I shoved Clark hard.

“Hey!” he grumbled. His glasses slid down his nose. “It was just a joke.”

I left my stepbrother in the hall and opened the door to the next room. The door was made of heavy, dark wood. It groaned when I pushed it.

I fumbled in the dark for the light switch. The room glowed a sickly yellow—from a single, dirty bulb, dangling from the ceiling.

In the dreary light, I could make out cartons. A room full of cartons. Stacks and stacks of them.

“Hey! Maybe there’s some cool stuff in these boxes,” Clark said, pushing past me.

Clark began to pry one open. “Whatever is in here must be pretty big,” he said, pointing to the carton’s bulging sides.

I peered over Clark’s shoulder. The room smelled so musty and sour. I held my nose and squinted in the dim light. Waiting for Clark to reveal what was inside the box.

Clark struggled with the cardboard flaps—and finally they sprang open.

“I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed.

“What?” I demanded, craning my neck. “What?”

“Newspapers. Old newspapers,” Clark reported.

We lifted the top layers of newspapers to reveal—more newspapers. Old, yellowed newspapers.

We opened five more boxes.

Newspapers.

All the cartons were stuffed with newspapers. A room filled with cartons and cartons of newspapers. Dating way back to before Dad was born. More than fifty years of newspapers.

Why would anyone want to save all this stuff? I wondered.

“Whoa!” Clark leaned over a box across the room. “You’re not going to believe what’s in this one!”

“What? What’s in it?”

“Magazines.” Clark grinned.

My brother was starting to get on my nerves. But I made my way across the room. I liked magazines. Old ones and new ones.

I shoved my hand deep inside the magazine box and lifted out a stack.

I felt something tickle the palm of my hand. Under the magazines.

I peeked underneath.

And screamed.

Hundreds of cockroaches skittered through my fingers.

I flung the magazines to the floor.

I shook my hand hard, trying to shake the ugly brown bugs off. “Help me!” I wailed. “Get them off me!”

I felt prickly legs scurrying up my arm.

I struggled to brush them off—but there were dozens of them!

Clark grabbed a magazine from the floor and tried to swat them off. But as he whacked my arm, more roaches flew out from the pages.

Onto my T-shirt. My neck. My face!

“Ow! Nooo!” I shrieked. “Help me! Help me!”

I felt a cockroach skitter across my chin.

I brushed it off—and slapped one off my cheek.

Frantic, I grabbed Clark’s comic from his back pocket—and began batting at the scurrying cockroaches. Brushing and batting. Brushing and batting.

“Gretchen! Stop!” I heard Clark scream. “Stop! They’re all off. Stop!”

Gasping for breath, I peered down.

He was right. They were gone.

But my body still itched. I wondered if I would itch forever.

I went out into the hall and sat on the floor. I had to wait for my heart to stop pounding before I could speak. “That was so gross,” I finally moaned. “Totally gross.”

“Tell me about it.” Clark sighed. “Did you have to use my comic?” He held it up by a corner. Not sure if it was safe to stuff back in his pocket.

My skin still felt as if prickly roach legs were crawling all over it. I shuddered—and brushed myself off one last time.

“Okay.” I stood up and peered down the dreary hallway. “Let’s see what’s in the next room.”

“Really?” Clark asked. “You really want to?”

“Why not?” I told him. “I’m not afraid of little bugs. Are you?”

Clark hated bugs. I knew he did. Big ones and little ones. But he wouldn’t admit it. So he led the way into the next room.

We pushed open the heavy door—and peered inside.