Say Cheese and Die!

  “Neat,” Michael said, examining a long blue cape. “This stuff must be at least twenty-five years old. It’s awesome. How could someone just leave it here?”

  “Maybe they’re coming back for it,” Greg suggested.

  As his friends explored the contents of the wardrobe, Greg wandered to the other end of the large basement. A furnace occupied the far wall, its ducts covered in thick cobwebs. Partially hidden by the furnace ducts, Greg could see stairs, probably leading to an outside exit.

  Wooden shelves lined the adjoining wall, cluttered with old paint cans, rags, newspapers, and rusty tools.

  Whoever lived here must have been a real handyman, Greg thought, examining a wooden worktable in front of the shelves. A metal vise was clamped to the edge of the worktable. Greg turned the handle, expecting the jaws of the vise to open.

  But to his surprise, as he turned the vise handle, a door just above the worktable popped open. Greg pulled the door all the way open, revealing a hidden cabinet shelf. Resting on the shelf was a camera.

  4

  For a long moment, Greg just stared at the camera.

  Something told him the camera was hidden away for a reason.

  Something told him he shouldn’t touch it. He should close the secret door and walk away.

  But he couldn’t resist it.

  He reached onto the hidden shelf and took the camera in his hands.

  It pulled out easily. Then, to Greg’s surprise, the door instantly snapped shut with a loud bang.

  Weird, he thought, turning the camera in his hands.

  What a strange place to leave a camera. Why would someone put it here? If it were valuable enough to hide in a secret cabinet, why didn’t he take it with him?

  Greg eagerly examined the camera. It was large and surprisingly heavy, with a long lens. Perhaps it’s a telephoto lens, he thought.

  Greg was very interested in cameras. He had an inexpensive automatic camera, which took okay snapshots. But he was saving his allowance in hopes of buying a really good camera with a lot of lenses.

  He loved looking at camera magazines, studying the different models, picking out the ones he wanted to buy.

  Sometimes he daydreamed about traveling around the world, going to amazing places, mountaintops and hidden jungle rivers. He’d take photos of everything he saw and become a famous photographer.

  His camera at home was just too crummy. That’s why all his pictures came out too dark or too light, and everyone in them had glowing red dots in their eyes.

  Greg wondered if this camera was any good.

  Raising the viewfinder to his eye, he sighted around the room. He came to a stop on Michael, who was wearing two bright yellow feather boas and a white Stetson hat and had climbed to the top of the steps to pose.

  “Wait! Hold it!” Greg cried, moving closer, raising the camera to his eye. “Let me take your picture, Michael.”

  “Where’d you find that?” Bird asked.

  “Does that thing have film in it?” Michael demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Greg said. “Let’s see.”

  Leaning against the railing, Michael struck what he considered a sophisticated pose.

  Greg pointed the camera up and focused carefully. It took a short while for his finger to locate the shutter button. “Okay, ready? Say cheese.”

  “Cheddar,” Michael said, grinning down at Greg as he held his pose against the railing.

  “Very funny. Michael’s a riot,” Bird said sarcastically.

  Greg centered Michael in the viewfinder frame, then pressed the shutter button.

  The camera clicked and flashed.

  Then it made an electronic whirring sound. A slot pulled open on the bottom, and a cardboard square slid out.

  “Hey — it’s one of those automatic-developing cameras,” Greg exclaimed. He pulled the square of cardboard out and examined it. “Look — the picture is starting to develop.”

  “Let me see,” Michael called down, leaning on the railing.

  But before he could start down the stairs, everyone heard a loud crunching sound.

  They all looked up to the source of the sound — and saw the railing break away and Michael go sailing over the edge.

  “Noooooo!” Michael screamed as he toppled to the floor, arms outstretched, the feather boas flying behind him like animal tails.

  He turned in the air, then hit the concrete hard on his back, his eyes frozen wide in astonishment and fright.

  He bounced once.

  Then cried out again: “My ankle! Owwww! My ankle!” He grabbed at the injured ankle, then quickly let go with a loud gasp. It hurt too much to touch it.

  “Ohhh — my ankle!”

  Still holding the camera and the photo, Greg rushed to Michael. Shari and Bird did the same.

  “We’ll go get help,” Shari told Michael, who was still on his back, groaning in pain.

  But then they heard the ceiling creak.

  Footsteps. Above them.

  Someone was in the house.

  Someone was approaching the basement stairs.

  They were going to be caught.

  5

  The footsteps overhead grew louder.

  The four friends exchanged frightened glances. “We’ve got to get out of here,” Shari whispered.

  The ceiling creaked.

  “You can’t leave me here!” Michael protested. He pulled himself to a sitting position.

  “Quick — stand up,” Bird instructed.

  Michael struggled to his feet. “I can’t stand on this foot.” His face revealed his panic.

  “We’ll help you,” Shari said, turning her eyes to Bird. “I’ll take one arm. You take the other.”

  Bird obediently moved forward and pulled Michael’s arm around his shoulder.

  “Okay, let’s move!” Shari whispered, supporting Michael from the other side.

  “But how do we get out?” Bird asked breathlessly.

  The footsteps grew louder. The ceiling creaked under their weight.

  “We can’t go up the stairs,” Michael whispered, leaning on Shari and Bird.

  “There’s another stairway behind the furnace,” Greg told them, pointing.

  “It leads out?” Michael asked, wincing from his ankle pain.

  “Probably.”

  Greg led the way. “Just pray the door isn’t padlocked or something.”

  “We’re praying. We’re praying!” Bird declared.

  “We’re outta here!” Shari said, groaning under the weight of Michael’s arm.

  Leaning heavily against Shari and Bird, Michael hobbled after Greg, and they made their way to the stairs behind the furnace. The stairs, they saw, led to wooden double doors up on ground level.

  “I don’t see a padlock,” Greg said warily. “Please, doors — be open!”

  “Hey — who’s down there?” an angry man’s voice called from behind them.

  “It’s — it’s Spidey!” Michael stammered.

  “Hurry!” Shari urged, giving Greg a frightened push. “Come on!”

  Greg set the camera down on the top step. Then he reached up and grabbed the handles of the double doors.

  “Who’s down there?”

  Spidey sounded closer, angrier.

  “The doors could be locked from the outside,” Greg whispered, hesitating.

  “Just push them, man!” Bird pleaded.

  Greg took a deep breath and pushed with all his strength.

  The doors didn’t budge.

  “We’re trapped,” he told them.

  6

  “Now what?” Michael whined.

  “Try again,” Bird urged Greg. “Maybe they’re just stuck.” He slid out from under Michael’s arm.

  “Here. I’ll help you.”

  Greg moved over to give Bird room to step up beside him. “Ready?” he asked. “One, two, three — push!”

  Both boys pushed against the heavy wooden doors with all their might.

  And the doors sw
ung open.

  “Okay! Now we’re outta here!” Shari declared happily.

  Picking up the camera, Greg led the way out. The backyard, he saw, was as weed-choked and overgrown as the front. An enormous limb had fallen off an old oak tree, probably during a storm, and was lying half in the tree, half on the ground.

  Somehow, Bird and Shari managed to drag Michael up the steps and onto the grass. “Can you walk? Try it,” Bird said.

  Still leaning against the two of them, Michael reluctantly pushed his foot down on the ground. He lifted it. Then pushed it again. “Hey, it feels a little better,” he said, surprised.

  “Then let’s go,” Bird said.

  They ran to the overgrown hedge that edged along the side of the yard, Michael on his own now, stepping gingerly on the bad ankle, doing his best to keep up. Then, staying in the shadow of the hedge, they made their way around the house to the front.

  “All right!” Bird cried happily as they reached the street. “We made it!”

  Gasping for breath, Greg stopped at the curb and turned back toward the house. “Look!” he cried, pointing up to the living room window.

  A dark figure stood in the window, hands pressed against the glass.

  “It’s Spidey,” Shari said.

  “He’s just — staring at us,” Michael cried.

  “Weird,” Greg said. “Let’s go.”

  They didn’t stop till they got to Michael’s house, a sprawling redwood ranch-style house behind a shady front lawn.

  “How’s the ankle?” Greg asked.

  “It’s loosened up a lot. It doesn’t even hurt that much,” Michael said.

  “Man, you could’ve been killed!” Bird declared, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Michael said drily.

  “Lucky thing you’ve got all that extra padding,” Bird teased.

  “Shut up,” Michael muttered.

  “Well, you guys wanted adventure,” Shari said, leaning back against the trunk of a tree.

  “That guy Spidey is definitely weird,” Bird said, shaking his head.

  “You see the way he was staring at us?” Michael asked. “All dressed in black and everything? He looked like some kind of zombie or something.”

  “He see us,” Greg said softly, suddenly feeling a chill of dread. “He saw us very clearly. We’d better stay away from there.”

  “What for?” Michael demanded. “It isn’t his house. He’s just sleeping there. We could call the police on him.”

  “But if he’s really crazy or something, there’s no telling what he might do,” Greg replied thoughtfully.

  “Aw, he’s not going to do anything,” Shari said quietly. “Spidey doesn’t want trouble. He just wants to be left alone.”

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed quickly. “He didn’t want us messing with his stuff. That’s why he yelled like that and came after us.”

  Michael was leaning over, rubbing his ankle. “Hey, where’s my picture?” he demanded, straightening up and turning to Greg.

  “Huh?”

  “You know. The picture you snapped. With the camera.”

  “Oh. Right.” Greg suddenly realized he still had the camera gripped tightly in his hand. He set it down carefully on the grass and reached into his back pocket. “I put it in here when we started to run,” he explained.

  “Well? Did it come out?” Michael demanded.

  The three of them huddled around Greg to get a view of the snapshot.

  “Whoa — hold on a minute!” Greg cried, staring hard at the small, square photo. “Something’s wrong. What’s going on here?”

  7

  The four friends gaped at the photograph in Greg’s hand, their mouths dropping open in surprise.

  The camera had caught Michael in midair as he fell through the broken railing to the floor.

  “That’s impossible!” Shari cried.

  “You snapped the picture before I fell!” Michael declared, grabbing the photo out of Greg’s hand so that he could study it close up. “I remember it.”

  “You remembered wrong,” Bird said, moving to get another look at it over Michael’s shoulder. “You were falling, man. What a great action shot.” He picked up the camera. “This is a good camera you stole, Greg.”

  “I didn’t steal it —” Greg started. “I mean, I didn’t realize —”

  “I wasn’t falling!” Michael insisted, tilting the picture in his hand, studying it from every angle. “I was posing, remember? I had a big, goofy smile on my face, and I was posing.”

  “I remember the goofy smile,” Bird said, handing the camera back to Greg. “Do you have any other expression?”

  “You’re not funny, Bird,” Michael muttered. He pocketed the picture.

  “Weird,” Greg said. He glanced at his watch. “Hey — I’ve got to get going.”

  He said good-bye to the others and headed for home. The afternoon sun was lowering behind a cluster of palm trees, casting long, shifting shadows over the sidewalk.

  He had promised his mother he’d straighten up his room and help with the vacuuming before dinner. And now he was late.

  What is that strange car in the driveway? he wondered, jogging across the neighbor’s lawn toward his house.

  It was a navy-blue Taurus station wagon. Brand-new.

  Dad picked up our new car! he realized.

  Wow! Greg stopped to admire it. It still had the sticker glued to the door window. He pulled open the driver’s door, leaned in, and smelled the vinyl upholstery.

  Mmmmmm. That new-car smell.

  He inhaled deeply again. It smelled so good. So fresh and new.

  He closed the door hard, appreciating the solid clunk it made as it closed.

  What a great new car, he thought excitedly.

  He raised the camera to his eye and took a few steps back off the driveway.

  I’ve got to take a picture of this, he thought. To remember what the car was like when it was totally new.

  He backed up until he had framed the entire profile of the station wagon in the viewfinder. Then he pressed the shutter button.

  As before, the camera clicked loudly, the flash flashed, and with an electronic whirr, a square undeveloped photo of gray and yellow slid out of the bottom.

  Carrying the camera and the snapshot, Greg ran into the house through the front door. “I’m home!” he called. “Down in a minute!” And hurried up the carpeted stairs to his room.

  “Greg? Is that you? Your father is home,” his mother called from downstairs.

  “I know. Be right down. Sorry I’m late!” Greg shouted back.

  I’d better hide the camera, he decided. If Mom or Dad see it, they’ll want to know whose it is and where I got it. And I won’t be able to answer those questions.

  “Greg — did you see the new car? Are you coming down?” his mother called impatiently from the foot of the stairs.

  “I’m coming!” he yelled.

  His eyes searched frantically for a good hiding place.

  Under his bed?

  No. His mom might vacuum under there and discover it.

  Then Greg remembered the secret compartment in his headboard. He had discovered the compartment years ago when his parents had bought him a new bedroom set. Quickly, he shoved the camera in.

  Peering into the mirror above his dresser, he gave his blond hair a quick brush, rubbed a black soot smudge off his cheek with one hand, then started for the door.

  He stopped at the doorway.

  The snapshot of the car. Where had he put it?

  It took a few seconds to remember that he had tossed it onto his bed. Curious about how it came out, he turned back to retrieve it.

  “Oh, no!”

  He uttered a low cry as he gazed at the snapshot.

  8

  What’s going on here? Greg wondered.

  He brought the photo up close to his face.

  This isn’t right, he thought. How can this be? r />
  The blue Taurus station wagon in the photo was a mess. It looked as if it had been in a terrible accident. The windshield was shattered. Metal was twisted and bent. The door on the driver’s side was caved in.

  The car appeared totaled!

  “This is impossible!” Greg uttered aloud.

  “Greg, where are you?” his mother called. “We’re all hungry, and you’re keeping us waiting.”

  “Sorry,” he answered, unable to take his eyes off the snapshot. “Coming.”

  He shoved the photo into his top dresser drawer and made his way downstairs. The image of the totaled car burned in his mind.

  Just to make sure, he crossed the living room and peeked out of the front window to the driveway.

  There stood the station wagon, sparkling in the glow of the setting sun. Shiny and perfect.

  He turned and walked into the dining room, where his brother and his parents were already seated. “The new wagon is awesome, Dad,” Greg said, trying to shake the snapshot’s image from his thoughts.

  But he kept seeing the twisted metal, the caved-in driver’s door, the shattered windshield.

  “After dinner,” Greg’s dad announced happily, “I’m taking you all for a drive in the new car!”

  9

  “Mmmm. This is great chicken, Mom,” Greg’s brother, Terry, said, chewing as he talked.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Mrs. Banks said drily, “but it’s veal — not chicken.”

  Greg and his dad burst out laughing. Terry’s face grew bright red. “Well,” he said, still chewing, “it’s such excellent veal, it tastes as good as chicken!”

  “I don’t know why I bother to cook,” Mrs. Banks sighed.

  Mr. Banks changed the subject. “How are things at the Dairy Freeze?” he asked.

  “We ran out of vanilla this afternoon,” Terry said, forking a small potato and shoving it whole into his mouth. He chewed it briefly, then gulped it down. “People were annoyed about that.”

  “I don’t think I can go for the ride,” Greg said, staring down at his dinner, which he’d hardly touched. “I mean —”

  “Why not?” his father asked.

  “Well …” Greg searched his mind for a good reason. He needed to make one up, but his mind was a blank.