by R. L. Stine
They don’t get into the pool to help him. Some friends.
I wipe my mouth. I can feel my grin, even though I’m covered with puke.
Where’s Green Lightning?
Can he even swim, with no tail?
My heart starts beating fast, like it’s running. I’m still taking short, quick breaths. I don’t need to puke anymore, but there are butterflies in my stomach.
I try to spot him in the writhing mass of green Angus patty. But all the iguanas I can see have tails.
Then I see him, watching from the pool’s edge. As if he senses my fear and worry, he lifts his head and his eyes meet mine.
Spike’s head is still under the water. In fact, I can’t even see his head anymore because there are so many iguanas swimming on top of him.
“Stop.” I hear myself say it. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I know this isn’t right. “Please, Green Lightning, stop. He’ll be good now. I promise.”
Green Lightning tilts his head. He has to think about it.
“I’ll get in trouble if you don’t stop them now,” I say. “They’ll blame me.”
Green Lightning straightens his head up. He looks over at the iguanas in the pool, now contentedly swimming in circles around the spot where Spike used to be.
Spike is still in the water, somewhere underneath them.
As soon as Green Lightning turns to them, even though he hasn’t made a sound, the iguanas swim away. They climb out of the water and cluster in a sunny spot on the other side of the pool. Some disappear into the hedges or climb a tree.
Thing 1 and Thing 2 still stand at the edge of the pool, too scared to go in.
It’s up to me.
I dive in, straight down to where Spike is half sitting, half floating at the bottom of the pool.
I grab one of his arms and get his head to break above the water. But he doesn’t cough. He doesn’t breathe.
We’re in the deep end of the pool. The only way I can keep his head above water is if I keep mine under.
Pretty soon I’m out of air.
I let go of Spike. He sinks back to the bottom.
I blast up to the water’s surface, suck in air, and yell at his squad.
“Help me!”
I go underwater and hook my hands under Spike’s armpits. I half swim, half drag him into the shallower end.
Finally, his so-called friends are in the water next to me, lifting him up.
I slap Spike’s face, punch his chest.
“Breathe, numb-nut!” I scream at him. “Breathe, you dumb ox! You miserable excuse for a human being! Breathe, iguana killer!”
As if those were the magic words, Spike gags and coughs up water.
I don’t wait around for him to open his eyes. I’m out of there.
I look for Green Lightning, but I don’t see him.
I don’t see any iguanas at all.
I’m headed to Mr. Matlo’s class again. My throat is sore. I have a headache because Mom still can’t find the hair dryer, so I had to go to bed with wet hair. But it’s warming up, finally, so I’m not too worried.
I don’t bother with my locker. I’m too fed up with the elbows and knees, the books falling on my head. I go straight to class.
And there’s Spike, flanked by his squad.
Blocking my way to the science classroom.
The normal hustle and bustle of school quiets down. People realize something is happening. They stop to watch.
I know no one will help me.
But I don’t stop. I don’t try to hide. I walk with my back straight, pretending I’m a runway model, my eyes on Spike’s. I don’t blink.
I stop three steps away, just out of his reach.
Spike stares back at me. He’s got scratches and bite marks all over. Some of them are held shut with butterfly bandages. I wonder if his pretty-boy face will have scars forever. The thought makes me smile, just a little.
No one says anything. A long moment goes by.
Finally, I decide to get this over with. “I didn’t have to stop them, you know.”
Spike nods. “I know.”
“I won’t next time.” I try to sound sure of this, sure that there will be a next time, though I doubt I’ll ever see Green Lightning again.
“I know,” Spike says.
I point one hand at Thing 1 and another at Thing 2. “And you should also know that when you were drowning, your so-called ‘friends’ were too chicken to jump in and save you. Until I did.”
His friends go pale and look away, as if they wished they weren’t there.
Spike steps away from them, closer to me. I force myself to stay still, to not back up. I will not let him see that he scares me.
“I know that too.” He reaches his hand out slowly, as if to touch me, then stops, his hand in midair. “We’re cool now, right?”
Oh wow. He’s afraid of me.
Me.
I nod. Such a tiny little nod, only he can see it.
Spike tries to pat me on the head.
I duck out from under his arm. I don’t like anybody patting me. Especially not on the head.
Then I hear Spike’s bloodcurdling scream.
Spike’s face is as white as the floor tile, his eyes are bulging, his finger pointing at something behind me.
I turn to look. There’s my locker.
And there’s a tail-less iguana sitting calmly in front of it.
“Green Lightning!” I run toward him, so happy.
Behind me, Spike screams and screams.
The Nightmare Express
by Daniel Palmer
FROM OVER A BLOCK AWAY, I heard my mother scream, “Nicodemus Lionel Watson, remember now, whatever you do: DON’T! BE! LATE!”
I’m sure you’re thinking a couple of thoughts because I’d be thinking them as well. Why would my mother (who is a very good mom) name her son (who is a very good son) Nicodemus? Sounds like an open invitation to playground bullies, right? But it’s not as bad as you might think. Nicodemus is a family name. My grandfather had it—my great-grandfather too—and I’m told the name goes as far back as our family tree has branches. Most of the time I go by Nick, and the Nicodemus name comes out only when my mother is dead serious about something.
Which brings me to the next thought you might have had: why was my mom, on this particular blue-sky fall morning, screaming “Don’t be late!” from the open window of our little house on Elm Street in Worcester (that’s a city west of Boston)?
Before I answer, you need to know a little something about my mom. She works for the transportation department, driving a big city bus. I guess years of getting from one stop to the next, always at a very specific time, turned her into a crazy stickler for punctuality.
And I do mean crazy.
For example, let’s say I have to go to a birthday party starting at noon (which I did last week for my pal Max, who turned twelve like me). We’d arrive at eleven thirty sharp, inevitably and embarrassingly always the first ones there. If we have tickets for a movie, you best believe we’re eating popcorn in the lobby at least thirty minutes before the first preview flickers on the screen. Doctor’s appointment? We arrive with enough time to give me five exams. Swim team practice? I’m in the pool so early, I come out wrinkled like a walnut with red eyes. It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, if I’ve got someplace I’m supposed to be at a scheduled time, my mom always makes sure I’m never, ever late.
“Early is on time and on time is late,” my mom always said.
Now, if you’re an astute reader (that means “aware”) you might be wondering why my mom wasn’t bringing me to school on the morning she screamed at me from that open window. Obviously, I have to get to school at a scheduled time.
Here’s where things get a bit complicated.
I go to Kirkland Academy, which is a private school just outside of Boston. To get to school I have to take an hour-long ride on a train we call “the Commuter Rail.” Every weekday morning I catch the seven a.m. local, and ride i
t with a bunch of doctors, lawyers, and all sorts of business types who commute into the city for work. It makes for a long day, but I’m lucky to go to such a good school. I happen to like school, so I don’t really mind the travel.
Usually, my mom walks me to the train station to make sure I catch the seven because if I miss it, the next train isn’t for another twenty minutes, which would make me—you guessed it—late.
But on this particular morning my mom had the flu, as in high fever, bad cough, achy, stuffy head, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t walk straight flu. Even though I insisted I’d be fine seeing myself to the train station, she still made a bunch of phone calls on my behalf, looking for someone to make sure I got there early as always. It was the same story all around: everyone wanted to help, but for whatever reason nobody could. My dad was traveling for work (he did that a lot), leaving just me and my too-sick mom to figure it out on our own.
“I’ll be fine going by myself,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” I told her.
“You can count on me,” I assured her.
She sniffled. She coughed. She wheezed. She told me to stay home.
I told her I had a big swim meet after school that I couldn’t miss.
Eventually, after a lot of back-and-forth, hemming and hawing (that’s sort of like back-and-forth), she agreed to let me go, but not before reminding me ten dozen times to avoid any and all distractions, delays, long cuts, side cuts, and back cuts, no exceptions allowed. I was to get myself to the train station thirty minutes before the seven a.m. local arrived, and if I got there so much as a minute late (she’d be awaiting my call), I’d be grounded for a month. That would mean no swim team practice and missed meets, and there’d go my chance for the coveted league championship.
Swim racing happens to be my favorite thing in the whole wide world, and I happen to be the fastest freestyler on the team, so for me it was all the incentive I needed to obey.
Sort of.
What I didn’t realize until that morning was how much there was to do on my way to school. There was never any stopping to smell the roses with my mom. She’d pull me along with haste, eager and anxious to get me to the train station on time, meaning early. Without her to hurry me up, I popped into Mr. Kroger’s grocery store to buy myself a pack of chewing gum, figuring a quick stop would add only a few minutes to my trip.
I guess that detour gave me the itch to do all sorts of things my speed-it-up mom never lets me do. Which was why I stopped to pet Mrs. Wertheimer’s tabby cat, Bartholomew (get it, Bartholomew), that was sitting at the edge of her yard, as if it were expecting me. Admittedly, I felt a jolt of guilt as I played on the monkey bars at the Ash Street playground. Afterward, I sent my mom a text message to let her know everything was fine and not to worry, which wasn’t exactly a lie.
I promised I’d text her just as soon as I was on that train.
But there was so much happening on my walk to the station, so many things I never got the chance to do, that I had a hard time not doing them all. I climbed an apple tree in Dumbarton Circle, ran up and down the ramps at the Skylark Street skate park, got into a game of four square with a bunch of kids waiting for their school bus, stopped to smell the fresh-baked bread inside Carmichael’s Bakery, chased a squirrel down Lamont Avenue, and even helped a nice lady carry her groceries across Grant Boulevard. I was having so much fun that I completely lost track of the time.
Well, you can probably guess what happened next. I made it to the train station, all right—just in time to see the red lights of the last car of the seven a.m. local vanish down the dark tunnel, without me inside it.
Naturally, I started to panic, and I do mean the knocking knees, heart-pounding, tight throat, clenched stomach kind of panic. Even my sweat was sweating. I had no choice but to call my mom and confess that I had missed the local and would have to catch the next train to school. I’d be grounded for a month, probably longer. No more swim team for me, and there’d go my shot at winning the league championship trophy.
So imagine my surprise when just as my train pulled away, I saw the headlights of another coming down the same dark tunnel. I scratched my head and wondered why there’d be a second train so soon after the first one had left.
Now imagine my delight and indescribable relief when I heard the station announcer say: “Arriving on track ten, seven a.m. local, making all local stops, including Kirkland Academy.”
In hindsight there were a few strange things about that announcement, starting with the station announcer giving my school’s name as a station stop. He usually says “making all local stops.” And the announcer’s voice sounded kind of ominous. It was deep, and echoed darkly. I thought I heard heavy breathing, too.
I didn’t give any of it much thought because I was so overjoyed that for the first time ever, at a time when I desperately needed it, two seven a.m. locals were running back to back.
I would text my mom from the train as planned, and all would be right in the world. No harm, no foul, as my dad would say.
The second train came to a shuddering stop with a big whoosh of air and a harsh screech of brakes. The long line of silvery cars with oval windows looked just like my usual train. I glanced around and noticed I was alone on the station platform. I figured everyone had crammed inside the first train, not realizing a second train was so close behind.
I anticipated stepping into a mostly empty train car, but to my surprise it was packed with people, all wearing gray overcoats and gray fedora hats. They had their heads down, reading actual newspapers. I didn’t see anybody with a cell phone. The train car was as quiet as a library, too, which was also a bit unusual.
I took the only seat available.
The train doors closed.
The wheels groaned to life.
The car began to move.
And we were off.
It wasn’t until we got going that I noticed how badly this particular train car smelled. It was a horrible stench, as if someone had combined swamp gunk, sweaty socks, rotten eggs, spoiled milk, and creamed corn (I happen to hate creamed corn) into a big, boiling, nasty-smelling stew. Nobody else seemed to mind the offensive odor, but I was having a hard time keeping my eyes from watering.
I was just about to ask the guy next to me if he smelled something awful, when he handed me his newspaper and said in a very strange voice, “I think this story is about you.”
They way he spoke, low and rumbly like a clap of thunder, creaky like an old door, was something straight out of a nightmare. My body froze with fear, but somehow I managed to take the paper from him. The headline on the front page jumped right out at me.
BOY ARRIVES LATE, SUMMONS GYPSY’S CURSE
by Sari Foru
Nicodemus Lionel Watson the Fourth, who on the
morning of September 23rd, as a result
of being late for the seven a.m. local
train, has officially invoked the curse
of Gypsy Glenda Goodfried, High Priestess
of Darkness.
The curse was established in 1913, after
Dr. Nicodemus Lionel Watson the First, on
account of a broken wagon wheel, arrived
too late to attend to the needs of Glenda
Goodfried’s ill son, Walter, who subsequently
died of his sickness. Grief-stricken, Glenda
cursed the entire Watson family by combining
all sorts of potions, powders, and things of
an abominable nature, before uttering
the following words:
“Name all Watson boys Nicodemus,
If you wish them to survive.
And I curse ye more, to settle a score
For a life that’s been deprived.
From this day on, for evermore,
Watson children must never be late.
For if they are, then like my son,
They shall suffer a terrible fate.
From the darkness of Hades comes my revenge
,
So remember these words that I say.
If they’re not on time, the fault isn’t mine
When the nightmares take them away.”
As a result of this curse, Nicodemus Lionel
Watson the Fourth (yes, that’s you, Nick) is cursed
to ride the Nightmare Express for all of eternity
with no possibility of escape.
Glenda was not available for comment, as she
died many years ago, but a spokesperson for the
family laughed maniacally before closing the door
on this reporter’s face.
My hands shook so uncontrollably that I ripped the paper in half. A cold trickle of sweat dripped down my neck as goose bumps prickled my skin. I felt the stare of the man next to me, so I turned my head slowly to meet his gaze, realizing now that the horrible stench was coming from him. In fact, everybody on this train, myself excluded, smelled like something that had crawled out of the graveyard. To my horrified surprise all the overcoats and hats had transformed into something tattered, and smeared with dark stains.
I stood up, sputtering, and the other passengers stood as well. At the exact same time they removed their hats and coats, as if part of a choreographed dance routine. I could see their flesh was gray as clay and scabbed all over. They had hair like dirty spaghetti; eyes red as rubies; and mouths filled with yellow, stained teeth, sharp as daggers. They began marching toward me, taking lumbering, off-kilter steps that made me think of one word:
Zombies!
I screamed.
Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but if a hundred red-eyed zombies with sharp teeth were headed your way, I’m pretty sure you’d scream too. I could feel their cold hands tugging on my shirt and pulling at my hair. Their foul-smelling breath made me gag. Fingernails sharp as claws dug painfully into my flesh. I’d never had a zombie nightmare before, but I pinched myself anyway on the off chance I was dreaming.
I wasn’t.
I looked out the window to see where we were, hoping this train might make a stop so I could get off, but it was blacker than a moonless midnight out there. The zombies came at me, groaning and moaning as they closed in. Some had their arms stretched out in front of them; some had no arms at all.
