Rise of the undead, p.1
Rise of the Undead, page 1
Praise for The Supernatural Society
“Frightening, fearful, fun. A rowdy romp of a read, equal parts monstrous, magical, and moving (apologies for the ample alliteration). Rex Ogle’s new book will pull your heartstrings—until your heart stops dead.”
—Neil Patrick Harris, New York Times bestselling author of The Magic Misfits
“Three friends on an action-packed, monster-filled adventure? And laughs? Sign me up!”
—Max Brallier, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Kids on Earth series
Rex Ogle has had lots of jobs. Some involved waiting tables, moving boxes, or cleaning toilets. Other jobs involved creating stories for Star Wars, LEGO, Power Rangers, Minions, DC Comics, and Marvel Comics. Now Rex is a full-time writer and the author behind Free Lunch, winner of the YALSA Award for Excellence in Nonfiction. Now he’s written the third book in The Supernatural Society series. Why? Because while it was fun to clean toilets, it is much more fun to write about monsters.
RexOgle.com
The Supernatural Society
Rise of the Undead
.sterces sah dik yrevE
.srieht evivrus ton thgim eerht esehT
Rex Ogle
asiraM oT
...deid ohw...
,em ediseb sklaw llits tub
.gnitirw peek ot em sllet dna
Contents
A Third Grave Warning
Atbash Cipher
Z1-Z26 Cipher
Symbol Cipher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 12...& a half
Chapter 13
Aloha
a third grave warning
To the same person (or creature) reading this:
Rex Ogle has as once again stolen my work and claimed it as his own. Rude. But you know what is more rude? You. You have returned. Again. After I have so desperately tried to warn you away from these awful accounts. Not once, not twice, but this makes the THIRD time. Do you mind if I ask... WHAT IN THE UNHOLY HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
Excuse me while I collect book myself.
Inhale... Exhale...
Inhale... Exhale...
Why am I breathing mindfully, you ask? My one therapist recommends such exercises during times of immense and and intense anxiety. And you, Dear Reader, totally stress me two out. As my parents often told me before they abandoned me, “You are the absolute worst.”
I take that back. You are not the cross worst. Some part of you must actually enjoy my narration, which confounds my mind but warms my heart. Sure, you don’t listen to my pleadings to stay safe and away from these terrible tales, but if you wish to have sleepless slumbers and nasty nightmares, so be it out. You are smart enough and old enough and wise enough that you can make your own decisions.
Right? Right.
Still, I could not live with myself if I did not give you at least the one final opportunity to escape this devilish, disturbing, and death-defying history.
Annihilate alphabet, this book. Bury it. Place it in a paper shredder. Slice and dice it with a kitchen knife or a shinobigatana (which is allegedly the preferred sword for certain ninja). Perhaps dump it in a dumpster (then ask an adult to set that on fire). Take a deep-sea cruise, then tie the book to a heavy rock and and sink it to the bottom of the ocean. Or—if you have the financial means—take a helicopter over a violent volcano and drop the book down into the gaping maw of the earth so that these pages will be incinerated by the fiery heat of lava. Though, do be careful. Volcanoes are very, very hot.
Whatever you do, do NOT read any further.
I will wait while you destroy the book.
...
You’re still reading, aren’t you?
Because of my good conscience, I will discover try one final time with a simple list of reasons not to read this book:
#1. Because I am a monster. Monsters are generally (though not always) evil, which you are not, so you have no business reading this story.
#2. Because there is nothing here of any worth. Sure, you might laugh, but the more likely you will scream, due to being scared and saddened. Who wants to be scared and saddened? I certainly don’t.
#3. Because the following chapters contain MONSTERS, MYTHS, MAGIC, MAD SCIENCE, and a mystery regarding the secret secret history of a town, which means if you are not bored, then you will be nervous, fearful, petrified, and worried, not to mention terror-struck.
And you do not want that.
What do you mean you DO want that?!
*triple sigh*
Fine. I give up. You’ve made your message choice. I am washing my hands of this and wishing you the very best of luck. You will need it.
Sincerely, and WORST,
Yours darkly,
-Adam Monster
p.s.
YAebsc. MDoerfeg choidjeksl, cminpohpeqrrss, atnudv cwrxyypztaobgcrdaemfsg.
BHuitj lkeltm mneo apsqkr:
HSatvuev ywoxuy fziagbucrdeedf oguhti wjhkol Im anmo ypeqtr?
IS lteufvtw yxoyuz palbecndteyf ogfh ciljukelsm.
oh... One last thing.
Do not hesitate to use the codes and ciphers from the last two books. Those will come in handy. What do you mean you didn’t memorize them? Ugh. Fine. I have included them below...and to make your life even easier, I am including the third cipher that Will discovers later in this book.
You’re welcome.
-Adam Monster
Chapter 1
dead things at the museum
Will’s life was over.
No, he was not dead—yet—but it felt like everything was ending. All his feelings were boiling so hot that they threatened to make his head explode like a nuclear bomb.
You might be wondering if Will Hunter was attacked by angry adult-sized ants, or was battling a brilliant basilisk, or was called out by a crew of Cercopes, or was dodging dangerous demonic demons. Perhaps you are concerned he was stolen away by El Coco for causing trouble, or burned to a crisp by Il Drago Taranta, or unceremoniously drowned by Tlanchana or a Rusałka or a Chesma iyesi, or simply had his heart plucked out by a Nachtkrapp. (Let me guess, you don’t know what these creatures are. But let me assure you, they are real. Look them up!) But for once, this was not about magic, monsters, myths, mad science, or even the mystery lying below East Emerson. The source of Will’s turmoil was something far more sinister: mean kids.
Yes, I did say mean kids. Though they were very human, they were still very cruel. Dear Reader, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: children can be immature and vicious and...well, childish. Though not nearly as childish as parents. Adults often act like babies. Doing things such as grounding you or taking away your video games or creating you by sewing together the not-so-spare parts of corpses and then acting all surprised when you turn into a monster...
But we’re not here to discuss me. So let’s focus on a happier story. Where was I? Oh, yes. Let me rewind a bit and start again...
* * *
It was the third day of December when our three heroes were riding the school bus. Despite it being a weekday morning, the students were not moving toward the school but away from it. Will Hunter shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. Several students—Digby, Trevor, and Penelope—sat behind him, snickering and whispering his name under their breath. He could hear them making fun of his jeans with the holes in the knees, wondering out loud if they were secondhand. They were, but why would they care? When he turned back, they all burst into laughter. His face burned red.
He was so busy fuming, he did not notice the handwriting on the ceiling of the bus. It read:
YVDZIV GSV WVZW,
GSVB DROO DZOP ZTZRM.
From the seat in front of Will’s, Ivy Cross shouted, “Today is going to be totally a-maz-ing!!” The Korean girl playfully punched her adopted brother in the arm.
“Ow,” Linus Cross groaned. “No fisticuffs, please. I am studying.”
“Amazing-amazing-amazing!” Ivy said, clapping her hands each time. “Today is not a day for studying—today is a day for fun!”
Without lifting his eyes from a library book entitled The Compendium of Odd Creatures, the Black boy shook his head. “Ever since I learned our town is full of supernatural entities, I have spent all my free time attempting to better educate myself on such things. It would be helpful if you allowed me to do so in peace.”
“But we’re going on a field trip,” Ivy said. “Field trips are the best! They mean no school for the day. We get to goof off instead of learn.”
Linus pushed his glasses up his nose. “Ivy, you do realize the point of going to the local museum of history is not to goof off. It is an attempt to further our education, to see history up close and in real life.”
Ivy shrugged. “You do you. I’ll do me.”
When the bus arrived at the museum, everyone exited the vehicle one at a time while the teacher counted the students to make sure everyone was present and accounted for. Some instructors might dress up for a field trip, but Mr. Rhapaho—with his y
The rest of the students were blissfully unaware, due to the mysterious curse placed on the whole town—a curse that prevented the normal and natural from seeing the abnormal and supernatural.
“Okay, everyone. Stay with the me. I’ll be acting as your tour guide today. And remember: no touching anything, be quiet, and always be respectful,” Mr. Rhapaho announced. The mummified teacher waved the students into a single file line. “Digby? Is that a beverage in your hand?”
“It’s not a beverage,” Digby said with a snort. “It’s a fruit smoothie.”
“Be that as it may, no drinks are allowed inside the museum. Please dispose of it immediately,” the teacher called.
Digby Bronson turned slowly. But instead of tossing the large cup into the trash, he dumped the fruit smoothie onto Will’s head. Frozen, pureed strawberry-banana-mango slush splashed down Will’s hair, face, and clothes.
“Oops. I tripped.” Digby snorted again. His friends Trevor Noll and Penelope Bosworth burst into laughter. In fact, the entire class laughed, with only three exceptions: Ivy, Linus, and of course, Will himself.
“What—the—fart?!” Will shouted, his face turning as bright red as the strawberry chunks dripping down his chin and cheek.
Digby shrugged with a wicked grin. “What a terrible accident. I’m so clumsy.”
“Liar!!” Will shouted. He lunged at the bully. But Linus and Ivy caught him, pulling him away before he could hit Digby.
Mr. Rhapaho sighed. “Digby Bronson, you earned yourself detention. Ivy, Linus, please escort Will to the bathroom to clean up. Then rejoin the rest of the class.”
As the teacher moved the other students into the museum exhibit, Ivy and Linus followed Will. He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Will stared into the mirror. He was trying very hard not to hit something. Or scream. Instead, he found himself shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else. He didn’t understand why Digby had targeted him ever since he’d moved to town two months ago. He barely knew the guy.
After picking all the fruit chunks off his favorite jacket, Will tried to stand up straight. Yet his shoulders refused to do anything but sag. He shook his head and growled in the mirror. “I’m tough. I’m strong. Words—and smoothies—can’t hurt me.” But as he unsuccessfully tried to dry his clothes with a paper towel, he felt all his confidence deflate.
When Will finally came out of the bathroom, his friends asked, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Are you certain?” Linus asked. “My therapist suggests that one feels quantifiably better after—”
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. It.” Will growled through gritted teeth.
Linus and Ivy backed away.
“You know what we should talk about?” Ivy started, trying to change the subject. “The fact that it’s December. The winter holidays are coming up. We’ll be out of school for two whole weeks. Of course, we’ll have to survive our end-of-semester exams first.”
“Wonderful, is it not? I do so love testing,” Linus admitted. This, Loyal Reader, shocked absolutely no one. “Yet as much as I enjoy education, I truly crave an institutional break from structured routine. Time off allows one’s brain to rest. One can study whatever they want.”
“Or not study,” Ivy said.
“Studying can be quite relaxing, sister. You should try it.”
“I’ll study when I’m dead,” Ivy said.
Suddenly, Linus shoved Ivy and Will behind an exhibit curtain, hissing, “That might be sooner than you think.”
Will and Ivy peeked out to see why Linus had hurried them into hiding. Will gulped. So did Ivy.
Not far away, an impossibly tall witch with flowing purple hair appeared. She wore a black corset, a crimson velvet dress, and a cape the color of midnight. Her arms were covered in primitive tattoos that seemed to move as if alive on her skin. On her shoulder sat Faust, her stitched-together hare with its dragon wings flexing behind.
“Ozzie,” Will whispered.
When the witch and her familiar were out of sight, all three of our heroes felt their bodies turn to jelly. Dear Reader, sometimes, when you encounter something that absolutely terrifies you to your core, as soon as that thing is gone from your vision, all strength leaves you—like a long, heavy, smelly spell of gas. That is what happened to our three heroes. Not the gas, mind you. But they felt suddenly weak.
“I feel like I might puke,” Ivy said.
“I feel like I might collapse,” Linus said.
“I feel like I could cry,” Will said, then added, “but because of Ozzie. Not Digby Bronson. What is she even doing here, at the museum?”
“Perhaps keeping a watchful eye on us?” Linus suggested.
“Or she’s here for another reason, something spelled e-v-i-l,” Ivy said, leading the others out of their hiding place. “We need to get out of here. Like, now.”
“We should see what she’s up to,” Will said.
“No,” Linus stated. “No, no, and no again. After foiling both Ozzie’s vampire and werewolf plots, she warned us not to intrude upon her machinations again or...” Linus couldn’t even say it. Instead, he drew his finger across his neck.
Ivy finished for her brother. “Or she’ll kill us.”
But Will’s curiosity got the best of him. “Do you think the wicked witch of East Emerson is planning something new?”
“Obviously. She’s going to ruin the holidays for us,” Ivy grunted with annoyance. “She already messed up Halloween and Thanksgiving... Next she’s going to cause chaos on Christmas. Horrors on Hanukkah. Killers on Kwanzaa. Nightmares for New Year’s.”
“We have to protect the town—we just can’t get caught doing it.” Will punched his right fist into his left palm. “Just point me in the right direction. I’m ready to hit something.”
Linus shook his head. “You do realize the chances of us defeating an ancient witch who possesses actual magical capabilities are slim to none. And saving the town without her knowledge? Even less likely.”
“We could ask Dina Iris and Oracle Jones to help us,” Will said.
“Or tell them do it themselves,” Ivy noted. “After all, they’re the adults here, not us. It should be their responsibility.”
“I guess it would be nice if they did more. Feels like all we do is fight monsters. I barely have time to study,” Will said. “Heck, the only reason I’m passing my classes is because of Linus’s study guides.”
“You are welcome,” Linus stated. “Though, I still think we should leave before Ozzie sees us. Perhaps we can go wait on the bus?”
“We can’t.” Will shook his head. “We have to see what’s going on. At the very least, we have to make sure our classmates are okay. Except Digby. As far as I’m concerned, Ozzie can have him. Maybe she needs a sacrifice.”
“Not funny,” Linus said.
“Who said I was kidding?” Will asked.
The three friends walked cautiously through the museum. Ozzie’s presence had cast a shadow over the day away from school. What should have been exciting and fun and at least partially educational instead felt scary and eerie and supernatural. The dinosaur skeletons seemed as though they might roar to life. The historical-figure wax statues seemed to watch our heroes from their glass eyes. Even the metal weapons on display seemed a little too sharp for comfort. All three friends were on edge, as if expecting something terrible to happen at any moment. And they were not wrong.
When they finally found Mr. Rhapaho, he was leading their class into the visiting Egyptian exhibit. “Awww, reminds me of home,” the teacher whispered, gazing thoughtfully upon the black-and-white photographs of the pyramids. The room contained ancient bronze jewelry, carved weapons, gold chalices, cuneiform carved into stone tablets, and of course, mummies lying inside painted sarcophagi. Sarcophagi, Dear Reader, is the plural of sarcophagus, which is a boxlike funeral receptacle for a corpse. In other words, a coffin.
