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

the paint designs, and a big door in the
middle of the clock.
    The delivery guys gathered up the gray padding. Dad gave them some money, and
they left.
    “Isn’t it great?” Dad gushed. “It’s an antique cuckoo clock. It was a
bargain. You know that store across from my office, Anthony’s Antiques and
Stuff?”
    We all nodded.
    “It’s been in the shop for fifteen years,” Dad told us, patting the clock.
“Every time I pass Anthony’s, I stop and stare at it. I’ve always loved it. Anthony finally put it
on sale.”
    “Cool,” Tara said.
    “But you’ve been bargaining with Anthony for years, and he always refused to
lower the price,” Mom said. “Why now?”
    Dad’s face lit up. “Well, today I went into the shop at lunchtime, and
Anthony told me he’d discovered a tiny flaw on the clock. Something wrong with
it.”
    I scanned the clock. “Where?”
    “He wouldn’t say. Do you see anything, kids?”
    Tara and I began to search the clock for flaws. All the numbers on the face
were correct, and both the hands were in place. I didn’t see any chips or
scratches.
    “I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Tara said.
    “Me, either,” I added.
    “Neither do I,” Dad agreed. “I don’t know what Anthony’s talking about. I
told him I wanted to buy the clock anyway. He tried to talk me out of it, but I
insisted. If the flaw is so tiny we don’t even notice it, what difference does
it make? Anyway, I really do love this thing.”
    Mom cleared her throat. “I don’t know, dear. Do you think it really belongs
in the den?” I could tell by her face that she didn’t like the clock as much as
Dad did.
    “Where else could we put it?” Dad asked.
    “Well—maybe the garage?”
    Dad laughed. “I get it—you’re joking!”
    Mom shook her head. She wasn’t joking. But she didn’t say anything more.
    “I think this clock is just what the den needs, honey,” Dad added.
    On the right side of the clock I saw a little dial. It had a gold face and
looked like a miniature clock. But it had only one hand.
    Tiny numbers were painted in black along the outside of the dial, starting at
1800 and ending at 3000. The thin gold hand pointed to one of the numbers: 2003.
    The hand didn’t move. Beneath the dial, a little gold button had been set
into the wood.
    “Don’t touch that button, Michael,” Dad warned. “This dial tells the current
year. The button moves the hand to change the year.”
    “That’s kind of silly,” Mom said. “Who ever forgets what year it is?”
    Dad ignored her. “See, the clock was built in 1800, where the dial starts.
Every year the pointer moves one notch to show the date.”
    “So why does it stop at three thousand?” Tara asked.
    Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess the clock-maker couldn’t imagine the
year three thousand would ever come. Or maybe he figured the clock wouldn’t last that long.”
    “Maybe he thought the world would blow up in 2999,” I suggested.
    “Could be,” Dad said. “Anyway, please don’t touch the dial. In fact, I don’t
want anyone touching the clock at all. It’s very old and very, very delicate.
Okay?”
    “Okay, Dad,” Tara said.
    “I won’t touch it,” I promised.
    “Look,” Mom said, pointing at the clock. “It’s six o’clock. Dinner’s almost—”
    Mom was interrupted by a loud gong. A little door just over the clock face
slid open—and a bird flew out. It had the meanest bird face I ever saw—and
it dove for my head.
    I screamed. “It’s alive!”

 
 
2
     
     
    Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
    The bird flapped its yellow feathers. Its eerie, bright blue eyes glared at
me. It squawked six times. Then it jumped back inside the clock. The little door
slid shut.
    “It’s not alive, Michael,” Dad said, laughing. “It sure is real-looking,
though, isn’t it? Wow!”
    “You birdbrain!” Tara teased. “You were scared! Scared of a cuckoo clock!”
She reached out and pinched me.
    “Get off me,” I growled. I