Read Online 28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)
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that wood’s too dark for our chairs, Herman,” Mom said. Another
table caught her eye. As she moved toward it, I tried to slip my hand out of
hers. No go.
I toddled after her to the second table. I shot another glance at the clock.
The minute hand moved.
Two minutes to twelve.
“We can’t be too picky, honey,” Dad said. “The Bergers are coming over
Saturday night—two days from now—for a dinner party. We can’t have a dinner party without a dining room table!”
“I know that, dear. But there’s no point in buying a table we don’t
like.”
Dad’s voice began to rise. Mom’s mouth got that hard, set look to it.
Aha. A fight. This was my chance.
Dad was shouting. “Why don’t we just spread a blanket out on the floor and
make them eat there? We’ll call it a picnic!”
Mom finally relaxed her grip on my hand.
I slipped away and toddled as fast as I could toward the clock.
The clock’s minute hand moved again.
I toddled faster.
I heard my parents shouting at each other. “I won’t buy an ugly table, and
that’s that!” Mom cried.
Please don’t let them notice me, I prayed. Not yet.
I reached the cuckoo clock at last. I stood in front of it and stared up at
the clock.
The cuckoo’s window was far above me, out of reach.
The minute hand clicked again. The clock’s gong sounded.
The cuckoo’s window slid open. The cuckoo popped out.
It cuckooed once.
It cuckooed twice.
I stared up at it, helpless.
A twelve-year-old boy trapped in a baby’s body.
I stared grimly up at the clock.
Somehow, I had to reach that cuckoo.
Somehow, I had to turn it around.
22
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Three, four.
I knew that once it reached twelve, I was doomed.
The cuckoo bird would disappear.
And so would my last chance to save myself.
In a day or so, I would disappear. Disappear forever.
Frantic, I glanced around for a ladder, a stool, anything.
The closest thing was a chair.
I toddled over to the chair and pushed it toward the clock. It moved about an
inch.
I leaned, putting all my weight into it. I figured I weighed about twenty
pounds.
But it was enough. The chair began to slide across the floor.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Five, six.
I shoved the chair up against the clock. The seat of the chair came up to my
chin.
I tried to pull myself up onto the seat. My arms were too weak.
I planted a baby sneaker against the chair leg. I boosted myself up. I
grabbed a spindle at the back of the chair and heaved my body onto the seat.
I made it!
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Seven, eight.
I got to my knees. I got to my feet.
I reached up to grab the cuckoo. I stretched as tall as I could.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Nine, ten.
Reaching, reaching.
Then I heard the shopkeeper shout, “Somebody grab that baby!”
23
I heard pounding footsteps.
They were running to get me.
I strained to reach the cuckoo. Just another inch…
Cuckoo!
Eleven.
Mom grabbed me. She lifted me up.
For one second, the cuckoo flashed within my reach.
I grasped it and turned the head around.
Cuckoo!
Twelve.
The cuckoo slid back into the clock, facing the right way.
Forward.
I wriggled out of Mom’s arms, landing on the chair.
“Mikey, what’s gotten into you?” she cried. She tried to grab me again.
I dodged her. I reached around to the side of the clock.
I saw the little dial that told the year. I felt for the button that
controlled it. I could just reach it, standing on the chair.
I slammed my hand on the button, carefully watching the years whiz by.
I heard the shopkeeper yelling, “Get that baby away from my clock!”
Mom grabbed me again, but I screamed. I screamed so loudly, it startled her.
She let her hands drop.
“Mikey, let go of that!” Dad ordered.
I took my hand off the button. The dial showed the right year. The present
year. The year I turned twelve.
Mom made another grab for me. This time I let her pick me up.
It doesn’t matter what happens now, I thought. Either the clock
table caught her eye. As she moved toward it, I tried to slip my hand out of
hers. No go.
I toddled after her to the second table. I shot another glance at the clock.
The minute hand moved.
Two minutes to twelve.
“We can’t be too picky, honey,” Dad said. “The Bergers are coming over
Saturday night—two days from now—for a dinner party. We can’t have a dinner party without a dining room table!”
“I know that, dear. But there’s no point in buying a table we don’t
like.”
Dad’s voice began to rise. Mom’s mouth got that hard, set look to it.
Aha. A fight. This was my chance.
Dad was shouting. “Why don’t we just spread a blanket out on the floor and
make them eat there? We’ll call it a picnic!”
Mom finally relaxed her grip on my hand.
I slipped away and toddled as fast as I could toward the clock.
The clock’s minute hand moved again.
I toddled faster.
I heard my parents shouting at each other. “I won’t buy an ugly table, and
that’s that!” Mom cried.
Please don’t let them notice me, I prayed. Not yet.
I reached the cuckoo clock at last. I stood in front of it and stared up at
the clock.
The cuckoo’s window was far above me, out of reach.
The minute hand clicked again. The clock’s gong sounded.
The cuckoo’s window slid open. The cuckoo popped out.
It cuckooed once.
It cuckooed twice.
I stared up at it, helpless.
A twelve-year-old boy trapped in a baby’s body.
I stared grimly up at the clock.
Somehow, I had to reach that cuckoo.
Somehow, I had to turn it around.
22
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Three, four.
I knew that once it reached twelve, I was doomed.
The cuckoo bird would disappear.
And so would my last chance to save myself.
In a day or so, I would disappear. Disappear forever.
Frantic, I glanced around for a ladder, a stool, anything.
The closest thing was a chair.
I toddled over to the chair and pushed it toward the clock. It moved about an
inch.
I leaned, putting all my weight into it. I figured I weighed about twenty
pounds.
But it was enough. The chair began to slide across the floor.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Five, six.
I shoved the chair up against the clock. The seat of the chair came up to my
chin.
I tried to pull myself up onto the seat. My arms were too weak.
I planted a baby sneaker against the chair leg. I boosted myself up. I
grabbed a spindle at the back of the chair and heaved my body onto the seat.
I made it!
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Seven, eight.
I got to my knees. I got to my feet.
I reached up to grab the cuckoo. I stretched as tall as I could.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Nine, ten.
Reaching, reaching.
Then I heard the shopkeeper shout, “Somebody grab that baby!”
23
I heard pounding footsteps.
They were running to get me.
I strained to reach the cuckoo. Just another inch…
Cuckoo!
Eleven.
Mom grabbed me. She lifted me up.
For one second, the cuckoo flashed within my reach.
I grasped it and turned the head around.
Cuckoo!
Twelve.
The cuckoo slid back into the clock, facing the right way.
Forward.
I wriggled out of Mom’s arms, landing on the chair.
“Mikey, what’s gotten into you?” she cried. She tried to grab me again.
I dodged her. I reached around to the side of the clock.
I saw the little dial that told the year. I felt for the button that
controlled it. I could just reach it, standing on the chair.
I slammed my hand on the button, carefully watching the years whiz by.
I heard the shopkeeper yelling, “Get that baby away from my clock!”
Mom grabbed me again, but I screamed. I screamed so loudly, it startled her.
She let her hands drop.
“Mikey, let go of that!” Dad ordered.
I took my hand off the button. The dial showed the right year. The present
year. The year I turned twelve.
Mom made another grab for me. This time I let her pick me up.
It doesn’t matter what happens now, I thought. Either the clock
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