The Blob that Ate Everyone Chapter 11:
When we last left off, Zackie was seemingly being attacked by another terrifying creature. It turns out it’s a mouse, which I find pretty terrifying given it fell on his head and then climbed down his shirt, but Zackie doesn’t seem too perturbed by this.
Emmy and Annie were doubled over beside Adam, laughing their heads off.
Even Alex was laughing. Great friend, huh?
“Zackie, I guess you really do see monsters everywhere!” Annie exclaimed.
“Even teeny white ones!”
That got them all laughing again.
I challenge each and every one of these little shits not to freak out if a mouse falls onto their heads and then climbs down their shirts.
Alex comes to his defence:
Then she turned to the others. “We should give Zackie a break,” she told them. “Someday he’s going to be a famous horror writer.”
“Someday he’s going to be a famous chicken!” Annie exclaimed.
Sick burn, Annie.
The school principal shows up, demanding to know who let the mice out of the science lab, and thinks Zackie is responsible.
At home, Zackie doesn’t want to tell his parents about his day even though the principal just told him to avoid having “live creatures” in his locker. What was even the point of that scene?
Alex and Zackie hang out, and he shows her the latest draft of his Blob Monster story (our first Blob Monster sighting!). It’s handwritten, though, because he only types things up when they’re perfect for some reason.
I picked up the pen from the desk. “I used the antique pen that woman gave me in the shop,” I told Alex. “What a great pen. It writes so smoothly. I can’t believe she gave it to me for free!”
I almost made fun of Zackie, and then I realized I 10/10 would get excited about the same exact thing. Those in glass houses and all that.
Alex laughed. “You’re such a weird guy, Zackie. You get so excited about things like pens and typewriters.” And then she added, “I think that’s cool.”
I glanced over my story. “Now it’s time to type it,” I said. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to use the old typewriter.”
I led the way into my room. I was halfway to my desk when I stopped. And let out a startled cry.
The typewriter was gone.
I feel like he’s going to turn around immediately, and be like, “Oh! There it is!”
“It just disappeared into thin air!” I interrupted. “I don’t believe this! How? How could it disappear?”
“How could what disappear?” a voice called from the doorway.
I whirled around—to see Dad lumber heavily into the room. He carried the old typewriter in his arms.
“Dad—why… ?” I started.
He set it down on the desk. Then he pushed his curly black hair off his forehead and grinned at me. “I cleaned it for you, Zackie,” he said. “And put in a new ribbon.”
GOD DAMN THESE AWFUL CLIFFHANGERS! Of course dad just took it to clean it. Why would we expect anything else to have happened?
Dad asks if they want to go get some icecream, and is really sad when Zackie is all business and says he needs to type up his story. Between his inability to complete puzzles or get his son amped up about icecream, I really feel for this guy.
Alex for some reason stays to watch Zackie type up his story. I can’t imagine many more things that would be more boring than sitting around watching your friend type up his story.
Then I typed the first words of the story:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
“Hey—!” I uttered a cry as lightning flashed in my bedroom window.
Rain pounded on the glass.
A sharp roar of thunder shook the house.
Darkness swept over me as all the lights went out.
Wow! It seems like things are finally kicking off!
Alex is concerned because she knows Zackie is afraid of the dark and…everything else as Zackie admits to us. He says he writes scary stories because he knows what it feels like to be afraid. Aw. That’s actually a pretty insightful moment. Again, R.L. Stine, are you okay? Just checking in, buddy.
And then I heard the footsteps. Heavy, thudding footsteps from out in the hall.
Thunder roared again.
I spun away from the window. And listened to the footsteps, thudding heavily on the carpet.
“Who’s there?” I called through the darkness.
Come on. It’s clearly your father who was there mere moments ago.
Dad brings in some candles before heading off to find a flashlight. Zackie decides that he simply must continue writing his scary story by candlelight because that kind of mood lighting is top notch for a horror writer.
He keeps typing, “The wind began to howl”, and outside the wind does indeed begin to howl.
“You’re not getting very far with the story,” Alex said.
Thank you for being you, Alex.
She convinces Zackie to get back to the task at hand, and he starts writing the story again. I’m confused because I thought he was typing up a pre-existing draft, but he’s acting like he’s improving it. Just copy the freaking words, Zackie!
Anyway, Alex quickly realizes the story is about them when Zackie writes, “ALEX AND ZACKIE WERE ALONE IN THE DARK HOUSE, LISTENING TO THE STORM.” Because all great fiction writers don’t bother to actual write original characters or change the names of ones based on real people.
They go to search for their dad only to find that they really are alone now!