by R. L. Stine
I stared into the darkness to the other end of the hall. I couldn’t hear them now. They were silent. But I could see the tiny red dots of their eyes staring back at me.
The elevator seemed a mile away. I decided if I walked slowly, carefully, silently, maybe I wouldn’t disturb the bats. I forced myself away from the wall and started walking, almost on tiptoe, trying not to make a sound.
But the floorboards beneath the thin carpet squeaked with every footstep, and I could see the red eyes flash, suddenly alert. The shrill chittering started up again, as if the bats were sounding the alarm.
I stopped. I could see the dark, round window of the elevator just a few yards away. If only I could get there and jump inside it before the bats decided to attack again.
Bats don’t attack people. That’s what we learned in our Earth Sciences class last year. Bats don’t attack people—unless provoked.
What did that mean exactly?
I think I was provoking them by being in the hall. Invading their space.
I took a step. Then another. I kept my eyes on the elevator door. I forced myself not to look at the bats.
I stopped in front of the door. The window was black. I squinted in the darkness, searching for the button on the wall. My hand shook as I raised it and pushed the button.
I thought maybe the elevator was still on this floor, and the door would slide open for me. But no. Nothing happened.
I listened for the hum of the car, but I couldn’t hear anything over the shrill chirp and whistle of the bats. I pressed the button again. Again.
Come on. Come on!
I pushed my face against the glass of the elevator window. I struggled to hear. No. Nothing happening. Was the car stuck on another floor? Was the elevator turned off?
The bats’ cries grew more shrill. They rang in my ears like a dozen ambulance sirens, all wailing at once. I heard the flap and flutter of their wings again.
The back of my neck prickled. I imagined their tiny bat claws hanging on me, digging into my skin. Imagined the sharp bite of their little pointed teeth.
“No!” I slammed my fist against the elevator door. “Where are you?” I screamed. I was losing it, but I didn’t care.
I spun away, breathing hard. Okay. No elevator. That meant I had to find the stairway. There had to be a stairway down to the second floor.
Swinging away from the bats, I lurched toward the other end of the hall. Dark doorways whirred past me in a blur.
I stopped when I saw a square of dim light spilling onto the carpet from an open doorway. Was someone in there? Was Brendan in there?
“Brendan?”
I started to jog. Stepped into the square of light. Turned into the doorway.
Squinted into the gray light, gray as a fog. And screamed.
Screamed as I saw the body. A boy’s body. A boy in a black sweater and gray jeans. Hanged. His neck tilted, head slanting at a horrible angle. The boy hanging from a rope that stretched down from a high ceiling rafter.
“Oh, no. Oh, no.”
The body swung slowly around—and I stared at Brendan’s pale face, eyes frozen wide open.
Brendan, hanged from the ceiling.
I tried to look away, but my eyes stopped on something on the floor. A sheet of white paper beneath Brendan’s shoes. White paper with writing on it. Some kind of note?
Staggering forward, almost against my will, I moved close enough to gaze down at the carefully printed words on the paper:
ANYONE FOR A GAME OF HANGMAN?
15.
“SOMEONE IS THREATENING ME”
I stared at the words until they became a blur.
And then I uttered a choked cry as hands gripped my shoulders hard from behind. I stumbled off-balance as someone pulled me back. Forced me to the doorway.
“Hey—!” I found my voice and cried out. I spun around. “Brendan!”
“Rachel, here you are. I heard you scream, but I couldn’t find you.” He let go of my shoulders. His dark eyes were wide, his face twisted in a confused frown.
“Brendan, I thought—”
He took a step back and stared over my shoulder at the figure swinging from the rope.
“It—it’s a mannequin,” I stammered. “The light was so weird. It was so hard to see. Brendan, I thought it was you.”
He didn’t reply. He pushed past me and stepped up to the mannequin. He picked the note up from the floor. I could see his eyes reading it again and again.
“Brendan—are you okay?”
Finally, he turned to me. “It looks like me. It’s even wearing my clothes.”
“I know,” I said, stepping up to him. “I thought—”
He crinkled the note into a ball and tossed it across the room. “Who did this?” he muttered in a low voice. “Who would do this? Is someone trying to ruin my party?”
“It’s got to be a joke,” I said. “Maybe—”
He exploded. “A joke? Seriously? A joke?”
I was startled by his sudden anger. But as I stared at his face, I could see the anger turn to fear.
“Not a joke,” he murmured, shaking his head. The pink circles on his cheeks had darkened to red.
“It’s a threat, Rachel. Someone is threatening me.” He grabbed the mannequin, gave it a hard push, and watched it swing back and forth. “First the dead animals in the beds. Then this. This is a definite warning.”
“Wait. Think about it,” I said, grabbing his arm. “It could just be a sick joke. Maybe Eric…?”
“Eric?” he said. He shook his head. “No. Eric is a joker, but this isn’t his style. Eric is a goof. He’s never mean.” He raised his eyes to me. “No way. Not Eric. We’re good friends. He wouldn’t do this.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Stop the scavenger hunt? Send everyone home?”
He turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “No way,” he said. “I planned this party for weeks. I’m not going to let anyone spoil it.”
“But if you think this is a serious threat—” I started.
“I don’t care. I’m not stopping the scavenger hunt. I’m not stopping the party.”
“But, Brendan, don’t you think you should call everyone together? Maybe tell everyone what happened up here? If it is just a joke, you don’t want—”
“If it is a joke, it’s a pretty hostile one,” he said. “Look at this thing.” He shoved the mannequin again and sent it swinging. “Hanging someone is not a funny joke.”
“If you think it’s a real threat, you should definitely phone the police,” I said. “Seriously.”
“Phone the police? How? The phones are shut off. And cell phones don’t work here.”
He pounded both fists against the mannequin and sent it swinging again. “Who would do this? Let’s think. Let’s think.”
I knew he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to himself.
Brendan shook his head and began to pace back and forth, avoiding the dummy, which twirled slowly on its rope. “My cousins? Morgan and Kenny have a sick sense of humor. Those two guys are pretty dark. Probably because they’re Fears.” He stopped pacing and gazed at the dust-smeared window, obviously thinking hard.
“But when could they do this?” I asked. “Your cousins were on the boat with us. When would they have time? They were in the ballroom until the scavenger hunt began. I never saw them leave.”
He bit his bottom lip. “You’re right. Did you see anyone leave the ballroom while we were eating?”
I opened my mouth to reply. But I stopped when I heard the shrill cry from out in the hall. At first, I thought it was the whistle of the bats. But then I realized it was a human cry. A frightened scream.
And it was joined by other screams, high cries of horror.
Brendan gripped the mannequin, as if holding himself up with it. “What is that?” he murmured. “What is going on?”
And then the two of us tore out of the room and went running down the long hall, toward the sound of the screams.
16.
ANOTHER NOTE
As we ran, I glanced back through the darkness to see if the bats were following us. It was too dark. I couldn’t see them.
Brendan turned the corner ahead of me. I followed him, into another long hall. The screams grew louder. And as we ran closer, I saw some kids huddled in a doorway. They all stared into the pale light of a room near the end of the hall.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Brendan shouted breathlessly.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed through the crowd outside the door, and I followed him. We burst into a blue-wallpapered bedroom, two twin beds against one wall.
I stumbled. And gasped when I saw the girl in the middle of the floor.
It took me a few seconds to recognize her. Patti Berger.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Please—no.
Patti on the floor. Bent in half. Eyes shut tight. Her arms and legs all twisted like a rag doll.
I took a deep breath. I felt sick. My stomach lurched. I struggled not to puke.
Brendan was muttering under his breath, his face red. His hand shook as he lifted a piece of paper. Another note. He read it out loud in a trembling voice:
“Twister, Anyone?”
I uttered a sharp cry. My whole body shuddered and I staggered back, stumbling into the other horrified kids.
“No,” Brendan murmured. “This can’t be happening.”
He dropped down beside Patti. He spread his hand over her face. He touched her neck. He held his fingers under her nose to see if she was breathing. “No. Oh, no.”
I gaped in open-mouthed silence along with the other kids. We stood together in a close pack.
Brendan lowered his head to Patti’s chest and listened. With a cry, he grabbed her by the shoulders. He shook her. Shook her hard. Then he lowered her carefully to the floor. He tried to breathe into her mouth. One breath … two … three …
Finally, he turned away from Patti and raised his eyes to us. “This isn’t a joke,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “She’s dead.”
PART THREE
17.
IS THERE A KILLER IN THE HOUSE?
Kerry Reacher came bursting into the room. His long legs appeared to collapse when he saw Patti on the floor, and he dropped heavily beside her.
“What’s happening? What is this?” Kerry’s eyes were on Brendan. He didn’t wait for an answer. He untwisted Patti’s arms. Then he lifted her gently and pressed her face against his chest.
“No—” Brendan cried. “Don’t touch her. We have to leave her for the police.”
Kerry ignored him. I don’t think he even heard Brendan. “She isn’t dead!” Kerry screamed, holding Patti’s body close. “She can’t be dead.”
Behind him, Geena and Delia were hugging each other. They both had tears running down their faces. Brendan’s cousins hung back at the doorway, hands shoved in their pockets, not speaking, looking very pale and tense.
Kerry held on to Patti. Her head was tilted back on his arm. Her eyes remained shut. “Who did this?” Kerry shouted. “Who killed Patti?” He shook her body by the shoulders. “Patti—who did this? Who? I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll kill him.” He was shaking her, shrieking at the top of his lungs.
Brendan motioned me over. “Can you help Kerry?” he whispered. “Maybe take him downstairs? He’s totally freaking. We have to leave everything as we found it. When the police come…” His voice trailed off.
“I-I’ll try,” I stammered.
“I’ll bring everyone else downstairs,” Brendan whispered. “We have to figure out what to do.”
“Why was she twisted like that?” Kerry demanded, his eyes locked on Brendan. “Who twisted her legs like that?”
Brendan lowered himself beside Kerry. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I’ll do everything I can, Kerry. Everything—”
“I should know not to get mixed up with anyone named Fear. There’s a killer in this house,” Kerry declared. “A killer.”
Brendan gently lifted Patti’s body from Kerry’s arms. He set her down. Then he helped Kerry to his feet. “Go with Rachel,” he said. “Kerry? Can you hear me?”
Kerry’s eyes stared blankly at the green wall. He didn’t respond.
“Kerry, go with Rachel,” Brendan repeated. “We’ll meet you downstairs.”
I put one arm around Kerry’s waist and started to guide him to the door. I expected him to pull back, to fight me, or demand to stay in the room with Patti. To my surprise, he let me lead him past the other kids and into the hall.
I held onto him, and we walked together to the stairway at the end of the hall. Kerry muttered to himself, his eyes glassy, off in the distance as if he was somewhere else, seeing something I couldn’t.
“The Fear family,” he murmured, turning his face to me. “There’s a curse. A curse on the whole family, even Brendan.”
“Watch your step,” I said. I grabbed him as he started to stumble.
“There’s a curse on this house, too,” Kerry said. “You know the story, Rachel. You have to know the story. How the Fear family had a hunting party here on the island. Like a hundred years ago. They had a hunting party and hunted all their servants. You know the story, right?”
“Well—”
“They made their servants run through the woods, and they hunted them. They shot them all. They killed all their servants. Just for a game. And they buried them somewhere in the woods.”
He let out a soft cry. “It’s true. It has to be true. And now look. Look what happened here. Patti. Poor Patti. Because of the curse on the Fear family.”
“That’s just a story. It can’t be true,” I said.
I suddenly pictured the mannequin that looked like Brendan swinging on the rope. Was that really a warning to Brendan? And now, Patti was dead.
A heavy feeling of dread weighed me down. Brendan has been warned. Patti is dead. Does this mean we are ALL in danger?
I led Kerry into the ballroom. The food table had been cleared. The waiters had left the room. But the bar table still had drinks.
The candles in the chandeliers had all been doused. Pale beams of light from spotlights in the ceiling filled the room with a silvery glow.
Two rows of folding chairs had been set up facing the fireplace. I sat Kerry down in a seat in the back row and brought him a glass of water. He stared at it as if he’d never seen water before.
“Patti…” he murmured. “Patti. Not you, Patti. Not you. I never should have brought you here.” He raised his sad, wet eyes to me. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“No,” I answered. “Of course not. Don’t think like that, Kerry.” I motioned to the glass. “Have some water. Do you want something else? Want a beer?”
He didn’t answer. He gazed into the glass. A single tear rolled down one cheek.
Suddenly, I felt like crying, too.
A wave of sadness rolled over me. I’d been trying so hard to calm Kerry down, I had been forcing down my own feelings of fright and regret. Now they came bursting to the surface, and my whole body trembled.
I’d known Patti since second grade. She was so tiny and cute and adorable. Our families were so close. So close … And now …
I lowered myself into the chair next to Kerry. The doors opened, and the rest of the party guests stampeded into the ballroom, followed by Brendan.
Brendan motioned everyone to the rows of chairs. His face was pale. His normally perfect hair was pointing in all directions. He kept his head down as he walked to the front.
“We have to get out of here,” Eric Finn shouted.
“Did you call the police?” Spider demanded.
“Brendan, did you call 911?” April repeated.
Brendan shrugged. He pulled his phone from his pocket and waved it. “I can’t. No bars. Remember? There’s no service on the island. And the landlines have all been shut off for the winter.”
“So we can’t call anyone? We can’t report the murder?” April asked.
The word murder sent a gasp through the crowd. It was as if saying it made it even more real and more horrible.
Once again, I pictured Patti’s body all twisted up on the floor in that bedroom. And I remembered the handwritten note: Twister, Anyone?
Someone is playing games, I thought. Deadly games.
“We can’t just sit here,” Spider shouted. “There’s a killer in the house.”
“Could it be one of us?” Brendan’s cousin Kenny asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” Eric snapped. “We’re not killers.”
“I’m not stupid,” Kenny replied. He jumped to his feet. “Don’t call me stupid.”
Eric raised both hands as if in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re not stupid.”
Kenny glared at him, then lowered himself to his chair.
Morgan turned to Eric. “Kenny has a short fuse,” he said.
Eric stared back at him. “Was that supposed to be a warning?”
“No,” Morgan said. “I was just saying.”
“Who would kill Patti?” Kerry asked. “Who?” He buried his head in his hands.
“Someone strung up a dummy of me,” Brendan told everyone. “It was hanging in one of the empty rooms. Swinging from the ceiling. Wearing my clothes. With a note that said something about wanting to play Hangman.”
“Sick,” Delia muttered. She was hunched in her chair, twisting a strand of her white-blonde hair tensely.
“I thought the hanging dummy was some kind of warning,” Brendan said. “But then…” He didn’t finish his thought.
“Hangman and Twister,” Delia said. “Someone is totally sick.”
“Someone is definitely playing games with us,” Geena said. “Only…” Her voice broke. “Murder isn’t a game.”
“We have to get on the boat—now,” Eric said. “We have to get out of here, Brendan.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
“Is the boat ready?”
“We have to get off this island.”
Brendan waved both hands to quiet everyone. “The boat is ready. But the pilot. Randy. He … He’ll be okay, but he’s out of commission. He’s down. He can’t do it. We don’t have anyone to pilot the boat.”
