by R. L. Stine
My hand slid to my jeans pocket. Yes! The strange card had helped me out before. Maybe … Maybe it could help us one more time.
My hand was shaking. I struggled to slide it out of my pocket.
I raised it high. I aimed the front of the card at Billy and Sheena and held it there.
Nothing happened.
The Monster Blood oozed up toward Billy’s neck and shoulders. His dark eyes bulged. His mouth was wide in a silent scream of terror.
I could see the outline of Sheena’s hands and arms as she fought to untangle herself, twisting and squirming.
“Help us! Matt — DO something!”
I turned the card around and tried again. Nothing.
I pushed the card closer, till it almost touched the Monster Blood.
“Come on — work! WORK!” I pleaded.
But no. The card wasn’t helping at all.
“Matt — it’s … up to my chin!” Billy wailed.
“So sticky … Can’t breathe …” Sheena’s voice came out in a choked whisper.
I still had the key card raised in front of me when a loud voice boomed from the lab entrance. “WHAT’S GOING ON IN HERE?”
“Huh?” Startled, I spun around hard and almost fell. A tall giant of a Horror burst into the lab — big hairy hands balled into fists.
He had short yellow horns on his head, with wavy green hair falling over his boulder-like forehead. He had bright blue eyes under thick brown eyebrows.
I recognized him. Yes. As he tromped closer, I read the brass name tag on his purple-and-green uniform: BYRON.
Byron was the Horror who came up to me when I first arrived. He was the Horror who slipped me the key card.
“What is this? What have you done?” he shouted in his booming deep voice.
I pointed to my struggling friends. Billy and Sheena were almost buried under the throbbing green mound of Monster Blood. “Can you help them? Can you do something?” I cried.
Byron frowned. His eyes studied the pulsing green goo. Then he turned back to me.
“Sorry,” he said softly. “Better say good-bye. It’s too late for them.”
I gasped. My breath caught in my throat.
Byron blinked. His blue eyes narrowed. He snapped his hairy fingers. “Oh, wait,” he said. “I think I might have something that should help.”
He reached into his uniform and pulled out a small square object. At first, I thought it was another key card. But then I saw the light bounce off it, and I knew what it was.
A mirror. A small pocket mirror.
“This should do it,” Byron said to me. He turned the little mirror and aimed it at the throbbing mound of Monster Blood.
I heard a loud pop.
The pile of green goop stopped oozing and bubbling. And as I gaped in amazement, the Monster Blood spilled away from Billy and Sheena.
And began to pour over the mirror.
It took a few seconds for me to realize that the stuff was being sucked into the mirror.
But, yes! Yes! It came rolling off Billy and Sheena, like an ocean wave sweeping away. My heart pounding, I watched it pour into the mirror in a steady green stream.
Seconds later, Billy stood in front of us, pulling a few sticky gobs of Monster Blood off his T-shirt. He turned — and gazed all around. “Sheena?” he called. “Sheena? Where are you? Sheena?”
No answer.
“Wait!” he screamed at Byron. “My sister! Where is my sister?”
Byron held the mirror steady till the last drip of Monster Blood disappeared into it. “You’re not safe here,” he said, glancing to the lab door.
“But Sheena —” Billy started.
“Shhh. Listen to me,” Byron snapped. “You’re in real danger in HorrorLand. I’m not supposed to help you. But I’ll try. I’m going to help you escape.”
“Escape? I can’t escape without Sheena,” Billy said.
“Listen to me —” Byron said. “I —”
Before he could finish, two angry-looking Horror MP’s — guys we’d never seen before — stepped into the doorway. One of them pulled a slender black club from a holster at his waist. He moved forward quickly, eyes locked on Billy and me. His partner blocked the exit.
I let out a long sigh. No escape this time. We were trapped.
“What did we do?” I cried. “Why are you after us?”
“Let’s go, Byron,” the MP said. He bumped past me and grabbed Byron by the shoulder.
“Don’t make a fuss, Byron,” the Horror Cop at the doorway called. “Just come along quietly.”
I held my breath. What was happening here? They weren’t after us? They had come for Byron?
“Let go of me!” Byron boomed. He jerked his shoulder free and lurched away from the MP.
The little mirror fell from his hand. It hit the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces.
“Help me!” the Horror Cop yelled to his partner. He grabbed Byron again and held him with both hands.
The other cop dropped to the floor and began frantically picking up mirror pieces.
“Weird!” I let out a cry as I saw what was happening to the mirror.
The jagged pieces on the floor — they were melting. Turning to liquid under the MP’s fingers. They gleamed like little silver puddles.
Grunting to himself, the big MP scooped up the mirror droplets. He climbed to his feet. “Ready to roll,” he told his partner.
Byron struggled to free himself from the MP’s grasp. “You can’t do this!” he insisted. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Shut up and walk,” the Horror snapped.
They dragged Byron out of the lab. He screamed and struggled the whole way.
I felt dazed. Too confused to think clearly. I turned to Billy. He looked very upset.
He had trickles of sweat rolling down the sides of his face. And I heard him calling in a soft whisper … “Sheena? Are you okay? Sheena? Are you here? Answer me! Please!”
Silence.
Billy wiped the sweat off his cheeks. He spoke in a trembling voice. “She’s … gone, Matt. Do you think she was sucked into the little mirror, too?”
I shuddered. This was too weird.
“We have to go after Byron,” I said. “He wanted to help us. That’s why they dragged him away. We have to find him. He’s the only one who can bring back Sheena.”
“But — where?” Billy asked.
Then I spotted something. A tiny piece of silver gleaming at my feet.
I bent down and carefully picked it up. “Billy, look. A piece of the mirror. It didn’t melt. That MP didn’t get all of the pieces.”
Billy pressed close to me. We both stared into the tiny piece of mirror.
“No way!” I shouted. “No way!”
In the tiny triangle of glass, I saw the two missing girls. Britney and Molly.
They were riding on an old-fashioned carousel. With creamy white horses and carriages.
The girls were sitting side-by-side in a carriage, slowly spinning on the ride.
And the carousel was covered in FLAMES!
I clicked on the basement light. Then I gripped the iron banister and took a step down. The stair creaked beneath me. It sounded like a squeaking mouse.
I took another step, squinting into the yellow light. The cold stairs chilled my bare feet. I lifted my long nightshirt so I wouldn’t trip over it as I made my way down.
In sleep, my straight brown hair had fallen over my face. I brushed it back over my shoulders. My hand trembled with fear.
I heard a hum in the basement as the furnace clicked on. Another stair squeaked beneath me. I stopped halfway down.
“What am I doing?” Did I say the words out loud — or did I only think them?
Why was I creeping down to the basement in the middle of the night?
It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want to do it. I was being pulled … pulled against my will.
Carly Beth … Carly Beth …
As if the terrifying mask was
calling my name. The ugly Haunted Mask that tried to ruin my life … tried to destroy my brain … tried to turn me evil.
And now it was calling me. Forcing me down the stairs and across the cold basement floor.
Carly Beth … Carly Beth …
I knew I wasn’t dreaming. My fright was too real. I switched on the ceiling light. It glowed off the bright red vinyl chairs and couch in our playroom. I grabbed the edge of the Ping-Pong table. I tried to stop myself. Tried to hold myself back.
But the pull of the mask was too strong.
I suddenly felt so weak and tiny — like a piece of dust caught in a powerful vacuum cleaner. My hands flew off the table. I stumbled forward, my toes tangling in the strands of the white shag rug.
My horse posters … the red wall clock … my brother Noah’s old tricycle … the closet door covered with family snapshots … all swept by in a blur as I staggered across the basement.
To the storage room against the far wall. To the mountain of cartons and old furniture and piles of baby toys and old clothes and magazines. The room where I had buried the mask. So deep in the stacks and stacks of junk that no one could find it.
And now it was calling me … pulling me.
Carly Beth … Carly Beth …
Was the whisper only inside my head? The sound of my own name sent shiver after shiver down the back of my neck.
I knew what it wanted. I knew why it woke me up and called me from my bedroom.
It wanted me to uncover the metal box where I had buried it away. To unlock the box and free it. To pull it on again this year. To let its evil sweep over me once more.
The Haunted Mask was ready to take over my mind again and force me to do its evil.
I couldn’t let that happen. I would never let that happen again.
But here I was, stepping into the dark storage room. Squinting at the piles of cartons and old furniture. Here I was, unable to fight it.
My legs trembled as I lifted the first box. Shivering in my thin nightshirt, I pulled the heavy carton off the pile and set it down beside me. Then I reached for the next carton.
“I can’t stop myself!” My voice came out in a choked whisper.
I wanted to turn away. I wanted to run. Instead, I bent and pulled the metal box out from its hiding place. An old black box with a heavy clasp. I let out a gasp. The box felt WARM!
What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stop my hands?
My heart skipped a beat. I made a choking sound as I unlocked the box and lifted the lid.
Folded inside the box, the mask let off a green glow. I gaped at the two crooked rows of fangs. The fat, rubbery lips grinned up at me.
“Stop, Carly Beth! Stop! Don’t do it!” I pleaded with myself.
But I was no longer in control. I wrapped one hand around the bumpy bald head of the mask and lifted it from the box.
“Ohhhh.” A groan escaped my throat. The mask felt like human flesh!
The pointed chin bobbed up and down. The rubbery lips made a bub bub bub sound as they rubbed together.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt ready to burst.
I let the box fall to the floor and raised the ugly mask high over my head. The sunken eye holes grew wider. The wormlike lips made their bub bub bub sound.
The basement cold wrapped around me. I could feel my muscles tighten. My whole body was stiff with fear.
I began to lower the mask … lower it over my head.
I felt the warm rubbery material against my hair. I tugged it down. Soft as human skin, the mask slid over my forehead.
And then … “NOOOOOOOO!” A shout burst from my throat.
A scream of fear and anger all mixed together.
The force of the shout gave me strength. I pulled the mask up and jerked it away from me.
“NOOOOO! You’re not going to overpower me. I’m not going to wear you — ever again!”
I gripped the warty cheeks of the mask in my fists. Then I gasped as the mask moved its rubbery, warm lips. Bub bub bub.
The lips parted and the fangs tilted up.
And the Haunted Mask opened its mouth in a long, deafening SCREAM!
R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.
Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
Goosebumps HorrorLand #3: Monster Blood for Breakfast!
copyright © 2008 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, June 2008
e-ISBN 978-0-545-84034-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
