The Thing At Black Hole Lake Read online

  Silas scratched his neck. “All right, then. Be safe out there.” He got back into the van and started up the engine.

  Through the window Lucy kept her eyes on Milo as they disappeared round the bend.

  Once the vehicle was out of sight, Milo locked his bike to a tree and stashed his skateboard in a bush.

  Milo had eagerly devoured the books he’d purchased at The Woo Woo Store. The section on Black Hole Lake in Sticky Secrets had been especially interesting. It turned out that, over the years, there had been several unresolved and unsettling sightings of strange creatures, stretching back centuries to legends told amongst local Native American tribes. People had reported seeing a whole range of unlikely beasts, from large snakes to giant crocodiles and creatures resembling long-extinct dinosaurs. Occasionally, people had even disappeared while out swimming or fishing, never to be seen again. It had all been chalked up to unfortunate accidents, but rumours about the lake persisted, its murky waters and unfathomable depths still largely unexplored.

  What was down there? Milo felt compelled to know. Whatever he’d encountered had had the chance to attack or eat him, but it had chosen not to. Why? And something else intrigued him about the creature… He could’ve sworn it was trying to communicate with him. Was that just his imagination? In any case, Milo was beginning to understand Lucy, his father and their respective obsessions better than ever before. Not that he’d ever tell them that. He pulled on his freshly bought fisherman’s beanie and hopped into the kayak.

  Aside from a man out fishing from a small boat on the other side of the lake, Milo was alone. The sky was a featureless backdrop of luminescent grey. A flock of geese flew by in a loose V, headed somewhere warmer. Milo snapped a quick picture of the birds with his new compact advanced camera, bought especially for taking artistic shots of wildlife.

  After a half hour of paddling, he reached the area where he’d first seen the Thing. Rotating his aching shoulders, he whistled the first three notes of the Lassie song: “PHEW-EEEE-OOO.”

  He listened for a response. The wind rippled faintly across the surface of the lake, water lapping at the sides of his boat. Milo banged the kayak with his paddle, sending a low THOD-THOD-THOD out into the abyss. “PHEW-EEEEEE-OOOOO,” he whistled again.

  There was a splash behind him. Milo turned and saw a ring of ripples two yards away. Something was just there. He swore he could hear the faint trill of laughter. The hairs stirred on the back of his neck.

  He banged on the boat and whistled again, squinting through his camera at the water’s surface. Was something moving down there?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the gruff puttering sound of an old motorboat approaching. It was the fisherman from across the lake.

  Oh, come on. This guy’s going to scare it off!

  “H’lo, friend!” The fisherman waved.

  Go away, stranger. Milo wearily waved back.

  The man pulled his speedboat to a stop a few yards away. He was tall and portly, with a sparse goatee and a messy grey ponytail dangling from under a green cap. He looked familiar, but Milo couldn’t quite place him. Of course, Sticky Pines was a small town. Lots of people looked familiar.

  The man took in Milo’s box-fresh kayaking getup. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Milo stiffened. What’s that supposed to mean? I bought a wool beanie and everything.

  “Oh!” The man slapped his forehead. “I know you. You’re Lucy Goosie’s buddy. Milo Fisher, right?”

  The identity of the man dawned on Milo at last; he was the drummer in Silas Sladan’s admittedly entertaining band The Sticky Six. Milo had seen them play at his father’s carnival.

  “And you’re Steve, if I’m not mistaken?” Milo was fairly certain Lucy had introduced him as “Scruffy Steve”, in fact. It fits.

  Steve bobbed his head. “Say –” he glanced around – “you’re not headed out to the Siren’s Lair, are you?”

  The Siren’s Lair. Funnily enough, Milo knew exactly what Steve was talking about. According to Sticky Secrets, it was what the locals called the small island at the centre of the lake. Legend was that it contained a “spring of life” that could cure ailments and impart magical powers. However, the book assured the reader that this fanciful fable had been thoroughly debunked.

  “I’m not going to the island,” said Milo.

  “Good, good. It’s off limits to the public anyway,” said Steve. “Protected habitat for bats, snakes and some kinda big spiders.” He grimaced. “Yeah. Nobody goes to the Siren’s Lair, that’s for sure. I’m not one for rules, but I sure do follow that one.”

  “Cool, cool.” Milo furtively scanned for any sign of the creature. GO AWAY, STEVE!

  “Besides,” Steve continued, “the island’s really rocky, and, like, covered in brambles and super sticky pines. You know what happens when you get that sap on you, yeah? Hard to get off your clothes, man. Hard. To get. Off.”

  “Got it.” This guy sure likes to talk. Milo held up his camera. “I’m just out here to shoot some pictures of birds and fish.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Steve. “Did you bring any bait?”

  “Bait?”

  “Bread? Frozen peas? Marshmallows?”

  Marshmallows? “Uh … no.” Milo hadn’t thought of that. Somehow he didn’t think the monster would be interested in the kale salad he’d brought for lunch. He’d been hoping his whistling would lure it, like last time. Though, Milo pondered, perhaps his sinking boat was what had attracted the Thing. Huh. He gulped. Maybe I’m the bait.

  Steve rifled through his cooler, then held up the biggest bucket of gummy worms Milo had ever seen. A large pink label on its side read “Mandy’s Candies”. “You can use these if you want.”

  “Wild animals like candy?” asked Milo.

  “They do if it’s from Mandy’s,” Steve replied.

  Does this guy work there or something?

  Steve tossed over the bucket, spiralling it like a football.

  The container collided with Milo’s hands as he threw them up to protect his face. The lid came off and neon-hued worms flew everywhere, raining into the lake in a series of PLOOPs. The bucket, still half filled with gummies, landed with a SPLOSH, bobbing as water slowly trickled in. Milo felt his ears redden with embarrassment. All those extracurriculars, and nobody ever taught me how to catch a flipping football.

  “Whoopsie-daisy.” Steve chortled, doubling over.

  “I’d better get back to my photography,” said Milo, praying Steve would take the hint.

  Steve wiped a tear from his eye, then yanked on the rope-pull starter. His boat’s motor garumphed noisily into life. “I’ll see you ’round, Fisher.” He waved as he sputtered off towards the shore.

  Milo sighed. The candy worms floated pathetically around his boat, a fittingly colourful metaphor for the kaleidoscopic failure his day had become.

  “PHEW-EEEE-OOO,” Milo whistled. Nothing. No shadows. No splashes. No creepy laughter. Just the gloomy stillness of a cold November afternoon.

  He took one last picture of the candy detritus, for artistic reasons, then morosely paddled towards home.

  GLURGLESPLOOPH! A watery sound erupted from the lake behind him.

  Milo turned round to look. Right where his kayak had just been, every single gummy worm had vanished, the bucket along with them. The surface on which they had floated was now frothy white, rings of disturbed water emanating out in all directions.

  Something had sucked them into the lake in an instant. Something big enough to swallow them all in one gulp.

  I knew something was down there!

  With a SPHLUSH! the empty container emerged from somewhere far below. His heart leapfrogging, Milo paddled towards the floating bucket and retrieved it with his oar. He brought it close, then felt the blood drain from his face.

  The clear plastic was marred with zigzagged scars of white from the marks of many, many sharp teeth.

  The Thing. Milo’s skin prickled. It’s here
. And it’s hungry.

  Breaking Newsies

  “I can’t believe you joined a club,” tittered Miranda Sladan, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “And it’s not an extraterrestrial death cult; it’s an official, school-sanctioned activity.” She beamed. “The SPEAMS Sentinel.” She was actually beaming. “I’m so proud of you, mija!”

  Lucy threw out a thumbs-up, as she packed her peanut butter and jelly sandwich into her planetary lunch box. Her mother’s unbridled display of support was, quite frankly, insulting. It’s like the fact that Tex and I built a scale model of the Underground City of the Lizard People means nothing to her.

  Miranda rinsed her coffee mug in the kitchen sink. “Learning about real journalism instead of those crazy conspiracy theories will be a much-needed change for you, Lucita.”

  “What needs changing?” Willow entered the kitchen, dragging her glittery pink backpack on the floor.

  “Your socks,” said Lucy.

  “My socks are clean,” Willow protested. “They’re from yesterday. Smell them.”

  “You smell them,” said Lucy, pretending to gag.

  “Smell them in the car.” Miranda pushed her daughters into the garage. “What time should I pick you up after the club meeting?”

  “I’ll get a ride from the Arkhipovs,” said Lucy, hopping into the van. “Tex is joining the paper too.”

  Miranda glanced at Lucy in the rear-view mirror. “Does he know that?”

  “It was his idea.” Lucy was really starting to wrap her head round all the lying it took to dig out the Truth. Besides, she was sure Tex would be thrilled to join the paper when she got around to telling him about it.

  As she buckled her seat belt, Willow shoved both her feet under Lucy’s nose.

  “You want me to do WHAT?” said Tex.

  He dug his heels into the linoleum as Lucy pushed him away from the cafeteria and towards the basement boiler room. The subterranean nerd-cave served as the newspaper club’s headquarters. It was hot, windowless and smelled funny, but it was the only room with enough space for the club’s printing equipment.

  “We cannot join the newsies, Lucille,” said Tex. “All they do is write about school elections and publish poems about recycling. Plus, they never eat.”

  The club was only supposed to meet twice a week after school, but the newsies were notoriously hardcore. Lucy understood the impulse to take a mission seriously, but these kids worked straight through lunch. Every. Single. Day.

  “Lunch is sacred,” said Tex. “It is a time of contemplation, rest and renewal.”

  “I know,” Lucy agreed, “but I need this, buddy.” She pulled him down a dank staircase that smelled like old cheese. “Maybe you can write video game reviews.”

  “You think games are all I care about, is that it?”

  “They’re not?”

  “Goodbye.” Tex turned round.

  Lucy scurried past him and blocked the exit, bracing against cement walls that felt inexplicably greasy. “Please,” she begged.

  “I am more than just an alibi for your bonkers adventures, Lucille.” Tex leaned against the wall. “Ew,” he withdrew his hand. “Is that grease?”

  “Maybe you can be the Sentinel’s new cartoonist?”

  He looked intrigued, yet unconvinced.

  “Plus,” Lucy added, “the editor-in-chief has a nose ring.”

  “Gertie Lee is the editor of the school paper?” Tex ran his fingers through his unkempt blond hair, then grimaced as he realised his hand was still oily. “Well, I do like to draw.”

  “That’s my guy.” Lucy linked her arm with his and led him downstairs.

  The dank room echoed with the tippity taps of Sentinel writers typing frantically at obsolete computers set up on folding tables. A dozen or so club members ran around, writing on whiteboards covered in log lines, tag lines and headlines: “The Price of Cafeteria Meatloaf Rises Three Cents”, “What Your Spring Fling Attire Says About Your College Prospects”

  and “Is Principal Pakuna Selling Our Old Homework at the Farmer’s Market? The Answer May Shock You!”

  “If it isn’t Lucy Sladan.” Gertie hopped off a table in front of the rusty boiler. She was wearing a floral jumpsuit and combat boots. Tex’s soul is probably doing jumping jacks right now. “Have you finally decided to put your story on the record?”

  “Actually,” said Lucy, “we’re here to join the paper.”

  A small girl with wire-rimmed glasses ran past. “Just got a hot tip that the milk in the cafeteria is two days past its expiration date. Two days!”

  “Go get ’em, Smitty!” said Gertie. She pointed from Lucy to Tex. “You two want to join the paper?”

  Tex bowed. “You are looking at the Sentinel’s new political cartoonist,” he announced.

  “Political?” said Lucy.

  “That is right, Lucille. I am fascinated by the inner workings of power in this school. The Machiavellian teachers and administrators who play with the student body like so many cats with mice.”

  Gertie took Tex in from head to toe. “I like your style. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Alexei Gregorovich Arkhipov at your service, my lady.” He bowed again.

  Lucy wrinkled her nose.

  “Can you really draw?” asked Gertie.

  Tex proudly pulled out his binder and showed off the intricate doodles adorning the cover.

  Gertie raised her chin approvingly. “We could use an artist with some actual skills. Not that everyone doesn’t just love your ‘ironic’ stick figures, Dave,” she called over her shoulder.

  A curly-haired eighth-grader glanced up from his computer. “None taken,” he said.

  “What about you?” Gertie sized up Lucy. “Are you finally ready to dip your toes into the sea of reality?”

  Tex snorted.

  Lucy ignored him. “What you said at Joey’s party got me thinking,” she said to Gertie. “I’d like to try my hand at –” she leaned in conspiratorially – “investigative journalism.”

  Gertie tilted her head. “And what would you like to investigate?”

  “I need a four-letter word for ‘dishonest’,” shouted a boy from across the room.

  “Wily,” Gertie called back. “Bent. Base…” She searched for more synonyms.

  “Nu Co.,” said Lucy.

  “Whoa.” Gertie’s eyes grew wide.

  “Lucille,” Tex warned, “you cannot keep sticking your nose into Fisher’s business. Milo hates you enough as it is.”

  “Then this won’t change anything, will it?” Lucy retorted.

  Gertie contemplated Lucy’s offer. “Let’s talk somewhere more private.” She ushered her behind a cluster of creaking pipes, out of earshot of the other newsies.

  Tex sketched a bobble-headed portrait of Principal Pakuna on the nearest whiteboard.

  “All right, Sladan,” said Gertie, “you’ve got my attention. Shoot.”

  “Word on the mitochondrial network,” said Lucy, “is that someone’s been sabotaging Nu Co.’s equipment.”

  Gertie snapped her fingers. “So someone is fighting back against the expansion! Maybe this planet isn’t doomed by climate change yet.”

  “The planet is just as likely to be doomed by a giant alien laser cannon,” said Lucy. “We are NOT prepared for first contact.”

  Gertie looked unamused.

  “The point is,” Lucy continued, “internal sabotage means that the workers have to put in extra hours. It’s why they’re all so miserable.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “Proof’s what I’m after.”

  “It’s a front-page story.” Gertie’s eyes twinkled. “But –” she shook her head – “I can’t let you do it.”

  “Why not? You were practically begging me to write for you.”

  “Yeah, about school stuff. The Sentinel isn’t allowed to report on anything off-campus, ever since the incident with the hot dogs at Buck’s Burger Barn…”

  “That’s bunk!” said
Lucy. “This story IS school-related. Half the students’ parents work there. Wait. What’s wrong with the hot dogs at Buck’s Burger Barn?”

  “Sorry.” Gertie shrugged. “If I’m going to be the first journalist elected president, I need this paper to run smoothly.” She turned to leave.

  “They’re cutting down the entire forest between the factory and Black Hole Lake,” said Lucy. “Did you know that?”

  “That land is a habitat for endangered marmots.” Gertie’s eyes widened with fury.

  “Fisher doesn’t give two honks about marmots,” said Lucy. “If you let me chase this up, I can expose him for the tree-munching monster he is.”

  “All right, Sladan. You’ve got your story.” She held out a firm hand, which Lucy shook. Gertie cringed. “You touched the wall, didn’t you?”

  “One more thing,” said Lucy, “I won’t be at the club meetings after school.”

  Gertie frowned.

  “I’ll need that time to investigate, see?”

  “Fine. Just don’t get the paper into any trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Lucy slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed for the exit. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Then get a thesaurus,” Gertie called after her.

  “If we hurry –” Tex hustled up the stairs after Lucy – “we can still catch Hot Dog Monday.”

  “I’m not really in the mood for hot dogs,” she replied.

  They flung open the door to the main hall and almost tripped over a sullen eighth-grader sprawled out on the floor. It was Milo Fisher.

  “Watch where you’re going, Fishcake!” snarled an enormous seventh-grader towering menacingly over him.

  “Are you okay, Fish?” Lucy knelt down.

  “He bumped into me,” said Milo, looking bewildered. He was holding the art room’s bathroom pass: a full-sized toilet seat, spray-painted gold. The art teacher thought it was the height of humour.

  “What the plop, Lars?” Tex puffed up his chest and faced the bully. “Milo Fisher is half your size.”