Bad Dreams

by R. L. Stine

  “I had a doctor’s appointment,” Maggie said.

  “A doctor’s appointment? You sick?”

  “Sick in the head,” she muttered bitterly.

  “You saw a shrink?”

  She nodded.

  Dr. Brenda Marsh was a soft-spoken, fortyish psychiatrist whom Mrs. Travers had seen a couple of times after her husband died. Mrs. Travers reported that she had been very helpful. But as far as Maggie and Andrea could tell, all she had done was tell their mother it was natural to feel depressed, and given her a mild sedative to help her sleep.

  Maggie was surprised at how good it felt to talk to her. Brenda had an easy smile and kind eyes. She didn’t seem shocked by anything Maggie said. Even when Maggie said she thought the dead girl, Miranda was after her for revenge.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Maggie had blurted out near the end of the session, “but I think it’s because Miranda died. Now she wants me to die too.”

  “Dreams can be very upsetting,” Dr. Marsh said softly. “They’re also important clues to what’s really bothering us. I want you to come in again and talk to me next week, all right?”

  Maggie had nodded. “Sure, I’ll come back.”

  “Did this shrink figure out what’s going on with you?” Justin asked as they passed The Corner, a school hangout already filled with Shadyside kids.

  Maggie shook her head. “She thinks the dreams are about something else, something that’s bothering me.”

  “Oh,” Justin said.

  Maggie could tell the subject made Justin very uncomfortable. She knew it was coming between them. “Am I ever going to see you again?” she demanded.

  He didn’t hesitate. “How about tomorrow night?” He grinned at her, moving close. “First you win the two-hundred. Then you and I celebrate.”

  “First I have to win,” Maggie said, frowning.

  “You’ll win,” he told her. “I know it.” He put his arms around her waist and hugged her.

  It felt great, being in his arms again. She rested her head against his shoulder. For a moment, she forgot her troubles.

  For a moment, it seemed as if nothing could harm her.

  A very brief moment.

  Then, gazing over Justin’s shoulder, something caught her eye.

  Standing across the street. On the sidewalk in front of the hedge. Miranda.

  Miranda. The ghost. Standing there. Watching them.

  Justin must have felt her body tense up, because he let go of her.

  Maggie couldn’t decide what to do. She wanted to cry out, to show Justin that Miranda really existed.

  She wanted to run after Miranda. To grab her. To hold on to her. To show everyone she wasn’t crazy.

  But what would happen if she told Justin?

  One more “crazy” episode—and Justin would give up on her.

  She stared at the ghost with the pale blond hair shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

  She had to tell Justin. She had to show him.

  “Justin!” Maggie cried. “Look! Across the street! It’s her! It’s the ghost! The girl from my dream! Look!”

  “Huh?” Justin spun around, following her gaze to the hedge across the street.

  There was no one there.

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  20

  Maggie cried out in frustration and darted across the street.

  No sign of Miranda.

  She searched behind the hedge. She ran halfway down the next block.

  Miranda had vanished. Vanished like a ghost.

  “Maggie!” Justin chased after her, his features rigid.

  “Later!” she called, waving him away. She didn’t want to deal with him right then. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  She couldn’t stand being with another person who thought she was crazy. And no matter what Justin said, she knew he’d be thinking it.

  She wandered around the neighborhood near school, her head down, barely glancing up to check for traffic when she crossed streets. Every few blocks she would raise her head, expecting to see the ghost.

  But no Miranda.

  Wandering aimlessly, Maggie didn’t get home until after five. As she walked into the living room, Andrea stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of sizzling french fries.

  “Hey, Maggie!” she called casually. Andrea was wearing her short-short khakis, an orange tank top, and gold hoop earrings. Maggie’s gold hoop earrings.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Andrea said, cheerfully tilting her head from side to side to make the earrings bounce. “I was feeling like dressing up a little.”

  Maggie was in no mood to fight with her. “Where’s Mom?” she asked dully.

  “Out back. The Averys invited us to a cookout.”

  “Great,” Maggie muttered without enthusiasm.

  Dropping her backpack on the hall table, she followed Andrea into the backyard. Just beyond the hedge, she saw a familiar orange cap. Mr. Avery was standing over his barbecue grill, expertly flipping burgers with a metal spatula. When he saw her, he waved the spatula.

  Gus was on a long leash tied to one of the Averys’ birch trees. The dog started barking excitedly when he spotted Maggie.

  Glass of iced tea in hand, a floppy straw hat on her head, Mrs. Travers stood talking with Mrs. Avery.

  She draped an arm over Maggie when Maggie came up beside her. Mrs. Travers squeezed her shoulder. “Your ears must have been burning,” her mother said, “with all the nice things Mrs. Avery has been saying about you.”

  Mrs. Avery beamed.

  “Leave it to you,” Mrs. Travers went on, “to introduce us to our new neighbors. Maggie has always been the friendly one in the family,” she told her neighbor. “I don’t know where she gets it from. It takes me so long to make friends.…” She trailed off.

  Maggie could see from her eyes that she was thinking about their dad.

  Andrea and Mr. Avery burst out laughing. Maggie watched them. They looked as if they had already become fast friends. “Dinner’s ready,” Mr. Avery called, handing a platter of burgers to Andrea.

  “This is fine for me,” Andrea joked as she hoisted the heavy platter, “but what will everyone else eat?”

  Everyone laughed but Maggie.

  They found places around the wooden picnic table set up in the backyard and began to dig in. Mrs. Avery had set out a large pitcher of pink lemonade that looked inviting, but it was too sour. She had obviously forgotten the sugar.

  Andrea carried the conversation, chattering away gaily about school, the next day’s swim meet, movies she wanted to see. Mrs. Travers kept trying to include Maggie in the conversation. But Maggie answered all her questions with one-word answers.

  Even that was a struggle. The only thing that kept her going was petting Gus, who had lodged himself under the table, across her feet.

  “Maggie, you’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mrs. Avery said, giving her a searching stare.

  “Sorry,” Maggie replied, struggling to smile. “I’m just—” She couldn’t think of a good excuse.

  “She’s just worrying about how I’m going to beat her at the meet tomorrow,” Andrea boasted, reaching across the table to spear more fries. “No offense, Mr. Avery,” she said, “but these fries I made are incredible!”

  Everyone laughed. Maggie had never seen Andrea in such a good mood. It was as if the unhappier Maggie got, the happier Andrea became. As if there were only enough happiness in the house for one of them.

  Maggie’s mother kept sneaking glances at her. Maggie knew what she was thinking. That one appointment with Dr. Marsh wasn’t going to be enough.

  Mom thinks I’m crazy. Andrea thinks I’m crazy—my boyfriend thinks I’m crazy. The whole world can’t be wrong, Maggie decided glumly. Maybe I am crazy!

  She could barely listen to the conversation.

  She kept picturing Miranda, standing so ghostlike, staring at Maggie and Justin from the hedge. And then vanishing into thin air.

  She pictured the canopy bed. Th
e beautiful canopy bed that had held such horror for Maggie.

  Such horror.

  Such horror and—the answer?

  Did the bed hold the answer to what this was all about?

  Was there more to the dream? Maggie wondered. If I finished the horrible dream—if I saw the face of the attacker as well as Miranda’s face—would it clear everything up for me?

  I’m tired enough to go to sleep right now, Maggie decided.

  I have to get to the end of the dream. I have to put this nightmare behind me.

  “I’m going to get some more soda,” she lied, getting up from the table.

  Everyone was staring at her. Her mom started to her feet with a worried look.

  “I’m just going to the refrigerator, Mom,” Maggie said. “Chill out.”

  She smiled at everyone, but she smiled too hard—which only made her feel like a lunatic.

  Then she bent down to whisper in her mother’s ear. “I’ve got to go lie down, I’m totally wiped out. Dr. Marsh said I should get some sleep. Cover for me, okay?”

  She patted her mom’s arm and hurried away.

  In the kitchen, she took a long drink of milk straight from the carton. Milk always calmed her down, even cold milk.

  She took the stairs two at a time, heading for her bedroom.

  I’ll go to sleep. I’ll dream, she told herself.

  And I won’t wake up till I know the answer to this mystery.

  I won’t wake up until the dream is over.

  And then maybe—maybe—the whole real-life nightmare will be over too.

  Eagerly, Maggie crossed the hall to her bedroom, pushed open the door—

  And saw that the canopy bed was gone.

  chapter

  21

  “Huh?” Maggie gaped in shock.

  Gone. Vanished.

  The bed was gone.

  In its place stood an ordinary box spring and mattress on a metal frame, made up with Maggie’s pink sheets and white afghan.

  Still in the doorway to her bedroom, she heard the back door slam. Footsteps up the front stairs.

  Andrea appeared in the hallway, a smug expression on her face. “Didn’t Mom tell you?” she asked. “Dr. Marsh said she didn’t think the bed was good for you, the way you were always obsessing about it.”

  “But I need it!” Maggie cried, feeling herself lose control She grabbed Andrea’s shoulders. “Where is it? What did she do with it?”

  She knew the answer even as she asked the question. She stormed past her sister into her room. Maggie was sure she would find the canopy bed in there.

  But there was only Andrea’s dumpy old bed, with her raggedy old teddy bear lying on the pillow. Same as always.

  “Where is it?” Maggie shrieked. “Where’s the bed? What have you done with it?!”

  “I didn’t touch your stupid bed,” Andrea replied with a sneer. Mom had it moved to the attic. She got one of those moving men over here. And Mr. Avery helped.”

  The attic?

  Maggie knew the house had one, but she’d never been up there.

  She pushed past Andrea, hurrying out into the hall. “Where is it?” she demanded,

  Andrea pointed up at the ceiling. “I think that’s what you’re looking for,” she said.

  Maggie stared up at the ceiling. For the first time, she saw there was a short rope dangling from a metal hook, and a rectangular crack in the ceiling. A trapdoor.

  “The stairs pull down,” Andrea told her. “But don’t even think about going up there. Mom will totally freak out.”

  “I don’t care what she does,” Maggie snapped.

  “Listen, Maggie,” Andrea said. “Mom sent me in to get you to come back. Mrs. Avery made chocolate pie because Mom told her it was your favorite. You’ve got to come back. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

  Maggie leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

  The bed would have to wait for her.

  Andrea tugged on her sister’s hand. “Come on, Maggie. Mom is worrying.”

  All the sugar Mrs. Avery had left out of the lemonade had been added to the pie. It was so sweet, it made Maggie’s teeth ache!

  But she plastered on her best fake smile and made it through dessert.

  Settled in the new bed, Maggie fell asleep the moment she closed her eyes—or that was the way it seemed anyway.

  When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark and silent. She squinted at her clock radio. As she watched, the numbers flipped silently forward: 3:21.

  She lowered her feet to the floor.

  Everyone was asleep, she was sure.

  The coast was clear. Maggie could sneak up into the attic, climb into the canopy bed, and try to finish her dream.

  Who killed Miranda? Who? she asked herself, tiptoeing to the bedroom door.

  Silently she crept out of her room and into the hall, taking it one step at a time, trying to keep the creaking floorboards to a minimum.

  It wasn’t until she reached the end of the hall that Maggie realized her mistake. Even though she was tall, there was no way she could reach the cord on the trapdoor.

  She had to get a chair.

  Please, don’t anybody wake up! she begged silently.

  A few seconds later, she set the chair down carefully and climbed up on it, praying that Gus wouldn’t wake up and come sniffing around. A couple of barks from Gus, and her mom and Andrea would be up for sure.

  The trapdoor was wide, with a set of wooden stairs that slowly opened downward as she pulled. Even though she pulled it down one inch at a time, the contraption creaked noisily.

  Maggie wiped the sweat from her forehead. Every few tugs, she stopped to listen for sounds from her mom’s bedroom.

  Finally the attic stairs had reached the floor. Bending forward, she started up them, one step—and one creak—at a time.

  She climbed up to a tiny space whose walls were the sloping eaves of the roof. The rafters were low, and she had to stoop. The only window was tiny and covered with a thick layer of dust, letting in dim moonlight.

  But she could see it clearly—the bed, pushed against the far wall. The canopy was pressed right up against the low ceiling.

  Maggie’s heart began to pound as she made her way over to it.

  Will I be able to sleep? she wondered, gazing at it in the tiny, dark space.

  Will I be able to return to the dream?

  Will I be able to solve this frightening mystery once and for all?

  Maggie stopped a few feet from the bed—and gasped when she saw that someone was sleeping in it.

  chapter

  22

  Maggie moved closer on trembling legs.

  The shadows deepened around the bed. The canopy made it even darker.

  But Maggie recognized the sleeping girl at once. Miranda!

  I’m staring at a ghost! Maggie realized.

  She could hear Miranda’s shallow breathing.

  Maggie moved closer and reached out a hand.

  I’m close enough to touch her.

  I’m going to touch a ghost. Will I feel anything at all?

  Her hand touched Miranda’s shoulder. Maggie felt warmth beneath the thin T-shirt.

  “Hey—” Miranda jerked up, her eyes wide and angry. She scrambled out of bed.

  Maggie let out a startled cry and stumbled back.

  Miranda’s slender chest heaved as she breathed hard, glaring through the darkness at Maggie with wild, angry eyes.

  She took a step toward Maggie.

  Maggie shrank back. But there was nowhere to go. Her back was already pressed up against the low, sloping wall.

  “Are you—really a ghost?” Maggie choked out.

  Miranda didn’t reply. Instead, she bent down and picked up something from the floor beside the bed.

  The knife!

  The blade glinted in the pale moonlight from the dusty window.

  Just like in the dream, Maggie thought.

  Miranda raised the knife.

/>   With a desperate groan, Maggie rushed forward. She gripped the girl’s arm.

  They struggled.

  “You—you’re real!” Maggie cried. “You’re not a ghost!”

  Miranda pulled out of Maggie’s grasp. Breathing hard, she took a step back.

  Maggie frantically searched for an escape route. But Miranda was planted between Maggie and the stairs. There was nowhere to run.

  “I—I dreamed about you, Miranda!” Maggie cried.

  The girl’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I dreamed about you. Every night. In this bed,” Maggie continued. “Someone stabbed you. It was so horrible. I—”

  The girl laughed, a strange, shrill, mirthless laugh. “Someone stabbed Miranda,” she said. “Poor Miranda.”

  “Huh?” Maggie gaped at her. “What are you saying? You’re not Miranda?”

  The girl shook her head. Her long hair swayed around her face.

  “But in the dream—” Maggie started.

  “Miranda had to die,” the girl interrupted. “Miranda was mean—like you!”

  “Like me? I—I don’t understand,” Maggie stammered. “Who killed Miranda? Did you?”

  The girl nodded. “Maybe,” she said softly, her eyes burning into Maggie’s. “Maybe I had to kill Miranda because Miranda was mean.”

  “But who are you?” Maggie demanded.

  “Gena,” the girl replied. “Wasn’t I in the dream?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Maggie told her. She edged toward the attic stairs.

  “I’m Miranda’s sister,” the girl said angrily. “Why wasn’t I in the dream?”

  “I don’t know. Really!” Maggie repeated, swallowing hard. Her throat felt dry as attic dust. “I don’t understand the dream, Gena.”

  “I do,” the girl replied sharply. “Miranda always said she had powers. Miranda made you have the dream. Miranda wanted to warn you about me. Miranda is so mean.”

  Maggie edged a little closer to the steps. “And you killed her, Gena? You stabbed your sister?”

  Gena raised the knife. “I had to. I told you. Miranda was mean—like you.”

  “But I’m not mean, Gena. Really!” Maggie cried, seeing the anger in the girl’s eyes.