so she assumed Derek was safe.
Heâll die if you donât count the posts.
She started counting. 6, 8, 12, 14. But stopped herself when she heard a rustling sound below. A big shadow shifted in the living room. As she stared frombehind the railing, Kokoâs head appeared at the base of the steps. She could see his thick, forked tongue swiping out at the air, trying to taste the scent of fear.
She heard Derekâs voice, muffled by distance as he shouted, âHey! Get away from there!â But Kokoâs head kept on coming, up the steps, pulling his shoulders and his thick body behind it.
The lizard was climbing. Of course it could climb. How else could it get out of the basement? How did it get out of the basement? Was it something she had done? Something sheâd forgotten to do? Something she didnât count?
Oh my God!
It was a third of the way up the stairs and its body still was not completely visible. As the lizard emerged and she measured it, she knew for a fact that Eve Mandisa had either been wrong or hadnât measured her pet in many years.
It wasnât six feet.
Six feet. Seven feet. Eight feet. Nine feet. Ten. And a healthy amount of tail left over.
How? How could it be that big? The only monitor lizard in the world that size was the Komodo dragon. Ms. Mandisa couldnât have one of those for a pet.
Could she?
The skin was the right color. The head was the right shape.
Was it real, or was it the OCD?
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
âGet away!â she heard Derek scream, louder, nearer.
She heard something splinter loudly. Wood? It sounded like maybe Derek had smashed the chair against the floor, to get the lizardâs attention. If so, it worked.
Koko turned his head back down, toward the hallway and the sound.
No, Derek! No! Itâs a frikkinâ Komodo dragon! She wanted to scream, but the only thing that came out was a whimper. Images of Derek, arms flailing as Koko sat on his chest, ripping out his throat, flooded her brain.
Koko turned, maneuvering the thin space with snake-like ease, and headed back down the stairs.
Derek! No! As the lizard, and then its shadow, slunk out of view, Chelseaâs throat tightened as if a tourniquet were twisting around her neck. She could feel the blood rushing out of her face, feel her heart reach a whole new level of jackhammering. Finally, just as little swirling spots filled her field of vision and shewas about to pass out from anxiety, the panic yielded a rational thought:
Call 911!
Shaking more than she had when she reached for the keys, Chelsea slipped her fingers into the tight pocket of her jeans and wiggled her cell phone free. She flipped it open, comforted by the blue glow of its tiny screen, pressed the three magic numbers and hit the call button, counting the four seconds until someone answered.
âEmergency services,â the voice intoned.
Inside, Chelsea was thinking, Phew! But outside, her body would not cooperate. The words rushed out of her head, only to be clogged in her throat. What came out wasnât even a sentence; it was more like panicked breathing.
âAhhhhhâ¦ahhhhhâ¦ahhhhhhâ¦â
âHello?â
âAhhhhhâ¦ahhhhhâ¦ahhhhhhâ¦â
An audible tsk was heard, followed by a clicking. In a few seconds, a recorded voice came on the line. The voice was deep, male, and obviously reading from a prepared script.
âThis is John Trent, Bilsford chief of police. Hobson Night creates a number of real emergencies aswell as a massive amount of prank phone calls. If this is a real emergency, please stay on the line, and we will get to you as soon as we can. If not, please do everyone in the community a favor and hang up now.â
She counted the seconds. 15, 16, 17.
Downstairs she heard more wood splinter, then a yelp of pain and what sounded like a door slamming, followed by heavy, animal scratching.
âDerek!â she shouted. She pulled herself up to
Heâll die if you donât count the posts.
She started counting. 6, 8, 12, 14. But stopped herself when she heard a rustling sound below. A big shadow shifted in the living room. As she stared frombehind the railing, Kokoâs head appeared at the base of the steps. She could see his thick, forked tongue swiping out at the air, trying to taste the scent of fear.
She heard Derekâs voice, muffled by distance as he shouted, âHey! Get away from there!â But Kokoâs head kept on coming, up the steps, pulling his shoulders and his thick body behind it.
The lizard was climbing. Of course it could climb. How else could it get out of the basement? How did it get out of the basement? Was it something she had done? Something sheâd forgotten to do? Something she didnât count?
Oh my God!
It was a third of the way up the stairs and its body still was not completely visible. As the lizard emerged and she measured it, she knew for a fact that Eve Mandisa had either been wrong or hadnât measured her pet in many years.
It wasnât six feet.
Six feet. Seven feet. Eight feet. Nine feet. Ten. And a healthy amount of tail left over.
How? How could it be that big? The only monitor lizard in the world that size was the Komodo dragon. Ms. Mandisa couldnât have one of those for a pet.
Could she?
The skin was the right color. The head was the right shape.
Was it real, or was it the OCD?
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
âGet away!â she heard Derek scream, louder, nearer.
She heard something splinter loudly. Wood? It sounded like maybe Derek had smashed the chair against the floor, to get the lizardâs attention. If so, it worked.
Koko turned his head back down, toward the hallway and the sound.
No, Derek! No! Itâs a frikkinâ Komodo dragon! She wanted to scream, but the only thing that came out was a whimper. Images of Derek, arms flailing as Koko sat on his chest, ripping out his throat, flooded her brain.
Koko turned, maneuvering the thin space with snake-like ease, and headed back down the stairs.
Derek! No! As the lizard, and then its shadow, slunk out of view, Chelseaâs throat tightened as if a tourniquet were twisting around her neck. She could feel the blood rushing out of her face, feel her heart reach a whole new level of jackhammering. Finally, just as little swirling spots filled her field of vision and shewas about to pass out from anxiety, the panic yielded a rational thought:
Call 911!
Shaking more than she had when she reached for the keys, Chelsea slipped her fingers into the tight pocket of her jeans and wiggled her cell phone free. She flipped it open, comforted by the blue glow of its tiny screen, pressed the three magic numbers and hit the call button, counting the four seconds until someone answered.
âEmergency services,â the voice intoned.
Inside, Chelsea was thinking, Phew! But outside, her body would not cooperate. The words rushed out of her head, only to be clogged in her throat. What came out wasnât even a sentence; it was more like panicked breathing.
âAhhhhhâ¦ahhhhhâ¦ahhhhhhâ¦â
âHello?â
âAhhhhhâ¦ahhhhhâ¦ahhhhhhâ¦â
An audible tsk was heard, followed by a clicking. In a few seconds, a recorded voice came on the line. The voice was deep, male, and obviously reading from a prepared script.
âThis is John Trent, Bilsford chief of police. Hobson Night creates a number of real emergencies aswell as a massive amount of prank phone calls. If this is a real emergency, please stay on the line, and we will get to you as soon as we can. If not, please do everyone in the community a favor and hang up now.â
She counted the seconds. 15, 16, 17.
Downstairs she heard more wood splinter, then a yelp of pain and what sounded like a door slamming, followed by heavy, animal scratching.
âDerek!â she shouted. She pulled herself up to
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