by R. L. Stine
Someone desperate to get the camera back.
Spidey?
The creepy guy who dressed all in black was living in the Coffman house. Was he the owner of the camera?
Yes, Greg knew, Spidey had done it.
Spidey had been watching Greg, spying on Greg from behind the bleachers at the Little League game.
He knew that Greg had his camera. And he knew where Greg lived.
That thought was the most chilling of all.
He knew where Greg lived.
Greg turned away from the chaos in his room, leaned against the wall of the hallway, and closed his eyes.
He pictured Spidey, the dark figure creeping along so evilly on his spindly legs. He pictured him inside the house, Greg’s house. Inside Greg’s room.
He was here, thought Greg. He pawed through all my things. He wrecked my room.
Greg stepped back into his room. He felt all mixed up. He felt like shouting angrily and crying for help all at once.
But he was all alone. No one to hear him. No one to help him.
What now? he wondered. What now?
Suddenly, leaning against the doorframe, staring at his ransacked room, he knew what he had to do.
21
“Hey, Bird, it’s me.”
Greg held the receiver in one hand and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the other. He’d never worked so hard—or so fast—in all his life.
“Did they find Shari?” Bird asked eagerly.
“I haven’t heard. I don’t think so,” Greg said, his eyes surveying his room. Almost back to normal.
He had put everything back, cleaned and straightened. His parents would never guess.
“Listen, Bird, I’m not calling about that,” Greg said, speaking rapidly into the phone. “Call Michael for me, okay? Meet me at the playground. By the baseball diamond.”
“When? Now?” Bird asked, sounding confused.
“Yeah,” Greg told him. “We have to meet. It’s important.”
“It’s almost dinnertime,” Bird protested. “I don’t know if my parents—”
“It’s important,” Greg repeated impatiently. “I’ve got to see you guys. Okay?”
“Well… maybe I can sneak out for a few minutes,” Bird said, lowering his voice. And then Greg heard him shout to his mother: “It’s no one, Ma! I’m talking to no one!”
Boy, that’s quick thinking! Greg thought sarcastically. He’s a worse liar than I am!
And then he heard Bird call to his mom: “I know I’m on the phone. But I’m not talking to anyone. It’s only Greg.”
Thanks a lot, pal, Greg thought.
“I gotta go,” Bird said.
“Get Michael, okay?” Greg urged.
“Yeah. Okay. See you.” He hung up.
Greg replaced the receiver, then listened for his mother. Silence downstairs. She still wasn’t home. She didn’t know about Shari, Greg realized. He knew she and his dad were going to be very upset.
Very upset.
Almost as upset as he was.
Thinking about his missing friend, he went to his bedroom window and looked down on her yard next door. It was deserted now.
The policemen had all left. Shari’s shaken parents must have gone inside.
A squirrel sat under the wide shade of the big tree, gnawing furiously at an acorn, another acorn at his feet.
In the corner of the window, Greg could see the birthday cake, still sitting forlornly on the deserted table, the places all set, the decorations still standing.
A birthday party for ghosts.
Greg shuddered.
“Shari is alive,” he said aloud. “They’ll find her. She’s alive.”
He knew what he had to do now.
Forcing himself away from the window, he hurried to meet his two friends.
22
“No way,” Bird said heatedly, leaning against the bleacher bench. “Have you gone totally bananas?”
Swinging the camera by its cord, Greg turned hopefully to Michael. But Michael avoided Greg’s stare. “I’m with Bird,” he said, his eyes on the camera.
Since it was just about dinnertime, the playground was nearly deserted. A few little kids were on the swings at the other end. Two kids were riding their bikes around and around the soccer field.
“I thought maybe you guys would come with me,” Greg said, disappointed. He kicked up a clump of grass with his sneaker. “I have to return this thing,” he continued, raising the camera. “I know it’s what I have to do. I have to put it back where I found it.”
“No way,” Bird repeated, shaking his head. “I’m not going back to the Coffman house. Once was enough.”
“Chicken?” Greg asked angrily.
“Yeah,” Bird quickly admitted.
“You don’t have to take it back,” Michael argued. He pulled himself up the side of the bleachers, climbed onto the third deck of seats, then lowered himself to the ground.
“What do you mean?” Greg asked impatiently, kicking at the grass.
“Just toss it, Greg,” Michael urged, making a throwing motion with one hand. “Heave it. Throw it in the trash somewhere.”
“Yeah. Or leave it right here,” Bird suggested. He reached for the camera. “Give it to me. I’ll hide it under the seats.”
“You don’t understand,” Greg said, swinging the camera out of Bird’s reach. “Throwing it away won’t do any good.”
“Why not?” Bird asked, making another swipe for the camera.
“Spidey’ll just come back for it,” Greg told him heatedly. “He’ll come back to my room looking for it. He’ll come after me. I know it.”
“But what if we get caught taking it back?” Michael asked.
“Yeah. What if Spidey’s there in the Coffman house, and he catches us?” Bird said.
“You don’t understand,” Greg cried. “He knows where I live! He was in my house. He was in my room! He wants his camera back, and—
“Here. Give it to me,” Bird said. “We don’t have to go back to that house. He can find it. Right here.”
He grabbed again for the camera.
Greg held tightly to the strap and tried to tug it away.
But Bird grabbed the side of the camera.
“No!” Greg cried out as it flashed. And whirred.
A square of film slid out.
“No!” Greg cried to Bird, horrified, staring at the white square as it started to develop. “You took my picture!”
His hand trembling, he pulled the snapshot from the camera.
What would it show?
23
“Sorry,” Bird said. “I didn’t mean to—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a voice interrupted from behind the bleachers. “Hey—what’ve you got there?”
Greg looked up from the developing snapshot in surprise. Two tough-looking boys stepped out of the shadows, their expressions hard, their eyes on the camera.
He recognized them immediately—Joey Ferris and Mickey Ward—two ninth-graders who hung out together, always swaggering around, acting tough, picking on kids younger than them.
Their specialty was taking kids’ bikes, riding off on them, and dumping them somewhere. There was a rumor around school that Mickey had once beaten up a kid so badly that the kid was crippled for life. But Greg believed Mickey made up that rumor and spread it himself.
Both boys were big for their age. Neither of them did very well in school. And even though they were always stealing bikes and skateboards, and terrorizing little kids, and getting into fights, neither of them ever seemed to get into serious trouble.
Joey had short blond hair, slicked straight up, and wore a diamondlike stud in one ear. Mickey had a round, red face full of pimples, stringy black hair down to his shoulders, and was working a toothpick between his teeth. Both boys were wearing heavy-metal T-shirts and jeans.
“Hey, I’ve gotta get home,” Bird said quickly, half stepping, half dancing away from the bleachers.
> “Me, too,” Michael said, unable to keep the fear from showing on his face.
Greg tucked the snapshot into his jeans pocket.
“Hey, you found my camera,” Joey said, grabbing it out of Greg’s hand. His small gray eyes burned into Greg’s as if searching for a reaction. “Thanks, man.”
“Give it back, Joey,” Greg said with a sigh.
“Yeah. Don’t take that camera,” Mickey told his friend, a smile spreading over his round face. “It’s mine!” He wrestled the camera away from Joey.
“Give it back,” Greg insisted angrily, reaching out his hand. Then he softened his tone. “Come on, guys. It isn’t mine.”
“I know it isn’t yours,” Mickey said, grinning. “Because it’s mine!”
“I have to give it back to the owner,” Greg told him, trying not to whine but hearing his voice edge up.
“No, you don’t. I’m the owner now,” Mickey insisted.
“Haven’t you ever heard of finders keepers?” Joey asked, leaning over Greg menacingly. He was about six inches taller than Greg and a lot more muscular.
“Hey, let him have the thing,” Michael whispered in Greg’s ear. “You wanted to get rid of it—right?”
“No!” Greg protested.
“What’s your problem, Freckle Face?” Joey asked Michael, eyeing him up and down.
“No problem,” Michael said meekly.
“Hey—say cheese!” Mickey aimed the camera at Joey.
“Don’t do it,” Bird interrupted, waving his hands frantically.
“Why not?” Joey demanded.
“Because your face will break the camera,” Bird said, laughing.
“You’re real funny,” Joey said sarcastically, narrowing his eyes threateningly, hardening his features. “You want that stupid smile to be permanent?” He raised a big fist.
“I know this kid,” Mickey told Joey, pointing at Bird. “Thinks he’s hot stuff.”
Both boys stared hard at Bird, trying to scare him.
Bird swallowed hard. He took a step back, bumping into the bleachers. “No, I don’t,” he said softly. “I don’t think I’m hot stuff.”
“He looks like something I stepped in yesterday,” Joey said.
He and Mickey cracked up, laughing high-pitched hyena laughs and slapping each other high fives.
“Listen, guys. I really need the camera back,” Greg said, reaching out a hand to take it. “It isn’t any good, anyway. It’s broken. And it doesn’t belong to me.”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s broken,” Michael added, nodding his head.
“Yeah. Right,” Mickey said sarcastically. “Let’s just see.” He raised the camera again and pointed it at Joey.
“Really, guys. I need it back,” Greg said desperately.
If they took a picture with the camera, Greg realized, they might discover its secret. That its snapshots showed the future, showed only bad things happening to people. That the camera was evil. Maybe it even caused evil.
“Say cheese,” Mickey instructed Joey.
“Just snap the stupid thing!” Joey replied impatiently.
No, Greg thought. I can’t let this happen. I’ve got to return the camera to the Coffman house, to Spidey.
Impulsively, Greg leaped forward. With a cry, he snatched the camera away from Mickey’s face.
“Hey—” Mickey reacted in surprise.
“Let’s go!” Greg shouted to Bird and Michael.
And without another word, the three friends turned and began running across the deserted playground toward their homes.
His heart thudding in his chest, Greg gripped the camera tightly and ran as fast as he could, his sneakers pounding over the dry grass.
They’re going to catch us, Greg thought, panting loudly now as he raced toward the street. They’re going to catch us and pound us. They’re going to take back the camera. We’re dead meat. Dead meat.
Greg and his friends didn’t turn around until they were across the street. Breathing noisily, they looked back—and cried out in relieved surprise.
Joey and Mickey hadn’t budged from beside the bleachers. They hadn’t chased after them. They were leaning against the bleachers, laughing.
“Catch you later, guys!” Joey called after them.
“Yeah. Later,” Mickey repeated.
They both burst out laughing again, as if they had said something hilarious.
“That was close,” Michael said, still breathing hard.
“They mean it,” Bird said, looking very troubled. “They’ll catch us later. We’re history.”
“Tough talk. They’re just a lot of hot air,” Greg insisted.
“Oh, yeah?” Michael cried. “Then why did we run like that?”
“Because we’re late for dinner,” Bird joked. “See you guys. I’m gonna catch it if I don’t hurry.”
“But the camera—” Greg protested, still gripping it tightly in one hand.
“It’s too late,” Michael said, nervously raking a hand back through his red hair.
“Yeah. We’ll have to do it tomorrow or something,” Bird agreed.
“Then you guys will come with me?” Greg asked eagerly.
“Uh… I’ve gotta go,” Bird said without answering.
“Me, too,” Michael said quickly, avoiding Greg’s stare.
All three of them turned their eyes back to the playground. Joey and Mickey had disappeared. Probably off to terrorize some other kids.
“Later,” Bird said, slapping Greg on the shoulder as he headed away. The three friends split up, running in different directions across lawns and driveways, heading home.
Greg had run all the way to his front yard before he remembered the snapshot he had shoved into his jeans pocket.
He stopped in the driveway and pulled it out.
The sun was lowering behind the garage. He held the snapshot up close to his face to see it clearly.
“Oh, no!” he cried. “I don’t believe it!”
24
“This is impossible!” Greg cried aloud, gaping at the snapshot in his trembling hand.
How had Shari gotten into the photo?
It had been taken a few minutes before, in front of the bleachers on the playground.
But there was Shari, standing close beside Greg.
His hand trembling, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, Greg goggled at the photo.
It was very clear, very sharp. There they were on the playground. He could see the baseball diamond in the background.
And there they were. Greg and Shari.
Shari standing so clear, so sharp—right next to him.
And they were both staring straight ahead, their eyes wide, their mouths open, their expressions frozen in horror as a large shadow covered them both.
“Shari?” Greg cried, lowering the snapshot and darting his eyes over the front yard. “Are you here? Can you hear me?”
He listened.
Silence.
He tried again.
“Shari? Are you here?”
“Greg!” a voice called.
Uttering a startled cry, Greg spun around. “Huh?”
“Greg!” the voice repeated. It took him a while to realize that it was his mother, calling to him from the front door.
“Oh. Hi, Mom.” Feeling dazed, he slid the snapshot back into his jeans pocket.
“Where’ve you been?” his mother asked as he made his way to the door. “I heard about Shari. I’ve been so upset. I didn’t know where you were.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Greg said, kissing her on the cheek. “I—I should’ve left a note.”
He stepped into the house, feeling strange and out of sorts, sad and confused and frightened, all at the same time.
Two days later, on a day of high gray clouds, the air hot and smoggy, Greg paced back and forth in his room after school.
The house was empty except for him. Terry had gone off a few hours before to his after-school job at the Dairy Freeze. Mrs. Banks had driven to the h
ospital to pick up Greg’s dad, who was finally coming home.
Greg knew he should be happy about his dad’s return. But there were still too many things troubling him, tugging at his mind.
Frightening him.
For one thing, Shari still hadn’t been found.
The police were completely baffled. Their new theory was that she’d been kidnapped.
Her frantic, grieving parents waited home by the phone. But no kidnappers called to demand a ransom.
There were no clues of any kind.
Nothing to do but wait. And hope.
As time passed, Greg felt more and more guilty. He was sure Shari hadn’t been kidnapped. He knew that somehow, the camera had made her disappear.
But he couldn’t tell anyone else what he believed.
No one would believe him. Anyone he tried to tell the story to would think he was crazy.
Cameras can’t be evil, after all.
Cameras can’t make people fall down stairs. Or crash their cars.
Or vanish from sight.
Cameras can only record what they see.
Greg stared out of his window, pressing his forehead against the glass, looking down on Shari’s backyard. “Shari—where are you?” he asked aloud, staring at the tree where she had posed.
The camera was still hidden in the secret compartment in his headboard. Neither Bird nor Michael would agree to help Greg return it to the Coffman house.
Besides, Greg had decided to hold on to it a while longer, in case he needed it as proof.
In case he decided to confide his fears about it to someone.
In case…
His other fear was that Spidey would come back, back to Greg’s room, back for the camera.
So much to be frightened about.
He pushed himself away from the window. He had spent so much time in the past couple of days staring down at Shari’s empty backyard.
Thinking. Thinking.
With a sigh, he reached into the headboard and pulled out two of the snapshots he had hidden in there along with the camera.
The two snapshots were the ones taken the past Saturday at Shari’s birthday party. Holding one in each hand, Greg stared at them, hoping he could see something new, something he hadn’t noticed before.