by R. L. Stine
The two snapshots were the ones taken the past Saturday at Shari’s birthday party. Holding one in each hand, Greg stared at them, hoping he could see something new, something he hadn’t noticed before.
But the photos hadn’t changed. They still showed her tree, her backyard, green in the sunlight. And no Shari. No one where Shari had been standing. As if the lens had penetrated right through her.
Staring at the photos, Greg let out a cry of anguish.
If only he had never gone into the Coffman house.
If only he had never stolen the camera. If only he had never taken any photos with it.
If only … if only … if only …
Before he realized what he was doing, he was ripping the two snapshots into tiny pieces.
Panting loudly, his chest heaving, he tore up the snapshots and let the pieces fall to the floor.
When he had ripped them both into tiny shards of paper, he flung himself facedown on his bed and closed his eyes, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, waiting for the heavy feeling of guilt and horror to lift.
Two hours later, the phone by his bed rang.
It was Shari.
25
“Shari — is it really you?” Greg shouted into the phone.
“Yeah. It’s me!” She sounded as surprised as he did.
“But how? I mean —” His mind was racing. He didn’t know what to say.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Shari told him. And then she said, “Hold on a minute.” And he heard her step away from the phone to talk to her mother. “Mom — stop crying already. Mom — it’s really me. I’m home.”
A few seconds later, she came back on the line. “I’ve been home for two hours, and Mom’s still crying and carrying on.”
“I feel like crying, too,” Greg admitted. “I — I just can’t believe it! Shari, where were you?”
The line was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she answered finally.
“Huh?”
“I really don’t. It was just so weird, Greg. One minute, there I was at my birthday party. The next minute, I was standing in front of my house. And it was two days later. But I don’t remember being away. Or being anywhere else. I don’t remember anything at all.”
“You don’t remember going away? Or coming back?” Greg asked.
“No. Nothing,” Shari said, her voice trembling.
“Shari, those pictures I took of you — remember? With the weird camera? You were invisible in them —”
“And then I disappeared,” she said, finishing his thought.
“Shari, do you think —?”
“I don’t know,” she replied quickly. “I — I have to get off now. The police are here. They want to question me. What am I going to tell them? They’re going to think I had amnesia or flipped out or something.”
“I — I don’t know,” Greg said, completely bewildered. “We have to talk. The camera —”
“I can’t now,” she told him. “Maybe tomorrow. Okay?” She called to her mother that she was coming. “Bye, Greg. See you.” And then she hung up.
Greg replaced the receiver but sat on the edge of his bed staring at the phone for a long time.
Shari was back.
She’d been back about two hours.
Two hours. Two hours. Two hours.
He turned his eyes to the clock radio beside the phone.
Just two hours before, he had ripped up the two snapshots of an invisible Shari.
His mind whirred with wild ideas, insane ideas.
Had he brought Shari back by ripping up the photos?
Did this mean that the camera caused her to disappear? That the camera caused all of the terrible things that showed up in its snapshots?
Greg stared at the phone for a long time, thinking hard.
He knew what he had to do. He had to talk to Shari. And he had to return the camera.
He met Shari on the playground the next afternoon. The sun floated high in a cloudless sky. Eight or nine kids were engaged in a noisy brawl of a soccer game, running one way, then the other across the outfield of the baseball diamond.
“Hey — you look like you!” Greg exclaimed as Shari came jogging up to where he stood beside the bleachers. He pinched her arm. “Yeah. It’s you, okay.”
She didn’t smile. “I feel fine,” she told him, rubbing her arm. “Just confused. And tired. The police asked me questions for hours. And when they finally went away, my parents started in.”
“Sorry,” Greg said quietly, staring down at his sneakers.
“I think Mom and Dad believe somehow it’s my fault that I disappeared,” Shari said, resting her back against the side of the bleachers, shaking her head.
“It’s the camera’s fault,” Greg muttered. He raised his eyes to hers. “The camera is evil.”
Shari shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know what to think. I really don’t.”
He showed her the snapshot, the one showing the two of them on the playground staring in horror as a shadow crept over them.
“How weird,” Shari exclaimed, studying it hard.
“I want to take the camera back to the Coffman house,” Greg said heatedly. “I can go home and get it now. Will you help me? Will you come with me?”
Shari started to reply but stopped.
They both saw the dark shadow move, sliding toward them quickly, silently, over the grass.
And then they saw the man dressed all in black, his spindly legs pumping hard as he came at them.
Spidey!
Greg grabbed Shari’s hand, frozen in fear.
He and Shari gaped in terror as Spidey’s slithering shadow crept over them.
26
Greg had a shudder of recognition. He knew the snapshot had just come true.
As the dark figure of Spidey moved toward them like a black tarantula, Greg pulled Shari’s hand. “Run!” he cried in a shrill voice he didn’t recognize.
He didn’t have to say it. They were both running now, gasping as they ran across the grass toward the street. Their sneakers thudded loudly on the ground as they reached the sidewalk and kept running.
Greg turned to see Spidey closing the gap. “He’s catching up!” he managed to cry to Shari, who was a few steps ahead of him.
Spidey, his face still hidden in the shadows of his black baseball cap, moved with startling speed, his long legs kicking high as he pursued them.
“He’s going to catch us!” Greg cried, feeling as if his chest were about to burst. “He’s … too … fast!”
Spidey moved even closer, his shadow scuttling over the grass.
Closer.
When the car horn honked, Greg screamed.
He and Shari stopped short.
The horn blasted out again.
Greg turned to see a familiar young man inside a small hatchback. It was Jerry Norman, who lived across the street. Jerry lowered his car window. “Is this man chasing you?” he asked excitedly. Without waiting for an answer, he backed the car toward Spidey. “I’m calling the cops, mister!”
Spidey didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and darted across the street.
“I’m warning you —” Jerry called after him.
But Spidey had disappeared behind a tall hedge.
“Are you kids okay?” Greg’s neighbor demanded.
“Yeah. Fine,” Greg managed to reply, still breathing hard, his chest heaving.
“We’re okay. Thanks, Jerry,” Shari said.
“I’ve seen that guy around the neighborhood,” the young man said, staring through the windshield at the tall hedge. “Never thought he was dangerous. You kids want me to call the police?”
“No. It’s okay,” Greg replied.
As soon as I give him back his camera, he’ll stop chasing us, Greg thought.
“Well, be careful — okay?” Jerry said. “You need a lift home or anything?” He studied their faces as if trying to determine how frightened and upset they were.
Greg and Shari bo
th shook their heads. “We’ll be okay,” Greg said. “Thanks.”
Jerry warned them once again to be careful, then drove off, his tires squealing as he turned the corner.
“That was close,” Shari said, her eyes on the hedge. “Why was Spidey chasing us?”
“He thought I had the camera. He wants it back,” Greg told her. “Meet me tomorrow, okay? In front of the Coffman house. Help me put it back?”
Shari stared at him without replying, her expression thoughtful, wary.
“We’re going to be in danger — all of us — until we put that camera back,” Greg insisted.
“Okay,” Shari said quietly. “Tomorrow.”
27
Something scurried through the tall weeds of the unmowed front lawn. “What was that?” Shari cried, whispering even though no one else was in sight. “It was too big to be a squirrel.”
She lingered behind Greg, who stopped to look up at the Coffman house. “Maybe it was a raccoon or something,” Greg told her. He gripped the camera tightly in both hands.
It was a little after three o’clock the next afternoon, a hazy, overcast day. Mountains of dark clouds threatening rain were rolling across the sky, stretching behind the house, casting it in shadow.
“It’s going to storm,” Shari said, staying close behind Greg. “Let’s get this over with and go home.”
“Good idea,” he said, glancing up at the heavy sky.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low roar. The old trees that dotted the front yard whispered and shook.
“We can’t just run inside,” Greg told her, watching the sky darken. “First we have to make sure Spidey isn’t there.”
Making their way quickly through the tall grass and weeds, they stopped at the living room window and peered in. Thunder rumbled, low and long, in the distance. Greg thought he saw another creature scuttle through the weeds around the corner of the house.
“It’s too dark in there. I can’t see a thing,” Shari complained.
“Let’s check out the basement,” Greg suggested. “That’s where Spidey hangs out, remember?”
The sky darkened to an eerie gray-green as they made their way to the back of the house and dropped to their knees to peer down through the basement windows at ground level.
Squinting through the dust-covered windowpanes, they could see the makeshift plywood table, the wardrobe against the wall, its doors still open, the colorful old clothing spilling out, the empty frozen food boxes scattered on the floor.
“No sign of him,” Greg whispered, cradling the camera in his arm as if it might try to escape from him if he didn’t hold it tightly. “Let’s get moving.”
“Are — are you sure?” Shari stammered. She wanted to be brave. But the thought that she had disappeared for two days — completely vanished, most likely because of the camera — that frightening thought lingered in her mind.
Michael and Bird were chicken, she thought. But maybe they were the smart ones.
She wished this were over. All over.
A few seconds later, Greg and Shari pushed open the front door. They stepped into the darkness of the front hall. And stopped.
And listened.
And then they both jumped at the sound of the loud, sudden crash directly behind them.
28
Shari was the first to regain her voice. “It’s just the door!” she cried. “The wind —”
A gust of wind had made the front door slam.
“Let’s get this over with,” Greg whispered, badly shaken.
“We never should’ve broken into this house in the first place,” Shari whispered as they made their way on tiptoe, step by creaking step, down the dark hallway toward the basement stairs.
“It’s a little late for that,” Greg replied sharply.
Pulling open the door to the basement steps, he stopped again. “What’s that banging sound upstairs?”
Shari’s features tightened in fear as she heard it, too, a repeated, almost rhythmic banging.
“Shutters?” Greg suggested.
“Yeah,” she quickly agreed, breathing a sigh of relief. “A lot of the shutters are loose, remember?”
The entire house seemed to groan.
Thunder rumbled outside, closer now.
They stepped onto the landing, then waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“Couldn’t we just leave the camera up here and run?” Shari asked, more of a plea than a question.
“No. I want to put it back,” Greg insisted.
“But, Greg —” She tugged at his arm as he started down the stairs.
“No!” He pulled out of her grasp. “He was in my room, Shari! He tore everything apart, looking for it. I want him to find it where it belongs. If he doesn’t find it, he’ll come back to my house. I know he will!”
“Okay, okay. Let’s just hurry.”
It was brighter in the basement, gray light seeping down from the four ground-level windows. Outside, the wind swirled and pushed against the windowpanes. A pale flash of lightning made shadows flicker against the basement wall. The old house groaned as if unhappy about the storm.
“What was that? Footsteps?” Shari stopped halfway across the basement and listened.
“It’s just the house,” Greg insisted. But his quavering voice revealed that he was as frightened as his companion, and he stopped to listen, too.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The shutter high above them continued its rhythmic pounding.
“Where did you find the camera, anyway?” Shari whispered, following Greg to the far wall across from the enormous furnace with its cobwebbed ducts sprouting up like pale tree limbs.
“Over here,” Greg told her. He stepped up to the worktable and reached for the vise clamped on the edge. “When I turned the vise, a door opened up. Some kind of hidden shelf. That’s where the camera —”
He cranked the handle of the vise.
Once again, the door to the secret shelf popped open.
“Good,” he whispered excitedly. He flashed Shari a smile.
He shoved the camera onto the shelf, tucking the carrying strap under it. Then he pushed the door closed. “We’re out of here.”
He felt so much better. So relieved. So much lighter.
The house groaned and creaked. Greg didn’t care.
Another flash of lightning, brighter this time, like a camera flash, sent shadows flickering on the wall.
“Come on,” he whispered. But Shari was already ahead of him, making her way carefully over the food cartons strewn everywhere, hurrying toward the steps.
They were halfway up the stairs, Greg one step behind Shari, when, above them, Spidey stepped silently into view on the landing, blocking their escape.
29
Greg blinked and shook his head, as if he could shake away the image of the figure that stared darkly down at him.
“No!” Shari cried out, and fell back against Greg.
He grabbed for the railing, forgetting that it had fallen under Michael’s weight during their first unfortunate visit to the house. Luckily, Shari regained her balance before toppling them both down the stairs.
Lightning flashed behind them, sending a flash of white light across the stairway. But the unmoving figure on the landing above them remained shrouded in darkness.
“Let us go!” Greg finally managed to cry, finding his voice.
“Yeah. We returned your camera!” Shari added, sounding shrill and frightened.
Spidey didn’t reply. Instead, he took a step toward them, onto the first step. And then he descended another step.
Nearly stumbling again, Greg and Shari backed down to the basement floor.
The wooden stairs squeaked in protest as the dark figure stepped slowly, steadily, down. As he reached the basement floor, a crackling bolt of lightning cast a blue light over him, and Greg and Shari saw his face for the first time.
In the brief flash of color, they saw that he was old, older than they had ima
gined. That his eyes were small and round like dark marbles. That his mouth was small, too, pursed in a tight, menacing grimace.
“We returned the camera,” Shari said, staring in fear as Spidey crept closer. “Can’t we go now? Please?”
“Let me see,” Spidey said. His voice was younger than his face, warmer than his eyes. “Come.”
They hesitated. But he gave them no choice. Ushering them back across the cluttered floor to the worktable, he wrapped his large, spidery hand over the vise and turned the handle. The door opened. He pulled out the camera and held it close to his face to examine it.
“You shouldn’t have taken it,” he told them, speaking softly, turning the camera in his hands.
“We’re sorry,” Shari said quickly.
“Can we go now?” Greg asked, edging toward the stairs.
“It’s not an ordinary camera,” Spidey said, raising his small eyes to them.
“We know,” Greg blurted out. “The pictures it took. They —”
Spidey’s eyes grew wide, his expression angry. “You took pictures with it?”
“Just a few,” Greg told him, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. “They didn’t come out. Really.”
“You know about the camera, then,” Spidey said, moving quickly to the center of the floor.
Was he trying to block their escape? Greg wondered.
“It’s broken or something,” Greg said uncertainly, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.
“It’s not broken,” the tall, dark figure said softly. “It’s evil.” He motioned toward the low plywood table. “Sit there.”
Shari and Greg exchanged glances. Then, reluctantly, they sat down on the edge of the board, sitting stiffly, nervously, their eyes darting toward the stairway, toward escape.
“The camera is evil,” Spidey repeated, standing over them, holding the camera in both hands. “I should know. I helped to create it.”
“You’re an inventor?” Greg asked, glancing at Shari, who was nervously tugging at a strand of her black hair.
“I’m a scientist,” Spidey replied. “Or, I should say, I was a scientist. My name is Fredericks. Dr. Fritz Fredericks.” He transferred the camera from one hand to the other. “My lab partner invented this camera. It was his pride and joy. More than that, it would have made him a fortune. Would have, I say.” He paused, a thoughtful expression sinking over his face.