by R. L. Stine
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
SLAPPY HERE, EVERYONE.
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SLAPPY HERE, EVERYONE.
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EPILOGUE FROM SLAPPY
SNEAK PEEK!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE
COPYRIGHT
Welcome to SlappyWorld.
Yes, it’s Slappy’s world—you’re only screaming in it! Hahahaha!
I know you’re glad to see me. I’m always glad to see me! I’m so awesome, I want to turn my mouth around and kiss myself! (But I don’t want to get splinters! Hahahaha.)
Am I good-looking? You don’t have to answer. I know you’re too busy admiring me!
I’m so handsome, when I look in a mirror, the mirror says, “Thank you!” Hahaha.
Do you know the only thing that’s almost as good-looking as my face? A photo of my face! Haha.
Why do people invite me to so many parties? Because I’m a scream!
Bet I can make you scream. Know what I’m cooking up?
A story about a TV cooking competition. It’s about a girl named Sascha and her friend Nicole. They have a can of something disgusting—a can of Monster Blood.
What happens when the Monster Blood becomes an ingredient in their dish? That’s a good recipe—a recipe for horror! Hahaha.
I know you’re hungry for thrills. Go ahead and start reading.
It’s another one of my tasty tales from SlappyWorld!
On the day my friend Nicole and I found the Monster Blood and totally ruined our lives, we were both excited and happy enough to burst.
That’s because we had a chance to be on our favorite TV series.
A chance to show off the cooking skills we had practiced in my kitchen. All the crazy dishes Nicole and I dreamed up. Slapping food together in the craziest combinations. Dreaming up wild new desserts and pasta casseroles and soups and stews that sometimes even we were afraid to taste!
Before I go too far, let me say that I’m Sascha Nelson. My best friend, Nicole Hilliard, and I are twelve, and we consider ourselves kitchen explorers. We go where no chefs have ever gone before.
No joke.
I mean, who else would think of making salty chocolate milk? Or scrambled eggs with Marshmallow Fluff? Or a bologna cake?
We’re pioneers. We’re inventors. We’re creators. We’re totally nuts.
At least, that’s what my mom and dad say. But what do they know? They put jelly on their peanut butter instead of bananas and pickles!
Who could compete against us in the kitchen?
We were about to find out. Because—wait for this—Nicole and I were picked for the most awesome TV cooking show in the universe.
Unless you’re new to this planet, you know what I’m talking about. Kids’ Big Chef Food Fights.
That’s the one. Three teams of kids competing for the Silver Spatula. That spatula is worth two thousand dollars!
Can you get excited about two thousand dollars? Nicole and I sure could.
All the contestants were coming from our school, Adam Driver Middle School. Nicole and I knew we could out-cook anyone in school with our oven mitts tied behind our backs.
Sure. Maybe I brag a lot. But if you’ve got something to brag about, why not?
After school on Thursday, we couldn’t wait to get to the TV studio. Luckily, it was only a six-block walk from my house. Nicole and I were in my kitchen, loosening up.
“Let’s make an ice cream sundae,” I said. “Put everything we can find on it.”
Nicole nodded. “Yeah. We need to carb up, you know.” She flexed her arm muscles. “Get the energy flowing.”
“Mainly I just want a sundae,” I said.
We pulled a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer. I found chopped walnuts and caramel syrup and colored sprinkles in the pantry. Nicole produced a banana from the fridge. “Do you have any popcorn?” she asked. “I love popcorn on ice cream.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s a bag of tortilla chips. We could crumble some chips on it.”
I found a tall can of whipped cream in the refrigerator door. You know, the whipped cream with a nozzle that you push and it sprays out.
“This is a good start,” I said. “We can build the sundae, then see what else we can find.”
Nicole glanced at the clock above the kitchen window. “It’s getting late. Maybe we should just have some ice cream.”
“No way,” I insisted. “This is going to be an awesome creation.”
I pulled a glass ice cream dish from the cabinet and started to scoop ice cream into it. Nicole heated the caramel sauce in the microwave. Then she poured it on top of the ice cream scoops.
We were adding the banana slices when Toby came bursting into the kitchen.
Toby is my little brother. He’s eight going on four. What I mean is, he’s a pain.
It’s hard to get mad at him because he looks so much like me. Bouncy red hair, a round face with freckled cheeks. But I have blue eyes and his are brown.
“Hey, Toby.” I followed his gaze. Guessed what he was about to do—but I was too slow to stop him.
He grabbed the can of whipped cream off the counter and raised it high, aiming it at me.
“Toby, put that down,” I said. “I mean it.”
He moved his finger to the top, ready to press it. He giggled. He has a seriously evil giggle. “Tell me what you got me for my birthday,” he said.
“Put it down,” I said.
“I’ll put it down when you tell me my birthday present.” He pointed the can at my face.
“I’m not telling,” I said.
I couldn’t tell him, because I hadn’t bought him anything yet. Who wants to shop for an eight-year-old pest?
He giggled again. Then he pressed the nozzle and shot a big blob of whipped cream into my face.
“Hey—!” I let out a shout. I wiped the stuff from my eyes with one hand—and grabbed for the can with my other hand. Missed.
He sprayed another white stream at me. I ducked and it sailed over my shoulder and splattered the stove.
“Give me that!” I screamed. I swiped at the can, but he pulled it away. And sent a big wet blob of whipped cream onto my shoes.
“I’ve got him!” Nicole cried. She grabbed Toby from behind and tried to pin his arms back.
Laughing, he sprayed her face and hair with whipped cream. A thick white stripe of it spread along the side of the kitchen counter. He shot a big circle of the cream onto the wall.
“Give it! Give it, you jerk!” I screamed, grabbing wildly for the can.
That’s when I saw Mom and Dad standing in the doorway.
Toby must have seen them, too, because he tossed the whipped cream can into my hands.
Nicole was too busy trying to wipe the stuff from her hair to notice them. Big splotches of whipped cream covered the floor and the kitchen cabinets.
Mom pressed her hands to the sides of her face. “What on earth is going on here?” she cried.
“Sascha and Nicole were having a whipped cream fi
ght,” Toby said.
“Your little brother needs to be taught a lesson,” Nicole said.
“What lesson?” I asked.
“That he is obnoxious,” she said.
I laughed. “Is that a lesson?”
It was fifteen minutes later. Nicole and I had done our best to wipe the whipped cream off everything. And then we listened to a lecture from my dad about how we had to take better care of Toby when we were in charge.
We didn’t think we were in charge. But we listened anyway because we were eager to get out of the house.
Now the afternoon sun was sliding behind the trees, and long shadows stretched across the front lawns. We crossed the street and made our way toward the TV studio, taking long strides.
Nicole kept tugging at her hair. A big clump of it was stuck together because of the whipped cream.
“There won’t be any cameras. This is just a tryout,” I told her.
But that didn’t make her feel any better.
Nicole has beautiful long straight black hair. Sometimes she ties it in a single braid. But today it fell behind her back like a dark waterfall.
We walked past our school. Five or six kids had a soccer game going on at the playground. Some girls from the elementary school had dropped their bikes on the front lawn and were sprawled on the grass, hanging out.
“I wonder what kind of ingredients we’ll get for the tryout,” I said. My stomach felt a little fluttery. You can’t blame me for feeling a little tense.
“Probably octopus and pine nuts,” Nicole joked.
See, the way the contest works is this: Every team gets a box with the same bunch of ingredients in it. No one knows what’s inside until you open the box. Then you have to make something delicious from the ingredients.
Something more delicious than the other two teams have made.
A few weekends ago, Nicole and I did a practice session. We asked my mom to pull four ingredients out for us. We closed our eyes while she scurried around the kitchen.
When we opened our eyes, we saw her four ingredients on the counter. A box of macaroni noodles. Two apples. A jar of honey. And a little spice jar of cinnamon.
Nicole and I studied them for a while. Then we mixed everything together and baked the whole thing. And it came out as a very sweet pasta dessert.
Has anyone ever cooked a pasta dessert before? Maybe Nicole and I invented something new!
I was thinking about that dessert when the car came squealing around the corner.
I didn’t realize it was a car at first. I just saw a whirring blur of black.
I heard the car’s engine roar. The tires squealed. And then it came into focus as it wheeled around the corner. A long black SUV.
“Sascha—look out!”
I heard Nicole’s scream.
I leaped backward. Fell hard onto my back. My head smacked the pavement with a thud. The breath whooshed from my chest.
I’m hit! I told myself. I’m hit! I’m hit! That car … it hit me!
My head throbbed. I saw red.
I shut my eyes tight … and waited for the pain to fade.
I opened my eyes to see Nicole’s face close above mine. She knelt down beside me. Her hands cradled my head, lifting it from the curb.
Her violet eyes were wide with horror, and her chin trembled as she stared at me.
The throbbing pain at the back of my head faded to a low ache. I blinked a few times. “I think I’m okay.” My voice came out in a whisper.
“He just kept driving,” Nicole said, gazing down the street. “He didn’t stop.”
She helped raise me to a sitting position. I rubbed the back of my head. “Must have hit my head when I fell.”
She squinted at me. “Are you okay? Should I call 911?”
I shook my head hard, trying to clear it. “I’m okay.” With a groan, I stood up. Shook my head again. “Yeah. I’m all right,” I said. “I’m not even dizzy.”
I bent my knees. Checked out my jeans. My T-shirt. “He missed me by inches,” I said. “If I hadn’t jumped back …” My voice trailed off.
Nicole searched her backpack. “I couldn’t call 911 even if we needed to,” she said. “I left my phone at school.”
“We don’t need it,” I said. “Come on. Let’s hurry.”
We started walking again. A school bus whirred past, and it made me jump.
Guess what? I still didn’t feel normal. If a car nearly runs you down, it kind of shakes you up.
We crossed Harrison Street and turned onto Jackson. The late-afternoon sunlight made my head throb. I kept shielding my eyes with one hand.
“Hey, look.” Nicole pointed. “I don’t remember seeing that store before.”
I squinted across the street. “Must be new,” I said. “We’ve walked here a million times, and I never saw it before, either.”
As we came closer, I saw toys and games in the front window. “Let’s go in, Sascha,” Nicole said. “Maybe you should sit down for a few minutes. You still look kinda shaky.”
“Okay,” I said. I wanted to get the sun out of my eyes.
“Maybe we can find a birthday present for Toby here,” Nicole said.
We stepped under the awning. A black-and-purple sign above the door read VERY EVIL TOYS.
Strange name, huh?
Maybe we should have taken the hint—and beat it. Maybe we should have hurried away from there as fast as we could.
But Nicole and I were curious, so we went in.
And that’s when all the trouble started.
I followed Nicole into the store. And waited for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. Tiny red ceiling lights spread a dim glow over the narrow room.
“Spooky,” I whispered.
And then the man behind the counter came into focus. He wore a black robe, his face hidden beneath its dark hood. He stared at a newspaper on the counter.
I gazed down a long, cluttered aisle. It had boxes stacked high and stuffed creatures scattered all over the floor. Some were sitting. Some were standing. All in positions that made them look strangely alive. At the end of the aisle was a display case bursting with toys and gadgets.
“Sascha, I don’t believe this place,” Nicole whispered.
Then the hooded man behind the counter finally raised his eyes to us. And I could see his face. No face. No face at all. Just a pale skull reflecting the glare of the dim red lights.
I screamed. I couldn’t help myself.
And he laughed. A dry laugh, kind of like crackling dead leaves.
He lifted a hand and pulled off the skull. A mask. He was wearing a skull mask.
He grinned at us. He had wide dark eyes and a black mustache on a pale round face. His bald head glowed in the dim light. “Did I frighten you?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.
“A little,” I said.
He laughed. “It’s Halloween all year round in my store,” he said. “Welcome. My name is Bardo.”
Nicole and I stepped closer to the counter. “It’s so dark in here,” I said.
He nodded. “I live in darkness.”
“Is this store new?” Nicole asked.
A thin smile spread across his pale face. “It’s new and it’s old.” Bardo tapped his fingers on the glass countertop. He had long, pointed fingernails painted black. “What kind of evil toys are you ladies looking for?” he asked.
My throat was suddenly dry. My headache was a dull pain at the back of my neck. The store was creeping me out. And I could see that Nicole felt the same way.
Why didn’t we leave when we had a chance?
“I need something for my little brother,” I said. “He’s eight.”
“That’s a frightening age,” Bardo said. He grinned. “But I have the perfect thing.”
He reached under the counter and pulled up a large box. “Boys really love this,” he said, tapping his long nails on it. “It’s a cockroach farm.”
“A what?” Nicole and I both blurted out at once.
/> “A cockroach farm,” he repeated. He turned the box so we could see the front. “See? You hatch the cockroaches in this container. And then they live in this glass case. Plenty of room for them to run around.”
“But—but—” I sputtered.
Bardo smiled that thin smile. “You just have to be careful to keep the lid on,” he said.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said.
He nodded. He lowered the box to the bottom shelf. Then he raised another box. I could see a plastic white-and-yellow flower in it that looked like a daisy.
“Perfect for an eight-year-old,” Bardo said. “You wear it on your T-shirt. It’s a squirting flower. Very special.”
I squinted at it. “What’s special about it?”
“It shoots black ink pellets,” he replied, waving the box in front of me. “The color never comes off. It’s totally permanent.”
“No way,” I said. “My parents would kill me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I have lots of evil toys for an eight-year-old. Follow me.”
He stepped around the counter and crossed to the nearest display case. He scratched his bald head, then pulled something from the case. “How about this cat?”
He shoved it in front of my face. A gray-and-white stuffed cat, actual cat size.
“I think Toby is too old for a stuffed animal,” I said.
He smiled and shook his head. When he smiled, his black mustache slid up with his mouth. “You don’t understand. Here. Hold out your hand.”
I stuck my right hand out.
He squeezed the cat’s tail—and the cat bit me!
“Ouch!” I let out a cry as the hard cat teeth clamped onto the back of my hand.
Nicole gasped. “A stuffed animal that bites?”
Bardo nodded, grinning. “Boys love it.” He squeezed the tail again and the teeth lifted off my hand. It’s from a company called Gruff Pets.”
The back of my hand had teeth marks. I tried to rub the pain away. “No!” I told Bardo. “Definitely not! My brother is already a total menace!”
He sighed and looked very disappointed.
“We only have a few minutes,” Nicole told him. “Why don’t Sascha and I wander around on our own?”
We walked to the back of the store.
“I see why he calls this store ‘Very Evil Toys,’ ” Nicole whispered, tossing back her long black hair.
