by R. L. Stine
That’s just what I needed now.
I had never used the lighter. I’d never even made it flame.
But I had a desperate idea to use it now.
What if I set the dry cornstalks on fire?
Would the flames frighten the zombie kids away? Would a fire give me a chance to run? If the stalks flare up and the flames surround them, will the zombie kids run?
I slid my hand into my jeans pocket and wrapped my fingers around the old lighter.
Did it still work?
I gazed at my cousin Mila and her friend. Shameka. They stared hard at me, not blinking, not moving, as the zombies closed in.
Gripping the lighter tightly, I pulled it out of my pocket. Before anyone could grab it, I shot my arm out and raised the lighter to the nearest cornstalk.
And I clicked it hard.
Nothing happened.
It didn’t flame.
I clicked it again.
Again.
I shook the lighter hard, then clicked it. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
No flame. Nothing. The lighter didn’t work.
With a hard swipe, a zombie boy slapped it out of my hand. I watched it hit the ground and bounce between the stalks.
Can I run? I asked myself.
Their circle tightened around me. No way I could break through.
Mila and Shameka gripped my arms and held me in place. “It will only hurt for a little while,” Mila said again. “Then you will live with us in the corn forever.”
“Think about that,” Shameka said. “Don’t you want to live forever?”
I was thinking about it.
“Hunnh hunh hunh …”
The low growls and grunts grew louder, ringing in my ears until my whole head throbbed. I shut my eyes, trying to force away the pain.
Then I opened them and turned to Mila and Shameka. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Hold on.”
Their cold eyes met mine.
“I want to ask you one question,” I said. I slid the harmonica from my jeans pocket and held it up.
“What’s your question?” Mila demanded.
“Well … if I let you turn me into a zombie,” I said, “can I play my harmonica in your band?”
They looked at each other.
Shameka nodded.
“Yes, sure. Fine,” Mila said.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s do it!”
Well … I knew Todd was dying to be in a band. I guess he got his wish. Hahaha!
Don’t ever say my stories don’t have a happy ending!
I hope you enjoyed Todd’s story. I hope you didn’t think it was too corny! Haha.
I’ll be back soon with another Goosebumps story.
Remember, this is SlappyWorld.
You only scream in it!
I jumped and cried out as the monster roared in my face. I shot both hands up and tried to push it away.
“Get back, Ira!” I shouted. “You’re not funny.”
My brother laughed and lowered his wooden monster to his side. He took a step back. Then he waved the monster at me again. “It’s pretty awesome, don’t you think, Judy?”
“You’re sick,” I said. “You think it’s normal to spend all your time in the garage building monsters?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Normal.”
I shoved the tall wooden thing out of my way and crossed to the open garage door. “Sick,” I repeated.
I turned to the shelves against the wall. “Look at them all. A dozen monsters. And what do you do with them, Ira? You don’t put on puppet shows or anything, or show them off to people. Your monsters just sit there on the shelves, staring at the driveway.”
Ira laughed again. He has an annoying laugh. Like gravel scraping in his throat. “They’re waiting to attack,” he said. “When I give the signal, my monsters will take over the town.”
He picked up a small square of sandpaper and began smoothing it over his monster’s wooden back. Our garage has every kind of tool and supply. A lathe. Two different kinds of saws. A whole wall of hammers and pliers and chisels and things I don’t even know what they are.
That’s because our dad is a carpenter.
He does useful work. He doesn’t use his tools to build monster after monster.
“Ira, you’re fifteen,” I said. “Why don’t you play video games like everyone else in your class? Or, if you want to build stuff, why don’t you build model airplanes or cars?”
“I like monsters,” he replied. He raised the monster and started to gently sand one of its long ears.
I shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. I get it, Ira. Sulphur Falls is a boring place to live. You need a hobby.”
“It’s not just a hobby,” he said. He carried the monster to the shelves and sat it down next to one of the others. “These are going to be valuable some day.”
He straightened a fat, piglike creation and wiped dust off its broad head. “I’m going to start a monster YouTube channel and sell them.”
Clouds rolled over the sun, and the light dimmed in the garage. It was spring, but the breezes coming down from the mountain felt as chilly as winter.
I straightened my sweater and hugged myself in the sudden cold. “You know what?” I said. “Your monsters would look better if you painted their faces. Why don’t you let me do it? You know I love to paint. I could make them a lot creepier.”
He shook his head. “No way, Judy. Forget about that. I think they’re scarier without faces. You have to use your imagination.”
I opened my mouth to argue with him. But I heard someone calling my name. I turned and saw Dad striding from the house.
Dad is short and round and white haired, even though he isn’t that old. His friends in town call him Walrus because his white mustache droops down the sides of his mouth like walrus tusks.
Dad’s stomach bounced under his overalls as he walked. He wears denim overalls with lots of pockets for his tools and red-and-black flannel shirts. And the front of him is usually covered in sawdust, so it looks like he has terrible dandruff.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “What’s up?”
He stopped at the garage door. The wind ruffled his white hair. “Hi, Judy,” he said. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Before we get to Dad’s bad news, I should start out by telling you about me and my family and all that beginning-story stuff. I’m afraid I was so busy arguing with Ira about his monsters, I got a little ahead of myself.
You probably figured out my name is Judy. Judy Glassman. I’m twelve and my brother Ira the Monster Maker is fifteen.
After our parents split up, Mom decided to move to England. We visit her as often as we can. Dad moved Ira and me here to Sulphur Falls, Wyoming.
It’s a tiny ski town at the bottom of Black Rock Mountain. The mountain is snow-covered most of the year, and the skiing is good. Otherwise, why would people come here?
Dad moved us to get back to his roots. He grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. He wanted us to have a fresh start. And he argued, “People in small towns need carpenters, too.”
Ira and I wanted to stay back East. We didn’t want to leave our friends. But how could we argue with Dad? Besides, Ira and I are not exactly timid. I’m not bragging, but I’d say we’re always up for a new adventure.
And living in this tiny town at the foot of Black Rock Mountain is definitely an adventure. With the sun behind it, the shadow of the mountain falls over the entire town.
It’s dark most of the day, and the mountain air is at least ten degrees colder than anywhere else. I’m so happy that spring has come around because it means a few warm days before the cold returns.
I followed Dad into the house. We have a wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen, and it keeps the room warm and toasty. We sat down across from each other at the breakfast counter.
I tapped my fingers on the white countertop. “Okay, let me have it,” I said. “What’s your bad news?”
Dad tugged at the sides of his walrus mustache. “Wel
l, you know what happens every spring, Judy,” he began. “Time for me to go up to Baker Grendel’s house.”
I groaned. “Again? Do you really have to go this year?”
He nodded. “You know I do. The snow is melting, and the roads up the mountain are passable. Grendel is expecting me.”
Baker Grendel and his wife, Hilda, have a huge mansion at the top of the mountain. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never seen it.
Dad travels up there every spring to do repairs and carpentry work for them. He usually stays up there for a week. One year, he got snowed in and was stuck up there for nearly two weeks.
He ran a hand through his thick white hair. “Baker and his wife, Hilda, are strange,” he said. “But they pay very well.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “And I suppose you’re taking Ira with you as always?” I said. “You’re taking Ira and leaving me behind with Mrs. Hardwell?”
Dad’s cheeks turned pink. He knows Mrs. Hardwell and I don’t get along. To put it mildly.
Mrs. Hardwell is our housekeeper, and she’s always on my case. She’s boring and strict and too serious. And she never wants me to have any fun.
Dad avoided my stare. He glanced out the kitchen window to the backyard. “Yes,” he said finally. “I’m taking Ira.”
I slammed my fist on the table. “No fair!” I shouted. “No fair, Dad.”
“Judy, please—”
“You take Ira every year,” I said. “It’s my turn. I want to go, too. How can you be so unfair?”
“Ira helps me with the work,” Dad said. “He knows the tools from working on his wooden monsters.”
“I know tools—” I started.
He raised a hand, motioning for me to stop. “I can’t take you both,” he said. “The ride up to the mountaintop is just too treacherous. You know I can’t even take the jeep. The melting snow makes the dirt road too slippery. I have to take a horse and wagon. You’d hate it, Judy.”
“Try me,” I said. “I won’t hate it. I promise, Dad.” I could feel my anger tightening my throat. Dad’s reasons didn’t make sense.
Why couldn’t I go? Why did it always have to be Ira?
“I don’t want to stay with Mrs. Hardwell,” I shouted. “She’s horrid!”
A voice behind me made me gasp. “You can’t mean that, Judy.” Mrs. Hardwell appeared at the kitchen door.
She walked in shaking her head. Her short, straight black hair bobbed with her head, and her tiny black bird eyes were locked on me. A smile spread across her pale narrow face, but I knew it was totally fake.
“Sorry you feel that way,” she said. She speaks with a smooth, velvety voice. Also fake. “It’s because you think you can run wild when your father isn’t here. I have to keep you in line.”
R.L. Stine says he gets to scare people all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 400 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. The Goosebumps series has more than 150 titles and has inspired a TV series and two motion pictures. R.L. himself is a character in the movies! He has also written the teen series Fear Street, and the Mostly Ghostly and Nightmare Room series. He is currently writing a series of graphic novels entitled Just Beyond. R.L. Stine lives in New York City with his wife, Jane, an editor and publisher. You can learn more about him at rlstine.com.
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HOW I GOT MY SHRUNKEN HEAD
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Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
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First printing 2021
e-ISBN 978-1-338-35582-6
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