Beware!

by R. L. Stine

  Josie clapped her hands and turned round and round, laughing. “I don’t care if it’s a boy anymore. Oh, and I’m going to be the best big sister in the whole wide world.”

  “I bet you will,” Mama said, laughing too.

  Josie was delighted that she was finally getting her wish, but deep down inside she wondered about Adam. Had it all been just a dream? Hopping onto her bicycle, she rode as fast as she could to Madam Zinnia’s house.

  It was empty and there was a FOR RENT sign in the yard. “Where did Madam Zinnia go?” Josie asked the mailman, who happened to be passing by.

  “Madam who? I deliver to a Madam Zonobia, a palm reader over on Lee Avenue. But nobody’s lived in this house all summer.”

  Josie looked at the well-kept flower garden and the lovely yellow rosebush by the side of the house and smiled.

  My Sister Is a Werewolf

  by Jack Prelutsky

  ILLUSTRATED BY JOE RIVERA

  Would that be a problem for you—if your sister was a werewolf?

  It’s a very big problem in this funny poem by Jack Prelutsky.

  MY SISTER IS A WEREWOLF

  by Jack Prelutsky

  My sister is a werewolf.

  It’s disquieting and strange.

  One moonlit night I watched her

  Undergo a sudden change.

  Her arms and face grew hairy,

  And her voice became a roar.

  In some ways she looked better

  Than she’d ever looked before.

  I ran and told our parents,

  Who began to fret and fuss

  In despair and disapproval,

  Moaning, “No! She’s not like us!”

  I adore my sister dearly

  But reluctantly agree—

  How I wish she were a vampire

  Like her loving family.

  The Surprise Guest

  by R.L. Stine

  ILLUSTRATED BY MARK FREDRICKSON

  Of course Halloween is my favorite holiday. I don’t need to tell you that, do I? It’s the one day of the year when everyone can have good, scary fun.

  Over the years, I’ve read hundreds of creepy Halloween stories. And I’ve written a few myself. When I sat down to write “The Surprise Guest,” I suddenly started to think about ghosts and haunted things. And so I decided to write a ghost story and a Halloween story combined.

  The kids in the story think they’re throwing a normal Halloween costume party. But they have no idea who is about to show up. . . .

  THE SURPRISE GUEST

  by R.L. Stine

  I had a sleepover at Danny Grover’s house the night before Halloween. So I heard the story about the haunted Halloween costume before anyone else.

  Danny and I love to tell scary stories. Sometimes we stay up long after midnight, telling story after story, trying to give each other chills.

  I tell pretty good ghost stories. But Danny’s stories are always more terrifying than mine. He makes up stories like “The Headless Gym Teacher” and “The Werewolf Under the Bed.”

  The stories are always about people in our families or people we know. Sometimes the stories are so creepy, they make me feel a little cold and shaky.

  Danny has a really good imagination.

  But this time he swore that the haunted costume story was true.

  I laughed when he said that.

  If only I had believed him. . . .

  My name is Tony Wayne. Danny and I are both ten. We’ve been friends since second grade.

  We have a Halloween party every year. Some years it’s at my house. This year, it was at Danny’s.

  Danny’s parties are always better than mine. And his costumes are always scarier than mine.

  Danny is very popular at school. The girls all think he’s the coolest.

  I guess it’s because he has such a great sense of humor. He is always goofing on things and cracking jokes. He is always breaking up the whole class.

  But the teachers all love him anyway. Everyone loves Danny.

  He can get away with a lot because of his looks. He has big blue eyes, and curly blond hair, and deep dimples in his cheeks when he flashes that devilish grin.

  My seven-year-old sister Claudia thinks that Danny looks like Brad Pitt. She’s totally ga-ga over him. When he comes over, she follows him around like a puppy dog.

  Why do I hang out with such a total winner? I don’t know. I guess maybe I think some of it will rub off on me.

  Anyway, the night before the Halloween party, I went over to Danny’s house to help out with the decorations.

  Danny and I took fat paintbrushes and painted some jacko-lanterns black. They looked totally creepy. We painted ugly monster faces on some other pumpkins. Danny’s were a lot funnier than mine. He’s a really good artist.

  Danny held one up. “Hey, Tony—this one looks just like Cilla Blakely!” he said.

  I burst out laughing.

  “That’s not funny,” Danny’s mom said. “Cilla is a lovely girl. Why do you always make fun of her?”

  Before we could answer, the doorbell rang.

  It was Cilla Blakely. She lives next door. She came over to help Danny get the house ready for the party.

  Cilla flipped her long, red hair behind her shoulders. “Hi, Danny. Hey, Tony. What can I do to help?”

  “You can climb into the fireplace and see if it works!” Danny joked.

  I laughed. But Cilla just groaned and rolled her eyes.

  “You can help me with the eyeball punch,” Mrs. Grover said. “See? I’m painting Ping-Pong balls to look like eyeballs. Once they’re dry we’ll drop them in the punch.”

  “Great!” Cilla said. She picked up a slender paintbrush and began painting eyeballs.

  But Danny and I knew the real reason she showed up. She wanted to brag about her costume.

  At our parties, we always have a costume contest. Danny and Cilla always had the two best costumes. But Cilla wins the contest every year.

  Last year, Cilla came to the party as a Powerpuff Girl. She had those huge, black eyes. And somehow she had put a thick, black outline around her whole body. She really looked like a cartoon!

  Danny just stood there in his ten-foot-tall King Kong costume. He knew that he had lost the contest.

  “Go ahead, Cilla,” I said. “Tell us what your costume is this year.”

  “I’m going to be an amazing catwoman,” Cilla said. “My costume is awesome.” She grinned at Danny. “I don’t want to give too much away,” she said, “but it’s electric. I mean, it’s totally wired.”

  Cilla raked the air with her fingers. She hissed like an angry cat about to attack. “Watch out for my claws, guys!”

  “Sounds great,” I muttered. I knew my pointy-eared hobbit costume couldn’t compete.

  “And what second-place costume did you pick out?” Cilla asked Danny.

  “I’m not telling,” he replied. “My costume this year is so terrifying, I don’t want to tell anyone.”

  Cilla snickered and made a face at him. “You know I always win.”

  Danny had a strange smile on his face. “Not this year,” he whispered. “Not this year.”

  That night in his room, Danny showed me his costume. A monster costume, covered in orange fur with red and purple scabs up and down the body. The mask was black, an ugly animal face with a wolfish snout open to reveal two rows of jagged yellow fangs.

  “What do you think? Is it scary?” Danny asked.

  I shook my head. “Pretty good,” I said. “But not great.” I sighed. “Cilla is going to win again.”

  Danny hung the costume on a hook on the wall. “You don’t know the story of this costume,” he whispered. “It has to win.”

  He turned off the lights. We climbed into our beds. And he told me the story in a low, whispery voice.

  “This is a true story,” he said. “I didn’t make it up. The man at the costume store told it to me. He didn’t want to sell me the costume.”

 
; “Wh-why?” I asked.

  “Because the costume may be haunted.”

  I laughed. “Give me a break,” I said.

  Danny raised his right hand, as if swearing an oath. “Total truth,” he said. “No lie. Just listen. A boy died inside this costume.”

  I sat up and stared at him. His eyes flashed in the shadowy light. I could see how excited he was.

  Danny continued in a whisper. “This happened a long time ago, at least a hundred years. The boy’s name was Henry. He was about our age. He lived in a castle, somewhere in Europe.”

  “Was he a prince or something?” I asked.

  Danny shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know he was invited to a fancy costume party at another castle. He wanted to scare everyone at the party. So he had this fur-covered monster costume made. It was created especially for him. But he never made it to the party.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “How did he die?”

  “No one is sure,” Danny whispered. “They found him dead on the floor of his room. In front of the mirror. He was wearing the costume. His hands were still gripping the sides of the mask.”

  I felt a chill run down my back. I stared at the costume.

  “Henry was stone-cold dead,” Danny continued. “Some people think that he suffocated, that he couldn’t get enough air inside the mask.

  “But Henry’s parents didn’t agree. They thought the costume was evil, cursed. They were heartbroken. They didn’t want the costume in the castle, but they were afraid to destroy it. They were afraid of its evil. So they stuffed it into a large, wooden trunk and labeled the trunk: NEVER TO BE OPENED. Then they shipped it away on a boat.”

  “And that’s how the costume came to America?” I asked.

  Danny nodded. “The trunk was hidden away for years and years in a big storage warehouse. Then one day about thirty years ago, a boy named James opened the trunk and found it. His father owned the warehouse. His father knew the legend of the costume, but he didn’t believe it. So he let James take the costume home.”

  I swallowed. “Then what happened?” I asked. “What happened to James?”

  “James wore it because he wanted to terrify everyone at a Halloween party,” Danny said. “Well . . . he did terrify everyone. But not in the way he wanted.”

  “What do you mean?” I whispered, sitting straight up and hugging myself to stop the shivers.

  “James went to the party in the costume, and it was a big success. Kids screamed. Everyone loved it. The costume was so scary. But the scariest moment of all came when James took off the costume.”

  Danny leaned forward, his eyes glowing in the dark bedroom. “You see, at the end of the party, when it came time to take off the costume, James wasn’t inside it. A stranger was inside the costume. A surprise guest. A boy no one had ever seen before.”

  “Huh?” I cried. “You mean—?”

  Danny nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “It was Henry. Henry pulled off the costume, stepped up to the startled kids, and introduced himself to everyone.”

  “But—but—where was James?” I sputtered.

  Danny shrugged. “James had disappeared. Gone. Vanished. He was never seen again. Some people think he haunts this costume—just the way Henry did—waiting . . . waiting inside for his chance to come back.”

  Danny pulled the covers over his chin. “You see?” he whispered. “It’s a very scary costume. It has to win tomorrow.”

  Before the party the next night, I brought my costume over to Danny’s. I hung it beside his in the bedroom closet.

  Kids were arriving downstairs. Danny rushed out to pick up his cousin Allyson and walk her to the party.

  Gazing into the closet, I sighed. My hobbit costume looked pretty lame next to Danny’s. I rubbed my hand over the heavy monster fur. I squeezed the hard, yellow fangs on the mask.

  And suddenly I had an idea. “I’m going to try on Danny’s costume,” I murmured.

  I’m just going to see what it feels like, I told myself. I lifted the heavy mask between my hands.

  Or maybe I’ll wear it downstairs. Maybe I’ll wear it down to the party and give Danny a little surprise.

  After all, why should Danny always get the attention? Why does Danny always have to be the star?

  I pulled the monster costume out. I held it up against me and tried to imagine what I would look like inside it.

  My heart started to pound. What if Danny’s story is true? I thought. What if the costume really is haunted?

  No. That’s crazy, I decided. Danny made up that whole story. Danny always makes up scary stories.

  I stepped into the furry legs. Then I pulled the costume up over my body. It was much heavier than I’d imagined. And smellier. The fur felt stiff, like the hard bristles on a hairbrush.

  I tugged the mask over my head. I twisted it until I could see through the narrow eyeholes.

  I started toward the mirror, then suddenly stopped, gripped with fear. Was the costume haunted? Was someone else inside it with me?

  I gasped for breath. I felt cold sweat on my forehead.

  “James? Are you in here?” I whispered. “James?”

  Silence.

  My whole body began to itch. My legs felt weak.

  “James?”

  No. Of course there is no one else in here, I told myself. It was another one of Danny’s stories.

  I tugged the mask off, taking deep breaths of cool air. Then I pulled myself out of the costume. I hung it back up in the closet. And I pulled out the hobbit costume and began to tug it on.

  Leaning over, I adjusted the big hobbit feet. Then I pulled on the rubber hobbit mask with its pointy ears. I checked myself out in the mirror. I headed to the stairs.

  I stopped on the top step—and a frightened moan escaped my throat. “Ohhhh.”

  I froze. My costume . . . I wasn’t alone inside it!

  I could sense another presence. I could hear soft breathing.

  I could feel someone else inside the costume with me.

  Trapped inside the dwarflike hobbit body, I felt someone pushing me . . . pushing me out . . . away . . . away.

  “Hey—what’s going on?” I cried out. My voice sounded muffled and faint. Far away. “Wh-what’s happening?”

  No answer.

  “Is someone there? Answer me! J-James? Is that you?”

  “I’ve been waiting so long . . .” a voice whispered. “And now it’s my turn to come out.”

  “No! That’s impossible!” I wailed. “You’re in Danny’s costume! He—he told me the whole story. He told me about your ghost—haunting the monster’s costume! He—he—”

  “Trick or treat!” James whispered. “I switched costumes!”

  And then I could feel him pushing me hard . . . pushing me away . . . into the deep darkness.

  I felt weaker . . . weaker . . .

  “No—please!” I tried to yell out. But my voice was just a whisper, a distant whisper.

  And then I was gone. Outside the costume. All air. No body. I was just air, floating outside the costume.

  And I watched James walk down the stairs. James from thirty years ago. James inside the hobbit costume now.

  I could hear him. I could see him. I seemed to float all around him.

  Later, at the end of the party, when he pulled off the mask, I saw my horrified friends. And I heard their screams of shock.

  I watched them scream. And I heard Cilla shout to the stranger: “Where is Tony? What have you done to Tony?”

  She is really worried about me, I realized. Cilla really likes me.

  And then I saw Danny clench his hands into tight fists. “Who are you?” he demanded of the stranger. “What are you doing in my house? Where is my friend Tony?”

  Good question. Where was I? Where?

  “My name is James,” I heard the boy say. “I am so happy to be at your party.”

  Yes, James had stepped out of the costume. James was at the party.

  But where was I?
r />   I was gone. Floating. Floating in the air.

  And then, I felt myself pulled down . . . down . . . into a costume . . . into someone’s costume . . . into the deep darkness inside.

  That was last year. And now it’s almost Halloween once again.

  And I’m waiting inside a costume. I’m waiting for my chance to return.

  It’s been so long. I’ve been waiting in here so long.

  It’s my turn. My turn.

  But who owns the costume? Who plans to wear my costume for Halloween?

  Try on your costume—okay?

  I know it’s early. But just try it on. Please?

  Please try it on now.

  Come on.

  What harm could it do?

  The Judge’s House

  by Bram Stoker, retold by R.L. Stine

  ILLUSTRATED BY VINCE NATALE

  You may not know the name Bram Stoker, but you probably will recognize the name of his most famous creation—Dracula.

  Stoker’s Dracula was published over a hundred years ago, in 1897. Thanks to Stoker, we all know the chill of flapping bat wings and the horror of vampire fangs seeking fresh blood.

  Collecting stories for this book, I remembered a Bram Stoker story called “The Judge’s House.” It too was written over one hundred years ago, in a time of horse-drawn carriages and kerosene lamps.

  Much of the language was old-fashioned and hard to follow. But the story was still SCARY. So I decided to write my own version, which would be easier for all of us to read and enjoy.

  Sorry, no vampires in this story. But I recommend you read it with the lights on . . . especially if you’re afraid of RATS!

  THE JUDGE’S HOUSE

  by Bram Stoker, retold by R.L. Stine

  Malcolm Malcolmson was warned about the old judge’s house. But he moved in anyway—and that’s when his troubles began. . . .

  Malcolm was a serious young man. Tall and bone thin, he had long, unbrushed brown hair and small, dark brown eyes that always seemed to be squinting because of all the books he read.