The Second Horror

by R. L. Stine

  “How?” she repeated, her eyes locked skeptically on his.

  “I was poisoned,” Brandt explained. “On the island of Mapolo with my parents. My father was working there, searching for rare tribal weapons.”

  He began to tell Cally the story, as he knew it and as his parents had told it to him. Brandt had been over and over this story in his mind, during all the nights he lay awake in bed. He kept trying to find some clue in it, or some meaning to everything that was happening to him at 99 Fear Street.

  He let the hatchet fall as he began his story. “We were staying on a tiny island called Mapolo,” he said. “That’s where my father got those darts.”

  “Is that what killed you?” Cally asked suspiciously. “You were shot with a dart?”

  “No,” Brandt replied. “I died by mistake. Let me tell the story. Don’t interrupt.”

  She flashed him an angry scowl, but remained silent.

  “The people who live on Mapolo followed a strange religion,” Brandt continued. “It involves herbs and potions, spells and rituals. They use all these things in their daily life.

  “My father bought the darts from a young warrior who later thought Dad had cheated him. The warrior came to our hut one night and spread poison powder on our doorstep. Then he growled like a panther and waited for Dad to come out and see what the noise was. He assumed that my father would be the one who came out first, the one who would step into the poison powder.

  “But the growling woke me up first. I went to the door and stepped outside.

  “When my feet touched the powder, at first I thought it was only sand. But then the soles of my feet began to burn. The pain was unbearable.

  “I started screaming. My feet were on fire. The fire spread up my leg, all the way up through my body, until it reached my heart.

  “When the poison hit my heart, I fell to the ground. I was dead. After that, all I know is what my parents told me,” Brandt said. “The people in Mapolo were sorry for my parents. They put me in a coffin and they buried me.”

  Brandt touched the small scar on his cheek and added, “This scar was caused by one of the nails they hammered into my coffin.”

  Cally ran a cold hand over the scar, as if to make sure it was real.

  “But my mother couldn’t believe I was dead,” Brandt continued. “She wouldn’t believe it. She kept insisting there was a mistake.

  “So my father went to a sorcerer in the village. He was like a witch doctor. He knew more about magic and spells than anyone else on the island. He gave people potions and medicines. He might have made the poison that killed me, for all I know.

  “The sorcerer said to my parents, ‘Your son’s death does not have to last. He is missing only one part of his spirit—the life force. His life force has been taken away from him. But I can give him a new one.’ ”

  Cally asked, “How?”

  “The sorcerer and my father dug up my grave. They dragged my coffin to the sorcerer’s hut.

  “The sorcerer left the coffin in a corner of the hut. He told my mother to stay by it day and night, keeping watch. ‘Don’t let anyone near the body,’ he said.

  “Then the sorcerer went up to the main road on the island. Night was coming on. He sat by the road and watched the people wander past. Some were fishermen on their way home with the day’s catch. Some were women carrying fruit back to their huts.

  “Then a stranger walked by. A drifter. He stumbled down the road, ragged and dirty.

  “The sorcerer beckoned to him. ‘You look hungry, my friend,’ the sorcerer said. ‘And you look tired. I am on my way home now. Come to my hut and I will feed you. You may spend the night there if you wish.’

  “The drifter probably wanted to go home with the sorcerer, but he hesitated. He knew that people on Mapolo could be dangerous.

  “The sorcerer said, ‘You must not sleep outdoors on Mapolo. The island is full of panthers. One of them will surely eat you before morning.’

  “So the drifter went with the sorcerer. He felt he had no choice.”

  Brandt paused. Cally’s eyes fell on the leather pouch he always wore.

  “Yes, Cally,” Brandt assured her, tugging on the pouch. “This pouch is coming into the story soon.

  “The sorcerer brought the drifter into his hut and gave him some kind of herbal tea. The tea was heavily drugged. After a few minutes the drifter lay as still as if he were dead.

  “The sorcerer told my father to open my coffin. He looked at my corpse. I had been dead for only one day. My body had not yet begun to decay.”

  Brandt swallowed hard. It felt strange to talk about himself this way.

  “My parents watched as the sorcerer went to work. He took off the drifter’s clothes and handed them to my father. He told my father to dress me in the drifter’s clothes.

  “Then the sorcerer cut off the drifter’s hair. He clipped off his fingernails. He put the hair and the fingernail clippings into a leather pouch. This pouch.”

  Brandt touched the leather pouch again.

  “He put the pouch around my neck. Now I wore the drifter’s clothes on my body, and wore his hair and nails around my neck. Still, I was dead. The drifter lay on the floor, breathing softly.

  “The sorcerer and my father lowered my body on the floor beside the drifter’s. Then my parents huddled in a corner and watched the sorcerer perform a strange ceremony.

  “He lit a torch and danced around my body and the drifter’s body in a figure eight. He chanted something in a strange language my father had never heard before. Then he waved the torch over my corpse, passing it from the drifter’s body to mine, over and over again, chanting in that weird language.

  “The ceremony lasted until dawn. My father said he heard a rooster crow. At that very moment he saw the drifter shudder. The man never breathed again.

  “Then my father stared at me—and saw my chest move up, then down.

  “My mother screamed, she was so happy. She had seen me breathe too.

  “I was alive! I had been dead—but now I was alive again! I sat up, I opened my eyes. I was alive—but the drifter was dead. The sorcerer had stolen his life force—and given it to me.”

  Brandt sank back. His story was finished.

  Cally floated closer. “Brandt,” she whispered, “this is even better than I’d hoped. You’re dead but you’re not. You’re undead!”

  She threw her arms around him. “We’ll have so much fun, Brandt. You and I. We’ll haunt this house together—forever!”

  She brought her face close to kiss him.

  But a cold cloud fell over Brandt.

  He raised his eyes to it—and saw the dark shadow figure that had been chasing him.

  “Who—who are you?” Brandt cried out.

  Chapter 29

  The shadow loomed closer, darkening the hallway as it moved. “I’ve come to take back my life!” the dark figure cried.

  Brandt gaped into the darkness. “You!” he uttered.

  As Brandt stared at the shifting dark cloud, the figure inside it began to take shape. The image came clearer, clearer, like a camera lens focusing.

  The shadows faded and fell away.

  Brandt found himself staring at a man. It was impossible to tell how old he was. His hair had been shorn off until he was nearly bald. He was short and wiry. The top of his head reached only to Brandt’s chin.

  He wore cotton pants and a cotton shirt. The clothes hung long and loose on him, clearly too large. The sleeves of the shirt flapped over his hands. The cuffs of the pants dragged along the floor.

  His tiny round black eyes gleamed dully, hard and empty. Lifeless.

  A cold, sickening realization shuddered through Brandt. The shadowy figure who’d been chasing him—it wasn’t Cally’s ghost after all.

  The shadowy figure was the spirit of the drifter from the island.

  “I’ve come to take my life back,” the drifter announced in a dry whisper, the sound of crackling dead leaves from the hole that w
as his mouth.

  “No! Stay away from me!” Brandt cried, backing away in terror. “Please—stay away!”

  With lightning quickness the man’s bony hand shot out and ripped the leather pouch from Brandt’s neck.

  “No! Please—” Brandt protested, weaker now.

  Clutching the pouch, the shadowy figure grew solid. His features grew sharper and clearer in the dim light of the hallway. His skin and eyes gave off a warm glow.

  “My heart is beating!” the drifter cried joyfully. “I’m alive!”

  He vanished silently down the stairs.

  “Please . . .” Brandt whispered helplessly. The breath seeped out of his body. He tried to inhale, to pull air in with his lungs.

  But he hadn’t the strength.

  “Brandt?” Cally narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you okay?”

  Brandt answered with a low moan. He could feel his tongue shrivel up. As he opened his mouth, several teeth fell out.

  Glancing down, he saw his hands wrinkle. The skin turned green, curled up, then dropped off in chunks.

  He watched Cally’s face contort in horror at the sight of him. He watched her lips moving frantically. But he couldn’t hear her words. He reached up to check his ears—and realized they had fallen off.

  He saw her start to scream. But then his eyes sank back in their sockets, and he saw nothing more.

  • • •

  “No!” Cally screamed.

  “Brandt! Don’t leave me!”

  Brandt’s body shriveled and decomposed before her eyes. His skeleton collapsed into the floor.

  Cally’s wails of anger and despair echoed through the house, all through the night.

  Brandt had been taken from her.

  She felt as if the evil of the house had defeated her once more.

  She was alone again.

  Epilogue

  “There they go,” Cally muttered to herself. “I’m being abandoned once more.”

  She hovered in her usual place, staring out of the attic window. A cobweb draped across the ceiling just above her face. Rats scampered across the dusty floor, searching for something to nibble on.

  In the street in front of the house, Cally saw a long, black hearse. Four men moved out of the house and slowly down the driveway, shouldering a shiny dark wood coffin.

  “Look,” Cally said, pointing out the window. She spoke as if to a friend—but she had no friends. “There it goes. There goes Brandt’s coffin.”

  Mr. and Mrs. McCloy followed behind the coffin in a grim procession. Mr. McCloy wore a dark suit. Mrs. McCloy wore a black dress and a black veil. Behind the veil she sobbed, her head bowed, a handkerchief pressed to her face.

  “Brandt’s parents,” Cally said in contempt. “I never liked them. They were so stupid. So uncaring. So self-absorbed. I’m glad they’re going. I can’t wait for them to leave.

  “Get out of my house!” she roared at them.

  Of course they couldn’t hear her.

  The undertaker pulled open the back of the hearse. The pallbearers lowered the heavy coffin, struggling with it, then slid it inside.

  The undertaker shut the door of the hearse.

  Mr. and Mrs. McCloy climbed into their car.

  The undertaker sat in the front seat of the hearse. He started the motor.

  A tremor of grief and fury seized Cally. “No!” she screamed. “Brandt stays here with me. Don’t take him away!”

  But the long, black hearse pulled silently away from the curb and rolled quickly down Fear Street and out of sight.

  Cally let out a long, shrill animal wail of protest. It echoed through the empty house.

  The misery on Cally’s face hardened into a mask. Her icy blue eyes glittered with hate.

  “I won’t be alone here forever,” she murmured through clenched teeth. “Someone else will move into this house.

  “Sooner or later, a new victim will come.”

  She snickered scornfully, thinking of the evil she would do—next time.

  “Someone will pay for my unhappiness,” she vowed.

  “The next people to arrive will be sorry they ever came to 99 Fear Street.”

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  About the Author

  “Where do you get your ideas?”

  That’s the question that R. L. Stine is asked most often. “I don’t know where my ideas come from,” he says. “But I do know that I have a lot more scary stories in my mind that I can’t wait to write.”

  So far, he has written nearly three dozen mysteries and thrillers for young people, all of them bestsellers.

  Bob grew up in Columbus, Ohio. Today he lives in an apartment near Central Park in New York City with his wife, Jane, and fourteen-year-old son, Matt.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Simon Pulse edition September 1994

  Text copyright © 1994 Parachute Press, Inc.

  Originally published as an Archway Paperback

  Simon Pulse

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright 1994 by Parachute Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN: 978-0-671-88536-2 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-4814-1360-2 (eBook)

  FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.

  Simon Pulse and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.