Today we thought we would offer you a first page submission to a middle reader spooky story.
Let us know in the comments if you would read on.
Chapter One: A Case
I Can Sink My Teeth Into
Death found me on a hot June morning in Walt Disney
World’s Tower of Terror.
Minutes before I heard about the vampire in
Transylvania, North Carolina, I pulled the seat belt across my waist and showed
my hands to the bellhop. Behind me buckles snapped shut; arms shot up. The
smiling service attendant in his maroon and gold cap bid us a pleasant stay at
the Hollywood Hotel and retreated into the boiler room. Service doors sealed us
inside, and the elevator yanked us up.
The young boy seated next to me whispered to his mom,
“Why did he make us raise our hands?”
“So when they
snap our picture it looks like we’re having fun.”
“And to prove you’re not holding
anything in your hand,” I offered. “See, if you place a penny on your palm,
like this, when the car drops the coin will—”
“Don’t you dare try that, Grayson!” said the boy’s mom,
glaring at me.
I shoved the penny back in my pocket and muttered,
“Wasn’t suggesting he do it. Just saying that’s why they make you put your
hands up.”
The car stopped on the thirteenth floor. Doors opened. Our elevator car rumbled
down a darkened hallway, and the theme song from the Twilight Zone began playing through headrest speakers. A short ways
in front, Rod Serling magically appeared, warning riders: “You unlock this door
with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension—a dimension of
sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of
both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into… (dramatic pause)… the Twilight Zone.”
Instantly a barrage of objects shot past—a wooden door,
Einstein’s formula for relativity, an eyeball. Windowpanes shattered and shards
of glass morphed into twinkling stars. Through the speakers a little girl began
singing, “It’s raining, it’s pouring…”
Buried in my front pocket my smartphone began vibrating.
I pulled it out and quickly read the text message. “Phone Me now. RIGHT NOW! got
killer of a story for you! – Calvin.”
Right, I
thought. Bet it’s just another zombie
fest or supposed house haunting.
See, weeks earlier I’d signed on to be a reporter for
the Cool Ghoul Gazette—an
online website dedicated to exploring ghosts, zombies, werewolves, vampires and
all things supernatural and freaky. We have a huge readership in England, the British
Ghost sightings are huge over there. Anyway, for months my parents had been
after me to get a summer job. Mom thought I needed to start saving for college.
Dad kept saying it was time I did something other than sit around and watch TV,
even though watching TV is my job.
No kidding. Watching television (online, mostly) is my
job. I’m a founding member of TV Crime Watchers, a group of teens that analyzes
and catalogs crime, cop, and detective shows. We have a huge database of
episodes going back almost thirty years, and we use this information to catch
real murderers. At least, when law enforcement officials will let us help. Our
little group has an eighty percent close rate. That means in most cases we can
correctly identify the killer before
the real detectives can. Problem is, TV Crime Watchers doesn’t pay, and making
money is apparently a big deal. Especially for my Mom and Dad. Our family is a
victim of what Dad calls, “the Great Recession.”
I think what he means is that we’re middle class poor.
Before our trip to Disney, he was complaining about how
his pension at the automotive parts company was wiped out in the stock market.
Mom thinks we should sell our home, but according to the real estate company
Mom works for, our house is worth less now than when we bought it. The only way
we could afford the trip to Disney was to drive two days in our ten-year-old
Buick and stay in a three-star motel on the outskirts of Orlando. So yeah,
right now having a job is tops in our family.
“Can’t pay for the good life without a good job,” Dad
keeps reminding me. “And sometimes, you can’t even pay for it, then.”
Dad hoped I’d get a job cutting grass like my cousin
Fred. Fred has like a gazillion customers. He made enough last summer to buy
his own truck—a used Ford Ranger that has over a hundred thousand miles on it
and leaks oil like a Gulf oil well.
But I’m not Fred.
To me the idea of working outside all summer and coming
home sweaty and tired is, well… work. Mom was after me to get a job dog
sitting, but the last thing I wanted to do was to spend my summer picking up
poop in a plastic bag. That’s just gross.
So after our trip to Deadwood Canyon, when I solved the
murder of one of the ghost town’s actors, I landed the job at the Cool Ghoul Gazette, and now my editor
was texting me with a “killer” assignment that I was pretty sure would be a
huge waste of my time because most of the stuff he sends me is.
The elevator car
stopped. Another set of doors opened, this time revealing a bird’s eye view of
Walt Disney World’s Hollywood Studios theme park. Crowds choked Sunset
Boulevard and moved in random directions like energetic ants bent on beating
the other ants to the top of the hill. Children lined up near a pretzel stand
to get Buzz Lightyear’s autograph. Parents milled about in the designated
stroller area.
Our car dropped.
Girls screamed. Kids shrieked. Not me. You couldn’t have
blasted the smile off my face with a power washer.