by R. L. Stine
“Well, if they come down to the basement, they’ll see the cabinet on the floor,” I replied. “And they’ll see the open door that leads into the tunnel. They’ll figure out what happened. And they’ll probably follow us in here.”
“Probably,” Cara agreed.
“We’ve got to see what’s on the other side of this door,” I said eagerly. I turned the knob and pulled the door open. This door was heavy, too. And it creaked eerily as it opened, just like the first door.
We raised our flashlights and sent our pale beams of light ahead of us.
“It’s a room!” I whispered. “A room at the end of the tunnel!”
Our lights danced over the smooth, dark walls. Bare walls.
We stepped side by side into the small, square room.
“What’s the big deal? It’s empty,” Cara said. “It’s just an empty room.”
“No, it isn’t,” I replied softly.
I aimed my flashlight at a large object on the floor in the middle of the room.
We both stared straight ahead at it. Stared at it in silence.
“What is it?” Cara demanded finally.
“A coffin,” I replied.
5
I felt my heart skip a beat.
I wasn’t scared. But my body started to tingle all over. A cold tingling. Excitement, I guess.
Cara and I both aimed our flashlight beams at the coffin in the middle of the floor. The light circles bounced up and down over the dark wood. Our hands were shaking.
“I’ve never seen a coffin before,” Cara murmured.
“Neither have I,” I confessed. “Except on TV.”
The light reflected off the polished wood. I saw brass handles at both ends of the long box.
“What if there is a dead person inside it?” Cara asked in a tiny voice.
My heart leaped again. My skin tingled even colder.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Who would be buried in a secret room under my house?”
I raised my light and swept it around the room. Four bare walls. Smooth and gray. No windows.
No closet. The one and only door led back into the tunnel.
A hidden room at the end of a twisting tunnel. A coffin in a hidden, underground room…
“I’m sure Mom and Dad don’t know anything about this,” I told Cara. I took a deep breath and made my way closer to the coffin.
“Where are you going?” Cara demanded sharply. She hung back near the open doorway.
“Let’s check it out,” I replied, ignoring my pounding heart. “Let’s take a look inside.”
“Whoa!” Cara cried. “I… uh… I don’t think we should.”
I turned back to her. The light from my flashlight caught her face. I saw her chin quiver. Her dark eyes narrowed at the coffin.
“You’re afraid?” I demanded. I couldn’t keep a grin from spreading over my face. Cara afraid of something? This was a moment to remember!
“No way!” she insisted. “I’m not afraid. But I think maybe we should get your parents.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why do we need my parents around to open up an old coffin?”
I kept the light on her face. I saw her chin quiver again.
“Because you don’t just go around opening coffins,” she replied. She crossed her arms tightly in front of her.
“Well… if you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself,” I declared. I turned to the coffin and brushed my hand over the lid. The polished wood felt smooth and cool.
“No—wait!” Cara cried. She hurried up beside me. “I’m not scared. But… this could be a big mistake.”
“You’re scared,” I told her. “You’re scared big time.”
“I am not!” she insisted.
“I saw your chin tremble. Twice,” I told her.
“So?”
“So you’re scared.”
“No way.” She let out a disgusted sigh. “Here. I’ll prove it to you.”
She handed me her flashlight. Then she grabbed the coffin lid with both hands and started to lift it open.
“Whoa. It’s really heavy,” she groaned. “Help me.”
A shiver ran down my back.
I shook it off and set the flashlights down on the floor. Then I placed both hands on the coffin lid.
I leaned forward. Started to push up.
Cara and I both pushed with all our strength.
The heavy wooden lid didn’t budge at first.
But then I heard a creaking sound as it started to lift.
Slowly, slowly, it raised up in our hands.
Leaning over the open coffin, we pushed it, pushed it, until it stood straight up and came to a rest.
We let go of the lid.
I shut my eyes. I didn’t really want to look inside.
But I had to.
I squinted down into the open coffin.
Too dark. I couldn’t see a thing.
Good, I told myself. I let out a sigh of relief.
But then Cara bent down and picked up the flashlights from the floor. She slipped mine into my hand.
We aimed our lights into the coffin and stared inside.
6
The coffin was lined in purple velvet. The velvet glowed under the light from our flashlights. We swept our flashlights up and down the inside of the coffin.
“It—it’s empty!” Cara stammered.
“No, it isn’t,” I replied.
My light locked on an object at the foot of the coffin. A spot of blue against the purple velvet.
As I moved closer, it came into focus.
A bottle. A blue glass bottle.
“Weird!” Cara exclaimed. Now she saw it, too.
“Yes. Totally weird,” I agreed.
We both moved to the foot of the coffin to see it better. I pressed against the side of the coffin as I leaned close to the bottle. My hands felt frozen now.
Cara reached past me and picked up the bottle. She held it in the white beam of light from my flashlight, and we both studied it carefully.
The bottle was round and dark blue. It fit easily in Cara’s hand. The glass was smooth. The bottle was closed by a blue glass stopper.
Cara shook it. “It’s empty,” she said softly.
“An empty bottle inside a coffin? Definitely weird!” I cried. “Who could have left it here?”
“Hey—there’s a label.” Cara pointed to a tiny square of paper glued to the glass. “Can you read it?” she asked. She raised the blue bottle to my face.
The tiny label had faded, old-fashioned-looking letters on it. I squinted hard.
The words had been rubbed until they were little more than smudges.
I held my light steady and finally managed to make out the words: “VAMPIRE BREATH.”
“Huh?” Cara’s mouth opened in shock. “Did you say Vampire Breath?”
I nodded. “That’s what it says.”
“But what could that be?” she asked. “What is Vampire Breath?”
“Beats me,” I replied, staring into the bottle. “I’ve never seen it advertised on TV!”
Cara didn’t laugh at my joke.
She turned the bottle in her hands. She was looking for more information. But the label had only two words printed on it: “VAMPIRE BREATH”.
I turned my light back into the coffin to see if we had missed anything inside it. I swept the light back and forth. Then I leaned over the side and rubbed my hand over the purple velvet. It felt smooth and soft.
When I looked back at Cara, she had tucked her flashlight under her arm. And she was twisting the glass stopper on top of the bottle.
“Hey—what are you doing?” I cried.
“Opening it,” she replied. “But the top is stuck and I can’t seem to—”
“No—!” I shouted. “Stop!”
Her dark eyes flashed. She locked them on mine. “Scared, Freddy?”
“Yes. I mean—no!” I stammered. “I—uh—I agree with you, Cara. We should wait for my parents to get home. We should sh
ow this to them. We can’t just go around opening coffins and taking out bottles and—”
I gasped as she tugged at the stopper.
I wasn’t afraid or anything. I just didn’t want to do anything stupid.
“Give me that!” I shouted. I grabbed for the bottle.
“No way!” She swung around to keep me from getting it.
And the bottle fell out of her hand.
We both watched it hit the floor.
It landed on its side. Bounced once. Didn’t break.
But the glass top popped off. Cara and I both stared down at the bottle. Not breathing. Waiting. Wondering what would happen.
7
Ssssssssssssssss.
It took me a few seconds to figure out what was making that hissing sound. Then I saw a smoky green mist shooting up from the bottle.
The thick mist rose up like a geyser, chilly and wet. I felt it float against my face.
“Ohhhh.” I groaned when its sour smell reached my nose.
I staggered back, choking. I started to gag.
I thrashed both hands wildly, trying to brush the mist away.
“Yuck!” Cara cried, making a sick face. She pressed her fingers over her nose. “It stinks!”
The sickening fog swept around us. In seconds, the mist billowed all over the room.
“I—I can’t breathe!” I gasped.
I couldn’t see, either. The fog blocked the light from our flashlights!
“Ohhh,” Cara groaned. “It smells so bad!” My eyes burned. I could taste the sour fog on my tongue. I felt sick. My stomach gurgled. My throat tightened.
I’ve got to plug up the bottle, I decided. If I close the bottle, this disgusting mist will stop spurting up.
I dropped to my knees and my flashlight clattered to the floor. I felt blindly along the floor till I found the bottle. Then I swept my other hand in a circle till my fingers curled around the stopper.
Struggling not to gag, I shoved the stopper into the top of the bottle.
I jumped to my feet and held the bottle up so that Cara could see that I closed it.
She didn’t see me. She had both hands over her face. Her shoulders were heaving up and down.
As I set the bottle down, I started to gag. I swallowed hard. Again. Again. I couldn’t get the disgusting taste from my mouth.
The sour fog swirled around us for a few seconds more. Then it lowered itself to the floor, fading away.
“Cara—?” I finally choked out. “Cara—are you okay?”
She slowly lowered her hands from her face. She blinked several times, then turned to me. “Yuck,” she murmured. “It was so gross! Why did you grab the bottle like that? That was all your fault.”
“Huh?” I gasped. “My fault? My fault?”
She nodded. “Yes. If you hadn’t grabbed at the bottle, I never would have dropped it. And—”
“But you’re the one who wanted to open it!” I shrieked. “Remember? You were pulling off the top!”
“Oh.” She remembered.
She brushed at her sweater and jeans with both hands. She tried to wipe the awful smell away. “Freddy, let’s get out of here,” she demanded.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” For once we agreed on something.
I followed her to the door. Halfway across the room, I turned back.
Gazed at the coffin.
And gasped.
“Cara—look!” I whispered.
Someone was lying in the coffin.
8
Cara screamed. She grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard, I cried out.
We huddled together in the doorway, staring back into the dark room.
Staring at the pale form in the coffin.
“Are you scared?” Cara whispered.
“Who—me?” I choked out.
I had to show her I wasn’t scared. I took a step toward the coffin. Then another. She stayed close by my side. The beams of light from our flashlights darted shakily ahead of us.
My heart started to pound. My mouth suddenly felt dry. It was impossible to hold the flashlight steady.
“It’s an old man,” I whispered.
“But how did he get there?” Cara whispered back. “He wasn’t there a second ago.” She squeezed my arm again.
But I didn’t really feel the pain. I was too excited, too amazed, too confused to feel anything.
How did he get there?
Who was he?
“Is he dead?” Cara asked.
I didn’t answer. I crept up to the coffin and shone my light in.
The man was old and completely bald. His skin stretched tight against his skull, smooth as a lightbulb.
His eyes were shut. His lips were as pale as his skin, drawn tightly together.
He had tiny, white hands. Thin as bones. They were crossed over his chest.
He was dressed in a black tuxedo. Very old-fashioned-looking. The stiff collar of his white shirt pressed up against his pale cheeks. His shiny black shoes were buttoned instead of laced.
“Is he dead?” Cara repeated.
“I guess so,” I choked out. I had never seen a dead person before.
Again, I felt Cara’s hand on my arm. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Okay.”
I wanted to leave. I wanted to get away from there as fast as I could.
But something held me there. Something froze me in place, staring at the pale, old face. At the old man lying so still, so silent in the purple coffin.
And as I stared, the old man opened his eyes.
Blinked.
And started to sit up.
9
I gasped and stumbled backward. If I hadn’t hit the wall, I think I would have fallen over.
The flashlight fell from my hand. It clattered loudly to the floor.
The sound made the old man turn in our direction.
In the trembling beam from Cara’s flashlight, he blinked several times. Then his tiny pale hands rubbed his eyes, as if rubbing the sleep from them.
He groaned softly. And tried to focus on us, squinting and rubbing his eyes.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it was about to explode through my shirt. My temples throbbed, and I let out sharp, wheezing breaths.
“I—I—” Cara stammered. I could see her whole body shaking as she stood in front of me, training the light on the old man in the coffin.
“Where am I?” the old man croaked. He shook his head. He appeared dazed. “Where am I? What am I doing here?” He squinted in the flashlight beam.
His pale, bald head glowed in the light. Even his eyes were pale, sort of silvery.
He licked his white lips. His mouth made a dry, smacking sound.
“I’m so thirsty,” he moaned in a hoarse whisper. “I’m so terribly—thirsty.”
He sat up slowly, with a loud groan. As he pulled himself up, I saw that he wore a cape, a silky, purple cape that matched the purple of the coffin.
He licked his pale lips again. “So thirsty…”
And then he saw Cara and me.
He blinked again. And squinted at us. “Where am I?” he asked, staring hard at me with those eerie, silver eyes. “What room is this?”
“It’s my house,” I replied. But the words tumbled out in a weak whisper.
“So thirsty…” he murmured again. Groaning and muttering to himself, he lifted one leg over the coffin, then the other.
He slid out onto the floor. He didn’t make a sound when he landed. He seemed so light, as if he didn’t weigh anything at all.
A chill of fear froze the back of my neck. I tried to back up. But I was already pressed against the wall.
I glanced to the open doorway. It seemed a hundred miles away.
The old man licked his dry lips. Still squinting hard, he took a step toward Cara and me. He smoothed his cape with both hands as he walked.
“Who—are—you?” Cara managed to choke out.
“How did you get here?” I cr
ied, finding my voice. “What are you doing in my basement? How did you get in that coffin?” The questions burst out of me. “Who are you?”
He stopped and scratched his bald head. For a moment, he appeared to be struggling to remember who he was.
Then he replied, “I am Count Nightwing.” He nodded, as if reminding himself. “Yes. I am Count Nightwing.”
Cara and I both uttered gasps. Then we started talking at the same time.
“How did you get here?”
“What do you want?”
“Are you—are you—a vampire?”
He covered his ears with his hands. He shut his eyes. “The noise…” he complained. “Please, speak softly. I’ve been asleep for so long.”
“Are you a vampire?” I asked softly.
“Yes. A vampire. Count Nightwing.” He nodded. And opened his eyes. He gazed at Cara, then at me, as if seeing us for the first time.
“Yessss,” he hissed. He raised his arms and began to move toward us.
“And I’m so thirsty. So very thirsty. I’ve been asleep for so long. And now I’m thirsty. And I must drink now.”
10
The count raised his arms and gripped the purple cape. The cape spread out behind him like wings, and he rose up into the air.
“So thirsty…” he murmured, licking his dry lips. “So thirsty.” His silvery eyes locked onto Cara, as if trying to hypnotize her and hold her in place.
I was never so frightened in all my life. I admit it.
I don’t scare easily. And neither does Cara.
We’ve watched a hundred vampire movies on TV. We laugh at them. We think the idea of a guy with fangs who flies around drinking human blood is funny.
We have never been the least bit scared.
But that was movies. This was real life!
We had just watched this guy—who called himself Count Nightwing—rise up from a coffin. A coffin practically in my basement!
And now, he had his arms spread out and he was floating across the room toward us. Muttering about how thirsty he was. Narrowing his weird, frightening eyes at Cara’s throat!
So, yes—I admit I was scared. But not too scared to move.
