by R. L. Stine
What if one of them pushed the button on the little camera?
Would I disappear?
Or would another Ira Fishman show up instead?
This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for them to barge into my house and try to steal my life!
“Whoooooah!”
With a loud groan, I jumped up and almost got the box.
But the first double caught it and tossed it back to the other double.
With a desperate dive, I lunged across the floor—and tackled the second double.
“Hey—!” he let out a startled cry. And as he went down, he tossed the camera to the first double.
Breathing hard, I climbed to my feet and leaped at the first double.
He fell back over the desk chair.
The chair crashed into the desk, knocking the desk lamp to the floor. It fell with a loud crash, shattering the lightbulb into a million shards of glass.
The double leaped over the glass and with a cry, he heaved the box toward the second double.
He threw too hard. The box sailed over the double’s head and crashed against the bedroom wall.
He and I both dived across the room for it.
I got there first.
My whole body trembling, I picked it up—and dodged away as he tried to grab it from me.
I held it away from him. Held it to my eyes and studied it.
A small compartment had popped open.
I guess it happened when the box hit the wall.
And inside the small compartment—I saw a red button.
Green for go. Red for stop! I told myself.
“No!” both doubles cried at once. At the same time, the Iras made a desperate leap for the box.
I jerked it away from them—just as Mom poked her head into the room.
“What on earth is going on in here?” she cried.
I pressed the red button.
The two other mes disappeared.
Vanished.
Mom blinked a few times and shook her head. “Why are you making such a racket, Ira? It sounded like there was an army up here!”
“Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I was—you know—just fooling around.” I shrugged the way I always do.
“It was just you making all that noise? I thought the house was falling in.”
“Just me,” I said. “Sorry.”
I looked around the room. It was just me. Just one me.
Just one Ira Fishman. Not two. Or three. I was alone in my room.
Suddenly the room felt enormous. And I was so happy, I could burst!
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Mom walked over and felt my head. “Hmmm…feels normal,” she said. “What’s that?”
She was pointing to the little black box which I still gripped tightly in my hand.
“Uh…some kind of camera,” I told her. “I don’t think it works.”
“Well, go wash your hands and come down for dinner,” she said. “And that’s enough goofing around for tonight, do you understand me?”
“Right,” I said. “No problem.”
As soon as she left, I leaped up in the air for joy. “No problem! No problem!” I shouted over and over.
My problems had disappeared. With the click of a button!
“Now, where can I hide you?” I asked the camera.
I bent down, pulled open my bottom desk drawer, and hid the little black box way in the back. I didn’t want Zack or anyone else to find it and maybe push the green button by mistake.
That night I slept in the lower bunk again, all by myself. The next morning I had my breakfast and walked with Zack to school. I sat in my own seat in class, and I got all the math problems that were on the board right.
During recess, I played softball—and I hit a single and a home run. I fouled out once, but I didn’t care.
I was happier than I’d ever been. It felt so good to be one person.
It was so nice not to look across a room and see myself staring back at me.
Once again I was me. The one and only me!
Then on Saturday morning Mom came up to my room and pulled all of my dressiest clothes from my dresser. “What’s that for?” I asked suspiciously.
“I want you to look nice,” she said. “We’re spending the day at Aunt Melba’s.”
I groaned. “Oh, no.”
“Stop that,” Mom scolded. “Aunt Melba isn’t so bad.”
Oh, yes she is, I thought. Aunt Melba is the pits.
She pinches Zack and me till our cheeks are red and sore. Then she hugs us till our ribs crack. And she always smells like mothballs.
She cooks us the greasiest, heaviest, grossest food. And forces us to eat more and more. We always get sick from her food.
The last time we were there, she made Zack and me clean her filthy basement. Then she complained that we didn’t do a good job.
Every time we visit Aunt Melba, she gets into a horrible fight with my dad. And she even has a dog that bites!
“Do we have to go?” I asked mournfully.
“Don’t act like that,” Mom said. “I know she isn’t much fun. But she’s your only aunt. Now hurry up. We’re already late.”
I groaned again. Mom went downstairs.
I pulled on my fancy, pleated khakis and my bright yellow buttondown shirt. What a shame. A perfectly beautiful Saturday ruined.
“Come on, Ira,” Dad called from downstairs. “Zack’s already dressed.”
I slumped down the stairs. “You know how moody Aunt Melba gets if we’re late,” Mom said, straightening her skirt.
“Or if we’re early,” I muttered sadly.
We started out the front door. “Oh. Wait a minute,” I said. “I forgot something.” I turned and started back up the stairs.
“We’ll be in the car,” Dad called after me. “Just slam the front door behind you.”
“Okay,” I called back.
I ran into my room, got down on the floor, and pulled open my bottom desk drawer. Then I reached way to the back and pulled out the little black box.
I stood up—and pressed the green button.
Then I waited.
A few seconds later a double appeared. He was wearing the same fancy, pleated khakis and the same stiff yellow buttondown shirt as me.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Ira Fishman.”
“I know,” I said, giving him a big grin.
“Slap me five,” he said, holding out his hand.
“We don’t have time,” I told him. “You’re going to Aunt Melba’s.”
“I am?” He suddenly looked very unhappy.
“Get going,” I said, giving him a little push. “You’re late. They’re waiting for you in the car. Just slam the front door behind you.”
I watched him hurry down the stairs. And I watched the front door slam behind him. A few seconds later I heard the car rumble down the drive.
I went back to my room and pulled a big pile of comic books down from the shelf. I got a big bag of cookies from the kitchen. I took them over to the bed and made myself comfortable.
It was going to be a wonderful day after all.
Photograph © Dan Nelken
R.L. (Robert Lawrence) Stine is one of the best-selling children’s authors in history. His Goosebumps series, along with such series as Fear Street, The Nightmare Room, Rotten School, and Mostly Ghostly have sold nearly 400 million books in this country alone. And they are translated into 32 languages.
The Goosebumps TV series was the top-rated kids’ series for three years in a row. R.L.’s TV movies, including The Haunting Hour: Don’t Think About It and Mostly Ghostly, are perennial Halloween favorites. And his scary TV series, R.L. Stine’s The Haunting Hour, is in its second season on The Hub network.
R.L. continues to turn out Goosebumps books, published by Scholastic. In addition, his first horror novel for adults in many years, titled Red Rain, will be published by Touchstone books in October 2012.
R.L. says that he enjoys his job of “scaring ki
ds.” But the biggest thrill for him is turning kids on to reading.
R.L. lives in New York City with his wife, Jane, an editor and publisher, and King Charles Spaniel, Minnie. His son, Matthew, is a sound designer and music producer.
