by R. L. Stine
“Hmmmm.” Mr. McCloy rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Mischievous doesn’t describe what I’ve felt in this house,” Brandt said heatedly. “It’s more like—evil.”
“That’s just because it scares you,” Mr. McCloy insisted. “Because you don’t know what causes it, it seems mysterious.”
A heavy silence fell over the room as the three of them stared at the skeleton of James and the dog.
Poor kid, Brandt thought. He sounded so frightened, so alone.
How did he get trapped in the wall?
And how could he be calling out to us more than a year after he died?
Brandt’s head spun with questions. So many questions.
Mr. McCloy broke the silence.
“We’d better call the police. They will deal with the remains. And get in touch with the family.”
As they made their way downstairs, Mr. McCloy put an arm around Brandt’s shoulder. “Maybe the house will settle down now,” he said. “Once this poor boy is buried and can rest in peace.”
Brandt sighed. “I hope so, Dad. I really do.”
• • •
Poor James, the ghost of Cally thought as she watched the grim-faced police officers carry away her brother’s bones.
My poor brother James.
You were such a cute little guy. So sweet. So beautiful.
And look at you now.
“Oh!” An officer uttered a cry as his hand slipped and the dog’s skull clattered to the floor. It rolled to a stop at Cally’s feet.
She floated back.
Goodbye, James, she thought. Goodbye. I hope you rest better than me.
She realized she felt no sadness. Her anger was much too strong to allow any soft feelings in.
Too late, James, she thought, feeling her bitterness surge.
Too late for you. Too late for me.
She floated close to Brandt, who stood watching the police officers go about their unpleasant job.
Don’t get too cozy, Brandt, Cally told him silently. Because your problems aren’t over yet.
It’s too late for James. Too late for me.
And—it’s too late for you.
Chapter 19
On Saturday morning Brandt stepped outside to get the newspaper. He opened the front door to find Abbie standing on the porch, ready to ring the bell.
“Hi,” she said brightly.
“Hey—Abbie!” Brandt cried in surprise. “You’re looking good!”
She was cute in a pair of faded jeans, a white shirt, and a pale blue vest.
Abbie smiled. “What’s up?”
Brandt leaned down and picked up the folded newspaper. “Not much. Why don’t you come in?”
He suddenly pictured the warning in the diary: Abbie is next. Should he warn her about it?
No, he decided. The threat is all gone. The little boy’s bones had been removed nearly a week before. And nothing strange or frightening had happened in the house since then.
No need to scare Abbie, Brandt decided. No need to make her think I’m some kind of paranoid nutcase.
She followed him inside. Brandt stepped into the kitchen to give the newspaper to his mother. She was washing the breakfast dishes.
He found Abbie in the living room, staring at his father’s wall of old weapons.
“What’s all this stuff?” she asked. “It’s so strange and primitive looking.”
“This is my dad’s collection of arms and armor,” Brandt explained. “He’s really into old tribal weapons and stuff.”
“How did he get it all?” Abbie asked. She stared at the thin, feathered darts in fascination. “Did he buy them?”
“No. We lived on a remote island in the Pacific for a couple of years,” Brandt told her. “The people there were into weird stuff. They had all kinds of bizarre customs and ceremonies.”
“Like what?” Abbie asked.
Brandt paused, remembering. “Well, they used a lot of weird herbs to mix love potions and things like that. They believed in spirits and ghosts.”
“Wow,” Abbie said. “It must have been cool to live there.”
“It was interesting,” Brandt admitted. “But it was difficult too. They thought differently from us. Like, they believed every animal and person has two spirits, not just one.”
“You mean like split personalities?”
“No,” Brandt explained. “One spirit is your personality. It’s what makes you different from other people. And the other spirit is a sort of life force that keeps you alive. That’s why they sacrifice animals and drink the blood.”
“I don’t get it,” Abbie said.
“They think the blood contains the animal’s life force—and if they drink it, their own life force will get stronger.”
“And what happens to the other spirit—the personality spirit?” Abbie asked.
“That becomes your ghost. Your personality spirit can haunt people if it wants to.”
Abbie stared at the wall thoughtfully. “Did you ever see a ghost while you were there?” she asked.
“No,” Brandt replied. “No, I never did.”
Abbie stepped closer to the wall, examining a spear. Brandt heard the telephone ring in the kitchen. A moment later his mother called, “Brandt! Phone!”
“I’ll be right back,” he told Abbie. He hurried into the kitchen. His mother handed him the phone and stepped away, wiping down a counter.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Brandt. It’s Jinny.”
Brandt couldn’t hide his surprise. “Jinny—hi!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t talked to you all week. I thought maybe—”
Brandt didn’t get to finish his sentence. A loud, clattering crash from the living room interrupted him.
He dropped the phone receiver when he heard the chilling scream.
Abbie’s scream.
Chapter 20
Abbie’s screams rose shrilly.
Brandt cried out in surprise and raced out of the kitchen.
“Abbie?” He found her on the floor, pinned under the heavy suit of armor.
“Help me!” Abbie cried. “I can’t move!”
“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. McCloy cried, right behind Brandt. “How did this happen?”
Brandt struggled to lift the metal suit off Abbie. “It—it won’t budge!” he stammered.
Abbie moaned and tried to move one of her arms. “Hurry,” she pleaded. “I can’t breathe. It’s so heavy.”
Brandt struggled to lift the armor. His mother stepped to the other side and bent to help. They managed to move it just enough for Abbie to wriggle out from under it.
“Are you all right?” Brandt asked. “Does anything feel broken?”
Abbie remained seated on the floor, her expression dazed. She rubbed her arm. “It—it just flew off the wall,” she murmured. “I was looking at it—and it flew off the wall. It didn’t just fall, Brandt. It flew!”
“It was hanging very securely,” Mrs. McCloy said, puzzled. “I know we checked the hooks three times. Nothing like this has happened before.”
Brandt helped Abbie to her feet. He led her to the couch. Mrs. McCloy hurried to the kitchen to get her a glass of water.
Brandt sat down beside Abbie. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began. “But someone knew that you would have an accident. Someone predicted it.”
“Huh?” Abbie sat up straight. “Who? Who predicted it?”
“I don’t know,” Brandt replied uneasily. “One of the twins who used to live here—her name was Cally—kept a diary. I found it in the attic. But sometimes when I look at it—” He hesitated.
“What?” Abbie asked. “Go on, Brandt.”
“There are new entries,” Brandt told her. “I know it sounds crazy. But someone is still writing in it. And the last entry predicted that you would get hurt.”
“I told you this house was evil!” Abbie exclaimed, close to tears.
Brandt put his arms around her, trying to calm her. “It could ha
ve been an accident,” he said in a soothing voice, though he didn’t believe it himself. “Or just a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t,” Abbie declared. “I know it wasn’t.”
“Anyway, you’re okay,” Brandt said. “You weren’t really hurt, right?”
Abbie sniffed. “I guess not. But someone will get hurt here, Brandt. The stories about this house must be true.”
Brandt held his arms around her but said nothing.
It could have been an accident, he told himself again.
James is buried. The ghost is gone.
The house is no longer haunted.
Right?
• • •
Brandt sat up as the bell rang, ending school. He rubbed his eyes. Then slowly followed the other kids out of the classroom.
Well, I made it through another day, he thought. But if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll start dozing off in class.
He had spent another sleepless night. The footsteps in the attic had returned. He lay staring up at the ceiling, gripping the blankets tightly, listening. Listening all night.
With a weary sigh, he stood at his locker, daydreaming. He heard a basketball being bounced on the hard floor.
“McCloy. I want to talk to you.”
Brandt raised his eyes to discover Jon Burks beside him. “Listen, Jon,” Brandt said, “I don’t have much time—”
Jon tucked the basketball under one arm and placed his other hand on Brandt’s shoulder. “What’s up, man?” he asked, grinning at Brandt.
“Not much,” Brandt replied, edging away. “I’ve got to get going, Jon.” Glancing down the hall, Brandt noticed that all the other kids had left.
“How’s the bad shoulder?” Jon asked, ignoring Brandt’s impatience. He slapped the shoulder. “How’s that feel? Not too bad?” His grin remained frozen on his face.
“See you later,” Brandt uttered. He turned and headed away.
But Jon kept up with him. “Hey, what’s up with you and Jinny?”
Brandt stopped short. “Why don’t you ask her?” he snapped.
Jon’s face turned bright red. He leaned menacingly toward Brandt. “Don’t mess with me,” he muttered. He bumped Brandt’s shoulder hard.
Brandt knew he should back away. But he never could take the easy way out. “Watch out for those fouls, Jon,” he said sharply.
Jon’s face turned even redder. “Jinny and you—it isn’t going to happen,” he said softly. He bounced the ball against the wall, just missing Brandt’s head. Then he bounced it again. “You’ve got to remember one thing,” he told Brandt, his grin returning. “You bruise real easily.”
Brandt didn’t reply. His eyes were staring over Jon’s shoulder. He saw something in the empty hall.
A dark shape.
A shadow.
It hovered behind Jon. Jon seemed unaware of the presence behind him. But Brandt saw it. He gaped at it in terror.
It’s back, Brandt realized. Whoever it is—whatever it is—it’s following me.
Jon’s threats meant nothing to Brandt now. He sensed that the shadow figure was far more dangerous than Jon could ever be.
I can’t let Jon leave me, Brandt thought. I’ve got to stick with him until this thing goes away.
“Maybe you bruise easily too,” he told Jon. “Want to find out? Want to see who bruises the most easily?”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Huh? No way, man. I mean, no way. I’m not fighting you. I don’t want a slaughter on my hands.”
“Hey, don’t wimp out,” Brandt challenged. “Come on, Jon. Let’s go. Right here.”
Brandt shoved Jon’s shoulder. Jon barely moved. He just stared back at Brandt, amazed. “Get serious,” Jon muttered.
Brandt shoved him again.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Jon warned. “You can’t fight me.”
“You scared?” Brandt demanded. “You chicken, Jon?”
Jon brushed Brandt’s arm away. He shook his head. “You’re the weirdest guy I ever met,” he said. He turned and started down the hall.
Brandt panicked. The shadowy figure loomed up behind Jon.
“Jon—wait!” Brandt called desperately. “You going to basketball practice?”
Jon kept walking. He didn’t reply.
Brandt glanced at the dark shadow, moving closer—and hurried to catch up to Jon. “I think I’ll come along and watch,” he said. “How’s the team surviving without me?”
Jon stared at him as if he were insane. “You’ve got problems, McCloy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Major problems.”
I know, Brandt thought, glancing back. The shadowy figure gave up then, retreating around the corner.
What is it? Brandt wondered, breathing a sigh of relief. Why is it following me?
How long will I be able to avoid it?
Chapter 21
The diary.
The diary has the answers, Brandt thought.
He had stuck close to Jon all the way to the gym, afraid the shadowy figure would be waiting outside the school.
But it wasn’t. It had vanished. Brandt had run all the way home.
I’ve got to do something, Brandt told himself, slamming the door behind him and locking it. I’ve got to do something—before it gets me. Before it tries to hurt Abbie again.
He shut himself up in his room. He furiously read through Cally’s diary, searching for clues, for hints, for anything that could help explain the dark ghost to him.
Cally seemed so nice in the beginning, he thought sadly as he paged through the diary. Funny. Fun to be with.
I would have liked her. I know I would have.
But what happened to her?
Is she really dead? Is she the ghost haunting this house? Is she the one writing the new entries and hurting my friends?
Is Cally the dark shadow that has been following me?
Questions. Nothing but questions. No answers.
Brandt shut the diary and carried it across the hall to his father’s study.
Bookshelves lined the study walls, but half of them stood empty. Unopened cartons were piled on the floor.
Brandt scanned the bookshelves, looking for a title that might help him. He saw dusty, ancient volumes written in languages he didn’t recognize. Mr. McCloy collected antique books on spells and strange rites.
“No good, no good, no good,” Brandt murmured, reading the spines of the books. “If only I could read Latin.”
He gave up on the books on the shelves and ripped open a carton.
He pulled out books called Reincarnation in Ancient Egypt, The Occult in San Francisco, and Poisons, Potions, and the Sumerian Gods. Shaking his head, he stacked them on the floor.
At last he found a book that interested him: The Nature of Evil. He scanned its pages, searching for anything that might answer his questions.
“Evil never dies,” the author wrote. “Those who do its work can be conquered. But evil itself never goes away. It only seeks a new vessel.
“Anyone can become a victim of evil. Even the kindest heart, the gentlest soul, is at its mercy.”
That’s what happened to Cally Frasier, Brandt thought.
Something evil got her—and changed her.
Something in this house.
He thought of the attic. The creaking. The footsteps.
The attic had things the Frasiers had left behind in their hurry to leave. Maybe they left behind a clue, he thought.
A clue about what happened to Cally. About how I can keep the same thing from happening to me.
Clutching the diary, he hurried to the attic.
He switched on the light. The bare bulb cast harsh shadows around the room.
Brandt frantically began digging through the Frasiers’ dusty boxes. He found children’s books, a teddy bear with one eye missing, old clothes.
Then he came across a photograph in a wooden frame. He picked it up in a trembling hand. The glass was cracked, the picture slightly faded.
> It showed two blond girls about twelve or thirteen standing together in front of an apartment building. The girls were smiling and had their arms wrapped around each other. A little red-haired boy stood in front of them, grinning. One of his front teeth was missing.
Sisters. Twin sisters. And their younger brother.
A picture of Cally, Kody, and James.
It was taken before they moved here, Brandt figured. They seemed so happy.
Before all the trouble. Before their family was ripped apart. Before James and Cally died.
He dropped the photo back into the box.
It won’t happen to me, he vowed silently.
It won’t happen to Abbie or Jinny or Meg. I won’t let it.
A noise cut through the silence.
Brandt tensed. What was that?
It sounded like a giggle.
Brandt strained to hear. Laughter. Soft laughter. A girl’s laughter.
Where was it coming from? Downstairs?
He hurried down the attic stairs and stood in the second floor hallway.
The laughter grew louder. He spun around. It seemed to surround him.
“Hey!” he cried. “Who’s there? Where are you?”
Such cold laughter. So joyless. Scornful laughter.
Louder. And shrill. Screeching.
Harsh and unpleasant laughter. Evil laughter.
“Where are you? Who is here?” he cried.
Covering his ears with his hands, he ran from room to room, frantically searching for the laughing girl. “Stop it! Stop!” he shouted.
Covering his ears didn’t help. The cruel laughter rang out as if inside his head. Louder. Louder. The laughter of a girl gone mad.
Trying to escape the frightening sound, Brandt lunged into his room and slammed the door. The harsh, grating laughter followed him, swirled around him, louder, louder.
“Stop it! Please—I can’t stand it!” He couldn’t hear his own cries over the roar of laughter.
He turned on the radio. The sound of a heavy metal group blared out. He cranked the volume up all the way.
But the laughter pounded in his ears, louder than the loudest music.
“Stop! Stop!”
Louder and louder, it echoed and rang—until Brandt’s entire body throbbed with pain.
My head is going to split open! Brandt realized.
