by R. L. Stine
If you’re into horror, maybe you’ve seen some of his films. Attack of the 2,000-Pound Dachshund? The Creature from the Cincinnati Suburbs? He’s made at least a dozen of them.
Dad brings home a lot of the things he uses in his films—creepy masks and costumes and all kinds of skeletons and skulls and monster heads. He lets us borrow some of them. It’s a lot of fun for Kelly and me. We put on horror plays in our basement with them.
Some of the stuff he brings home is valuable. He puts those things in display cases up in the attic. He calls it his Horror Museum.
He’s always telling us how lucky we are. He says, “How many houses up here in the Hollywood Hills have horror museums hidden inside them?”
The answer, of course, is none.
When I was little, I had nightmares about the scary things up in the attic. I dreamed that the skeletons and the monster figures came to life and were fighting above my head.
A few times, I woke up screaming. I really thought I heard the creatures thumping and bumping and growling above my bedroom ceiling.
Dad always calmed me down. “Monsters only come alive in movies,” he would tell me. “Never in real life. Not once.” And when I was nine or ten, the nightmares went away.
Still holding on to the propane tank, I gazed at Kelly and Jamal. “You really are a jerk,” Kelly said. She jumped to her feet. She likes to be standing up when she scolds me. That way, she can cross her arms in front of her and look angry, just like Mom. Mom lives in the Valley with her new husband. We stay with her every other weekend.
“Dad said not to go near the propane tank,” Kelly said. “He said to stay away from it unless he’s here with us.”
Jamal nodded. “We don’t want to be in a horror movie,” he reminded us again.
Then a strange, shrill voice from the driveway called out: “Well, kiddoes, you’re in one NOW!”
“Huh?” I turned to the open garage door—and gasped.
Kelly screamed. Jamal dropped the drone.
I stared in disbelief. Two identical ventriloquist dummies were standing there. Standing there and talking—all by themselves!
The dummies stood about three feet tall. They wore identical gray suits with red bow ties. Their shoes were black and shiny. Their eyes were wide, and they had ugly red grins painted on their faces.
“You—you—” I tried to speak, but I was so startled, no sound came out.
“You’re in a world of horror now!” one of the dummies rasped. His voice was high and hoarse. “Welcome to OUR world!”
Jamal jumped to his feet. He squinted at the two dummies. “Who is out there?” he called. “Who is making them talk?”
“Who is pulling YOUR strings?” one of the dummies cried.
“WE’LL be asking the questions from now on!” his twin exclaimed.
Kelly backed away from the garage door. Jamal stood frozen, gaping at them in confusion.
I laughed. “Is that you, Dad?” I called. “Very funny. You scared us—for a second.”
No reply.
The dummies grinned at us with their painted red lips. I saw that one had olive-green eyes, the other black. Otherwise, you couldn’t tell them apart.
The green-eyed dummy took a step into the garage. He seemed to be walking without anyone controlling him.
“Dad?” I called. “Are you out there?”
“It’s remote controlled,” Jamal said, squinting hard at it. “Like those remote-controlled cars we had when we were kids.”
“Like the drone we’re building,” Kelly said. “Dad must be controlling them from nearby.”
“Your dad is toast!” the green-eyed dummy declared. He took another step toward us.
“Your dad is BUTTERED toast!” his twin added. His voice was hoarse and scratchy.
The green-eyed dummy swung around to him. “That doesn’t make any sense, dummy. Buttered toast? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pick on me. I thought it was funny. Why can’t you ever be nice to me?”
“Because you’re stupid, even for a dummy?”
I shook my head. “Dad,” I shouted. “We’re enjoying your comedy act. But it’s getting lame.”
No reply.
R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.
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#7 A NIGHTMARE ON CLOWN STREET
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#10 THE LIZARD OF OZ
SPECIAL EDITION #1 ZOMBIE HALLOWEEN
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Also available as ebooks
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MONSTER BLOOD
THE HAUNTED MASK
ONE DAY AT HORRORLAND
THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY’S TOMB
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
SAY CHEESE AND DIE!
THE HORROR AT CAMP JELLYJAM
HOW I GOT MY SHRUNKEN HEAD
THE WEREWOLF OF FEVER SWAMP
A NIGHT IN TERROR TOWER
WELCOME TO DEAD HOUSE
WELCOME TO CAMP NIGHTMARE
GHOST BEACH
THE SCARECROW WALKS AT MIDNIGHT
YOU CAN’T SCARE ME!
RETURN OF THE MUMMY
REVENGE OF THE LAWN GNOMES
PHANTOM OF THE AUDITORIUM
VAMPIRE BREATH
STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT
A SHOCKER ON SHOCK STREET
LET’S GET INVISIBLE!
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DUMMY 2
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DUMMY 3
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN OF PASADENA
THE BLOB THAT ATE EVERYONE
THE GHOST NEXT DOOR
THE HAUNTED CAR
ATTACK OF THE GRAVEYARD GHOULS
PLEASE DON’T FEED THE VAMPIRE
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Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
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First printing 2017
Cover design by Maeve Norton
Cover art by Brandon Dorman
e-ISBN 978-1-338-06837-5
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