More snow. Nothing but snow.
“This can’t be happening!” Dad screamed. “The Abominable Snowman—he should be standing right there!” He pointed.
His hands shook as he grabbed the rest of the negatives and held them up to the red light. “The tundra shots came out fine,” he declared. “The dogs, the sled, the elk herd—all there. All perfect. All of them. But the shots in the monster’s cave—”
His voice trailed off. He shook his head sadly. “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. How could this be? Not a single shot of the creature. Not one.”
I sighed. I felt so bad for Dad. I felt so bad for all three of us.
No Abominable Snowman. No photos of the Abominable Snowman.
It was almost as if he never existed. As if the whole thing never happened.
Nicole and I left Dad in the darkroom to finish his work.
We trudged around the house to the front. Nicole groaned and grabbed my arm. “Oh, no! Look!”
Across the street in the vacant lot, I saw the Miller twins kneeling down, digging in the sand.
“They’re digging up the snowballs!” I gasped.
“Those creeps!” Nicole growled. “They must have been spying on us while we buried them.”
“We’ve got to stop them!” I cried.
We hurried across the street, running full speed.
I saw Kyle rip open the garbage bag—and pull out one of the snowballs.
He swung back his arm and aimed at Kara.
“No—Kyle! Stop!” I screamed. “Don’t throw it! Stop! Don’t throw it, Kyle!”
THWOCK.
Scanning, formatting and
proofing by Undead.
R. L. Stine, 38 - The Abominable Snowman of Pasadena
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