Children's Fiction
"Don't move," came a harsh whisper. "Don't try to turn around. I've got a gun."
Someone had come up behind me from the dark hallway that led to the bedrooms.
That same someone snapped off the light at the switch on the wall. That left us alone in the dark, me and someone with a gun and a harsh whisper.
My name is T.J. Barnes and I don't like cats. I don't like the way they stare. I don't like the way they slink. I don't like the way they race under your feet without warning and wash their behinds in public. Cats give me the creeps.
Kittens have tiny claws, but they're really, really sharp. Seymour was making YEOWCH faces even though he was trying not to flail around and hurt either of them. I lifted Alaska from his back and set her on the floor. T-Rex came over to check out what was happening. That's when they noticed the spare room.
It was weird how it happened. They just turned around and kind of froze in one spot. They sat down. They stared into the spare room.
"Hey," said Seymour. "Neat!"
"Neat what?" I asked.
"They're watching the ghost."
IQ stands for intelligence quotient—that's something I do know. I've done the pop-up tests on the Internet. The tests show my IQ is—ta-da!—incredibly average.
Seymour went into deep-think mode. One eyebrow went up and one eyebrow went down. Mr. G. looked at me for a translation. I had no idea what was going on in Seymour's head. When it came to football, things were definitely weird.
