Before my brother and I found the strange little creature under the sink, we were a normal happy family. In fact, I'd have to say we were very lucky.

But our luck quickly changed when we pulled the creature from its dark hiding place.

The sad, frightening story begins on the day we moved.

"Here we are, kids." Dad honked the horn happily as we rounded the corner onto Maple Lane and pulled up in front of our new house. "Ready for the big move, Kitty Kat?"

My dad is the only one who can get away with calling me Kitty Kat. My real name is Katrina (ugh!) Merton, but only the teachers call me Katrina. To everyone else I'm simply Kat.

"Definitely, Dad!" I shouted. I jumped out of the station wagon.

"Rowf! Rowf!" Killer, our cocker spaniel, barked in agreement and followed me out onto the sidewalk.

Daniel, my goofy little brother, is the one who named the dog. What a dumb name. Killer is afraid of everything. The only thing he kills is his rubber ball!

Daniel and I had biked past the new house plenty of times already. It's only three blocks away from where we used to live, on East Main.

But I still couldn't believe we'd be living here. I mean, I always thought our old house was pretty great. But this place is awesome!

Three stories high, sitting up on its own little hill, with butter-yellow shutters and at least a dozen windows. A wide porch wraps around the whole house. The front yard must be about the size of a football field.

It's not a house—it's a mansion!

Well, practically a mansion. Enormous—but not exactly fancy. What Mom calls "a comfortable old shoe kind of house."

Actually, today it really looked messy and old. A few of the shutters hung crookedly, the grass needed mowing, and the whole place seemed to be covered with an inch of dust.

But as Mom said, "Nothing that can't be taken care of with a good cleaning, a coat of paint, and a few bangs with the hammer."

Mom, Dad, and Daniel climbed out of the car, and we all stood staring excitedly at the house. Today, I'd finally get to see the inside!

Mom pointed to the second floor. "See that big balcony?" she asked. "That's the room where your father and I will sleep. The next room over is Daniel's."

She gave my hand a little squeeze. "The little balcony—that's outside your room, Kat." She beamed.

My very own private porch! I leaned over and gave Mom a big hug. "I love it already," I whispered into her ear.

Naturally, Daniel started whining immediately. He's ten years old, but most of the time he acts as if he's about two.

"How come Kat's room has a balcony—and mine doesn't?" he complained. "It's not fair! I want a balcony, too!"

"Get a life, Daniel," I muttered. "Mom, tell him to be quiet. Don't I get something for being two years older?"

Well, almost two years older. My birthday was in four days.

"Quiet, kids," Mom ordered. "Daniel, you don't have a balcony. But you are getting something neat, too—bunk beds. So Carlo can sleep over whenever you want."

"Excellent!" Daniel shouted. Carlo is Daniel's best friend. They're always together—and always bugging me.

Daniel is okay—most of the time. But he insists on being right. Dad calls him Mr. Know-It-All.

And sometimes Dad calls Daniel the Human Tornado, because he runs around like a whirlwind and makes unbelievable messes.

I'm a lot more like my Dad—sort of calm and quiet. Well, usually calm. And we both have the same favorite foods—lasagna, really sour garlic pickles, and mocha-chip ice-cream.

I even look like my father, tall and thin with a lot of freckles and reddish hair. I usually wear my hair in a ponytail. Dad doesn't have much hair to worry about.

Daniel looks more like my mother. Straight, light brown hair that's always falling in his eyes, and what Mom calls a "sturdy" build. (That means he's chunky.)

Today, Daniel was definitely in Human Tornado mode. He ran up onto the big green lawn and began spinning around in a circle. "It's huge," he shouted. "It's gigantic. It's... it's... it's super-house!"

He collapsed in a heap on the grass. "And this is the super-yard! Hey, Kat, look at me—I'm Super-Daniel!"

"You're super-dumb," I told him, messing up his hair with both hands.

"Hey, quit it!" Daniel yelped. He pulled out his super-soaker gun and squirted the front of my T-shirt. "You're captured," he announced. "You are my prisoner!"

"I don't think so," I replied, tugging on the water pistol. "Give up the gun!" I commanded. I pulled harder. "Let go!"

"Okay!" Daniel grinned. He loosened his grip so suddenly that I staggered backwards—and fell on to the sidewalk.

"What a klutz!" Daniel snickered.

I knew how to get him. I zoomed up the porch steps. "Hey, Daniel," I called, "I'm going to be first in the new house!"

"No way!" he exclaimed, scrambling up off the lawn. He hurled himself at the steps and grabbed me by the ankle. "Me first! Me first!"

That's when Dad walked up the driveway, carrying an overstuffed cardboard box with Kitchen written on the side. Two moving men followed, hauling our big blue couch.

"Hey, stop goofing around! Mom and I really need your help today. That's why we allowed you to miss a school day," he called. "Daniel, walk Killer—and make sure he has food and water. Kat, keep an eye on Daniel.

"And Kat, clean the inside of the kitchen cabinets, okay?" Dad added. "Mom wants to start putting the dishes and pots away."

"Sure, Dad," I answered. I saw Daniel rummaging through a box on the lawn. The box was marked Cards and Comics.

"Hey, where's the dog?" I yelled to him. He shrugged.

"Daniel!" I frowned. "I don't see Killer anywhere. Where is he?"

He dropped a stack of baseball cards. "Okay, okay, I'll go find him," he mumbled. He stood up and made his way to the driveway, calling the dog's name.

As soon as he disappeared around the side of the house, I hurried to the box marked Cards and Comics and checked through it. Sure enough, the little brat had stolen some of my comics.

I tucked them under my arm and walked inside to the kitchen to clean out the cabinets. One quick glance made me groan.

Cabinets filled just about every square inch of the big bright room! Sighing, I yanked paper towels and a bottle of cleaner out of the Cleaning Supplies box and started scrubbing.

Spritz, rub, spritz, rub. This could take hours!

After I finished a cabinet, I stepped back to admire my work. Then I knelt down in front of the cabinet under the sink.

But something—a squeaky noise, like the sound of a footstep on an old wooden stair—made me stop short.

What is that? I wondered, my heart beating faster. I slowly opened the cabinet. Tried to peek inside. I opened it a little wider. A little wider.

I heard the noise again.

My heart was pounding now.

I opened the cabinet door another inch. And then it grabbed me.

A dark, hairy claw. It wouldn't let go. I screamed.