The ghouls and mansters had crash-landed on Skeleton Island after Cleo's new scarab-navigation system malfunctioned. Now, they were running out of time. The island's curse turned anyone caught after midnight into living skeletons—not the fun, dancing kind. The screaming-for-all-eternity kind.

"Not today, bone-daddy," Heath shouted, unleashing a fireball. The King batted it aside with a laugh.

"Of course it is," Clawdeen muttered.

They crept toward the moonlit cove. The Skeleton King sat on a throne of coral, his skull polished white, eye sockets burning with green flame. He clutched a staff topped with a glowing hourglass. The sand was almost gone.

"RUN!" Deuce yelled, ripping off his glasses. A wave of stone-gray energy turned half the skeleton army into statues. The monsters bolted across the beach, splashing into the rowboat just as the curse tried to grab them.

"Heat of the moment!" Heath Burns protested, his flame-hair flickering low so they wouldn't be spotted. "The skeleton pirates were closing in!"