57 - My Best Friend is Invisible

by R. L. Stine

  “What about our math homework?” Roxanne demanded. “I thought we were going to do it together.”

  “I don’t feel like doing it now,” I grumbled.

  “Okay. Okay.” Roxanne backed out of the room. “You don’t have to do it. But I do. Ms. Starkling said it’s my turn at the chalkboard tomorrow. I want to make sure I get the equations right.”

  Roxanne left to do her homework.

  I opened my math book to do mine.

  I stared down at the numbers.

  But I couldn’t concentrate.

  I’ll get up early, I decided. And do my homework in the morning.

  I got up from my desk to change for bed.

  Brutus jumped into my desk chair—his favorite place to sleep.

  I crossed the room—and tripped on something in the middle of the floor.

  “Hey—what was that?” I spun around.

  I glanced at the floor.

  “Huh?”

  Nothing there.

  4

  I stared at the floor.

  I shook my head.

  I tripped over—nothing?

  It’s a good thing Roxanne didn’t see this one, I thought. I could hear her making fun of me now. “Practicing—to make sure we lose the race next week, Sammy?”

  I got into bed.

  I propped up my pillows and picked up the ghost-story book I was reading. I stared down at the page, but it was all just a blur.

  I closed the book and drifted off to sleep. But I tossed and turned all night long. Half asleep, half awake, I fluffed up my pillow. I pulled the covers up around me. I drifted off again—then woke up to a noise.

  Flapping.

  The flapping of my curtains in the night breeze.

  I sat up. I rubbed my eyes.

  I stared at the window.

  The open window!

  I bolted out of bed and slammed it shut.

  Who opened this window? WHO?

  Is it possible for a window to slide up?

  NO.

  It must be Simon. Simon must be playing a joke on me, I decided.

  But it couldn’t be Simon. Simon doesn’t play jokes. He’s always serious.

  I climbed back in bed—and stared at the window. Watching. Waiting. Waiting to see it open.

  But my eyelids grew heavy and I fell asleep.

  The next morning I woke up late. Brutus always wakes me up. But he didn’t today.

  I bolted up in bed to check the window. Closed.

  I glanced at my desk chair. Brutus was gone.

  I dressed quickly. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I headed out of my room. I looked wrecked.

  “Sammy, you look awful,” Mom said. “Did you get to bed late last night?”

  I slumped down at the kitchen table. Dad sat across from me, reading the newspaper.

  “No, not too late,” I told Mom.

  Dad peered over the newspaper. “You’re reading too many of those ghost books, Sammy. If you read about real science, you’d sleep better.”

  Dad went back to his newspaper.

  Mom poured some cereal into my breakfast bowl. I ate one spoonful—and Simon called me.

  “Sammy—come up here,” he shouted from his bedroom. “I need your help.”

  I ignored him.

  I ate another spoonful.

  “SAM-MY!” he screamed.

  “Sammy, go see what your brother wants,” Mom ordered.

  “SAM-MY! SAM-MY!”

  “WHAT?” I cried, charging into his room. “What’s your problem?”

  “That!” he said, pointing to the bed. “That is my problem.”

  Brutus lay curled up in Simon’s bed.

  “He slept in here last night,” Simon said. “And now I can’t get him out. He won’t move.”

  “Brutus slept in here?”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Brutus always sleeps in my room. Always.

  “Yes, he slept in here,” Sammy said. “And I want him out!”

  “What’s the big deal? Just leave him there.” I turned to the door.

  “Wait!” Simon yelled. “I can’t leave him there. I can’t!”

  “Why not?” I asked, confused.

  “Because I have to make my bed,” Simon answered.

  I stared hard at my brother. “What planet are you from?”

  “Sammy,” Simon whined. “I have to make my bed. Mom says.”

  “Just make the bed over him. Mom won’t notice the lump.”

  I returned to the kitchen a few seconds later. I sat down at the table.

  Mom peered over my shoulder. “Sammy, how did you finish your cereal so fast?”

  “Huh?”

  I stared down into my breakfast bowl.

  Totally empty!

  5

  “Someone—someone ate my cereal!” I stammered.

  “You’re right!” Mom gasped. “It must have been a ghost!”

  Mom and Dad laughed.

  I stared at the empty bowl—and the spoon.

  “Look!” I shouted. “Someone did eat my cereal. I have proof. The spoon—it’s on the left side of the bowl. I always put my spoon on the right side of the bowl—because I’m right-handed. See?”

  I pointed to the spoon.

  To the proof.

  “Stop kidding around, Sammy. You’re going to be late for school.” Mom turned to Dad. “We’d better get going too.”

  “Did you do it?” I asked Dad as he reached for his briefcase. “Did you eat my cereal? Did you move the spoon? Was it a joke?”

  “You’re reading too many ghost stories,” Dad said. “Way too many.” Then he and Mom hurried off for work.

  For a few minutes, I sat at the kitchen table. Just sat there, staring into my empty cereal bowl.

  Someone ate my cereal.

  I am not going crazy, I told myself.

  Someone ate my cereal.

  But who?

  “Sammy. Sammy.”

  Huh?

  “Sammy, would you like to tell us what is so fascinating outside?” Ms. Starkling crossed her arms in front of her, waiting for my answer.

  A few kids giggled.

  I had been gazing out the classroom window. Thinking—about my window. My open bedroom window. And my disappearing cereal.

  “Uh—no. I mean, nothing,” I said. “I mean—I wasn’t looking at anything.”

  Some more giggles.

  “Sammy, come up to the chalkboard, please, and show the class how to finish this equation.”

  “But it’s Roxanne’s turn,” I blurted out. “I mean, isn’t Roxanne supposed to show the class today?”

  “Sammy, please.” Ms. Starkling tapped the chalkboard with a piece of chalk. “Now.”

  I glanced at Roxanne. She just shrugged her shoulders.

  I was in big trouble.

  I didn’t do my math homework last night. And I didn’t do it this morning, either—because Brutus didn’t wake me up on time.

  My temples pounded as I made my way to the front of the classroom. I walked slowly. Staring at the equation. Trying to figure out how to solve it before I got up there.

  I had no idea.

  Ms. Starkling handed me the piece of chalk.

  Silence fell over the classroom.

  I stared hard at the numbers on the board.

  My palms began to sweat.

  “Read the equation out loud,” Ms. Starkling suggested. She said it nicely. But I could tell she was losing her patience.

  I read the equation out loud.

  It didn’t help.

  I lifted the chalk to the board, even though I still didn’t know what to do.

  I stared at the numbers some more.

  I heard the sounds of kids shifting impatiently in their seats.

  I placed the chalk against the board—and gasped.

  I felt something squeeze my hand. Something cold and wet.

  My knees started to shake.

  I felt hot breath right up against my face.


  I tried to step back—but I couldn’t move.

  Something squeezed my fingers tighter and tighter. Squeezed until it hurt.

  The breathing against my face grew more rapid—sharp gasps that stung my cheeks.

  I wanted to pull free. But then my hand started to move across the chalkboard.

  My hand was moving—and it started to write!

  Someone was writing numbers for me! Someone was holding my hand! Moving it! Solving the equation!

  Someone I couldn’t see!

  6

  I yanked my hand back. I jerked free of the clammy, invisible grip.

  Then I dropped the chalk—and started screaming.

  And ran from the room.

  I ran into the hall. I leaned against the wall outside the classroom. My hands were shaking. My knees trembled.

  I could still feel the cold, ghostly fingers wrapped around my hand.

  I heard Roxanne inside—volunteering to finish the equation.

  “Sammy.” Ms. Starkling met me out in the hall. “What happened? Are you sick? Would you like to see the school nurse?”

  “I’m—I’m not sick,” I stammered.

  I didn’t want to explain what happened.

  I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t even want to try.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see the nurse? You don’t look well.” Ms. Starkling felt my forehead.

  “No. I’m okay,” I lied. “I—I just felt a little dizzy—because I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”

  Ms. Starkling believed me. She sent me to the lunchroom to get something to eat.

  As I made my way down the hall, I could still feel the clammy hand gripping my fingers.

  Still feel the hot breath on my face.

  Still feel the cold force as it pushed my hand along the board. Guiding it. Writing the numbers for me.

  I shivered.

  Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I have been reading too many ghost stories.

  I walked home alone after school. I wanted to be by myself. To think.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Footsteps pounding the pavement. Running toward me.

  “Sammy—wait up!” It was Roxanne.

  I pretended I didn’t hear her. I kept walking.

  “Sammy!” Roxanne caught up—out of breath. “What happened to you today?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Something happened,” she insisted. “Something happened to you in math class.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I told her.

  “I’m really good at math,” Roxanne said smugly. “I’d be happy to help you—if you don’t understand it.”

  “I… don’t… need… help,” I replied through gritted teeth. I began to walk faster—but Roxanne kept up with me.

  We didn’t talk.

  Finally, Roxanne broke the silence. “Let’s go to the haunted house Saturday night. For our project. Okay?”

  “Maybe. I have to get home now. I’ll call you later to talk about it.”

  I broke into a run—and left Roxanne on the sidewalk, staring after me.

  I wanted to get home.

  I wanted to think about everything that had happened.

  I wanted to think about it—by myself.

  As I headed into the house, I wondered about my bedroom window. Would it be open? I made sure it was closed before I left this morning. But that didn’t mean anything.

  I started up the stairs. But I stopped when I heard Brutus meowing loudly in the kitchen. He always does that when he wants to go out.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”

  Brutus started to wail.

  “Hold it down, Brutus. I said I was—”

  I stopped in the kitchen door.

  There was Brutus—crouched on a chair. His fur stood straight up. He pulled back his lips in a menacing hiss.

  I followed his gaze—and let out a shriek.

  A pizza sat on the table.

  A slice from the pie floated above the plate—floated up by itself.

  I stared in shock as it rose higher and higher.

  “Who—who’s there?” I stammered. “I know someone is there! Who ARE you?”

  7

  “Who are you?” I demanded again.

  No answer.

  I stared at the pizza slice. Stared as it floated in midair.

  I watched as it was chewed up. Bite by bite.

  “Tell me who you are!” I shouted. “You’re really scaring me!”

  Another bite disappeared from the floating slice of pizza. And another.

  “This isn’t happening. It can’t be,” I whispered.

  I’ll close my eyes. When I open them—I’ll see that I imagined the whole thing, I told myself.

  And I’ll never read a ghost book again, I promised.

  Or watch a sci-fi movie.

  Another bite of the pizza disappeared.

  I closed my eyes.

  I opened them.

  The slice of pizza was gone.

  I let out a long sigh of relief.

  Then I realized it was gone—EATEN.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” I demanded. “Tell me—right now. Or I’ll—”

  “Sammy—who are you talking to?” Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at me.

  “There’s someone here!” I cried. “Someone eating pizza!”

  “I can see that!” Mom said. “I can see that someone has eaten half a pizza—before dinner. Sammy, you know you’re not supposed to eat before dinner!”

  “I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” I cried.

  “Of course it wasn’t you,” Mom said. “It was the ghost from this morning—right? The one who ate your cereal. Sammy, please. This is serious. How many times have I told you—no snacking before dinner. You’re old enough to know better!”

  “But, Mom—”

  “No buts! I want you to go up to your room and straighten it up before we eat,” Mom ordered. “You left it a mess this morning. Please put your dirty clothes in the hamper and make your bed.”

  “But half the day is over. It doesn’t make sense to make my bed now,” I argued.

  “Sam-my!” Mom narrowed her eyes. Mom narrows her eyes when she’s angry. Right now her eyes were really narrowed. “GO!”

  Mom opened the refrigerator to get a drink.

  I turned to leave the kitchen—and froze.

  Right behind Mom, Brutus started to rise up from the kitchen chair. Floating up. Rising higher and higher.

  His fur stood straight up. He gazed down at the floor and let out a cry. He stretched out his paws to leap—

  “Mom, look!” I cried. “Look at Brutus!”

  Mom whirled around—too late. Brutus had landed safely back on the kitchen chair.

  Mom’s eyes grew really, really narrow. “Go up to your room now, Sammy!”

  What could I do?

  I left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. I turned into my room—and gasped.

  My room!

  My room looked like a garbage dump.

  Cereal boxes were strewn on the bed. Greasy food containers and crushed juice boxes littered my desk, my dresser, my chair—everywhere.

  I took a step inside and heard a loud crunch. I glanced down—and groaned. Frosted Flakes and Corn Pops carpeted the floor.

  “Who did this?” I cried. “WHO TRASHED MY ROOM?”

  I collapsed on my bed—and felt something sticky on the back of my pants. “Oooh, gross!” I moaned. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  I pulled back the blanket for a clean place to sit—and found strands of last night’s spaghetti and some half-eaten chicken legs.

  “Who would do this?” I shook my head. “WHO?”

  Does Simon’s room look like this? I wondered. And Mom and Dad’s room? I ran down the hall to check.

  Simon’s room was spotless. Mom and Dad’s room was perfectly clean too.

  I walked back to my room—and froze.

  “Sammy!” Mom planted her hands firmly on her h
ips. Her face burned red with anger. “What have you done?”

  8

  “I—I didn’t do it, Mom!” I cried. “I didn’t make this mess!”

  “Give me a break,” Mom sighed. “If you didn’t do it, who did? I didn’t do it! Your father didn’t do it! Simon didn’t do it! Tell me, Sammy—who did it?”

  “M-maybe it was Simon.” I didn’t know what else to say. But I shouldn’t have said that.

  “First you trash your room. Then you try to blame your little brother! Sammy—I don’t know what’s gotten into you! I don’t want to see you downstairs until this room sparkles. Your father and I will discuss what to do about you later.”

  Mom turned to leave. “And don’t come down for dinner. You’ve eaten quite enough!”

  I stood in the center of my room and listened to Mom’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

  “How am I going to clean this mess?” I moaned. “It will take me a year.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  Who said that?

  I spun around to face the doorway.

  No one there.

  “Come on, Sammy,” a boy’s voice urged. “Let’s get going, or we’ll never clean up this mess.”

  I watched in disbelief as a cereal box floated up from my bed. Floated up and threw itself into the trash.

  “Who—who are you?” I stammered. “How do you know my name?”

  Another cereal box started to rise. And another. They tossed themselves into the trash too.

  I waited for the boy to answer me.

  But he didn’t.

  I stared at the last cereal box—waiting for it to rise up.

  It didn’t move.

  “Where are you?” I whispered.

  No answer.

  I scanned my bedroom—searching for a sign of him. Where did he go?

  I heard a rustling sound and spun around.

  My pillow hovered in the air. I watched as the pillowcase slid off it—all by itself!

  “Where are the clean sheets, Sammy? You know, you should make your bed in the morning—like Simon.”

  “How do you know me?” My voice started to rise. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

  “Calm down,” the boy said. “No reason to get stressed. I arrived last night. I found out your name from Roxanne.”