The 12 Screams of Christmas

by R. L. Stine

  “But I wasn’t expecting a stampede,” she said.

  I kept walking toward the back fence. I had my eye on the old-fashioned stone well in front of me. It had a little pointed roof above it.

  I took out my phone and snapped a photo of it.

  I suddenly felt drawn to the well, as if it was pulling me toward it.

  Why did I have this strange feeling about it?

  My skin began to tingle. My legs felt heavy. A feeling of dread swept over me.

  Why? Why was I frightened of this old well? Part of me wanted to back away. Get as far from the well as I could.

  But part of me felt a force pulling me closer to examine it.

  I stepped up to the well and grabbed the top with both hands. Some of the stones had crumbled off. A section of the wall across from me had broken. There were no stones on the ground. They had probably fallen into the well.

  I leaned against the stone wall. The stones were cold and powdery.

  Is there still water at the bottom?

  My whole body tingled. I had such a weird feeling about this well. Something was wrong here, terribly wrong.

  But I couldn’t pull back. I couldn’t resist.

  I had to see what was at the bottom.

  I leaned over the wall and peered down.

  I heard the crumbling sound beneath me. Too late. Too late.

  The wall gave way. It fell apart and I toppled forward.

  I let out a shrill scream as I started to fall headfirst down the well.

  I shot my hands out — and grabbed nothing but air.

  As I fell, my legs scraped over the stone wall. Then my shoes caught on the edge.

  With a breathless cry, I swung out my arms again and grabbed the side of the well. Then I flipped myself up, hoisted myself out, and somehow landed on my feet.

  Not my best landing.

  But how lucky that I’d been a gymnast. It saved my life.

  I stood there for a long time, feeling shaky, trying to catch my breath. I kept picturing the stone walls stretching down … down … to nothing but darkness. A black pit.

  Carol Ann came running over. Courtney stood watching from the side of the little guesthouse.

  “Kate? Are you okay?” Carol Ann cried. “I … I saw you fall and —”

  “Yeah. I’m just a little shaken,” I said. “I mean, I can’t stop shaking. I almost —”

  “You almost gave me a heart attack,” Carol Ann said. She rushed forward and hugged me. “I really thought you fell down the well.”

  I gazed back at the well. The top was all ragged because of the stones that had crumbled off. I shuddered again.

  “Why did you lean over like that?” Carol Ann demanded.

  I blinked. “I … don’t know,” I said. “Something weird happened. The well seemed to pull me …”

  “Let’s go inside now.” Mr. P suddenly appeared. He was dressed in black sweats. He had taken off the Santa cap.

  Had he seen me fall?

  “I forgot to warn everyone to stay away from the old well,” he said, leading the way back to the house. “It’s dangerous.”

  Tell me about it.

  We started to the house. Courtney was waiting by the garden shed. “See anything down in that well?” she asked.

  “Too dark,” I said. “It’s really deep. I couldn’t see the bottom.”

  She nodded and turned away.

  Mr. P ushered everyone into the front room. The fire in the fireplace crackled and danced. We all perched on the old couches and chairs and drank hot mulled cider from mugs.

  Mr. P stood in front of the fireplace, waiting for us to get quiet. “I’ll tell you the story of this house,” he said, setting down his mug of cider. “It’s a sad story. And you will soon see that it is the inspiration for my Christmas play.”

  His eyeglasses reflected the orange and yellow flames from the fire behind him. He pulled up a low wooden stool and settled down to tell his story.

  “There are tales and rumors that this house is haunted,” he started. “That’s the reason no one has lived here in a long, long time. Over a hundred years ago, a family moved in. A mother, father, two twin boys named Ned and Abe, and a little girl named Flora.”

  He picked up the cider mug and took a sip. “The family had just moved in,” he said. “It was Christmastime — and tragedy struck. The story goes that Flora, the eight-year-old girl, fell into the well. The twins saw her fall. They heard her screams as she tried to stay afloat at the bottom. The parents came running. But they were helpless. They had no way to save her.”

  Mr. P rolled the cider mug between his hands. “Flora pleaded for her family to do something to get her out. She screamed, ‘Get me out!’ twelve times. Then she went silent. When the family peered down to the bottom of the well, all they could see was her red cap floating on the water. Flora was gone.

  “The story goes that the family has haunted this house ever since. They appear only at Christmastime. Waiting … waiting for someone to bring the little girl back so they can celebrate the holiday as they used to.”

  A hush fell over the room. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the fire.

  Shawn broke the silence. “Mr. P, are you making this all up?” he asked.

  Mr. P shook his head. He raised his right hand, as if swearing. “It’s a true story, Shawn,” he said. “It’s been handed down in my family for generations. You see, that family … those people who lived in this house were my ancestors. Probably my great-great-great-great grandparents.”

  “So that’s where you got the idea for the play?” Paco asked.

  Mr. P nodded. “Yes. But of course, I gave it a happy ending because it’s a Christmas play. I figured out a way to bring Flora up from the well and make everyone have a happy Christmas.”

  “So is this house really haunted?” Jack asked. “Did you really bring us all to a haunted house where angry ghosts live?”

  “It’s almost Christmas. When do the ghosts come out?” Shawn said.

  Mr. P snickered. “Do you guys seriously believe in ghosts?”

  “Kate does,” Courtney chimed in. “Kate sees ghosts everywhere. She’s probably watching some ghosts right now.”

  “Shut up,” I said. The words just slipped out. I wanted to bite my tongue. I promised myself I wouldn’t get into any fights with Courtney.

  Courtney made an ugly face at me.

  Mr. P ignored us both. “No. I don’t believe in ghosts, people,” he said. “I think maybe the story of the girl falling down the well is true. But I don’t believe that the ghost family still lives here and appears every Christmas. That’s just a story someone made up a long time ago.”

  Shawn did a ghost howl. “Owooooooooo.”

  A few other kids took up the howl.

  Mr. P motioned for them to stop.

  Kids laughed. Shawn jumped to his feet and made his whole body shake. “Ooh, I’m scared. I’m scared.”

  “I hope you all won’t be disappointed,” Mr. P said. “But you won’t see any ghosts here this weekend. I wouldn’t bring you to a dangerous haunted house just to get you in the right mood to perform in my play — would I?”

  No one answered that question.

  I gazed around. The fire sent long, flickering shadows over the room. Through the front window, I could see the afternoon sun lowering itself behind the trees.

  Mr. P hoisted himself up from the low stool. He tugged his big sweatshirt down over his belly and clapped his hands together. “Time to get to work, people. I want to rehearse the play from the opening song.” He glanced from face to face. “How many of you have memorized your parts?”

  Courtney was the first to raise her hand. A few other kids raised hands, too.

  “Well, I need you to memorize, memorize, memorize,” Mr. P said. “By the end of the weekend, I don’t want anyone using their scripts.”

  He lined everyone up in front of the fire. To start the play, all the actors had to stand in a line and sing the “12
Screams of Christmas” song. The four kids in the chorus are off to the side. We sing, too.

  I took my place between Courtney and a boy named DeCarlos. DeCarlos is tall and lanky, with dark skin, big brown eyes, and an awesome, friendly smile.

  He’s the best singer of all of us. But he’s totally shy, and when he tried out for the father role, he mumbled the words and no one could hear him. So Mr. P put him in the chorus.

  “Crisp, people,” Mr. P shouted. “That’s the word of the day. When you sing the song, think crisp. Sing the words crisply. Keep the tempo up. Okay. Let’s try it all the way through.”

  He gave a signal, and we all began to sing.

  “On the first day of Christmas, my true love screamed, ‘I see …

  A buzzard in a bare tree.’

  On the second day of Christmas, my true love screamed, ‘I see …

  Two haunted houses

  And a buzzard in a bare tree.’

  On the third day of Christmas, my true love screamed, ‘I see …

  Three ghostly spirits,

  Two haunted houses,

  And a buzzard in a bare tree.’”

  It sounded pretty good. Our voices rang off the high ceiling of the room.

  But I had one problem. Courtney kept elbowing me. She stood in front of me and sang at the top of her lungs, drowning me out. And drowning out the other two chorus members, too.

  DeCarlos flashed me a smile. He and I both knew there was nothing we could do about Courtney. She was acting like she was the star of the show.

  That was one problem. But then I had another one. A frightening one.

  Because as we sang the opening song, my eyes went to the stairway just beyond the front room. And perched on the banister, I saw two boys. Two dark-haired boys.

  I squinted hard and realized they were twins. Twins dressed in ragged shirts and torn overalls. They leaned on the banister and watched us sing.

  I poked DeCarlos and motioned to the stairs with my eyes.

  He turned, gazed at the stairway, and shrugged.

  “See them?” I whispered.

  He looked again. “See what?”

  On the stairway, one boy scratched his dark hair. The other boy leaned on the banister, staring at us intently.

  And I knew Mr. P was wrong about this house.

  I knew I was staring at two ghosts. The ghosts of the boys in his story.

  “On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love screamed, ‘I see …

  Four devil bats,

  Three ghostly spirits,

  Two haunted houses,

  And a buzzard in a bare tree.’”

  The song continued. I wanted to scream. I wanted to point to the stairs. I wanted to warn everyone there were ghosts in the room.

  But with Courtney pressed right beside me, singing her heart out, somehow I held the scream in. I forced myself to stay quiet. No way I wanted to give her another chance to embarrass me in front of everyone.

  I didn’t scream. I held it in till my chest felt about to burst. I glanced up and saw Mr. P staring at me. He must have guessed something was wrong.

  He waved both hands above his head and stopped the singing. “Kate, are you okay?” he called.

  Everyone turned to look at me. Courtney took a step back and studied me.

  I watched the boys on the stairs. One of them whispered something to the other.

  “Don’t you see them? Don’t you see the twin boys?”

  That’s what I was desperate to say. But I knew no one else saw them. I knew I had to keep quiet about them.

  “I’m … okay,” I told Mr. P.

  “You stopped singing, so I thought maybe there was a problem,” he said.

  There IS a problem. This house is haunted.

  “No problem,” I said. “I just lost my place. Sorry.”

  “Let’s start again from the beginning,” Mr. P said. “And people, remember, I want it crisp.”

  We started the song again. I forced a smile to my face and tried to pretend nothing was wrong. I could see Mr. P watching me as we sang.

  I tried to duck behind Courtney. I wanted to keep my eyes on the twin boys on the steps.

  When the song ended, kids scattered around the room.

  “Places for scene one,” Mr. P called. “No break time. Take your places, people.”

  The chorus wasn’t in scene one. Courtney started to say something to me. But I pushed past her, darted through a clump of kids in the center of the room, and strode toward the stairs.

  Would the two boys turn and run?

  No.

  They stared at me as I came toward them. Now I could clearly see their pale faces, skin peeling off their cheeks and foreheads, their dark, glassy, dead eyes.

  Their long-sleeved shirts had once been white. But now they were gray with splotches of brown, the buttons missing on the front, and ragged holes in the sleeves. Their overalls were stained, torn at the knees.

  They stared at me and didn’t move. Their faces were hard, their expressions cold. They studied me with those round, dark eyes, as if they didn’t believe I could see them.

  “Hey,” I said. I didn’t know what to say.

  And suddenly, I wondered what I was doing. Why was I approaching these two dead boys? How could I just step up to a ghost?

  A shock of fear made my whole body shudder.

  They’ve been dead for over a hundred years. You can’t just walk up and say hi.

  I froze a few feet from the staircase.

  They shifted their weight and slid their hands along the wooden banister. They kept their eyes on me, as if giving me the evil eye.

  The evil eye.

  A staring match. I stood there shaking, not believing I could see them so closely. Not believing I could stand so close to two ghosts from long ago.

  And then one of them spoke in a harsh whisper. “We’ll be back, Flora.”

  I gasped. Did I hear him right?

  “I … I’m not Flora,” I stammered.

  He and his brother vanished. Disappeared before my eyes.

  But the whisper lingered: “We’ll be back.”

  After dinner, Carol Ann, Courtney, and I were upstairs in our room. The wind rattled the window above my cot, and I felt gusts of cold air as I sat and gazed down on the backyard.

  I’ll have to sleep with my sweatshirt over my nightshirt. Otherwise, I’ll freeze.

  Across the room, Courtney was sprawled on her back on her cot, texting someone on her phone. Carol Ann sat on the edge of her cot with the script in her hands, mouthing the words, trying to memorize her lines.

  “Mr. P changed the old ghost story a lot,” she said. “For one thing, there are three sisters in the play. Not just Flora. Flora is the youngest of the three now. And the twin boys. I asked him why, and he said he wanted to make parts for more kids.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t really listening. I had my back to her as I peered out at the night. A shiny half-moon hung low in the purple sky. A strong, steady wind sent dead leaves scuttling across the grass.

  I was dying to tell Carol Ann about the twin boys I saw. But not with Courtney in the room. No way. Carol Ann probably wouldn’t believe me. But she wouldn’t tease and torture me about it.

  “I wish the chorus had more to do,” Courtney said. “We only have three songs. How boring is that?”

  “At least you don’t have to learn pages and pages of lines,” Carol Ann said. “I’m playing Livvy, and Livvy never shuts up! She just keeps talking and talking.”

  Courtney said something, but I didn’t hear it. I was concentrating on sounds I heard. They seemed to be coming from the yard below. Voices? Whispers?

  I leaned into the drafty window and struggled to hear.

  A few hours later, Carol Ann was asleep on her back with the open script resting on her stomach. She fell asleep while still trying to memorize her part.

  Courtney was asleep on her side. Snoring softly, she had the covers pulled up over her head.

>   I couldn’t sleep. My brain was whirring. I was alert to every sound. Every groan the old house made. Every creak of a floorboard.

  This house is haunted. The ghosts could come into our room at any time.

  How could I sleep in a haunted house? How could I relax at all, knowing that I was the only one who could see them?

  I sat up on my cot and gazed out the window. I tugged my sweatshirt tight. The cold seeped in from outside.

  The half-moon was high in the sky now. It sent a pale light over the entire yard. All was still. The wind had stopped.

  I stared down at the little guesthouse. Silent and dark.

  The old well at the back of the yard caught my eye. The moonlight appeared to make the stone wall shine.

  I shuddered, remembering my close call that afternoon. How I nearly plunged headfirst to the bottom.

  I hugged myself, partly from the cold, partly from my frightening thoughts.

  I stared at the old stone well. And I felt the pull again. Something drawing me to that well. Something urging me to go out there.

  Something very strange. Just a feeling. A strong urge to stand up and sneak down the stairs and out the back door.

  Go out to the well. You must go to the well.

  And as I sat on the cot, hugging myself tightly, gazing down, feeling the strong pull of the well … like gravity … as I sat hunched there, I suddenly heard a whispered voice.

  A soft whisper. But so clear … so perfectly clear …

  “Help me. Please … help me. Please … help me.”

  Struggling to catch my breath, I jumped to my feet and scrambled into my clothes.

  I couldn’t find my parka in the dark. And I didn’t want to turn on the light and wake Courtney and Carol Ann.

  So I headed outside in my sweatshirt and jeans. Dim lights had been left on in the front room and the hall that led to the kitchen. I tried to walk on tiptoe. But the old floorboards still creaked under my shoes.

  I struggled with the lock on the kitchen door, pulled it open, and stepped into the backyard.

  The ground was crunchy and hard as I started to walk toward the well. The tall grass was wet from the night dew.

  A scrawny rabbit stood tall on its hind legs in front of the garden shed. It stood frozen, still as a statue, dark eyes watching me. As I crunched toward it, the creature spun and took off, disappearing behind the shed.