by R. L. Stine
She started to climb on, then stopped. She turned to us with a grin. “By the way, how did those claws work out for you?”
“Huh?” I stared at her.
“You never figured out that I was the one who sent them to you guys?” Laura asked, still grinning.
“No way!” Cory and I cried together.
She laughed. “Before I sent them to you, I kissed them both. I kissed them all over. I knew you’d wear them. And I knew I’d have all the good luck.”
Cory blinked. “You kissed them first? Then how come Lee and I had good luck for a while?”
Laura shrugged. “Beats me. I guess the kisses just take a while to kick in.”
She turned to me. “And I’ll bet you never guessed that I pulled the claw from your trash can that night. And I stuck it in your backpack before the football game the next morning.”
I sighed. “No. I never guessed.”
“Well, I really wanted to win,” Laura said. “Sometimes you have to make your OWN luck — right?”
She climbed onto the camp bus. “Bye, guys!” she called. “Have an awesome summer!”
Well, Lee, that was a strange story with an unhappy ending — for you.
Actually, I think you were lucky. Lucky that you and Cory didn’t rip each other to shreds with your beaks and claws.
Oh. But that was just a hallucination — right?
Good-luck charms can be very powerful. That’s why I wear this black widow spider around my neck. So far, it has only bitten me twice.
That’s lucky, right?
Thank you for bringing your story to me. I am the Story-Keeper. And I will keep your story here where it belongs. You know, here in the Hall of Horrors, There’s Always Room for One More Scream.
“I don’t want to go to Polly Martin’s Halloween party,” I said. “I’m twelve years old, and I think I should be allowed to decide what parties I want to go to.”
I punched the couch cushion. “Polly gives the lamest parties on Earth. No. In the universe. Her parties are so lame, they give the word lame a bad name.”
My friend Devin O’Bannon laughed. “You’re funny, Lu-Ann.”
“I’m not being funny!” I screamed. “I’m serious. Why should Halloween be ruined because —”
“You’ve been friends with Polly since kindergarten,” Devin said. He jammed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“You sound like my mom,” I grumbled. “Just because we’ve known each other forever doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
Devin said something, but his mouth was so loaded with popcorn, I couldn’t understand a word he said. What a slob. But that’s okay. I mean, all my friends are jokers and weirdos.
Devin and I were sitting on opposite ends of the couch in my den. We both had our feet up on the coffee table. Devin kept scooping up handfuls of popcorn from the big bowl my mom made. Half of them went into his mouth, the other half on the couch and floor.
My side of the couch was clean. I don’t like popcorn. I only like sweets. I knew there was a carton of rocky road ice cream in the freezer. But I was feeling too lazy to get up and get it. Too lazy and too upset.
“You know the other thing I hate about Polly’s parties?” I said.
He grinned. “Besides everything?”
“She makes you pay,” I said. “Five dollars a person. Why do we have to pay money to be bored? I can be bored just sitting here with you.”
“Thanks, Lu-Ann. You’re a pal.”
You can tell by the way I tease Devin that I like him a lot.
“Five dollars,” I muttered.
“Well, you know Polly. She’s never seen a dollar bill she didn’t like.”
“Guess Polly’s idea of a great party game,” I said with a moan.
“Spin the Bottle?”
“No. Shut up. That’s too exciting. Her idea of a good game is rubbing a balloon on your forehead until the static electricity makes it stick. Then seeing who can keep the balloon on his face the longest.”
Devin laughed again. “Got any balloons? We could practice.”
I gave him a hard shove. “Why do you keep laughing? It isn’t funny.”
He spit out an unpopped kernel. Then he stuck it on my nose.
I slapped his hand away. “You are so immature.”
“I learned it from you.”
“Could you be any less funny?”
“I could try.”
I grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl and dropped it in his red, curly hair. He shook his head hard, sending popcorn flying all over the den.
As I said, I like Devin a lot. He’s fun. Not like Polly Martin.
Polly is sweet and nice. Really. She’s very smart and a total knockout with her big green eyes and dazzling smile. Like a toothpaste model or something.
Her problem is that she’s soooo serious. All the time. I mean, she smiles sometimes, but I’ve never seen her laugh. She doesn’t get jokes. She never knows when you’re teasing her. She’s into Green Power and saving the bald eagles and she’s a vegetarian. You get the picture.
Not that there’s anything wrong with all that. But I told you, my friends are all jokers and clowns and goof-offs. So it’s hard to stay close friends with her.
“Why do you think being forced to go to Polly’s Halloween party is so funny?” I asked Devin. “You have to go, too.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Excuse me? Why don’t you?”
His grin faded. He raised his eyes to the TV on the wall. We had it on with the sound off. The TV is always on in my house. Don’t ask me why. There was some cooking contest on the screen, with teams of people scrambling to make cup-cakes as fast as they could.
“Lu-Ann, you might think you’re the unluckiest person in the universe,” Devin said. “But I am. I would kill to go to Polly’s Halloween party.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I wish.” He let out a sad sigh. “My Halloween is going to be a lot lamer than yours.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
He brushed more popcorn from his hair. “Do you know how to spell tragic?”
“Of course I do. I didn’t have to take first grade three times like you.”
“I only took it twice,” he said. “My life is tragic, Lu-Ann. My Halloween will be tragic. It’s the perfect word.”
Devin and I talk about perfect words sometimes. He knows I want to be a writer when I’m older. I’m really good at thinking up stories. Everyone says I have an awesome imagination.
My mom says my imagination is too awesome. She doesn’t mean that in a nice way. She wishes I was more serious, like my little brother, Mitch.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, creep,” I said. “Just tell me what’s so tragic.”
“My dad bought a pumpkin farm,” he said.
“Your dad isn’t a farmer. He works at an insurance company. Oh. Sorry. I mean, he worked at an insurance company. I know he’s been looking for work. But … pumpkins?”
Devin rolled his brown eyes. “Tell me about it. Actually, he just leased it. It’s one of those Pick-Your-Own-Pumpkin places. You know. You walk in the field and pull your own pumpkins off the vine. Big thrill, right?”
“We did that when I was five,” I said. “I thought those long, twisty vines were creepy. Mitch was two and he started to cry. So we had to leave.”
“I’m going to cry, too,” Devin said. “But Dad thinks he’s going to make a fortune selling pumpkins. It’s only one week till Halloween. How many pumpkins can he sell?”
I shook my head. “Oh, wow.”
“Wait,” Devin said. “Here comes the tragic part. He got permission to take me out of school all week so I can help out on the farm.”
“Oh, noooo,” I moaned.
“Oh, yes. So where am I going to be spending Halloween? In a pumpkin patch.”
“No way. No way.”
“Polly’s party will be a total thrill by comparison,” Devin said, shaking his head
.
His hand scraped the bottom of the popcorn bowl. “Hey, what happened to all the popcorn?”
“Very funny. Most of it’s stuck to your teeth.”
I was joking around, but I felt bad for him. He’s not a farm kind of guy. He actually spent his first seven years in New York City. Then his dad got transferred here to Dayton, Ohio.
But Devin is a city dude.
“You’re just going to rot with the pumpkins,” I said sadly.
He sighed. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”
That made us both laugh. I checked the clock on the cable box. Then I jumped to my feet. “See you when you get back,” I said. “Good luck.” I gave him a hard, phony handshake.
He stood up. “Lu-Ann, where are you going?” he asked as I pushed him toward the front door.
“I have to go scare my little brother now.”
I tell my brother, Mitch, a scary story every night before he goes to sleep. I just make them up as I go along.
Mitch likes my stories and he hates them at the same time. He doesn’t really like to be scared. He grits his teeth and shuts his fists and pretends he’s brave.
I don’t want to torture the poor kid. But I only know how to tell scary stories. That’s the only kind of story I can dream up. I guess I just have a scary mind.
Mitch and I look alike a little bit. We both have straight black hair and dark eyes and round faces. I’m very thin, but he’s pretty chubby. Mom says he hasn’t lost his baby fat.
How do you think that line goes over with Mitch?
Not too well.
Mitch is a quiet, serious kid. He’s only eight, but he likes to read endlessly long fantasy books about ancient kingdoms and dragons and battles and stuff.
He gets straight A’s at Meadowdale, his elementary school. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends.
I think it’s because he’s so quiet and shy.
We get along great even though we’re so different. The only thing we fight about is breakfast — toaster waffles or toaster pancakes? He goes for waffles, and I like the pancakes. Mom says it would be silly to buy both. So … big fights in the supermarket.
I took Mitch into the kitchen for his nightly bedtime snack — Oreos and a glass of milk to dip them in. Then we headed upstairs. Mitch climbed into his platform bed and pulled up the covers.
Dad got him a platform bed down on the floor because he tosses and turns and rolls around a lot at night. And he was always falling out of his old bed and hurting himself.
“What’s the story about?” he asked, fluffing the pillow behind his head. “Don’t make it too scary, okay?”
“Okay. Not too scary,” I said. Total lie.
“Tonight’s story is about an evil old man. The man was so evil, he could turn himself into a snarling, clawing monster. Just by concentrating on being evil.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name was Mitch,” I said. “Stop interrupting.”
“No. Really. What was his name?”
“His name was Evil Boris. But people just called him Evil. Everyone was afraid of him. Every night, Evil Boris would take a walk around town and do something evil.”
“Like what?”
I had the bedroom lights turned low. Mitch’s dark eyes glowed in the dim light, wide with fright. His hands gripped the top of the blanket. I told the story in a whisper, just to make it scarier.
“Evil Boris liked to step on cats. Some nights he picked up big, metal trash cans and poured garbage into people’s cars. He crushed birds in his bare hands. He liked to smash windows on houses just to hear the crackling glass sound. And — and guess what else?”
“What else?” Mitch asked in a tiny voice.
“Once a week, he ate someone.”
“He ate people?” Mitch asked.
“He only ate kids, about your age,” I said.
I almost laughed. I love making up these stories. And it makes me happy when I can think of creepy ideas like that.
“He liked to taste them first. Maybe he’d start by chewing on an arm. Sometimes he started with a leg. But the strange thing is … Evil Boris always saved the head for last.”
Mitch made a gulping sound.
“Can you picture it?” I whispered. “Can you picture Evil Boris turning himself into a fanged monster and pulling apart someone your age … chewing … chewing … chewing and swallowing.”
“Stop, Lu-Ann,” Mitch begged. “I don’t want to picture it. You said you wouldn’t make it too scary.”
“But I didn’t tell you the scary part,” I whispered. “Don’t you want to hear the scary part?”
“No!” Mitch shouted. “No, I don’t.”
“The scary part is … Evil Boris lives in your closet, Mitch. He lives in the back of your clothes closet.”
“Noooo!”
Uh-oh. I think I went too far. Mitch was starting to lose it.
I could see the bedcovers trembling. And I saw the dark glow of his wide, frightened eyes.
“Mitch,” I said softly. I patted his shoulder. “It’s just a story. It isn’t true.” I smoothed a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I made the whole thing up. Don’t be afraid.”
“Too scary,” he murmured. His eyes were on the clothes closet across the bedroom.
“Go ahead. Check out the closet,” I said. I tugged him up. “Go look in the closet. You’ll see. It’s empty. There’s no one in there.”
He pulled back. “I don’t want to.”
“It’s just a story,” I said. “Quick. Go look in the closet. Prove it to yourself. Then you can go to sleep.”
He climbed slowly to his feet. His eyes were locked on the closet door. He crossed the room to the closet.
“Go ahead. Open it,” I urged. “You’ll see. No one there.”
Mitch grabbed the door handle. He pulled open the door — and a hideous old man with long curled fangs and a dangling eyeball came roaring out at him.
Mitch opened his mouth in a shriek of horror.
I clapped my hands to my face. “My story!” I cried. “It came true!”
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 © 2012 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, April 2012
Cover design by Steve Scott
Cover art by Brandon Dorman
e-ISBN 978-0-545-39258-7
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