by R. L. Stine
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
TEASER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE
COPYRIGHT
I have a ’57 Chevy Impala in my room. It’s two-tone blue with red-and-silver flame detailing on the sides and fins.
And I have a ’92 Firebird V-8 with a twin-cam engine and black leather interior. And I have an ’83 silver Camaro that I haven’t finished putting together.
Yes, they’re models. I’ve filled the bookshelves along my bedroom wall with model cars that I’ve built.
Dad says he’s going to build shelves on the other wall to hold the new ones. But that would cover up my race car posters.
I don’t want to do that. I love my car posters. One of them is even signed by Mario Andretti. If you’re not into cars, I’d better explain that he’s a very famous race car driver. In fact, he’s a legend.
My name is Mitchell Moinian. I’m twelve, and I’m kind of a legend, too. That’s because I know more about cars than anybody in my school.
Sometimes my friends Allan and Steve and I have a contest. We stand on the corner outside my house and see who can be the first to identify the cars that come by.
I win every time. I can identify cars with my eyes closed!
That’s because I read stacks and stacks of car magazines. And when I’m not reading about cars or building models of cars, I like to draw cars.
Know what I dream about at night? That’s right — I dream that I’m driving cars.
Anyway, I guess my story starts on a peaceful Saturday afternoon. It had rained all morning, and a few raindrops, blown by the wind, still tapped against my bedroom window.
I didn’t care. I like the sound of rain when I’m inside working on a model. I leaned over my worktable, studying the diagrams for the silver Camaro.
It was pretty complicated. There were a million pieces to this one. I mean, you don’t just glue slot A to tab B and call it a Camaro!
I had the chassis built. And I was carefully fitting together fiberglass parts to the body — when my brother, Todd, came bursting into the room, screaming his head off.
“Hey!” I jumped — and cracked a fender. The fiberglass split in my fist.
“You jerk!” I screamed. “Look what you made me do!”
Todd didn’t even look down at the broken fender. “Hurry! Help me!” he cried. “You’ve got to come — quick!”
Todd is seven. He’s not into cars. I don’t know what he’s into.
I guess he’s into scaring himself. He’s been very weird ever since we moved into this creepy old house last year.
We had a perfectly nice house back in Toledo. But Dad got a new job, and we had to move to Forrest Valley. And Mom and Dad bought this huge, old, broken-down heap.
The house leans over a high peak on the top of Hunter Hill. You can see our house from town in Forrest Valley below. Even from so far away, the house looks like a haunted house in a horror movie.
I think they bought this wreck because Dad likes to build and repair things. He watches all those “Fix Up Your Own House” shows on TV and says, “I can do that. I can do that.”
Except he really can’t.
As Mom says, “When it comes to being handy, he’s all thumbs!”
Anyway, Todd has been acting really weird ever since we moved in. He is convinced the house is haunted. He’s always seeing ghosts in every room.
He’s always screaming and carrying on and freaking himself out. Do you believe it? The poor guy has to sleep with his lights on!
And now he stood trembling in my doorway, motioning frantically with both hands for me to follow him. He’s so skinny and blond and pink. I had to laugh. The way he was twitching and shaking, he looked like a frightened bunny rabbit.
“Mitchell — hurry! Please!” he cried. “There’s a ghost in my room!”
“Not again,” I groaned. I dropped the broken fiberglass fender to the table and glared at my brother. “Todd, your brain is haunted. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no ghost in this house!”
“Please —” he pleaded.
“Have you been reading those scary books again?” I asked. “You know you’re too young for them.”
“No. Really. I’m not making it up this time,” he insisted. He turned and gazed down the hall, quivering all over. “It — it’s down there.”
“Okay, okay,” I muttered. I climbed to my feet, shaking my head. “You wrecked my Camaro fender. There’d better be a real ghost this time.”
“There is,” he murmured. “For real. In my closet. I saw it.”
He stepped aside to let me pass. I peered down the long, dark hallway. Gray light washed in from the tiny window at the far end. Dad had started to put up ceiling lights. But he needed someone to help him with the wiring.
In the meantime, the long hall was always dark. And the ancient brown wallpaper on the walls, cracked and peeling, didn’t make it any brighter.
The old floorboards creaked under our feet as I led the way to Todd’s room.
“A ghost in my closet,” Todd whispered. “I’m not making it up.”
He stayed behind me, one hand clinging to the back of my T-shirt. I glanced over my shoulder. His bunny face twitched, blue eyes wide with fright.
Todd always was the weird one in the Moinian family. He doesn’t even look like us. Mom, Dad, and I are all tall and dark, with brown eyes and brown hair.
I stopped at the doorway and peered into Todd’s room. Gloomy gray light washed over the room from the rain-spotted window.
“Do you see it? Do you see it?” Todd eagerly whispered behind me, his fist still clinging to my shirt.
“Of course not —” I started.
But then my eyes moved to Todd’s half-open closet door. And I saw the ghostly figure floating inside the closet.
“Whoa,” I murmured. A chill of fear rolled down my body.
“What? You see it? What is it?” Todd demanded, his fist jabbing my back.
I squinted into the gray light, struggling to focus, watching the pale, unmoving figure.
It took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn’t staring at a ghost. I was staring at Todd’s half-full laundry bag.
“You jerk!” I cried. I turned and gave him a hard shove with both hands. “It’s your laundry bag!”
He stumbled backward and hit the wall. “Well, who would leave it there?” he demanded. “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t a ghost?”
“Because there aren’t any ghosts!” I screamed.
“Prove it,” he replied. He crossed his bony arms over the front of his X-Files T-shirt.
“Prove what?” I snarled. “Prove that there aren’t any ghosts?”
“The truth is out there,” Todd said solemnly.
“You’d better stop watching that show,” I scolded. “Stop reading the scary books and stop watching The X-Files, Todd. You’re making yourself crazy.”
“Look at this creepy house,” Todd argued. “A house that looks like this has to be haunted. It has to —”
“Mom and Dad are really worried about you,” I interrupted. “They think you’re totally losing it.”
“No way, I —” Todd started to protest.<
br />
But a deafening crash shook the house.
Todd and I both jumped and cried out. “What was that?”
“Downstairs!” I gasped.
We took off down the hall, floorboards creaking and groaning. I reached the stairs first and started down, leaning hard on the banister, taking the stairs two at a time.
Halfway down, I started into the living room — and saw what had caused the crash. A bookshelf had fallen off the wall. The bookshelf Dad just built last weekend.
It had toppled over into our couch. Books and framed photos and flower vases had spilled across the floor.
“What is it? What happened?” Todd came barreling down the stairs so fast, he bumped into me. I grabbed the railing to keep from tumbling the rest of the way down.
“Look out!” I growled. “It’s just Dad’s bookshelf.”
Squeezing the banister with both hands, Todd leaned forward and stared into the living room. “That’s just the kind of thing a ghost would do,” he declared.
I turned to him. “Excuse me?”
“Ghosts always do mischief,” he explained, his eyes on the fallen bookshelf. “A ghost did that, Mitchell. I know it!”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Todd, you’re crazy,” I replied through gritted teeth. “You know it wasn’t a ghost. You know it has to be Dad’s fault. Has Dad ever built a bookshelf that stayed on the wall for more than a week?”
“I heard that!” a voice cried.
Dad lumbered into the room, wiping his hands with a towel. I guessed he had been working on some project in the basement since his hands were smeared with grease and two of his fingers were cut.
He wore baggy, paint-stained jeans and an old white shirt with several buttons missing. The front of his shirt was also smeared with grease.
He brushed his straight brown hair off his forehead and stared at the fallen bookshelf, shaking his head. “Wrong brackets,” he muttered to himself.
“Todd thought it was a ghost,” I snitched.
Still wiping his hands, Dad turned to us on the stairway. “No. I used the wrong brackets,” he said. “Todd, you’ve really got to stop seeing ghosts everywhere you look.”
“Okay, Dad,” Todd replied quickly. He never wants to argue with Dad. Dad has a bad temper, and Todd hates to be yelled at. “I’ll try.”
Dad gazed at Todd for a long moment. Then he stepped around the couch, grabbed the top of the bookshelf, and shoved it into a standing position. He leaned it carefully against the wall.
“Broke a vase and a few picture frames,” he muttered unhappily. “Your mom won’t be pleased.”
Todd and I made our way down the stairs, into the living room. I bent down and picked some books off the floor and set them on the coffee table.
“Why don’t you guys come with me to the hardware store?” Dad asked. “We’ll buy the right brackets. You’re not doing anything important, right?”
“Can I buy more glue and some fiberglass?” I asked. “Todd made me crack my Camaro model.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Todd whined. “Why do I always have to be blamed for everything?”
“Calm down, guys,” Dad said. “Get your jackets, and we’ll go.”
A few seconds later, we stepped outside. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds floated low over the hill. Our front lawn glistened wetly. I could still hear raindrops falling from the trees.
Our front yard sloped down steeply toward the town. A misty gray fog covered the valley, blanketing the town from view.
The car was parked in the driveway. It was a fourteen-year-old Chrysler, puke green, a wreck of a car with rusted bumpers and one headlight cracked. Dad seldom bothered pulling it into the garage.
“When are we getting a new car?” I moaned, climbing into the front passenger seat.
Dad frowned. “Mitchell, do you have to ask that question every single time you get in the car?”
“I get to ride in front on the way home,” Todd whined. He slammed the back door so hard, I thought the old car would fall apart.
Dad turned the ignition key and started pumping the gas pedal. The car started up with a groan on the third try. He let it warm up for a while, then backed down the drive.
“This car can barely start. Look how long it takes to warm up,” I complained. “I’ve been reading the car ads, Dad. You don’t have to buy a new car. You can lease one.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “I don’t want a new car,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I take really good care of this car. It drives just fine.”
He leaned over the wheel and guided the car around the curves. Forrest Valley Road slopes sharply, curving as it goes, down into the valley below.
Gray fog billowed around us as we rolled lower. Dad switched on the headlights. But they didn’t help much. The fog reflected the light back onto the car.
“Can’t see two feet ahead of me,” Dad grumbled. He squinted straight ahead through the clouded windshield, both hands gripping the top of the wheel.
“Hey!” He uttered a sharp cry.
His foot started pumping, pumping hard up and down. His mouth dropped open. His face beamed bright red.
“Dad — what’s wrong?” I cried.
He didn’t reply. He pumped his foot frantically.
The car picked up speed, rolling down the hill faster, bouncing, shooting through the thick fog.
“No brakes!” Dad cried. “I don’t believe it! No brakes!”
“Ohhhhh.” A frightened moan escaped my throat.
The car bounced hard. Dad cut the wheel.
I fell against the door with a hard THUD.
I heard Todd whimpering in the back.
The steering wheel bounced under Dad’s hands as if it were about to fly off.
I heard a loud roar. A car horn. We all screamed as a black van shot toward us from the wall of fog.
Dad spun the wheel. The car shuddered as the van roared past.
We rolled down the road. Faster. Faster.
The road dropped dangerously. Dad twisted the wheel, one way, then the other, struggling to see the curves through the heavy fog.
We bounced hard. I cried out as my head bumped the ceiling. The seat belt cut into my waist.
“We’re going to crash! We’re going to crash!” Todd wailed.
Dad’s leg shot up and down as he pumped the brake. “Noooo!”
The car slid. We went into a skid.
Tires squealed.
I heard a car horn. A gray car roared past us.
We skidded off the road. Toward a forest of dark trees.
“Noooo!”
I saw Dad’s right hand leave the bouncing steering wheel. He gripped the emergency brake and jerked it up.
I shut my eyes.
And rocked hard — forward then back — as the car hit.
I heard the crunch of metal. A crackling sound. Shattering glass.
My head hit the dashboard. Then I shot back up.
I heard Todd utter a high squeak.
Then silence.
I opened my eyes. Blinked several times. It took me a while to realize that the car had stopped.
We had hit a tree. Head-on. The windshield had cracked. Beyond it, I saw the hood crushed and mangled.
My heart raced in my chest. I could feel the blood pulsing at my temples.
“Are we … okay?” Dad’s voice came out tiny, just above a whisper. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he turned to the back. “Todd?”
“I’m okay, Dad,” Todd replied softly.
“Me, too,” I said, trying to swallow. My mouth was suddenly as dry as sandpaper.
“I — I just fixed those brakes last week,” Dad murmured. And then his expression changed. His eyes bulged. He tore off his seat belt. Shoved open the car door.
“Dad?” I called.
He lurched out of the car. Leaned over and started to puke. Loud, violent retching, his whole body heaving.
I waited until he stopped. Then I called out, “Does t
his mean we’re getting a new car?”
* * *
I was already awake and dressed when the Sunday newspaper arrived the next morning. I lugged it inside and tossed aside all the sections until I found the car ads.
Then I spread the section out on the living room floor and began circling the ads that looked good. When Dad finally came down for breakfast at eight-thirty, still in his pajamas, I was ready for him.
“Check out this one,” I said, shoving the paper in his face.
He blinked and brushed a tangle of dark hair from over his eye. “Mitchell — I’m still asleep.” He groaned and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m a little sore, from the accident, I guess. How about you?”
“I’m fine. Check out this ad,” I replied impatiently.
“Can’t I have a cup of coffee first?” He groaned. “I can’t focus. Really.”
“Okay. I’ll read it to you,” I said.
I read him the ad: “One owner, new model sports sedan. Perfect condition. V-8, white leather interior, all safety features. Owner must sell. Name your own price.”
Dad squinted at me, rubbing his stubbly face. “What was that last line?”
“Name your own price,” I repeated.
“That has to be a come-on,” he muttered.
“Can we go see it?” I cried. “There’s a phone number and an address here. It’s on Wilbourne Street.”
“In the valley. On the other side of town,” Dad said.
“What are you two talking about?” Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. She tied the belt on her robe. “Mitchell, what are you doing up so early? Did you forget this is Sunday?”
“Dad and I are going to look at a car,” I replied, grinning. “Right, Dad?”
* * *
After breakfast, Dad and I started down the hill toward town. Todd wanted to come, too, but he has karate lessons on Sunday.
Dad was driving a white Ford Taurus he rented after the accident. “I kind of like this car,” he said, smiling. “Good family car.”
“But, Dad,” I protested. “The car we’re going to see sounds so cool.”
The sun poked out between white snakes of clouds, sending streaks of light over the tall trees that lined the road. We made our way easily down to the valley this time and drove through town with only a few stops at traffic lights.
Town was nearly empty. Most of the stores are closed on Sunday morning. The only sign of life was the huge field behind the middle school where the soccer league games were under way, with hundreds of screaming kids, coaches, and parents.