Beanstalker and Other Hilarious Scarytales

Oh, look! Jack made it to the top. The clouds stretched out all around him. Jack took a deep breath, then jumped from the stalk toward the clouds.

Jack laughed, bouncing up and down. The clouds were springy beneath him, like walking on a giant trampoline made of cotton candy. Jack bent down and scooped up a handful of cloud, licking it. It even tasted like cotton candy! I guess no one ever told Jack that clouds are just cold water vapor. Science ruins everything for us, doesn’t it?

But, not knowing science, Jack didn’t have to obey its rules. He flipped and jumped and bounced across the clouds. I’m so jealous of him, I’d like to pour a big bowl of pease porridge on his head. But he wouldn’t stay still long enough for us to do that.

He saw a house nearby. He ran toward it … and then ran some more and then some more. He realized the house hadn’t been close—it was so enormously huge and hugely enormous that he thought it was a normal-size house close by, rather than a giant-size house far away.

By the time Jack got to it, he was exhausted. Cloud bouncing is fun at first, but it’s actually an even more strenuous workout than all those tower stairs. (If Jack had any sense, he would have created an exercise program of cloud bouncing and been set for life. But then again, Jack wasn’t good at thinking long-term.)

All he could think of was getting something to eat and finding somewhere to take a nap. (I have to agree with Jack for once. Those are my own top priorities at any given time.) He tried the door, but the handle was several Jacks high, and he was the only Jack there. Looking around, he found a giant-size mouse hole in the foundation. But a giant-size mouse hole also doubles as a normal-size boy hole. Jack crawled into it.

Halfway through the long, dark hole, Jack had a horrible thought: If the house was giant-size, and the mice were giant-size … what size would spiders be? With a scream (I don’t know if it was him screaming or you, but I don’t blame anyone), he threw himself out of the hole and into a kitchen. The fireplace alone was bigger than any house Jack had lived in. Cinderella and Prince Charring would have cried with joy at seeing it. The table was two stories high. A broom the size of a sequoia tree leaned in the corner.

Jack set off to explore.

Maybe that isn’t wise, Jack. Because gigantic houses with gigantic furniture and gigantic brooms and gigantic knives hanging on the wall don’t simply appear. They exist because someone—or something—has need of such giganticness.

But Jack, as always, ignored me. He tried climbing up the table leg to see if there was any food up there, but he couldn’t manage it. Far across the floor, such a great distance away he had to squint, he saw some jars and burlap bags.

His stomach rumbled the whole five minutes it took to walk there. The jars were too large to open, but he managed to tear a hole in one of the bags. Round things bigger than his head tumbled out. He was buried in an avalanche of green. By the time he worked himself free, he was covered in peas. But at least he wasn’t covered in pee! And now he knew the difference.

The first thing he did was try to stick one of the peas up his nose. How many times do I have to tell you what a terrible idea that is?! Fortunately, because the pea was as big as his head, this was impossible. He nibbled on it for a bit, but dried peas aren’t very yummy. So he went from bag to bag, cutting them open and nibbling on whatever fell out; mostly huge vegetables, none of which he liked. One bag was filled with bread crumbs. Jack normally loved bread, but this loaf was weirdly dry and tasted like a cemetery smells. He didn’t eat much of it. Another bag had sugar crystals as big as his hands. He licked one, sitting against the bag and putting his dirty shoes up.

Let’s take a moment to make a list of the ways in which Jack is not being a good houseguest.

He didn’t wipe his feet or take off his shoes before coming in.

He didn’t bring a gift for his host.

He showed up without any advance notice or even being invited.

He didn’t know there were three meanings for the word stalk. One was a type of plant that grew out of the ground and, in some magical cases, straight up into the sky. The second was to harass someone and trespass on their property, causing damage both physical and psychological. Jack really should have known this definition, since that’s basically what he was doing. The third was to pursue and stealthily hunt prey. Jack will become very familiar with this part of the definition by the end of the book.

So any of those reasons makes him a bad houseguest, but the fourth most of all. No one likes a beanstalker.

Still unapologetic for his actions, Jack was full to bursting after eating so many things. But his stomach was rumbling again. And the rumbling was getting louder and louder. It started to sound like—singing? Why was his stomach singing? And why did his stomach have such a deep, deep voice?

/> The door slammed open. The noise was like an earthquake. It brought Jack to his knees. Then another earthquake—cloudquake?—struck. Then another, and another. That’s when Jack saw the boots that were bigger than if you gathered up everything Jack didn’t know about vegetables and put it into a sack. (It would have to be a very big sack, too.)

Jack screamed, covering his ears. He burrowed under one of the sacks, letting the weight of the contents and material dampen some of the noise. See, Jack, you should never break into strangers’ homes. Unless you have golden hair and golden locks and are highly skilled at tracking and trapping zombies. But even Goldilocks would have thought twice before taking on a giant!

What could Jack do? He couldn’t make a run for it! There was a football-field length between him and the mouse hole. He would never make it out before the giant saw him.

If only he had kept the cow. He missed that stupid, gassy cow. He would do anything to have her back. He would milk her, and feed her, and make butter sculptures of her. He would find her the best pastures. Maybe someday they would settle down and start a family. (Not together, of course, because while the cow was attractive for a cow, she wasn’t Jack’s type. But they could each find someone of their own species to marry, and his kids and her calves could grow up together, best friends, probably equally smelly.)

Now he didn’t have a cow, and he probably didn’t have a future, either.

Jack trembled. The items in the bag were hard, digging into his back. He wriggled around, pulling one out. It was a golden coin as big as his head. With this much gold, he could buy his cow back! He could buy all the cows in the world! He could be the Grand Cow Master, Owner of All the Cows, and he would never take them for granted again!

Or he could buy cooler things than cows. That’s probably what he’d do. If he ever got out of here alive.

Gee, this giant sure did talk slow. Jack had had enough time now to calm down. He wasn’t even panicked anymore. It was really uncomfortable, smashed here under all this gold. He wished the giant would finish whatever he was saying and then leave.

Was the giant saying, “I smell?” Jack sniffed the air. Yes, that was accurate. Jack wriggled around until he was more comfortable. Yawning, he closed his eyes. He napped through the rest of what the giant was calling, the rumbles almost comforting. Like a big, terrifying massage.

Jack woke up, stretching, trying to work out some of the kinks in his neck. Sleeping under a huge sack of gold wasn’t the worst place he had ever taken a nap, but it wasn’t the best.

He started to wriggle out, but