The Monster Catchers--A Bailey Buckleby Story Page 2

  “Okay! Okay! Seven thousand, then. Can you get rid of it tonight?”

  “Yes, of course!” Bailey’s father said, his smile immediately returning as he grabbed their new customer’s hand with both of his and shook it vigorously. “Always happy to help out a fellow Whalefatian. Your pond, sir, will be goblin-free by morning!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ;)

  BY THE AFTERNOON, Bailey’s father was already packing for the night’s camping and hunting adventure.

  “Bailey, this is truly extraordinary. That guy doesn’t know what he has in his backyard. I can’t believe he is paying us. I’d pay him for the opportunity to capture a goblin. Do you know what I could trade a goblin for on the monster market?”

  “But, Dad, do goblins really deserve to be put in cages? Dr. March says goblins are intelligent and that goblins love their families. He says goblins are nocturnal creatures only because they love to look at the stars—”

  Dougie Buckleby picked up In the Shadow of Monsters, opened it to page fifty-seven, and showed Bailey the photograph of the North American tunneling goblin—boils, a grin of sharp yellow teeth, long double-jointed toes, long double-jointed fingers, ears that stretched longer than the length of its whole body. The creature in the photo sat in a hole carved out of a redwood tree. Its eyes gleamed bright green and its gums bled around its teeth. This goblin did not appear to floss regularly. The detail was extraordinary. Dr. March was a master of the telescopic lens.

  “Bailey, the doctor takes a fine photo and tells a good story, but don’t let him turn you soft. Monsters are creatures born of evil thoughts and deeds. This goblin would eat its own children if there were no human babies available. This thing would bite your ears off for its own amusement. I don’t care what the famous doctor says—the man is a naive monster lover. Your mother felt the same way, always debating with me whether it was right or wrong to keep monsters in cages. You have a big heart, son, just like she did. But a big heart can leave you vulnerable to lies and dangers and an agonizing, gruesome, bloody, totally awful death.”

  Bailey had heard this lecture before. “I know, Dad, but Dr. March says all monsters are different. Some are evil, but some are quite friendly. Like Henry and Abigail.”

  “Son, Dr. March is the most famous monster hunter alive today, but he is completely wrong on this subject. All wild monsters are evil, vicious, and perpetually hungry. Unless you can catch, cage, and tame them like we tamed Henry and Abigail, the monsters of this world will do their very best to rip out your intestines and eat them. So watch your big heart. A goblin will eat that, too.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  His father squeezed his shoulder painfully. His grip was so strong that it always hurt when he did that, but Bailey didn’t mind. And he liked when his father compared him to his mother, but just the mention of her made his father’s face fall, as if the memory of her was too heavy for him to carry.

  “I need to go into the cellar and get some dynamite for tonight. Could you watch the front for me?”

  Bailey’s weapon of choice was the Frisbee. His father, a man with no use for subtlety, preferred dynamite.

  “Of course I’m going to watch the front room,” Bailey said to himself as his father went down into the cellar. “Who else is going to do it?”

  The brass bell above the front door dinged again and in walked a short man in a puffy winter coat. He was bald with thick, heavy glasses. He did not have poor eyesight, nor was he cold, but he liked to increase his size with the coat and glasses to increase the fear in his customers. He was a man who loaned money to others, did favors for others, and he expected to be paid back promptly with bigger money and bigger favors. His name was Candycane Boom and he was carrying a brass birdcage covered by a thin gold drape. Something inside the cage shrieked and scratched.

  “Bailey Buckleby—my favorite young adult. How are you?”

  “Fine, Mr. Boom. You?”

  “Excellent. Is your father around?”

  “He’s in the cellar getting dynamite.”

  “Ah.”

  Bailey’s phone barked at him. Roump! Bailey had recorded his favorite monster’s bark and assigned it as his ringtone for incoming texts.

  Bailey! Whatchyadoin? I want to show you my social studies project!

  Savannah Mistivich had been texting him a lot lately. At the beginning of the school year, she had just been a girl that he competed against in Four Square at recess. Neither Bailey nor any of the other boys could ever knock her out of the top square; she was just too fast and could really power-drive the ball. Every time Bailey stepped into the first square, she spiked the ball down in his square, and although he was fast with a Frisbee, he wasn’t ever fast enough to return her serve. She laughed at him every time and Bailey had always assumed she thought he was stupid. She was probably the only person in his life who could make him feel that way.

  Now he received a text from her every hour. It seemed strange, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he looked forward to her texts. But he wondered why she had gone from cold to hot. He hadn’t changed any in two months. Unless he had. He liked her long hair. He liked how it went so far down her back and that it flowed like the blackest ink down the back of her hoodie. Most of all, he liked that she didn’t call him Monster Boy like the other kids did. In fact, she had once sent him a text that simply said: I know they’re real. He hadn’t replied, even though he so badly wanted to. His father had always told him it was safest to keep their store’s backroom business a secret, although he also said monster hunting was a trade to be proud of. When Bailey was younger, his father’s mixed message confused him, but now he understood the precaution was to protect them from neighbors who preferred to live in ignorance. But just because he understood his father’s warning didn’t mean he didn’t want to rebel and tell somebody about their monsters. More than anybody, he wanted to tell Savannah.

  He texted: I’m watching the store.

  In one quick motion, Mr. Boom covered Bailey’s phone with his stubby fingers. “Are you texting a girl?”

  “No. Well. Yes.”

  Mr. Boom turned Bailey’s phone around to read the screen, then turned it back.

  “That’s very good, young man, but when a customer is in front of you, you should never let your eyes off him. It’s rude and actually quite dangerous.”

  Bailey eyed him suspiciously. “Are you saying you’re dangerous, Mr. Boom?”

  “Quite.”

  He scooted his big-framed glasses up to the top of his nose. His bald head was wet from the fog, and he was not smiling. The creature in his covered cage went screech! and Bailey’s phone barked roump!

  Are you ready for your social studies presentation on Monday? You know Wood is going in alphabetical order so you better be ready!:p

  It was the first time a girl had texted him a:p.

  His father came up the cellar stairs with duct tape in one hand and a canvas bag full of dynamite sticks in the other.

  “Ah, hello, Candycane.”

  “Good afternoon, Dougie. I came to see you about possibly acquiring a friend for Bill here.”

  From underneath the gold birdcage drape, Bill let out another screech!

  Dougie Buckleby set the bag of dynamite down, rubbed his hands together, and shook Mr. Boom’s hand.

  “I think we can do that. Yes, we have a fine selection of potential buddies for Bill. In fact, we currently have twenty-seven faeries on display.”

  “Twenty-seven? That’s twice as many as last time. You’ve been on the hunt, Dougie!”

  And the two men slipped past the purple curtain into the back room.

  Bailey went back to reading his book, although he now had Savannah on his mind. He needed to concentrate, because he was trying to decide between one of two possible presentations.

  Monday’s theme was the American Revolution, and Bailey’s topic was George Washington’s crossing of the Delaware. He knew the story well enough to talk about how General Washington
snuck across the river with his brave men, surprised the British, won the Battle of Trenton, and ultimately the war. It would be a boring and uncontroversial speech that would earn him at least a B from Mrs. Wood.

  But the story he really wanted to tell was how George Washington won the Battle of Trenton with the help of some very special nonhuman friends. That presentation would be far more interesting and far more accurate. He wanted so badly to give that speech, even if it shocked his classmates and Mrs. Wood, too. She’d probably give him an F if he gave that version, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of having told the truth about monsters in the world for once in his life. He knew the other kids called him Monster Boy behind his back and said even worse things about his father. He knew that all of his classmates and all of their stupid parents suspected that he and his father prowled around their town at night, doing who knows what wicked things. Some knew they captured and caged dangerous monsters, but not one of them had the guts to thank them for it, even if they had hired them in the past. But as his father often said, “If Bucklebys didn’t keep this town free of monsters, then who would?”

  Something inside Bailey was burning. He wanted to do what he knew Dr. March would do. He wanted to give the most important social studies presentation of all time.

  As if reading his mind, Savannah texted him: What’s your topic?

  How George Washington won the war.

  And just how did he win the war, Bailey boy?;)

  Winky smiley face—another first. Bailey wondered if Savannah knew and believed the real history of the United States, monsters and all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE INFAMOUS BACK ROOM

  BAILEY TRIED TO ignore the shrieking coming from the back room, but it was growing louder and louder. Across from the register stood, in a perfect row for $9.95 each, driftwood replica carvings of the original Whalefatian founders who had been freed from the exploding whale thanks to Bailey’s great-great-great-great-grandparents Earl and Myrtle Buckleby. Bailey moved the figurines to the counter and pretended they were his seventh-grade audience, staring him down, demanding the finest in social studies entertainment. He imagined telling them the truth and all of them jumping on him, calling him a liar and Monster Boy, then tearing him limb from limb.

  The intercom crackled. “Bailey, could you come back here and take Henry for a walk? He’s too excited and he needs to poop anyway. Close up the shop for a bit.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Over the intercom Bailey could hear Henry barking his anxious and excited roump, roump, ROUMP!

  He locked the front door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Tourists would have to buy their souvenirs elsewhere for a while—real business was being conducted in the back.

  Bailey slid aside the purple curtain and unlocked the thick oak door with a key from his own key ring. The door opened inward to a wrought iron gate, which he unlocked with another key, which opened into their infamous back room.

  Buckleby and Son’s Very Strange Souvenirs occupied the first level of their three-story pink Victorian with white shingles and trim covered with seagull poop from top to bottom. The first level had once been an unpopular meat pie restaurant. Tourists used to sit and wait for their dry and tasteless meat pies in what was now the Bucklebys’ front room. The former kitchen was now the infamous back room, in which long stainless steel counters with sinks at each end had become convenient easy-to-clean shelves for the Bucklebys to display their carnivorous, sugar-lusting, blood-sucking faeries.

  The faeries were kept in iron lanterns and came in a wide variety of bright colors: canary yellow, fiery red, baby blue. All had stripes down the length of their chitin faery wings, which were mostly tattered from thrashing against their lantern cages in frustration. Eyes bulging red, snaggleteeth too crooked for any orthodontist to straighten, they shrieked and thrashed and shook the bars of their lanterns. They were restless creatures, so the Bucklebys tried to keep them entertained by placing a wax candle with a long wick in each lantern. The faeries spat on the wick, which made it light since a faery’s spittle contained an unusually high amount of iron sulfide. Then the faery would snuff it out. Light it with his spit. Snuff it out. Light it. Snuff it out. A faery could amuse his wicked little brain like this for hours.

  His father and Candycane Boom were walking up and down the length of the counters, discussing the merits of each one. This blue-crested faery had a fierce growl. This emerald-winged mocking faery repeated every word you said, which was clever, but Mr. Boom said that in his line of work he’d rather his faeries not remember or repeat anything they might hear. This orange tiger-striped faery was missing an eye, but the empty socket made it look all the more scary. Mr. Boom brought his brass birdcage within close range of each faery to see how his own yellow-breasted faery, which he’d named Bill Collector, would react to each potential partner. As Bill was lowered within reach of each possible buddy, the two faeries would eye each other suspiciously, bare their teeth, and then reach through the bars to attempt to choke each other.

  “Bill is a fierce little beast who could hold his own against whichever one you choose,” Bailey’s father admitted proudly. He had sold Mr. Boom his bright yellow Bill Collector just last year. “But like Siamese Fighting Fish, it’s best to keep faeries in separate cages to prevent them from ripping each other apart.”

  “That will be fine,” Mr. Boom said. “If one killer faery improves my debt collection rate by fifty percent, then two will surely improve my rate by one hundred percent.”

  Candycane Boom had earned his name with just such mad logic. He had once offered a local Whalefatian woman the choice of repaying him the eight thousand dollars she owed him or trading him her brand-new black pickup truck for a candy cane. It did not seem to her a fair trade, but Mr. Boom insisted it wasn’t fair that she owe him eight thousand dollars while she owned a brand-new truck. He had said, “I’m going to release Bill from his cage and he is either going to eat a candy cane or your left arm. He prefers sugar to flesh, so you might find the candy cane worth it. Make your decision before I count to three. One … Two…”

  His customer agreed, and Candycane Boom had acquired both a nickname and a brand-new truck in one terrifying moment.

  “I’ll take the orange one-eyed brute,” he said. “I’ve always had a soft spot for broken, disfigured things. Jumping Jezebel is he ugly. Of course, you won’t mind if I pay with blood money?” He pulled out a thick wad of twenties, laughing as he counted them out.

  “Your money is as good as anyone else’s.” Dougie smiled politely. “Do you need any sugar cubes or leather gloves? Complimentary, of course.”

  The loan shark politely waved his hand no. “I’m already prepared. I have a pocket full of candy canes and a second birdcage. You should give these faeries more space, though, Dougie. A lantern doesn’t let them spread their wings. I like my faeries fit and deadly, and that means giving them a rigorous aerobic workout every day.”

  “Candycane, give evil an inch and evil will take off your hand. Please be careful, my friend.” Bailey’s father bowed politely, removing the tiger-striped faery’s cage from the counter.

  “Aw, come now. Bill Collector wouldn’t take off my hand.”

  But when he reached his finger toward Bill’s chin to give him a little cootchie-coo, Bill made a swipe for his owner’s finger and would have snapped it in two if Mr. Boom hadn’t pulled it back in time.

  “Dad, are you going to feed Abigail and everybody else?” Bailey watched Mr. Boom’s maniacal smile unfold as he teased his new possession. He wondered who was more dangerous—the faery or its owner.

  “Yes, Bailey. Just go let Henry stretch his legs. He’s getting wild.”

  “Okay, because I’ve got to get to my social studies report.”

  “Don’t worry, my boy. You’ll have all day tomorrow. Tonight we go goblin hunting!”

  Bailey knew what that meant. Staying up late, pitching camp by John Hanson’s pond, catching and caging th
e goblin or spend all night trying, coming back to the shop, opening for business, and feeding the monsters. After all that, it would be Sunday and Bailey knew he’d be too tired to prepare at all.

  Then it would be Monday, and Mrs. Wood would call them up in alphabetical order. And whether Mrs. Wood chose to call up students by first name or last, Bailey Buckleby was always alphabetically disadvantaged.

  Why couldn’t she go backward just once? Why did Zachary Zimmerman catch a break every single time?

  If he was going to stand up and challenge the most beloved American story of all time, he wanted to make sure he had his facts straight, although his classmates would probably kill him for blasphemy anyway.

  But at least he could tell himself that he had told the truth.

  He shook off the worry and got Henry’s leash off the hook. Henry was their seven-foot-tall Swiss troll and had been with them since Bailey was five. In fact, Bailey couldn’t remember life without him. Henry lived in what used to be the unpopular meat pie restaurant’s walk-in freezer. His bald blue head brushed against the top, but there was enough room in the former freezer for a chair and an aluminum washing tub. Henry loved water and spent all day in the tub, his tree-trunk-sized arms hanging over the sides, his knuckles brushing the floor, his tongue wagging happily. When he saw Bailey, he jumped out of the tub and hopped in circles and barked ROUMP, ROUMP, ROUMP!

  Henry really was their favorite of all the monsters because he was so sweet. He was Bailey’s loyal companion on walks and great for pulling him along on a skateboard and giving him big licks up the side of his face as they trotted down Oceanview Boulevard. Henry was happy to return every Frisbee that Bailey shot out to him.

  Three times a day the Bucklebys served Henry a whole raw chicken in a bowl of ice water. When Henry finished his cold wet chicken lunch, he was ready to go and was accustomed to their daily routine. Bailey held up a trench coat and Henry slid his arms right into the sleeves. Then he bowed his head down, tongue wagging happily, and Bailey covered his bald blue head with a giant sunhat. Then he dropped to one knee so Bailey could add the goofy oversized sunglasses. When Bailey attached the leash to Henry’s collar, he nearly fell face forward as a very excited Henry dragged him to the back exit of the shop.