The Monster Catchers--A Bailey Buckleby Story Page 4

  “It’s a difficult question, my everything. Some people lie. Some people might invent a monster to scare you and keep you from seeking a truth they don’t want you to find. On the other hand, someone might invent a story to convince you that a monster never existed, to trick you into thinking that sphinxes did not build the pyramids, or that the Grand Canyon was not created by the giant snakes of Teotihuacan, because monsters can be scary, and some humans would prefer not to believe the truth, even if it is right there in front of them. And it’s easier not to believe in monsters if no one believes in monsters, which is totally absurd but humans find lies comforting. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “Bailey, some monsters are real and some are not. Some will try to eat you alive, and others will become the best friends you’ve ever known. Monsters come in as many varieties as people, and one day, if you decide to follow Dr. March’s example, you will go out into the world and see for yourself.”

  Bailey stared at the doctor’s photo on the back cover. The eyes that looked into his were large and deep, like they had seen more of the world than anybody ever would.

  “Mom, are mermaids real?”

  “Yes, my perfect prince, and I pray you never meet one, because if you do, you will find her irresistibly beautiful, and you will adore her until the end of your days, which will come all too quickly as she tears your heart from your chest to eat it while you watch. Sweet dreams, my love.”

  Bailey’s mother turned off the flashlight and the moment was over.

  Huddled in a pup tent with his father in the September damp of the redwood forest, Bailey swam in the warmth of that memory. When his father turned on the rusted-but-reliable Coleman lantern, the tent glowed with a translucence that reminded him of the baby-blue blanket. Bailey loved monster hunting with his father and could not imagine a life without it. He just wished his mother were a part of it, too.

  His father was laying out supplies for easy access—night-vision goggles, a rope net with interspersed lead balls to give it sufficient weight, beef jerky, orange juice, duct tape that could be used for any number of monster-hunting tasks, a bluebird night-light, a hammer, a handful of nails, seven glow sticks, and seven sticks of dynamite. His father always said it was better to have dynamite and not need it than to not have dynamite when you needed to blow the kablooey out of something.

  “Dad, what do you know about the cynocephali?”

  His father stopped untangling the rope net. “How do you know about the cynocephali?”

  “I met one today. He had a dog head and said his name was Axel Pazuzu. He offered to buy Henry for one million dollars. You might get mad, but I didn’t take it. When I said no, he showed me his teeth, and I thought he was going to try to steal Henry. Then he just took off on a windsurf board.”

  His father suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen, Bailey. You stay away from that demon. Those things are evil, cunning liars. What color was his head?”

  Bailey shrugged. “Light brown with some white markings.”

  His father relaxed his grip and sighed in relief. “Okay. That was a different cynocephaly. But every last one of them are dangerous murderers. Your mother was killed by one,” he said softly.

  “What?” Whenever Bailey had asked about his mother’s death in the past, his father had always become very sad and dark and quiet and simply said it had been a horrible, regrettable accident and wouldn’t say another word about it. He had never before suggested she had been murdered.

  “Dad, you’ve never told me any of this. I deserve to know. What happened?”

  “All you need to know, son, is that the cynocephali are devilish tricksters who will lie and even murder if they can profit by doing so. I won’t lose you the way I lost your mother. You stay away from this Axel Pazuzu. Promise me, Bailey. He’s extremely dangerous, and we’re certainly not selling Henry to him.”

  His father’s big hands squeezed Bailey’s shoulders painfully hard. He knew his father loved him, but sometimes he could be so intense, he feared he would tear him in half.

  “Dad, you’re hurting me. Okay. I’ll stay away from him.”

  His father let go.

  “All right, son. I’m sorry. I just can’t bear the thought of losing you. I love you, boy.”

  Bailey felt his heart swelling and his eyes filling with tears. “I know, Dad.”

  His father returned to untangling the rope net.

  Bailey’s mind was racing. To know his mother had been killed by one of these dog-headed men filled him with anger and questions. While his father whispered soft and vicious cusses at the tangled rope net, Bailey stewed over the new information, not able to quiet himself, even if it meant betraying his father’s love.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, son.”

  “Axel Pazuzu said Henry isn’t a troll.”

  “HENRY IS A SWISS TROLL AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANOTHER WIND DEMON LIE!”

  His father could whisper and yell at the same time. He puffed out his chest, filling the entire tent, giving Bailey no room to breathe. Bailey didn’t dare speak again, so as his father munched on beef jerky to calm himself down, he opened In the Shadow of Monsters to page 186. His father saw him looking at the page, and Bailey knew that simply having the book open to the doctor’s entry on trolls was a silent accusation against his father, who stared at the back of Bailey’s neck until he felt hot.

  His father finally broke the tension, turning to put on the night goggles.

  “There is one thing that all monster hunters can agree on, and that is a wicked goblin brain goes bananas for a shining light. If our customer’s pest is indeed a goblin, these glow sticks will draw him out of hiding and right into our hands. Do you have your Frisbees ready?”

  Of course Bailey did.

  “The net is ready, too,” his father said, leaning over and kissing him on the top of his head.

  “It’s just you and me, boy. You’re all I have left. I’m going to protect you from all the wicked creatures in this world, even if it kills me. You just think about your presentation for Monday and I’ll take care of baiting this little beast. You’re going to do great. Hell if I know how you got any smarts with me as your father, but you’re my brilliant boy with a big brain and a big heart.” His father’s voice suddenly got even quieter. “Your mother gave you both.” Then he ruffled Bailey’s hair, unzipped the tent flap, and stepped out into the night.

  Bailey heard his father grumbling to himself. “A million dollars. Typical hot air from a typically stupid wind demon. Like a cynocephaly could hold on to so much money without losing it. Ha!”

  Bailey turned off the lantern, plunging everything into darkness. There weren’t even stars in the sky. He gripped a neon-orange Frisbee in his right hand and the net with lead bearings in his left and sat cross-legged just outside the tent. John Hanson’s house lights had been turned off as Bailey’s father had requested. It was so dark, a goblin could be right next to Bailey, about to rip his arm off from the shoulder, leaving Bailey unable to throw another Frisbee for the rest of his days.

  Twenty feet away, out in the night, crickets at the pond’s edges rubbed their legs together, filling the air with their music. His father’s footsteps on the damp pile of tree branches were the only clues for Bailey to tell where he was.

  Then a glow stick appeared in the distance, a purple line suspended in black space. Then tap, tap, tap as his father nailed it to a tree. A blue stick appeared just a bit closer. Tap, tap, tap. A red one, a yellow one, and finally on a redwood quite close to them, a green one, tap tap tap. Then, at the end of the tempting, glowing arrow, the final prize to seduce any wandering goblin—the bluebird night-light. He heard his father nailing it high up on the tree bark with a square bracket. Then the bluebird light came alive, glowing there like an angel, welcoming any lost and lonely goblin shining blue comfort. Not bright enough to be blinding, but glowing just enough to entice a goblin out of his hole. If one was out there.

 
“Bailey?”

  Bailey’s whispers guided his father back. “I’m here, Dad.” His father sat down next to him and put his arm around his shoulders.

  “You have the net?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “And your Frisbees?”

  “Of course, Dad.”

  “Good,” his father whispered. “Now we wait.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE STARS ARE NOT YOURS

  BAILEY HAD FALLEN ASLEEP. Or at least he thought he had, because no time seemed to pass before he heard the scratching of nails on bark and the grunting of something’s frustration. His father was snoring. Bailey elbowed him, but he wouldn’t stir. Unfortunately, his father had fallen asleep wearing the night-vision goggles, so Bailey had nothing to guide him except the soft glow of the bluebird night-light.

  Was he dreaming? Because the night-light was pulsing, as if the redwood tree was one giant artery of the earth with blood flowing from ground to leaves. But the scratching grew louder, and Bailey saw the bluebird night-light was now definitely jiggling around.

  Bark fell off in splinters at first, then big chunks crashed to the ground. Something inside the tree was definitely moving and earnestly attempting to get out.

  “Dad!”

  His father snored on, so Bailey crouched into a ready monster hunter’s stance with Frisbee and weighted net ready to fly.

  “Dad,” Bailey whispered again. “Please wake up.”

  Three long double-jointed fingers burst through the bark. Then three more appeared on the other side of the night-light. The hands wrenched the bluebird free and the bark went flying. Two green eyes appeared in the dark and, by the glow of the bluebird, Bailey could see the goblin’s face. Boils around its eye sockets, long ears like a mutated rabbit’s stretching up, bulging eyes, and an increasing smile of pointy teeth as the goblin raised its prize up in victory.

  “You beautiful blue star! I’ve saved you!”

  Then the goblin saw Bailey.

  “You can’t have it. This light is mine! I’m gonna let it shine!”

  “Dad. WAKE UP!” Bailey gave his father a sharper elbow to the ribs.

  The goblin zeroed in on Bailey, showing his teeth. “You thief, you human boy. You’re all greedy, heartless, self-centered little monsters.”

  “You’re the monster!” Bailey snapped.

  “The stars are not yours, human!”

  The goblin crawled down the tree like a squirrel using both hands and feet, never taking its eyes off Bailey. Then it crouched, ready to jump directly off the bark onto Bailey’s face. But Bailey acted first and whipped his Frisbee precisely between its eyes. Pft!

  “Ow!”

  “The net, Bailey.”

  His father was awake, scrambling, trying to get himself up off the ground, but his big belly slowed him down. He grunted and pushed himself to one knee. “The net!”

  Bailey threw the net just like a Frisbee, the lead weights giving it balance as it spun through the night like a perfect pizza pie. The net hovered above the stunned goblin and then brought it to the ground. Before the goblin could wrestle out from underneath the rope prison, Bailey’s father belly flopped on him.

  “I got you, you wicked little beast.”

  “Off me, fat human!”

  Bailey’s father had him in a choke hold, his arm around the goblin’s neck. But the goblin could use its feet as deftly as its hands, so with one hand clawing at his father’s arms and the other hand gripping the bluebird night-light tight, the goblin reached its left foot up and cut his fat belly with its sharp big toenail. When Bailey’s father screamed and loosened his grip for just a second, the goblin twisted and turned and bit off most of his father’s left little finger.

  “Aargh!” The nub where his finger used to be bled profusely, but he held the goblin’s neck in his elbow like a champion wrestler. “Duct tape, Bailey!”

  Bailey was already peeling it off, wrapping the goblin’s ankles together. Although with its sharp toes jabbing at him like daggers, Bailey had to use a Frisbee as both a shield and a club to keep the vicious feet at bay. With the ankles bound, he went for the wrists and secured the goblin. Then his father ripped off more duct tape to bandage the nub that used to be his left pinky.

  “Twenty years in the business and I’ve never lost a finger until today, you evil thing.”

  True, but Bailey’s father had lost three toes in previous monster encounters. The goblin munched on Dougie Buckleby’s lost pinky and swallowed.

  “What are you going to do with me?” the goblin growled.

  “Sell you for what the market will bear,” Bailey’s father said proudly. He lifted the goblin up by the duct-tape handcuffs.

  “Yes, yes. Curved spine. Long ears. Large amounts of hair growth in the ears. Green eyes. This is a fine specimen of Gobelinus cuniculus, I would say. Good job, son. You were quite right after all.”

  “Dad—”

  “Yes, my little friend, you will fetch a pretty penny. A rare beast.”

  “Dad, please look.”

  “For costing me a finger I would say I’ve earned it,” his father said as Bailey removed another Frisbee, ready to fire.

  “Your finger would have tasted better with honey mustard sauce.” The goblin laughed.

  “You’re in no position to make jokes,” his father said.

  “Neither are you.” The goblin chuckled because gleaming in the dark, just on the surface of the pond, hovered two glowing green eyes. Then another pair. Then another. In moments, at least a dozen goblin heads were breaking the pond’s surface. Bailey tried to count them, but it didn’t matter. He and his father were outnumbered.

  “You think your friends are here to save you?” Bailey’s father asked. “I came prepared.”

  He dropped the goblin and put a foot on him to keep him from squirming away. Then he withdrew a stick of dynamite and a lighter.

  “We might leave here with more than one new pet, Bailey. It’s payday.”

  “Dad, there are too many of them.”

  “Not to worry. I have plenty of dynamite.”

  The goblins had made it to the pond’s shore. They advanced quickly, some jumping into the redwood trees from trunk to trunk, others zipping along the ground, closing in on the Bucklebys. But Bailey’s father had lit the fuse.

  And he threw.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  YOU HAVE DETERMINED YOUR OWN FATE

  A FAERY with wings as white as snow and eyes filled to their rims with blood zipped down from the night sky, grabbing the stick of dynamite in midair and snuffing out its fuse with its bony faery fingers. Bailey and his father stood stunned. The goblins looked up, just as surprised. The red-eyed faery let loose a crooked toothy smile, hovering in the air above them all, tossing its dynamite prize up and down triumphantly.

  “Good job, Daisy! Very nice catch.”

  Axel Pazuzu stepped out from behind a redwood, wearing jeans and a nice but casual cotton sports jacket.

  “YOU!” Dougie Buckleby yelled, pointing his bloody nub at the wind demon. “You conniving devil, you stay away from my son!”

  “If you don’t get medical attention for your injured finger, you’re going to get an infection,” the dog-man said sarcastically.

  “Let go of Canopus, fat human!” yelled one of the goblins.

  “Let him go!” another squealed.

  “Be brave, Canopus!” a tiny female goblin with the biggest green globes for eyes cried out with her fists to her mouth, which made Bailey think she cared for this captured goblin most of all.

  “Mr. Pazuzu will help us,” Canopus gasped from underneath his father’s foot. “Mr. Pazuzu, we beg you to stop this human with your wondrous magic.”

  “This wind demon won’t help you, you little beasts. He’s more wicked than all of you and has no magic and no concern for anyone but himself.”

  Bailey stayed at the ready on one knee with a Frisbee cocked and ready to fly. Daisy flew in circles, salivating. Bailey knew why. Bl
ood was sweet, and the faery smelled his father’s severed finger.

  “Dad—”

  “I see her, son.” He pushed his foot down on Canopus’s back, but the goblin squirmed to get away, still holding the bluebird tight with his duct-taped hands, as if the night-light was more important than his very life.

  “Oh, Daisy won’t attack you,” Axel Pazuzu said. “Unless I want her to.”

  “You and your faery stay away from me and my son.”

  The cynocephaly picked a flea from his neck and flung it away. “Is this really the lesson you want to teach your son, Dougie? That every creature that is not human is evil and available for your capture, amusement, and sale?”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Bailey’s father replied sternly. “Now step back.”

  Axel shook his dog head in disappointment. “It always comes down to physical threats with you humans. Fine, then. As an advocate for the admirable Eighteenth Goblin Order of Star Guardians, I ask you, Mr. Dougie Buckleby, to step away from gentle Canopus and return to your home. If you do not, I will have sweet Daisy here shred your belly into raw bacon and eat you alive.”

  “NEVER!” Bailey’s father yelled, but the cynocephaly was already drawing his weapon from underneath his jacket—a plastic water pistol with a large yellow bubble chamber on the barrel. Bailey recognized the model. He played with one himself when summer days were hot enough. It was a Wylde Willy Water Blaster with rapid reload and fire.

  His father laughed. “And what do you propose to do with that?”

  Axel pointed his weapon and growled softly, his canines showing. “I propose to spray you from head to toe with cherry-flavored Kool-Aid.”

  Bailey and his father both knew what that meant. So did Daisy, because she began to spin in circles, nearly mad from sugar lust. And the sugar content in cherry-flavored Kool-Aid was very, very high.

  The goblins surrounding them—there must have been twenty by now—cheered as loudly as they could.

  Axel asked again, “Please, good sir, step away from Canopus and take your son home.”