by R. L. Stine
The platform was crowded with the usual collection of doctors, lawyers, and various business types. A train was approaching. The station announcer spoke: “Now arriving on track ten, seven a.m. local, making all stops.”
All local stops. No mention of Kirkland Academy.
The announcer’s voice wasn’t eerie or ominous.
The train came to a stop with a loud hiss of air. I boarded quickly. I wasn’t going to miss this ride for all the gold in the world. The car was packed with people looking at their cell phones. Nobody here wore a grimy gray overcoat or tattered gray fedora.
Soon as the train doors closed, I got my phone out.
This train had good reception.
Strange as it was, instead of thinking about those horrible monsters, I thought about today’s swim meet. Swimming had literally saved my life. I could keep on swimming, too, and even race for the league championship—but only if I kept the secret of the Nightmare Express. No way could my mom know that I had arrived late for the train.
But secrets had consequences. They had nearly cost me my life. They were like another curse I had to break.
I called my mom.
“Hope you’re on that train,” she said, sounding rather anxious.
“Mom,” I said, “we need to have a serious talk tonight when I get home after my swim meet, six o’clock sharp. And don’t be late.”
The Girl in the Window
by Tonya Hurley
I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY she arrived in our sleepy port town of Thomaston, Maine. Not so much sleepy, actually, as dying. Literally. The windows were papered with going-out-of-business signs, and there were more people in the cemetery than on Main Street, where I lived.
It was three thirty p.m., and I’d just gotten home from school. I watched with bated breath as they loaded her in and positioned her just so. A reporter from the Thomaston Times, our local newspaper, was there to document the excitement, interviewing rubberneckers who had nothing better to do than gather to gawk at the spectacle.
There she was, in the window right across the street from our apartment—from my bedroom, to be exact—which meant I could look at her anytime I felt like it. Just like those rich people who live on Central Park West and get to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloons float by their condos at eye level. You see, living in a semi-ghost town on the coast of Maine, even a new mannequin was big news.
The Higgin family, proprietors of the last department store left in town, were desperate for customers and had brought her in to model the latest party dresses they were selling. She had a real job to do, and she did it well. Too well. Before long, everyone wanted what “Lydia”—that’s what they named her—wore. Especially me.
The store manager put the most expensive dresses on her, a new one every week, so that girls would lose it over the frocks on the regular, and pester their parents, who had no choice but to pay up or risk long tantrums at home or crying jags outside the store. Everyone loved Lydia, but the parents in Thomaston—not so much. One thing’s for sure, she was good for business.
Needless to say, she was the talk of our middle school from the second she arrived. Especially on Fridays, when Higgin’s staged its changing-of-the-dress ritual. The unveilings always produced massive turnouts, so if I couldn’t get close enough, I would run up to my room with binoculars to see what she was wearing. I spent a lot of time looking out my window, wishing I were someone else, somewhere else. At least now, there was something to see.
Lydia looked to be around my age, eleven years old. Black hair tied back neatly with a white silk ribbon. No blank-expressioned, stiffly posed, cookie-cutter department store dummy was she. Her fingers were so lifelike; her eyes deep green, the color of the sea; and on her face she wore a sweet smile. She was happy. Always happy. And why shouldn’t she be? Everything about her was cool, even her name. So much better than mine, Mable. Ugh. You couldn’t get more boring. Her hair was dark and shiny, and her skin was pale and perfect. Lydia was the envy of every girl in town, a social media darling turning up in post after post in an endless stream of selfies and tweets. Our very own It Girl.
The thing that interested us—interested me—the most about Lydia, though, was the very reason she’d been brought here: her clothes. The white lace dress she wore when she first arrived was a stunner. She looked like a bride. Oh, how I wanted that dress. I spent hours fantasizing about what I’d do if I owned it—the glamorous parties I’d be invited to, the places I’d go and the people I’d meet. It would literally change my life, I was sure of it.
But I didn’t get that dress or any others for that matter. You see, we were poor. My mother worked two jobs, and there was barely enough money for food and rent, let alone extras like fancy clothes. But a girl could dream. And boy, did I.
Each day after school I would make a beeline for the store. The little bell dangling from the front door would jingle, announcing the arrival of a new customer—my arrival. I would walk the perimeter, riffling through the bins, picking items off the shelves, trying to look as interested as possible in purchasing while eventually heading to my real destination—Lydia.
Miss Serling, the persnickety saleslady dressed in fitted tweed suits, would circle me as I stared at the mannequin, like a predatory animal taking measure of its prey. In response, I would clasp my hands behind my back daintily, and squint my eyes, as if I were studying a masterpiece in an art museum.
“Can I help you?” she’d sniff, a certain frustration in her voice.
“No thank you, just looking,” I’d reply, same as the day before and the day before that.
It was a little dance we did, she and I. The poor girl and the saleslady. She knew I wanted the dress but couldn’t afford it. I knew I wanted the dress and couldn’t afford it. But it didn’t cost me anything to look, and it didn’t cost her anything to be polite and let me. Besides, I don’t think she minded very much. She always looked slightly bored. It was slow at that time of the afternoon, and at the very least I gave her something to do. She probably figured she was doing community service by keeping a little urchin off the street.
“You spend an awful lot of time here,” she observed . . . snidely. “Shouldn’t you be with your friends somewhere, gossiping or shaming one . . . another?”
She was right. I was. I’d become obsessed. Hanging out less and less with my school friends and more and more at Higgin’s. The more time I spent in the store, eyeing Lydia and her killer wardrobe, the more comfortable I felt. Like Lydia and me were becoming friends, too.
“I’d rather be here with Lydia,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal anything.”
Miss Serling just shook her head and walked away in a huff, heading to the storeroom to do some inventory or whatever she did back there.
This was our alone time. Just Lydia and me. When I would talk to her. Tell her about the mean girls in school and how horribly they treated me, just because I didn’t have the money and clothes they did. She never answered of course, but I found it therapeutic. To be able to talk things out with someone who I knew wouldn’t judge me and who I knew would listen just made me feel better.
But, as often happens in small towns, jealousy started to set in. The other kids wondered why I was spending so much time with her. People started to talk. And not just about me and what I was doing at Higgin’s. Curiosity about the bizarre lifelike mannequin turned rapidly to gossip and then suspicion. Some wondered where she came from and why she was so real looking. Others believed she was the Higgin’s youngest, who had gone missing many years ago, but was really accidentally killed by one of her siblings. Mr. Higgin had preserved her, they said, to avoid a scandal, and that the family couldn’t part with her, like those people who live with mummified dead relatives in their homes for years. There were other stories too, like the ones where people saw her move in the window at night, and others that said they made appeals to Lydia for certain things like money and good grades, and they always came true. I didn’t b
elieve most of it, except for the appeals part. That, I got.
Spending so much time with Lydia, even in one-way conversation, she had become a revered figure to me. She was a mystery all right, but not the kind they were thinking of. To me, she was a kind of sacred mystery, a store-window saint, always there, in the Church of Retail to help me with my problems. Saint Lydia of the Lonely and Insecure. The only thing missing was a row of votive candles to light at her feet. But Miss Serling would definitely flag that as a fire hazard.
If there were one to light, I would’ve lit it to get the outfit she was wearing for my birthday—a kelly green dress with tulle around the bottom and a navy blue silk sash around the waist. It was perfect. How I dreaded showing up the next day wearing an old, secondhand outfit when every other girl in my class showed up in a brand-new expensive ensemble after their birthdays. People would literally wait in the halls to see what you were dressed in—to see your big gift.
“What I wouldn’t give to have that dress,” I said out loud.
“Careful what you wish for, dear,” Miss Serling, who’d overheard me, replied.
“Today is my birthday,” I blurted out, thinking maybe she’d take off the dress and hand it to me wrapped in an orange Higgin’s bow.
She flashed a sympathetic smile, the first I’d ever seen from her. “We’re closing early today. Why don’t you run along home now? I’m sure your family is waiting to celebrate with you.”
She seemed sincere for a change, not just being nice to get rid of me.
“My mother makes me a red velvet cake every year. Melts in your mouth,” I said with a big fake smile.
“You’re making me jealous,” she said, which for some reason made me feel better.
“I’ll save you a slice, if my brother doesn’t eat the whole thing.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Miss Serling replied. “Happy birthday.”
We stepped out the front door, and she locked it. “See you tomorrow,” I called out.
“And I’m sure I will see you,” Miss Serling said.
I stopped outside to wave good-bye to Lydia in the window and get one last good look at that dress, when all of a sudden I heard someone whisper:
“Happy birthday.”
I looked to see if there was anyone around, but there wasn’t. Not a single soul. Maybe it was just Miss Serling calling out to me again before leaving the shop? I walked a few steps to the curb and waited to cross the street.
“Happy birthday.”
I heard it again. But there was still no one there. I shook my head to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, and then bolted across the street. Just in case.
With my heart racing I ran up the steps, following the smell of dinner all the way to our apartment on the third floor. Mom had made all my favorites—fish sticks, green bean casserole, and mac ’n’ cheese with extra cheese bubbling on top. And of course, the pièce de résistance, the decadent pink-frosted red velvet birthday cake.
I scarfed down my dinner and anxiously waited for my brother and mom to finish. Finally, Mom cleared the plates and then reappeared with a gift in hand and matches for the cake. We always did gifts first. It was the law in our house.
“Happy birthday, Mable,” my mother said as she handed me a box wrapped in purple paper and dotted with glittery gold stars. Whatever was inside had to be special. I ripped it open excitedly to reveal a gorgeous pair of navy blue sparkly flats.
“OMG, these shoes would be so amazing with the dress in Higgin’s window!”
The words fell out of my mouth. I couldn’t help myself, and I couldn’t take them back. My brother shot me a how could you be that ungrateful look, and my mother tried her best not to appear disappointed, but I’d obviously insulted her. She must’ve spent a week’s salary on them. Every year for our birthdays, my brother and I got a new pair of shoes, and every year we hoped for something different. But shoes were the only things my mother refused to buy secondhand, and new ones cost a tiny fortune.
Mom lit the gold candles on my cake, and she and my brother sang “Happy Birthday” to me, completely out of tune.
“Make a wish,” she said.
“Already did.” And there was nothing careful about it, I thought, recalling what Miss Serling said earlier.
I puckered my lips and inhaled all the air I could to blow out the candles, but before I exhaled, they flickered and went out. My mother looked confused and then checked to see if there was an open window somewhere. There wasn’t. “This apartment has the craziest drafts,” she said, relighting the candles.
It happened again. The candles went completely out, as if someone else was making a wish on my cake. I would have blamed it on my brother, only he looked as perplexed as we did, and he sucked at acting.
We were all baffled and a little spooked.
My brother tried to laugh it off. “Maybe you got the trick candles by mistake, Mom.”
“Yeah,” I agreed halfheartedly. “That must be it.”
I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling, but did, for Mom’s sake, and because of the cake. It tasted like heaven, and I shoveled down every last sugary crumb.
“So, do you like the shoes?” Mom asked quietly, putting her hand on mine.
“I love them so much,” I replied. “Thank you, Mom.”
“Go try them on.”
I went to my room, slid off my shoes, and sat on my bed, looking at the flats. I couldn’t stop thinking about how they would look with Lydia’s dress. My eyes moved from the shoebox on the floor toward the window until I caught myself gazing across the street into Higgin’s window. Staring at her.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. “What the heck?”
The dress I was fantasizing about, the dress I wanted more than anything in the world, the one Lydia wore earlier, was gone. Replaced by another.
But Miss Serling locked up and left with me?
I spun around to run into the kitchen so I could tell my mom when I caught the sight of something spectacular hanging in my closet.
It was Lydia’s dress. The dress.
Hanging in my closet.
I grabbed it off the hanger and held it up to me in my full-length mirror. I never had a reason to look at myself in it before this. I slipped on the frock and twirled. And twirled. And twirled. I put on my new shoes and stared in awe.
“I’m gonna be late for work, honey. I hope you liked everything,” my mom yelled out to me.
I heard the apartment door open and close. I scurried out from my room into the hallway, hoping to catch her.
“Mom! I can’t believe you got me the dress!”
But all I heard were footsteps fading down the stairs.
I catwalked back into my room and beelined over to my mirror. We recently learned about the Greek myth of Narcissus in school, the hot boy who saw his reflection in the water and then lost his will to live because he couldn’t stop staring at himself. Now, with this dress on, I totally got it. I was starstruck by the sight of me.
“I can’t believe I have an actual birthday dress to wear to school tomorrow. The girls are gonna be so jelly they’ll need a mold to get through the day.”
I spent what felt like hours posing, taking selfies, posting them, and basking in the avalanche of likes and loves.
Soooooooooo pretty!
Queen!
This. Is. Everything!
The comments and emojis burst onto my page like Pop Rocks in my mouth. A digital explosion of approval.
“Boom!” I shouted, and replied “Muah” to some and Snapchatted big phony kisses to others. Until a comment appeared from a girl in my class.
Wow. Somebody robbed a bank.
Troll, I thought.
It was mean, but it got me thinking, Mom could never have afforded this dress. Unless maybe she worked something out with Miss Serling? A layaway plan or something? A secret deal between the two of them? Didn’t seem likely, though. But then how did it wind up in my closet? I took it off wi
th care and hung it back up. Everyone is expecting to see me in it now, I thought. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. But what if I stain it and it has to be returned, I wondered. I looked at my Twitter and Instagram, counted up the likes, and shrugged.
“Who cares,” I said to myself. “Happy Birthday to me.”
I stood at my bedroom window for a good long while, watching Lydia across the street, trying to figure it out. When out of nowhere I saw her blink. At least I could have sworn she blinked. But you know how if you stare at something long enough, you start to see things? So, I kept my eyes locked on hers to see if it happened again. Until I started to doze off.
“Good night,” I whispered as my eyes closed.
The next morning I dressed for school decked out in Lydia’s finest. I stepped off the bus and into the hall like a supermodel hitting the runway, actually trying to draw attention to myself for a change. The audience was gathered already, due to my social media publicity campaign. Mouths hung open, backpacks dropped in surprise, hands were placed firmly on hips in disbelief and envy as I passed.
All the girls who usually smirked at me, ignored me, or made fun of me took notice. Some even came over to talk to me. I wasn’t the poor girl in the hand-me-down outfit anymore. I was their middle school idol.
At the end of the day, I got off the bus and sauntered up the stairs of my building, as if I walked on air.
“Where’d you get that?” my mother asked as she opened the door.
“What?” I asked.
“You know what,” she scolded. “The dress!”
“I thought you got it for me?”
Mom was silent. And when my mom was silent, that only meant one thing—trouble. I’d rather her yell at me all day long than be silent.
“You know we can’t afford that.”
“But it was hanging in my closet!”
I can tell she didn’t believe me. It’s the same sort of look I remember her giving me when I was two and walked out of the convenience store on the corner with a handful of candy I hadn’t paid for.