by R. L. Stine
SAY CHEESE
AND DIE!
Goosebumps - 04
R.L. Stine
(An Undead Scan v1.5)
1
“There’s nothing to do in Pitts Landing,” Michael Warner said, his hands shoved into the pockets of his faded denim cutoffs.
“Yeah. Pitts Landing is the pits,” Greg Banks said.
Doug Arthur and Shari Walker muttered their agreement.
Pitts Landing Is The Pits. That was the town slogan, according to Greg and his three friends. Actually, Pitts Landing wasn’t much different from a lot of small towns with quiet streets of shady lawns and comfortable old houses.
But here it was, a balmy fall afternoon, and the four friends were hanging around Greg’s driveway, kicking at the gravel, wondering what to do for fun and excitement.
“Let’s go to Grover’s and see if the new comic books have come in,” Doug suggested.
“We don’t have any money, Bird,” Greg told him.
Everyone called Doug “Bird”, because he looked a lot like a bird. A better nickname might have been “Stork”. He had long, skinny legs and took long, storklike steps. Under his thick tuft of brown hair, which he seldom brushed, he had small, birdlike brown eyes and a long nose that curved like a beak. Doug didn’t really like being called Bird, but he was used to it.
“We can still look at the comics,” Bird insisted.
“Until Grover starts yelling at you,” Shari said. She puffed out her cheeks and did a pretty good imitation of the gruff store owner: “Are you paying or staying?”
“He thinks he’s cool,” Greg said, laughing at her imitation. “He’s such a jerk.”
“I think the new X-Force is coming in this week,” Bird said.
“You should join the X-Force,” Greg said, giving his pal a playful shove. “You could be Bird Man. You’d be great!”
“We should all join the X-Force,” Michael said. “If we were superheroes, maybe we’d have something to do.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Shari quickly replied. “There’s no crime to fight in Pitts Landing.”
“We could fight crabgrass,” Bird suggested. He was the joker in the group.
The others laughed. The four of them had been friends for a long time. Greg and Shari lived next door to each other, and their parents were best friends. Bird and Michael lived on the next block.
“How about a baseball game?” Michael suggested. “We could go down to the playground.”
“No way,” Shari said. “You can’t play with only four people.” She pushed back a strand of her crimped black hair that had fallen over her face. She was wearing an oversized yellow sweatshirt over bright green leggings.
“Maybe we’ll find some other kids there,” Michael said, picking up a handful of gravel from the drive and letting it sift through his chubby fingers. Michael had short red hair, blue eyes, and a face full of freckles. He wasn’t exactly fat, but no one would ever call him skinny.
“Come on, let’s play baseball,” Bird urged. “I need the practice. My Little League starts in a couple of days.”
“Little League? In the fall?” Shari asked.
“It’s a new fall league. The first game is Tuesday after school,” Bird explained.
“Hey—we’ll come watch you,” Greg said.
“We’ll come watch you strike out,” Shari added. Her hobby was teasing Bird.
“What position are you playing?” Greg asked.
“Backstop,” Michael cracked.
No one laughed. Michael’s jokes always fell flat.
Bird shrugged. “Probably the outfield. How come you’re not playing, Greg?”
With his big shoulders and muscular arms and legs, Greg was the natural athlete of the group. He was blond and good-looking, with flashing gray-green eyes and a wide, friendly smile.
“My brother, Terry, was supposed to go sign me up, but he forgot,” Greg said, making a disgusted face.
“Where is Terry?” Shari asked. She had a tiny crush on Greg’s older brother.
“He got a job Saturdays and after school. At the Dairy Freeze,” Greg told her.
“Let’s go to the Dairy Freeze!” Michael exclaimed enthusiastically.
“We don’t have any money—remember?” Bird said glumly.
“Terry’ll give us free cones,” Michael said, turning a hopeful gaze on Greg.
“Yeah. Free cones. But no ice cream in them,” Greg told him. “You know what a straight arrow my brother is.”
“This is boring,” Shari complained, watching a robin hop across the sidewalk. “It’s boring standing around talking about how bored we are.”
“We could sit down and talk about how bored we are,” Bird suggested, twisting his mouth into the goofy half smile he always wore when he was making a dumb joke.
“Let’s take a walk or a jog or something,” Shari insisted. She made her way across the lawn and began walking, balancing her white high-tops on the edge of the curb, waving her arms like a high-wire performer.
The boys followed, imitating her in an impromptu game of follow the leader, all of them balancing on the curb edge as they walked.
A curious cocker spaniel came bursting out of the neighbors’ hedge, yapping excitedly. Shari stopped to pet him. The dog, its stub of a tail wagging furiously, licked her hand a few times. Then the dog lost interest and disappeared back into the hedge.
The four friends continued down the block, playfully trying to knock each other off the curb as they walked. They crossed the street and continued on past the school. A couple of guys were shooting baskets, and some little kids played kick ball on the practice baseball diamond, but no one they knew.
The road curved away from the school. They followed it past familiar houses. Then, just beyond a small wooded area, they stopped and looked up a sloping lawn, the grass uncut for weeks, tall weeds poking out everywhere, the shrubs ragged and overgrown.
At the top of the lawn, nearly hidden in the shadows of enormous old oak trees, sprawled a large ramshackle house. The house, anyone could see, had once been grand. It was gray shingled, three stories tall, with a wraparound screened porch, a sloping red roof, and tall chimneys on either end. But the broken windows on the second floor, the cracked, weather-stained shingles, the bare spots on the roof, and the shutters hanging loosely beside the dust-smeared windows were evidence of the house’s neglect.
Everyone in Pitts Landing knew it as the Coffman house. Coffman was the name painted on the mailbox that tilted on its broken pole over the front walk.
But the house had been deserted for years—ever since Greg and his friends could remember.
And people liked to tell weird stories about the house: ghost stories and wild tales about murders and ghastly things that happened there. Most likely, none of them were true.
“Hey—I know what we can do for excitement,” Michael said, staring up at the house bathed in shadows.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Greg asked warily.
“Let’s go into the Coffman house,” Michael said, starting to make his way across the weed-choked lawn.
“Whoa. Are you crazy?” Greg called, hurrying to catch up to him.
“Let’s go in,” Michael said, his blue eyes catching the light of the late afternoon sun filtering down through the tall oak trees. “We wanted an adventure. Something a little exciting, right? Come on—let’s check it out.”
Greg hesitated and stared up at the house. A cold chill ran down his back.
Before he could reply, a dark form leaped up from the shadows of the tall weeds and attacked him!
2
Greg toppled backward onto the ground. “Aah!” he screamed. Then he realized the others were laughing.
“It’s that dumb cocker spaniel!” Shari cried. “He followed us!”
“Go home, dog. Go home!” Bird shooed the dog away.
The dog trotted to the curb, turned around, and stared back at them, its stubby tail wagging furiously.
Feeling embarrassed that he’d become so frightened, Greg slowly pulled himself to his feet, expecting his friends to give him grief. But they were staring up at the Coffman house thoughtfully.
“Yeah, Michael’s right,” Bird said, slapping Michael hard on the back, so hard Michael winced and turned to slug Bird. “Let’s see what it’s like in there.”
“No way,” Greg said, hanging back. “I mean, the place is kind of creepy, don’t you think?”
“So?” Shari challenged him, joining Michael and Bird, who repeated her question: “So?”
“So… I don’t know,” Greg replied. He didn’t like being the sensible one of the group. Everyone always made fun of the sensible one. He’d rather be the wild and crazy one. But somehow he always ended up sensible.
“I don’t think we should go in there,” he said, staring up at the neglected old house.
“Are you chicken?” Bird asked.
“Chicken!” Michael joined in.
Bird began to cluck loudly, tucking his hands into his armpits and flapping his arms. With his beady eyes and beaky nose, he looked just like a chicken.
Greg didn’t want to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.
Bird always made him laugh.
The clucking and flapping seemed to end the discussion. They were standing at the foot of the broken concrete steps that led up to the screened porch.
“Look. The window next to the front door is broken,” Shari said. “We can just reach in and open the door.”
“This is cool,” Michael said enthusiastically.
“Are we really doing this?” Greg, being the sensible one, had to ask. “I mean—what about Spidey?”
Spidey was a weird-looking man of fifty or sixty they’d all seen lurking about town. He dressed entirely in black and crept along on long, slender legs. He looked just like a black spider, so the kids all called him Spidey.
Most likely he was homeless or a drifter. No one really knew anything about him—where he’d come from, where he lived. But a lot of kids had seen him hanging around the Coffman house.
“Maybe Spidey doesn’t like visitors,” Greg warned.
But Shari was already reaching in through the broken windowpane to unlock the front door. And after little effort, she turned the brass knob and the heavy wooden door swung open.
One by one, they stepped into the front entryway, Greg reluctantly bringing up the rear. It was dark inside the house. Only narrow beams of sunlight managed to trickle down through the heavy trees in front, creating pale circles of light on the worn brown carpet at their feet.
The floorboards squeaked as Greg and his friends made their way past the living room, which was bare except for a couple of overturned grocery store cartons against one wall.
Spidey’s furniture? Greg wondered.
The living room carpet, as threadbare as the one in the entryway, had a dark oval stain in the center of it. Greg and Bird, stopping in the doorway, both noticed it at the same time.
“Think it’s blood?” Bird asked, his tiny eyes lighting up with excitement.
Greg felt a chill on the back of his neck. “Probably ketchup,” he replied. Bird laughed and slapped him hard on the back.
Shari and Michael were exploring the kitchen. They were staring at the dust-covered counter as Greg and Bird stepped up behind them. They saw immediately what had captured their attention. Two fat gray mice were standing on the counter, staring back at Shari and Michael.
“They’re cute,” Shari said. “They look just like cartoon mice.”
The sound of her voice made the two rodents scamper along the counter, around the sink, and out of sight.
“They’re gross,” Michael said, making a disgusted face. “I think they were rats—not mice.”
“Rats have long tails. Mice don’t,” Greg told him.
“They were definitely rats,” Bird muttered, pushing past them and into the hallway. He disappeared toward the front of the house.
Shari reached up and pulled open a cabinet over the counter. Empty. “I guess Spidey never uses the kitchen,” she said.
“Well, I didn’t think he was a gourmet chef,” Greg joked.
He followed her into the long, narrow dining room, as bare and dusty as the other rooms. A low chandelier still hung from the ceiling, so brown with caked dust it was impossible to tell that it was glass.
“Looks like a haunted house,” Greg said softly.
“Boo,” Shari replied.
“There’s not much to see in here,” Greg complained, following her back to the dark hallway. “Unless you get a thrill from dustballs.”
Suddenly, a loud crack made him jump.
Shari laughed and squeezed his shoulder.
“What was that?” he cried, unable to stifle his fear.
“Old houses do things like that,” she said. “They make noises for no reason at all.”
“I think we should leave,” Greg insisted, embarrassed again that he’d acted so frightened. “I mean, it’s boring in here.”
“It’s kind of exciting being somewhere we’re not supposed to be,” Shari said, peeking into a dark, empty room—probably a den or study at one time.
“I guess,” Greg replied uncertainly.
They bumped into Michael. “Where’s Bird?” Greg asked.
“I think he went down to the basement,” Michael replied.
“Huh? The basement?”
Michael pointed to an open door at the right of the hallway. “The stairs are there.”
The three of them made their way to the top of the stairs. They peered down into the darkness. “Bird?”
From somewhere deep in the basement, his voice floated up to them in a horrified scream: “Help! It’s got me! Somebody—please help! It’s got me!”
3
“It’s got me! It’s got me!”
At the sound of Bird’s terrified cries, Greg pushed past Shari and Michael, who stood frozen in openmouthed horror. Practically flying down the steep stairway, Greg called out to his friend. “I’m coming, Bird! What is it?”
His heart pounding, Greg stopped at the bottom of the stairs, every muscle tight with fear. His eyes searched frantically through the smoky light pouring in from the basement windows up near the ceiling.
“Bird?”
There he was, sitting comfortably, calmly, on an overturned metal trash can, his legs crossed, a broad smile on his birdlike face. “Gotcha,” he said softly, and burst out laughing.
“What is it? What happened?” came the frightened voices of Shari and Michael. They clamored down the stairs, coming to a stop beside Greg.
It took them only a few seconds to scope out the situation.
“Another dumb joke?” Michael asked, his voice still trembling with fear.
“Bird—were you goofing on us again?” Shari asked, shaking her head.
Enjoying his moment, Bird nodded, with his peculiar half grin. “You guys are too easy,” he scoffed.
“But, Doug—” Shari started. She only called him Doug when she was upset with him. “Haven’t you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? What if something bad happens sometime, and you really need help, and we think you’re just goofing?”
“What could happen?” Bird replied smugly. He stood up and gestured around the basement. “Look—it’s brighter down here than upstairs.”
He was right. Sunlight from the backyard cascaded down through four long windows at ground level, near the ceiling of the basement.
“I still think we should get out of here,” Greg insisted, his eyes moving quickly around the large, cluttered room.
Behind Bird’s overturned trash can stood an improvised table made out of a sheet of plywood resting on four paint cans. A nearly flat mattres
s, dirty and stained, rested against the wall, a faded wool blanket folded at the foot.
“Spidey must live down here!” Michael exclaimed.
Bird kicked his way through a pile of empty food boxes that had been tossed all over the floor—TV dinners, mostly. “Hey, a Hungry Man dinner!” he exclaimed. “Where does Spidey heat these up?”
“Maybe he eats them frozen,” Shari suggested. “You know. Like Popsicles.”
She made her way toward a towering oak wardrobe and pulled open the doors. “Wow! This is excellent!” she declared. “Look!” She pulled out a ratty-looking fur coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Excellent!” she repeated, twirling in the old coat.
From across the room, Greg could see that the wardrobe was stuffed with old clothing. Michael and Bird hurried to join Shari and began pulling out strange-looking pairs of bell-bottom pants, yellowed dress shirts with pleats down the front, tie-dyed neckties that were about a foot wide, and bright-colored scarves and bandannas.
“Hey, guys—” Greg warned. “Don’t you think maybe those belong to somebody?”
Bird spun around, a fuzzy red boa wrapped around his neck and shoulders. “Yeah. These are Spidey’s dress-up clothes,” he cracked.
“Check out this baad hat,” Shari said, turning around to show off the bright purple wide-brimmed hat she had pulled on.
“Neat,” Michael said, examining a long blue cape. “This stuff must be at least twenty-five years old. It’s awesome. How could someone just leave it here?”
“Maybe they’re coming back for it,” Greg suggested.
As his friends explored the contents of the wardrobe, Greg wandered to the other end of the large basement. A furnace occupied the far wall, its ducts covered in thick cobwebs. Partially hidden by the furnace ducts, Greg could see stairs, probably leading to an outside exit.
Wooden shelves lined the adjoining wall, cluttered with old paint cans, rags, newspapers, and rusty tools.
Whoever lived here must have been a real handyman, Greg thought, examining a wooden worktable in front of the shelves. A metal vise was clamped to the edge of the worktable. Greg turned the handle, expecting the jaws of the vise to open.
