by R. L. Stine
The officers dragged Mr. Moon and Angela to the door.
“My parents go from town to town, inviting kids to their totally scary Halloween parties. But they’re too scary,” Michael continued. “They keep kids trapped here. They make them eat disgusting things.”
“That’s really sad,” Rosa whispered. A glob of drool ran down her snout. She quickly mopped it up with her furry paw.
“Every Halloween they throw a party just like this one,” Michael said. “It’s so sad. I—I don’t know what will happen to us now.”
“Yes. So sad,” Tristan repeated. A growl of hunger shook his belly.
“But look at those two kids!” Angela cried. “They are wolves! They are really wolves!”
“Sorry,” the red-haired cop said. “You’ve pulled this too many times.”
He led the Moons to the door. “You’d better come too, son,” he told Michael. “Will you kids be able to get home by yourselves okay?”
“No problem,” Tristan growled.
“No—wait!” Bella cried, finally finding her voice. “Ray and I—we’re not safe. We—”
Ray stared at Tristan and Rosa. “We need help!” he shouted.
Too late.
The door closed behind the Moons and the two cops.
Silence now.
Their faces wide with fright, Bella and Ray backed away from the two werewolves.
Take a look at what’s ahead in
THE NIGHTMARE ROOM #11
Scare School
“AAAIIIIEEE!”
I let out a scream and heaved my backpack against the wall.
Mom spun around from the kitchen sink. Dad jumped up from the breakfast table. “Sam, what is your problem?” he called.
“The stupid zipper is stuck again,” I said.
I knew what was coming. Another lecture about holding my temper.
I counted to five under my breath. Mom was a little slow this morning. She usually starts the lecture by the count of three.
“Sam, you promised,” she said, shaking her head.
“I know, I know,” I muttered.
“You promised you would work on your temper,” Dad said, walking over to me. Dad is very tall and broad like a middle linebacker. His friends all call him Giant.
I dragged the backpack up from the floor and tried the zipper again. “I said I would be careful not to lose my temper at my new school,” I said.
“You wouldn’t be starting at a new school if you didn’t get into so many fights at your old school,” Mom said.
She gave me the hard stare. I call it the Evil Eye. It made her look like some kind of dangerous bird, like a hawk or a buzzard or something.
“Like I don’t know that!” I snapped.
“Easy,” Dad warned, raising one of his huge, beefy hands.
“I know, I know. I got kicked out of school, and you’ll never forgive me,” I said angrily. “But I didn’t start that big shoving match. Really. It wasn’t my fault.”
Mom let out a long sigh. “Haven’t we talked about blaming others for your problems, Sam? You had to leave your school because you were fighting. You can’t blame anyone else for what you did.”
“Yak, yak,” I muttered. I finally got the stupid backpack zipper to move.
“Don’t say ‘yak yak’ to your mother,” Dad scolded. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Maybe I’ll have that word tattooed on my forehead. Then I won’t have to say it. I can just point.
Dad took a long sip from his coffee mug. He had his eyes narrowed on me. “Sam, I know you’re tense about starting a new school.”
I glanced at the clock. “Tense—and late,” I said.
“Oh, my goodness!” Mom cried, spreading her hands over her cheeks. “We completely lost track of the time. Quick. Get your coat. I’ll drive you.”
A few seconds later, I was seated beside Mom in the Taurus. I stared out at the gray November day. Most of the trees were already bare. The whole world appeared gray and washed-out.
The car roared as we rocketed down the narrow street. Mom drives like a NASCAR driver. The houses sped past in a blur. I pulled my seatbelt as tight as I could.
“A fresh new start,” Mom said, trying to sound cheerful. She hadn’t brushed her curly, red hair. It stuck out in all directions over the collar of her brown car coat.
“Mmm hmmm,” I muttered.
I didn’t want to say anything. I had my fingers crossed, praying that I could get out of the car without hearing another lecture.
“I know you’re going to do really well at Broadmoor School,” Mom said. She squealed to a stop halfway past a stoplight.
“Mmm hmmm.” I kept my eyes out the window.
Suddenly, Mom reached out and squeezed my hand. “Be good, okay, Sam?”
Her sudden touch shocked me. We’re not a real touchy-feely family. We’re not constantly hugging each other the way families do on TV.
Once in a while, Dad will slap me a high five. That’s about as far as we go.
I could see Mom was serious. And worried.
I swallowed hard. “I’ll be different,” I told her. “No problem.”
She pulled the car to the curb. I stared out at my new school.
As I climbed out of the car, my chest suddenly felt kind of fluttery. My mouth was dry.
I really am nervous, I realized.
Of course, if I had known the terror that was waiting for me inside that building, I would have been a lot more nervous!
I would have turned and run and not looked back.
“Sam, your saxophone,” Mom called from the car. “It’s in the trunk—remember?”
“Oh. Right.” I did forget.
She popped the trunk, and I pulled the big black sax case out.
I hope this school has a good band, I thought.
I’ve been taking sax lessons since I was barely as tall as the sax. I played in the jazz band at my old school. And some friends and I used to hang out and play in my garage.
Everyone says I’m really talented. I love to play. I love the idea of being able to make all that noise and make it really rock.
“Sam, what are you doing? Daydreaming? Don’t just stand there. You’re late,” Mom called.
She squealed away from the curb. Made a U-turn onto someone’s front lawn. Then headed back for home.
I balanced the backpack on my shoulders. Moved the sax case to my right hand. And stared at my new school.
What a gloomy sight.
My old school was brand new. It was modem and bright. And it had four separate buildings, and every building was painted a different bright color.
My old school was very outdoorsy, like those California schools on the TV shows. We walked to class outside. And there was a huge lawn with a little pond where everyone hung out and relaxed.
Broadmoor School wasn’t like that.
It was a square-shaped, old building. Three stories tall with a flat, black roof. I guess it had been built of yellow brick. But most of the bricks had faded to brown.
On one wall of the building, the bricks were charred black. It looked as if a deep shadow hung over that wall. I guessed there had once been a fire there.
The grass in front of the building was patchy and choked with tall weeds. A barbed-wire fence ran around a small playground on the side. A U.S. flag snapped and flapped in the strong wind on top of a flagpole beside the entrance.
It doesn’t look like a school, I thought. It looks like a prison!
I climbed the three steps and pulled open one of the front doors. The door was heavy, hard to pull open. The glass in one of the windows was cracked.
I stepped into the front hall and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. A long, dark hall stretched in front of me.
The walls were painted gray. Rows of black, metal lockers made them even darker. Only about half of the ceiling lights worked.
I took a few steps. The thud of my shoes rang out down the hall.
Where is everyone? I thought.
Yes, I’m a few minutes late. But why isn’t there anyone in the hall?
I’m assigned to Room 201, I reminded myself.
Is that on this floor? Or is it up one floor?
I began moving quickly down the hall, my eyes moving from side to side as I struggled to find a room number.
I passed a glass display case with one dust-covered basketball trophy. Above the case, a small blue-and-yellow banner read: GO, GOLDEN BEARS!
Two classrooms were dark and empty. I searched for room numbers but didn’t see any.
Maybe they don’t use this floor, I thought. Maybe all the classes are upstairs.
Lugging my sax case, I made my way down the long hall. The only sounds were the scrape of my shoes on the concrete floor and my shallow breathing.
The sax case began to feel heavier. I switched it to my other hand. Then I started walking again.
I turned a corner—and heard footsteps. Very light and rapid.
“Hey—!” I called out. “Is anyone there?”
My voice sounded hollow in the empty hall.
About three doorways down, I saw a flash of movement.
A figure darted out into the hall.
At first, I thought it was a little kid. He was only two or three feet high.
But then I realized he wasn’t wearing any clothes.
He had his back to me. He didn’t seem to know I was there.
His skin was greenish-yellow, covered in patches with green fur. He walked stooped over, on two legs.
His skinny arms stretched in front of him, nearly to the floor. He had small, pointed ears that stood straight up on a slender, bald head.
A giant green rat! I thought.
But then he stopped. And turned.
His mouth gaped open as he saw me.
He hissed at me. A frightening, angry sound like a snake about to attack.
And then he stepped into the light. And I saw him…saw him clearly.
And I cried out in shock and amazement.
The green, ratlike creature had a HUMAN face!
About the Author
R.L. STINE says he has a great job. “My job is to give kids the CREEPS!” With his scary books, R.L. has terrified kids all over the world. He has sold over 300 million books, making him the best-selling children’s author in history.
These days, R.L. is dishing out new frights in his series THE NIGHTMARE ROOM. When he isn’t working, he likes to read old mysteries, watch SpongeBob Squarepants on TV, and take his dog, Nadine, for long walks around New York City, where he lives with his wife, Jane, and son, Matthew.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Read all the books in
The Nightmare Room
Series by R.L. Stine
#1 Don’t Forget Me!
#2 Locker 13
#3 My Name Is Evil
#4 Liar Liar
#5 Dear Diary, I’m Dead
#6 They Call Me Creature
#7 The Howler
#8 Shadow Girl
#9 Camp Nowhere
Thrillogy #1: Fear Games
Thrillogy #2: What Scares You the Most?
Thrillogy #3: No Survivors
Credits
Cover design by John Fontana
Cover illustration by Tristan Elwell
Copyright
THE NIGHTMARE ROOM #10: FULL MOON HALLOWEEN. Copyright © 2001 by Parachute Publishing, L.L.C. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition June 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-190339-7
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