by R. L. Stine
“Don't you see? The darkest place on the darkest night? That's where you told me to go. But it didn't work, Mr. Park. It didn't work at all.”
Mr. Park turned his body and lowered his feet to the floor. “Max, you wanted real advice?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course,” I said. “I tried what you told me, but—”
“That was just a story,” Mr. Park said.
My breath caught in my throat. “Huh?”
“It was just a story I made up,” Mr. Park said. “It wasn't supposed to be real advice. The darkest place on the darkest night? I just made that up.”
“I told you,” his daughter said. “My dad is a storyteller. He makes up stories.”
Mr. Park nodded. “I made up that story on the spot. I thought you enjoyed it.”
“It—it wasn't real?” I gasped. I still couldn't believe it.
“Inkweed isn't real,” Mr. Park said. “Inkweed is a legend. A myth. A ghost story, like all the others.”
“But—but—” I sputtered.
“There's no one like Dad,” Ms. Park said. “He makes up the wildest stories. He can make up dozens of them in an afternoon. You should come hear him perform sometime, Max.”
“Uh … yeah,” I muttered.
I knew I couldn't convince them of the truth. I knew I couldn't convince them that Inkweed was real. And I was too tired to try.
“Come back sometime, Max, and I'll tell you some more Inkweed stories,” Mr. Park said.
“Maybe I'll tell YOU some stories next time,” I murmured.
If there's a next time.
30
NICKY AND TARA DRAGGED me home. I don't know how they did it. My legs wouldn't work at all. And I kept saying, “It wasn't real? It wasn't real?” again and again.
They carried me through the back door, into the kitchen. Tara flashed on a light. I dropped into a chair at the table, nearly unconscious.
“I'm sorry, guys,” I croaked. “I … I can't stay awake another minute. I … I'm so sorry.”
“Max, you've got to try!” Tara said. She held my head up off the kitchen table with both hands. “Try, Max. Give Nicky and me a chance to think up a new plan.”
“No new plan,” I muttered. The room spun in front of me. My head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. “No new plan. We lose. Inkweed wins. We lose. Lose. …”
My eyes started to close.
Tara held on to my head. “Open your eyes, Max. Come on. You can do it.” She turned to Nicky. “Turn on the TV. Maybe that will keep him awake.”
“We lose,” I murmured. “We lose.”
I was out of my mind. I didn't know what I was saying.
Nicky clicked on the TV on the kitchen counter. I squinted across the room. I couldn't get my tired, burning eyes to focus.
It took me a while to realize I was watching a toilet paper commercial.
A woman was rubbing toilet paper against her face, saying how soft it was.
I watched her for a few seconds. Then I struggled to my feet.
“Nicky! Tara!” I cried. “We can do it. We can destroy Inkweed!”
31
THEY GAPED AT ME, their eyes wide. “We can?” Tara said.
“Toilet paper,” I said. “Colin said Dad bought three cases of it. Hurry. Go down to the basement. Bring up a case.”
They hesitated for a moment. Then they took off, shooting right through the basement door without opening it.
I pinched my cheeks hard while I waited for them to return. Pinched myself until it hurt. Anything to stay awake.
Finally, they returned, carrying a big plastic package filled with toilet paper rolls. “Open it,” I said. “Hurry. I can't hold on much longer.”
“Okay, it's open,” Tara said. She had a roll of the white paper in each hand. “Now what, Max?”
“Now I go to sleep,” I said. I put my head on the table and shut my eyes. “Good night, everyone.”
I fell asleep in two seconds. Maybe faster. A deep sleep with no dreams.
Nicky and Tara told me later that as soon as I was asleep, Inkweed started to pour out.
Ink seeped out through my skin. Came oozing out in all his inky blackness, through my arms, my neck, my face, through my nose and mouth.
They stood watching in horror as the inky creature poured silently from my body. The ink formed a steaming black puddle on the floor beside my chair.
When it had all oozed out, it slowly slid off the floor. It raised itself onto the wall—and formed a man's shadowy figure.
“Get him! Get him!”
Tara's shouts woke me from my sleep. I jumped up, gasping, my heart thudding in my chest.
I saw Inkweed rising up on the kitchen wall. Pushing my chair away, I dove for the toilet paper rolls.
Without a word, Nicky, Tara, and I rushed at Inkweed. And we began wiping the toilet paper over him. Dabbing frantically, wiping hard, rubbing the inky figure.
“It's working!” I cried. “It … it's absorbing him!”
Inkweed tried to dodge away. His wet, inky body slid one way, then the other against the wall.
But the two ghosts and I had him trapped.
I dove to the carton and tossed Nicky and Tara more rolls. Then I leaped back to the wall and wiped furiously, wiped a whole roll against Inkweed's chest. Absorbing him … absorbing the hot, smelly ink.
We pressed roll after roll against him. The black ink soaked into the paper quickly.
We had to keep diving to the package and tossing more rolls to each other.
Inkweed squirmed and thrashed, ducked and dodged. But he couldn't escape.
We soaked him up. He never made a sound.
It took two dozen rolls. But the wall was clean.
No ink. No Inkweed!
Gasping for breath, Nicky, Tara, and I dropped to the kitchen floor. I gazed around. The floor was littered with ink-soaked toilet paper rolls. I had ink all over my hands, my arms, my clothes.
“We … did it,” I choked out in a breathless whisper.
“We absorbed him,” Tara said. She raised her hand to slap me a high five. But I was too weary to slap back.
I heard the ceiling creak above me.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Someone is moving around upstairs.”
I jumped to my feet. “Quick. Help me carry all this toilet paper to the trash cans behind the garage.”
We tossed the inky rolls into a garbage bag and dragged it out to the back. Then I slumped into the kitchen, yawning.
“You saved our lives, Max!” Tara declared. “I'm so proud of you. You did it. You really did it.”
To my surprise, she threw her arms around me and gave me a hug that almost knocked me over.
“Yeah, thanks, dude,” Nicky said after Tara backed away. “We owe you one. Big-time.”
“You can thank me some more in the morning,” I said, yawning. “I'm going to bed now. And I'm going to sleep for hours and hours and hours.”
I started toward the kitchen doorway, and Mom burst through it in her bathrobe. “Max!” she cried. “You're up early!”
“Yeah. Well—” I started.
“And you're already dressed. Great!” Mom exclaimed. “Here. Take these eggs. Get some milk. You can help me make breakfast.”
She smiled at me. “Big day in school today? Is that why you're up so early?”
For the first time in my life, I didn't have an answer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Lawrence Stine's scary stories have made him one of the bestselling children's authors in history. “Kids like to be scared!” he says, and he has proved it by selling more than 300 million books. R.L. teamed up with Parachute Press to create Fear Street, the first and number one bestselling young adult horror series. He then went on to launch Goosebumps, the creepy bestselling series that gave kids chills all over the world and made him the number one children's author of all time (The Guinness Book of Records).
R.L. Stine lives in Manhattan with his wife, Jane, their son, Ma
tthew, and their dog, Nadine. He says he has never seen a ghost—but he's still looking!
Published by Delacorte Press an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc. New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Parachute Publishing, L.L.C.
All rights reserved.
DELACORTE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stine, R.L.
Don't close your eyes / R.L. Stine.—1sted. p. cm. — (Mostly ghostly) “A Parachute Press Book.”
Summary: Max already shares his house with two young ghosts that only he can see, but things get really bad when an evil ghost decides to share his body.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49489-4
[1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Horror stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Stine, R.L. Mostly ghostly.
PZ7.S86037Dj 2006
[Fic] —dc22
2005014782
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About The Author
Copyright
