by R. L. Stine
Corky hurtled down the long hallway, the pale green walls and open doorways whirring past in a blur, her shoes pounding the hard linoleum floor.
“Corky—wait!” Debra’s desperate cry behind her.
No. I can’t let her catch me. I can’t! Corky urged herself forward, ignoring the pain in her head, ignoring the pounding at her temples.
She’s dead. Debra is dead. And now she wants to kill me.
“Corky—stop!”
Corky tore around a corner, nearly collided with two uniformed nurses pushing a food cart. “Hey!” one of them called sharply.
Were they going to chase her too?
Her heart pounding hard inside her chest, Corky searched for a hiding place. She saw a room filled with visitors.
The next room appeared empty. Corky peered inside. She stopped when she saw the familiar face of the boy in the bed.
Alex.
His eyes closed. His lips slightly parted.
“Corky—come back!”
Debra’s frantic cry forced Corky into Alex’s room. She stepped in, pulling the door closed behind her.
Alex slept peacefully, she saw.
Poor, dead Alex.
Even though he’s dead, the evil won’t let him rest long. The evil must still be inside him.
She crept closer to the bed, feeling sad and frightened at the same time.
He breathed softly, steadily. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
I’m sorry, Alex, Corky thought, watching him sleep. I’m sorry I had to drown you. I cared about you. I really did.
Alex’s right hand shot up from under the sheet.
It grabbed Corky by the wrist.
Corky cried out and struggled to pull free.
But the hand held tight. Pulled her close as Alex opened his eyes, sat up, raised his face to hers—and pressed his mouth against hers.
The kiss of death! Corky thought, struggling to free herself as his dry lips pressed hard against hers.
Chapter 31
DEFEATED
Corky felt a wave of nausea rise from her stomach. I’m kissing a dead boy, she thought. I’m kissing a corpse.
To her surprise, Alex’s hand slipped off her wrist. He pulled back and smiled at her. “Corky, I’m so glad you’re okay,” he declared.
“Huh?” Corky staggered back from his bed, raising a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart.
“It was so terrifying,” Alex continued, his blue eyes locked on hers. “Like the worst nightmare, only it was really happening. I—I can’t describe what it felt like. We all thought we were going to drown.”
“Y-you thought—” Corky stammered.
“Where were you?” Alex demanded. “How come you weren’t on the bus, Corky?”
She stared at him, unable to answer.
He didn’t know that she had been on the bus. She had been the driver.
“I don’t remember much,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “I don’t remember the bus going over the cliff. I don’t really remember sinking under the water. I guess my panic wiped out the memories.”
He smiled and shook his head. “If those guys hadn’t been ice fishing nearby . . .”
“Ice fishing?” Corky choked out.
“They pulled us out,” Alex told her. “They were great. There were only three of them. And they pulled every one of us out of that sunken bus. They saved all our lives!”
Alex sat up, grinning at her. “Look at me! I’m okay! Isn’t that amazing?”
“Yes. Amazing,” Corky echoed.
His expression changed. “Want to hear something else weird? None of us got frostbite—because the water wasn’t cold. It was hot, Corky. The water was actually steaming! Isn’t that strange?”
“Yes. Strange,” she repeated, thinking hard.
The water was hot because the evil was in it, Corky knew. She had drowned the evil after all. Drowned the evil—and then her friends were rescued.
“Alex, I—I’m so glad,” Corky stammered, staring hard at him.
He’s really normal, she thought happily. He’s really Alex.
“But you all came to the arena,” Corky blurted out. “You were soaked. And weird. And you staggered into the arena, and—”
Alex’s smile faded. “The nurse told me you had a concussion,” he said softly. “You must have dreamed that we came to the arena. Or hallucinated it or something. We never made it to the arena. The ice fishermen got us here to the hospital right away.”
So the horrifying scene in the arena never happened, Corky realized. It had all been in her head.
I wish I had imagined all the rest, she thought sadly.
“Alex, what about Kimmy?” Corky asked suddenly.
“Oh, Corky,” Alex replied. “Kimmy’s dead. I don’t know how it happened. But by the time they found her body, it was too late. She must have fallen through the ice and drowned.”
The door to the room swung open. Debra burst inside. She glanced at Alex, then turned her eyes to Corky. “Corky, why’d you run away from me?” she asked breathlessly.
“I—I thought—” Corky felt too confused to form words. “Debra, you weren’t on the bus?” she finally managed to say.
Debra shook her head. “They were chasing us down by the lake, remember?” she replied. “I ran. I was so frightened. I ran to the motel, but I didn’t stop. I just kept running. Down the highway. I didn’t know where I was going or what I planned to do. I just knew I couldn’t stop.”
So they didn’t catch Debra, Corky realized. Debra didn’t die. Only poor Kimmy died.
Poor Kimmy, Corky thought sadly. My poor, lost friend.
Debra got away.
“I hid for a while behind a restaurant,” Debra continued. “Then I made my way to the arena. I saw you, Corky, in front of the bench. I was so glad you’d escaped too. I ran to you. But you fainted before I could get to you. I saw you collapse and hit your head.”
And that’s when I must have dreamed that the dead players and cheerleaders staggered into the arena, Corky realized.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay! I’m so glad we’re all okay!”
“Yeah,” said Alex. “I still can’t believe everyone survived.”
Everyone except Kimmy, Corky thought sadly. She rushed forward and hugged Debra. Then she stepped to the bed and took Alex’s hand in hers. His warm hand. His alive hand.
Tears rolled down Corky’s cheeks. She looked down at Alex. He didn’t remember any of it, she realized. He and the others who were possessed by the evil would never remember what they had done.
Corky thought of Lena, the cheerleader who couldn’t stop flipping.
At last, her terror would end.
The nightmare was over. The evil was gone.
Corky had drowned it.
She had defeated it.
The evil had died. Corky had lived.
She squeezed Alex’s hand. He returned her smile. “Do you realize what today is?” he asked.
“Saturday?” Debra replied.
“No. It’s Christmas Eve,” Alex told them.
Corky glanced down at her white hospital gown and then at Alex’s. She laughed. “I don’t think this is what they mean by a white Christmas!” she joked.
“Well, Merry Christmas anyway,” Alex declared brightly.
“Merry Christmas to us all!” Corky cried. “Now, when can we all go home?”
About the Author
“Where do you get your ideas?”
That’s the question that R. L. Stine is asked most often. “I don’t know where my ideas come from,” he says. “But I do know that I have a lot more scary stories in my mind that I can’t wait to write.”
So far, he has written over fifty mysteries and thrillers for young people, all of them bestsellers.
Bob grew up in Columbus, Ohio. Today he lives in an apartment near Central Park in New York City with his wife, Jane, and fourteen-year-old son, Matt.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE Original
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 1994 by Parachute Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-86835-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-3701-7 (eBook)
First Simon Pulse printing December 1994
FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Cover art by David Jarvis
