by R. L. Stine
The red glow behind the visor flickered.
“You are correct, foul wizard,” Sir Thomas admitted. “I cannot attack an unarmed man.” He stepped back and swept his arm out over Dad’s display of weapons. “Choose.”
My hands shaking, my heart pumping, I looked over the weapons. Could I save myself with any of them? Not likely. I picked up a heavy shield. One big enough to hide behind. I clutched it in both hands and ducked in back of it.
Great, I thought.
But not good enough for Sir Thomas.
“Choose!” he roared again.
His command made the conservatory windows rattle.
I dodged out from behind the shield long enough to grab the handle of a mace.
I held the shield in my left hand. I balanced the mace in my right. They weighed about a ton each and my arms ached just trying to hold on to them. How could I ever fight?
Would I even get a chance to try?
Sir Thomas threw his head back and laughed.
The battle had begun.
Lucky for me, I’m fast when I have to be. Even in reverse. My feet skidded on the tile floor as I slid backward. I peered over the top of the shield. I saw Sir Thomas pull his mace back, over his head. Then swing it toward me.
The pointy spikes glistened as the mace streaked through the air. I yelped and pushed the shield up in front of me. I ducked my head and braced myself.
Direct hit.
My bones shook as the mace crashed into my shield. A shower of sparks flew off the shield.
And then I heard a horrible cracking sound.
I knew it meant only one thing.
My crumbling shield wouldn’t last much longer.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Sir Thomas had won.
9
I held my breath. I counted my pounding heartbeats. I knew they’d be my last.
In two seconds I’d be face-to-face with the evil knight. With no shield to protect me.
One. Two. Two and a half.
Two and three-quarters…
Nothing happened.
I opened one eye. I opened my other eye.
I checked out my shield. Not a crack in sight.
I spotted Sir Thomas a few steps in front of me. He stared down at his mace.
I stared at it, too.
What remained of it.
When it struck my shield, Sir Thomas’ mace shattered into about a million little pieces. The sharp metal spikes scattered all over the floor.
While Sir Thomas looked closer at the ruined weapon, I peered at the front of my shield. The mace had made a big dent in it, all right. But nothing more.
“Wow!” I couldn’t believe my luck.
What was going on here?
Sir Thomas snarled. The red glow behind his visor flared. He hurled his useless mace into the corner. “Wow?” he mimicked. “Do not try your magic words on me, vile creature!”
I spotted his broadsword, gripped in his other metal hand. He sliced the air with some practice swipes as he stomped toward me. The long silver blade flashed in the darkness.
I ducked down and ran for it.
Go! Go! Go! I urged myself.
I couldn’t get out the conservatory door. Sir Thomas was blocking it. I pounded through the conservatory. Toward the kitchen. Sir Thomas pounded the floor one step behind me. I threw down the heavy shield. My legs pumped until every muscle ached. My breath burned in my throat.
I heard him close behind me. Closing the small gap. I imagined him reaching out a long metal arm and snagging me by the neck.
I ran even harder.
I punched the door open and raced into the kitchen. My slippers skidded on the tile floor. My feet flew out from under me.
I flailed my arms, trying to keep my balance. Too late. With a painful thud, I landed on my belly and kept sliding.
I heard Sir Thomas’ sword whiz through the air above me.
Right where my head would have been.
Our kitchen has one of those islands in it. The kind of counter that stands in the middle of the floor. Regular people use it to cook and serve food. Dad uses it for cleaning weapons.
Scuttling like a beetle, I crawled behind the island. I hopped to my feet and darted to the other end of it, just beyond Sir Thomas’ reach.
From my side of the counter I stared over at the knight. The space behind Sir Thomas’ visor glowed with blood-red fire. Angry orange sparks shot out from the center of the crackling flames.
What could I use to fight him? I frantically scanned the room. The chains hanging on the wall? Too far away. The broadsword hanging beside them? Too heavy for me even to lift.
Then I saw it.
The catapult.
It stood between me and the door. I could dart over to it and take cover before I dived for the door.
If I could make my feet move.
Fear rooted me to the floor. I felt numb. Paralyzed.
Sir Thomas knew it. The fire in his eyes blazed. He raised his broadsword and whacked it down.
I darted out of the blade’s path. Just in time.
The huge blade sliced clean through the countertop.
I crouched behind the catapult and gasped for breath.
With a growl Sir Thomas yanked his sword out of the counter. He swung it from side to side.
With his armor creaking and rattling, he marched toward me.
I could either die here behind the catapult or make one last, desperate dash for the door.
I spun around, all set to go for it.
My hand hit the lever that operated the catapult.
I heard a boinging sound and a whoosh. Dad kept a papier-mâché rock in the catapult. I watched it sail toward the knight. I knew it couldn’t hurt him, but maybe it would distract him long enough for me to sneak out the door.
It struck him square in the chest.
I dashed to the door. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Sir Thomas stagger back. His arms flew up from his sides. His broadsword and shield clattered to the floor.
The knight raised his head. He looked right at me. The fire in his eyes exploded like lava in a volcano.
Then he fell back onto the floor with a terrible crash.
Knocked out cold.
10
Knocked out? From a papier-mâché rock?
No way.
I came out from behind the catapult really slowly. I stared down at him.
His motionless legs and one arm stuck out from his body at weird angles. His other arm had dropped near the door.
His helmet was tilted to one side. I peered into the slit above his visor but saw only a cold black shadow.
Right in the middle of his breastplate I saw a huge dent.
The knots in my stomach untied. I dragged in a deep breath. It felt like the first one I’d taken in hours.
I spotted the rock under the kitchen table and picked it up. Light as a feather. As always.
A papier-mâché rock couldn’t knock out a knight in heavy armor.
But it did!
And I beat the ghastly ghost!
“Yes! Way to go!” I cheered out loud for myself.
“He’s lean. He’s mean. He’s Mike Conway! Undefeated champion—” I announced in my sports-caster’s voice.
“Mike?” Dad called from the hallway. He came into the kitchen with Carly. “What’s going on down here? Why aren’t you in bed?”
Before I could get a word out, Dad flipped on the light.
He gasped. His face turned white. He stared down at the mess of armor on the floor. His mouth hung open.
Then he looked at me.
What a look!
Sir Thomas hadn’t killed me. But it looked as if Dad wanted to. Real bad, too.
“Michael Conway! Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands off that armor?”
“Now, wait a second, Dad. It’s not what you think—”
“It was the bats,” Carly piped up. She had on her I-told-you-so face. She crossed her arms over h
er chest.
“I told you about the bats, Dad. Mike was so afraid of them, he probably ran all over the place, knocking everything over. Including the armor.”
“Shut up, Carly. What do you know?” I said. “It was Sir Thomas, Dad,” I tried to explain. “He was chasing me all over the place. He called me a wizard. He tried to smash me with his mace, and then he chased me with his sword—” I was speed talking, but I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t even sure if Dad understood a word I was saying.
“And then, he—”
Suddenly Dad didn’t look so sleepy anymore. Behind his glasses, his eyes opened wide.
“The knight? It was him?” Dad grabbed my shoulders. I stopped talking and took a breath. “He made that racket?”
I nodded wildly. Finally he heard me.
“That’s wonderful!” Dad said.
“No, Dad. You don’t understand.”
“You mean he’s really haunted?” He stared down at Sir Thomas again. He scooped up the arm that had fallen near the door. He waved it in the air. “What news! What wonderful news! Kids, do you know what this means?”
I darted in front of him. He still didn’t understand!
“Dad, listen. The armor’s not just haunted. It’s dangerous. The knight tried to chop me into a million pieces. He tried to—”
I might as well have told the story to the wall.
Dad didn’t hear a word I said. I had never seen him so excited.
“This is great! Better than great! The armor really is haunted. Carly. Mike.” He turned to us. “You’re looking at the most brilliant man on Fear Street. We’ll make a mint. We’ll…”
He went on and on like that. The more he went on, the lower my shoulders sagged.
“Did he really come down off his horse by himself, Mike?” he asked me. “Did he walk? Did he say anything?”
“Yes, he walked! Yes, he talked!” I yelled at Dad. “And then he tried to slice me in half with a huge sword!”
I never yelled at Dad. We weren’t allowed. But this was an emergency.
If he would only listen for two seconds.
I snatched the sleeve of his gray robe.
“Dad, the ghost is here—now. The curse is on us. Whoever owns the armor is doomed. You’ve got to believe me!”
Dad laughed. He still didn’t get it. Or maybe he thought I was acting so crazy because I’d seen a ghost.
His eyes glittered. He rubbed his hands together. “We can add an addition next spring. We’ll have to, there will be so many customers.”
“But, Dad. Dad, I—”
Dad slipped one arm around my shoulders. He grabbed Carly with the other one. He pressed us both into a huge hug. “We did it!” he said. “We saved the museum! Thanks to Uncle Basil, we’ve got our very own ghost.”
Dad nudged us toward the stairs in the living room. “Well,” he said, “I think that’s enough excitement for one night. Or should I say one k-n-i-g-h-t?” He laughed at his own joke.
I didn’t.
My heart sank. So did my hopes of making Dad listen.
He flicked off the kitchen light. He led us out of the museum. Dad and Carly headed up the steps. He kept talking a mile a minute. “The media, that’s what we need. I’ll call the TV stations in the morning. And the newspapers. We’ll set up a grand opening. A grand unveiling of the haunted knight! This summer the tourists will be waiting in a line a mile long.”
Still chuckling, I heard Dad tell Carly good night. Then I heard the sound of his bedroom door closing gently behind him.
Left alone, I kicked at the bottom step. Now what? I had to do something. But I couldn’t figure out what.
It was no use.
I was too tired.
And too worried.
There was nothing to do but head back to bed.
I stood at the top of the steps when I thought I heard something. Something that didn’t sound right.
I listened hard.
I heard it again. Louder this time.
The short hairs on the back of my neck stood up on end.
I recognized the sound.
The ghostly clip-clop of a horse’s hooves.
11
The next day I rushed straight home after school. I dumped my backpack in the upstairs kitchen and grabbed some cookies. Then I ran into the museum, looking for Mr. Spellman.
Dad wouldn’t listen to me. But I knew Mr. Spellman would.
I found him in the conservatory working on Sir Thomas. I saw the armor in one piece again stretched out flat on the floor next to the horse. Mr. Spellman was polishing the knight’s broadsword.
He turned and smiled when I ran in. “Home from school already, Mike?” he said.
“Mr. Spellman, there you are. Dad wouldn’t listen to me last night. But maybe you can warn him.”
Mr. Spellman’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Warn him? About what?”
“The armor! It’s haunted. Just like the story you told me,” I gasped.
“That’s what your dad said.” He nodded. “He’s making big plans for the grand opening next weekend.”
“Oh, no!” I collapsed onto the floor. I shook my head. “I hope it’s not too late,” I said.
“Too late for what? What’s wrong, pal?” Mr. Spellman sat down on the floor next to me. His old knees creaked.
I drew in a deep breath. Finally someone would listen to me. Everyone would be safe from Sir Thomas.
Even if it did ruin Dad’s grand opening.
Sitting there on the floor, I told Mr. Spellman the whole story, start to finish. His blue eyes widened as he listened. He nodded a few times. But he didn’t interrupt me once.
When I finished, Mr. Spellman didn’t make fun of me, like Carly did. He didn’t get all excited, like Dad did.
He just nodded his white head again. He pulled on his mustache. He was thinking really hard. After a little while he hoisted himself to his feet. He offered me a hand up.
“Mike, you should be proud of yourself,” Mr. Spellman said. “You fought the knight. You beat him. You broke the curse!”
“Do you really think so?” I asked. “But what if Sir Thomas comes back? What if I didn’t break the curse? What if he’s just waiting for the right time?”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Spellman tugged on his mustache again. “I don’t know, Mike. It sounds as if you put his evil spirit to rest for once and for all.” Mr. Spellman glanced over at the armor. “He looks pretty harmless now, doesn’t he?”
I looked at the armor, too. Last night, lit from within with Sir Thomas’ ghostly red fire, it had terrified me. Right now in the sunlight the armor did seem harmless.
Maybe Mr. Spellman was right. Maybe I had defeated the knight for good.
But then I remembered Dad’s big plans.
All the reporters. All the tourists.
Everyone expected a ghost.
“But what about Dad’s big plans? No ghost, no grand opening.”
“Yes, you’ve got a point there.” He scratched his head. “Too bad your dad has invited every reporter in town.”
“Every reporter?” I echoed.
“TV, radio, newspapers. The works.” Mr. Spellman nodded. “He’ll be crushed if there’s no ghost.” He sighed.
I sighed, too.
“Yeah, he’ll be crushed,” I said.
Mr. Spellman turned to me slowly. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell him.”
“We shouldn’t?”
“Well, when you think about it, what good will it do? No one can guarantee when a ghost will show up anyway. Let the reporters come.” He smiled. “The museum could use the publicity, right?”
“I guess so. That makes sense.”
“Why upset your dad and ruin his plans?” Mr. Spellman continued in a low voice. He glanced at the armor again. “And who knows—Sir Thomas might return just to be on the five o’clock news.”
I grinned. “That would really be something.”
“Sure would.” Mr. Spellman smiled back.
“I guess y
ou’re right,” I said. “We won’t tell Dad.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Mr. Spellman agreed.
I nodded. “But I’ll keep an eye on Sir Thomas.”
“Me, too.” Mr. Spellman patted my shoulder. “Now I must get back to work. Want to help put Sir Thomas on his horse?”
I stood up and gazed over at the armor. I put my hands in my pockets.
“Uh—well, I really want to—” I stammered. “But I need to study for this huge math test.”
Mr. Spellman chuckled. “Sure thing, Mike. Maybe next time.”
He smiled and winked at me.
* * *
That night I couldn’t sleep. I leaned back against my pillows and gazed into the blue pendant. And worried.
I worried that Sir Thomas would return. He’d charge through the museum and make confetti out of all of us.
Then I worried that the ghost was gone and Dad’s grand opening would be a flop. And the thought almost made me wish the ghost would return.
I worried so much that I almost didn’t hear it.
Thump. Thump.
I sat up. I listened.
Thump. Thump.
“Very funny, Carly.” Grumbling, I got out of bed. “How dumb do you think I am?”
I went downstairs. The sounds grew louder. I followed them. Right back to the kitchen.
“The kitchen? Again?” I shook my head in amazement. Carly didn’t have much of an imagination.
Without bothering to turn on the lights, I walked through the museum and into the kitchen.
Thump. Thump.
I heard it, louder than ever. But I didn’t see Carly. Anywhere.
For a couple of seconds I stood stone still. I didn’t take a breath. I didn’t move a muscle.
Until somebody grabbed my arm.
I shrieked and jumped out of my slippers.
“Sorry, Mike.”
Mr. Spellman! As soon as I saw him, I relaxed. But not for long.
Something was up.
Mr. Spellman put one finger up to his lips. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered. “I was working late in the mummy room when I heard the sound. What do you suppose it is?”
