The Haunting Hour

by R. L. Stine

  “I saw you two go in, so I waited right here,” Franny said. “Did you come out a back door?”

  Pete and I stared at each other. “You—you really saw us go in there?” Pete asked Franny.

  Franny nodded. “How was it? Was that you I heard screaming your heads off in there?”

  I didn’t understand what had happened to Pete and me. But I didn’t want to think about it now. I was happy to return home a half hour later.

  “How was it?” Mom asked from the den.

  “Okay,” I said. “You know. The usual.”

  “It’s late,” she called. “Go take a bath and go to bed.”

  I made my way upstairs and started the bathwater. Then I hurried to my room and started to undress.

  Maybe Pete and I were in the Fun House the whole time, I thought. Franny wouldn’t lie. She saw us.

  Maybe we hit our heads or something in there and imagined the whole judging thing.

  I tugged off my socks and tossed them on the floor.

  I’m just going to put it out of my mind, I decided. I’m going to forget about it and never think about it again.

  I pulled off my T-shirt and threw it on the bed. And glimpsed myself in the dresser mirror.

  And realized that I couldn’t forget about what happened.

  I couldn’t pretend it never happened. I couldn’t ever put it out of my mind.

  Because across my chest was a word in big black letters: LOSER.

  Can You Draw Me?

  INTRODUCTION

  ILLUSTRATED BY BLEU TURRELL

  Did you ever wonder why some people can draw and others can’t? What kind of strange magic is involved?

  When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a cartoonist. I spent hours and hours drawing little comic books. Then one day I looked around and saw that my drawings were like baby scribbles compared to those of the other kids in my class.

  I decided I’d better write instead of draw. But I’ve been fascinated by artists ever since.

  When I sat down to write this story, I asked myself these questions: What if an artist suddenly lost control of his painting? What if his hand started painting on its own? What if he couldn’t control it at all?

  How terrifying would that be?

  You decide….

  I put my brush to the paper and drew the outline of Julie’s face. Then I added a few brushstrokes to start her hair. “Hold still,” I said. “You can’t move until I get the basic lines in.”

  She giggled. “Dylan, you look so serious.”

  I could feel myself blushing. The truth is, I had a major crush on Julie. And I wanted this painting to be awesomely good. I really wanted to impress her.

  She leaned back on the edge of my bed, her hands behind her pressed on the quilt. Her blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wore a blue turtleneck sweater over faded straight-legged jeans.

  The late-afternoon sun poured through my bedroom window, spreading a warm, orange glow over the room. Julie kept a smile frozen on her face, which made two big dimples appear on her cheeks.

  “How did you get interested in painting?” she asked.

  I leaned over my drawing board and started to outline her eyes. “You won’t believe it,” I said, “but I saw one of those ads in the local newspaper. It had a girl’s face in it. And it said: ‘Can you draw me?’”

  The brush slipped, and I accidentally dabbed a smudge of black paint over her left eye. I’d just gotten these brushes, and I wasn’t used to them.

  “It was some kind of contest,” I continued. “I sent my drawing in—and I won. I won art lessons with this old guy who lives downtown. MacKenzie Douglas. He used to be a very famous magazine illustrator.”

  “Was he a good teacher?” Julie asked.

  “The best!” I said. “I don’t know how he did it. But ever since those lessons, I can draw anybody—no problem.”

  “Cool,” Julie said. She stretched her arms. “Are you almost finished? I can’t wait to see it.”

  Before I could answer, I heard heavy, thudding footsteps—and Flash came waddling into the room. The big chimpanzee uttered a few hoo hoo hoo’s then jumped into Julie’s lap.

  Julie let out a startled cry and fell off the bed with the chimp on top of her.

  “Mandy!” I yelled for my little sister. She instantly appeared in the doorway. “Mandy—you’re supposed to be watching Flash,” I said angrily. “How come he got away from you?”

  “Because he’s a chimp, that’s why!” Mandy always has a smart answer for everything.

  Julie shoved the chattering chimp off and struggled to her feet. “He’s heavy!”

  Mandy tugged Flash back to her room. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you okay?” Dad is always bringing pets home from the animal hospital where he works. Flash is a total pest.”

  “He’s kind of cute,” Julie said, brushing chimp fur off her sweater. She returned to her perch on the bed. “He just surprised me, that’s all.”

  Just my luck. I try to impress a girl, and a chimpanzee knocks her to the floor.

  “Dad brought two macaws home yesterday,” I said. “Hear them? They’re down in the living room, screeching their heads off. We even had a little pig running around the house last week!”

  Julie laughed. “You live in a zoo!”

  I leaned over the drawing board and concentrated on the painting. I carefully sketched in the mouth. Julie was the coolest girl in my seventh-grade class. I couldn’t believe it when she agreed to pose for me. I knew I had to make this my best portrait ever.

  I changed the eyes. I wasn’t happy with them. Then I carefully sketched the nose. I worked quickly. The new brush glided easily over the paper.

  “How much longer?” Julie asked.

  “Not much,” I said. “I’m filling in some details.”

  “Does it really look like me?” she asked.

  “You’ll see,” I replied.

  And then my hand made a sharp movement across the page. Whoa, I thought. Why did I do that?

  I dipped the brush into the jar of paint. I wanted to fill in the hair. But my hand guided the brush to the mouth. I made several sharp strokes.

  “Hey!” I cried out.

  “What’s wrong?” Julie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. But something was terribly wrong.

  My hand—it was moving on its own!

  The brush painted in lines over Julie’s cheeks and forehead. Then it moved to her mouth and began drawing furiously.

  I grabbed my hand and tried to pull it away from the page. But it wouldn’t budge.

  This is crazy! I thought. This can’t be happening.

  My hand is drawing without me!

  I have no control. No control at all!

  A wave of panic made my whole body shudder. I struggled to control the brush, but it kept moving over the page.

  I could feel cold sweat rolling down my forehead. This is terrifying! What is happening to me?

  Suddenly Julie jumped up and crossed the room. “Let me see it!” she said. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “No!” I shouted. “It—it isn’t ready!”

  “I don’t care,” she replied, grinning at me. “Let me see this masterpiece!”

  I tried to cover it with my body, but Julie grabbed the painting off the drawing board and turned it around to look at it.

  “DYLAN!” she screamed. “It’s so gross! Why did you do this?”

  She held the paper between her hands. In the painting her forehead and cheeks were covered with deep, open scars. And a hairy bucktoothed rat poked out of her open mouth.

  “I—I—I didn’t!” I sputtered.

  She let out a furious cry and ripped the painting in half. “You’re not funny,” she cried angrily. “You’re not funny. You’re just gross.” Then she stormed out of the room.

  “But Julie—” I called.

  A few seconds later I heard the front door slam behind her.

  “How did that happen?” I asked out
loud in a trembling voice. “How?” I stared at my hand, as if it could answer.

  I barely ate any dinner. I told Mom and Dad I wasn’t feeling well. Up in my room I couldn’t concentrate on my homework.

  I kept thinking about my painting of Julie with the rat poking out of her mouth. I couldn’t stop thinking about how my hand had moved, out of my control, ruining the painting.

  I went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep.

  A little after midnight I climbed out of bed and turned on the ceiling light. Then I made my way to the drawing table.

  I had to prove to myself that I could still paint. I had to prove that I wasn’t going crazy or something.

  I set up a mirror on my drawing table. Then I put a fresh sheet of paper down and picked up one of my new brushes.

  I dipped the brush into a fresh jar of paint and began to draw myself. My eyes moved from the mirror to the drawing. I started with the eyes this time. Then I sketched in my snubby nose and my full mouth.

  So far, so good, I thought.

  I moved to the hair. My hair is not easy to draw because it’s short and spiky and shoots out in a million directions.

  But the brush glided quickly. My hand felt sure and steady.

  Yesss! I thought.

  But I celebrated too early.

  I dipped my brush into the paint again and lowered it to outline my face. I started on the chin—but my hand jerked to the side.

  I stared in horror as it began drawing on its own. Drawing something where my neck should be.

  “NO!” I screamed. I tugged with all my strength. But my other hand moved with incredible force.

  I could only stand and watch it move around the paper. The hand was out of my control. Moving on its own!

  “NOOOOOO!” A scream burst from my throat.

  The bedroom door flew open. Mom and Dad came running in in their pajamas, their hair tousled, their faces sleepy. “Dylan—what’s wrong?” they both cried.

  Dad grabbed my painting from the table. They both stared at it.

  It showed me with a noose around my neck. My tongue was hanging out, and my eyes were bulging.

  “Why did you paint this?” Dad demanded. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Why did you paint such a sick thing?” Mom asked. “Is something troubling you, Dylan? Something you want to talk about?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I repeated.

  I stayed away from my drawing table for the rest of the week. I hid the paint jars and brushes in the closet.

  I didn’t want to think about what had happened. Every time I pictured my hand moving on its own, I wanted to scream in horror.

  On Monday I had no choice. I had to bring my paintbrushes to school. Mr. Vella, the art teacher, had chosen me and four other kids to paint a mural on the long art-room wall.

  When I passed Julie in the hall, she looked the other way. I saw kids grinning at me. I guessed that Julie had told them what had happened.

  I hurried to the art room. Kids were at their tables, waiting to watch us five artists go to work. “Remember, people, the theme of the mural is America the Beautiful,” Mr. Vella said.

  He guided me to the end of the long wall. “I saved this square for you, Dylan,” he said. “From here to the window. I see you brought your own brushes. What are you going to paint?”

  I gazed at the blank white canvas. “A farm scene, I think,” I answered. “Some animals. Maybe a farm family.”

  “Sounds good,” Mr. Vella said. “Go to work.” He moved on to the next artist, an eighth-grade girl named Willa Myers.

  I glanced down the line and realized I was the only seventh grader. I’d better do a really good job, I thought.

  I started with a pencil. I sketched several sheep, a cow, some horses poking their heads over a fence. I sketched a farmhouse in the background. A family of four bent over, feeding seed to a bunch of chickens.

  Mr. Vella moved up and down the row of artists, making comments and suggestions. “That looks very good, Dylan,” he said, helping to finish my pencil sketch of the chickens. “You can begin to paint now.”

  I carried paint jars over to my spot. Then I prepared my paintbrushes.

  My hand moved too quickly. The brush swept over my pencil sketch. I tried to control the brushstrokes. But once again my hand took off.

  No—please! Please don’t do this! I silently begged.

  But I couldn’t stop my hand.

  I tried to drop the brush. But my fingers held tight. The brush kept moving up and down, drawing without me. Drawing on its own.

  Am I going crazy?

  “Dylan—what are you doing?” I heard Mr. Vella’s alarmed cry from down the row. And I heard kids laughing.

  My hand finished the farm family. The four people were bending over, headless. Blood poured from their open necks. Their heads were on the ground, being pecked apart by the chickens.

  The cow and horses were vomiting. Piles of puke were puddled around their feet. The sheep had bullet holes in their sides.

  “Dylan! I want you to stop this right now!” Mr. Vella shouted.

  “I—I CAN’T STOP!” I shouted.

  The kids erupted in laughter. They thought I was joking.

  “HELP ME! MR. VELLA—HELP ME!”

  My hand pulled me to the side. I bumped into Willa Myers and kicked over her paint jars.

  My brush attacked her drawing. I scrawled thick black lines over the city scene she had started. My hand scribbled and jabbed.

  “Dylan—get away!” Willa cried.

  “I can’t!” I shouted. “I can’t stop it!”

  My brush jabbed at Willa’s face. I painted black smudges on her cheeks, then a zigzag line across her hair.

  She shrieked and staggered back.

  “HELP ME! SOMEBODY!” I wailed.

  The class had grown silent now.

  My brush dipped into a red-paint jar. And I began scrawling ugly faces on the wall. On the floor. I swung away from the canvas and began to paint red bars on the window.

  “STOP ME! STOP ME!” The cry burst from my throat. The hand was jerking me one way, then the other. Painting. Painting. I couldn’t stop it. “HELP ME!”

  Mr. Vella rushed over. “Dylan—what’s wrong? Get a grip on yourself. I—”

  My hand painted a thick red stripe down the center of his face. Then a stripe down the front of his sweater.

  With a sputtering cry he grabbed my shoulders. I spun away from him, and my brush swiped down the sleeve of his sweater. He was covered in red paint. Then my hand moved to the art-room door and began painting the door.

  “I CAN’T STOP! CAN’T STOP!” I shrieked. “CAN’T ANYBODY HELP ME?”

  My parents kept me home the next day. They couldn’t decide whether to be angry or worried about me. So they were both.

  I stayed in my room. I tried to read my schoolwork, but I just couldn’t think straight. The macaws were chattering away downstairs. I turned on the TV with the sound real loud to drown them out. But I couldn’t concentrate on it, either.

  I couldn’t believe it when Mr. Vella paid a surprise visit after school. My mother showed him to my room. “Dylan is very sorry for what he did,” she told the art teacher. Then she went downstairs and left us alone.

  Mr. Vella sat down at my desk. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I replied. I apologized for what had happened in class. “I…can’t really explain it,” I said. I sat on the edge of my bed.

  He studied me for a long while. “How long have you been interested in painting?” he asked finally.

  “I didn’t really get interested in it until I won some lessons. From an artist named MacKenzie Douglas.”

  Mr. Vella squinted at me. “MacKenzie Douglas? I read in the paper that he died three weeks ago.”

  I gasped. “Really? But I don’t understand. I just finished my lessons with him a few weeks ago. And he…he sent me some
of his brushes last week.”

  Mr. Vella glanced at the paintbrushes on my drawing table. “Strange…” he muttered.

  We talked a short while longer. Then Mr. Vella made his way to the door. “I just wanted to make sure you are okay,” he said. “That was frightening yesterday.”

  “I think I’m all right,” I said. “I’ll definitely be back in school tomorrow.”

  He gave me a wave and headed downstairs. I could hear him talking with my mom.

  I stepped up to the drawing table and studied the paintbrushes. I felt bad that MacKenzie Douglas had died.

  I picked up the long-handled brushes one by one. When did he send them? I wondered. How did they reach me two weeks after he died?

  That night I fell asleep quickly. I dreamed I was painting the sky. I wanted to paint white, fluffy clouds. But I couldn’t reach high enough.

  I was awakened by a scraping sound. “Huh? Who’s there?” I whispered.

  Blinking myself awake, I raised my head from the pillow. I squinted into the dim light—and gasped.

  The paintbrushes were floating in the air.

  They scraped across the paper on the drawing table. Tilting, bobbing, sliding up and down—the brushes were painting.

  Painting without me!

  “NO!” With a terrified cry, I leaped out of bed. I lurched across the room and made a grab for the brushes.

  The brushes jerked and jabbed the air. I wrapped my hands around the handles and struggled to hold on to them.

  My hands were pulled above my head. The brushes twirled and jerked, as if trying to escape. But I tightened my grip and held on.

  I’ve got to get rid of them, I decided. I’ve got to get them out of this house. If I do, my life will go back to normal.

  Squeezing the brush handles tightly, I crept downstairs. I made my way to the kitchen and stepped out the back door.

  The ground was hard and cold under my bare feet. A chilling wind fluttered my pajamas. I ran across the wet grass to the back of the garage.

  Four metal trash cans stood along the garage wall. I lifted the lid on the first can and tossed the brushes in. Then I slammed down the lid and made sure it was on tight.

  Shivering, I ran back into the house. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I could sleep easily now. I thought I had won a big victory.