by R. L. Stine
He raised his hands in front of him as if to shield himself.
“No! Those are my friends!” he screamed over our chant. “My only friends! You can’t do this!”
“Good-bye, Jonathan Chiller … Good-bye, Jonathan Chiller … Good-bye, Jonathan Chiller …” We circled him in costume.
He lowered his head and broke through our circle. He disappeared into the front of the store.
I heard a crash. He knocked a display over.
More running footsteps. He was still screaming. “You can’t take my friends! You can’t take my friends!”
I stood there in the Murder the Clown mask, breathing hard. I gazed at Chef Belcher and Madame Doom.
It was an insane idea. And it drove Jonathan Chiller crazy.
But what did he plan to do now?
We chased after him. I struggled to see through the eye holes of the rubber mask. The fake ax bobbed heavily on top of my head.
The chef hat was too big for Sam. It slipped down over his eyes. Meg had the same problem with the magician’s top hat.
We followed Chiller to the front counter. He was fumbling around in a drawer.
When he stood up, he had a bunch of little green-and-purple Horrors in his hands. “Here,” he cried. “Give me back my friends, and you can leave….”
He waved the little Horror figures at us. “Go. Go home. You win. You found a way to win. Stealing my friends. I … I can’t allow it.”
“Are you — are you really going to send us home?” I stammered. “Or is this another one of your tricks?”
“Take off the costumes! Take them off!” he cried.
We scrambled out of the costumes. I tore off the clown mask and set it down on a table. Sam dropped the chef hat and apron on top of it.
Chiller began tossing the Horrors at us. We grabbed for them wildly.
Horrors bounced off the tables and rolled onto the floor. We scrambled until we each held one.
“Go ahead!” Chiller cried. “Go. Hold them in your hands — and GO!”
I didn’t have to be asked twice. I did just as Chiller said.
“Good-bye, guys!” I called out. Then I wrapped my hands around the little Horror, shut my eyes tight, squeezed the Horror … squeezed it — and waited.
Waited to be carried home.
Waited.
Nothing happened.
* * *
And then I felt a sharp pull. I opened my eyes and gazed into a bright yellow-green light. The light seemed to pull me … draw me closer … pull me with a powerful force.
Swept up in a hurricane wind. I felt myself lifted up … lifted and pulled away. Until the light surrounded me, and I was part of a glowing fireball flying through space.
I landed on my bed in my own bedroom. Had I been holding my breath the whole time? I let it out in a long whoosh.
My eyes glanced over the football poster on my wall. The dirty clothes I’d left in a heap beside my bed. The underwater screen saver on my laptop.
Yes. Home. I heard a voice and turned to the doorway.
My big hulk of a brother was leaning there, staring at me. I have to admit it — I was never so glad to see him.
I jumped to my feet and started across the room. “Hey, Brandon — did you miss me?” I cried.
“Huh?” He squinted at me. “Miss you? Did you go somewhere?”
Jonathan Chiller had to work till all hours that night. The shop had to be put back together.
The action figures had to be organized and returned to their tables. During all the excitement, he had knocked over a display of human skull lunch boxes. It took a while to get that back up.
And then, of course, there were his friends. He had to be so careful with them. He had to hang the masks and the costumes and the props so carefully.
Madame Doom would look beautiful again with her long, flowing hair. The chef would be able to reign as king of his restaurant again. He made sure that all of his friends were okay.
Yes, he took good care of his friends.
By morning, Chiller House stood in its usual glowing splendor. Every rubber spider and cockroach, every shriveled shrunken head in place.
The sun came up big and golden and warmed the park. Bright enough to wash away any memories of a game gone bad.
And when the bell over the front door jingled, Chiller was ready to welcome the new customers. A new day and new customers.
A tall, dark-haired girl and her shy, copper-haired friend, both in tennis shorts and skater T-shirts. Gazing around at the wonders of the shop through their dark glasses.
“Welcome, and have a look around,” he said. He waved to the shelves and tables of his collections. “See anything you like?” he asked them.
And then he gave them his warmest smile. “Why don’t you take a little Horror home with you?”
I know I’m supposed to be careful. I know I’m supposed to be good. But sometimes you have to take a chance and hope no one is watching.
Otherwise, life would be totally boring, right?
My name is Jay Gardener. I’m twelve and sometimes I can’t help it — I like a little excitement. I mean, dare me to do something — and it’s done.
It’s just the way I am. I’m not a bad dude. Sure, I’m in trouble a lot. I’ve been in some pretty bad trouble. But that doesn’t mean I’m a criminal or anything.
Check out these big blue eyes. Are these the eyes of a criminal? No way. And my curly red hair? And the freckles on my nose? You might almost call me cute, right?
Okay, okay. Let’s not get sickening about it.
My sister, Kayla, calls me Jay Bird because she says I’m as cute as a bird. Kayla is totally weird. Besides, she has the same red hair and blue eyes. So why pick on me?
So, okay, I felt this temptation come on. You know what that is. Just a strong feeling that you have to do something you maybe shouldn’t do.
I gazed up and down our street. No one around. Good. No one to watch me.
The summer trees’ leaves shimmered in the warm sunlight. The houses and lawns gleamed so bright, I had to squint. I stepped into the shade of Mr. McClatchy’s front yard.
McClatchy lives in the big old house across the street from us. He’s a mean dude and everyone hates him. He’s bald and red-faced and as skinny as a toothpick. He wears his pants way up high so the belt is almost up to his armpits.
He yells at everyone in his high, shrill voice. He’s always chasing kids off his lawn — even new kids, like Kayla and me. He’s even mean to our dog, the sweetest golden Lab who ever lived — Mr. Phineas.
So, I had an idea to have a little fun. Of course it was wrong. Of course it wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing. But sometimes, when you see something funny to do — you just have to take a chance.
Am I right?
That morning, I saw some guys in green uniforms doing work on the tall trees in McClatchy’s front yard. When they went home, they left a ladder leaning against a tree.
I glanced up and down the street again. Still no one in sight.
I crept up to the ladder and grabbed its sides. I slid it away from the tree trunk. The ladder was tall but light. Not hard to move.
Gripping it tightly by the sides, I dragged it to the front of McClatchy’s house. I leaned it against the wall. Then I slid it to the open window on the second floor.
Breathing hard, I wiped my sweaty hands on the legs of my jeans. “Sweet,” I murmured. “When McClatchy comes home, he’ll see the ladder leaning up against the open window. And he’ll totally panic. He’ll think a burglar broke into his house.”
The idea made me laugh. I have a weird laugh. It sounds more like hiccupping than laughing. Whenever I laugh, my whole family starts to laugh because my laugh is so strange.
Well, actually, Mom and Dad haven’t been laughing with me much lately. Maybe I’ve done some things that aren’t funny. Maybe I’ve done some things I shouldn’t have. That’s why I had to promise to be good and stay out of trouble.
; But the ladder against the open window was definitely funny. And it wasn’t such a bad thing to do, right? Especially since McClatchy is the meanest, most-hated old dude in the neighborhood.
Still laughing about my joke, I turned and started down the driveway. McClatchy has a tall hedge along the bottom of his yard. It’s like a wall. I guess he really wants to keep people out.
At the end of the driveway, his mailbox stood on a tilted pole. And as I passed it, I saw the trash cans in the street. The trash was bulging up under the lids — and it gave me another cool idea.
Working fast, I pulled open the mailbox, lifted the lid off a trash can — and started to stuff trash into McClatchy’s mailbox.
Yes! A greasy bag of chicken bones. A crushed soup can. Some gooey yellow stuff that looked like puke. Wet newspapers. More soup cans.
I imagined McClatchy squeaking and squealing in his high voice when he opened the mailbox and found it jammed with disgusting garbage.
What a hoot.
I started to laugh again — but quickly stopped. A choking sound escaped my throat.
Whoa.
Someone watching me. Two people watching, half-hidden by the tall hedge.
I froze. They stood side by side, staring right at me. I knew they saw everything. Everything.
A chunk of moldy cheese and a clump of newspaper fell from my hands. I staggered back from the mailbox.
Caught. I was totally caught.
“Okay. You got me. I’m sorry,” I called. “I’ll clean it up. Right away.”
I reached into the mailbox and started to pull out trash.
But the two men didn’t reply. They stood staring at me. The hedge rustled in the breeze, making shadows quiver over their still faces.
“I’m cleaning it up,” I called. “No problem.”
It took me a few more seconds to realize they weren’t people. And they weren’t alive.
“Huh?” Crumpled soda cans fell from my hands and clattered to the driveway as I took a step toward them.
Lawn gnomes.
I burst out laughing when I realized what they were.
Jay, you just freaked out because you were caught by lawn gnomes!
Walking in the shadow of the tall hedge, I stepped up to them. I placed a hand on a pointed red cap and squeezed it. Solid plaster or something.
I poked the stony dude in the eyes. I pinched his hard cheeks. “How’s it going, dudes? Lookin’ good!”
Nearly as tall as me, they stood side by side in red vests over matching red overalls. Beneath their pointed red caps, they had shiny round faces with white beards and white mustaches.
Their eyes were big. One had brown eyes. The other had black. They had stubby, wide noses, almost like pig snouts. Their mouths were curled down in angry scowls.
Yes, angry. They looked angry. They weren’t cute. They were mean looking and ugly. Their steady, cold gaze gave me a chill.
“Stop staring at me, dudes.” I covered one gnome’s eyes with my hand.
I had an idea. I danced back to the trash can. Then I placed a drippy soup can on the point of one gnome’s red cap. And I draped a sheet of brown-stained newspaper over his partner’s shoulder.
“Now you two look cool,” I said.
I stepped back to the street and slammed the lid back on the trash can. Something caught my eye. Another lawn gnome standing under a tree in McClatchy’s neighbor’s yard.
I squinted at it for a moment. And spotted another angry-looking gnome near the neighbor’s front walk. This one wore a blue cap. Its arms were straight out as if it were directing traffic.
Why do so many homes in this neighborhood have lawn gnomes?
My family moved here only three weeks ago. This was the first time I noticed them all.
I turned and gazed across the street at the Brickmans’ house next door to ours. Yes. They had three lawn gnomes lined up along their driveway.
Totally weird.
I kicked a crushed soda can onto the grass. Then I moved forward and kicked it again. I stopped as a heavy shadow swept over me.
At first, I thought it was the shadow of the hedge. Or a tree.
But then I raised my eyes — and gasped.
McClatchy!
He grabbed me by the shoulders. His hands were bony hard, like skeleton hands. He lowered his red face to me and screamed in his shrill voice:
“I’ve been home the whole time. Watching you. What do we do with a troublemaker?”
R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.
Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, January 2011
e-ISBN 978-0-545-30130-5
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