by R. L. Stine
And a scary one.
One I’ll never forget.
* * *
The next morning I jumped out of bed and snapped open the window shade.
Wow!
A ton of snow had fallen on Shadyside overnight. It sparkled and glistened in the bright morning sun. Fear Street looked like a Christmas card.
“Kenny, are you awake yet?” Mom called. She poked her head in the doorway. “Is Rags with you? I can’t find him.”
“Rags? Here, boy!” I called.
I searched my room. I checked under the bed, then inside the closet. No sign of him in any of his usual hiding places.
“He’s not here, Mom.”
“I guess we’ll just have to keep looking,” Mom sighed. “Kristi is so upset. If we don’t find him soon, it will ruin her whole Christmas.”
“He came back last time, didn’t he?”
“Last time?” Mom asked. She frowned at me. “We’ve never lost Rags before.”
I watched Mom close the door and remembered everything all in a rush.
The Night Watchman.
The Iceman.
The ghost in the Fear Street Cemetery.
The three gruesome monsters . . .
I shuddered.
I gazed around my room. At my bed, my posters, my electric guitar—just to remind myself that it had all been a dream! A nightmare. The worst I’d ever had!
I pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans. Then I dashed downstairs. In the kitchen I found Kristi kneeling beside Rags’s little bed.
“He’ll come back,” I promised her.
She peered up at me and I saw the tears in her eyes. “What if he never comes back?” she whispered. “What if he’s lost? What if a car . . .”
“Don’t worry, Kristi.” I patted her on the shoulder. “He’s okay. He’ll be home any minute.”
Would Rags come home? I didn’t know. But I had to say something, didn’t I?
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll answer it,” I called out.
I pulled open the door and found Timmy Smathers standing on our porch.
He was holding a leash.
Just like in my dream!
“Look who I found!” Timmy exclaimed. He stepped aside and Rags dashed by him, into our living room.
“Rags!” Kristi squealed.
“Woof! Woof!” Rags barked as he leaped into Kristi’s arms.
“I found him behind our house,” Timmy explained. “I brought him right over.”
“Gee, thanks, Timmy. You’re really a nice guy. I guess I never told you that before.”
Timmy looked at me uncertainly. Not that I blamed him. I felt my cheeks turn red with embarrassment.
“Is this some kind of trick?” he asked suspiciously. “You’re not hiding a water gun behind your back, are you?”
“It’s not a trick, Timmy,” I replied. “From now on, things are going to be different,” I promised. “I’m not going to play any mean tricks on you, or anyone else—ever again.”
“You’re not?” Timmy asked, shocked. “What happened to you?”
“You could say I had a bad dream,” I said. “And finally I woke up!”
I saw Kristi poking around the presents under the Christmas tree. I remembered that I hadn’t wrapped up her doll yet.
“Hey, Timmy. Come in the kitchen a second,” I whispered. “I have to wrap something.”
“Sure,” he answered. Timmy followed me to the pantry, where I had hidden Kristi’s doll. I started to wrap it.
“Kristi is going to be so happy when she sees this!” I said, winding a piece of shiny red ribbon around the box.
“Gee, Kenny.” Timmy sighed as he watched me. “I guess that dream really did change you.” He placed his finger on the ribbon so I could tie a bow.
“Thanks,” I replied as I fumbled with ribbon ends.
I glanced down at the box as I started to make a knot—and gulped.
Timmy’s finger.
As bony as a skeleton finger.
I finished the bow quickly.
I glanced up just as Timmy placed his finger thoughtfully to his chin.
My jaw dropped in horror.
Timmy’s finger glowed!
I stared into his eyes. They glowed too. An eerie red.
Timmy grinned. He pulled up the big peaked hood of his black parka. In the shadow of his hood, his face looked ghastly pale. His cheeks turned to sunken purple hollows.
“Y-you!” I stammered. “You’re the third ghost. It wasn’t a dream! I—I don’t believe it!”
“Why not, Kenny?” he replied in a ghostly voice. “You live on Fear Street. What did you expect?”
Timmy pulled open the kitchen door and strolled out.
He glanced over his shoulder and waved his bony hand.
“Merry Christmas to all,” he cried out with a deep, ghoulish laugh. “And to all a good fright!”
Are you ready for another walk down Fear Street?
Turn the page for a terrifying sneak preview.
“AH-CHOO!”
I sneezed so hard my body slammed into the back of the chair. Granny Marsha took a step toward me.
“Sneezes are a warning,” Granny said. “Of bad things to come.”
“I’m okay! Really!” I cried, struggling to my feet. “I have allergies! I’m allergic to your cats.”
Granny Marsha squinted those cold gray eyes at me again. “I don’t have a cat. You know that.”
“Of course,” I bluffed. “Then it must be the dust.”
“There’s no dust in Granny’s house,” she countered. She raised her hand. Slowly. Very slowly. “Dust wouldn’t be good for Granny’s patients.”
Patients! What patients?
Granny moved closer and closer. Her hand went higher and higher. My eyes grew wide with fright. Suddenly her hand came speeding toward my head. She was going to hit me!
No! I flung my arms up, shielding my face from the blow.
“Corey! You act like I’m going to strike you,” Granny scolded. “Would Granny do a thing like that?” She shook her head. “I just want to feel your forehead.”
“Oh. Right.” I chuckled nervously and lowered my hands. “Go ahead. But I’m totally fine.”
She pressed her hand against my forehead. “I don’t know—you seem a little warm.” She made little clucking noises. “Too warm, if you ask me.”
I jerked backward. “I’m fine. I’m terrific. I’m just overheated from riding in that hot car. You know,” I explained, “the air-conditioning broke down.”
Granny folded her arms across her chest. “Just to be safe, I’ll keep my eye on you for the rest of the day.”
She wasn’t kidding.
I spent the afternoon watching videos, and Granny Marsha spent the afternoon watching me. She never left her chair once.
Every time I’d turn to take a sip of my drink, or grab a handful of popcorn, there she was. Staring at me.
“Are you sick yet?” she’d ask with a hopeful smile. It was like she wanted me to be sick. She was really giving me the creeps.
Pretty soon I didn’t even have to turn around to know she was looking at me. I could feel her eyes drilling holes in the back of my neck.
To make matters worse, that tickling feeling I had in my nose had moved to my throat. And my eyes were getting watery and itchy.
I stared at the TV, but I couldn’t really concentrate. Dad’s warning kept ringing in my ears.
“Don’t ever get sick at Granny’s,” he told me. Why not? What did he mean?
I’m not sick, I told myself. I’m nervous. Granny is making me a nervous wreck.
I sneaked a look at her out of the corner of my eye. She sat hunched over with her chin stuck out, staring at me. A vulture. That’s what she looks like, I thought. One of those cartoon vultures.
“Don’t you have stuff you need to do?” I asked.
“It can wait,” she replied, narrowing her eyelids to little squinty slits in her face. “I c
an wait. Granny’s good at waiting.” I shuddered.
Two hours later Granny called into the living room. “Dinner! It’s time to feed that cold,” she said, leading me into the kitchen.
“But I don’t have a cold,” I protested, sitting down at the kitchen table.
“We’ll see about that,” Granny gushed.
We ate roast chicken and dumplings. Or I did. She barely touched her food, she was so busy watching me.
“I think this is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten,” I said heartily. I wanted to sound really healthy. “I could probably eat a whole chicken by myself.”
Granny didn’t seem to go for it. She pursed her lips. “Hmmmm,” was all she said.
Hmmmm. What did that mean?
Granny continued to stare.
She made me so nervous my hands started to shake. I could barely raise my fork to my mouth.
“You know, you look very pale.” Granny leaned across the table with her hand stretched toward my forehead. “Too pale.”
“I’m always pale,” I fibbed, leaning out of her reach. “I’m a very pale person.”
Granny Marsha raised an eyebrow.
“I was voted most pale in my class.” I held up one hand. “Honest.”
She reached out to feel my forehead again, but I thrust my plate into her hands. “Chicken! Chicken makes me pale. And boy, was that good chicken! I bet I ate three helpings at least.”
Granny carried our plates to the sink. While she loaded them in the dishwasher, I bolted for the bathroom.
“Can’t look pale,” I muttered, closing the bathroom door. I hurried to the mirror. “Pale means sick and I don’t know why, but I can’t get sick at Granny’s.”
I slapped my cheeks and pinched them to give them color. Then I peered at my reflection in the mirror above the sink.
“Oh, great.” I wasn’t pale anymore. Now my face was red and blotchy. I didn’t look healthier. I looked like I had a rash!
I tried splashing water on my face, but it didn’t seem to help, either.
“Are you all right in there?” Granny’s voice called from outside the bathroom door.
“Uh, yes, Granny,” I replied. I put a big healthy smile on my face and opened the door.
“I’d better show you to your room,” Granny said. “We’ll need plenty of sleep, if we’re going to fight that cold.”
“Sleep. That’s what I need.” I bobbed my head in agreement. “I’ve been up since five. I’m beat.”
Granny led me up the stairs to the second floor.
Show me my room and then leave me alone, I thought. I followed Granny into a small room under one of the eaves of the house. It was like a pirate’s hideout. The headboard of the bed was painted with sailing ships. The dresser looked like a sea captain’s trunk. And the wall was hung with fishing nets and a giant stuffed marlin.
“Cool room.” I nodded my approval.
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” Granny said, turning down the bedcover. “Just remember, if you do get sick”—she slowly turned her head to look at me—“I know how to take care of you.”
Her lips curled into that wacko smile again.
Why did she keep saying that? How would she take care of me? I shuddered. She was really giving me the creeps.
Finally Granny left the room. I put on my pajamas and collapsed on my bed. All those hours with that weirdo watching me had stressed me out.
I want to sleep for the whole weekend, I thought. Until Mom and Dad get back.
But I couldn’t sleep. Dad’s warning kept running through my head. “Don’t get sick at Granny’s. Whatever you do—DON’T GET SICK.”
“I won’t get sick,” I mumbled to myself. I pulled the covers up under my chin and stared at the peeling plaster on the ceiling. “I won’t get sick.”
I repeated those words over and over. Finally I drifted off into a restless sleep.
* * *
A beam of sunlight hit me in the face, and I shot up from the bed. “Morning already?” I exclaimed. “It can’t be.”
I tried to swallow. My throat was sore. I sniffed. My nose was running. I had chills.
“Oh, no!” I groaned. “I’m sick!”
Something moved in the corner of my room.
I froze.
About R. L. Stine
R. L. Stine, the creator of Ghosts of Fear Street, has written almost 100 scary novels for kids. The Ghosts of Fear Street series, like the Fear Street series, takes place in Shadyside and centers on the scary events that happen to people on Fear Street.
When he isn’t writing, R. L. Stine likes to play pinball on his very own pinball machine, and explore New York City with his wife, Jane, and fifteen-year-old son, Matt.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Aladdin
An Imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing
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Copyright © 1996 by Parachute Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN 978-1-4424-8774-1 (eBook)
First Minstrel Books paperback printing December 1996
Aladdin and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.