Morton awoke to the sounds of Dad and Melissa talking downstairs. Wearily he dragged himself out of bed and fumbled into his clothes, buttoning his shirt crookedly twice before getting it right. His whole body ached from the struggles of the night before, and his head felt as if it were full of sawdust.

When he arrived at breakfast he learned that Dad had returned to find all the lights on and Melissa fast asleep on the couch. She claimed to have fallen asleep doing homework.

“What happened to your promise about lights out by nine?” Dad was saying as Morton sat down and helped himself to cereal.

“Dad, you didn’t literally mean turn the lights out, did you?” Melissa said. “You just meant go to sleep. It just so happens I went to sleep on the couch — with all the lights on.”

“She was doing her homework,” Morton said, coming to her defense.

Dad looked suspiciously back and forth between Morton and Melissa.

At that moment James appeared at the door, his face deathly white with heavy black shadows under his eyes.

“Good morning,” Dad said. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” James replied, “but I can’t find any clean socks.”

“Oh yes. Sorry about that,” Dad said. “I seem to have broken the washing machine. Too much soap I think. You can borrow a pair of mine if you like.”

“Uh, no, thanks,” James said. “I’ll just wear an old pair.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Dad went on. “I’ll drop the laundry off at Mrs. Smedley’s this afternoon. She said she’d help out if we needed anything.”

“What?” Melissa said, her eyes widening with horror. “You can’t give our dirty laundry to some old bat we haven’t even met.”

“Please don’t call her an ‘old bat,’” Dad said in a reprimanding tone. “It’s not polite. And anyway, I really don’t understand why you have a problem with it.”

“Well, it’s … it’s just not right is it? It’s personal,” Melissa stammered.

“I don’t see what’s personal about James’s smelly socks,” Dad said.

“Melissa means we should be doing our own laundry,” Morton interjected.

Dad frowned. “I don’t think Melissa even knows what a washing machine looks like.”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “It’s that white thing next to the oven.”

“That’s actually the dishwasher,” Dad said, “but kudos for trying.”

Melissa growled. “Well, anyway, Morton’s right. It’s not fair to ask that old … uh, nice old lady to do our laundry. From now on we’ll do our own, even if we have to take it to the Laundromat.”

Dad looked taken aback. “Well, that would be a big help. If you’re sure …”

“We are,” Melissa stated firmly.

“We are?” James said, still looking sleepy and confused.

“Very well, we’ll see how it goes,” Dad said, and he sat down to join them for breakfast.

At exactly eight thirty, the three kids sauntered off down the driveway together, smiling and waving to Dad as if everything were absolutely normal.

“What was all that about?” James said once they were out of earshot. “I don’t want to do my own laundry.”

“Oh, never mind that now,” Melissa replied. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, like keeping an eye out for stray monsters.”

“That’s right,” Morton said. “Especially the Zombie Twins.”

“I don’t even know what the Zombie Twins look like,” Melissa said.

“They’re really short, like about up to my knees,” Morton said. “They have white skull faces with glowing red eyes and they always wear long brown cloaks, so you can’t see their feet. Actually, I don’t think they even have feet, they just kind of hover.”

“Cute!” Melissa said. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

As they reached the end of the driveway, Morton spotted Wendy waiting on the street. She waved eagerly when she saw them.

“Good morning!” she called.

“If we’re going to be friends,” Melissa said, approaching Wendy, “there’s one thing you have to learn: There’s no such thing as a good morning, and that’s doubly true today.”

“Hi, James. Hi, Morton,” Wendy said with a glowing smile.

James suddenly began straightening his unruly hair with his hands. “Uh, hi,” he said in an unusually high-pitched voice.

Morton grabbed James by the elbow and dragged him off toward school. He seemed to be acting very strangely.

First period was biology again with Mr. Noble. Morton spotted Robbie sitting at one of the long tables near the back and went over to join him.

“Are you okay?” Robbie asked as Morton approached.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Oh, uh, I was just lying awake thinking about stuff, I guess.”

“Well, I know how that is. I lie awake at night all the time. Especially when —”

“Okay, everybody, settle down,” Mr. Noble cut in. “Today we have a fun assignment.”

Mr. Noble produced a large Styrofoam cooler box and placed it on the desk dramatically. “Today,” he continued, “everybody gets to dissect a cow’s eyeball.”

The class suddenly erupted into a peal of shouts, both of excitement and revulsion. Cries of “Ew!” and “Gross!” were perfectly balanced by calls of “Cool!” and “Awesome!”

“Oh, great,” Morton said. “That’s all I need this morning.”

“What?” Robbie said in a surprised voice. “I thought you loved this stuff?”

“Well, normally I would, but after last night … I mean, well, I’m just tired.”

“Then this is perfect,” Robbie replied. “It will stop you from falling asleep. Trust me. It’s the classes where you have to listen to some teacher droning on that are the real killers.”

“I suppose so,” Morton sighed, and it turned out that Robbie was right. For the next hour they had the best possible time slicing up the gelatinous cow eyes. Robbie proved to be a whiz with a scalpel, and of course Morton knew all the names for the various parts of the eyeball, like the retina, the cornea, and even the aqueous and the vitreous humors. Mr. Noble was so impressed that he gave them both top marks, even though they spent more time laughing and making silly squelching noises than anyone else.

They were still laughing when they got to their lockers at lunchtime. Morton was stuffing his oversize biology textbook onto the top shelf of his locker when somebody slammed the door on his back so hard that he fell right inside. Mocking laughter echoed down the hallway. Morton struggled to his feet in time to see Brad, Sid, and Dave striding away from them making rude gestures.

“Hey, Robbie,” Brad called. “Looks like your new buddy can’t stand up for himself.”

Robbie made a rude gesture in return, but Brad had already turned his back.

“Sorry about that,” Robbie said, picking up Morton’s books.

“Why are you sorry?” Morton said. “It’s not your fault those guys are jerks.”

“Yeah, but it’s me they hate. They’d leave you alone if you weren’t hanging out with me.”

“Why do they pick on you anyway?” Morton asked.

“They think I steal stuff,” Robbie said solemnly. “Everybody thinks I steal stuff.”

Morton wasn’t really surprised to hear this. Robbie had a certain look about him. His clothes were wrinkled and his hands were always dirty, but Morton had read enough stories in Scare Scape about kids from the wrong side of the tracks to know that you couldn’t tell anything about people from the way they dressed. According to what he’d read, it was all in the eyes.

“Do you steal stuff?” Morton asked bluntly.

“Of course not! But that doesn’t seem to matter. Every time anything gets stolen, like phones or watches or lunch money, Brad and the others go and tell Principal Finch. Every single time they say it was me, but I never stole anything, ever!”

As Robbie said this he looked directly at Morton with a clear, steady gaze, and Morton decided then and there that he must be telling the truth.

“Well, why don’t you tell the principal that they’re just trying to cause trouble?” Morton suggested.

“You don’t know Finch,” Robbie scoffed. “All he cares about is how his school looks in the end-of-year report. ‘If someone files a complaint, I have to look into it,’ he always says. And then he calls my mom and, well, it makes a lot of trouble.”

“That’s horrible,” Morton said.

“That’s my life,” Robbie said, looking down at his feet. “You might as well know now that nobody trusts me in this school. So, you know, if you want to stop hanging out with me, I’ll understand.”

Morton felt very sad and angry at the same time. “I’m not going to let some fuzzy-faced overgrown punk singer tell me who to be friends with,” he said defiantly. “In fact, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to our house for supper tonight.”

“Really?” Robbie said, his face lighting up.

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to see the inside of your house,” Robbie said, “but I can’t come for supper because I have to do chores. Maybe after supper? I could bring a pie. Mom bakes pies all the time.”

“Sure,” Morton said. “Actually it’s probably safer that way. Dad’s cooking isn’t so great. It takes a while to get used to it.”

“Your dad cooks?” Robbie asked in surprise.

“If you can call it cooking,” Morton said. “I take it your dad never cooks, then?”

Robbie’s light demeanor changed in an instant. His face went pale, and he just sort of shook his head.

“Uh, my dad’s uh, not … He’s not …”

Morton recognized the emotion at once and felt suddenly horribly insensitive.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry. That was stupid of me. I should have …” Morton stammered for words. “Look, I know how you feel. Our mum died last year and … well, there’s nothing you can say, is there? I mean, I know what you’re going through.”

Robbie looked up at Morton. “I didn’t know about your mom. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry about your dad too,” Morton replied, and neither of them said any more about it.

It wasn’t until last period that fatigue from the strange events of the night before came back with a vengeance. The history teacher, it turned out, was Mr. Brown, the heavyset man with short gray hair and a walking stick who had handed out welcome packages on Morton’s first day of school.

At the beginning of the lesson Morton thought he was going to really enjoy Mr. Brown’s class. He was friendly and managed to get everyone laughing a number of times by telling corny jokes. Unfortunately he had a bad habit of reading enormous sections from the textbook out loud, and Morton found himself repeatedly drifting into sleep. He pinched himself to stay awake and tried breathing deeply, but nothing seemed to work. As the class progressed he slid lower in his chair and began to feel as though somebody had tied lead weights to his eyelids.

The next thing he knew the whole class was laughing at him. His eyes fluttered open, and he found his face stuck to the oak desk in a puddle of drool. Mr. Brown was shaking his shoulder.

Morton sat up and wiped his face with his sleeve. Every eye in the classroom was on him.

“Really, young man, is my class that boring?”

“Yes, sir — I mean, no, sir, of course not.”

Everyone laughed again.

“You’re Morton Clay, the new boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Morton, I think you better stay behind after class so we can have a word. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” Morton said somberly.

When class was dismissed Morton waited until everyone else had left before sauntering up to Mr. Brown’s desk. Butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach. Mr. Brown pulled up a chair and asked him to sit. He turned his own chair around so that he was sitting on it backward and folded his arms on the back.

“Morton,” he said in a friendly tone, “I know you didn’t really fall asleep just because my class is boring, did you?”

Morton thought for a moment and had to admit that he didn’t fall asleep just because the class was boring, he fell asleep because he hadn’t slept all night and because the class was boring. He decided not to share this insight and simply said, “No, sir.”

“No, of course not. That much is obvious. You see, Morton, as you know, I’m not just the history teacher, I’m also the guidance counselor. You can come to me anytime you like with any problems you might be having at home or in school.”

“Any problems, sir?”

“Yes. And anything you say to me will be in the strictest confidence. Usually if a kid is falling asleep in class, then he’s not sleeping at night. And if he’s not sleeping, then we know there’s something not right, don’t we?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“So what’s wrong in Morton’s world?”

Morton’s head suddenly swarmed with images of Acid-Spitting Frogs, Toxic Vapor Worms, and Zombie Twins roaming the streets of Dimvale.

“It’s nothing really, sir, honest,” he said. “We just moved here, so I guess we haven’t settled in yet.”

“Still unpacking boxes, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about those strange cuts on your wrists?” Mr. Brown said, keeping his tone even.

Morton quickly pulled his sleeves down over his hands. He’d forgotten about the tooth marks from the giant cockroaches. “Oh, I was helping my dad clear the garden. It’s all overgrown with raspberry bushes. I should have worn gloves.”

“Really? That’s nice of you to help your dad. Do you like gardening?”

“I mow lawns to earn extra allowance.”

“That’s very impressive. We don’t get all that many entrepreneurial kids these days. Where is this new house of yours anyway?”

“It’s a big old house on Hemlock Hill. Victorian, I think. Needs a bit of work.”

Mr. Brown, who had been smiling sympathetically up to this point, frowned and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

“You don’t mean the old King house?”

Morton felt an odd jolt at the mention of the name.

“Uh, I think a blind man owned it before. I don’t know his name.”

Mr. Brown sat up straight and began to rub his chin. “Yes, that’s him, John King.”

Morton felt another jolt, only this time he realized why. The name was familiar to him. A wave of adrenaline raced through his veins and his fatigue vanished instantly. Surely it couldn’t be …

“Was there anything else, sir?” Morton prompted, suddenly eager to get home.

“No, I think we’re good,” Mr. Brown said, smiling. “We’ll just keep an eye on you, shall we?”

Morton didn’t like the idea of anyone keeping an eye on him — it made him feel like an insect in a jar, but he smiled and nodded.

“See you next class, bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

Morton ran quickly out of the classroom with an increased sense of foreboding. An idea was forming in his mind, and he didn’t like the shape of it at all.

He ran all the way home and was sweating fiercely by the time he burst into the kitchen. Without pausing even for a second he raced up to his room, grabbed a handful of Scare Scape comics, and took them down to the kitchen to scour through them.

Melissa walked in and saw him flipping pages rapidly.

“Morton! Aren’t you cured of those things? I mean honestly, give it a break!”

“I’m doing research,” Morton hissed.

“Research?”

“I knew there was something familiar about the Blind Man’s story,” Morton went on, feeling more anxious by the second. “I’d heard it before, and then when I found out his name was John King, it all made sense.”

“It all makes sense?” Melissa said incredulously.

“Well, no, but … just hold on!” Morton continued scanning through the comics furiously.

“What’s going on?” James said, appearing at the door beside Melissa and dropping his schoolbag to the floor.

“Morton, sibling of sin, is losing his marbles.”

Morton ignored Melissa and kept flicking through the comics. At last he found what he was looking for.

“It’s here! I was right. This is it.”

James and Melissa stared at him blankly. “Look,” he said, showing them the introduction to what appeared to be a special edition of Scare Scape. There was a fuzzy black-and-white picture of a grizzled old man with an immense mop of greasy gray hair. He was wearing dark, circular sunglasses, a dirty striped shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and an old black waistcoat. “Don’t you see? John King was the Blind Man.”

“John King?” Melissa said.

“Just listen,” he said, and read the entire editorial out loud.

*  *  *

“King of Scare”

The John King Commemorative Edition

Beast Meisters, Weirding Women, and fellow Scare Scapers the world over have mourned with us the loss of our greatest and grimmest King of Scare, the late John King. No doubt you, like our staff, cried tears of blood when you learned that the once great and gloomy artist and writer had died in a tragic accident on the grounds of his private creepy mansion in the isolated town of Dimvale.

We all remember King’s classic covers from issues 275 through to 347 as the glory days of Scare. Indeed, King’s ultra-realistic style and unforgiving depictions of gore and ghastliness are what made him the readers’ favorite cover artist. In fact, it was you, dear readers, who by sending letters flooding in like locusts in praise of his raw (and bloody) talent forced us to give King his own strip: King’s Disturbing Things.

The strip’s varied and harried tales of demonic deceit, pestilent plunder, and murderous madness was the raven feather in our creepy cap for six hideous years. Most famous for his tireless research into the lost dark arts, King brought an unwelcome touch of credibility to the horror fantasy realm.

Sadly, all bad things must come to an end, and, as you know, two years ago King lost his sight in an undiagnosed illness. Unable to work, King’s black heart was broken. Now, he has left us forever to join his fellow corpses in the underworld.

Please join us on a commiserative, commemorative trip down a memory-haunted lane as we present you with this humble and horrible special collector’s edition of some of King’s favorite, most fiendish works.

*  *  *

John, we salute your bones and dance reverently on your grave.

The King is dead. Long live the King.

The Editors and Staff. Scare Scape.

*  *  *

PS: Look out for more reruns of King’s top terror tales in our regular comic, starting next week.

*  *  *

As soon as Morton finished reading, Melissa snatched the comic from his grasp and squinted in disbelief at the fuzzy picture. At last she placed the comic on the counter. Her hands were trembling.

“Is this a coincidence?” she asked, the tremor in her hands spilling over into her voice.

“It can’t be,” James said. “It’s exactly what Wendy said. He was some kind of artist who went blind.”

“But what about the gargoyle?” Melissa said. “Did he have something to do with that?”

“Had to,” James said. “I mean, someone who devotes his whole life to writing about dark magic and monsters lived here, and then we find a magic gargoyle, and Morton’s monsters, monsters right out of this very comic, come to life…. It can’t be coincidence.”

“This is terrible,” Melissa said. “I mean, this King character was a sick man.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Morton protested. “He was really smart.”

“Oh, come on, Morton. Grow up!” Melissa snapped. “Tears of blood? Dancing on graves? What kind of a twisted kid are you? It’s sick. You’re sick!”

“Whoa! Calm down,” James said, stepping between Melissa and Morton. “Yelling is not going to get us out of this mess.”

“No, but it makes me feel better about being in it,” Melissa retorted.

“This is a good thing,” Morton said, feeling strangely exhilarated by the idea of not only living in King’s house but also somehow getting pulled into his life. “You heard what it said. King did lots of research. Everything he wrote or drew was based on something real. That’s why the house looked so familiar to me. King used it for inspiration. I’ve seen drawings of different parts of this house all over the comic.”

“How is that a good thing?” Melissa said.

“Because it means we might find some kind of clue in the comic about how to reverse the wishes.”

“I don’t know about that,” James said. “From what I remember none of the stories end happily.”

“That’s only because the people in the stories do the wrong thing,” Morton explained, eager to convince them.

“Yes, well, we’ve done the wrong thing,” Melissa said. “We’ve made selfish wishes, so we’re probably doomed.”

“But we can still look for clues. If King knew anything about the gargoyle, I’m sure he would have put something in one of his comics.”

“This isn’t one of your stupid stories, Morton,” Melissa said coldly. “This is real, and real life doesn’t have simple comic book solutions.”

Morton clenched his teeth angrily. “Do you have a better idea?”

After a moment’s tense silence James spoke up. “Morton has a point,” he said. “There might be some clues in there.”

“What? I will not read that vile garbage!” Melissa stated firmly.

“Nobody’s asking you to,” James said. “Morton and I will go through them. How many comics do you have, Morton?”

“Thousands, but only four hundred or so with King strips.”

“Four hundred!” James exclaimed.

Morton nodded. “And there are two King strips, Disturbing Things and Night Terrors. Night Terrors didn’t start until later, so I think it’s about seven hundred stories in total.”

James whistled. “That’s going to take longer than I thought. Bearing in mind we still have to do homework. Let’s see, if we each read three stories a night, that’s going to take …”

“Months,” Melissa said flatly. “If we up it to five stories a night each and I join in, we can do it in seven weeks.”

“You’re right,” James said, after a minute of counting fingers. “But I thought you weren’t going to go anywhere near Morton’s vile comic.”

Melissa pressed her lips together. “It looks like I don’t have a choice,” she said. “As always, having brothers is going to completely ruin my life.”