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,”
