The Monster Catchers--A Bailey Buckleby Story Read online

  “Dad, you’re going to feed Abigail, right?”

  His father was admiring Mr. Boom’s new purchase as they both teased the little orange killer with their fingers.

  “Dad? Please don’t forget Abigail. Or the hoop snakes. Or the ratatoskers. Seriously, Dad, you can’t forget to feed them again!”

  Abigail the Harpy looked doubtful that her lunch would be served on time as she moved back and forth, her talons gripping and ungripping her birdcage perch. Her black-and-white-feathered wings flapped with anxiety, and her human female head cocked to the left side as she chirped madly, pleading for a sardine.

  But Bailey didn’t have time to insist his father pay attention as Henry practically pulled him out the back door, barking a very enthusiastic roump, roump, ROUMP!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE CYNOCEPHALY

  WHALEFAT BEACH in September was gray and just a bit too cold, dotted with surfers in wet suits and teenagers trying to start bonfires. It was not a beach for lying out to catch sun. It was for taking spooky pictures against a backdrop of fog after a guided boat tour of the magnificent ruins of San Francisco. Bailey could barely remember how San Francisco used to look before the Golden Gate Bridge was nothing more than a humongous ball of tangled, rusted girders sitting half-submerged in the ocean, and the Transamerica Pyramid broken and abandoned, lying on its side, its tip pointing nowhere. Everyone said the video footage of the two sea giants stomping the city to rubble was fake, but Bailey knew it had been live and real.

  Henry galloped ahead, using his hands as much as his feet to propel his big blue body forward. Bailey gave up and let the leash fly free. Henry wasn’t going to run off. Where would he go? Henry loved Bailey and his father. Yes, Bailey’s father said a troll was nothing more than a wicked and dangerous anomaly of this world, a beast mutated by evil that only wanted to eat human babies. But if his father really believed that, why did he give Henry a kiss on the forehead every night? And why did he keep raising the price on Henry’s sales tag? It now read $99,999.99, an amount Bailey hoped no one would ever offer.

  Bailey had secretly been wondering whether Henry was a troll at all. Dr. March had captured a wonderfully detailed photograph of a troll depicted on page 186. As the doctor’s photo illustrated, trolls were indeed blue. They were taller than humans and, yes, their arms extended to their feet so their knuckles dragged on the ground just like Henry’s. But the troll eyes in Dr. March’s photographs were enormous and green, and their teeth were sharp and pointy. Henry’s eyes were tiny and blue, and his teeth were square like white marble blocks. Hair sprouted in thickets on troll chests, shoulders, feet, and ears, but Henry didn’t have a single hair on his whole smooth blue body.

  But if Henry wasn’t a troll, then that meant his father had either been lying to him for years or refused to accept the evidence. Whenever Bailey questioned Henry’s identity out loud, his father insisted Henry was a Swiss troll and that was that. For seven years Bailey had accepted this, not because he was afraid of his father but because he loved him so much. He felt that to contradict his father was to betray him, and he never ever wanted to do that. And yet, page 186 kept nagging and nagging at him.

  A couple strolled toward them along the dunes, hand in hand. Bailey sat down in the sand just below the seagrass, watching Henry run, his trench coat flapping behind him like a madman’s cape. Henry looped around the couple and headed for the water. The couple ignored Henry and walked forward quickly, not making eye contact. Henry barked roump, roump in pure excitement, but his happy bark only made the couple walk faster. If they suspected Henry was a monster of some kind, they didn’t want their suspicions confirmed, not when they were having such a pleasant, romantic afternoon. As they passed Bailey, the woman smiled and whispered to her companion, “He’s a cute boy. Our son might look like that.” Bailey ignored them with a smirk, almost annoyed that it took only a trench coat and a sunhat to hide a seven-foot-tall troll in plain sight. He doubted that humans were much smarter than monsters at all.

  Seagulls flew for their lives when they saw Henry, which was wise of them, because although humans might be safe from him, Henry would eat a seagull given the opportunity. The birds kept a safe distance, and eventually Henry would give up the pursuit, plop his big blue butt in the wet sand, and roll around happily. When the tide would crest against him, he put his mouth down to the foam and lapped it up like Friday night dessert.

  Surfers bobbed in the cold green water, waiting patiently for waves, occasionally catching one and riding it all the way to shore. Bailey shot a yellow Frisbee out in Henry’s direction, just a few feet in front of his blue friend so he’d have to jump for it. Henry caught it in his mouth midair with fingers and toes pointed beautifully downward, his head held high like a proud blue retriever. He came running back on hands and feet and dropped the Frisbee in Bailey’s hands. Bailey shot it out again with artistic precision, sending it just above the cresting water, and Henry went chasing after it. Allowing Henry to run and catch Frisbees made it obvious that he wasn’t human, but most of the surfers bobbing in the water knew them both. If they suspected the blue creature wasn’t human, they didn’t care. On Whalefat Beach, if no harm was done and surfing wasn’t interrupted, yelling in fright or calling the police was a complete waste of waves.

  Through the afternoon fog, Bailey could see a windsurfer leaping the waves, gaining more than five feet of air with each jump. The other surfers gave him a wide berth as he tilted his rig so much that the sail was nearly parallel to the water. Bailey watched as the surfer caught a beautiful wave, pulled the rig, and flew through the air like he rode the wind. Bailey shot the Frisbee out toward Henry again as he watched the surfer fly, nearly defying physics to land just in front of Henry on the wet sand. No sooner did his board touch the beach than the surfer came running up toward the gliding Frisbee. Henry ran toward the disc, unaware of anything else around him, but the lone surfer beat him to it and snatched the Frisbee out of the air himself—in his mouth. It took a moment for Bailey to realize it, but while the windsurfer wore a slick black wet suit and was human from the neck down, he had the head of a dog, with a long, narrow snout and sharp-tipped ears that pointed straight up.

  Henry stopped short, happy to have another player in the game. He sat on his haunches, his tree-trunk arms in front of him with his knuckles in the sand, his tongue wagging, cocking his blue head, watching the dog-headed stranger biting the Frisbee meant for him.

  “Henry, here!” Bailey yelled. Henry looked at his master.

  The surfer took the Frisbee out of his own mouth and held it out, offering it to Henry, trying to lure him closer.

  “HENRY! HERE!” Bailey yelled again. Henry looked at him, then back at the surfing stranger wiggling the yellow Frisbee. He wagged his tongue as he tried to decide what to do. Bailey now regretted not having a longer leash so that he could reel him in.

  “Here, boy! Rowf, rowf!” the lone surfer barked.

  “Hey, man, back off,” Bailey snapped. He was usually cool and confident, but now fear twisted inside him. He had one more Frisbee and he whipped it with a slice so that it curved in toward Henry but away from the surfer. Henry bounded toward it, snatching the Frisbee in the air like a champion and dropping it in Bailey’s hand. Immediately, Bailey reattached the leash to Henry’s collar and held on tight. The windsurfer walked toward them.

  “That’s a talented friend you have there,” the dog-man said, offering the Frisbee to Bailey. “I’m sorry to interrupt your game. The dog in me can’t resist a good Frisbee chase. Allow me to introduce myself—Axel Pazuzu.”

  Bailey shook the dog-man’s hand tentatively. “Bailey Buckleby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bailey Buckleby.”

  Axel Pazuzu sat down in the seagrass a polite distance away and vigorously shook the water from his dog head. Henry wagged his tongue, waiting for another Frisbee to fly.

  “And what is your name, friend?”

  “His name is Henry,” Bailey said,
his guard up. The dog-man seemed friendly enough, but his gold eyes looked suspiciously cunning. He scratched his dog cheek slowly as if he was calculating his next move.

  “He can’t speak for himself?” Pazuzu asked.

  “Henry can’t speak at all.”

  “How old is he?”

  “We can’t be sure. My dad bought him from another monster hunter seven years ago, but we think he’s a baby.”

  “Ah,” Pazuzu said. “He’s too young to speak his language, then. It is very difficult, very old, with more compound words than even German. It took me several hundred years to learn it, but I must confess, I am easily distracted from studying.”

  Bailey was impressed. He had always wanted to learn a monster language, but because California public schools did not acknowledge the existence of monsters, his only choices were Spanish and French.

  “You can speak troll?”

  Axel Pazuzu dropped his head back and barked. Perhaps it was supposed to be a laugh, but who knew what a dog’s laugh sounded like? “Yes, I know the troll language as well. But Henry is no troll.”

  “What?” Bailey asked, but as soon as the dog-man said it, Bailey knew his suspicions about Henry had just been confirmed.

  Pazuzu waved his hand dismissively. “You said your name is Bailey Buckleby. You’re the son of Dougie Buckleby, correct? And quite an expert with a Frisbee, I understand.”

  “Yes,” Bailey said cautiously. He was starting to think this guy already knew the answers to all his own questions. Pazuzu stood up, stretched, and shook himself again. Bailey took a few steps backward, pulling Henry with him.

  “So you know my dad. You know me. You think you know Henry. Who are you?”

  “I told you, my name is Axel Pazuzu.”

  “Yes, but what are you? I haven’t seen any pictures of you in Dr. March’s book.”

  Axel smiled and looked out toward the ocean. “You’re referring to In the Shadow of Monsters, which is a surprisingly good read, considering it was written by a human. But the word monster is a bit insulting to those it refers to, don’t you think? I come from an ancient race of highly sophisticated beings who are not monsters at all and are, in fact, superior to humans in many ways. We call ourselves cynocephali, although humans have often called us wind demons, because we have outwitted humans in business and sailing so many times. We are brilliant linguists, too, primarily because we live a very long time and so have had ample time to learn the languages of all sorts of humans, animals, and what you like to call monsters. I myself am over three thousand years old. I suppose Dr. March hasn’t written of our kind because he has never encountered us. There are very few of us left, thanks to humans, who tend to kill those they fear.”

  Bailey gripped his Frisbee between his index finger and thumb, just in case he needed to strike. This creature made the hair on his neck stand on end.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’ve sailed around the world so many times, I feel like I am from everywhere and nowhere. I believe I spent my youth in Babylon, but you know, it’s been so long, I can’t quite remember.”

  Bailey had never heard anything so ridiculous. “You don’t remember where you grew up?”

  The cynocephaly scratched behind his ear as he laughed. “I’m three thousand years old! Can you remember even ten years ago?”

  Bailey had to admit to himself that he couldn’t remember that far back, and he was only twelve.

  Bailey shrugged. “I guess it’s true. I can’t remember.”

  “And your blue friend is no troll—that’s true, too. A cousin of mine told me I could find a very rare being for sale at the Buckleby store in Whalefat Beach, and it appears my long voyage has not been in vain. He is for sale, is he not?”

  Bailey felt nervous. Here was the very question he had always dreaded.

  “Technically, yes. For $99,999.99.”

  Axel Pazuzu’s grin widened and he showed all his sharp white dog teeth.

  “Then, good sir, I offer you $99,999.99. I don’t have it on me in cash, but I assume you’re willing to take a personal check for such a high amount? Let me just go get my checkbook—”

  Bailey crossed his arms squarely and didn’t even have to think about his decision. “I reserve the right to refuse you service.”

  Bailey did hold this right. A sign hanging on the front door of their store read in bold letters: WE HOLD THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. Another sign on the same door read: NO SHOES! NO SHIRT! NO SERVICE!

  Pazuzu paused and tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin.

  “How about a million?”

  Bailey’s eyes grew big at the number. If he were to agree, it would be, by far, their biggest monster sale ever. They could buy another building, hire staff, and double their monster trading operation, or better yet, he and his father could go on a worldwide monster-hunting expedition to find the rarest beasts in the darkest places.

  Bailey was tempted, but the thought of losing Henry was too much, so he shook his head no.

  A low growl rumbled from Pazuzu’s dog mouth. “Bailey Buckleby, you’re being unreasonable. I’ve offered you ten times Henry’s value. You are a failure of a salesman if you refuse.”

  Bailey was a good-enough salesman not to let a petty insult affect him during a monster negotiation. “Why do you want him so badly?”

  Pazuzu ignored the question and instead looked Henry up and down. Bailey could see he was considering taking him by force. He tightened his grip on the leash with his left hand and slid his Frisbee into position in his right. The cynocephaly narrowed his eyes and tapped his dog chin again.

  “Young Buckleby, although you do not realize it, your blue friend here may be the most valuable creature on the planet. And it is simply not right that you and your father keep him in a cage. You seem like an honest and upright young man—surely you see the cruelty of keeping such a beautiful beast inside a defunct freezer.”

  The dog-man rubbed his finger along his sharp canine tooth as he stared Bailey down. “I will have him, one way or another. You can either profit from the exchange or not. Worse, if you refuse my offer, harm may come to you and your father. So I ask you, why be foolish?”

  “I’d say you’re foolish to make idle threats,” Bailey said sternly.

  Pazuzu paused, clearly considering the odds.

  “I heard you once took out a ten-foot-tall Redwood sasquatch by blinding its right eye with just one throw of a Frisbee. Is that true?”

  Bailey did not realize that knowledge of his superb Frisbee skills extended outside Whalefat Beach, but he was glad to hear it.

  “I’ll take out your eye, too, doggie, if you lay one finger on Henry.”

  Axel Pazuzu growled, and Bailey growled right back. His index finger tapped anxiously on his Frisbee, adrenaline pumping through him. He almost wanted this dog-man to make a move. Go ahead and try, he thought as Henry wagged his tongue happily.

  The cynocephaly nodded, deciding this was not the time. “We will meet again, young Buckleby.” Then he picked up his board, ran toward the water, and in a few moments had the sail upright and was surfing out to sea as easily as he had surfed in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ONE REAL MEMORY

  SEVEN YEARS AGO, two thousand-foot-tall sea giants stomped on San Francisco, causing tidal waves that would leave the demolished city flooded forever. Six months later his mother disappeared and his father had never told Bailey why.

  He had only one real memory of his mother, but it was a pretty good one. Perhaps most children who lose their mother at five years old would feel cheated by this, because to have only one memory of the person who loved you the most in this world is not much of a shield to ward off all the people and monsters who wouldn’t care for one split second whether you suffered or struggled or died a lonely death. But Bailey’s shielding memory was bright and vivid and as warm as a blanket that he could wrap himself into like a well-tucked burrito when the world was cold and dark and cruel.


  In Bailey’s memory, he and his mother sat under his baby-blue blanket reading his favorite book—In the Shadow of Monsters by Dr. Frederick March—by the warm glow of a flashlight. His father may not have shared their enthusiasm for the doctor’s real-life monster stories and photographs, but that was okay. This warm moment was just for Bailey and his mom.

  Dr. March’s photograph took up the entire back cover. He wore a weathered cotton explorer’s hat with a wide brim and glasses with thick tinted lenses that magnified a pair of wild, bulging eyes. His stories detailed wonderful legends, accompanied by sketches and photographs from the field that disproved the myth that all creatures that weren’t human were wicked and cruel. Like how the peaceful and artistic labyrinth-building minotaurs fled to Africa and then to the Americas to escape all the show-off Greek heroes who had hunted them to near extinction just to impress their fathers and girlfriends, and how brilliant mathematically talented Egyptian sphinxes built the pyramids with advanced technology but suffered an entire generation of mental illness when humans put cinnamon in their drinking water. And of course the giants, the first bipeds to walk the planet, before humans, before monkeys, even before dinosaurs. Giants towered over the tallest human buildings and were made of the core elements of the earth itself.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, my beautiful.”

  “Some monsters exist and some don’t, right?”

  “Yes, my sweetest of sweets.”

  “So which are real and which aren’t?”

  His mother smiled and her long auburn hair lightly brushed his face. If Bailey shut his eyes, he could still feel her hair on his cheek.