28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)

 
 
1
     
     
    “Michael, your shoe’s untied.”
    My sister, Tara, sat on the front steps, grinning at me. Another one of her
dumb jokes.
    I’m not an idiot. I knew better than to look down at my shoe. If I did, she’d
slap me under the chin or something.
    “I’m not falling for that old trick,” I told her.
    Mom had just called me and the brat inside for dinner. An hour before she had
made us go outside because she couldn’t stand our fighting anymore.
    It was impossible not to fight with Tara.
    When it comes to stupid tricks, Tara never knows when to quit. “I’m not
kidding,” she insisted. “Your shoe’s untied. You’re going to trip.”
    “Knock it off, Tara,” I said. I started up the front steps.
    My left shoe seemed to cling to the cement. I pulled it up with a jerk.
    “Yuck!” I’d stepped on something sticky.
    I glanced at Tara. She’s a skinny little squirt, with a wide red mouth like a
clown’s and stringy brown hair that she wears in two pigtails.
    Everyone says she looks exactly like me. I hate it when they say that. My
brown hair is not stringy, for one thing. It’s short and thick. And my mouth is
normal-sized. No one has ever said I look like a clown.
    I’m a little short for my age, but not skinny.
    I do not look like Tara.
    She was watching me, giggling. “You’d better look down,” she taunted in her
singsong voice.
    I glanced down at my shoe. It wasn’t untied, of course. But I’d just stepped
on a huge wad of gum. If I had looked down to check my shoelaces, I would have
seen it.
    But Tara knew I wouldn’t look down. Not if she told me to.
    Tricked by Tara the Terror again.
    “You’re going to get it, Tara,” I grumbled. I tried to grab her, but she
dodged out of reach and ran into the house.
    I chased her into the kitchen. She screamed and hid behind my mother.
    “Mom! Hide me! Michael’s going to get me!” she shrieked.
    As if she were afraid of me. Fat chance.
    “Michael Webster!” Mom scolded. “Stop chasing your little sister.”
    She glanced at my feet and added, “Is that gum on your shoe? Oh, Michael,
you’re tracking it all over the floor!”
    “Tara made me step on it!” I whined.
    Mom frowned. “Do you expect me to believe that? Michael, you’re fibbing
again.”
    “I am not!” I cried.
    Mom shook her head in disgust. “If you’re going to tell a lie, Michael, at
least make it a good one.”
    Tara peeked out from behind Mom and taunted me. “Yeah, Michael .”
    Then she laughed. She loved this.
    She’s always getting me into trouble. My parents always blame me for stuff
that’s her fault. But does Tara ever do anything wrong? Oh, no, never. She’s a perfect angel. Not a bad bone in her body.
    I’m twelve. Tara’s seven. She’s made the last seven years of my life
miserable.
    Too bad I don’t remember the first five very well. The pre-Tara years. They
must have been awesome! Quiet and peaceful—and fun!
    I went out to the back porch and scraped the sticky gum off my shoe. I heard
the doorbell ring and Dad calling, “It’s here! I’ll get it.”
    Inside, everybody gathered around the front door. Two men were struggling to
carry something heavy into the house. Something long and narrow and wrapped with
padded gray cloth.
    “Careful,” Dad warned them. “It’s very old. Bring it in here.”
    Dad led the delivery guys into the den. They set the thing down on one end
and began to unwrap it. It was about as wide as me and maybe a foot taller.
    “What is it?” Tara asked.
    Dad didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Our cat, Bubba, slinked into the room and rubbed against Dad’s legs.
    The gray cloth fell away, and I saw a very fancy old clock. It was mostly
black but painted with lots of silver, gold, and blue designs, and decorated
with scrolls, carvings, knobs, and buttons.
    The clock itself had a white face with gold hands and gold Roman numerals. I
saw little secret doors hidden under