The Bulb People

By Brian Bakos

Why are people vanishing in the little town of Bridgestock? Only nasty types have disappeared so far, but that could change.

Ryan, a 13-year-old newcomer, must tackle this mystery, along with the issue of his “happy blended family” which he desperately wants to disappear as well. Maybe everything is interrelated, and one problem could help solve the other. Young Adult humor and light horror.

Book 2 of the Terror Orchard series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Bakos
• Release date: May 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301975464

Brian Bakos

I like to write and travel. I'm from the Detroit area originally and try to see other places as often as possible. My most recent travels have been to China, Ecuador, and Belize. Am thinking of my next destination. It's wonderful how travel inspires the writing process. Attended Michigan State University and Alma College.Not much more than that. Anything else I have to say comes out in my books. If you really want to know more, please contact me through my website, https://www.theb2.net/. May life bring you many blessings!

Book preview

Prelude: What Happened Before

If you haven’t read Billy Conner’s diary, Captive in Terror Orchard, here is some background information:

Four years earlier, Billy and Cyndy – along with Professor Jonathan Rackenfauz – outfought a terrible evil.

Morton Kasinski, a college student at the time, aided Billy and his friends. They did not tell Morton the whole story, however. Everyone just wanted to forget about it. But now they can’t forget because the evil is back.

Morton still lives in Bridgestock, but the other good people have left. Plenty of bad folks are around, though.

Some people are better off gone, don’t you think?

One: Trouble in Wonderland

1. Nightmare Grove

Icy dread gripped Mr. Thromp’s heart as he left his pickup truck.

Shafts of late afternoon sunlight jabbed through the clouds like death rays. Muggy heat strangled the air. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket for the whiskey flask, then stopped himself, glancing around. Somebody – or something – might be watching.

He walked to the yellow earth mover with its big scoop and climbed aboard. A coffin lid of stillness pressed down as he settled into the cab and shut the door. The bones in his neck cracked as he twisted his head, scanning the area. Behind him stood a half-completed mansion with skeleton timbers. Ahead lay a dead orchard, its trees bent like tormented ghosts.

A big man approached. Low sun glare turned him into a dark figure fringed by a halo of light. Thromp fumbled for the wrench hidden under the seat.

Hello, Jim, the dark figure called.

Thromp breathed a sigh of relief and returned his hand to the steering wheel. It was only Steve Cozzaglio, the construction supervisor.

Oh… hi, Boss. Thromp tried to sound calm. How’re things going?

Cozzaglio stepped from the shimmering heat and looked into the cab. His face was tight and his eyes carried a hard, disapproving look.

Not too bad, Jim. I didn’t think you’d make it today.

Something came up. I’m running a bit late.

Thromp almost blurted out, I’m running a bit drunk, which was the real reason he hadn’t arrived earlier.

You’ve got the whole place to yourself, Cozzaglio said. We’re packing up.

Uh huh.

Can’t say as I envy you, working here alone.

Thromp mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. It don’t bother me none, he lied.

The last of the building crew left the mansion, walking faster as they neared their cars, until they were almost running.

So long, Jim. Cozzaglio hurried off to join the retreat.

The whole area was deserted now, and the stifling cab suddenly felt cold as a tomb.

Drat this place, Thromp muttered. What am I doing here?

He already knew the answer. Some rich guy was building his country estate on this site, and Thromp had been hired for the wrecking crew. First, he’d helped demolish the original house. Now he had to tear out the old orchard to make room for the tennis court and pool.

Sure, he was grateful for the job, but something about this place frightened him – especially those big trees. A ghoulish presence seemed to hang over them, like the stench of a rotting elephant corpse.

He gripped the door handle. I oughtta go home!

But he was already too far behind schedule. And what was waiting for him at home… Leota?

Thromp shuddered and released the handle.

Mr. Warwick, the big boss, planned to build a subdivision near town, and Thromp wanted to work on that project, too. He had to prove himself as a reliable employee, though he’d been botching it lately.

So, with a final nervous glance about the grounds, he settled into the cab like a man trying to make himself comfortable on an electric chair.

He fired up the engine – Brooom! Brooom! and belched along with the roaring diesel.

Power vibrated through him, making him feel like part of the great machine. He fished the bottle from his pocket and brought it to his lips. Whiskey scorched his throat.

Ahhh, that’s better.

The alcohol eased his mind off his troubles – Mrs. Thromp, in particular. The thought of her made him take another swig.

He lurched the machine toward the grove. Its big tires gouged the earth; smoke vomited from its stack. Thromp lowered the shovel and took aim at a tree. The blade cut into the trunk and knocked the tree down with a loud Crack!

Yeee-hah!

Thromp took aim at a second tree. Crack! It went down hard.

The dried and rotted trees tumbled easily. Another one fell with a tremendous snap, as if some giant had broken the granddaddy of all pencils.

Take that!

Thromp forgot his earlier fear. In his god-like machine, fortified with whiskey, he was King of the Universe. A magic incense of diesel fumes wafted around him.

He invaded the heart of the orchard, driving toward a particularly large and menacing tree. It glowered at him angrily. The thing seemed to have a face. Thromp blinked and ran a hand over his eyes.

Naw… it can’t be.

If his judgment had ben less clouded with booze, he might have paused to think matters over, but his blood was up. He hunkered down with Kamikaze pilot determination and aimed for the great brute of a tree.

Thunk!

A violent jolt flung him against the steering wheel and back into the seat. Pain exploded through his alcohol numbness. The tree groaned backwards, partially uprooted.

Why you lousy – !

Anger pushed aside Thromp’s pain. He wrenched the gears and backed up. Beep! Beep! sounded the caution signal, but no human was around to hear.

He stopped and shifted into forward. His machine growled, a massive beast preparing to charge. Dead ahead, the tree leaned crazily. A tangle of broken roots jabbed into the air, beckoning him.

Thromp ground forward, positioned the shovel under the roots, and gunned the engine hard. A cracking-sucking noise filled the air as the tree collapsed.

Gotcha! Thromp bellowed, half mad with rage and triumph.

A hole gaped by the fallen tree. A rotten stench rose from it, gagging Thromp. The machine began sinking into the abyss.

Hey!

Thromp wrestled the gears into reverse and tried to back out. More ground crumbled away. Panic slammed his chest as he battled to keep the machine from flipping over. Tires flung globs of muck. The diesel howled, drowning out Thromp’s shrieks.

The tires bit into solid ground. With a final desperate effort, the machine pulled out of its grave and hurtled backwards, crashing into another tree. Thromp bounced around the cab.

The engine died, leaving him stunned and battered in the eerie silence. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and was dismayed to see blood.

You really screwed this one up, Jim.

Was the back of the machine damaged from crashing into the tree? Thromp prepared to leave the cab and check.

Then . . .

Something slithered from the gaping hole in front of him. It was long, flat, and greenish brown – like a piece of kelp.

It’s the booze. Thromp licked sandpaper lips. I’m see’n things again.

Another green, ropy tendril flopped out of the pit with a disgusting thud! Thromp sat frozen, eyes bulging and hands clamped on the steering wheel. The two snaky things felt around, vibrating, testing the earth.

A pointy head, sporting wiry hair, poked up from the hole. A huge pair of eyes slowly emerged, yellow and glowing with pure evil.

Thromp tried to scream, but nothing exited his gaping mouth. He wrenched open the door and fell out of the cab. He scrambled up and began to run, fell again. A horrid rustling noise followed him, snaking along the ground.

He dared not look back. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his flight.

Somehow he made it out of the orchard and lumbered across the open field toward his truck. It seemed impossibly far away. The more he struggled, the slower he moved. Gurgling, rasping, thumping noises pursued him – coming ever closer.

He was at the truck, and his scream finally erupted. Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

Thromp leaped through the open window. His head banged the steering wheel, but he scarcely noticed the pain. Thank heaven, the key was in the ignition. Thromp nearly snapped it off in his haste. The engine rumbled into life.

Something was snaking in the passenger window. Thromp wrenched the truck into gear and stomped the gas. Roaring off toward Bridgestock, screaming all the way.

2. The Psychotic Ice Cream Man

Ryan’s story

I hate this rotten town – and almost everybody in it, too!

I kick a stone hard. It clatters down the sidewalk angry and alone, just like me. I’m in an outstandingly foul mood.

More than that, I am sick of being in a foul mood. I’ve been in one ever since we moved here. Me, Ryan Keppen, the kid everybody used to say was so upbeat and sociable. The boy who had lots of friends and interests, a guy who the girls were beginning to notice.

Now I’m trapped in Bridgestock – the only town of any size in this whole lousy county – also known as the Kidney Bean Capital of the state. Well, this place sure gives me a pain in the kidney. My four and a half months here have been the worst of my whole life.

Hang on, Ryan,