really scaring him,” Cara warned. “He isn’t going to sleep at all
tonight.”
I ignored her. “And then the werewolf starts to walk,” I whispered, leaning
over Tyler. “The werewolf walks through the forest, searching for a victim.
Searching… hungry… walking… walking…”
I heard the footsteps in the living room. Heavy footsteps thudding over the
rug.
At first I thought I was imagining them.
But Tyler heard them, too.
“Walking… walking…” I whispered.
Tyler’s mouth dropped open.
The heavy footsteps thudded closer.
Cara turned in her chair to the doorway.
Tyler swallowed hard.
We all heard them now.
The heavy, thudding footsteps.
“A real one!” I shrieked. “It’s a real werewolf!”
All three of us screamed.
2
“Give me a break,” the werewolf said.
Of course it wasn’t a real werewolf. It was Tyler’s dad.
“What are the three of you doing?” Mr. Brown asked, pulling off his overcoat.
He had blond hair and blue eyes like Tyler.
“Scaring Tyler to death,” Cara told him.
He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you do that last time?”
“We do it every time,” I replied. “Tyler loves it.” I patted the kid on the
back. “You love it—right?”
“I guess,” he said in a tiny voice.
Tyler’s mom stepped into the room, straightening her sweater. “Were you
telling werewolf stories to Tyler again, Freddy?” she demanded. “Last time, he
had nightmares all night.”
“No, I didn’t!” Tyler protested.
Mrs. Brown tsk-tsked. Mr. Brown handed Cara and me each a five-dollar
bill. “Thanks for baby-sitting. Do you want me to walk you home?”
“No way,” I replied. Did he think I was some kind of wimp? “It’s just across
the street.”
Cara and I said good night to the Browns. I didn’t really feel like going
home yet. So I walked Cara home. She lives on the next block.
The full moon shone down on us. It appeared to follow us as we walked,
floating low over the dark houses.
We laughed about my werewolf story. And we laughed about how scared it made
Tyler.
We didn’t know that it would be our turn to be scared next.
Really scared.
Saturday afternoon, Cara came over. We hurried down to my basement to play
air hockey.
A few years ago, my parents cleaned the basement up and turned it into a
great playroom. We have a full-sized pool table and a beautiful, old jukebox
down there. Mom and Dad filled the jukebox with old rock-and-roll records.
Last Christmas, they bought me an air hockey game. A big, table-sized one.
Cara and I have some major hockey battles. We spend hours slapping the
plastic puck back and forth at each other. We really get into it.
Our air hockey games usually end in wrestling matches. Just like real hockey
games on TV!
We leaned over the air hockey game and started to warm up, shoving the puck
slowly back and forth across the table. Not trying to score.
“Where are your parents?” Cara asked.
I shrugged. “Beats me.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t know where they went? Didn’t they
leave you a note or something?”
I made a face at her. “They go out a lot.”
“Probably to get away from you !” Cara exclaimed. She laughed.
I had just come from karate class. I stepped around the hockey table and made
a few karate moves on her. One of my kicks accidentally landed on the back of
her ankle.
“Hey—!” she cried angrily. “Freddy—you jerk!”
When she bent over to rub her ankle, I shoved her into the wall. I meant it
as a joke.
I was just goofing. But I guess I don’t know my own strength.
She lost her balance and slammed hard into an antique china cabinet filled
with old dishes. The dishes rattled and shook. But nothing broke.
I laughed. I knew that Cara wasn’t really hurt.
I reached out to help pull her off the front of the cabinet. But she let out
a roar of attack—and came hurtling into me.
Her shoulder caught me in the chest. I uttered a hoarse choking
tonight.”
I ignored her. “And then the werewolf starts to walk,” I whispered, leaning
over Tyler. “The werewolf walks through the forest, searching for a victim.
Searching… hungry… walking… walking…”
I heard the footsteps in the living room. Heavy footsteps thudding over the
rug.
At first I thought I was imagining them.
But Tyler heard them, too.
“Walking… walking…” I whispered.
Tyler’s mouth dropped open.
The heavy footsteps thudded closer.
Cara turned in her chair to the doorway.
Tyler swallowed hard.
We all heard them now.
The heavy, thudding footsteps.
“A real one!” I shrieked. “It’s a real werewolf!”
All three of us screamed.
2
“Give me a break,” the werewolf said.
Of course it wasn’t a real werewolf. It was Tyler’s dad.
“What are the three of you doing?” Mr. Brown asked, pulling off his overcoat.
He had blond hair and blue eyes like Tyler.
“Scaring Tyler to death,” Cara told him.
He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you do that last time?”
“We do it every time,” I replied. “Tyler loves it.” I patted the kid on the
back. “You love it—right?”
“I guess,” he said in a tiny voice.
Tyler’s mom stepped into the room, straightening her sweater. “Were you
telling werewolf stories to Tyler again, Freddy?” she demanded. “Last time, he
had nightmares all night.”
“No, I didn’t!” Tyler protested.
Mrs. Brown tsk-tsked. Mr. Brown handed Cara and me each a five-dollar
bill. “Thanks for baby-sitting. Do you want me to walk you home?”
“No way,” I replied. Did he think I was some kind of wimp? “It’s just across
the street.”
Cara and I said good night to the Browns. I didn’t really feel like going
home yet. So I walked Cara home. She lives on the next block.
The full moon shone down on us. It appeared to follow us as we walked,
floating low over the dark houses.
We laughed about my werewolf story. And we laughed about how scared it made
Tyler.
We didn’t know that it would be our turn to be scared next.
Really scared.
Saturday afternoon, Cara came over. We hurried down to my basement to play
air hockey.
A few years ago, my parents cleaned the basement up and turned it into a
great playroom. We have a full-sized pool table and a beautiful, old jukebox
down there. Mom and Dad filled the jukebox with old rock-and-roll records.
Last Christmas, they bought me an air hockey game. A big, table-sized one.
Cara and I have some major hockey battles. We spend hours slapping the
plastic puck back and forth at each other. We really get into it.
Our air hockey games usually end in wrestling matches. Just like real hockey
games on TV!
We leaned over the air hockey game and started to warm up, shoving the puck
slowly back and forth across the table. Not trying to score.
“Where are your parents?” Cara asked.
I shrugged. “Beats me.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t know where they went? Didn’t they
leave you a note or something?”
I made a face at her. “They go out a lot.”
“Probably to get away from you !” Cara exclaimed. She laughed.
I had just come from karate class. I stepped around the hockey table and made
a few karate moves on her. One of my kicks accidentally landed on the back of
her ankle.
“Hey—!” she cried angrily. “Freddy—you jerk!”
When she bent over to rub her ankle, I shoved her into the wall. I meant it
as a joke.
I was just goofing. But I guess I don’t know my own strength.
She lost her balance and slammed hard into an antique china cabinet filled
with old dishes. The dishes rattled and shook. But nothing broke.
I laughed. I knew that Cara wasn’t really hurt.
I reached out to help pull her off the front of the cabinet. But she let out
a roar of attack—and came hurtling into me.
Her shoulder caught me in the chest. I uttered a hoarse choking
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