The Big Goodbye to Big Chuck

 A significant slice of Northeast Ohio history passed on Monday with the death of Chuck Mitchell Schodowski, better known as the "Big Chuck" half of the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show and the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show. The programs were mainstays on WJW-TV for fifty years, give or take. 

If you grew up in the greater Cleveland area—including my own Stark County—in the 1960s through the 1980s, largely before the rise of cable TV, you recognize the seismic impact of Big Chuck. Friday nights were must-see TV long before NBC coined the term. Once the 11 PM news was over and meteorologist Dick Goddard had warned how much lake-effect precipitation other parts of the viewing area could expect, it was time for the opening lines, seared into our collective memories: 

Now, from high atop the Television 8 building

In the best location in the nation

On the shores of beautiful Lake Erie— 

It's the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show!

Or, if you were just a few years older, it was the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show, with top billing going to Robert "Hoolihan" Wells, who starred with Schodowski from 1966 to 1979. ("Lil' John" took over when Wells moved to Florida, and the laughs kept coming.)

Here's the opening bit, complete with charmingly cheesy stop-motion animation that relocates King Kong from the Big Apple to the North Coast: 

The show followed a predictable pattern. The two hosts would introduce a scary movie and fill the commercial breaks with ad-libbed patter and silly skits. The movies were seldom top-shelf. For every House on Haunted Hill, viewers could count on two or three turkeys like Robot Monster or The Bat. 

(It appears turkeys weren't always on the show's menu. A perusal of the Internet Archive reveals they once showed The Exorcist. During a commercial break, Big Chuck held up a copy of Hostage to the Devil by Malachi Martin and began to expound on an allegedly true-life exorcism on the east side of Cleveland, prompting Lil' John to give him a friendly shove and remind him "not to get too heavy and out of character.") 

The skits were what made the show. They were often parodies of popular TV programs, and most outlived the original shows by many years: Ben Carson became Ben Crazy, Payton Place birthed Parma Place, and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman morphed into Mary Hartski, Mary Hartski. Classified under "you probably couldn't do that today" were the "Certain Ethnic" sketches, like the laundromat bit at the top of this page. Big Chuck, Hoolihan, Lil' John, and the occasional guest star from the WJW news team wore many hats in these productions, all of which were punctuated by the distinctive laugh track at the end (a Google search credits Jay Lawrence, a Cleveland disc jockey from the 1960s). 

The show had a significant impact on me. I invited friends over on Friday night to watch the show and then sleep over. Both iterations—Hoolihan and Lil' John—were part of Friday night Pepsi and popcorn marathons that included CBS's Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk. By the time Dallas rolled around at 10 PM, the second part of the night's festivities—using a cassette recorder to create our own versions of Big Chuck and Lil' John—was well underway. We wrote cue cards, conscripted available voice talents (my parents and little sister), and filmed in such exotic locales as the basement and the bathroom (where a flushing toilet was repeatedly recorded with the microphone dangling over the bowl until my mom yelled at us to stop wasting water). 

Honestly, anticipating the show was often as much fun as watching it. It started the Saturday before with the new TV Guide, purchased by my mom at Sparkle Market.  Because Big Chuck and Lil' John was a regional show, it was never listed as such in the TV Guide. Instead, readers just had to know that whatever movie was listed in the 11:30 PM Friday slot for Channel 8 was the one. Of course, this was decades before you could look up The Killer Shrews online and find out it was a disaster, so all you had to go by was a one-sentence description and then six days of waiting to see if the movie delivered on that sentence's promise. 

I've never been a night owl, so staying awake until 11:30 after a long day of school was often a challenge, even if I took a nap, and making it to the closing credits at 1:30 or 2:00 AM was almost out of the question. Because of this, many of my memories of the show are wrapped in a semi-conscious daze, waking up for some scary parts of the movie or an especially funny Ben Crazy skit. Too often, I'd wake on the floor to the test pattern and realize I'd missed the entire show. Ugh. 

At some point, the show's softball team traveled to Alliance to play a charity game against the local firefighters. I was star-struck. It had never occurred to me, a child of rural Washington Township, how close Cleveland was, or that the larger-than-life characters I saw on TV could be real people who would show up a couple miles from my house. I'm not sure I would have been more excited—or dumbfounded—if the entire Star Wars cast had shown up to play ball. 

When the family bought its first VHS player—a big, bulky thing that doubled as a doorstop—I recorded a few episodes of Big Chuck and Lil John, but watching it in the day and fast-forwarding through the commercials wasn't the same. It was a "you hadda be there" type of show. And when grade school turned to junior high, I lost most of my interest in Big Chuck and Lil' John, which is probably pretty common, too. 

It wasn't until a few years later that I learned how many television markets around the country had their own versions of Big Chuck, Hoolihan, and Lil' John, and how the rise of cable TV and expanded network programming (late-night news programs, especially) sounded the death knell for so many of these low-budget, locally-filmed programs. 

Still later, I learned that Schodowski had ties to Ghoulardi, an early Cleveland-based horror host (real name: Ernie Anderson) who carved out his own niche in television history. Schodowski's nickname came from his hitting prowess as part of the Ghoulardi All-Stars softball team, according to the wonderful Turn Blue: The Short Life of Ghoulardi documentary, which covers Big Chuck's significant contributions to that earlier show. 

I'm sure many people of a certain age around Northeast Ohio are thinking about those days today, remembering a regional celebrity who left his mark in laughter. 

The Story Plague Chapters 1-12

Each chapter features characters and events from famous stories, relocated to the Alliance locale, as two children try to save the city from a “Story Plague” unleashed by a mysterious character from literature.

Here are all twelve chapters in one place. It was fun to revisit this work and get it into digital format. 

I hope you enjoyed it! 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

 

The Story Plague Chapter 12: The Final Showdown

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Read Chapter 10

Read Chapter 11

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa have cured each of the ten Story Plagues and have told Billy’s parents their dilemma. As the nine o’clock deadline looms near, Billy makes a surprise announcement.

***

“Thanks to Grandma, I know who our mystery villain is,” I announced.

Mom frowned. “Honey, what could your grandmother know about some old magician with a scar running down his face?”

I showed her what was hidden behind my back, the object that I’d found in the attic. I explained my theory.

“It makes sense,” Marisa said, checking off each of the clues in a notebook. “Everything fits!”

Dad ruffled my hair good-naturedly. “Nice work, son!”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Marisa said. “Look at the time!” It was ten minutes before nine – ten minutes to get to Glamorgan Castle and finish the Story Plague for good. Dad said he’d drive us, since we’d never make the deadline on our bikes.

Outside, Marisa looked everywhere for Pluto, but with no luck. The one-eyed cat was gone!

“Marisa, forget about him!” I pulled her into the car. Huge clouds were gathering above, and lightning flickered in the distance. “Come on!”

She gritted her teeth. “That cat’s the only Plague that didn’t disappear when we cured it - he’s important.”

“Maybe he faded away while we were at the mall,” I offered. It didn’t make her feel any better. She sat in the backseat, clutching the ancient Story Plague book.

Dad turned left out of our drive and took a right onto Glamorgan Avenue. He rolled the four-way stop at Rockhill, not noticing the police cruiser behind him. Red lights flashed, and Dad pulled over in front of the high school.

“Dad, we don’t have time for this!”

He watched in the rear view mirror as the officer strolled toward the car, a citation book in hand. “You kids go ahead, I’ll catch up later.”

We jumped out, our exit covered by a sudden downpour of rain. Marisa carried the Story Plague book, and I carried my attic surprise carefully hidden inside my shirt.

We ran full tilt for the castle driveway. A bolt of lightning lit the surrounding landscape, revealing the most horrifying sight of the day.

The entire castle grounds were crawling with story characters. Hundreds – no, thousands! – of people, animals and outlandish things walked, talked, fought, jumped and crawled around Glamorgan Castle. It was as if every story ever told had come to life simultaneously.

“Marisa, what gives?” I shouted, sidestepping a sled dog team led by an enormous husky. “Our deadline’s five minutes away!”

“Buck!” Marisa called the lead dog by name. “This way, Billy. Excuse us, sir!” She pushed the driver off the sled and grabbed the reins. I jumped behind her.

“Mush!” she cried, and the dogs were off. Snow swirled around the sled as the team fought to grip the slippery surface.

“Our mystery friend decided to release the plagues early!” Marisa said. “We shouldn’t have expected him to play fair!”

Ahead of us, a rabbit lay sleeping while a slow-moving turtle plodded toward him. Marisa swerved to miss them, and nearly collided with a man unwrapping a cloth bandage from his head. Beneath the bandage, he was completely invisible!

Above us, a giant beanstalk stretched away into the black storm clouds. One of the storm clouds looked suspiciously like a pirate ship, and I thought I saw a boy dressed in green fighting with a hook-handed pirate.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To where all this started,” Marisa answered. “The castle steps!

Easier said than done! I thought. The ground between the steps and us was covered with Story Plagues. Here, a dark skinned boy rubbed a lantern with the sleeve of his shirt. There, another rabbit had his paws stuck inside a baby doll made entirely of sticky tar. Nearby, a desperate old woman held a shriveled monkey’s paw into the air and made a wish, although her words were lost in a crack of thunder.

On the lawn next to Union Avenue, two armies clashed. One side was dressed in blue, the other in gray. From behind the ranks of the blue army, one small soldier ran from the battle, staring over his shoulder in fright.

I turned my attention back to the castle. We were zigzagging toward the steps. Just ahead, I saw a glowing yellow ball of fire. At its center stood the same small, bearded man we’d met before. The scar that ran down the center of his face had turned a wicked purple, and he was laughing as he pointed at us.

Nearby, a handsome young man bent on one knee to serenade a young girl on the balcony above. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” he asked.

“Ah, true love,” the old man sneered. He turned to us. “Welcome, welcome! I see you two have decided to return, late though you may be.”

“We are not late!” screamed Marisa. “You’re a cheater!”

“If you’re only now figuring that out,” he wheezed, “then you are too late!” He laughed again. “Oh, you’ve done a fine job solving my ten riddles, but you haven’t solved the primary puzzle, have you?”

I jumped off the sled. His cocky attitude was just too much. “You like stories, old man? Here’s one you’ve probably heard. It starts out: Once Upon A Time ...”

I began to tell him the tale of a miller’s daughter who bragged she could spin straw into gold, and the king who locked her in a room full of straw to see if her claim was true. I told him about the little man who magically appeared to her that night and spun the straw into gold in exchange for her necklace.

“The trick worked so well that the greedy king locked the woman away to spin again, “ I said. “This time she traded her ring to the little man in return for his help.”

Marisa took up the story from there. “The king was so impressed that he made her his queen, but was greedy enough that he locked her away a third time, hoping for more gold.”

The bearded man stopped laughing. His scar turned an even uglier shade of purple.

“This time, the woman had nothing to trade,” I continued. “So she promised the little man her first born child if he would help her one last time. He accepted, but when the baby was born the woman couldn’t bear to give it up.

“So the little man made her deal: ‘Guess my name in three days’ time and you may keep your child!’ he said.”

I paused. “Sound familiar?”

The little man shook with rage, but said nothing.

“Well, the poor princess guessed every name imaginable, even silly ones like Muttonchops and Lacedleg,” Marisa said, “but none of these were correct. Lucky for her, one of the king’s messengers had sighted a strange little man jumping and dancing in the woods nearby, singing his name aloud ...”

The yellow ball of energy behind the little man was growing and growing, dwarfing the castle doorway. I could feel its heat from where I stood.

“Don’t say it!” he hissed

I laughed. “Say what? The name of one of my favorite stories? One I had my grandmother read to me again and again?”

“No, please, I can’t bear it! I can’t!”

“You’re not a grim character, you’re a Grimm character,” I continued, pulling my secret weapon from under my shirt. It was a battered old copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and I held it before me like a shield. “What do you have to say for yourself ... Rumpelstiltskin!

“AAAAAARGH!” Rumpelstiltskin held his hands to his ears. “How I hate that name! And how I ... hate ... you!!”

His scream kept me from finishing the story: how the queen guessed his name, and how Rumpelstiltskin, in a fit of rage, stamped a hole in the ground and tore himself in two!

Rumpelstiltskin snickered, staring at us through red-rimmed eyes. “Of course, you’re too late. Look around! The Story Plagues are spreading! Your little town is toast!”

He was right. The castle lawn was no longer big enough to contain the milling hordes of characters. They were racing away in all directions. A tall, pale man lifted his cape into the air, became a vampire bat, and fluttered away toward the east. A huge wolf was torn between stalking three pigs or a little girl wearing a red hood. Another little girl carrying a shepherd’s crook chased a flock of sheep across Union Avenue.

I tried to climb the steps to reach Rumpelstiltskin. Marisa struggled too, but with no luck. It was as if an invisible wall held us back. He was too powerful!

He raised his left hand above his head and tightened it into a fist. It glowed with energy, and tiny sparks flew from it. He grinned like a madman and shouted, “Now I’ll show you how I deal with meddlesome little dolts!”

But just as his hand was about to open, I heard a hissing from behind Marisa. A black blur shot past her and up the steps, leaping into Rumpelstiltskin’s face. It was Pluto, the one-eyed cat!

Stumbling, Rumpelstiltskin pulled at the feline fury that had attached itself to him. As he did, his fist opened, and the energy bolt that was meant for Marisa and me struck him instead. His face split open like a rusty zipper, and he fell into the glowing ball of yellow energy behind him.

With a bone-rending ZAP!, Rumpelstiltskin disappeared, followed by Pluto, hissing as he followed his enemy into oblivion.

Instantly, every character and every object that had been unleashed at the castle disappeared. One moment, the ground and the air were filled with every imaginable fiction. The next, they were gone, leaving nothing behind. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped.

“Wow! What a way to go!” said Marisa.

“Yeah,” I whispered. I looked down at my copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “Poor Pluto. He sacrificed himself to save us.”

“Maybe not. Look here.” Marisa had opened her copy of the old Story Plague book. On the last page was a picture of a black cat with a white spot on its chest. The cat rested on a thick rug in front of a fireplace, lapping contentedly from a bowl of milk. “That’s not how Pluto’s story is supposed to end,” she said.

“Guess he made up his own ending.” I was glad. If any cat deserved to live happily ever after, it was Pluto.

We stared at the picture until it began to fade. Moments later, the entire book had vanished. The Story Plague was finally cured!

Marisa and I walked toward the parking lot. Dad was sitting on the hood of the car, waving to us.

“You know, I’ll miss that Rumpelstiltskin,” Marisa said. “He sure knew how to bring a story to life.”

I looked at her, and she laughed. “My goodness, did the oh-so-serious Marisa Kingsford just make a joke? Now I know the world’s going to end!”

She punched me in the shoulder. “Hey, think you could teach me to play baseball tomorrow?”

“No way!”

She looked crestfallen.

“I thought you could teach me something, instead.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

I fished around in my wallet. “Could you show me how to use this?” I handed her my library card.

“Billy,” she said, “there might be hope for you yet.”

The End

Credit Where Credit Is Due! Here, in order of appearance, are the titles and authors (if known) of all Story Plagues appearing in our final chapter: The Call of the Wild, Jack London; "The Tortoise and the Hare," Aesop; The Invisible Man, H.G. Wells; "Jack and the Beanstalk," traditional; Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie; “Aladdin and the Lamp” from The Arabian Nights; “The Tar Baby” from Uncle Remus Stories by Joel Chandler Harris; “The Monkey’s Paw,” W.W. Jacobs; The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane; Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare; “Rumpelstiltskin” from Grimm’s Fairy Tales; Dracula, Bram Stoker; “The Three Pigs,” traditional; “Little Red Riding Hood” from Grimm’s Fairy Tales; and “Little Bo Beep,” from Mother Goose.

Happy Reading!

The Story Plague Chapter 11: Martians R Us

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Read Chapter 10

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy, Marisa and Professor Challenger are trapped in the Carnation Mall parking lot between marauding dinosaurs and a Martian war machine, as the Story Plague continues to threaten Alliance.

***

“Out of the proverbial frying pan and into the proverbial fire!” said Professor Challenger, stroking his thick, black beard.

Marisa, Challenger, and I were standing in the parking lot of the mall. Behind us, stepping through the shards of broken glass strewn around the mall entrance, was an enormous Tyrannosaurus rex. A pair of pterodactyls circled above, their leathery wings glinting in the twilight. In front of us, a huge Martian war machine was heading our way. It moved like a daddy longlegs spider, crawling on long metallic legs that projected from a shiny, silver body.

“This is a first,” I said to Marisa. “Two Story Plagues happening at once!”

Just then, a car in the parking lot erupted in flames. The Martian machine had blasted it with a heat ray! The tires melted into the macadam and the windshield shattered from the heat. In seconds, the car was a pile of smoking ashes.

Attracted by the blast, the tyrannosaur rumbled past us, stomping toward the alien. The Martian machine whirled on its axis, drawn to the huge dinosaur roaring beneath it. While both creatures were distracted, we ran back to the mall. The Professor and Marisa reached the doors first. I had almost caught up to them when I started to sneeze. My stupid summer cold had picked a rotten time to show itself!

“Billy, look out!” Marisa cried. I sneezed again, wiping tears from my eyes as a dark shadow passed between the setting sun and me. Something clamped around my waist. I’d been caught in the huge talons of a pterodactyl. The creature lifted me into the air, emitting a horrifying Caw! Caw! as it cleared the roof of the mall.

Great! I thought, first flying monkeys, now a flying leather jacket. What’s next? I soon forgot to be cocky, however, as the creature flapped its wings and turned toward the tyrannosaur and the Martian machine.

The war machine had the dinosaur’s legs wrapped in one of its tendrils, pulling the creature closer. The tyrannosaur used his tail like a whip, smacking it against the legs of the machine, rocking it backward with each slap.

Above all this, the pterodactyl and I circled, spiraling closer and closer. A tendril shot from the Martian machine, wrapping around the pterodactyl. The creature’s talons opened, and I dropped like a stone onto the top of the war machine.

Rolling with the impact, I bounced down the curved exterior of the machine. My left hand caught a corner before I plummeted over the side. And there I dangled, hanging by my fingernails as the silver creature rocked from side to side. I looked down, into the huge mouth of the Tyrannosaurus rex, snapping at my legs.

Carefully, I pulled myself up. Far below, Marisa and Professor Challenger waved. Marisa was yelling something, but I couldn’t hear over the roar of the dinosaur.

The tyrannosaur struck the Martian again, and the jolt almost sent me toppling off my perch. I had to find a way down or a way inside the machine – fast! Another glance convinced me that down wasn’t an option: the Martian machine must have been sixty or seventy feet tall. It was inside or nothing.

I looked for some kind of latch or lever to open the machine. At the very top of the shell was an oddly shaped button, designed for alien hands. I pressed it. A door sprang open, and I ducked inside.

Inside the dimly lit cockpit, I saw three creatures straight out of my worst nightmares. Of course, there is no alien life on Mars, and these were fictional Martians, created by the imagination of H.G. Wells.

But what an imagination he had! The Martians were each the size of a bear, with wet, leathery skin similar to the pterodactyls overhead. They had large dark eyes; their lipless, quivering mouths oozed saliva. They moved slowly, working the controls as if it hurt them to do so. When I dropped in among them, they turned in my direction.

And that’s when I started to sneeze again. And again. And again! The creatures pulled back in horror at the sound, and as I wiped my nose on my forearm they waved their tentacles fearfully.

One of the Martians collapsed onto the floor of the cockpit. Another lurched painfully before he, too, collapsed. The third backed away as far as he could before falling over. All three lay in front of me, unmoving.

Marisa explained later that H.G. Wells’ Martians, while more advanced than humans in other ways, had no protection from simple Earth germs and viruses. My cold had killed them!

At that moment, however, I had no time to celebrate. The cockpit shook again. The entire war machine had almost tipped over from the force of the tyrannosaur’s attack. I stepped over the bodies of the Martians and settled into a seat, staring at the dashboard.

One of the controls was a red joystick with a trigger grip. I pulled back on it, and the laser mounted to the front of the cockpit moved. Aiming the laser at the tyrannosaur below me, I pressed the trigger. The dinosaur disappeared in a burst of red flame, and I could smell something that reminded me of barbecued chicken.

I aimed the cannon straight up, toward the trapped pterodactyl above, and fired a second lethal blast. My third and final shot vaporized the remaining pterodactyl, destroying the last living dinosaur in North America.

It took a few minutes longer, but I learned how to lower the cockpit of the war machine to the ground, where I jumped out. Marisa and Challenger were waiting.

“Good show, young man,” Challenger cried, thumping my back. “I could use this machine in The Lost World, believe me!”

Already, the professor was beginning to blur around the edges. In a few seconds, he was gone, and so were the Martian war machine and the smoking remains of the tyrannosaur and his flying friends. We had cured the last two Story Plagues!

“Billy! Marisa!” My parents were stepping carefully over the glass on the sidewalk, heading toward us.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on here?” my mother asked.

On the way home, Marisa and I told them the whole story. They were skeptical, I could tell. When we got home Marisa showed them the book, and the addition of two more titles to its pages: The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. Beside both were the final two clues to the identity of our mystery villain: I Love Name Games and I ripped myself in two.

Suddenly, everything clicked. I excused myself and ran for the attic. There, beneath a pile of old toys in a cedar chest, I found the final piece of the puzzle. I smiled, remembering my grandmother and the stories we used to share.

When I returned downstairs, Marisa and my parents were still sitting at the kitchen table, deep in thought.

“Do you believe it yet?” I asked Mom and Dad.

My father looked at me. After a long pause, he said, “I believe you. But it’s already 8:30, and I have no idea who your mystery villain is.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Because I do.”

To Be Concluded

The Story Plague Chapter 10: Maulers at the Mall

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Marisa and Billy have cured the latest Story Plague: an infestation of winged monkeys, a wicked witch and other inhabitants of Oz on the roof of Chapman Hall. Before disappearing, the monkeys returned the two cousins to Billy’s house.

***

“Billy, I think you’d better get right in bed,” my mom said, feeling my forehead for the first signs of a fever. “A summer cold can turn into pneumonia just like that!” And she snapped her fingers to show how fast such a dire event could occur.

I glanced at my watch: it was half past six. Only two-and-a-half more hours to solve the last two Story Plagues and figure out the identity of our mystery villain. A well-meaning mother couldn’t sidetrack me now!

I broke out my secret weapon, a whining voice so annoying that it seldom failed to get me whatever I wanted. “But Mom, I don’t have a fever!” I sneezed. “It’s just a dumb old summer cold! And it wouldn’t be fair to Marisa. Who would she hang out with while I was in bed?”

That last comment surprised her. Any sign of concern for my cousin, however slight, was a major breakthrough in our relationship.

“What do you think, Jim?” Mom asked.

Dad, who was reading the newspaper in his favorite reclining chair, looked over the top of the sports section. “I think,” he said slowly, “that a summer cold is no cause for concern, and that an ice cream cone and a trip to the mall might be the best cure. Wait outside, kids, and I’ll back the car out.”

Good old Dad! Marisa and I broke for the door, exchanging high-fives on the way. Outside, we found Pluto hiding beneath a bush. He looked up at us with his one eye and purred as we stroked his black fur.

“Well, at least I escaped bed rest,” I said. “But unless the last two Story Plagues show up on the way to the mall, we’re still sunk.”

Marisa grinned. “Don’t worry, that’s exactly where they’ll show up!” She explained: “These Plagues have a way of popping up directly in our path, in case you haven’t noticed. If we hang around your house much longer, we’ll probably trigger one here!”

I shivered. “No thanks. Come on!” Dad and Mom had backed the car out of the garage and we hopped in the back, leaving Pluto behind.

Minutes later, we were enjoying Dairy Queen cones in the back seat as Dad drove west on State Street toward the mall. A newscaster on the radio rattled off all the strange sightings reported in the city, then cut to an “expert” who dismissed them as mass hallucinations brought on by the heat. Marisa and I smiled. Adults didn’t know everything, after all.

We turned left into the mall and headed for the rear entrance, nearest the food court. My parents offered to take us to the movies. Marisa and I made excuses, not wanting to waste our last two hours of Plague-solving inside a theater.

Not that our excuses mattered. As we headed into the mall, a mob of terrified shoppers raced out.

My father opened the door as a young woman stumbled past. “Miss, what’s the matter?”

She screamed, “M-monsters! Run for your lives!” Then she sprinted into the parking lot, followed by dozens of others.

I looked at Marisa. “This could be it! Come on!”

We bolted inside. My mom screamed for us to stop, but we kept running. I felt bad about disobeying, but I had a hunch that Mom would understand if she knew the future of our city depended on it.

We fought through the panicked crowd. A shadow passed over me, and suddenly I was knocked to the floor.

“Look!” yelled Marisa.

I followed her gaze upward and was shocked to see a full-sized pterodactyl, one of the great winged creatures of the Mesozoic age, swoop into the crowd. Its leathery wings were extended to their full width, and its beak-like mouth and sharp teeth were filled with buttery popcorn. The creature landed on one of the tables in the food court, its sharp talons scraping for a foothold.

Further back, in the main concourse of the mall, I could see another pterodactyl roosting on a bench, its open mouth emitting a terrible Caw! Caw! as shoppers rushed past.

I looked for Marisa and found her talking with a large, bearded man who was dressed for a safari. He had an enormous head, bushy eyebrows, and black hair that was plastered down over his huge forehead. “Marisa, what are you doing?”

She turned. “Billy, this is Professor Challenger, one of the explorers in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World.” I had heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – he was the creator of Sherlock Holmes. I never knew that he’d written a book about dinosaurs.

“Pleased to meet you, young man,” said Challenger. “It appears that I’ve misplaced the rest of my party: Edward Malone, Lord Roxton, and that insufferable idiot, Professor Summerlee.” Challenger acted like this was all a Sunday picnic.

“Look, Professor, I hate to interrupt,” I shouted, “but we have a situation here!” I gestured at the pterodactyl circling above us. “We’ve got to get that...that bird away from these people.”

“Well, yes, quite so, young man,” Challenger snorted. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Marisa answered. “I have an idea. Follow me!”

Challenger and I sprinted to keep up with her. She weaved through the crowd, heading for the concession stand at the theater. Once there, she dipped three large sized boxes into the popcorn machine, filling them with the buttery treat.

“That pterodactyl has a taste for popcorn, so let’s use it to our advantage,” she said, handing the professor and me one box each. “Come on, we’ll lead them toward the front doors.”

Glancing back, I saw that panicked shoppers had bottlenecked the rear exit. If we could get the pterodactyls to follow us to the front, it would give folks a better chance to escape.

“Okay, you ugly thing,” I shouted at the bird. “Come and get it!” I threw my box of popcorn, bouncing it off the creature’s head. It whirled toward me, and dived in my direction. “Let’s go!” I yelled, racing for the center court.

Marisa, Challenger and I skidded around the corner, heading east toward Kmart, when the second pterodactyl joined the pursuit. Marisa hurled one of her popcorn boxes in its direction. The creature gulped it down greedily and lunged after us, hungry for more.

We had just passed Radio Shack when I heard a tremendous roar ahead. Challenger swept both of us behind him protectively. “A carnivorous dinosaur!” he exclaimed.

I peeked around his back in time to see a Tyrannosaurus rex stomping toward us. The creature’s tail sent a line of vending machines crashing against one of the walls, spewing gumballs and trinkets in all directions.

“Now what?” I screamed.

“I believe the young lady’s plan is still sound,” said Challenger. “We must proceed to the exit.”

The tyrannosaur reached us at the same time as the two pterodactyls. The winged creatures attacked the T-Rex, who turned his attention from us to deal with this new threat.

“Run!” yelled Challenger, and we ducked beneath the tyrannosaur’s legs and dashed to our left, heading for the doors. Unfortunately, the creatures spotted us and quit fighting to follow the smell of buttery movie popcorn.

We threw open the doors and raced for the parking lot. Behind us, the tyrannosaur smashed through the glass entrance and emerged on the sidewalk, roaring. The two pterodactyls followed him.

Believe it or not, things were about to get worse.

“What in the name of Copernicus is that?” shouted Challenger, dropping his box of popcorn.

Out on West State Street, making its way toward us, was a gigantic metallic machine, shaped like a steel octopus. It towered over the Carnation Mall sign, then crushed it with one Teflon tendril.

“That’s a Martian war machine,” whispered Marisa, “straight out of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells.”

Behind us, the T-rex roared and advanced. Ahead of us, the Martian machine smashed its way through the parking lot, attracted by the noise of the dinosaurs.

And we were caught in the middle.

To Be Continued

The Story Plague Chapter 9: Oz Fest

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Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa have cured eight of the ten Story Plagues unleashed in Alliance, and have collected eight of the ten clues to help them guess the identity of the mysterious villain behind the whole mess. Crossing College Street, they realize that the red bricks beneath their bikes have turned to yellow.

***

We were so busy staring at the yellow brick road that we didn’t see the flying monkeys.

One moment, Marisa and I were standing in the middle of College Street, and the next we were flying through the air, carried by hairy little chimps with wings. One of the monkeys had Marisa, one had me, and a smaller monkey held poor Pluto, our cat. They banked left at the intersection of College Street and Miller Avenue, then soared skyward toward Chapman Hall.

“Billy!” Marisa screamed. “Do something!” That’s when I remembered that my smarty-pants cousin was afraid of heights. Heck, she hadn’t even graduated to the big rides at Six Flags or Cedar Point, and here she was hurtling through the sky with nothing but an airborne wannabe-gorilla to protect her.

“Stop your squirming,” said the monkey holding Marisa, “or I’ll just have to drop you!”

To my right, I heard an unfamiliar voice shout, “Hold on tight, Toto!” Sure enough, the monkey beside me was carrying a brown-haired little girl in a blue dress and silver shoes. Except for the hair-color, she reminded me of Alice, whom we’d met along with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare earlier that day. But of course, this wasn’t Alice – it was Dorothy Gale, blown all the way from Kansas to Oz, or Alliance, as it turned out.

The monkey next to Dorothy was carrying a little black dog: the famous Toto. Toto was trying desperately to bite the monkey on his back, but couldn’t get his teeth within chewing range. Flying next to Toto was still another monkey, this one carrying a full sized lion. The Cowardly Lion, of course!

We made one last pass over the Mount Union campus, then circled Chapman Hall. The monkeys landed on the roof of the building, which seemed a lot larger than it appeared from the ground. Actually, the whole building was starting to look bigger and more like a castle, another example of the Plague changing the town to suit whatever story we were caught in.

In the middle of the roof stood an old woman dressed all in black, carrying an umbrella in one hand. She ordered the monkeys to put us down. As she squinted our way, I noticed that she had only one eye. She didn’t look exactly like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I guess that’s because I was used to the Hollywood version. “Well, well,” she cackled, “I see that you’ve found some friends, Dorothy!”

Poor Dorothy backed up to the edge of the roof, terrified of the old woman. Toto ran forward barking. Pluto just hissed. If he felt any kinship with the old witch because, like him, she had only one eye, he sure didn’t show it. The Cowardly Lion let loose with a loud roar that sent the monkeys skittering away but didn’t scare the witch in the least.

“I want those shoes of yours!” the witch cackled, moving closer to Dorothy.

Marisa slid to my side. “Where are Dorothy’s ruby slippers?” she asked.

“In the book, her shoes are silver,” I answered, glancing back and forth between the advancing witch and Dorothy’s footwear. Marisa looked at me, shocked. I grinned. “I learned that from watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, not from reading any book.”

“I might’ve known,” she said.

Meanwhile, the witch continued to threaten Dorothy. “Give me those shoes, or I’ll turn my monkeys loose on you!” The monkeys shifted on their feet and flapped their wings threateningly. The witch gloated. “They took care of your friends – ripped the straw out of that silly scarecrow and threw The Tin Woodsman on some sharp rocks. And they’ll take care of you, too, unless you give me those shoes!”

The witch was staring straight down at Dorothy, both hands outstretched like claws over her head. The frightened girl was shaking and crying, only one step away from throwing herself over the edge of Chapman Hall to escape!

“Oh, won’t somebody do something?” the lion groaned, wringing his tail.

That was enough for me. I looked around and saw a bucket of water nearby, presumably used by the monkeys to drink. Breaking free from my simian guard, I grabbed the bucket and slid it across the roof to Dorothy. “Douse her with this!” I ordered.

I don’t know where Dorothy found the courage, but she managed to pick up the bucket and hurl the water at the witch before the startled old woman had a chance to stop her.

Even though I’ve never read The Wizard of Oz, I hoped the water would have the same effect that it did in the movie. I wasn’t disappointed. When the liquid touched the witch’s skin, she sizzled like a steak in a skillet. Her face began to collapse inward, and she moaned horribly.

“See what you’ve done!” she muttered. “I’m melting away into nothing!” She was getting shorter and shorter, the bottom of her black dress billowing out in front of her as she sank. Toto circled her, barking.

Dorothy was horrified. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” she kept repeating, covering her eyes with her hands. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know!”

“It’s okay,” said Marisa, rushing to her side and pulling her away from the edge of the roof. “It had to happen. It’s all part of the story.”

Dorothy looked confused by that, so I slashed my hand horizontally across my throat, giving Marisa the universal gesture for Cut it! Instead of confusing her any further, we introduced ourselves as residents of a remote corner of Oz.

Just then, the largest of the monkeys scampered over. “The Wicked Witch has been destroyed!” he said, and if a monkey could smile, he did. “We are no longer her servants!”

I was surprised to learn that the flying monkeys were actually a very nice group. The tallest monkey – their king, actually – explained that the wicked witch controlled them through the use of a golden cap, which granted each wearer the power to command the monkeys three times. Since Dorothy had killed the witch, she had now earned the right to use the cap, which we found lying in the middle of the puddle that used to be the wicked witch.

“Wonderful,” said Dorothy, wringing the cap dry. “I want you to take the Lion and me to find the Scarecrow and the Tinman. Would you two like to come?”

“No, thank you,” Marisa answered. “But we sure could use a ride to our house!”

Within moments we were airborne again. The monkeys flew us back to our bicycles, which were leaning against the curb on College Street. Then they lifted our bikes and us into the sky, heading westward toward Parkway Avenue and my house. After depositing Marisa, Pluto and me in my front yard, they flew off again, waving as they went.

“Goodbye,” Dorothy yelled down to us. “If you’re ever in Kansas, stop by!”

We waved back. The Lion roared his farewells, and then they were gone. In the blink of an eye they disappeared - another Story Plague cured!

As Marisa and I headed for my front door, we opened the old book for our latest clue. I made a queen of the miller’s daughter was written in the margin next to The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Just then I sneezed twice; my summer cold was getting worse.

“Come on,” I sniffled, “I think it’s time for a break.” Little did I know that the biggest Story Plagues were yet to come.

To Be Continued

The Story Plague Chapter 8: Arthur Rex

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Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came in Late: Marisa and Billy have successfully defeated six of the ten Story Plagues infecting Alliance, and have collected six clues to the identity of their mysterious antagonist.

***

Marisa and I had been riding our bikes north on Union Avenue, heading back toward State Street, when we heard the noise. Clang! Clang! The sound of swords being struck together!

Pluto jumped out of Marisa’s basket, hissing. His black fur stood on end.

“Pluto, get back here!” Marisa yelled.

I put my hand on her arm. “Let him go. He seems to have a nose for finding Story Plagues.”

For once, I was right. We pedaled our bikes after that silly cat and he led us across State Street (at the crosswalk, to boot!) and straight to the lakes on the college campus. We were amazed at what we saw there!

Hundreds of knights on horseback were fighting with swords and javelins on the grass surrounding the Mount Union lakes. Horses whinnied, dust and clods of earth were flying everywhere, and the sounds of battle filled the air.

I watched as a knight was thrown from his horse, landing face down on the sidewalk and rolling to one side before his enemy’s sword could hack him to pieces. Nearby, two other knights had shattered their swords on each other’s armor, and were now fighting hand to hand, like wrestlers.

“Wow, this has got to be the biggest Story Plague yet!” I cried in wonder.

Marisa agreed. “I wonder ... Ivanhoe? The Three Musketeers?” She rattled off several other stories, too, trying to place just what Plague we were facing, deciding how to tackle the “cure.”

Pluto jumped into Marisa’s arms and began to purr loudly. He’d done his job, and was content to let us take over.

All along Union Avenue, traffic had come to a complete stop. War-horses were weaving in and out of the stalled cars, and one black stallion actually leaped over the hood of a truck. Some drivers were honking their horns, some had stepped out of their cars for a better view, and some had abandoned their vehicles altogether and were running down the street.

I wondered how long we had before a news helicopter from Cleveland showed up, filming for the evening news.

Just then, I spotted a large knight who had fought his way through several other armored men. This knight, dressed in golden yellow armor, swung a spear in all directions, causing his enemies to back away. He had lost his helmet, revealing a flowing orange beard and carrot-colored hair. No matter how many knights attacked him, none could bring him down.

“That answers my question,” Marisa said to herself, but loud enough for me to hear. “King Arthur!”

“You mean that guy is the King Arthur, as in The Sword in the Stone, and Merlin, and ...” I was amazed. We’d studied King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table in school last year, and I’d really enjoyed it.

“That’s him, all right,” Marisa said. “And if I’m not mistaken, that is his son, Mordred.”

Another large knight, this one dressed almost entirely in black, had stepped onto the battlefield. All the other warriors backed away fearfully, except for King Arthur. Father and son stared at one another, like Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker with their roles reversed.

Neither knight said a word. Mordred unsheathed his sword as Arthur walked toward him, spear in hand. Then, suddenly, the two men attacked one another!

Sparks flew off their weapons and their armor as metal clashed on metal. Arthur and Mordred fought fiercely, charging one another again and again. I knew why they were fighting: while Arthur was away in France, Mordred had tried to steal his kingdom and turn Arthur’s loyal knights against him. He’d also tried to kidnap his own stepmother, Arthur’s wife Guinevere. Mordred was a villain, all right!

“Come on, we’ve got to help Arthur!” I said, weaving between the stopped cars on Union Avenue.

“Billy, wait!” Marisa followed me, pedaling as fast as she could. Poor Pluto was back in the bike basket, hissing in fear.

But by the time we reached the battlefield, we were too late. King Arthur lay gasping for breath on the ground. Mordred lay nearby, unmoving.

Arthur looked up at me. His eyes were wet with tears. “Sir Bedivere?” the king asked, squinting.

“No, my name is Marisa, and ...”

I stopped her, nodding toward the king’s chest, which was red with blood.

“We don’t have time to explain it to him,” I whispered to her. Then I knelt down beside Arthur.

“B-Bedivere?” he asked again.

“Yes, my king,” I answered. “How may I be of service?”

With a wince, Arthur slid his sword from the scabbard around his waste. The blade was huge. “Take Excalibur here to the edge of the lake and throw it into the water. Then return and tell me what you have seen.”

“Yes, my king.” The sword was so heavy I couldn’t lift it. I ended up dragging it to the nearest lake, with Marisa at my side.

“The magic sword Excalibur,” she said wonderingly. “Are you really going to throw it into the water?”

“I have to. Arthur commanded me.”

Grunting, I tried to raise the sword high enough off the ground to throw it. I strained until I thought my arms would break, but I couldn’t lift it.

“Bedivere!” shouted the king. “Have you done as I commanded?”

“Yes!” I yelled back. I hated to lie to him, but I also didn’t want to worry him more than necessary.

“And what did you see?” Arthur asked.

“N-nothing, sir, just the waves on the water.”

The king sat up, painfully. “Bedivere, you have disobeyed me. Throw the sword into the lake, and tell me what you see!”

“Marisa, help me out!” She grabbed the sword by its hilt and started to tug. Together, we managed to lift it. “Okay, on the count of three ... One! Two! Three!”

We hurled Excalibur as far over the water as we could. It flipped end over end above the lake. Just as it was about to break the surface of the water, a hand shot from the lake and grabbed the sword’s hilt. With the sword pointing straight up, the hand slowly sank again, taking the magical blade with it.

“The Lady of the Lake,” I said. “She gave Arthur the sword when he was younger, and now she’s taken it back.”

“Bedivere!” The king was shouting for me once again, but his voice sounded weaker. Marisa and I ran back to his side. I told him what had happened at the lake, and he smiled grimly.

“Good,” he whispered. “The sword has been returned to its rightful owner. Now I need your help one last time, good knight.” He started to his feet, but stumbled. Marisa caught him on one side and I on the other. “Help me to the lake.”

Slowly, we guided the once mighty king closer to the water. A thick fog had settled over the lake, and through it I could see a small boat heading for shore. In it were several people, their faces covered with black hoods.

“I pray you, set me in the barge,” the king ordered. His breathing was weak, and he looked pale. When the boat reached shore, Marisa and I helped him in. “Thank you, my friends,” he said. “Weep not, for I go to heal my wounds in Avalon.”

With that, the boat sailed back toward the center of the lake. We watched until Arthur, his hooded companions, and the boat itself disappeared from view. I knew from the legends I had read that this was Arthur’s last journey.

When we turned away from the lake, the battlefield had disappeared. The knights and horses were gone. As Marisa and I headed back to our bikes, Pluto, who had apparently found a safe tree to hide in until this latest Story Plague was cured, joined us.

On Union Avenue, drivers were scratching their heads and getting back into their cars. A photographer from The Review had just arrived, camera in hand, but there were no pictures to take. A hysterical businessman babbled on about armies and swords and battles, but the photographer only shook his head.

Marisa pulled the old book out of her bike’s basket and opened it. There, next to a drawing of King Arthur and Sir Mordred locked in final battle, we found our seventh clue: Will work for rings.

We hopped on our bikes and pedaled down the sidewalk. At the intersection of Union Avenue and College Street, we noticed that the bricks that paved the street were no longer red – they were yellow.

“A yellow brick road,” Marisa said. “Looks like we’ve found our next Story Plague.”

To Be Continued

The Story Plague Chapter 7: Pieces of Eight

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Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa must hurry to find the last five Story Plagues and learn the identity of the mystery villain before 9 p.m. They have just escaped the House of Usher and are looking for the next story that has come to life.

***

We were riding our bikes around the lake at Silver Park when I started to sneeze. Once, twice, three times in a row. Pluto, the black cat that had adopted us as we escaped the House of Usher, hissed at the noise.

Marisa stopped and nodded toward some tall grass beside the water’s edge. “Allergies, huh?” she said. “Me, too. My throat’s getting all itchy even from here.”

“Uh-uh,” I answered. “I think I’m getting a cold. I guess Mom’s right – you shouldn’t play in the rain.” We both laughed. We had been caught in a thunderstorm outside the imaginary House of Usher just moments before.

A man with a radio pressed to his ear walked past us. “The police have been investigating a number of strange reports this afternoon,” the radio announcer was saying, “including sightings of a headless man on horseback in the downtown area, and a disturbance at a local fast food restaurant involving several children, a rabbit and a rodent ...”

The report faded as the man walked on. But it was good to know that other people had noticed all the weird happenings in town, too. At least we weren’t crazy.

The man with the radio rounded one end of the lake, stopped suddenly, and backed away. Six pirates stepped in front of him. The first pirate had only one leg and walked with a wooden crutch. A parrot sat on his shoulder, squawking, “Pieces of Eight! Pieces of Eight!” The poor man was so frightened that he dropped his radio and took off running into the woods.

One of the pirates bent down and poked at the radio with a dagger, changing the station. The sound of the newscast was replaced with loud, jarring rock music.

“Aaargh!” the pirate growled, covering his ears with his hands. Another pirate stepped on the radio, smashing it under a thick, black boot.

Earlier in the day, I would have suggested to Marisa that we make a run for it, but I knew by now that these men were the beginning of another Story Plague. “Okay, Marisa, I know they’re pirates, but which story do they belong in?”

“Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson,” she replied. “The big guy with only one leg is Long John Silver.”

“Like the restaurant?” I asked.

“Sort of. He’s the leader of the gang. They’re searching for buried treasure.”

Turning from the broken radio, the pirates looked straight at us. They talked quietly among themselves, then headed in our direction.

“Here goes nothing,” Marisa whispered.

“Ahoy, there, mates,” said Long John Silver, tipping his hat. “My men and I are a bit lost. I warn’t aware that there be any living souls here on Treasure Island.”

Marisa didn’t even try to tell him that they weren’t on Treasure Island anymore. The direct approach hadn’t worked with any of the characters we’d met so far, so it was best that she avoided it.

“We be lookin’ for a lad a bit older than yourselves,” the pirate continued. “Jim Hawkins is his name. A scrawny boy, no bigger round than a pencil. Seen him, have ye?”

“N-no, sir,” I answered. “I don’t believe he lives around here.”

Silver and the rest of the pirates traded puzzled looks. Like most of the characters we’d met, they were confused about their surroundings.

“Never mind, then.” He shrugged. “It’s probably best for him that I don’t find him, if you know what I mean.” He fingered the edge of the sword that hung around his waist, and Marisa and I knew exactly what he meant.

“Come on, men!” Silver started walking again. He got around pretty well for a guy with only one leg. “And bring the two young ones along, just in case they know more than they’re telling.”

The pirates grabbed us both by the shoulders and pushed us ahead of them. Long John led the way, limping through the grass and heading toward the lake. He reached into his jacket coat and pulled out an old piece of cloth, which he spread open on a nearby bench.

Looking over his shoulder, I could see it was a map of an island – Treasure Island, I assumed. The margin was dotted with two red crosses, and a third cross was drawn in the bottom left of the map. Silver turned the cloth over to reveal a set of handwritten instructions on the back:

Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E. Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E. Ten feet.

“All right, men, we’ve reached the shoulder of Spy-Glass Mountain,” he said, squinting at the handwriting. “All we need to do is find what old Captain Flint used as a marker, and we’ll be able to decipher these directions to the letter.”

Just then, one of the pirates let out a shout. “Look, over there!” he screamed.

Up ahead, at the foot of a large tree, lay a human skeleton, dressed in only a few shreds of clothing. The skeleton’s arms were pulled above its head, and its fingers were straightened as if pointing at something. The empty eye sockets stared at us.

Silver hobbled toward the skeleton, followed closely by the rest of his men. After a few moments of debate, they decided he was one of the crew from Captain Flint’s last voyage, left here as a warning to anybody who tried to steal the treasure.

While the men talked, Marisa explained a little about Treasure Island to me. This Captain Flint character was dead, but his treasure was still on the island somewhere. Jim Hawkins, the boy Long John Silver was looking for, had found a map in a dead pirate’s belongings that led him, the town doctor and several others to sail to Treasure Island. Unfortunately, the boat’s crew had mutinied and taken over the search. It all sounded very exciting. Marisa assured me that it was a very good book. I decided that if we ever made it through all these Story Plagues alive, I would have to read it.

The pirates had almost decided to give up the search by the time Marisa finished her summary. “This place is haunted by the ghost of Captain Flint,” one of them argued.

“There ain’t no such thing as ghosts, ya cowards,” said Long John Silver, staring at them. “Do ya want to be rich, or do ya want to be yellow?”

Yellow was about to win out when Marisa stepped forward. “May I see your compass, Mr. Silver?” she asked politely.

Silver scowled, but reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out his compass. “Here ya are, lass, although I don’t know what good it’ll do ya.”

Marisa said nothing, but turned to the skeleton. “In which direction is this ... Skeleton Island?” she asked.

Silver grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her in the proper direction. “What are ya, blind?” he chuckled. “It’s right there ahead of ya!” I looked in that direction, but all I could see was the little island in the middle of the lake and the statue of the child with its arms reaching into the air.

Marisa sighted with the compass toward the statue. “And what direction is this?” she asked Silver.

He stared down at the compass. “Why ... it’s east-south-east by east, jus’ like the directions!” he said, grabbing the compass and tapping his map. “Men, this skeleton is a pointer! It’ll take us right to the treasure!”

And without another word, the old pirate hobbled away, followed by his men.

“Come on! Let’s help them find it!” I tugged at Marisa’s arm. “We can be rich!”

Marisa shook her head. “The treasure’s already been found, and we’d better not be around when those pirates find the empty hole where it was buried.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean ... gone?! Who has it?”

“Forget it,” she said. “Look!”

I did. The pirates were already fading before our eyes. We’d helped them on their way – right back into the novel by Robert Louis Stevenson.

When we returned to our bikes, Marisa and I opened the magic book and saw that Treasure Island was the newest story inside. Next to it, we read the latest clue to the identity of our mystery villain: A necklace and ring I earned.

We hopped on our bikes and pedaled up the hill and out of Silver Park, already on the lookout for the next challenge in our quest to find all the Story Plagues.

And what a challenge it was!

To Be Continued

The Story Plague Chapter 6: Pluto's Revenge

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Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa continue their search for the ten Story Plagues that a mysterious stranger has unleashed upon Alliance. After removing Robin Hood, Little John and his Merry Men from Memorial Park, they set off in search of their next challenge.

***

The rainstorm struck suddenly.

One minute, Marisa and I had been riding our bikes west on State Street, with Memorial Park and the memories of Robin Hood and his Merry Men at our backs. The next minute, we were hiding under the branches of a large tree on Seneca Avenue as buckets of rain came down.

“Weird!” I shouted over the downpour. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky a second ago!”

“That’s what worries me,” Marisa shouted back. “This might be part of the next Story Plague!”

I tried to recall stories that had anything to do with rain. I could think of only one, but since there wasn’t an ark or pairs of animals nearby, I decided I was wrong. I’d been wrong about a lot of things, I realized, and it was time to apologize.

“Marisa,” I said, moving closer so I didn’t have to shout, “that was a pretty good stunt, diving into the stream and yanking Robin’s ankle.”

She wasn’t used to receiving compliments from me. “Uh, thanks,” she said.

“No, really. You know a lot about stories and stuff. How’d you get to be so smart?”

She shrugged. “Billy, you’re great at baseball, right?”

I nodded. I had made the Hot Stove All-Star Team two years straight, and I was the homerun leader so far this season.

“Well,” she continued, “how’d you get to be so good at that?”

I laughed. “I love baseball! I play all the time!”

“That’s how I feel about reading. So I do it a lot.”

I paused. It had never occurred to me that somebody could love to read. But I had to admit that the stories we were experiencing were exciting, and I was curious about what happened to Ichabod Crane, Tom Sawyer, Alice in Wonderland, and Robin Hood. Maybe there was something to this reading thing.

Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed behind us, followed by a crack of thunder. We turned to see where it had struck, and that’s when we saw the house.

It was more like a mansion, really. The huge walls were painted black, with two large windows staring out like eyes from the second floor. It was surrounded with a thick fog, and I could just barely see a small crack that ran from the top to the bottom of the house. A row of hedges and a small stream circled the property, reflecting the house in the dark water. I’ve lived in Alliance all my life, and I knew that house didn’t belong there.

“See that crack in the foundation?” Marisa asked. “This is the House of Usher, from the story by Edgar Allan Poe. Come on!”

I grabbed her arm. “We’re not going in there, are we?”

She nodded. “We have to cure each of the Story Plagues, and this one’s next.”

Marisa was right, but I didn’t like the idea of going inside that creepy place. As we walked toward the mansion, another flash of lightning revealed a black cat sitting on the front porch. Marisa knelt down to pet it, and it purred loudly while rubbing against her leg.

“Look here, Billy,” she said. The cat was missing one eye, and had a spot of white on its breast. “He’s the animal from another Poe story, The Black Cat. His name’s Pluto.”

As we petted the cat, the front door of the home opened, and a tall man dressed in black stepped onto the porch. He was wringing his hands nervously. “Welcome, welcome, please come in.”

At first I thought he was talking to Marisa and me, but he looked past us, down the sidewalk. Three men, dressed in old-fashioned police uniforms, were approaching.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said one of the officers, tipping his hat. “A neighbor reported hearing screams coming from your place, and we need to investigate.”

“Certainly,” the nervous man said. “I had a nightmare while taking a nap, and I woke up screaming. You’re welcome to come in, gentlemen.”

The three officers climbed the steps and went inside, followed by the nervous man, who gave us a suspicious look as he closed the door.

Just then, a large black bird flew from one of the bushes and landed above the door. It flapped its wings, then settled down on the mantle.

“Nevermore,” the bird croaked.

“D-Did that bird just talk?” I asked. It had been a strange afternoon, what with the magic book, the Headless Horseman and the Mad Hatter, but this was downright creepy.

“Yes. It’s a raven, from Poe’s poem,” answered Marisa. “My teacher made us memorize the first stanza last year.”

“But what’s it doing here, in The House of Usher?”

“I don’t know. These stories all mixed together. I don’t know what to do next!”

“Well, I hate to say it, but we need to go inside.” I sounded braver than I felt. We climbed the steps and turned the doorknob. The door swung open silently, and we entered. Pluto had jumped into my arms, and I hugged him tightly.

Upstairs, we heard footsteps and the nervous man’s voice. “Please, have a seat, officers. Nothing to hide here,” he said.

Marisa whispered, “He’s lying. He did something terrible and hid the evidence in that room, like in The Tell- Tale Heart. He’s crazy!”

Before I could respond, a loud scream echoed through the house!

“It came from down here,” I cried, running for the basement door. I thought the scream would bring the police, but they were still chatting with the man on the second floor. Apparently, the characters from the different stories couldn’t speak or hear one another.

We ran down the steps into a basement that was far too large to be a part of the house above. Actually, it looked more like a dungeon, with torches set into the walls and a cold stone floor. Pluto twisted fearfully in my arms, but I held onto him.

In the center of the dungeon, we saw a man tied to a table. Above him, swinging nearer and nearer to his chest, was a huge steel pendulum, just like the one that swings back and forth in a grandfather clock. Only this pendulum was larger and heavier, and I could see that its end was razor sharp.

“The Pit and the Pendulum!” Marisa cried. “That man is being tortured by the Inquisition.” We’d stepped into another Poe story. I handed her the cat and rushed to the poor victim, dodging the end of the pendulum as it arced above.

“Watch the walls, Billy!” Marisa cried. I didn’t know what she meant until I’d untied the man. Instantly the pendulum stopped swinging. I heard a grinding sound. The walls were beginning to close in on all sides!

The man and ran for the basement steps, with Marisa and Pluto ahead of us. We reached the top just as the walls below smashed together, grinding the table and the pendulum into splinters.

“We did it!” I said, taking Pluto back from Marisa. “We’ve solved another Story Plague!” Laughing madly, the tortured man ran out the door. I waited for the house to disappear, but it didn’t. Pluto hissed and squirmed out of my arms.

“Hey, come back here!” I cried.

“No, let him go!” said Marisa. “I bet he’ll lead us to the plague we need to cure!”

The cat ran up the steps to the second floor with Marisa and me in close pursuit. At the top of the stairs he darted into a bedroom, where the three officers and the nervous man sat, talking politely.

Pluto ducked under the nervous man’s chair and began to meow loudly, hissing and rolling over the hardwood floor. The officers stood. One of them reached down and tugged on a loose floorboard. As he did, the nervous man stuck his fingers into his ears and began to scream, “I did it! I confess! I confess!”

I tried to peek beneath the floorboard, but Marisa pulled me away. “Trust me, you don’t want to see what’s there. Besides, we have a bigger problem. Listen!”

A low rumbling noise, like an earthquake or a tornado, echoed from all sides of the house, growing louder and louder. Looking up, I saw that the roof had cracked in half!

We sprinted down the stairs, out the door, and to our bikes before looking back. When we did, we saw that the House of Usher had split completely down the middle, and was crumbling to pieces. As the stones fell, the house began to disappear.

Marisa grabbed the magic book from her bicycle basket.

“What’s the clue?” I asked, still amazed at all we’d seen.

She held out the book. There, next to the title Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe, I read our next clue: Muttonchops I am not.

“Come on,” Marisa said. “Let’s put this haunted house behind us. There’s nothing left here, anyway.”

“Not quite,” I said, bending down. From out of the mist came a one-eyed black cat with a spot of white on its stomach. “Looks like we’ve got a new partner!”

Marisa scowled, but she let Pluto ride in her basket as we pedaled off. Neither of us knew then how important that cat would become at the end of our adventure.

To Be Continued