by R. L. Stine
I stumbled up the front steps to the house. I banged my knee hard. But I was too insane to feel the pain.
I struggled with the front door. Finally pushed it open and burst inside.
The house was warm and smelled of coffee. I could hear the TV on in the den. My parents always stay up late on Saturday night watching old movies.
Tricia? I remembered Tricia wasn’t home. She had a sleepover with a friend from school.
“Mom! Dad!” I screamed, running to the den. “I need help!”
They sat close together on the leather couch. Dad had his arm around Mom’s shoulders. The room glowed from the bright TV screen.
They both sat up with a jerk as I hurtled into the room. “Mom! Dad! It’s Grandpa Mo!” I cried.
“Kenny? Where’ve you been?” Dad demanded, climbing to his feet. “What’s going on?”
“It’s … Grandpa Mo,” I choked out. I was panting too hard to talk. “He’s … in the graveyard. He —”
“Again?” Mom cried.
“He must have had another bad dream,” Dad said. He hurried past me, heading to the front door.
“I’m coming with you,” Mom said.
“No. Wait —” I said. “You don’t understand.”
“We’ll bring him home,” Dad called from the front door. “Stay here, Kenny. We’ll go get the poor guy.”
They ran out, and the front door slammed behind them. I had no chance to explain. No chance to tell them the truth about Grandpa Mo.
I thought about running after them. But they told me to stay home. I stood there shaking, with chill after chill running down my body. I’d had enough horror in the graveyard for one night.
I climbed the stairs to my room. Slowly, my heart began to beat normally. My breathing slowed to normal, too. But every time I pictured the name on that old gravestone, my pulse started racing again.
In my room, I pulled off my jeans and shirt, still cold from the chill night air. I found my heaviest, warmest sweater and a fresh pair of jeans. Then I walked to the window and peered out at the graveyard across the street.
The moon had disappeared behind clouds, casting the ground in darkness. I couldn’t see Mom or Dad. And I didn’t see Grandpa Mo. Squinting into the blackness, my eyes swept back and forth over the cemetery. Nothing moved now. No one there.
I was still gripping the window ledge, peering out my window, when I heard the soft footsteps on the stairs. I whirled around and shouted. “Mom? Dad? Is that you?”
No answer.
I shouted again. “Did you find him? Did you find Grandpa Mo?”
No reply. Soft footsteps moving slowly up the stairs.
I whirled around and ran out into the hall. “Who’s there?” I called. I crept to the top of the stairs.
And gazed down at Grandpa Mo as he climbed the steps, slowly, steadily. He raised his eyes to me. “Kenny.” My name came out in a hoarse groan. “Kenny. There you are.”
I gripped the top of the banister and watched him. I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
His eyes appeared to glow as he stared up at me. His jacket was open, revealing a stained turtleneck sweater underneath. He climbed another stair. Stopped for a second. Climbed another stair.
Closer. Coming closer. Not taking his eyes off me. Coming for me. Coming to get me.
“Kenny …” he groaned.
“Grandpa Mo — I know the truth about you,” I blurted out. “I … I saw the tombstone. I read the name. I know, Grandpa. I know.”
He didn’t stop climbing. “I’m so sorry,” he rasped, his face suddenly menacing. “I’m so sorry you saw it, Kenny.”
He reached the top of the stairs. He stepped onto the landing.
His eyes were suddenly sad. “I’m so sorry you saw it,” he repeated. He grabbed me by the shoulders.
“No, please —” I cried.
How could this be happening? How could I be terrified by my own grandfather? What did he plan to do to me?
“I’m sorry you saw it, Kenny,” he said. “That must have been a terrible shock. Let me explain.”
I squirmed free of his grasp. “Explain?”
He nodded. His white hair fell damply over his forehead, covering one eye. He brushed it back. “You must have been so shocked and frightened,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“But —” I started.
“That tombstone …,” he said. “The name you saw … That was my father.”
“Huh?” A cry of surprise escaped my mouth.
“Yes. That’s my father’s grave,” Grandpa Mo said. “He was Mario Manzetti. I’m Mario Manzetti Jr.”
I stared at him, my chest heaving. My whole body trembling.
“My father was killed in the war,” he continued. “World War Two, back in 1944. I was just a boy. About your age, actually. His body … It was brought back to Franklin Village and buried across from his house. This house. That’s my father’s grave across the street, Kenny.”
I still couldn’t speak.
“Did you think it was my grave?” He patted my shoulder. “That must have given you a real scare.”
“I — I didn’t know what to think,” I stammered.
Grandpa Mo sighed. “This house has seen a lot of sadness,” he said. “When my dreams started, I couldn’t tell what was real and what was a dream. That’s why I had to get away. I went up to Alaska. I was there for years. I didn’t tell anyone in the family where I was. I was trying to escape my nightmares.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“But I couldn’t escape,” he said. “My nightmares about zombies. They followed me. They wouldn’t leave me alone. In my dreams, the zombies wanted me. They were waiting for me in a secret tunnel. They were waiting to come up from the tunnel and pull me down to them. Such a frightening dream.”
He sighed again. “That’s why I moved back to this house. To try to figure everything out. But tonight …”
“Those zombies in the graveyard were real,” I said. “And they captured you. How did you get away from them, Grandpa Mo?”
He shut his eyes. I knew he was seeing them again in his mind. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I went out for a walk. I walked past my father’s grave — and they surprised me. They jumped me. They came out of nowhere.”
“Were they the zombies from your dreams?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I didn’t know them. They were hungry, see. After they chased you and your friend off, they led me away. They planned to devour me.”
“Eat your flesh?”
He chuckled. “They were desperate. But not that desperate. I have no flesh left. Look at me, Kenny. My body is down to nothing but bone.”
The old guy was right. He was pretty much a skeleton already.
“So, they let me go. Then they hurried off to look for food.”
“We … have to tell Mom and Dad,” I said. “We have to let them know —”
“They won’t believe us,” Grandpa Mo said. “Besides, I don’t want to scare them away. They didn’t want to move here, Kenny. Your parents hate this town and they hate this old house. But they decided they need to take care of me. If you tell them about the zombies across the street …” His voice trailed off.
“I won’t tell Tricia, either,” I said. “But what if —”
I stopped because we heard the front door open. “Kenny?” Dad called. “Are you okay? We couldn’t find my father.”
“I’m up here,” Grandpa Mo called down. “I’m here with Kenny. Sorry if I gave you a scare. I’m perfectly safe.”
Mom and Dad peered up at us from the bottom of the stairwell. “You’re perfectly safe, Pops?” Dad said.
Grandpa Mo nodded. “Safe and sound.”
But, of course, we weren’t safe at all. This frightening night was just the beginning of the zombie horror.
“Is Franklin Village the scene of a horror movie come to life? Has the much-talked-about zombie apocalypse started right here in our town? I’m Bryan Reynolds for Eyew
itness News. And I’m here with local police officer Maynard Welles, who has a frightening story to tell.”
I turned up the volume on the TV. Tricia and I were in the den. She was on the couch, reading a book she had to do a book report on. This news report made my heart skip a beat. But she didn’t look up.
“Kenny, could you turn that off? I’m trying to read.”
I waved at her to shut up and turned the volume up some more.
Officer Welles was a chunky, red-faced guy in a red-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt. He spoke in a hoarse, raspy voice: “I was off duty. Coming home from seeing some friends. I saw the zombies threatening the two women. It was in front of an empty lot at Terrace and Main. At first I thought someone was making a movie. You know. It looked like that TV show everyone is nuts about. The Walking Zombies.”
The reporter broke in: “But then you realized the two women were really in trouble?”
“Some of my fellow officers don’t believe me,” Welles said. “But these zombies weren’t guys in costumes and makeup. These guys were the real thing. When I got close, I could smell them, and I could see their bodies were all rotted and decayed. It made me sick. Seriously.”
“Are you a zombie fan?” the reporter asked.
Welles shook his head. “No way. Especially after last night. I mean, I was as scared as the two victims.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t have time to call for backup or anything,” Welles replied. “I knew I had to act. I shouted a warning, but they ignored me. Then I just started fighting them. I hit them. But they didn’t seem to feel any pain.”
“Because they were already dead?”
Welles nodded. “I think so. But they let go of the victims. Then the zombies turned and ran. I chased after them. I chased them to the graveyard on Ardmore. I watched them sink into the ground. Into open graves, I guess. Down into the dirt. Then I just stood there. Talking to myself. I think I said, What did I just see?”
Tricia grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off. “Give me a break, Kenny. I have to read this by Monday.”
I tried to swipe the remote back, but she swung it out of my reach. “Tricia, did you see what they were talking about? Real zombies right here in Franklin Village.”
She rolled her eyes. “Kenny, do you believe everything you see on TV? It’s two days till Halloween. Of course they are doing stories like that.”
“But that guy was a cop —” I said.
“You’ve been hanging out with Alec too long,” she said. “Hey, did you finish down in the basement? You were going to move the chairs, remember? And finish stringing up the black-and-orange crepe streamers?”
I stared at her. My mind wasn’t on the streamers. It was on my night in the graveyard with those zombies. My face suddenly tingled where that zombie had run his finger down my cheek.
“Maybe we don’t want a zombie party,” I said. “Maybe we should change the theme.”
“Are you crazy? It’s way too late,” Tricia replied.
“But maybe we don’t want dozens of zombies invading our house,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Go away,” she said.
So … that’s just what happened. Two nights later, dozens of zombies invaded our house.
“What were you worried about?” Tricia asked. “This party is awesome!”
She brushed back the bloodstained veil and straightened her shredded wedding dress. Half her face was bloodred, and she had painted black circles around her eyes to make it look like the sockets were showing.
“I’ve counted four zombie brides here tonight,” she said. “But tell the truth. Who looks the most undead? Me — right?”
“Right,” I said. “You definitely look undead.” I was glad Tricia was having a good time. Most of the zombies who crowded our basement seemed to be having fun.
Even Alec, who knew how terrifying zombies could be, was having fun. He even agreed to dance with Tricia, which was pretty amazing. Alec wore a red cap that made it look like his head was bleeding. And he had a skeleton hand poking out of one sleeve of his dark-stained white shirt.
The music was loud. So loud my parents decided to stay upstairs and not join us. The pizza was good. Everyone seemed to like the orange cookies and cupcakes.
Candlelight flickered inside the evil-looking jack-o’-lanterns we had carved. And I’d hung a bunch of cardboard bats from the basement ceiling. The basement looked like a real party room, a party room crammed with zombies.
It was an awesome party. I guess I was the only one who wasn’t enjoying it.
I kept studying the faces of the costumed kids as they came down the basement stairs. I had a feeling real zombies might crash the party. Why? I guess because of the zombies we saw across the street. Or maybe because of Grandpa Mo’s warnings.
The party was supposed to be a way to make new friends. But I was so tense, so worried that real zombies would burst in, I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t talk with anyone.
I jumped when a guy came down the stairs with his shirt ripped away and his rib cage showing. But as he stepped into the light, I saw that he was a kid wearing a skeleton T-shirt.
The next kid down the stairs had eyeballs dangling from his forehead. I asked him how he glued them on. He said they were real. Then he grunted and pretended to bite my shoulder.
It was funny, but I just couldn’t laugh. My whole life, I never believed in zombies. But I definitely did now. And I definitely didn’t want to see any tonight.
I was happy to see Grandpa Mo come down the stairs and join the party. “I won’t stay long,” he said, gripping the banister with his bony hand, taking it one step at a time. “I just want to see kids having fun.”
“Awesome,” I said. “Come sit down.” I took his arm and led him through a group of kids. Then I shooed kids off the couch and motioned for Grandpa Mo to sit down.
“No. Wait,” I said. “The couch is too close to the dancers.” I motioned for Alec to help me. We each took an arm of the couch and we slid it back a few feet, away from the dancers. It wasn’t easy. It was a really heavy, old couch.
“Thanks, Kenny,” Grandpa Mo said. He turned and started toward the couch.
I spotted something on the floor. A square cut into the floor. It took me a few seconds to realize that when we moved the couch, we had exposed a trapdoor in the basement floor.
“Whoa!” I cried out as the trapdoor sprung straight up.
Who pushed it open? Could someone be under the basement?
Without thinking, I moved to the opening and peered down.
To my shock, I saw a girl. A girl with short blond hair. She raised her face to me — and my stomach lurched.
Her cheeks were eaten away. Her green eyes had sunk deep in their sockets.
Before I could back away, the girl shot up both hands — hands with bone poking out of the skin. She wrapped her hands around my ankles. Tightened them … Tightened them … And with a furious jerk, started to pull me down into the hole.
“No! Let go!” I screamed.
The music was so loud, I don’t think anyone heard me. Kids were dancing all around me. No one even turned around.
I struggled to kick my legs free. But the girl was incredibly strong. She gave another hard tug. My shoes went over the edge — and I started to fall.
“Somebody! Help me!” A frantic cry rose from my throat as I slid down.
I glimpsed a rope ladder in front of me. I grabbed for it with both hands.
I struggled to pull myself up the ladder and back to the basement. But the girl held on with her skeletal hands. I fell to the bottom with a hard thud.
I saw that I’d landed on a dirt floor. Darkness all around. I seemed to be in some sort of cave or tunnel. The only light came washing down from the open trapdoor.
The girl pulled me to my feet. Her hair was in matted clumps. Her eyes were deep in her skull. She had a short pointed chin. But her nose was gone. Just a rotted hole in her face. She reminded
me of an elf. An undead elf.
She held me against the wall with both hands. And brought her face close to mine.
“No — please!” I cried. “Please — let me go!”
She smelled like rotting meat. Her lips were torn. Her front teeth were missing.
“Mario,” she rasped, “don’t you remember me?”
“No. Wait —” I gasped.
“Mario, it’s me. Ivy. Your friend, Mario. Your friend who you left down here with the zombies. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”
“No. You — you’ve made a mistake,” I choked out. “You —”
Her fingers tightened around my arms till I wanted to scream.
“Mario, why did you leave me down here?” she demanded. “Why did you forget me? Why did you run away and leave me to the zombies?”
“N-no. I didn’t,” I stuttered. “It wasn’t me. I’m not Mario. Listen to me —”
“Mario, I told you I’d have my revenge. You look so good.” The torn lips formed a ragged smile. “You look good enough to EAT!”
Holding me against the wall, she lowered her face to my shoulder — and opened her mouth for the first bite.
I shut my eyes and waited for the pain.
But before she clamped her teeth shut, I heard a voice above us.
“Ivy? Is that you?”
She raised her head and spun around. We both saw Grandpa Mo slipping and struggling his way down the rope ladder.
She held me against the wall and squinted at my grandfather as he stepped forward.
“Ivy? It is you, isn’t it?”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Mario,” he said. “Don’t you remember me?”
She uttered a growl. “This is Mario!” she cried, motioning her head toward me. “Think I don’t recognize Mario? Mario is my age.”
“I — I’m not —” I gasped.
“That’s not Mario,” Grandpa Mo told her. “Yes. He looks a lot like me when I was twelve. But that’s Kenny. He’s my grandson.”