by R. L. Stine
“Joseph, you will not sleep in my house tonight,” the Rabbi ordered. “You will climb the stairs to the synagogue attic, and there you will make your bed.”
The golem obeyed in his usual way. He made a bed of straw in the small attic and lay down on it. Rabbi Levi, Isaac, and I stood at the side of the bed.
I stared down at the golem. Pale moonlight washed in from the tiny attic window and crept over the sleeping giant’s face like a soft blanket.
His arms were crossed over his broad chest. His eyelids were gently closed.
Outside, there was only silence. As if even the wind had stopped for this moment.
A wave of sadness suddenly swept over me. Joseph had been so powerful and strong. Strong enough to defeat our enemies.
But I knew the power of God was even stronger. And the Rabbi in his wisdom was carrying out what he believed was God’s wish.
Rabbi Levi ordered me to circle the sleeping golem seven times, chanting the same words as before. After I had completed the task, Isaac did the same.
“Golem, you will not wake up,” Rabbi Levi ordered.
He leaned over the sleeping giant. The Hebrew word “EMET”—truth—appeared once again on the golem’s forehead. Rabbi Levi rubbed away the first letter. And now it became the word “MET,” which means dead.
The golem didn’t stir. We covered him with the pages of old prayer books. Then we crept away. Rabbi Levi locked the attic door behind us. “The attic will be used no longer,” he said.
We never spoke of the golem again.
I was but a boy when all this happened. I am an old man now. Rabbi Levi died many years ago. And Isaac moved with his family to another village.
I am the only one who remembers . . . the only one in my town who knows the truth.
I pray in the synagogue every day. And every time I enter, I think of the tiny attic room upstairs and feel a chill.
Does the golem still sleep up there?
Will someone wake him up someday?
Will Joseph walk the streets again, so brave and strong and big?
Examination Day
by Henry Slesar
ILLUSTRATED BY PETER HORVATH
Do you get nervous before taking a test? Lots of people do. The boy in this story has good reason to be nervous!
I love stories with twist endings. Anyone who reads my books knows that I try to put some kind of twist or shock at the end of every chapter.
I read a lot of science-fiction stories and comic books when I was a kid. I liked thinking about the future, about parallel worlds, about strange ways our world might change. And I really liked the way most science-fiction stories ended with a big surprise.
Henry Slesar likes twist endings too—and the ending of this creepy story is as twisted as they come!
EXAMINATION DAY
by Henry Slesar
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs. Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.
“Forget about it,” he said. “He’ll do all right.”
They were at the breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster, with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in the little apartment there were wrapped, beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen, something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.
“What exam?” he asked.
His mother looked at the tablecloth. “It’s just a sort of Government intelligence test they give children at the age of twelve. You’ll be getting it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You mean a test like in school?”
“Something like that,” his father said, getting up from the table. “Go read your comic books, Dickie.”
The boy rose and wandered toward that part of the living room which had been “his” corner since infancy. He fingered the topmost comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colorful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered toward the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.
“Why did it have to rain today?” he said. “Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?”
His father, now slumped into an armchair with the Government newspaper, rattled the sheets in vexation. “Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.”
“Why, Dad?”
“Because it does, that’s all.”
Dickie puckered his brow. “What makes it green, though? The grass?”
“Nobody knows,” his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily colored packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.
An hour later, seated by the window, he watched the sun force its way between the clouds.
“Dad,” he said, “how far away is the sun?”
“Five thousand miles,” his father said.
Dick sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
“Well, Dickie,” he said, with a manly frown, “you’ve got an appointment today.”
“I know, Dad. I hope—”
“Now it’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The Government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.”
“I get good marks in school,” he said hesitantly.
“This is different. This is a—special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine—”
“What stuff to drink?” Dickie said.
“It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that the Government thinks you won’t tell the truth, but this stuff makes sure.”
Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.
“Everything will be all right,” she said.
“Of course it will,” his father agreed. “You’re a good boy, Dickie; you’ll make out fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickie said.
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway, and entered an automatic elevator that brought them to the fourth floor.
There was a young man wearing an insignia-less tunic, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.
Mr. Jordan filled out the form and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: “It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at that end of the room.” He indicated the portal with his finger.
A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly toward the door.
At five minutes of eleven, they called the name of Jordan.
“Good luck, son
,” his father said without looking at him. “I’ll call for you when the test is over.”
Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the gray-tunicked attendant who greeted him.
“Sit down,” the man said softly. He indicated a high stool 175 beside his desk. “Your name’s Richard Jordan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.”
He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, and tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it and handed the man the empty cup.
He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a penlike object from the pocket of his tunic and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.
“All right,” he said. “Come with me, Richard.”
He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialed computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.
“Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say ‘ready’ into the microphone.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man squeezed his shoulder and left.
Dickie said, “Ready.”
Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said:
“Complete this sequence. One, four, seven, ten . . .”
Mr. and Mrs. Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.
It was almost four o’clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.
“Mr. Jordan?”
The voice was clipped; a brisk, official voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M. Jordan, Classification 600-115, has completed the Government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient has exceeded the Government regulation, according to Rule 84, Section 5, of the New Code.”
Across the room the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.
“You may specify by telephone,” the voice droned on, “whether you wish his body interred by the Government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for Government burial is ten dollars.”
Harold
The Girl Who Stood on a Grave
retold by Alvin Schwartz
ILLUSTRATED BY GRIS GRIMLY
Alvin Schwartz collected scary stories and folktales for many years. I love his books because you can always pick one up, open it anywhere, read a short story or two, and give yourself a chill.
Some of the stories Alvin Schwartz collected have been frightening people for centuries. And they are just as scary now as the day they were first told.
Here are two of my favorites. If you have ever dared anyone to do something dangerous, you will enjoy “The Girl Who Stood on a Grave.” And if scarecrows give you the creeps, don’t read “Harold” late at night—or during the day, either!
HAROLD
retold by Alvin Schwartz
When it got hot in the valley, Thomas and Alfred drove their cows up to a cool, green pasture in the mountains to graze. Usually they stayed there with the cows for two months. Then they brought them down to the valley again.
The work was easy enough, but, oh, it was boring. All day the two men tended their cows. At night they went back to the tiny hut where they lived. They ate supper and worked in the garden and went to sleep. It was always the same.
Then Thomas had an idea that changed everything. “Let’s make a doll the size of a man,” he said. “It would be fun to make, and we could put it in the garden to scare away the birds.”
“It should look like Harold,” Alfred said. Harold was a farmer they both hated. They made the doll out of old sacks stuffed with straw. They gave it a pointy nose like Harold’s and tiny eyes like his. Then they added dark hair and a twisted frown. Of course they also gave it Harold’s name.
Each morning on their way to the pasture, they tied Harold to a pole in the garden to scare away the birds. Each night they brought him inside so that he wouldn’t get ruined if it rained.
When they were feeling playful, they would talk to him. One of them might say, “How are the vegetables growing today, Harold?” Then the other, making believe he was Harold, would answer in a crazy voice, “Very slowly.” They both would laugh, but not Harold.
Whenever something went wrong, they took it out on Harold. They would curse at him, even kick him or punch him. Sometimes one of them would take the food they were eating (which they both were sick of) and smear it on the doll’s face.
“How do you like that stew, Harold?” he would ask. “Well, you’d better eat it—or else.” Then the two men would howl with laughter.
One night after Thomas had wiped Harold’s face with food, Harold grunted.
“Did you hear that?” Alfred asked.
“It was Harold,” Thomas said. “I was watching him when it happened. I can’t believe it.”
“How could he grunt?” Alfred asked. “He’s just a sack of straw. It’s not possible.”
“Let’s throw him in the fire,” said Thomas, “and that will be that.”
“Let’s not do anything stupid,” said Alfred. “We don’t know what’s going on. When we move the cows down, we’ll leave him behind. For now, let’s just keep an eye on him.”
So they left Harold sitting in a corner of the hut. They didn’t talk to him or take him outside anymore. Now and then the doll grunted, but that was all. After a few days they decided there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe a mouse or some insects had gotten inside Harold and were making those sounds.
So Thomas and Alfred went back to their old ways. Each morning they put Harold out in the garden, and each night they brought him back into the hut. When they felt playful, they joked with him. When they felt mean, they treated him as badly as ever.
Then one night Alfred noticed something that frightened him. “Harold is growing,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Thomas said.
“Maybe it’s just our imagination,” Alfred replied. “We have been up here on this mountain too long.”
The next morning, while they were eating, Harold stood up and walked out of the hut. He climbed up on the roof and trotted back and forth, like a horse on its hind legs. All day and all night he trotted like that.
In the morning Harold climbed down and stood in a far corner of the pasture. The men had no idea what he would do next. They were afraid.
They decided to take the cows down into the valley that same day. When they left, Harold was nowhere in sight. They felt as if they had escaped a great danger and began joking and singing. But when they had gone only a mile or two, they realized they had forgotten to bring the milking stools.
Neither one wanted to go back for them, but the stools would cost a lot to replace. “There is really nothing to be afraid of,” they told one another. “After all what could a doll do?”
They drew straws to see which one would go back. It was Thomas. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said, and Alfred walked on toward the valley.
When Alfred came to a rise in the path, he looked back for Thomas. He did not see him anywhere. But he did see Harold. The doll was on the roof of the hut again. As Alfred watched, Harold kneeled and stretched out a bloody skin to dry in the sun.
The Girl Who Stood on a Grave
retold by Alvin Schwartz
Some b
oys and girls were at a party one night. There was a graveyard down the street, and they were talking about how scary it was.
“Don’t ever stand on a grave after dark,” one of the boys said. “The person inside will grab you. He’ll pull you under.”
“That’s not true,” one of the girls said. “It’s just a superstition.”
“I’ll give you a dollar if you stand on a grave,” said the boy.
“A grave doesn’t scare me,” said the girl. “I’ll do it right now.”
The boy handed her his knife. “Stick this knife in one of the graves,” he said. “Then we’ll know you were there.”
The graveyard was filled with shadows and was as quiet as death. “There is nothing to be scared of,” the girl told herself, but she was scared anyway.
She picked out a grave and stood on it. Then quickly she bent over and plunged the knife into the soil, and she started to leave. But she couldn’t get away. Something was holding her back! She tried a second time to leave, but she couldn’t move. She was filled with terror.
“Something has got me!” she screamed, and she fell to the ground.
When she didn’t come back, the others went to look for her. They found her body sprawled across the grave. Without realizing it, she had plunged the knife through her skirt and had pinned it to the ground. It was only the knife that held her. She had died of fright.
A Grave Misunderstanding
by Leon Garfield
ILLUSTRATED BY BLEU TURRELL
I love dogs. My dog, Nadine, keeps me company all day. She sleeps under my desk while I’m writing.
I’ve written lots of scary stories about dogs. I’ve written about ghost dogs and evil dogs and missing dogs and monster dogs.
There’s an old belief that dogs have a special ability—that they can always sense when a ghost is nearby. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it certainly makes for good, scary stories.
