by R. L. Stine
“That boy—” I said to Jared. “Did he tell you his name or anything?”
Jared laughed. “I don’t get the joke, Ross.”
“It—it wasn’t me!” I cried shrilly.
Jared shook his head. “Well, he looked like you, and he talked like you, and he sounded just like you. And he played like you. So …”
“What’s the problem, Ross?” Coach Melvin hurried up to us, gazing at me sternly. “What’s happening?”
“Uh … nothing,” I said. “Really. Nothing.”
I felt dazed. Kind of dizzy.
The bright sunlight turned white … white … whiter. It flashed in my eyes.
What’s going on? I wondered.
Who is that kid?
“Sharma—hey!” I saw her on the steps in front of school and ran over to her. “You stayed after?”
She nodded. “I had a makeup test in government. It wasn’t too bad.”
“That means you aced it,” I said. Sharma is a total brain, but she doesn’t like kids to say it. Her idea of a bad test score is anything below 110!
“Are you walking home?” I asked. “Can I walk with you?”
She nodded again. She pulled a bug or something off my tennis shirt. “How was tennis practice?”
“Totally weird,” I said. As we started to walk, I decided to tell her the whole story. I had to tell someone!
“This kid is my exact twin,” I told her. “But he keeps disappearing before I can talk to him. Today, he was at tennis practice, playing with Jared. But it wasn’t the first time I saw him. I saw him in Max’s pool Friday night. He was swimming right at me!”
Sharma laughed. “You make up the dumbest stories.”
“No. I’m serious!” I said. “He is my exact twin. In every way. He even wears the same clothes as me.”
“Give me a break,” Sharma said. “You should be a writer, Ross. You have such an awesome imagination.”
I groaned. “But I’m not making it up. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“Because it’s crazy?” Sharma suggested.
We stopped at a corner. “I’m telling the truth,” I insisted. “I saw this boy twice. And he was me. Really.”
Sharma narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts? No,” I said. “Why?”
“Well, I saw this movie on TV about a girl who kept seeing her twin. And her twin turned out to be her ghost. The ghost came back from the future because she wanted to possess herself and take over her own life.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I muttered.
“I know,” Sharma said. “But maybe the boy you keep seeing is your own ghost.”
“But don’t I have to die to have a ghost?” I asked.
Traffic drowned out Sharma’s answer. Cars whirred through the intersection. The afternoon sun was lowering behind the hills. People were speeding home from work.
The light turned green. I started to walk.
“Hey—stop!” Sharma pulled me back. “Where are you going?”
“But the light—” I protested.
“You’re so busy making up invisible twins, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Sharma said.
“He’s not invisible,” I told her.
The light turned red. Sharma tugged me into the street. “We can go now.”
“Huh? You’re going to get us killed!” I cried.
I pulled back and stumbled over the curb. Sharma laughed as I fell flat on my back on the grass. “What is your problem, Ross? Have you totally lost it?”
I pulled myself up and brushed off the back of my jeans. “Sorry,” I said. “But you started to walk on red, and—”
I realized she was staring over my shoulder. Not listening to me. She was waving at Cindy who was coming our way.
I glanced down—and uttered a cry of surprise.
The grass where I had fallen—it had turned brown. You could see the outline of my shoulders and my back and one of my arms.
The grass along the curb was all green—except for where my body had touched it.
And as I stared, the patch of brown grass made a sizzling sound, as if it was on fire. Black smoke floated up.
The grass burned away until the outline of my back and shoulders was bare dirt.
“Wow,” I murmured. “That is so weird! Sharma—look at this.”
I glanced up to see Sharma walking away. “See you, Ross.” She gave me a quick wave. “I have to talk to Cindy.”
“Wait, Sharma! Come back!” I shouted.
“We’ll walk home together tomorrow, Ross. Hey, why don’t you invite your ghost? We can all walk home together!” She laughed as she headed down the street to Cindy.
“Sharma! Hey—Sharma!” I called after her. But she didn’t slow down or turn back.
I stared down at the grass again. “What is that about?” I muttered. I waited for the traffic to stop. Then I ran across the street and kept running until I reached home.
The gardeners were just finishing for the day, packing up their truck. I ran through the front lawn sprinklers. The cold water felt great!
To my surprise, Mom was waiting for me at the front door. “What’s wrong?” I cried.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “Your karate teacher just called. He said—”
“My what?” I interrupted.
“Mr. Lawrence said he’s coming early. Right after dinner. So, if you have homework to do …”
“But—but—but—” I sputtered. “I don’t take karate lessons, Mom!”
Her mouth dropped open. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Only since you were seven,” she said.
I felt a chill run down my back.
She wasn’t joking.
But how could she say that?
The only karate I ever did was in Nintendo games!
“Don’t just stand there, Ross. Come in,” Mom said. “How was your tennis practice?”
“Weird,” I said. I opened my mouth to tell her about seeing my twin again. But I stopped myself. She’d just think I was making it up.
“Why was it weird?” she asked.
“Well … I played so well for a change. No one could touch my serve. Coach Melvin thinks I’m going to be the star player on the team this year.”
“Excellent,” Mom said. She hugged me. “We’ll have an early dinner since your karate lesson is early. You can thank me in advance. I made your favorite.”
“My favorite?”
“Yes. Brussels sprouts. Jake won’t eat them. But I know you love them.”
Huh? Brussels sprouts? I HATE them! Just thinking about them makes me want to puke!
“Mom?” I cried weakly. “What is going on here?”
She didn’t hear my question. The phone rang, and she hurried to answer it.
I was going to ask where Jake was. But then I remembered that he has his guitar lesson on Mondays. Amelia, our housekeeper, always brings him home around dinnertime.
I made my way up to my room to change out of my tennis whites. I opened my closet door—and gasped.
A white karate robe hung on the door hook.
How did that get here? I wondered.
I backed out of the closet and glanced quickly around my room. Had anything else changed? Was I into other activities that I had no memory of?
My eyes swept over my Jimi Hendrix posters, my autographed baseballs, my snow globe collection, my stuffed leopard from when I was four.
Everything was there. Everything was the same.
Except for that white robe in my closet.
And the sour smell of brussels sprouts floating up from the kitchen downstairs. How could Mom forget how much I hate brussels sprouts?
I started to change into a clean pair of baggy jeans and a black T-shirt. But as I pulled the shirt from my dresser drawer, a sharp pain shot through my forehead.
“Huh—?” I gasped. The shirt fell from my hands.
I grabbed my head as another pain rocked through it.
I saw a white flash, like a lightning bolt. I pressed my hands tightly to my head.
“Ohhh … what is happening?”
Stab after stab of pain pierced my head. I felt as if someone kept jamming a knife into my eyes.
I dropped to my knees, weak from pain. Flash after flash of white light blinded me.
“Whoa …”
And then it stopped.
I blinked several times. Still holding my head, I waited for the pain to return.
But I felt normal again. I opened my eyes. I could see clearly.
Shaking my head, I climbed to my feet. What was that about? I’d never had a headache like that before.
I stared out the window, breathing slowly, trying to get my head straight—when Mom called me from downstairs. “Ross, I need you to do me a favor.”
I pulled on the T-shirt, brushed back my hair. Then, still feeling shaky, I made my way down the stairs and met her at the bottom.
“I just had the worst headache,” I groaned.
She rolled her eyes. “Ross, why do you always have a headache when I need you to do me a favor?”
“No. Really,” I insisted. “But I’m okay now. What’s the favor?”
“The milk went sour,” she said, holding her nose. “I need you to go to the store and buy another carton.”
My mouth dropped open. “Huh? Walk to the store? This is Beverly Hills, Mom. People don’t walk to the store. That’s too weird. Why don’t you drive?”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m waiting for a call from your dad. He’s been so busy on the set, I haven’t spoken to him in three days.”
“But he can call you in the car,” I said. “It’s almost four blocks to the store, and—”
“Ross, just go,” Mom said. She stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into my T-shirt pocket.
Normally, I’d come up with a great excuse: “I can’t walk that far. I sprained my ankle at tennis practice. Coach Melvin said I should stay off my foot all week.”
But I decided it would be good to get out of the house. It would give me time to think about all the weird stuff that was happening.
“Back in a few minutes,” I said. I took off, walking fast.
I had walked about two blocks—halfway to the store—when I saw my twin. He was half a block ahead of me, walking fast.
He was wearing baggy jeans and a black T-shirt, just like me. He had Walkman headphones over his ears and was snapping his fingers, jiving along.
I stopped in shock. My heart started to pound.
“This time you’re not getting away!” I said out loud.
I took off, running full speed to catch up to him. He had the music blasting in his ears. So he didn’t hear me.
You’re not getting away. You’re not getting away. I chanted those words in my mind as I ran.
I stretched out my arms as I caught up with him.
I grabbed him by the shoulders. He was real!
I grabbed him from behind. Spun him around.
And gasped in shock.
Not him! It wasn’t my twin!
It was another guy, a stranger.
His dark eyes bulged in surprise. His mouth dropped open.
I held my grip on his shoulder. I was too startled to move.
And then I felt the shoulder move under my hand. It started to wriggle … then shrink … to melt away.
I uttered a cry. My hand flew off his shoulder.
And I stared in horror as the boy’s shoulder shrank under the sleeve of the black T-shirt. And his hand … his hand clenched in a tight fist … grew smaller … melted away … melted into the wrist.
And then the arm curled like a fat snake. Boneless … no longer a human arm, it twisted and curled, and reached out for me like the tendril of a plant.
“You … you …you …” the boy choked out in a hoarse gasp.
“Huh?” I gasped. I stepped back, trying to escape the curling tendril of an arm.
He uttered a gurgling sound, tore off the headphones, and staggered toward me.
I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming as his face began to change.
The skin peeled away. Peeled off like onion skin … flaked away in chunks … until he had no skin.
No skin on his face at all!
His hair fell off in thick clumps. And then the pale skin flaked off his scalp. And now his whole head glowed bright red. Red and wet.
Just like raw meat.
His face was raw meat, chunks of meat, crisscrossed with bulging purple veins.
His dark eyes stared out at me from wet sockets.
No nose. Just two deep holes, two gaping nostrils carved into the meaty slab.
“The pain. It hurts,” he moaned.
His whole face jiggled and throbbed.
I staggered back. “What—what’s happening to you?” I stammered, raising my hands to shield myself from the hideous sight of his raw face. From his arm, wriggling in front of him like a pale snake.
He tossed back his throbbing, glistening red face and uttered a shrill howl.
And then he spun away—and took off, howling as he ran. And screaming at the top of his lungs, “Help! Help!”
I grabbed my stomach. I felt sick.
What just happened? I wondered, hugging myself, trying to stop trembling.
I shook my head to try to clear it.
But I couldn’t force the picture of the kid’s face from my mind. The throbbing red meat, glistening and wet. The purple veins pulsing in his choppy face.
“I’ve got to get away from here!” I said out loud. I started to jog—but another sharp pain shot through my head.
On fire, I thought. My head is on fire!
I grabbed my head with both hands. Stab after stab of pain made me cry out. I shut my eyes. I pressed my hands tighter over my throbbing head.
Once again the pain stopped as abruptly as it had started.
I shook my head hard. I saw the little grocery store up ahead. It’ll be cool inside, I decided.
And normal.
Please, I pleaded silently, let everything be normal again.
The store was nearly empty. A couple of teenagers were discussing candy bars at the front counter. A boy was trying to get his friend to buy a Zigfruit bar. His friend said only freaks buy Zigfruits. He was sticking with Four Musketeers.
Zigfruits? Four Musketeers?
Since when did they add another musketeer?
I picked a carton of milk off the shelf and carried it to the woman behind the counter. “Is that all?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yes. Just the milk.”
I shoved the carton across the counter.
And felt the cardboard carton melt away in my hand.
The milk poured out, steaming … making a loud hissing sound.
“Oh!” I gasped as the hissing milk poured out in thick lumps. It spread over the counter. Bubbling … steaming … turning bright yellow.
A sick, sour smell rose up from the yellow clots.
The shocked woman gazed down at the steaming mess. Then raised her eyes to me—frightened eyes—and opened her mouth in a scream: “GET OUT! OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!”
“S-sorry!” I choked out. My stomach lurched from the sick smell. I gagged. Spun away from the counter—and staggered outside.
I stumbled to the curb, feeling dazed, sick. I glimpsed the two guys from the store, holding strange candy bars, staring at me from the doorway.
“Hey—!” I called to them. My legs shaking, my whole body trembling, I walked up to them. “What just happened?” I asked. “Did you see—?”
“Don’t touch us!” one of them screamed.
They both raised their hands as if shielding themselves from me.
“Keep back! Don’t touch us!”
“But—but—” I sputtered. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
The two boys scrambled away. One of them dropped his candy bar. He didn’t stop to pick it up.
I ran all the way home. Gasping f
or breath, sweat pouring down my face, I burst into the house.
“Mom? Where are you? Mom?”
“In the dining room,” she called. “Jake and I started without you.”
I lurched into the dining room. Mom and Jake sat at one end of the long table. Jake opened his mouth wide and showed me a disgusting, chewed-up blob of spaghetti inside.
I ran up beside Mom’s chair. “I—I have to talk to you,” I said.
“Sit down,” Mom said sharply. “What took you so long? Mr. Lawrence will be here any minute.”
“Listen to me!” I cried. “Something strange is going on and—”
“Your face is strange!” Jake shouted. He burst out laughing at his own dumb joke.
“At least my nickname isn’t Rat Face!” I shot back. “Hi, Rat Face! What’s up, Rat Face!”
“I’m not a Rat Face! You’re a rat! You’re a whole rat!” Jake screamed. “Go eat some cheese, Rat!”
“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Mom cried. She turned to me. “Where’s the milk?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said breathlessly. “I couldn’t—”
“You came home without milk?” Mom sighed. “Sit down, Ross.” She pushed me toward my seat. “Don’t talk. Try to eat something before your lesson.”
“But—But—”
“Don’t talk! Just eat!” She scooped a mound of spaghetti onto my plate. Then she piled on a ton of brussels sprouts.
Yuck.
The smell made my stomach lurch.
Mom leaned over the table, watching me. “Go ahead. Try the sprouts. I know you love them.”
“We have to talk—” I started. “You see, I don’t like brussels sprouts. I’m trying to tell you—”
She shook her head. “Stop it. Not a word. I’ve heard enough of your crazy stories to last a lifetime. Just eat.”
I had no choice. I speared one of the disgusting, squishy balls on my fork. I raised it slowly to my mouth.
I felt sick. My stomach tightened.
I started to gag.
Mom stared across the table at me.
I held my breath. And slid the brussels sprout into my mouth. So squishy and slimy and sour …
I swallowed it whole.
Mom sat back in her seat. “Good?”
I couldn’t reply. I was trying with all my strength to keep from puking.
