by R. L. Stine
“Get up,” he ordered. He grabbed me roughly by one arm and tugged me to my feet.
The ground tilted and spun in front of me. My eyes refused to focus. Blurs of colored light danced around me.
“Aiden—?” I choked out.
Then the tall grass came into focus. The dirt leading up to the flat edge of the rock cliff. Slowly, my brain rolled over, regained some ability to think, to remember, and I knew I was high on the mesa, just a few feet from the cliff edge.
“No—Aiden!” I heard Marissa’s desperate cry.
“Aiden—don’t!” A plea from Ruth-Ann. I saw her lingering back in the grass, huddled with her sister and Marissa.
The ground still swirled beneath me. My head spun and throbbed. I struggled to come back all the way, but the blow on the head had me woozy and weak.
Aiden gripped me by both shoulders. He gave me a hard push. “Over you go, Harmony, sweetheart.” He spit the words in my ear. “You won’t ruin any more lives.”
Another hard shove.
One more shove and I knew I’d be over the edge. I’d be gone. Dead. Maybe trapped in time here forever, or maybe lost like poor Taylor.
One more shove . . .
I lowered my gaze and saw the ragged floor of gray-brown rocks far below. The sight made me gasp. My brain whirred into action.
One more shove . . .
The words of a spell ran through my frightened brain. A darkness spell? I didn’t know it well enough. Would a deafening blast of sound be enough to make Aiden let go of me so I could flee?
The dirt at the cliff edge crumbled under my shoes. Aiden tightened his fingers on my shoulders, about to give me the last push.
I shouted out the words of a spell I knew, shouted them to the sky.
I felt Aiden’s fingers loosen, his hands pull away.
He uttered a startled cry—and did a wild cartwheel—up high in the air, twisting his body. As he flipped over, his hands touched the edge of the cliff, and then he sailed over the side.
His scream sounded like the wail of a wounded animal.
I left him suspended in air. Screaming in air. I controlled him with my eyes, muttering the words of the ancient magic. He was head down, still in the grip of his cartwheel, hanging in midair.
What shall I do with him? Why not just leave him there?
Then with Aiden’s screams in my ears, I turned and ran, ran past Marissa and the Fear sisters . . . ran down the dirt path to the lodge.
Still dizzy, still reeling from all the horror, I zigged and zagged and staggered through the front entrance. And prayed . . .
Please . . . please let it be today and not the past.
Yes!
The young woman behind the desk cried out and jumped off her chair as I dove over the counter. I landed hard on my elbows and knees. Scrambled to my feet.
“What are you doing? Somebody—help me!” she screamed.
I turned to the wall, struggling to catch my breath—and grabbed the frame of the 1924 photo in both hands. With a wrenching swipe, I pulled it off the wall.
“Stop her! Somebody—stop her!” the poor, alarmed girl wailed. She backed away from me, shouting for help.
“Don’t worry,” I choked out. “Don’t be scared.”
I tore the back of the frame away and tossed it on the floor. Then I pulled out the old photo. The paper was stiff and crinkly. The photo smelled old, kind of sour. I pressed it to my forehead.
Yes, I pressed the photo to my forehead. Shut my eyes. And murmured the words I’d seen in one of the old books of Fear magic. Murmured the words I’d memorized, I was so entranced by this spell.
I’d never gotten it to work. But this time . . . this time . . .
I murmured the words until the desk clerk’s screams faded from my ears. Pressed the old photo to my head and repeated them again and again.
This time . . . this time . . . it had to work.
Forty-Two
The buzzing in my ears grew louder . . . louder . . . then started to fade. I felt a powerful shock wave, like a strong current that shook my body and took my breath away.
And when I lowered the photograph from my face and blinked my eyes open in the yellow-white sunlight, I saw the men in their dark suits, lined up in front of the lodge entrance. Square black cars in the driveway, like cars from a silent movie.
And the chubby, dark-suited photographer leaning over his big square camera, adjusting the tripod, gazing into a round lens, his jacket open and flapping in a strong summer wind.
I squinted hard and recognized Mr. Himuro in the front row, and behind him, having a mock fistfight with the lodge worker next to him, Walter the valet, his red hair slicked back and glowing in the warm sunlight.
Yes. I had achieved it this time. I was in 1924. Thanks to the magic I had learned, thanks to the hours I’d spent practicing in that little attic room.
I was in 1924, where I wanted to be. And I went running toward the two men on the lodge staff that I knew. Perhaps one of them could help me.
Whoa. I stopped a few feet from them as the photographer counted down. “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” And he snapped his photograph with a powdery flash of bright light.
I suddenly realized I was no longer holding the photograph. It had vanished. Vanished into time, I guessed, since the photographer had just snapped it.
The workers were heading back to the lodge. I ran up to Mr. Himuro. I startled him by grabbing his arm. “Mr. Himuro, do you remember me? I need a favor.”
He squinted at me, studying me as if I were a species from another planet. I guessed my clothes were shocking to him, or perhaps my long hair. “So sorry,” he said. “I have no time. There is a big wedding here in a few hours.”
I turned and raised my eyes to the mesa. I could see rows of white chairs up near the top, and an altar covered in purple flowers.
“The Fear wedding?” I asked him.
He nodded and hurried away.
“The Fear wedding,” I repeated. Rebecca Fear’s wedding. I was in time. I knew what I had to do. It was simple. I had to break the curse.
The silky long dresses were so wonderful. Everyone so dressed up, the men in their dark suits and stiff-collared shirts and wide neckties. The women clanking with jewelry, heavy bracelets and jeweled beads, and such awesome old-fashioned hairstyles. I felt as if I were in an old movie, only in color and with sound.
I stayed in the back row. Even back here, I could sense the excitement. The buzz of voices . . . the crinkle of fabric as the wedding guests seated themselves . . . the heavy perfume that filled the air, so intoxicating.
Then the music started and a hush fell over the seats. And I tensed every muscle. I steeled myself for what I had to do. I forced my heartbeats to slow. Forced down the waves of nausea from the pit of my stomach. Leaned forward and prepared myself.
Doing his processional slow walk, the groom made his way past me toward the flower-covered altar. Peter Goodman. Peter Goode. Peter Goode here to keep the old family curse alive. Peter Goode, not Goodman. If he was allowed to triumph, the Fear girls—from now and the future—would be doomed.
Rebecca, lovely Rebecca and Ruth-Ann, and my sister, Marissa. Their names were in my mind and in my heart as I watched Peter Goode’s best man follow him along the aisle.
And I bit my bottom lip and clasped my hands tightly in my lap when Rebecca, the bride, made her journey down the aisle, smiling so broadly at her soon-to-be husband.
Only not.
You didn’t know you were walking to your death, Rebecca.
Can I save you?
Maybe.
I waited. I don’t know how I found the strength to wait. I wanted to have it over with. I wanted to know if I could save the three Fear girls . . . stop the curse . . . save everyone.
The ceremony began. I could hear only a mumble of voices from here in the very back. The minister droned on for a while, something about “the sanctity of marriage.” Whatever that means.
I waited.
A little boy in a black tux near the front kept repeating loudly, “I want ice cream.” His dad grabbed his arm, shook him a little, trying to quiet him.
A burst of wind sent Rebecca’s veil flying like a flag behind her head. Her hair was up like a golden crown.
I waited.
And then I knew the words were coming. And I knew I had to act before I heard the words You may now kiss the bride.
Before the kiss could take place . . . before the fatal kiss . . . I began to whisper the words of the spell, the spell I’d so recently practiced.
I whispered the words rapidly, so eager now to end the curse . . . to prevent the murders.
I had nearly completed it . . . I knew I could do it. I knew I could send Peter Goode cartwheeling over the cliff edge. . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Good-bye, Peter Goode.
I was on the final words—
—when someone grabbed my arm—and started to pull me off my chair.
Forty-Three
“Let go—!” I gasped.
I stared at the little boy in his shiny tuxedo. He tugged my arm again. “Ice cream,” he said. “Can you get me some ice cream?”
I turned to the altar and saw Peter Goode lift Rebecca off her feet. Guests oohed and aahed, touched by his romantic gesture. But I knew the truth. I knew he had murder on his mind.
If he kissed her . . . If he kissed her, all was lost.
“Later,” I told the kid. “Later. Okay?” I jerked free from his grasp. I jumped to my feet and shouted the last words of my spell.
A hush fell over the mesa as Peter set Rebecca back down on the ground. Without a kiss. No kiss! Peter turned to the cliff and raised his hands high above his head.
And performed a perfect cartwheel into the air and off the cliff. A perfect cartwheel to his death.
And now the silence was broken by cries of horror and moans of disbelief. People fainted and grabbed their chests and turned away, too late—too late because the horrifying scene was already imprinted in their minds and eyes.
Rebecca collapsed to her knees, covering her face as she sobbed, her veil falling over her head like a shield.
She was sad and shocked, I knew. But she was alive. And Ruth-Ann would continue to live. And my sister . . . My sister would live, too, and not be caught in the Fear family curse.
I had broken the curse. . . .
As I gazed over the scene, the color began to fade to shades of gray and black. The heavy-sweet aroma of the perfume faded. The sunlight dimmed, and the wedding guests all vanished. Rebecca and Ruth-Ann, her parents, her guests . . . all vanished into time.
And now nearly one hundred years passed. And here I was at the lodge on the day of my sister’s wedding. How eager was I to knock on her door after breakfast and ask if I could help get her ready.
She flung her door open and wrapped me in an excited hug. And for a moment, I thought she was hugging me because she knew I had saved her life.
But of course she was just feeling exuberant and loving and excited on her wedding day.
“You look beautiful already,” I told her. I saw that Taylor was waiting to help with her dress. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
Marissa nodded. “There are some packages for me at the front desk. Could you get them?”
Of course. Can I describe how happy I was at this new reality, this happy reality where Marissa didn’t die and disappear? I don’t think I can.
I waited at the front desk as a couple with two noisy, arguing kids checked in. A valet came to take their bags to their room.
“I believe you have some packages for my sister,” I said. I recognized Lisa, the young woman on duty.
“Yes, I do,” she said. Then she stopped. And squinted at me. “Hey,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She moved to the wall and stopped in front of the framed photo from 1924. “Look,” she said, and pointed. “This girl in the old photo. You look just like her.”
“Huh? That’s crazy,” I said. I leaned over the counter and studied the photo. And yes, there I was, standing by the gathering of workers in 1924.
“You really look like her,” Lisa said. “You’re like twins.”
“Weird,” I said. “That’s totally weird.”
About the Author
R.L. STINE has more than 350 million English language books in print, plus international editions in 32 languages, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written other series, including Fear Street, Rotten School, Mostly Ghostly, The Nightmare Room, and Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and his Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Minnie. Visit him online at www.rlstine.com.
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Books by R.L. Stine
Dangerous Girls
Dangerous Girls #2: The Taste of Night
Rotten School #1: The Big Blueberry Barf-Off!
Rotten School #2: The Great Smelling Bee
Rotten School #3: The Good, the Bad and the Very Slimy
Rotten School #4: Lose, Team, Lose!
Rotten School #5: Shake, Rattle, and Hurl!
Rotten School #6: The Heinie Prize
Rotten School #7: Dudes, the School Is Haunted!
Rotten School #8: The Teacher from Heck
Rotten School #9: Party Poopers
Rotten School #10: The Rottenest Angel
Rotten School #11: Punk’d and Skunked
Rotten School #12: Battle of the Dum Diddys
Rotten School #13: Got Cake?
Rotten School #14: Night of the Creepy Things
Rotten School #15: Calling All Birdbrains
Rotten School #16: Dumb Clucks
The Haunting Hour
The Haunting Hour TV Tie-in Edition
Nightmare Hour
Nightmare Hour TV Tie-in Edition
The Nightmare Room Thrillogy #1: Fear Games
The Nightmare Room Thrillogy #2: What Scares You the Most?
The Nightmare Room Thrillogy #3: No Survivors
The Nightmare Room #1: Don’t Forget Me!
The Nightmare Room #2: Locker 13
The Nightmare Room #3: My Name Is Evil
The Nightmare Room #4: Liar Liar
The Nightmare Room #5: Dear Diary, I’m Dead
The Nightmare Room #6: They Call Me Creature
The Nightmare Room #7: The Howler
The Nightmare Room #8: Shadow Girl
The Nightmare Room #9: Camp Nowhere
The Nightmare Room #10: Full Moon Halloween
The Nightmare Room #11: Scare School
The Nightmare Room #12: Visitors
Scream and Scream Again!
You May Now Kill the Bride
The Wrong Girl
Drop Dead Gorgeous
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
YOU MAY NOW KILL THE BRIDE. Copyright © 2018 by Parachute Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text 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 HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art by Justin Erickson
; Cover design by Jenna Stempel-Lobell
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017962479
Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-269426-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269425-6
1819202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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