The Knick Knack Nightmare Page 5
“No, he’s not. He’s confused.”
“He’s not confused. It’s the truth.”
Mom clenched her teeth. “No, Sweetie. It’s not.”
“Yes, Mom.” I stood beside Arvin.
“What the hooey is going on?” Mom snapped. “Have you both lost your minds?”
“Language?”
“Shut-up, Perry.”
CRACK Another bird smashed into the door, adding to the growing pile of shattered sparrows on the welcome mat.
“God! I wish whoever would stop throwing glass at the door.”
“They’re crystal sparrows - blue ones.” I pushed against the door with Arvin. “And they’re not being thrown. They’re flying into the door all by themselves.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Faint, high pitch sounds - ting-ting ting-ting - came from the living room window.
“What now?” Mom hurried to the window and flung open the curtains.
“Mom, don’t.”
“It’s fine. There’s nothing there. Just a few, a few, a few.” Mom’s record stopped, and her arms went limp and dropped to her sides.
“Mom?”
“Ms. Dobbs?”
Arvin and I crawled side-by-side into the living room. We peeked over the window sill and saw what had turned Mom’s rosy skin pale white.
She cleared her throat. “Just a few crystal kangaroos on the window sill.”
A troop of five crystal kangaroos hopped across the window sill, making a sharp tink-tink each time their paws landed on the wood. Their toenails were painted black, and they had colored gems for eyes. Sunlight refracted through their bodies as they hopped, casting rainbows on the curtains and into my eyes. The largest of the troop wore a Christmas elf costume likely knitted by some retiree bored out of her mind. It stopped and peered through the window. Little eyes, red and glowing, looked into mine.
I whispered to Arvin, “They’re watching us.”
FOUR
I didn’t want to believe it, but there they were. And they weren’t alone. The grass in the yard swayed and parted as wooden squirrels ran in figure 8s, followed by an army of red-faced garden gnomes riding porcelain horses. Colorful blown glass and crystal birds soared overhead, casting rainbows on the houses below. Thousands of other knick-knacks meandered down Shelby Lane. Most ran or flew, while others bobbed or hopped, swung through the trees, or rolled in the street.
A large Russian nesting doll skidded and stopped in front of our driveway. Her dainty, wrinkled hands interlocked in front of her body. She wore a yellow, painted dress and had rosy lips, dimpled cheeks, long eyelashes, and emotionless black eyes. The top half popped off, and a smaller green doll popped out. It did the same, releasing a blue one before reforming. One after another, smaller and smaller dolls popped out of their larger siblings - an orange one, a brown one, a purple one, a yellow one, a gold one, and so on until sixteen nesting dolls stood side-by-side, from largest to smallest, in the middle of Shelby Lane. I thought they’d turn and come for us, but they moved away and continued down the street.
Several neighbors were out of their homes, fighting swarms of attacking knick-knacks. Mrs. McGillis tripped in her yard. She tried to get away, but she was too slow. A stampede of rolling antique buttons overtook her. They covered her from socks to eyeglasses, plugged her ears, and filled her mouth. She spat them out and brushed them away. Thousands more came. Buttons piled on top of buttons until there was nothing left of the old lady but a white ponytail sticking out from under a mountain of brass.
Mr. Thompson ran out of his house in his underwear. He yelled as he fought off a gang of cowboy dolls trying to lasso his ankles. Twirling ropes caught him off balance, and he fell to the ground. They hog-tied and gagged Mr Thompson and dragged him away.
Arvin and I ducked under the window.
“Where are they taking him?” Arvin asked.
“Beats me.”
Mom backed away from the window without speaking and lowered herself into the recliner. She leaned back and released the springy footrest. I had never seen her shut off like that - not even after Dad died. Mom turned the TV to Channel 11 news. They were in the middle of another breaking report. Lonnie Jones, the peppy host of Weekend Lunch with Lonnie, sat in Ms. Stitch’s usual chair.
“. . . confirmed reports. Knick-knacks have taken—”
The TV’s sound switched off, and the screen turned dark blue. A long, low tone played, followed by bursts of garbled squeals and pops. A banner ran across the top and bottom of the screen. It read, Stay tuned for an important message.
“The Emergency Alert System.” Arvin sat cross-legged on the floor.
“Do you think the government heard? Is FEMA coming to help?”
The screen flickered and opened to a shot of a bare wooden news desk in front of a gray backdrop. It wasn’t Channel 11’s studio but somewhere else. Washington, perhaps? Strange, distant sounds echoed somewhere off camera: metal chairs falling over, paper rustling, marbles scattering across a hard floor. A woman’s scream blasted through the speakers. The camera panned down and focused on the top of the desk. Two green, plaster frogs carrying mini banjos hopped into focus and sat upright on the desk. They smiled at each other and into the camera.
“What the…” Arvin grabbed the remote.
“Wait. They’re about to do something.”
DO-DODO-DAAA The frog on the right strummed his banjo.
DO-DODO-DAAA The left frog repeated.
DAAA-DO-DO-DO The right frog strummed.
DAAA-DO-DO-DO The left frog repeated.
The frogs plucked their banjos faster and faster. Their little sucker-tipped fingers moved at lightning speed, not slowing, not stopping.
“They’re playing—”
“Dueling banjos.” Mom pushed in the footrest and sat up.
I had the urge to scream “It’s Alive!” but I didn’t. “Mom, are you all right? I thought you were stuck inside your brain or something.”
“Your father loved that song. Martin likes it, too. But it’s always creeped me out.”
I turned off the TV. “Mom?”
“I’m fine, Sweetie. I need more coffee though.” She rubbed her temples. “I had the worst dream.”
“But you never closed your eyes.”
CRACK
Arvin jumped, “Not again,” and ran to the door.
“Debbie, Perry, Arvin. Somebody let me in!”
“Mom!” Arvin unlocked the door.
Ms. Pewter, panting and sweating, burst into the room and slammed the door. She leaned against it and flipped the locks. Small, black burns marked her sweater and hands, and her singed bangs were an inch shorter than when she left.
Arvin squeezed her as hard as he could.
“Did you hear?” She coughed. “Have you seen them?”
CRACK-CRACK
Mom yawned and traipsed past Ms. Pewter into the kitchen. “Patty, would you care for a cinnamon roll or something to drink?”
“Debbie?”
“Come try this new coffee. It’s organic French roast.”
“Debbie?” Ms. Pewter craned her head to the side. “Boys? What happened?”
“Kamikaze sparrows and crystal kangaroos. You?”
“Dragons.” She limped into the kitchen. “Lots of dragons.”
CRACK
The delicate birds’ aim was so bad, it might have been funny if they weren’t trying to kill us. Two birds slammed into a frosted window above the door. The window cracked, but the birds shattered like the others. If a couple lucky birds couldn’t break a window, none were a match for the oak door.
Arvin and I kept a lookout in the living room, sitting back-to-back in our plaid pajamas, gripping rolling pins we nabbed while Ms. Pewter was pulling Mom away from the coffee machine. Dinner time had passed before Ms. Pewter coaxed Mom into the living room. Mom sat on the couch, and Ms. Pewter tried calling for help. No Service. Mom’s googly duck slippers looked as dumbstruck as her.
I flipped through TV channels, looking for news. Frog duos played banjos on channel 5. I changed the channel. Frogs on 13. Static on 15. Frogs on 21. Frogs on 33. I shut off the TV. “Maybe the radio?”
Arvin turned on the radio, heard banjos, and turned it off. “That’s it. They’ve taken over the entire EAS.”
I rubbed my temples and squeezed my shoulders. My neck cracked, and my head throbbed. “Well, what about your house? Don’t you have satellite TV?”
Lamps flickered and, ERRR-DUUM, the power went out. Arvin and I jumped to our feet, rolling pins at the ready.
CRACK
CRACK-CRACK
CRACK
“Geez. Why don’t they give—?”
BOOOSH
Half the living room window imploded, shredding the curtain to ribbons. Dad’s recliner spun around and slowed to. a. stop.
Silence. Eerie quiet.
Cold wind gusted through the broken glass, and I heard something. New sounds. Scraping sounds. They came from behind the recliner. The curtains swayed, and something large climbed through the window.
The tip of a rounded red cone bobbed an inch higher than the armrest, moving forward little by little. It stopped beside the footrest and tilted forward. It was a hat. But a hat attached to what?
Mom peered around the recliner. “Mr. Happy Face?”
Mom’s favorite garden gnome stepped out and stood in front of the recliner. He was two feet tall and wore a red cone hat, a yellow coat, and a thick black belt with a gold buckle and garden tools tucked into both sides. His cheeks were plump and rosy, and his beard - long and white. He smiled.
“Are you here to help us?”
Ms. Pewter tugged on Mom’s arm. “Debbie, what are you doing?”
“It’s fine. He’s here to help. Aren’t you, Mr. Happy Face?”
The smiling gnome shook his head and pulled an eight-inch ax from his belt. He held the wooden handle in his right hand and slapped the glistening blade into his left. I tapped Arvin on the shoulder and pointed to the kitchen door.
Arvin took a step sideways. The gnome’s head turned to follow.
Arin’s voice cracked, “Perry?”
I lunged at the recliner and kicked the footrest release. The cushion sprung open like a catapult and slammed into Mr. Happy Face, flinging him ten feet across the room. He smacked against the wall and dropped his ax.
“Run!” I snatched the ax and pulled Mom through the kitchen to the back door.
Out the kitchen window, mini garden gnomes and plastic army men turned over potted plants, climbed up trees and rain spouts, swung from bird feeders, pulled up stepping stones, and uncapped fence posts. They scattered, shattered, bent, tipped, slashed, tore, or broke everything as they wrecked the neighborhood.
A thousand shallow holes dotted every yard around. The largest gnomes dug the holes, turning over clumps of dry grass and shoveling dirt into the empty shells of Russian nesting dolls. A little starry-eyed doll rolled away from one gnome and dumped her load of dirt and grass into the hole of another. The large gnome, seeing his hole refilled, swung his black ax on the doll’s head, splitting it in half. He kicked the pieces aside and returned to work, digging a new hole a few feet from Mom’s favorite oak.
I ran into the moonlight, avoiding barrel bombs falling from blimps, dodging plastic cats, weaving around wooden squirrels, jumping over rocking horses, and crushing jade turtles and rabbits under our feet. Knick-knacks were everywhere, in every yard, on every house I could see in the dim light. They filled the sky, soaring over houses and attacking the ground: babies with little wings, World War II blimps, plastic faeries, glass birds, and mini biplanes.
Then there were dragons - lots of dragons. They swooped, grabbing and scratching, ripping out hair, and blowing pea-sized fireballs. I swung my little ax and smashed several in mid-air. Their broken bodies rained on the yard. I reached the chain-link fence and pushed through the gate into the alley.
The bronze knight - the size of a cat - stood on a rusted post in the far corner of the yard, observing the gnomes and dolls as they dug. He gripped the coin’s severed edge. Waves of energy rolled up his arm and over the armor. With every shock and flash of light, the knight grew a fraction more, and his silver sword grew to match.
I looked over my shoulder as I passed the post. You’ll never find it. I’ll stop you - somehow.
Of all the narrow alleys behind every block in Shelbyville, the one behind our house was the worst. Soggy bags of stinking trash, broken bottles, and old appliances leaned against rusted fences on either side. Ripped chairs and moldy couches laid in our path, and everything around stank of pee and rotten eggs. As I ran through the alley, shards of glass pierced my slippers, driving tiny nails into the soles of my feet. The alley stretched almost ten miles from 1st to 92nd street - past the Shelby Lane pool, Arvin’s house, and far beyond to Garden Glen Mall on the outskirts of the city.
Most knick-knacks left us alone. Four copper dragons were not so nice. They few close behind, soaring over the trees like silhouettes moving through air, flapping their metallic wings in the menacing darkness. Copper claws scratched at my head and ripped through my shirt at the shoulders. Fireballs exploded at our heels, burning small patches on our ankles and setting ablaze piles of leaves and trash in the alley. Arvin was lucky to be much shorter than us. Their sharp claws and fireballs didn’t touch him.
“Do you smell it?” I yelled to Arvin.
“Chlorine. It’s Shelby Lane pool.” Arvin pointed ahead to an 8-foot fence at the end of the alley.
WOOSH
I dodged another fireball. It grazed my head and exploded at Mom’s feet, setting fire to her slippers. She kicked off the flaming mallards and ran barefoot through the alley muck, falling further behind with every step. Arvin’s house was two blocks away. Too far.
“Mom’s hurt. We need to stop.”
“There’s a way in.” Arvin ran to a loose section of fence beside the men’s locker room. “Follow me.” The smell of chlorine filled my nose, but I couldn’t see beyond the cinder block wall.
Arvin untied a twisted wire, pulled apart two sections of the fence, and pushed through the opening. “In here.”
WOMP-WOMP
A dragon swooped and clawed a chunk of hair out of my head. I swung the ax into its metal belly. It crashed in the alley, sparking as it skidded across the concrete. We ran along the side of the building and into the men’s locker room.
The locker room was a square divided into two long rectangles - showers on the left and a dressing room on the right. A small emergency light flickered on the ceiling. The power loss had tripped the circuit and turned on the battery. Three rows of rickety coin-operated lockers, stacked one on top of the other, covered the right and back walls of the dressing room. Large sections of paint had chipped and faded, but I could still make out ocean scenes painted across the lockers. Crabs and lobsters scurried along the bottom, moving in and out of a beige coral reef. Nurse sharks and humpback whales swam through calm, blue water, and bottlenose dolphins jumped where the lockers met the sky blue ceiling. The left side of the room was an open shower tiled in white and orange squares. Rusted steel vents circled the room above each crusty, old showerhead. Another inlaid above the door. In the middle of the room, two long wooden benches had split from age and moisture. Mom collapsed onto one, panting and wincing. I leaned hard against the rusty door. One leg supported me and the other pressed a narrow privacy wall opposite the entrance.
Ms. Pewter shouted, “Lock it!” but there was nothing to lock - only a rusted metal plate screwed over a hole.
Copper dragons scraped the steel, sending shivers throughout my body. They hurled fireballs at the door. It grew hotter. My back began to blister and burn.
I couldn’t take the searing pain much longer. I had to move away. “Help me! It’s too hot.”
Arvin pushed and kicked the closet stack of lockers. They shuddered and teetered, but he wasn’t strong enough to topple them.
The heavy stack of lockers crashed onto the floor between the door and the privacy wall, knocking me sideways into a frigid puddle on the shower room floor. The dragons rammed the door, but they couldn’t get in. I wondered for how long.
I grimaced. “Mom, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. It’s a little blood and a lot of ketchup from the trash.”
Ms. Pewter examined Mom’s feet. “Arvin, Perry, look in these lockers. Maybe there’s something we can use.”
Arvin and I searched the open lockers and found two little red towels rolled up inside a high locker at the end. Ms. Pewter helped Mom wash off her feet in a puddle and wiped them off with a towel. We were all panting and sweating, but Mom got the worst of it. The dragons’ fire had burned her toes, and the cuts on her feet didn’t stop bleeding for several minutes. If the towel hadn’t already been red, the fresh blood and crimson ketchup would’ve dyed them in seconds.
Char marks and dirt painted Arvin’s shoes. My Dragon Sorcerer slippers were ripped but useable. Arvin and I spent ten minutes pulling glass out of the soft cloth soles and dropping it down the shower drain.
Ms. Pewter had the fewest problems. She walked in her running shoes without grimacing, and she never complained about the burns and scrapes covering her hands and face. “It’s a miracle you made it this far,” Ms. Pewter told Mom.
It wasn’t a miracle. This was my mother. Some puny imitations couldn’t stop the blonde dragon. Soon, everyone would see. Any minute, she’d roar back to life, throwing fireballs of her own. But for now, she needed to rest, and she got what she needed. Mom fell asleep in the back corner of the locker room using the last clean towel as a pillow.
Ms. Pewter, Arvin, and I kept watch - ‘watch’ being an overstatement. It was too dark, outside and in, to see. And the flickering emergency light grew dimmer by the minute. Beams of moonlight glimmered through rusted vents in the shower room and reflected off puddles on the tiled floor. I sat and listened. If copper dragons were still there, they had become as quiet as grass.