Zombiekins - Kevin Bolger [0]
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Like Zombiekins?
Zombiekins
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
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Copyright © 2010 Kevin Bolger
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN : 978-1-101-54743-4
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This one’s for you, Mom.
—K. B.
For Nicky, my zombie bride
—A. B.
1
THE LITTLE TOWN OF DEMENTEDYVILLE WAS A TIDY, uneventful town. The sort of place where home owners took care never to let their well-tended lawns become overrun by unsightly weeds or children, and birds sang in all the trees—but only between the hours of nine and five, as per the town’s bylaws.
But even in Dementedyville there was one house that stood out from all the others . . . .
Number 4 Shadow Lane, the Widow Imavitch’s place, was so spooky that children dared one another to go trick-or-treating to the door each Halloween. But nobody ever did. Naturally everyone believed the place was haunted. And then, of course, there were the strange stories about the Widow herself. . . .
Most of these rumors were started by Reuben Rumpelfink, the Widow’s neighbor. He was always complaining about her eccentric ways: About the weeds that grew wild in her garden, which he claimed had tried to eat his dog. About the bonfire parties she held whenever there was a full moon, where her guests (disreputable characters of questionable grooming habits) carried on loudly from midnight to sunrise. And about the mysterious storm cloud that hung over her yard in every kind of weather.
“That woman is a freak!” Mr. Rumpelfink told anyone who would listen. “She’s a danger to us all!”
The day this story begins, Mr. Rumpelfink was leading a frenzied mob of townspeople up Shadow Lane, heading straight for the Widow’s gates. Some of the crowd carried pitchforks, or axes, or flaming torches. Their faces were set in looks of fierce determination, as if they had some grim purpose in mind and would let nothing stand in their way....
News of a sale had spread all over town in minutes. People dropped whatever they were doing and rushed right over. Nobody wanted