Teeny Weenies: The Boy Who Cried Wool Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on David Lubar, click here.

  For email updates on Bill Mayer, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Joelle and Alison, the centers of my universe.

  THE BOY WHO CRIED, “WOOL!”

  The Aldritch family was on vacation. They’d driven their camper to a gorgeous campsite in an area called Mammoth Hills. The leaves were just turning their fall colors, and the air was crisp and cool enough to make long hikes comfortable. Mr. and Mrs. Aldritch loved camping. So did their two oldest children, Mark and Mandy. Their next oldest child, Teagan, didn’t care about camping either way, but she definitely didn’t like what happened every time the family went anywhere.

  “Teagan,” Mrs. Aldritch said as she laced up her hiking books. “I expect you to keep an eye on your little brother.”

  “But, Mom—” Teagan said.

  “Listen to your mother,” Mr. Aldritch said as he tucked his flannel shirt into his sturdy jeans. “Keep an eye on Conrad.”

  Teagan stared at her father, hoping for a bit of mercy. She got nothing. Once again, she was stuck watching the youngest member of the family.

  As they headed away from their campsite toward the trail, Teagan whispered to Conrad, “Please behave. Okay? I don’t want to have to chase you all over the woods.”

  Conrad, who was a bit overloaded with excess energy, didn’t answer his sister. Instead, he flung his hand out, pointing ahead of the family, and screamed, “Wooooollll—”

  “Shush,” Teagan said, clamping a hand over her little brother’s mouth. They’d gone to a petting zoo the other week, and Conrad had been scared by the sheep. Teagan waited until she was sure there would be no more shouting, then relaxed her grip and led Conrad along.

  Ten minutes later, it happened again.

  “Wooooollllll—” Conrad started to scream.

  Teagan clamped down again and looked around. Far off, near the crest of a tall hill, she saw something that might have been a sheep. Or maybe it was a mountain goat. Whatever it was, there was no reason to be scared.

  “Calm down, okay?” she said. “They won’t hurt you.”

  Conrad nodded.

  Teagan dropped her hand. “I don’t get it,” Teagan said. “You’re so quiet at home.”

  Her little brother could sit all day looking at books about dinosaurs and prehistoric times. He’d stare at a drawing of a pterodactyl or a cave bear for hours. But get him outside, and he ran around and shouted like he was being chased by a pack of zombies.

  Conrad screamed again at the base of the hill.

  “Woooollll—”

  Teagan looked up as she silenced her little brother. It had gotten a bit foggy. “Maybe we should turn back,” Teagan said. Conrad’s fear was making her nervous.

  “Nonsense,” her dad said. “The trail is well marked. The view at the top is supposed to be spectacular. We might even see a bald eagle.”

  “And we aren’t quitters,” her mom said.

  They hiked up the hillside. Near the top, Teagan saw Conrad tense up his whole body. She reached out to silence him. But then, she decided she’d had enough.

  “I’m just going to let him scream,” she said. Maybe then her parents would appreciate what she had to deal with.

  It turned out Conrad had more to say than just wool.

  “Woooolllllymammmmmoth!!!!!” Conrad screamed.

  He’d finally managed to get the whole name out. He’d spotted it way back, because he had better vision than the rest of his family. And it had terrified him. He’d been too scared to say much, and his sister hadn’t helped by stopping him every time he’d managed to speak.

  There was no stopping him now. He screamed the warning again.

  And there was no stopping the wooly mammoth. It charged down the hill. So did the rest of its family, which was also enjoying a lovely walk among the colorful trees in the crisp autumn air.

  The Aldritches got knocked silly as the herd stampeded past them. Except for Conrad, who had the sense to leap out of the way and not stand there staring with his mouth open.

  Eventually, bruised, battered, and aching, the Aldritch family managed to get back to their tents, which had been trampled flat.

  They never went camping again.

  And from that day on, Teagan always listened to whatever Conrad had to say.

  ALL YOU CAN EAT

  Roddy Vangorf loved candy. So it was no surprise he loved Halloween. Roddy was also one of the laziest kids ever born. So it was also no surprise, despite his love of candy, that he hated having to walk door-to-door all over his neighborhood and beyond to get a sackful of sweets. Even worse, he had to put on a stupid mask.

  Then, five years ago, Roddy got a late start going out for trick-or-treating. He’d only gone one block and had hardly gotten close to having enough candy for even a single night, when he stopped to lean against a tree and rest. Unfortunately for them, three other kids also decided to rest, right down the street. A ghost, a soldier, and a pirate stopped walking and put their bags down.

  Roddy wasn’t interested in the other kids. But he was interested in the bags. They bulged like the inflated cheeks of a trumpet player.

  “That’s a ton of candy,” Roddy whispered. He couldn’t peel his eyes away from the bags. “Maybe two tons.”

  He leaned away from the tree and crouched over. “They have more than they need.”

  Like a panther, Roddy sped down the street toward the three kids. Without even pausing, he snatched up one of the bags and flew past the victims.

  He was half a block away, and darting between a pair of houses, before the three kids even seemed to notice they’d been robbed of one-third of their candy.

  Their cries of “Stop!” and “Hey!” barely reached Roddy’s ears as he skittered across a backyard. Soon enough, he was tucked safely in his room, with his treasure spilled out on the floor in front of him.

  He didn’t feel an ounce of guilt as he tore the wrapper from a chocolate bar and crammed it into his eager mouth. He felt wonderful.

  A year later, he decided to repeat his perfect Halloween technique. It didn’t take Roddy long to spot a group of six superheroes. Spider-Man was lagging behind the rest of the group. He kept switching his bulging sack of candy from hand to hand.

  “I’ll save you,” Roddy said. He smiled at his cleverness. He was going to rescue Spidey from the agony of lugging all that sweet goodness.

  He took off, pushed himself to full speed, and snatched the bag right out of the weary hands of the solitary superhero.

  He did it every year after that, though he was careful to pull off the snatch in a different part of town each time, so nobod
y would be expecting it. Halloween was definitely the best day of the year for Roddy. And when it rolled around again, he could hardly wait to stalk the streets and hunt for the best victim with the biggest bag of goodies.

  And there they were. Two kids. A boy and a girl, dressed as wizards. Each toted an overloaded bag of treats. Roddy slipped behind them, keeping enough distance so they wouldn’t spot him if they looked back.

  “Which one?” he asked himself.

  The answer was obvious and so glorious that it made him cackle. There was no reason to choose. He’d grab both bags. That would give him more candy than he’d ever gotten before. A trickle of drool rolled down his chin as he thought about taking that first delicious bite.

  It didn’t bother him at all that this would leave the little wizards with nothing. That was their problem.

  Roddy put on a burst of speed and shot between the kids, snatching both bags with the speed and accuracy of a striking snake.

  He was nearly a block away when he realized something was missing. There hadn’t been a shout. That was strange. The cry of dismay was almost as sweet as the candy. What was wrong with these kids?

  Roddy spun around. And then, he froze in place. The kids both stood there, each calmly pointing at him with one hand. They each placed their other hand on their stomachs. But that wasn’t the creepiest part. They were right in front of him! It was like they’d kept up with him as he’d run away. But that was impossible. He’d heard no other footsteps striking the sidewalk. And he’d darted past them at full speed.

  Finally, they spoke.

  “Eat it all.”

  Just three words. But those three words seemed to leave their mouths like ropes and wrap around Roddy’s chest so tightly he had to struggle to breathe.

  He was so spooked, he dropped the bags.

  Or, at least, he tried to. His fingers wouldn’t move. His hands wouldn’t open.

  He turned and fled.

  On the way home, he tried flinging the candy from the bags. The pieces were wedged inside. He couldn’t get rid of them.

  When he reached his room, his fingers went slack. The bags dropped, spilling their contents across the floor.

  Eat it all.

  The words came from the walls and window. They came from the floor. They came from Roddy’s bed and from his clothes.

  He ran to his door.

  It wouldn’t open.

  He banged at it and screamed for help.

  Nobody heard. Nobody came.

  Eat it all.

  Roddy ate candy.

  He tried to enjoy it. But terror does not blend well with licorice. Fear does not improve the flavor of caramels. Horror drains the sweetness from gummy bears.

  He ate.

  Time passed.

  He begged to be set free.

  Eat it all was the only response.

  Finally, after a forever of gorging, after an unbearable period of cramming his mouth with the gruesome sweets, struggling to swallow and fighting not to throw up, he ate the last piece.

  “It’s done,” Roddy said in a voice somewhere between a gasp and a moan. He stood, shakily, and walked toward his door. His stomach dragged at him like it held fifty pounds of thick stew.

  The door opened before he could get there.

  “You’re not done,” the wizards said. They stood in the hall. Each held one handle of a bag. Roddy recognized the bag. He’d stolen it one year ago.

  The wizards placed the bag on the floor and stepped back into the hall.

  “No. Please…,” Roddy said.

  Eat it all.

  Roddy reached into the bag and tried not to think about how many more there were to come.

  BUSTING PUMPKINS

  Albert Gorfesh loved to smash things. It didn’t matter whether it was his own thing that got smashed or somebody else’s. If he could hurl it to the ground and watch it shatter into pieces, he was happy. His friends didn’t share that feeling. Actually, his friends drifted off or fled, one by one, until only Stan Wample was left. Stan was a follower. He had no thoughts of his own. So he was happy to do whatever Albert did.

  Albert also hated holidays.

  Two weeks before Halloween, as they were walking through their neighborhood, Albert grabbed Stan’s arm in one hand, pointed across the street with the other, and said, “Pumpkins!”

  Stan followed the path of the pointing finger and saw a single pumpkin on a porch. There was a lopsided grin carved into its face. “So?”

  “I’ll bet they’re great to smash,” Albert said. His own lopsided smile mirrored that of the pumpkin.

  “I’ll bet they are, too,” Stan said.

  Albert’s smile grew bigger as he pictured the sight and sound of the pumpkin being hurled to the hard concrete of the sidewalk.

  “Are we going to smash it now?” Stan asked. He took a step toward the porch.

  “Oh yeah,” Albert said. Then, a thought stopped him in his tracks. “No! Wait. That’s the Fullers’ house. They always decorate early. They had their Christmas lights up last year in November. And they had stuff for St. Patrick’s Day by the middle of February.”

  “But why wait?” Stan asked.

  “Because there are a lot more pumpkins coming. If I smash this one, everybody will be watching for it to happen again.” Albert was an expert on how to not get caught—mostly because he’d been caught so many times. “If we wait until the night before Halloween, we can smash every pumpkin in the neighborhood. It will be amazing!”

  “Yeah…” Stan’s mouth hung open as he tried to absorb the idea of smashing endless pumpkins. “Let’s wait.”

  And so they waited. As Halloween grew closer, more and more pumpkins appeared on porches and front walkways. There were tiny ones and giant ones. There were amazing works of art and crude carvings.

  Albert trembled with anticipation as he imagined smashing each and every one. He’d chuck the small ones like baseballs. He’d lift the huge ones with Stan’s help. They’d smash everything in one glorious path of destruction.

  He could hardly wait.

  The night before Halloween, Albert met Stan at the far end of their block.

  “Shhh,” Albert said, lifting a finger to his lips.

  Stan nodded. And then, unnecessarily, he lifted a finger to his own lips and returned the shush.

  They crept up the first porch.

  “Your time has come,” Albert whispered.

  He and Stan each grabbed one of the two pumpkins sitting there. They crept to the street, exchanged glances, nodded, and flung their pumpkins to the road.

  The pumpkins smashed gloriously. Albert almost let out a whoop of joy. He’d been waiting so long for this moment, he couldn’t believe it was finally here. The two of them raced to the next porch. And the next. They worked their way down the street, smashing every pumpkin. They left a trail of broken pieces behind them.

  They moved down the street.

  So did the broken pieces.

  Tendrils of fiber reached out like tentacles, dragging the shattered pieces down the street. Tiny fragments, large hunks, and everything between slid along the road, following the boys and pulling together. As Albert and Stan reached the last house and smashed the last pumpkin, they found themselves facing two towering patchwork pumpkins. Each had a pair of gaping holes the size of manhole covers for eyes. Each had a grin that grew wider now that their time had come.

  Albert craned his neck back, trying to see the top of them. So did Stan. The gigantic pumpkins rotated so their eyes faced each other. The pumpkins tilted forward as if nodding in agreement. Then they rotated back to face their victims, and they leaped straight up in the air.

  They came down on Albert and Stan, smashing the pumpkin smashers. A lot of damage was done. Albert had seventeen broken bones. Stan had twelve. Neither was in any shape to smash anything for quite a while. And when the next Halloween rolled around, they both decided it was best not to go outside at all.

  THE SOCK DRAWER

 
We dumped our bags on the floor of my bedroom and stared at all the candy.

  “Best Halloween ever,” my friend Peter said.

  “For sure,” his sister, Cindy, said. She pointed at my pile. “Hey, Andrea, what’s that?”

  I looked down. There, among the candy bars and boxes, I saw a pen. It was attached to a piece of cardboard with the words Halloween Magic Pen on it.

  “No idea.” I peeled back the cardboard and pulled out the pen. “Did you get one?”

  “Nope,” Cindy said.

  “Me either.” Peter held his hand out. “Let me try it.”

  I gave him the pen. He was the best artist in our group. Before I could hand him a piece of paper, he leaned over and drew something on his sock. We were all wearing white socks as part of our soccer-player costumes. I watched his drawing take shape. It was a spider.

  “Perfect for Halloween,” he said.

  “Your mom’s not going to like that,” I said.

  “She won’t care. She’s always telling me to express myself.” He passed the pen to Cindy. “Here. Draw something.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Something Halloweenish,” Peter said.

  “You mean Halloweenie,” I said.

  Cindy giggled. “No. That’s us. We’re Halloweenies. A bat is Halloweenish. Yeah! That’s what I’ll draw.” She leaned over and drew a bat on her sock. It wasn’t as good as Peter’s spider, but it was good enough that anyone could tell what she’d made.

  She slid the pen to me. “Your turn.”

  I picked up the pen and stared at my sock. I liked monsters. I decided to draw a vampire. It came out looking pretty good, so I drew a second one on my other sock. “Check it out,” I said when I was finished.

  “Not bad,” Peter said.

  “But I don’t see any magic,” Cindy said. “It’s supposed to be magic. Maybe there are instructions.” She picked up the cardboard from the pen and turned it over. There, in big, red letters, I saw: WARNING. DO NOT DRAW ON CLOTHING!