Fear Games

by R. L. Stine

  4

  Merrilee finished reading the letter over April’s shoulder. “Wow,” she murmured. “Is this for real?”

  April shuffled through the other pages. “It all looks very official,” she said. “I don’t believe this! It’s too amazing!”

  Her heart was pounding. She glanced over the letter again. She had to grip it in two hands because her right hand was trembling.

  “Two weeks on a tropical island? For free?” she said. “With all these incredible celebs. Whoa!”

  “And maybe you’ll come home with big bucks!” Merrilee exclaimed.

  The two girls stared at each other openmouthed.

  “This has got to be a joke,” April said. “No way can this be real.”

  “When Pam finds out, she’ll go stark raving berserk!” Merrilee said. “She’ll freak out.”

  “I’ll bet she was invited too,” April replied, still gazing at the letter. “Pam’s grades are better than mine. And she’s a much better athlete. I wonder why I got picked.”

  “Don’t put yourself down,” Merrilee scolded. “Why are you always doing that?”

  “I just wonder why they chose me,” April said. “I’m quiet, I’m shy. I go camping with my family, but I’m not really an outdoors person.” She gazed at the letter. “It’s weird.”

  “It’s not weird at all,” Merrilee insisted. “You are such a hard worker. Your grades are just as good as Pam’s. Maybe someone from The Academy saw you in Bye Bye Birdie last spring. You were fabulous!”

  Merrilee giggled. “And you play great practical jokes!”

  April laughed. “We really got Pam today—didn’t we!”

  “Call her!” Merrilee urged. “Go ahead. Call Pam. See if she got a letter too.”

  “You’re kidding—right?” April shook her head. “No way I’m calling her.”

  The phone rang.

  Both girls jumped.

  April picked it up. “Hello?” Then she whispered to Merrilee, “It’s Pam!”

  “I knew it! She has a special radar,” Merrilee whispered.

  “April, I know what you and your friend Merrilee did to me in the lunchroom today,” Pam said. “It took me a while, but I figured it out.”

  “Uh…well…” April muttered.

  “I’ll bet Merrilee is standing right there with you,” Pam said bitterly. “And the two of you are still having a good laugh.”

  “No. We’re not laughing,” April replied. “Really.”

  “That was so not funny,” Pam said.

  “It was a little funny,” April insisted. “You have to admit—”

  “I try to be your friend,” Pam said. “Because my mom says I have to. But it isn’t easy, April. I don’t know what your problem is. But—”

  “Did you get a letter?” April blurted out.

  “Excuse me? A letter?”

  “Yes,” April replied. “In the mail today. Did you get a letter from something called The Academy?”

  “No,” Pam said. “Why?”

  “No reason,” April replied. “Gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

  She clicked off the phone. Then she pumped her fist in the air. “Yesssss! Pam didn’t get invited!”

  A grin spread over Merrilee’s face. “Think she’ll be a little jealous when she finds out?”

  April’s eyes flashed. “Maybe a little.”

  Merrilee’s grin faded. “Of course, there is just one problem, April. Your parents.”

  April narrowed her eyes at her friend. “What about my parents?”

  “They’re so strict,” Merrilee replied. “What if they say no? They’re always so worried about safety. Remember, they wouldn’t let you go to Great Adventures last summer? What if they don’t let you go to this?”

  “They have to!” April exclaimed. “It’s the chance of a lifetime! It—it’s incredible! It’s two weeks on a tropical island with other kids and dozens of celebs! And a chance to win thousands of dollars!”

  “Whoa. Easy, girl—” Merrilee said.

  “They can’t say no!” April shouted. “Come on, Merrilee. They’ve got to let me go. They’ve got to! It’s a tiny little island with no one else living on it. What could go wrong? Tell me—what could go wrong?”

  Part Two

  The Year 1680 Ravenswoode, a Tiny English Village

  5

  “Witch! Witch!”

  “Kill the witch!”

  Deborah Andersen screamed as she ran, trying to drown out the boys’ ugly shouts. Her heavy black shoes pounded on the dirt path as it curved past the mill. She had to hold her long black skirt high in order to run from the boys who chased her. The coarse fabric felt heavy in her hands. Thorny vines tore at her ankles, ripping her woolen stockings.

  “Witch! Be gone, witch!”

  “Stop her before she flies away!”

  A rock whirred past her head. “Noooo!” Deborah cried, ducking. The rock hit a tree with a sharp clop and bounced across the path. Deborah kept running.

  The dirt path ended at the Fieldings’ farm. Deborah stumbled across the fields, through the high clumps of grass and heather. The boys were not far behind. Around her the barley crop lay unharvested, black and rotting. A few bony cows stared wearily as Deborah ran by.

  Did the people of Ravenswoode blame Deborah for the crop failures that spring? Did they blame her for the fat black insects that came swarming from inside the sweetcorn husks? For the purple worms that left the apples dead and shriveled on the tree? For the starving cows who gave only a thin stream of sour milk?

  Yes. They did.

  “I’M NOT A WITCH!” she wailed.

  But the boys chased after her. Another rock sailed past her head.

  “Fly away, witch!”

  “Sprout blackbird wings and fly away!”

  I wish I could fly away, Deborah thought bitterly. Away from these ignorant villagers who blame me for all their troubles.

  She longed to get away from the cold village, away from the staring eyes, from the long, wet winters without enough firewood to warm her small cottage. Away from the farms and their scraggly crops. Away from the broken-down mill that seldom had any wheat to grind.

  She wished she could leave behind the red-faced boys with their cruel taunts. The farmers and villagers with their accusing stares. The pale women in their dingy white bonnets, whispering when she walked by.

  Gasping for breath, she glanced back. The boys still followed her, shaking their fists.

  “Catch the witch!”

  “Don’t let her escape!”

  Running hard, Deborah turned at the Fieldings’ farmhouse. The brown grass sloped up toward the village with its thatched cottages and stone-and-shingle barns. Her cottage—and safety—stood on the other side of town.

  Chickens clucked and wobbled at the Fieldings’ door. A skinny rooster watched from the wall of the stone well. The well bucket lay on its side on the ground in a mound of yellow chicken feed.

  A rock bounced hard off Deborah’s shoulder. It sent a sharp jolt of pain down her side.

  “Leave me be!” With a burst of fury, she spun around to face her pursuers. They caught up to her, breathing hard, and surrounded her.

  Rubbing her shoulder, she stumbled, trying to escape. But she slipped in the grass and fell to her knees.

  The circle of boys closed in on her. Five of them, she saw, in their gray school costumes. Gray coats over white muslin shirts and brown vests. Knee-length knickers with white stockings and black buckled shoes. Not the finest clothes in the world, but far finer than any Deborah had ever owned.

  Long tangles of greasy hair fell to the boys’ shoulders. They drew short, heavy breaths, their faces red, their eyes narrow, suspicious, and alert. Deborah felt like a fox surrounded by hounds—and doomed to be torn to pieces by them.

  Near the cottage, the chickens clucked and clattered in the Fieldings’ yard. The only other sound was the whisper of spring wind through the stand of silver birch trees that bordered the farm.


  Fly away now, Deborah ordered herself. Fly away, blackbird, and scare the nasty boys.

  But she knew she hadn’t the power.

  Still on her knees, she pulled herself into a tight ball as the boys closed in on her. She clenched every muscle and gritted her teeth, steeling herself for the blows.

  Two of the boys gripped slate-colored rocks. The others raised tight fists. Silent now, they moved nearer.

  Deborah held up a hand, shielding her face.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she whispered. “Please—what are you going to do?”

  6

  They stared down at her, eyes cold as stone. Bodies tensed, ready for a fight, they didn’t say a word.

  Why hadn’t the boys hit her yet? Were they cowards?

  Her heart pounding, Deborah climbed slowly to her feet. She smoothed the front of her long skirt.

  Can I stare them down? Can I?

  Can I pretend to give them the evil eye?

  “Leave the village, witch!” The boy named Johnny Goodmann finally found his voice. Lanky and thin, with a long, pointed beak of a nose.

  “Leave the village,” Johnny’s younger brother William echoed.

  “I…live…here,” Deborah replied slowly, keeping her eyes on them. Tensed for their sudden attack.

  “But you are a witch,” Aaron Harrison sneered. His long, wavy blond hair glowed in the late afternoon sunlight as if on fire. “You’ve brought a plague to this village. The crops were ruined because of your evil. My father said so.”

  “Your father is wrong,” Deborah muttered. “I am just a girl.”

  Aaron laughed, cold and hard. “You don’t act like one.”

  “Why do you try to go to school?” Johnny demanded. “What strange kind of girl are you, who sneaks into the schoolhouse to hear our lessons?”

  “I—I want to learn,” Deborah whispered. “I want to read as you do.”

  They all laughed now.

  “Why should a girl read?” Aaron asked. “To read your evil spell books?” He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her hard.

  Deborah stumbled backward, into Will Goodmann.

  He cried out as if touched by flames.

  At the well, the scraggly rooster crowed. The hens started to squawk.

  Deborah caught her balance and spun around to face them. “I shall turn you all into chickens!” she shouted. “All! You will bend to me and peck the ground at my feet!”

  “You are a witch!” Aaron gasped. “She admitted it!”

  The rock fell from Johnny’s hand.

  Deborah pulled the hem of her skirt up to her ankles and started to run.

  She expected them to follow her, to drag her down. To use their rocks and fists as they had planned.

  But to her surprise, they stood frozen like scarecrows. They watched her run and didn’t take up the chase.

  She kept glancing back as she made her way past the cottages at the edge of the village. Soon the boys were out of sight.

  They believed me, she realized.

  They believe I have the power to change them into clucking chickens.

  Hot tears rolled down her face as she ran through the village square. In front of the meeting hall, she saw a blur of men in black. Alderman Harrison, Aaron’s father, was talking to two of the village elders.

  All three men turned to watch Deborah as she ran past.

  Through the small market she ran, past the sad carts with their meager wares. A few jars of honey. A bucket or two of thin milk. A slab of rancid, dried beef. She ran across a wide, flat field toward the small, square cottage where she lived with her parents.

  Wiping the tears from her cheeks with both hands, Deborah burst into the cottage. Katherine, her mother, turned from the hearth, where she was boiling a pot of large brown eggs.

  “Why are you crying?” Katherine asked. “What is wrong, Moon Child?”

  “Do not call me that, Mother!” Deborah wailed.

  Katherine brushed back her daughter’s light brown hair. The blue birthmark on Deborah’s right temple came into view. The small, perfect crescent. The blue sliver of a moon.

  “I have always called you Moon Child,” Katherine murmured. “You were born under a crescent moon, Deborah, just like the one on your forehead.”

  “And I have been cursed by it!” Deborah declared angrily. “The villagers blame me for all their troubles. And all because of this mark on my face.”

  She brushed her mother’s hand away and covered the blue crescent again with her hair. “The boys from the school—they chased me again.”

  “I heard them shouting,” her mother replied. “I am so sorry, my girl.”

  Deborah made no attempt to stop the tears from streaking down her cheeks. “I—I am not a witch! I am only twelve years old. Why do they taunt me? Why do they all hate me so?”

  Katherine returned to the hearth and threw a few more logs on the fire. “So many strange things have happened in the village since the day you were born.” She stirred the eggs with a long wooden ladle.

  “A two-headed calf was born the same day as you,” Katherine continued. “And soon after paying a visit to our house, Councilman Forrester pulled two live mice from his ears. He has been deaf ever since. So many strange things. The villagers just don’t know whom to blame.”

  Deborah sat on a stool by the fire. “Aaron Harrison torments me the most,” she said. She clenched her fists so tightly, her fingernails dug into her palms. “He struts around with his blond hair like a prince. He leads the other boys against me.”

  “Try to calm yourself, Deborah,” her mother urged. “I have fresh eggs for dinner and a loaf of bread from the market. Go to the well and wash your face. The cool water will help stop your tears.”

  Deborah ignored her suggestion. “If only I could pay those boys back, Mother. If only I could pay Aaron Harrison back for…for…” A sob escaped her throat.

  “Hush, Deborah,” Katherine whispered.

  But Deborah couldn’t hold back her fury. “How dare they throw stones at me! How dare they call me a witch! I hate those boys! I hate them! I…I wish I could make that horrible Aaron as unhappy as I am!”

  The next morning, she got her wish.

  7

  The next morning dawned gray and chilly for spring. Katherine served breakfast in silence—cold eggs left over from the night before and steaming cups of herb tea.

  Deborah hadn’t slept all night. She couldn’t erase Aaron and the other boys from her mind.

  She sat at the rough wooden table and choked down an egg. The tea felt warm and soothing on her throat.

  A blast of wind made the cottage walls shake. “Did you sleep, Mother?” Deborah asked.

  Katherine shrugged. “A little.” She sipped her tea and glanced at her daughter. “I see the heather is finally in bloom.”

  Deborah forced a smile. She had always loved the fresh purple heather in springtime.

  Katherine squeezed Deborah’s hand. “Let’s go up the hill this morning and gather baskets of heather. We will fill the cottage with it.”

  Deborah nodded. “That’s a wonderful idea, Mother. The sweet-smelling heather will cheer me up.”

  They picked up straw baskets from the shed behind the cottage. Then they started across the field arm in arm.

  The rising sun burned through the chill of the morning fog. The grass sparkled from the dew.

  They had nearly reached the village square when they heard the sharp cry of voices. They spun around to see a line of four women running toward them, their aprons flapping.

  “Katherine Andersen—hold your daughter there!” a woman shouted angrily. “Do not let her escape.”

  The basket fell from Deborah’s hand. A wave of cold fear swept over her. “Mother, what is this about?”

  Katherine gripped her daughter’s hand and stared as the women furiously approached.

  Deborah recognized Emily Harrison, Aaron’s mother, her blond hair flying from under her dark blue bo
nnet. Her round face was red and stained with tears. Behind her came Rosemary Platt and two Platt cousins.

  Emily ran up to Deborah and Katherine, breathing hard, her apron ruffling in the wind. “Witch!” she spat at Deborah. “Why did you do it? Why did you cast a spell on my poor son?”

  Her eyes burned with fury. Deborah shrank back from her, afraid.

  “You have done your last evil magic in this village!” Rosemary Platt roared.

  “Magic—?” Deborah replied weakly.

  Sobbing, Emily grabbed Deborah roughly by the arm. “Come with me,” she seethed. “Come reverse your evil spell—at once!”

  Deborah jerked her arm hard, trying to break free of Emily’s tight grasp. But the women had her surrounded.

  “I do not know what this is about!” she cried.

  “Let go of my daughter!” Katherine shouted.

  Emily Harrison pulled Deborah across the grass. “You will fix what you have done—or you will suffer for it. I will make sure of it.”

  Forming a tight, angry circle, the women herded Deborah and Katherine across the field, through the village square. A small crowd had gathered near the marketplace. They watched in silence as the four women dragged Deborah and her mother to the doorstep of the Harrison cottage. Freshly whitewashed, the Harrisons’ house was two stories tall, the largest in the village.

  “You have poisoned my home,” Emily cried, tears pouring down her face. “You have infected my good home with your filthy evil! I demand that you reverse your spell and save my only son!”

  What does she think I have done? Deborah wondered. What is she accusing me of?

  What has happened to Aaron?

  Emily Harrison pulled open the wooden cottage door and shoved Deborah inside. “Aaron, I have brought her!” the furious woman shouted. “All will be well now!”

  Trembling, her heart racing, Deborah squinted into the gloom of the cottage.

  It took a short while to spot him, standing on the flat gray stones in front of the hearth.

  And when Deborah finally recognized Aaron, she opened her mouth and began to scream.