There's a Spaceship in My Tree! Read online

  ZONDERKIDZ

  There’s a Spaceship in My Tree!

  Copyright © 2008 by Robert West

  Illustrations © 2008 by C.B. Canga

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN: 0-310-86434-8

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zonderkidz, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Applied for

  ISBN 978-0-310-71425-5

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations unless otherwise noted are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmied in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd.,

  10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130.

  Zonderkidz is a trademark of Zondervan.

  Editor: Barbara Scott

  cover design: Merit Alderink

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  08 09 10 11 12 5 4 3 2 1

  For my dad, Earl West, whose life of integrity, faith, scholarship,

  and quiet strength is a challenging example to follow.

  -RW

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. Alien

  2. Mutants in the Attic

  3. Things that Go Blink in the Night

  4. Planet Murphy Street

  5. Goons, Geeks, and Other Life Forms

  6. Spaceships Don’t Grow on Trees

  7. Life in the Toilet

  8. The Haunting of Murphy Street

  9. Double, Double, Toil, and Trouble

  10. Reluctant Ghostbusters

  11. Crash Landing

  12. Meteor

  13. The Return of the Star-Fighters

  14. Achilles’ Heel

  15. Freak Storm

  16. Castle Quest and No Pants

  17. Legend

  18. War Games

  19. Invasion!

  20. Nightmare on Murphy Street

  21. The Finger of God

  About The Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  1

  Alien

  Beamer was an alien. He wasn’t a ten-legged slime bag with fourteen eyes, unless, of course, you believed his big sister. Still, Beamer was an alien — no question about it. He didn’t belong here. He couldn’t even breathe here.

  His mom said it was just the humidity. Sure! Methane was more like it! When they found his shriveled, oxygen-deprived body, they’d be sorry.

  Now he’d been sent to some place called a cellar — clearly an alien environment. Nobody in California had a cellar.

  Beyond the small pool of murky light at the foot of the steps, a heavy gloom spread out across the room like a fog bank. He stepped down from the last creaking step. “Hey!” he yelped, recoiling back up the step. “What is this stuff?”

  He kneeled down to test the floor with his fingers. Weird, man . . . spongy, like maybe it wasn’t a floor at all but something alive, like a tongue for something with a digestive system!

  Dust was what it really was — several years’ buildup. Beamer stepped down again hesitantly, sending a puff of it into the air. The wind outside picked up, rattling the high, grime-coated windows. The structure above him creaked and groaned like a cranky old woman.

  Then something scritched and scratched. He turned . . . and froze!

  It was huge, with tentacles attached to a disgustingly bloated body. Not a second too soon, Beamer dived to the floor to avoid a twisted tentacle reaching over his head.

  Now, point-blank in front of him, was a large bin of shiny, black rocks — no doubt the shrunken, dehydrated remains of creatures the beast had already devoured.

  Beamer scooted back frantically on all fours. At the same moment, a high whining sound came from behind. He lurched to his feet and whirled around, bumping into a cart, which sped rapidly away. Suddenly he was pelted in the face by a strangely filmy object. A moment later he was wrestling with an entire barrage of filmy, flimsy, smelly things.

  Aiiii! Germ warfare! his mind screamed.

  There was a screech. “Yiiiii!” Beamer yelped, as a small creature flashed by. It leapt to a table and fled through a break in a window.

  Beamer shot up the steps like a missile and blew through a door into a short hallway. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against the opposite wall, breathing heavily.

  “Mother!” A shrill voice from upstairs brought him spinning around in panic. “Did you know they’ve got a vacuum laundry chute up here?” The voice continued. “Shoots clothes down to the basement like spit wads!”

  Beamer’s mother stood in the entryway wearing tattered, cut-off overalls and a tool belt. “Well, at least something works around here. Beamer!” she exclaimed in amazement, “What are you wearing on your ear?”

  “Huh?” Beamer removed a pair of girl’s underwear from his left ear — Vacuum laundry chute? Whoever heard of a vacuum laundry chute? — and threw them down disgustedly.

  “Hey, Mom!” the shrill voice called again. “I can’t find my pink Nikes.” It was Beamer’s big sister, Erin. At fourteen going on fifteen, she was God’s self-proclaimed gift to the ninth grade. Of course, that was back in Katunga Beach. Middleton was a whole new ball game.

  That’s what this alien world was called — Middleton — a middle-sized city in a middle-sized state, smack dab in the middle of Middle America — a thousand miles from the nearest beach!

  Only a week ago, Beamer was hanging out in a cool, high-rolling suburb of L.A. on the cutting edge of the early teen set. Now he was carting boxes around a broken-down house in a prehistoric neighborhood on an ancient street probably named for somebody’s dog. Murphy Street. It certainly wasn’t Shadow Beach Lane.

  Beamer scrunched up his nose. The house even smelled old — as in fossilized. The discovery of an electrical outlet had been a great relief. He wasn’t sure Xbox came in a windup version.

  He banged through the screen door onto the front porch and picked up another carton. His mother was standing there, holding a scraggly plant in a pig-shaped pot.

  The lady realtor who had given it to her was bustling toward her car, her mouth on auto-speak. “If you run into anything unusual,” she called, “don’t panic. I’m sure it’s not dangerous. The previous residents were . . . uh . . . different — scientists or rock singers or something — but harmless. Anyway, just call if you have a question.”

  “I will,” Beamer’s mother responded absently, still looking in bewilderment at the ugly pot.

  Beamer looked at the ramshackle porch swing and the peeling paint around the windows. Rock singers in this dive? Who did she think she was kidding? Then again, that same lady had managed to sell this overgrown pile of bricks to his otherwise genetically superior paren
ts.

  Beamer MacIntyre shifted the box in his arms, pried open the screen door with his pinkie, and spun through into the house. The antique door immediately fell off its hinges. Mrs. MacIntyre, or Dr. Mac, as her kiddie patients called her, groaned and pulled a screwdriver from her tool belt.

  Beamer trudged slowly up the staircase with his load. “Move, you dunderhead,” his sister growled as she pounded down past him like an avalanche. “Mother, isn’t this place air-conditioned? I’m about to die!”

  “It’s the humidity, honey,” her mother answered. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Mo-o-o-o-ommm!” Erin wailed, charging into the crate-littered living room. “D’you mean there’s no air-conditioning?!”

  “No, I mean you’ll get used to the humidity,” Dr. Mac replied. “Air-conditioning is being installed — one for upstairs and one for downstairs. Your father is out arranging things now. Last I heard the downstairs one will be working tomorrow.”

  “What about the upstairs one?” Erin asked with a shrill note of panic.

  “Uhm . . . not for a couple of weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “Weeks!!! So I’m supposed to wake up every morning with my hair dripping? That does it; I can’t start school — not ’til the air conditioner’s working.”

  “Calm down, honey,” her mother said. “Your hair always looks just fine. I’m more concerned about whether that oversized octopus of a coal-burning, water-heating furnace in the basement will keep us warm in winter.”

  Octopus? Furnace?! Beamer cast a glance down at the basement door, his cheeks picking up a definite reddish glow. Oh great! So I had a battle with a furnace! What were those little black things then? At least nobody saw me . . . I hope.

  “Now go finish unpacking. I’m sure your shoes will show up,” Dr. Mac said, turning her daughter around and pointing her back up the steps. “Go on.”

  Erin groaned and lumbered up the staircase, then accelerated past Beamer to the top. She triumphantly stuck her tongue out at him and yanked open a door.

  Beamer finally reached the second floor. Straight ahead was a wide but short hallway with two doors on the left and one on the right that opened into bedrooms. Immediately to the right of the staircase was a short, narrow hallway that led to the upstairs bathroom and a spare bedroom beyond. He kicked open the door to his room — the second one on the left — and promptly tripped over something in the doorway. “Oomph!” he gasped as he and the box’s contents simultaneously thudded to the floor.

  Groaning, he propped himself up to see the spilled items strewn, like a comet’s tail, across the floor toward the tall, twin front windows. Through a window he noticed clouds gathering above the rooftops. Back in L.A. we had rain programmed down to just one season a year. Here I am, two time zones and half a continent away from home. “Marooned in Middle America,” he moaned out loud. “I’d rather be on Mars.”

  Suddenly a blood-curdling scream shook the windows. It sounded like his big sister was in trouble, which meant it also sounded like fun. He charged into the hallway and saw a door that he hadn’t noticed before that was nestled in that narrow hall next to the main staircase. The door was now open, revealing a narrow set of steps going up. He careened up the stairs and saw Erin standing off to the side, frozen in place, eyes glazed over like she’d been zapped with a stun gun.

  “Hey, Erin, what’s the matter?” he taunted her. “See an itsy-bitsy — ” Then he saw it. “Awesome!” he gasped.

  Their nine-year-old brother, Michael, clattered up the stairs on his hands and feet like a cocker spaniel, followed by their mom, who was tightly gripping a vicious-looking broom. They too caught Erin’s freeze-dried expression and tracked along her sight line.

  2

  Mutants in the Attic

  It was a spiderweb roughly the size of Texas. One thing was for sure, whatever bloodsucker spun that thing must have had a toxic waste dump for an incubator. Soaring from floor to the apex of the roof, it spread across the attic like a see-through wall.

  “Mo-o-o-o-ommm,” whimpered Erin, her voice trembling. “I . . . can’t . . . mooooove.”

  “Don’t worry, honey, I’m right here,” her mother said, unconsciously backing toward the stairway. “Just step back slowly.”

  Erin hesitantly slid one foot back.

  “I’ll get my Power Blaster 150,” Michael announced, and scampered down the stairs.

  “I saw this strange shadow across the ceiling, so I came up to see what it was. Then I turned around,” Erin said, pointing at the web.

  “Lady! Where do you want the piano?” a gravelly voice interrupted from downstairs.

  With a wary glance at the spider metropolis, Dr. Mac hurried down the steps. “Come on, kids, we’ve got a lot to do before Dad gets home.”

  “But what about the web?” Beamer asked.

  Their mother stopped halfway down. “Uh . . . tear it down, I suppose.”

  As their mother disappeared below, Erin gave Beamer a no-way! glance, silently mouthing the words, “Tear it down?”

  “Yeah . . . right.” Beamer said, looking anxiously at the web looming above them. “That dude falls on you, and you’ll spend forty years getting unwrapped.”

  At that moment, a sunbeam broke free of a cloud and flooded the tall windows like a waterfall, lighting up that wispy silk curtain like a giant sunburst.

  “Hey, look!” he exclaimed, suddenly noticing two long, dust-covered tables on the far side of the web. Scattered across them were broken and discarded test tubes and chemical beakers and a stack of electric cables. Remembering what the realtor had said about scientists, Beamer said in a hushed voice, “What if it’s a mutant spider created by some evil genius who used to live here?”

  “Aw, get off it,” Erin drawled nervously, already backpedaling toward the stairs, her eyes fearfully searching the dark corners of the attic. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s leave it to Dad.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Beamer said, relieved. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The web quivered and the test tubes rattled as the kids plummeted down the steps.

  * * * * *

  By dinnertime the Tale of the Web had grown into an epic story of courage and adventure. According to Beamer, he had narrowly saved his sister from having her life juices sucked out. Erin, of course, hotly disputed this account.

  For his part, their dad, otherwise known as Mr. Mac, looked a little green when he came down from his first look at the web. Several phone calls later, he had arranged for a bug scientist — an entomologist, that is — from the university to come out and have a look. In the meantime, the attic was quarantined — off-limits.

  The MacIntyres celebrated their first day in the new house with a candlelight dinner. Actually, celebrate was too strong a word. For one thing, they ate at tables that were packing boxes — a different size for each person in the family, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

  For another thing — and the real reason for the candlelight — there were no light switches. In fact, none of the electrical appliances worked, which wasn’t surprising since they had no on/off switches. At first they thought it was the electricity, but then Dr. Mac plugged her drill into an outlet and it worked just fine

  “They can’t do anything right in this town!” Beamer complained. “Nothing works, the air’s thick enough to choke on, and everything’s old and falling apart.”

  “I bet there’s not a decent mall within twenty miles,” Erin chimed in.

  “There’s a great park a block over!” Michael said. This note of cheer stopped everyone cold. Beamer and Erin looked at him like he had just dropped off the Big Dipper.

  “Well, it’s true. One block that-a-way,” he pointed. “It’s even got a zoo!”

  “Right, squid head,” Beamer snapped at him. “And Disneyland is in the backyard.”

  “Nobody ever listens to me,” Michael muttered to himself as he reached for an abandoned taco on Erin’s plate.

  “I wish we hadn’t come here!
” Beamer said, banging his hand on the box.

  “Me too,” Erin joined in. “How am I going to make cheerleader here in front of dorks who don’t even talk right. It’s y’all this and y’all that,” she said, mimicking the local speech, “and wee-uull sumbody pulease tunn the laats ahwn!”

  Blink! The chandelier suddenly lit up like Christmas!

  “Who did that?” Erin exclaimed as she whirled around.

  3

  Things that Go Blink in the Night

  Mr. Mac disappeared through the kitchen door and reappeared, moments later, through the hallway portal. He eyed the chandelier thoughtfully. “Hmmm . . . Erin, would you say that again, only with the word off instead of on?”

  “Uh . . . what? D’you mean . . . uh, lights off!” she said with a puzzled look. Nothing happened.

  “Ho! This is very interesting.” he mused. “Erin, try it again, saying it the same way you did the first time — with the accent.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . sure,” she stammered, searching for the words. “Let’s see . . . uh . . . laats . . . uh . . . awf. Laats awf!” she said louder.

  Immediately the lights went off.

  “Hey!” Erin giggled. “Laats ahwn!” They came on again.

  “The realtor said the previous owners were . . . unusual,” Dr. Mac commented as she stood up, “but a house you talk to?”

  “And with an accent, at that,” Mr. Mac laughed.

  “Laats awf!” Michael yelled. Dutifully the chandelier went dark.

  “Laats ahwn!” Beamer joined the game. They came back on.

  “Laats aw — ” Erin started.

  “Hey! Hey!” their dad interrupted. “Let’s hold up on the light show before we either talk the thing to death or go blind.”

  “See,” Beamer’s mom said, tossing her usual sunny-side-up attitude into the dispute, “everything’s not so bad.”

  No one can ever have a decent fight in this household, thought Beamer.

  “There’ll be lots of new, fun things happening here,” his mom continued.