02 - Stay Out of the Basement by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)

 
 
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    “Hey, Dad—catch!”
    Casey tossed the Frisbee across the smooth, green lawn. Casey’s dad made a
face, squinting into the sun. The Frisbee hit the ground and skipped a few times
before landing under the hedge at the back of the house.
    “Not today. I’m busy,” Dr. Brewer said, and abruptly turned and loped into
the house. The screen door slammed behind him.
    Casey brushed his straight blond hair back off his forehead. “What’s his problem?” he called to Margaret, his sister, who had watched the whole scene
from the side of the redwood garage.
    “You know,” Margaret said quietly. She wiped her hands on the legs of her
jeans and held them both up, inviting a toss. “I’ll play Frisbee with you for a
little while,” she said.
    “Okay,” Casey said without enthusiasm. He walked slowly over to retrieve the
Frisbee from under the hedge.
    Margaret moved closer. She felt sorry for Casey. He and their dad were really
close, always playing ball or Frisbee or Nintendo together. But Dr. Brewer
didn’t seem to have time for that anymore.
    Jumping up to catch the Frisbee, Margaret realized she felt sorry for
herself, too. Dad hadn’t been the same to her, either. In fact, he spent so much
time down in the basement, he barely said a word to her.
    He doesn’t even call me Princess anymore, Margaret thought. It was a nickname
she hated. But at least it was a nickname, a sign of closeness.
    She tossed the red Frisbee back. A bad toss. Casey chased after it, but it
sailed away from him. Margaret looked up to the golden hills beyond their
backyard.
    California, she thought.
    It’s so weird out here. Here it is, the middle of winter, and there isn’t a
cloud in the sky, and Casey and I are out in jeans and T-shirts as if it were
the middle of summer.
    She made a diving catch for a wild toss, rolling over on the manicured lawn
and raising the Frisbee above her head triumphantly.
    “Show off,” Casey muttered, unimpressed.
    “You’re the hot dog in the family,” Margaret called.
    “Well, you’re a dork.”
    “Hey, Casey—you want me to play with you or not?”
    He shrugged.
    Everyone was so edgy these days, Margaret realized.
    It was easy to figure out why.
    She made a high toss. The Frisbee sailed over Casey’s head. “ You chase
it!” he cried angrily, putting his hands on his hips.
    “No, you !” she cried.
    “You!”
    “Casey—you’re eleven years old. Don’t act like a two-year-old,” she
snapped.
    “Well, you act like a one -year-old,” was his reply as he grudgingly
went after the Frisbee.
    It was all Dad’s fault, Margaret realized. Things had been so tense ever
since he started working at home. Down in the basement with his plants and weird
machines. He hardly ever came up for air.
    And when he did, he wouldn’t even catch a Frisbee.
    Or spend two minutes with either of them.
    Mom had noticed it, too, Margaret thought, running full-out and making
another grandstand catch just before colliding with the side of the garage.
    Having Dad home has made Mom really tense, too. She pretends everything is
fine. But I can tell she’s worried about him.
    “Lucky catch, Fatso!” Casey called.
    Margaret hated the name Fatso even more than she hated Princess. People in
her family jokingly called her Fatso because she was so thin, like her father.
She also was tall like him, but she had her mother’s straight brown hair, brown
eyes, and dark coloring.
    “Don’t call me that.” She heaved the red disc at him. He caught it at his
knees and flipped it back to her.
    They tossed it back and forth without saying much for another ten or fifteen
minutes. “I’m getting hot,” Margaret said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon
sun with her hand. “Let’s go in.”
    Casey tossed the Frisbee against the garage wall. It dropped onto the grass.
He came trotting over to her. “Dad always plays longer,” he said peevishly. “And
he throws better. You throw like a