Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh's Tomb II Read online

  Contents

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 1: “Remembering”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 2: “The Time Machine”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 3: “Acorn Stew”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 4: “Pharaoh Beware-oh!”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 4: “A Mysterious Feline”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 5: “Inside The Palace”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 6: “The Cursed Cartouche”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 7: “A Surprise Visitor from The Past (Or Future, Depending on How You Look At It)”

  Chapter 8: “The Evil Curse!”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Chapter 9: “Going Home”

  Howie’s Writing Journal

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb II

  Afterword

  ‘Bud Barkin, Private Eye’ Excerpt

  About James Howe

  With thanks to Ginee Seo,

  who is smart and funny (not to mention as sensitive as a finely tuned concert piano)

  —J. H.

  For Mary Jane

  —B. H.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  I’m never going to write again!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Uncle Harold, who is this really smart dog I live with who’s written all these books about our rabbit, Bunnicula, who our cat, Chester (who is also really smart), says is a vampire because . . .

  I forgot what I was trying to say.

  Proof! I can’t write! I’m never going to write again!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Oh, now I remember.

  Uncle Harold (who isn’t really my uncle, I just call him that) says that he’s gotten lots of bad reviews and that I shouldn’t let one bad review get to me. Ha! Easy for him to say. He’s been writing for a katrillion years and his books have sold a katrillion copies, even if he has gotten some stinko reviews. But I’ve written only three books. I’ve just gotten started. Nobody will want to read my books after what Canine Quarterly—my former favorite magazine in the whole world!!—had to say:

  Howie Monroe writes with energy and a sense of humor, but he is a literary lightweight. Pack his books to while away the time when you’re going for an extended stay at the kennel, but don’t be looking for him to win the Newbony Award any time soon.

  A literary lightweight!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Would a literary lightweight know how to use as many adjectives as I do? Or exclamation points!!!?

  Oh, what’s the use? If I’m never going to win the Newbony Award, why should I even bother to write?

  I wonder what the Newbony Award is.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  My friend Delilah, who is this beautiful and REALLY SMART dog who lives down the street and happens to be one of my best friends in the whole world and is maybe even my girlfriend, although I’ve never told her that, not in so many words, anyway, well, Delilah said the Newbony Award is about the biggest award a book can be given. She said her owner, Amber Faye Gorbish, reads Newbony books all the time. I told her Pete, who is Amber’s boyfriend and one of the two boys who lives in the house with me (Toby is the other one), reads stuff like the Flesh-Crawler books by M. T. Graves. Those books are soooooo cool. My favorite is #28: Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb. It’s about these twins who find a time-travel machine in their grandfather’s attic and . . .

  Anyway, Delilah said that books with titles like Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb never win the Newbony Award. I asked her what does win. She thought about it for a long time.

  “Books that are sad,” she said finally. “And take place a long time ago.”

  “Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb takes place a long time ago,” I pointed out. “And it’s sad. Especially the part where the screaming mummies crumble into about a katrillion pounds of dust.”

  Delilah gave me a look. “It also helps if the characters are poor and somebody dies,” she went on. “Or if the main character, usually a child and preferably an orphan, goes on a long journey. Alone. Oh, and it should be a book girls will like.”

  A story started taking shape in my mind. (It’s amazing how that happens when you’re a writer.) I pictured a poor (but cute) dachshund puppy, without a penny or a parent to call his own, setting off in search of . . . something . . . and it’s a long time ago, like last week, maybe, and . . . somebody dies.

  I told Delilah.

  “You need help,” she said. “I’ve read a lot of Newbony books. Maybe we could write the book together.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked that idea. I’ve never written with somebody else. Besides, I wanted to win the Newbony myself. But then, I figured, half a Newbony is better than none.

  “Okay,” I said. “But can it still be about a poor (but cute) puppy? And could he be named Howie Monroe?”

  Delilah didn’t love that idea, but I reminded her that I am a published author, so I should get some say.

  “Okay,” she said, “as long as his friend—a girl puppy named Delilah—has an important part.”

  “Deal,” I told her.

  Newbony Award, here we come!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Walk Two Bones

  The Journey of a Poor (but Cute) Puppy Who Lived Long Ago (and Was Also an Orphan)

  By Howie Monroe & Delilah Gorbish

  CHAPTER 1:

  “REMEMBERING”

  Howie Monroe, a lonely puppy who had no home, gazed sadly at his reflection in the pond. It was a hot summer day long ago when people (and puppies) were poor and the air was full of dust and yearning. Howie, seeing his haggard, yet strong and incredibly handsome, face, yearned for a chicken bone.

  “That’s all I ask,” Howie said to no one but the swirling dust and rippling water, “just a chicken bone with maybe a little meat on it to give me strength for my journey.”

  He thought back to how his journey had begun. It had been only days, yet it felt like years.

  He had been happy once, but that was before the story started. Now he needed to be sad so whoever gave out the Newbony Award would take him seriously. He remembered frolicking with his brothers and sisters on the back forty behind the little house on the prairie where they lived with Ma and Pa Monroe and their sons, Peter and Tobias. Cows mooed contentedly about them, as lambs wobbled on their spindly legs.

  “Be careful not to knock over any of the lambs wobbling on their spindly legs,” Howie’s mother advised him. She was wise and smart, just as Howie would grow up to be.

  “I’ll be careful, Mother,” the sweet and affectionate Howie replied.

  Howie rolled over in the clover, sniffing the sweet summer air. Suddenly he sniffed something that made him worry. Was it . . . could it be . . . ?

  Yes! There was a change in the air. The cows stopped their mooing. The lambs stopped their wobbling. The puppies stopped their frolicking.

  “Run!” Howie’s mother cried out in alarm. “It’s a tornado!”

  Howie didn’t have time to wonder where his father was. He figured he probably wasn’t in the story at all, since most characters in Newbony books didn’t have a father. Or a mother. Or both.

  Ma and Pa Monroe were running toward them, desperate to save the animals who . . . whom . . . who . . . whom they loved as much as their own sons.

  Howie, who was powerfully strong and whose little legs moved faster
than the wind itself, made it to the storm cellar just in time.

  “Hurry!” he called to his family, but the door swung shut just as they reached it!

  “Oh, no!” Howie cried out.

  He was alone in the darkness. He sniffed around until his nose hit a strange object he had never seen before. As the storm raged above him, Howie asked himself, “What could this be?”

  Suddenly it hit him!

  It was a time machine!

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Enough! I told Delilah she had to stop crossing out the good stuff I was writing, and she told me it wasn’t good stuff and that was why she was crossing it out! Then I asked her where she’d come up with that dumb title of hers, and she said it was based on a fine literary novel that had won the Newbony Award one year and I said that was copying and she said my entire last book (See Book 3: Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom) was copying, and that’s when we stopped speaking to each other and she went home.

  I don’t think I like this writing together business. I mean, who is she to cross out my writing and tell me she doesn’t think a time machine has any place in a serious work of fiction!?

  I asked Uncle Harold about it. He agreed that we were having a problem and that Delilah shouldn’t just cross out what I’ve written without our talking about it, but he did think she was right to take out the adjectives I was using, especially since most of them were used to describe one particular character.

  Uncle Harold has a real hang-up about adjectives. I think he’s just jealous of how many I know.

  But he did say, “You’ve got some impressive words in this chapter, Howie—‘yearning,’ ‘haggard,’ ‘spindly.’”

  I told him, “Delilah said we needed words like that in the story if we’re going to be taken seriously.”

  “Well,” he advised, “don’t forget to make the story engaging. That’s important, too.”

  I don’t know what getting married has to do with writing. Sometimes I worry that Uncle Harold’s mind is going.

  Maybe what he means is that we have to make sure it’s entertaining. Well, if there’s one thing I know how to write, it’s “entertaining.”

  I’m going to try writing the next chapter by myself. And while I’m at it, I’m going to change that dumb title of Delilah’s.

  The Terrible Secret of the Pharaoh’s Tomb!

  By Howie Monroe & Delilah Gorbish

  CHAPTER 2:

  “THE TIME MACHINE”

  “Awesome!” the enthusiastic and adventurous dachshund puppy exclaimed. “A time machine!”

  He examined the machine closely. There was a dial with different settings in very small letters that read:

  CAVEMAN TIMES

  ANCIENT EGYPT

  PIRATES

  MEDIEVAL TIMES

  THE WILD WEST

  A WEEK AGO TUESDAY

  “Awesome!” the bubbly and ready-for-anything Howie exclaimed. Again. “I wonder whose time machine this is.”

  Just then a boy stepped out from behind a barrel. It was Tobias, Ma and Pa Monroe’s youngest son and Howie’s favorite member of the family.

  (NOTE to the real Monroes: I like all of you!! This is a work of fiction!!)

  “Howie,” Tobias said, “I think we’d better use this time machine to escape. I’m afraid the house is going to fall in on top of us.”

  Howie didn’t remind Tobias that they were in a storm cellar, which meant there wasn’t a house on top of them, because he wanted to go in the time machine and have an adventure, even if it didn’t win him a Newbony Award.

  “Let’s go!” he cried, although it came out as “Woof!”

  “I’ve never actually used it,” Tobias, who was sometimes called Toby, said. He picked up a book that was lying nearby. Its cover read, How to Put Together Your Time Machine and Then How to Use It.

  “Hmm,” said Toby, flipping the pages. “Oh, here it is—‘Getting Started.’”

  “Hurry!” Howie woofed as the sounds of the storm above them grew worse. The wind was howling. The cows were mooing. The dogs were barking. The lambs were baaaing. The trees were . . . well, you get the picture.

  “I’ve got it!” Toby said, snapping his fingers. “We set the dial, get inside the capsule, close the hatches, and push the red button. I wonder where we should travel to. To where we should travel. To.”

  Anywhere but ancient Egypt, Howie thought. I don’t want to meet up with any of those screaming mummies!

  “Let’s go to ancient Egypt!” Toby said.

  “Nooooo!” Howie cried, but he was drowned out by crashing noises from outside and whimpering from nearby.

  Howie and Toby turned to see a beautiful dog with bouncy blonde ears step out from under the stairs.

  “I’m Delilah,” the dog said. “I ran in here when I saw that a tornado was coming. I’m all alone in the world.” A tear rolled down her snout. “Will you take me with you? Please?”

  Toby looked at Howie. Howie looked at Toby. “What do you think?” Toby asked Howie.

  The sympathetic, kind, and caring dachshund puppy had only one answer: “Hop in,” he told Delilah.

  It was only when the three of them were inside the capsule and the hatches had been closed that Howie remembered where they were heading: ancient Egypt!

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Now, that’s what I call writing!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Delilah, of course, has a different opinion. “The whole thing is ridiculous!” she said. “You’ll never win a Newbony Award with a story about going to ancient Egypt in a time machine. There’s no depth, no character development! Let me write the next chapter!”

  Ha! That’s a laugh! As if she could write a chapter all by herself. Fine, let her try.

  I told her she had to leave the story the way it was, though. She couldn’t change anything, except maybe add some depth and character development. She didn’t like that so much, but she agreed—as long as she could change the title. Titles are important, she told me, because they let the reader know the tone of the book. She said, “Don’t you want the reader to know this is a Newbony Award winner and not something you pack up for a stay at the kennel?”

  Well, that hurt.

  “Fine,” I said. “Change the title, but that’s all!”

  Delilah, Beautiful and Short

  By Delilah Gorbish & Howie Monroe

  CHAPTER 3:

  “ACORN STEW”

  Delilah had always been a good girl. She obeyed her parents, looked after her little brothers and sisters, and cooked for the whole family.

  “No one makes acorn stew like Delilah,” her granny had said in her final days.

  It was the last thing Delilah remembered Granny saying, and a tear came to her eye now, even as she was hurtling through time and space toward ancient Egypt. She had no desire to go there, really. It was a quirk of fate that had put her in a storm cellar with a strange boy and an even stranger dog as they were preparing to escape a tornado by traveling back in time.

  Delilah sighed. Life had been a series of twists and turns for her. And losses, so many losses. But, no, she would not dwell on those, for she was not only a good girl, but a strong one.

  She had been alone for a long time now. Weeks. She had had to live with her mean and miserly aunt Beulah Mae after the accident that had taken the lives of the rest of her family. There were days when she’d had nothing to eat but leaves and nothing to drink but rainwater. She had thought she might bring a ray of sunshine into her aunt’s life, but Beulah Mae lived in the shadows of terrible secrets that haunted her from the past. Sometimes she would cry out in her sleep, keeping Delilah awake all night. It was too much to bear. Delilah set out on her own, with only the coat Mother Nature had given her on her back.

  How long had it been since she had tasted acorn stew? Delilah shook the thought from her head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she would have acorn stew again. Or would she? She would find happiness again. Or would she? She would not be alo
ne. Or would she?

  She comforted herself by softly humming the lullaby her mother had sung to her as a puppy.

  “What’s that?” a voice asked.

  Delilah woke from her reverie and stopped her humming. Howie, the strange dog sitting next to her in the time machine, looked at her with questioning eyes.

  “It’s the lullaby my mother used to sing to me,” she said.

  “My mother used to sing that same lullaby to me,” said Howie.

  Looking into each other’s eyes, they began to hum the tune together. Perhaps this trip to ancient Egypt wouldn’t be so bad after all, Delilah thought. Perhaps her days of being alone were over, and happiness was just a couple of millennia away.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  BO-RING! Delilah calls that Newbony Award writing!? That’s mushy girl stuff! Anyway, I was up in Toby’s bedroom (Toby is a big reader) and I saw that he had lots of those books with Newbony Award stickers on them (they’re so cool, they’re shaped like a bone and everything) and I remember him reading some of those to me, and they were awesome books! I think Delilah’s all wrong about what they have to be. I think there can be lots of adventure and good stuff. It doesn’t have to be all sad.

  I’m going to write the next chapter myself and show her.

  And, oh yeah, I’d better point out to her that she didn’t change just the title (even though she might be right about that). What’s this business of putting her name first as author!?

  Mummy’s the Word!

  A Serious and Sad (But EXCITING!) Mystery of Ancient Egypt

  By Howie Monroe & Delilah Gorbish

  CHAPTER 4:

  “PHARAOH BEWARE-OH!”

  Howie and Delilah stopped humming as the time machine hit the ground with a thud.