the light in the bathroom and went to bed.

  He pulled the covers up to his neck. He was feeling a little bit dizzy. The skin on his face seemed cold and clammy. Maybe he was coming down with a cold or some kind of virus.

  Jamie turned off his bedroom light and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  The alarm clock blared to life.

  Jamie opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed into his bedroom through gaps between the blinds. He pulled himself out of bed and let his feet thud against the floor with greater force than usual.