The Curse on Spectacle Key, page 3
I stomped down the staircase, hopping over the one step with the crack down the middle, and ran to the door. Mary Shelley crowded me on the stairs until I let her pass, then she flopped onto the last two steps and decided to take a nap. I jumped over her and opened the door—but no one was there. I scanned the walkway to the lighthouse for a moment, but the only things I saw were the palm trees that lined it, flapping wildly in the stiff ocean breeze.
I closed the door, took a few steps back into the lighthouse, then heard knocking again.
“Mary Shelley, here, girl,” I said, nervous now. Not that she would ever hurt a person, but she was so huge she’d intimidate anyone. Except Mary Shelley only opened one eye when I called her name. She looked at me for a second before falling right back asleep.
Worst guard dog ever, I thought. Whoever it was knocked over and over again, in a heartbeat rhythm. My own heart thudded wildly. Knocking like that was a creepy thing to do for sure. I grabbed an umbrella from the stand beside the door, ready to swing it at someone if necessary. I took a deep breath and yanked open the door, hoping to be quick enough to catch whoever had decided to play “ding-dong-ditch” on me.
“Gotcha!” I shouted.
But again, nobody was there. I took a step outside and the air felt warm, and so humid it was thick enough to slice with a knife. Even so, the hairs on my arms stood on end, like they do when it’s chilly. I waited there for a minute or two, listening to the palms knocking together and the waves crashing ashore in the distance. That’s when I heard it.
A sigh.
“Who’s there?” I whispered. A fruity scent filled the air. There were fruit trees all over the island—mango, papaya, guanabana, banana. Maybe that’s where the smell was coming from?
Then I heard it again, another sigh, soft as a cat’s purr, and with it that same sweet smell. Mom called my name, making me jump a foot in the air, then both the sound and aroma disappeared.
I stood there for a minute before shutting the door. In the books I read, this was usually the part when one of the minor characters decides to follow the sound or the smell, and always ends up possessed by ghosts, or taken by vampires, or on the menu at a swamp monster’s deli. Not the main character, though—the main character always thinks things through a little more carefully.
I’m no side character, I decided.
“Frankie! Don’t make me wear out your name, mister!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I called, closing the door and joining Mom in the kitchen. There were boxes everywhere. Mom had pulled the ancient oven back from the wall to reveal a cemetery of dried-out lizards, bees, and roaches. She handed me a broom. “Be my knight in shining armor, will you, Frankie?”
“Ew,” I muttered, and got to work, sweeping all the dead things out from behind the oven.
“Who was at the door?” Mom asked as she watched me work. She opened a can of orange soda and gulped it down. Sweat ran down her temples.
“Nobody,” I answered, just as a real live lizard skittered over my feet and dashed for a new dark corner to inhabit.
Mom stopped mid-swallow and sputtered. “Nobody?”
“Nope,” I said. “I think someone was playing ding-dong-ditch.”
“Who would be on the key besides us?” Mom wondered. She grabbed a new orange soda from the fridge and handed it to me, then peered out the window as if she might catch whoever was playing a prank on us. “We might could’ve just moved to Miami Beach,” she muttered to herself.
Whenever Mom said “might could’ve” instead of just plain “could have,” I knew she was frustrated. I brushed the last of the dead things onto a dustpan.
“At least it wasn’t one of those Historical Association of Unique National Treasures people,” Mom said casually, as if she hadn’t just rattled off the longest proper noun in the history of proper nouns.
“The Historical what now?” I asked. A dead lizard fell out of the dustpan and landed on the stove.
Mom took a deep breath. “They’re called HAUNT for short. It’s a group that’s very interested in our moving here. They’ve got a bee in their bonnet about the lighthouse being ‘a particularly important building of interest,’ or some such thing. Guess who their president is?”
I shrugged.
“Ms. Emily Shiverton!”
“The Flippy lady?” I asked. I couldn’t believe she was a real person!
“Well, I told Ms. Flippy herself that we were just going to live in the lighthouse and get that lamp going again. She left in a huff. You missed her visit earlier this morning. Eight a.m. is not a decent hour to go knocking on somebody’s door.”
We heard a clatter coming from upstairs, and Papi started cursing.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’d better see what’s going on up there,” she said with a roll of her eyes. She wiped a dribble of orange soda off my cheek.
“C’mon, Mary Shelley,” I said as I started to climb the stairs behind Mom. Mary Shelley stood, shook her huge gray head, and sent drool flying everywhere before following. The stairs curled up the side of the wall, past the second floor, where my parents’ bedroom was, past the third, where my room sat, beyond the fourth, where they’d set up a TV room, and then to the top, where the lamp was.
“Me caso en la madre de—” Papi was saying when we got to the top. He stopped just short of cursing when he saw that we’d joined him.
“What happened now?” Mom asked.
“First of all, my favorite hammer has gone missing. Just up and disappeared. Yesterday it was a screwdriver, and this morning my second-favorite hammer went missing. And mira,” Papi said, pointing to the crack in the lamp’s glass, which seemed to have gotten even longer.
Mom whistled. “The hits just keep on coming.” Papi shot her a look, but he bit his tongue.
“Can you fix it?” I asked.
Papi shook his head. “I don’t know, Frank.”
Mom walked around the lamp, her fingers touching the glass lightly. “Such a pretty girl. I wish we could make her shine again,” she said with a sigh.
I jumped as Papi slammed his toolbox shut.
“I’m trying, okay,” he said.
“I didn’t mean to suggest—” Mom started to explain. But Papi brushed past us both, his toolbox banging against the stair’s handrails as he went.
Mom and I stood there beside the dead lamp. Outside, the sea churned angrily, and dark clouds gathered, as if the whole world felt the way we did—frustrated and sad.
“I should start dinner,” Mom said. “Go take a break upstairs, mister. If you read, turn your light on. I’ll make meat loaf for dinner, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
My bedroom window was open, and I could smell the sea, salty and thick. It had started to rain. It seemed to rain on the island all the time, but when I’d look at the weather app on my mom’s phone, the other keys were bone dry. Just our luck, we moved to the rainiest island in the Keys. There was a new stack of scary novels on my nightstand, courtesy of Pop-Pop, who knew what I liked. I propped one open—The Bloody Plumber—and tried to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. Mom and Papi were arguing about the cost of a new air conditioner downstairs, and I could hear them clearly. Plus, there was a scratching sound right behind me. Papi was sure we had a colony of bats making their home in the lighthouse walls. I closed the book and looked out to where the lonely, abandoned building sat. A light flashed in one of the windows. There and gone so fast I thought that I had imagined it.
I remembered the ding-dong-ditcher and Papi’s missing tools, and a thought settled over me, cold as an ice cube shoved down the back of my shirt.
What if that run-down place isn’t empty?
I shuddered and slammed my window shut, just in case.
Chapter 5
A Name in the Sand
In the morning, I took Mary Shelley out on a long walk, keeping close to the lighthouse. I didn’t use a leash, because Mary Shelley was a good dog and because there wasn’t ever anybody but us around. She usually stayed by me, nosing me in the ribs if she thought I was walking too slowly.
My left pocket was stuffed with old plastic grocery bags tied into knots to pick up her giant poops. Cleaning up after a Great Dane is no joke. If a genie ever showed up during our walks, I’d probably waste one of my three wishes turning Mary Shelley into a Chihuahua.
Less food in, less you-know-what out.
In my right pocket, I carried a fistful of candy. Mom always said I had a “tooth so sweet it gives cavities to people near you, mister.” Cavities shmavities. Who could resist a deliciously chewy caramel? Or a glossy, perfect gummy bear?
Mary Shelley took her time, sticking her wet nose in the tall grass and ducking under the sea grape bushes to spook the raccoons that made their nests down there. She sniffed around the base of the lighthouse, as if some other dog, long ago, had left a mark. Mainly, she lumbered this way and that, barked at nothing, and didn’t stray too far.
But then, out of the blue, Mary Shelley stuck her nose up in the air and bolted.
“Mary Shelley! Come on, girl!” I cried, chasing her. My feet pounded the sand and I got tangled up in dry weeds. My arm caught on a beautyberry vine, and when I shook it loose, a hundred tiny purple berries showered the ground. I jumped over a low gumbo-limbo branch, then had to duck under the next one. The whole time, Mary Shelley was getting farther away. The only thing I could see was her tail, whipping the grasses.
When I finally stopped, I had to bend over, resting my hands on my knees. Looking up, I saw that Mary Shelley had stopped, too. Before us was the abandoned ruin. It was a large stone building, two stories tall. Except half of the top story was open, as if a giant had come and taken a huge bite out of the top of the house. The bottom half rested on four arched doorways, so the place seemed to be standing on many clawed feet.
If this were a nightmare, that building would have totally come alive to devour me and Mary Shelley.
“Come on, let’s go home,” I whispered, not wanting to be near the creepy ruin any longer. But when I pulled on Mary Shelley’s collar, she wouldn’t budge. She looked up at me with her big, wet, brown eyes, blinked twice, and whined.
“Are you giving me puppy eyes?” I asked. Mary Shelley started to scoot closer to the house.
“No way, we aren’t going to go in there.” There was a NO TRESPASSING sign beside one of the arches, but it was so old and faded that it read N RESPASS G. Mary Shelley whimpered, sticking her nose in the air. That’s when I smelled it, too—the same fruity scent that came after the ding-dong-ditcher disappeared. There were tall grasses all around and the lighthouse seemed small and far away. I couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t just me and my dog out there.
“Mary Shelley, vamos. Now,” I commanded, using my “stern” voice. It usually worked. Most times when she heard that voice, Mary Shelley tucked her tail between her legs and did whatever I asked. This time, though, she ignored me. She gave a big jump and my hand slipped from her collar. “Come back!” I shouted, but she bounded off through the nearest arch and open doorway and disappeared into the building.
I was terrified, but I couldn’t just leave my dog to . . . whatever or whoever might be in there. “Mary Shelley!” I shouted, running in after her. I pushed the door open a bit and it creaked and groaned. Inside, it was hot, muggy, and smelly. “Mary Shelley,” I whispered, but I couldn’t hear or see her anymore.
The ground beneath my feet was suddenly harder, and I realized that there was only a thin layer of sand covering what looked like a tile floor. I brushed the sand away to uncover black and white squares. I looked up. The walls were covered in wallpaper that had originally been green, or maybe it had turned that color thanks to the mold. The place smelled terrible—rotten and fishy. Above my head, a single bulb dangled on a thick black wire. To my left, a staircase led upstairs, and there were doorways everywhere I looked.
I heard Mary Shelley growl from beyond one of the doors. Heading her way, I stopped and picked up a branch lying on the floor. It was covered in lichen, but it was sturdy. Back in kindergarten, my parents put me in Little League so I could make some friends, who I eventually had to say goodbye to. I did learn how to swing a stick, though, even if my team nickname had been “Strikeout Kid.”
A narrow hallway led to what looked like an old kitchen. Green wallpaper covered this room too. It was peeling everywhere, like a tourist with a bad sunburn.
This place made the lighthouse look really, really good.
Mary Shelley was standing in the middle of the kitchen, snuffling the ground. There was sand everywhere and I guessed that at some point, the place had flooded. That probably accounted for the fishy smell, too.
The cabinets were nearly falling off the walls and all the doors hung open on rusting hinges. Except for one that was low to the ground and shut tight. Curiosity killed the cat, I thought even as I approached the closed cupboard. It was probably empty, like all the other ones, hanging there like open mouths. But what if it wasn’t? What if there was something super cool inside? The scientist in me couldn’t let a discovery go undiscovered, could I?
Trembling, I reached out for the brass knob. It was cold and slick. “Here goes nothing,” I said, and tugged. The door popped open. I knelt down to peer inside.
“Ahhh!” I shouted as a pair of beady eyes looked back at me. I scrambled backward on my butt while Mary Shelley whimpered beside me. I thought it was a raccoon at first, and my brain could only come up with one word—rabies!—while my heart tried to beat out of my chest.
But then I realized the eyes weren’t moving. Were they eyes at all? Crawling on all fours, I drew closer until I was face-to-face with the thing in the cabinet.
It was a doll! The creepiest doll ever!
It wore a sailor suit and there was a name stitched into the collar—Bernard. Its face was a little faded and it had black buttons for eyes. Around his neck was a blue thread, and hanging from it was an old-fashioned skeleton key. Slowly, I pulled Bernard out by its foot to get a better look at the face. It didn’t look creepy. If anything, it looked sad.
A cool breeze ruffled the top of my head and I dropped Bernard onto the sand, startled. “Just a draft,” I told myself, patting down my hair. Mary Shelley sniffed the doll, then she picked it up, soaking it in slobber.
“Ew,” I said. “You know, it’s probably moldy, like everything else on this island.” But Mary Shelley didn’t seem to mind. Instead she sat down with Bernard and cuddled it. I checked the rest of the cabinets, just in case there were more cool finds, but they were empty except for spiders and dead beetles.
That’s when Mary Shelley whined again. I came over to where she was standing, Bernard still in her jaws.
“That’s enough exploring, girl,” I said. Then I noticed the floor and I froze.
Someone had written a note by running their fingers through the sand.
HELP ME, FARNK
My first thought was: AAAAAAhhhh!
My second thought was: Whoever wrote that note, they didn’t even spell my name right! I mean, Farnk? C’mon.
And my third thought? Somebody is playing a trick on me.
But who? My parents weren’t the practical joke type, and there was nobody else around. Unless, of course, we were wrong about that. And if there was somebody else on the island, playing ding-dong-ditch and writing my name on the floor of sandy kitchens, then I wasn’t sure I wanted to know them at all.
This time, I didn’t have to convince Mary Shelley to run. The two of us backed out of the kitchen where my name had been written in the sand and bolted out of the building.
By the time Mary Shelley and I got back to the lighthouse, we were both panting and hot. The whole way, that soft, sweet scent followed us.
“Go away,” I whispered at nothing before slamming the door.
“Frankie? You home, mister?” my mom called from somewhere in the lighthouse. She sounded frantic, and alarm bells went off in my brain.
“Mom? You okay?” I called back, undid Mary Shelley’s collar, and hung it by the door. She loped away from me, but not before giving me a look that said Can you believe what just happened?
I nearly answered my dog’s silent question when I heard my mom let out a scream that was followed by a few curse words from my papi. They came running down the stairs together. Mom held a flyswatter in one hand, while Papi seemed to be covered in . . . crabs?
“¡Corre, muchacho!” Papi yelled at me.
“It’s an invasion!” Mom shouted.
I held on to the scruff of Mary Shelley’s neck and led her out the door. Mom, Papi, Mary Shelley, and I tumbled onto the front walkway and scrambled up the path away from the lighthouse. Papi cursed some more while he plucked blue crabs off his clothes and fingers. Mom helped him, and she did some cursing, too. “Mind your ears, Frankie,” she said in between some colorful words.
Mary Shelley and I turned to look at the lighthouse. The front door was open and now I could see them—hundreds of blue crabs crawling down the stairs like they owned the place, their claws clacking in the air.
We’d been forced out of our own home by an army of crustaceans!
“Now what?” Mom asked Papi.
Papi was wiggling his pinched fingers back and forth as he watched the crabs exploring the lighthouse. “We call an exterminator, I guess,” he said, and started checking out listings on his phone.
“What’s that?” Mom demanded, pointing at the doll in Mary Shelley’s mouth.
“We found it. Um, in the sand over there,” I lied. I didn’t want to tell my parents I’d been exploring the abandoned building, the very one they’d told me was too dangerous to play in.
It took an exterminator AND a plumber to sort out the crabby situation at the lighthouse. Somehow, the creatures had found a way into the pipes and had poured out of the toilet, causing chaos and making the bathroom unusable.
