I glance over to Felicia and Sarah, who haven’t said a word to me since Friday. That’s fine by me. They were never my friends in the first place.
I think of Rachel. Sacrificing herself to save me—to save everyone—even after all I’d done to her. Even after all we’d done to her.
She was a friend I didn’t deserve.
She was more than a friend. She was a hero.
And no one here knows it. Maybe I can find a way to change that.
Maybe I can try to become a good person.
That’s what Rachel would have wanted.
* * *
I go to the lake one last time after class.
I go alone. I fully expect there to be police, but there aren’t. The lake is silent. CAUTION tape circles the perimeter, but I duck beneath it. Walk toward the destroyed pier. Cautiously, I make my way out to the very tip, toward the center of the lake. Toward where all the town’s dirty secrets have drowned.
I clutch Rachel’s sketchbook to my chest.
For a long while, I don’t know what to say.
This feels like saying goodbye. Forever.
Tears fall down my cheeks, dripping softly into the lake, and for once, the place doesn’t seem ominous at all. It almost seems peaceful.
I can almost imagine that this is a place Rachel would want to be.
“I want you to have this back,” I say to her memory. “So you can remember … so you can remember the good times. Like I will. I’ll miss you, Rachel. I’m sorry.” I sniff. “Goodbye.”
Then I toss the sketchbook as far as I can. It lands in the middle of the lake with a splash, floating on the surface.
I swallow back the rest of my tears and turn to go, picking my way carefully over the splintered wood.
When I reach the shore, I hear it.
A ripple.
A splash.
I turn around just in time to see the clawed hand rising up from the surface, dragging Rachel’s sketchbook down into the watery depths.
This book wouldn’t have been possible without the amazing support of the entire Scholastic Book Fair team, including the standout enthusiasm of Jana Haussmann. A huge thanks as well to my editor, David Levithan, for always knowing how to make a creepy book like this truly terrifying.
My undying (undrowning?) thanks to my parents and brother, for supporting me from the very beginning and encouraging me to follow my dream of becoming a writer (/musician, artist, aerialist, or whatever zany interest I had at the time). I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
And, of course, my deepest thanks to the countless readers and teachers and parents who’ve reached out to share their love for these books, and often a newfound love of reading in general. Your enthusiasm has meant the world.
I look forward to scaring you again very soon …
K. R. Alexander is the pseudonym for author Alex R. Kahler.
As K. R., he writes creepy middle-grade books for brave young readers. As Alex—his actual first name—he writes fantasy novels for adults and teens. In both cases, he loves writing fiction drawn from true life experiences. (But this book can’t be real … can it?)
Alex has traveled the world collecting strange and fascinating tales, from the misty moors of Scotland to the humid jungles of Hawaii. He is always on the move, as he believes there is much more to life than what meets the eye.
You can learn more about his travels and books, including The Collector, The Fear Zone, and the books in the Scare Me series, on his website, cursedlibrary.com.
He looks forward to scaring you again … soon.
Turn the page for more scares from K. R. Alexander!
“Hey, give that back!” I yelp.
Andres grins, which looks really creepy since he’s wearing fake vampire fangs for Halloween. He doesn’t hand back the folded piece of orange paper he’s snatched from my locker—instead he takes a step back and waves it while other costumed kids walk down the hall around us. He’s been my best friend since sixth grade, and even now, two years later, he sometimes acts like my little brother. My very annoying little brother.
Andres starts opening the folded letter.
“Come on, give it back.”
Andres shakes his head, still smiling, unfolding the note slowly.
Honestly, I have no idea what the note is, and I don’t want Andres to be the first to find out. Maybe it’s from a friend telling me about a last-minute Halloween party. Or maybe it’s from my archnemesis, Caroline, telling me I look ugly in my black cat costume. It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s gone from good friend to enemy ever since last year.
I feebly snatch at the paper one more time, but Andres dances back a step. The page is almost entirely unfolded now.
He reads it to himself. His smile slips.
“What is this?” he asks. “Some sort of joke?”
He turns the paper over, and I read what’s written in messy paint on the other side.
MEET IN THE GRAVEYARD.
TONIGHT. MIDNIGHT.
OR ELSE.
“Huh?” I ask. I grab for the paper again. This time he lets me have it. “Who wrote this?”
Andres shrugs and leans against the locker beside mine.
“Maybe it’s a prank?” he says.
I keep rereading the note. I don’t recognize the handwriting. It’s not Caroline’s, that’s for sure. I don’t think I have any other enemies at Jackson Middle School.
Do I?
I want to crumple up the letter, but when I look at it again, chills race down my spine. Those two words: Or else.
Or else what?
“It has to be a prank,” I reply. “A Halloween scare. I bet some kids from the high school are going to be there to scare us or something.”
It wouldn’t surprise me. Kids in our town love Halloween, and I’ve heard a bunch of stories about high school kids taking the scares too far. Dressing up as monsters and running after little kids. Throwing pumpkins on cars. Apparently, years ago, a kid even went missing while playing hide-and-seek in the graveyard, and wasn’t found until the next morning.
I shudder and crumple the note, tossing it in a nearby trash can. Whatever this is, I don’t want any part in it.
“Come on,” I say. I shut my locker and zip up my bag. “Let’s go. I think Mom finally brought all the Halloween candy out of hiding.”
“You had me at candy,” Andres says. He takes my arm, and together we walk down the hall and out of the school. But no matter how loudly we talk about other things, I’m haunted by the feeling:
Someone wants me to be at the graveyard.
At midnight.
Someone wants me to be afraid.
We walk down the halls of Jackson Middle School and all I can think about is who left that weird note in her locker. Caroline? I could totally see her doing something like that, but it seems too … I don’t know, too obvious. Caroline’s more the type to spread nasty rumors than leave creepy notes.
I should know.
Ever since last year, Caroline has seen me as an enemy too. Which bites, since Caroline and I used to be friends when we worked in the drama department together.
I can tell April’s freaked out—and I don’t want to freak her out any more. So I don’t tell her that I got a similar note in my locker. Only, my note wasn’t as scary. It didn’t threaten me. It just said:
MIDNIGHT. GRAVEYARD.
PREPARE TO BE SCARED.
Which makes me think this is all some elaborate prank being played on the eighth graders rather than a vengeance thing by Caroline. Either that, or it’s some sort of party.
I plan on going either way. If it’s Caroline trying to be scary, I have to see her fail. And if it’s a party, I don’t want to miss out.
I do what I can to cheer up April as we walk to her house. Pretty much everyone we pass is in costume. There are the usual zombies and mummies made of toilet paper, the costumes kids put together last minute. Others have clearly put a lot of thought into it. I pass by
a pirate with a squawking stuffed bird on his shoulder. I nearly jump back when I see he has a plastic shark eating his leg. A very realistic shark.
Our town goes all out on Halloween night, and this year our trick-or-treat is going to be huge. They’ve closed down all of the main street downtown and set up stalls with vendors giving away free candy and hot cider, and April’s house is right around the corner. We’re going to have tons of visitors. I can’t wait. April no longer seems as enthusiastic.
“We’re still on door duty, yeah?” I ask.
She nods. Clearly, she’s still thinking about the note.
“Mom is taking Freddy out tonight. It’s his first trick-or-treat.”
“Cute,” I say. “Just means we get to eat all the candy ourselves!”
She smiles, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it.
“It’s nothing,” I say. I nudge her. “Just some kids playing a prank. They probably didn’t even know it was your locker. I bet it was random.” I have to stop myself from saying, I bet everyone got one, because then she’d ask if I got one, and I know that wouldn’t end well.
She half smiles at me; it’s not convincing.
“Look at that!” I point at a nearby yard. “So cool.”
The yard has been completely transformed into a horror scene. There are open caskets with moving skeletons inside and giant cauldrons filled with smoke and green light. Animatronic bats flap around on the front porch, and fabric ghosts hang from the trees, billowing in the breeze.
“Whoa,” she says. “They must have spent a bunch of money.”
One of the standing caskets opens as we pass.
With a terrifyingly loud giggle, a clown with a giant red smile pops out, his hands raised to grab us.
April yelps and jumps back, nearly knocking me over. I catch her before she tumbles off the sidewalk into traffic.
“It’s okay!” I say. “It’s fake!”
We pause there for a moment, staring at the mannequin as it angles back into the coffin and the door shuts. April’s hand is on her heart and her breath is fast. She stares at the closed casket with wide eyes.
“Why?” she gasps. “Why does it always have to be clowns?”
I squeeze her shoulders. “Because everyone’s afraid of clowns. Even clowns are afraid of clowns. It’s, like, human nature or something.” Even though I know that’s not the reason she’s scared of clowns, I would never bring it up. There are certain things that we don’t talk about, and clowns are one of them.
“But you aren’t scared of them,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes off the casket. “You aren’t scared of anything.”
“Not true,” I say. I start walking—there’s another group of kids coming up behind us, and I don’t want her to be near when the clown springs out again. “I’m terrified of sharks.”
“We live in Iowa,” she replies. “There’s literally no way to be afraid of sharks here. Unless you go to the aquarium or something.”
“You tell that to five-year-old me, who refused to take baths for a year because he watched a shark documentary.”
April chuckles. Phew. At least she’s no longer thinking about the note.
“Scared of a stupid yard decoration, April?” someone calls from behind us.
I grimace before I even look back.
Of course. Caroline.
“Just keep walking,” I mutter under my breath.
April doesn’t. She stops and turns around, her hands on her hips.
“I wasn’t scared,” she says. “Just surprised.”
“Please,” Caroline says. She steps up to us and sneers. Which is super effective, since she’s dressed as a green wicked witch, complete with a long warty nose and black lipstick. She eyes April up and down, and the sneer widens. Oh no. “What are you dressed as, anyway? A scaredy-cat?”
Caroline’s two friends—Lia is dressed like an angel, Joann a devil, which seems a little too appropriate—cackle with laughter.
“Good one, Caroline,” Angel says. “Scaredy-cat.”
“More like scaredy-fat,” Devil replies. “Look at her.”
They all start laughing and point at April’s costume. It’s a simple costume, but it works—a black T-shirt and jeans, a black tail, ears, and painted whiskers. She was proud of it when we did her makeup this morning. Now she practically deflates.
Fat jokes. How creative.
Anger fills my chest with heat.
“This coming from the girl who finally dressed as her true self,” I say, looking between the devil girl and Caroline.
Caroline’s laughter cuts short. She glares at me.
“What are you supposed to be, anyway? Aren’t vampires supposed to be pale?”
I roll my eyes. Who says vampires can’t be Latinx?
“Wow,” I say. “Ugly and unoriginal. That costume really does suit you. Or is today the day you finally took your costume off?”
Caroline says something under her breath that I know is insulting, but I don’t hear it. I’ve already turned and taken April by the arm. Together, we cross the street and continue walking home. Thankfully, Caroline and her goonies don’t come after us.
“You didn’t have to do that,” April says when we’re a block away.
“What, defend my best friend?” I shrug. “I’m not going to stand around and listen to ignorant people insult you.”
“They’re going to come after you now,” she says. And maybe I was wrong before. Maybe clowns aren’t the things that scare April the most. Maybe it’s bullies like Caroline.
“Whatever. I’d like to see them try.”
“You wouldn’t,” she whispers.
I squeeze her arm again. Last year, Caroline went from being one of April’s best friends to her worst enemy. It seemed to happen without any warning. We hadn’t heard from Caroline all summer break, and when she got back to school, she was just … distant. April tried to connect with her, but Caroline lashed out, saying she didn’t need friends like April. Since then, Caroline has made it a point to be as mean to April as possible, no matter how much April once tried to be her friend. Sometimes she takes it too far. Lately, it seems like whenever Caroline sees April, she has a new, cruel name thought up for her.
If anything is evil incarnate, it’s her.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “Or her. Come on! It’s Halloween. Let’s go stuff ourselves with candy and dance to terrible pop music.”
“I don’t think I want any candy,” April says.
I sigh.
“We can still dance around like idiots?” I say hopefully.
She smiles—this time, for real.
“Yeah, we can.”
I take her arm and do a stupid little dance to make her giggle before we set off toward home.
I feel like I’m being watched.
I turn around, thinking that maybe it’s April, staring daggers at my back.
But there’s no one there.
Just that clown still popped out of his casket,
reaching.
Copyright © 2020 by Alex R. Kahler writing as K. R. Alexander
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First printing 2020
Cover design by Baily Crawford and Nina Goffi
Cover photos © Shutterstock: (Joe Therasakdhi), (Lia Koltyrina), (Susse_n), (Tirion_L)
e-ISBN 978-1-338-60793-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publica
tion may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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