by P. J. Night
“Yeah, and she loved it!” Ashley interrupted. “And so did I!”
“Can you try to think of it as an adventure?” Mrs. McDowell asked, and there was something so vulnerable in her voice that Ashley finally sat up and looked at her. “You know there’s something really exciting about a fresh start, going to a whole new school and meeting all kinds of new people! And we’ll have the homestead up and running before you know it—the chicks will arrive in a few days; won’t that be fun? Little fluffy baby chickens? And next spring we’ll get a cow!”
Ashley started to laugh. It was such a ridiculous thing to say—“we’ll get a cow!”—that she couldn’t help herself. And she couldn’t miss the relief that flooded her mom’s eyes.
“And maybe,” Ashley said, wishing that she wasn’t giving in so easily but saying it anyway, “we can fix that horrible crack over there? It looks like the wall got struck by lightning.”
Mrs. McDowell smiled as she patted Ashley’s knee. “Of course. I’ll have Dad come take a look—we can probably patch that crack by the end of the week. And then we’ll get the walls primed for painting. Have you thought about what color you want? Maybe a nice, sunny yellow?”
“Aqua,” Ashley said firmly. “Just like my old room.”
“All right,” Mrs. McDowell said. “Whatever you want. Listen, Dad went to get pizza; I think he’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“That long?” Ashley asked. “To grab pizza?”
“Well, it turns out there’s no pizza place in Heaton Corners,” Mrs. McDowell said, sighing. “So he had to drive all the way to Walthrop.”
Mrs. McDowell stood up. On her way out, she paused by the door. “Oh, Ashley? Did I see your bike out back?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Go out and put it in the barn, okay?”
“Why?” Ashley argued. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, remember? Nobody’s going to steal it.”
“Probably not,” Mrs. McDowell replied. Then she pointed at the window. “But it looks like it’s going to rain tonight. You see those thunderheads gathering? So go ahead and get your bike in the barn so it doesn’t rust. Thanks, Pumpkin.”
Ashley sighed heavily and went downstairs. Her flip-flops were near the back door, where she’d kicked them off after the movers had left. One look out the window told Ashley that she would need a flashlight to find the barn. Luckily, there was a flashlight hanging right next to the door. Ashley guessed that the last people who’d lived here had found themselves in the same situation.
She switched on the flashlight and stepped outside. Its bright-yellow beam pierced through the night sky, then quickly faded to a dull orange. Ashley shook the flashlight and smacked it against her palm until it glowed a little brighter.
Typical, she thought. I bet the batteries will die as soon as I get into the barn.
The thought made Ashley walk a little faster as she wheeled her bike through the overgrown goldenrod toward the barn. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the weeds were damp with evening dew, and she shivered as they slapped against her bare legs. And her toes were freezing. Ashley hated to admit it, but her mom was right: Sandal season was definitely over.
Just before Ashley reached the barn, the flashlight died, but in a stroke of luck the clouds parted for a moment, letting through enough moonlight that she could lift the heavy iron latch on the barn door. The only sound Ashley could hear was the soft squeeeeeeak of the bike’s gears as she pushed it into the barn.
The air in the barn was dry and dusty; it smelled of caked dirt and hay. The moment Ashley stepped in from the barn door, it slammed shut with such a loud bang that she jumped. Without even the weak beam of the flashlight to guide her steps, Ashley was plunged into pitch-black darkness. She stretched her arm out as far as it would reach, until her fingers grazed the rough, unfinished wood of the barn wall. Then she took one careful step at a time until she found a spot to leave her bike. Ashley leaned it against the wall and turned to leave.
C-r-r-r-r-unch.
She froze.
What, Ashley thought as her heart started to pound, did I just step on?
There was something leathery, something papery, something scaly, something she couldn’t quite place—flicking against her bare skin. Was it slithering over her feet, twining around her ankles? Or was that just her imagination?
Had it been waiting for someone to set foot inside this old, abandoned barn?
Stop it, Ashley told herself firmly. She was a city girl. She was not the kind of person who freaked out over every little thing. With a surge of confidence, she hit the flashlight against her palm again.
Thwak. Thwak. Thwak.
Suddenly a pale beam flashed across the barn. The flashlight was working again, for a minute, at least.
Ashley pointed the flashlight at her feet. It took a moment—longer, probably—for her to realize what she was standing in; some part of her brain couldn’t, wouldn’t accept it. There were so many that she couldn’t count them, especially because of the way they wriggled—
Wait. Were they moving? Or was that just the effect of her clumsy feet as she stumbled, trying to escape?
Either way, Ashley didn’t stick around to find out. She screamed—she couldn’t help it—as the weak light from the flashlight died again. Ashley rushed out of the barn, still screaming, and her screams echoed across the farm, almost as if they were ricocheting off the heavy clouds that were crowding the sky once more.
She was so preoccupied by the memory of those slithery things on her feet, and so distracted by the utter darkness, that she didn’t see the tall figure step out from the shadows . . .
Until a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders and held on tight!
About the Author
A lifelong night owl, P. J. NIGHT often works furiously into the wee hours of the morning, writing down spooky tales and dreaming up new stories of the supernatural and otherworldly. Although P. J.’s whereabouts are unknown at this time, we suspect the author lives in a drafty, old mansion where the floorboards creak when no one is there and the flickering candlelight creates shadows that creep along the walls. We truly wish we could tell you more, but we’ve been sworn to keep P. J.’s identity a secret . . . and it’s a secret we will take to our graves!
SIMON SPOTLIGHT
Simon & Schuster, New York
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
authors.simonandschuster.com/P-J-Night
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON SPOTLIGHT
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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First Simon Spotlight paperback edition July 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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SIMON SPOTLIGHT and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
YOU’RE INVITED TO A CREEPOVER is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Text by Ellie O’Ryan
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Designed by Nick Sciacca
Cover art by Aly Turner © 2017 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover designed by Nick Sciacca
ISBN 978-1-5344-0082-5
ISBN 978-1-5344-0083-2 (eBook)
This book has been cataloged with the Library of Congress.
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