Zombie Mommy by M.T. Anderson

Author:M.T. Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beach Lane Books

“You know, Mr. Tubley,” said Jasper, “I would be awfully interested to know when this ghost vanished.”

There was a sound in the lobby. The doors to the theater slammed open.

Horace G. Tubley just had time to say, “She vanished a couple of days ago,” before there was a hideous howling.

The dead had arrived for their evening matinee.

17

The dead came shambling in a horde. They stank like decay. The stench was sweet—sickly sweet—which somehow was worse than just being moldy. They filled the aisles. They did not seem to see one another. In their eyes was a look of hunger and desperation. The vampires’ chins glistened with drool. Their footfalls were heavy on the carpet. They did not remember how to carry their own weight well. Ghosts wafted above them.

The gruesome tide filled the room.

Katie, Lily, and Jasper backed toward the stage. The dead groaned and pointed.

“What are we going to do?” Katie gasped.

“Sit tight, chums,” said Jasper. “If worse comes to worst, we do have the prototype of the Astounding High-Pressure Holy Water Extruder Gun.” He cradled it in his arms and looked sharp.

“Don’t make them mad,” said Lily. “They don’t have any reason to kill us. They just want a show.”

“Or to take control of your mind,” said Horace G. Tubley, who was now standing right next to them. “The ghosts can take over your mind, if they touch you too long. They like to do that. Then they can have a body again.” He looked down at his own body. “None of them have tried to take over my body,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. “I have a fungus on my feet. I have to wear ziplock baggies as socks.”

The dead did not stop at their assigned seats, if they had ever been issued assigned seats. They kept on moving forward toward the living. They surrounded the three kids. A roomful of pale, purpling, rotting faces. Swirls of ghost-smoke. Scratchy bat wings. Wide, awful eyes. All clustered around Lily, Katie, and Jasper. Staring. Peering.

Katie clambered backward up onto the stage and dragged Lily up behind her. Jasper leaped up and landed in a crouch, the squirt gun at the ready.

The moaning and rasping of the dead was overpowering now, as was their stench.

“Let’s run for the back door,” said Jasper.

“I would not run,” said Horace G. Tubley, crossing his arms. “They would not like it if you tried to get away. That would not be comical nor droll, unless while you were running, you were to slip upon a peel or rind. The dead people would be very angry.”

Jasper asked (somewhat testily), “So what do you suggest?”

Horace looked at the crowd. “You had better,” he said, “put on a show.”

* * *

“So,” said Madigan Westlake-Duvet. “Your dress. Made by?”

Drgnan Pghlik explained, “It is not a dress. It is called a ‘habit.’”

“And it’s made by?”

“Seven old men singing hymns through the night.”

Madigan thought about this. “Toothless?”

“They have eight or nine teeth, between them.”

“So when you say old men, you don’t mean old Italian designers with manes of white hair and ultrawide lapels.

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