by R. L. Stine
My heart pounding, I pushed some junk aside.
And without thinking, I picked up the staring creature.
Felt its body, stiff and hard beneath bristly brown and black fur.
A dead raccoon.
Its sour odor reached my nostrils. “Oooooh, yuck!” I let out a groan—and heaved the smelly creature out of the dumpster.
“Hey, Greg—” Jon called up to me.
“I found a dead raccoon,” I told him, holding my nose. “It smelled so bad, I—”
I stopped when I saw the camera.
It had been hidden beneath the raccoon’s body. The glow from the street lamp spilled over it. The glass of the camera lens reflected the light like a single, shining eye.
I grabbed it. Pulled it up from the trash.
Then I climbed to my feet. Leaning over the dumpster, I held it up to Jon. “I found it!” I cried happily. “Here it is. I can’t believe I found it!”
Jon wrinkled his face up at me. “Great,” he said, without enthusiasm.
I strapped the camera around my neck. Then, holding on to the top of the dumpster, I lowered myself to the ground.
My shirt and jeans were covered with dust and sticky grease. But I didn’t care. I had the camera in my hands.
“What’s so great about it?” Jon demanded. He squinted down at it. Rubbed a hand over the top. “Does it work?”
I didn’t want to tell him the story of the camera. I knew he wouldn’t believe it, anyway. I didn’t want to scare him. And mainly, I wanted to get home with it as fast as I could.
“Yeah. It works,” I replied, dusting off the back with my hand. “It takes pretty good pictures.”
“But why do you want it so much?” Jon asked, studying it as I worked to clean the dust off.
“Oh … well. I promised to show it to someone. In school,” I told him. “I kind of need it for a project.”
Jon scratched his short, dark hair. “Maybe I should show the camera to my dad,” he said, motioning behind him. “He might not want you to take it.”
“But you threw it in the trash!” I cried. I held the camera tightly in both hands, afraid he was going to try to grab it away.
“But we didn’t know it works,” Jon replied in his high, shrill voice. “Is it valuable? Maybe it’s valuable. An antique or something.”
“No way. It’s not valuable,” I insisted. “Please, Jon. I—”
“We’d better show it to Dad,” Jon said. He reached for the camera.
I pulled away.
I grabbed the camera tighter.
Heard a click.
A white flash of light startled us both.
“Oh, noooo!” I let out a cry, realizing I had pushed the shutter.
And snapped a picture of Jon.
“Hey—why did you do that?” Jon demanded.
“It—it was an accident,” I stammered. I pulled the picture from the slot at the bottom of the camera. “I didn’t mean to. Really.”
Jon and I both blinked several times, trying to get the flashing lights to fade from our eyes. “It’s an instant camera?” Jon demanded. “It looks too old to be an instant camera.”
“Yeah. I know,” I replied. I held up the photo to watch it develop. Silently, I prayed that the photo wouldn’t show anything terrible.
Please, please—let Jon be okay in the snapshot, I pleaded.
With my free hand, I pulled the little flashlight from my pocket. I beamed it down on the photo as it slowly developed.
As I stared at the small, square snapshot, I could see Jon’s face come into view. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open, twisted in a strange expression.
Before I could really see what was going on, Jon grabbed the photo away from me. He raised it close to his face and studied it.
“Hey—what’s with this camera?” he demanded.
I stepped up behind him to see the snapshot. “Oh, nooooo,” I groaned.
The photo came out very clear and bright. It showed Jon howling in pain. His eyes shut. His mouth open in a scream.
His leg was raised. He was holding on to his sneaker with both hands.
He was holding on to his sneaker because a huge nail was sticking up from the top. An enormous carpenter’s nail—nearly as big as a pencil—shoved up through the center of Jon’s foot!
Jon laughed. He turned to me. “What is this? Some kind of joke camera?”
I swallowed hard. I knew it wasn’t a joke.
The horrifying photos always came true.
How could I keep Jon from having a nail jammed in his foot? What could I do?
I decided I had to warn him. I had to tell him the truth about the camera.
“This is cool!” Jon exclaimed, studying the photo. “It really looks like me. I wonder how it works.”
“It—it isn’t cool,” I stammered. “It’s really kind of scary, Jon. The camera is evil. It has a curse on it. The photos always come true.”
He laughed. “For sure!”
I knew he wouldn’t believe me.
“Well, just be careful—okay?” I insisted. “The photo isn’t a joke.”
He laughed again.
A gust of wind sent the tall weeds swaying. Snakes of black cloud slithered over the moon. Darkness swept over us.
“I need to borrow the camera,” I told Jon. “Just for one day.”
“It’s such a cool camera,” he replied. “I don’t know. Maybe I should take it home.”
“I’ll bring it back tomorrow afternoon,” I promised. “I just have to take it to school.”
He twisted his mouth, thinking hard. “I’d better ask my dad.” He pointed to a wall of lumber under the trees. “He’s back there with the architect, talking about the new house.”
“No. Wait!” I cried.
But Jon took off, running up the hill through the swaying weeds.
I started after him—but stopped when I heard a shrill bleat. And then Jon’s horrifying roar of pain soared out over the lawn.
My breath caught in my chest. I stumbled forward through the weeds.
And saw Jon holding his sneaker, his face twisted in pain.
Even in the dim moonlight, I could see the huge nail pushing up through his foot.
“Jon!” I shouted. “I’ll get your dad!”
I didn’t need to find him. Two men—one tall and thin, the other chubby and short—rushed out from behind the lumber pile. I guessed they were the architect and Jon’s dad.
“Jon? What’s wrong?” the chubby one—Jon’s dad—called.
Jon tossed back his head in another scream of pain.
“He’s got a nail in his foot!” I shouted, running up to them, pointing frantically.
Both men ran past me. “Oh, good heavens!” Jon’s dad moaned.
They grabbed Jon under the arms. The tall man held Jon’s injured foot above the ground. “Into my car,” he urged. “I have a towel. We can wrap the foot. He’s losing a lot of blood.”
“Should we pull out the nail?” Jon’s dad asked in a quivering voice.
“No. Too dangerous,” the other man replied.
“Don’t pull it out! Don’t!” Jon pleaded. “It’ll hurt too much!”
“We can’t even take off the sneaker!” Jon’s dad cried.
“The hospital is that way,” the architect said, pointing. “Only a few minutes away.”
“Owwww. It hurts! It hurrrrts!” Jon wailed.
The two men lifted him off the ground. And half walking, half running, they carried him down to a car parked across from the dumpster.
I watched from the weeds as they gently lowered Jon into the backseat. I saw them struggle with a long white towel. Finally, they had it tightly wrapped around the foot and sneaker.
They closed Jon’s car door. Then they quickly slid into the front. A few seconds later, the car roared off into the darkness.
I stood in the middle of the yard, feeling the swaying weeds brush against my jeans legs. I swallowed hard. My mouth suddenly felt
as dry as cotton.
“Poor Jon,” I murmured out loud.
The camera was as evil as ever. Tonight it had found another victim.
It’s all my fault, I thought sadly. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to press the shutter. But I pressed it.
The two men hadn’t even looked at me. They were so upset about Jon, I don’t think they saw me.
I glanced down and realized that I still gripped the camera in my hands. I had a strong urge to heave it to the ground. To stomp on it again and again until I smashed it forever.
My eye caught something fluttering in the tall grass. I bent and picked it up. The snapshot.
I squinted once again at Jon, holding his foot, shrieking in pain.
I tucked the snapshot into the pocket of my flannel shirt. I’ll bring it in to Mr. Saur, I decided. I’ll bring in the camera and the photo of Jon. I’ll tell him exactly what happened to Jon tonight.
I won’t have to snap a picture in school.
I have this picture as proof.
So it won’t be dangerous. It won’t be dangerous at all.
The next morning, I gulped down my breakfast. Then I pulled on my backpack, strapped the camera around my neck, and hurried out the door.
I left the house fifteen minutes early. I didn’t want to run into Shari, or Michael, or Bird.
I stepped out into a warm day. The air smelled fresh and sweet. I saw a row of tulips poking up through the ground along the side of the house. First flowers of spring.
I loped down the driveway and turned at the sidewalk. The camera felt heavy against my chest. I reached up to adjust the strap—and heard a voice calling me.
“Greg! Hey, Greg—wait up!”
Shari.
I spun the camera behind me and tried to hide it under my arm.
Too late. She had already spotted it.
“I don’t believe you!” Shari cried, running up beside me. “You’re unreal! You pulled that thing from the Coffman house?” She stared at the camera, shaking her head.
“Well … not exactly,” I replied. “How come you’re so early, Shari?”
“I was watching out the window for you,” she confessed. “I wanted to see if you were desperate enough to get that camera.”
I frowned at her. “You were spying on me? Why?”
“Because I’m not letting you take that evil thing to school.” She stepped in front of me, blocking my way.
I snickered. “Who made you queen of the world?” I sneered. “It’s a free country, you know.”
She crossed her arms over the front of her plaid vest. “I’m serious, Greg. You can’t take it. I won’t let you.”
I faked to the left and tried to edge past her on the right.
But she stayed in front of me. I bumped into her—then backed up a step.
“I’m serious,” she repeated. “Take the camera home.”
“Shari, you’re being a real jerk,” I muttered. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Her expression changed. She uncrossed her arms and tugged her black hair back over her shoulders. “Don’t you remember how dangerous that camera is? Don’t you remember all the horrible things it did to us?”
I gripped the camera in both hands. It suddenly felt very heavy. The metal felt cold against the front of my T-shirt.
“Don’t you remember, Greg?” Shari pleaded. “I disappeared because of that camera. Disappeared into thin air! You don’t want that to happen to someone else—do you? Think how terrible you’d feel.”
I swallowed hard, remembering the night before.
The camera had already injured someone.
“I’m not going to take any pictures,” I told her. “Really. I’m just going to show it to Mr. Saur so he’ll change my grade.”
“Why will seeing an old camera make him change your grade?” Shari demanded.
“Because I have a photo to show him, too,” I declared. I pulled the snapshot of Jon out of my pocket and flashed it in front of her face.
“Oooh—gross!” she cried, shoving the photo away with both hands. “That is sick!”
“I know,” I agreed, sliding the photo back in my pocket. “The poor kid. I took this picture. Then, a minute later, it really happened to him.”
“So I’m right!” Shari declared, her eyes narrowed at the camera in my hands. “You just proved my point—didn’t you, Greg! I’m right!”
A car rumbled past, filled with kids on their way to school. A small brown dog stuck its head out the back window and barked at us.
I glanced at my watch. If we stayed here arguing another few minutes, Shari and I would be late for school.
“We’ve got to go,” I told her. I started walking, taking long strides. But she hurried to block my way.
“No, Greg. I can’t let you. I can’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shari, give me a break.”
“It’s too dangerous,” she insisted. “I know I’m right. I know it will get you into big trouble.”
“Get out of my way, Shari.”
“Give me the camera.”
“No way!” I cried.
She grabbed for it with both hands. And yanked it off my shoulder.
I grabbed it back.
And the camera flashed in Shari’s face.
Shari blinked. Her hands shot away from the camera. She let out a startled cry.
“Oh! Sorry!” I cried, backing away. “Sorry! Really! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
The camera felt warm in my hands. I reached for the square photo that slid from the slot.
“Give me that!” Shari demanded. She swiped the snapshot away from me. “What have you done to me?”
“It was an accident!” I shouted. “You know I didn’t mean to snap it.”
Shari stared down at the square as it started to develop. “What have you done? What have you done?” she repeated. Her voice trembled more each time she said it. I saw that her hand was shaking.
“I told you not to bring out the camera,” Shari cried. “I begged you to leave it at home.”
“Shari, I’m sorry,” I apologized again. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe—”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe I’ll disappear again, Greg. Maybe I’ll disappear forever.”
“No!” I cried. “Don’t say that. Please—”
We both stared down at the photo. It developed so slowly. First, the yellow darkened over the white square. I began to see Shari’s face.
Was she screaming? Was she howling in pain?
I couldn’t tell.
The blue tint filled in over the yellow. I could see Shari’s face outlined in green.
“You look okay,” I told her. “I think you’re okay.”
“Wait,” she said softly. She bit her lower lip. She didn’t blink. Her eyes squinted hard as the red and blue tints spread.
The picture darkened. Darkened to black.
I could see Shari’s face clearly now. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t look happy. But she wasn’t screaming, either.
Darker.
“Hey!” Shari cried. “It’s a negative.”
“Huh?” I didn’t understand.
“It’s not a photo,” Shari replied, holding the square up to me. “It’s a negative. The photo didn’t come out. It’s all reversed.”
I stared at it. She was right. Everything was reversed.
“Maybe the camera is broken,” I said. I let out a long sigh of relief. “You’re okay, Shari. The camera doesn’t work.”
“Maybe,” she said. She handed me the negative. I slid it into my pocket. When I looked up, she had a strange smile on her face.
An evil smile.
“Shari—what’s your problem?” I asked.
I should have known. I should have guessed what she planned to do. I should have moved faster.
She grabbed the camera with both hands. Spun it around. Pointed it in my face. And flashed a picture.
“Hey!” I tried to duck away from the lens.
<
br /> Too late. She caught me.
“Shari—that’s not funny!” I cried.
“It won’t hurt you,” she replied. “The camera is broken—remember?”
I pulled the square from the slot in front of the camera.
My throat suddenly felt dry. Is it broken? I wondered. Will this one be a negative, too?
Or will it show me howling in pain with a nail through my foot—or something even worse?
As I stared at the small square, my imagination ran wild. I pictured my body stretched out like a rubber band. I pictured myself tugging at an arrow through my chest. I pictured myself lying mashed under a huge steamroller.
“Shari—how could you do this to me?” I groaned, watching the colors darken.
Her dark eyes flashed. “You’re really scared,” she said. “Admit it, Greg. You’re really scared. Now maybe you get it. Maybe you see why I didn’t want you to bring the camera to school.”
My hand trembled. I gripped the snapshot with both hands.
The colors darkened.
“It’s not a negative,” I said.
Shari stepped up behind me and stared down at the photo.
“Oh, noooo!” we both cried at the same time.
Shari started to laugh.
“I don’t believe this!” I wailed.
“This is horrible!” I shrieked.
I recognized my face. But I didn’t recognize my body.
At first, I thought my head was resting on top of a giant balloon. Then I realized it was a giant version of me.
In the photo, I was huge!
No joke. HUGE!
I gaped at the photo, studying my big face and my even bigger body. My head was the size of a watermelon. My shirt was stretched tight over my chest and only came down to my belly.
“Stop laughing!” I snapped at Shari. “It isn’t funny!”
“It’s very funny,” she insisted. She grabbed the photo, raised it to her face, and started laughing all over again. “You’re bigger than Donny and Brian!” she exclaimed.
I grabbed the photo back. I stared at my cheeks. My face was so huge.
I was the size of a big bear. I must have weighed four hundred pounds!
“Are you still going to bring the camera to school?” Shari asked. “You won’t change your mind?”