by R. L. Stine
“I need it because it’s perfect,” I told her. “Perfect! Perfect!”
“Stop repeating that word,” she snapped. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? That was a horrible shock. Maybe I should call your parents.”
“No. No, I’m fine,” I insisted. The typewriter was growing heavy in my arms. “Let’s just go.”
Lugging the typewriter, I started to the door. But Alex blocked my path.
“You can’t just take it!” she scolded. “It doesn’t belong to you. That’s stealing.”
I made a face at her. “Alex, don’t be dumb. Everything in this store is wrecked. Nobody will care if I take—”
I stopped with a gasp when I heard the squish of shoes on the wet carpet.
Then I heard a cough.
I turned to Alex. Caught the fear on her face.
She heard the sounds too.
“Zackie, we’re not alone in here,” she whispered.
6
Another squishy footstep. Closer.
A chill swept down my back. I nearly dropped the typewriter.
“Hide,” I whispered. I didn’t need to suggest it. Alex was already slipping behind a tall display shelf.
I set the typewriter down on the floor. Then I crept behind the shelf and huddled close to Alex.
I heard another cough. And then a circle of light moved across the wet carpet. The pale yellow beam of a flashlight.
The light slid over the floor. Then it started to climb the display case. Alex and I ducked low. The circle of light washed over our heads.
My legs were trembling. I gripped the back of the case with both hands to keep myself from falling over.
“Hello?” a voice called. A woman’s voice. “Hello? Is someone in here?”
Alex turned to me. She motioned with her head.
She was silently asking if we should step out and show ourselves.
I shook my head no.
How could we explain what we were doing inside the shop? How could we explain why we were hiding?
Maybe the woman will leave, I told myself. Maybe she won’t find us.
Who is she? I wondered. Does she own the store?
I peered out around the bottom shelf. I could see the woman from the side. She was African-American. She had very short, dark hair. She wore a long raincoat.
She moved the flashlight beam along the back wall. It lit up the fallen shelf, the broken antiques.
Her footsteps slogged over the wet carpet.
“Hello?” she called. “Did someone come in here?”
I held my breath.
Please leave, I begged silently. Please don’t catch us here.
The woman turned. Her light stopped on the typewriter in the middle of the floor. She kept the light steady, staring at the typewriter.
I knew what she was thinking: How did the typewriter get on the floor?
Slowly, she raised the light. Raised it back to the display shelf.
She stared right at us!
Could she see us hiding behind the display case?
I froze. I pretended to be a statue.
Did she see us?
No.
She muttered something to herself. The light went out.
I blinked in the sudden darkness. Her footsteps moved away.
I realized I was still holding my breath. I let it out slowly, trying not to make a sound.
Silence now. And darkness.
No footsteps. No beam of yellow light.
The front door banged shut.
Alex and I exchanged glances.
Was the woman gone? Did she leave the shop?
We didn’t move.
We waited. And listened.
Silence…
Then Alex sneezed.
“Gotcha!” the woman cried from somewhere behind us.
7
A hand grabbed my shoulder. Hard.
The sleeve of the raincoat brushed my face as the woman tugged me out from behind the shelf. I nearly tripped over the typewriter. The woman held me up by one arm.
Alex stepped up beside me. Her ponytail had come undone. Her blonde hair was wild around her face. She kept swallowing hard, making dry, clicking sounds with her tongue.
I guessed she was as frightened as I was.
The woman switched her flashlight on. She raised it to my face, then to Alex’s.
“Were you doing some late shopping?” she demanded.
“Huh?” I managed to choke out.
“The store is closed. Couldn’t you tell?” the woman snapped.
She was young and pretty. She locked her dark eyes on me.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out.
“Uh… nothing,” Alex said weakly. “We weren’t doing anything.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at Alex. “Then why were you hiding?”
“You f-frightened us,” I stammered, finally finding my voice.
“Well, you frightened me too!” the woman exclaimed. “You frightened me plenty. I was in the back room, and…”
“We were walking home. We saw the store. How it was wrecked,” I explained. “We just wanted to see what it looked like inside. So we came in. That’s all.”
The woman lowered the light to the floor. “I see,” she said softly.
Her shoe made a squishing sound on the carpet. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling behind us.
“What a mess,” the woman sighed. Her eyes traveled around the ruined shop. “I’m Mrs. Carter. I own this store. What’s left of it.”
“We—we’re sorry,” Alex stammered.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Mrs. Carter scolded. “It’s very dangerous. Some of the electrical wires are down. You didn’t touch anything—did you?”
“No. Not really,” Alex replied.
“Well… just this old typewriter,” I said, gazing down at it.
“I wondered how it got down there,” Mrs. Carter said. “Why did you move it?”
“I… like it,” I told her. “It’s really cool.”
“Zackie writes stories,” Alex told Mrs. Carter. “Scary stories.”
Mrs. Carter let out a bitter laugh. “Well, you could certainly write a scary story about this place!”
“I’ll bet I could write awesome scary stories on that old typewriter,” I said, staring down at it.
“You want it?” Mrs. Carter asked quickly.
“Yes,” I answered. “Is it for sale? How much does it cost?”
Mrs. Carter motioned with one hand. “Take it,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I didn’t think I’d heard her correctly.
“Go ahead. Take it,” she repeated. “It’s yours. For free.”
“Do you mean it?” I cried excitedly. “I can have it?”
She nodded.
“Thank you!” I could feel a grin spreading over my face. “Thanks a lot!”
Mrs. Carter bent down and picked up something from the floor. “Here,” she said. She handed me a fountain pen. A very old-fashioned-looking fountain pen. Heavy and black with silvery chrome on it.
“For me?” I asked, studying the pen.
Mrs. Carter nodded again. She smiled at me. “It’s my Going-Out-of-Business Special Offer. You get a free pen with every typewriter.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed.
Mrs. Carter moved to the door and held it open. “Now, get out of here. Both of you,” she ordered. “It really is dangerous in here. I’m leaving too.”
I hoisted the heavy, old typewriter into my arms. Balancing it against my chest, I followed Alex to the door.
I felt so happy! I thanked Mrs. Carter five more times. Then Alex and I said good-bye and headed for our homes.
The street was still wet. It glowed under the streetlights like a mirror. It didn’t look real.
The walk home seemed to take forever. The typewriter grew heavier with each step I took.
“Weird,” Alex muttered when we f
inally crossed onto our block.
“Huh?” I groaned. My arms were about to fall off! The typewriter weighed a ton!
“What’s weird, Alex?”
“The way she gave you that valuable typewriter,” Alex replied thoughtfully.
“Why is that so weird?” I demanded.
“She seemed so eager to give it away. It’s almost as if she wanted to get rid of it,” Alex said. She headed toward her house, which is next door to mine.
My knees buckled as I started up my driveway. My arms ached. My whole body ached. I struggled to hold on to the typewriter.
“That’s crazy,” I muttered.
Of course, I didn’t know how right Alex was.
I didn’t know that carrying the old typewriter home would totally ruin my life.
8
I dragged the typewriter into the ranch house where I live. I was gasping for breath. My arms had gone numb.
Mom and Dad were in the living room. They sat side by side on the couch, doing a crossword puzzle together.
They love crossword puzzles. I’m not sure why. Both of them are terrible spellers. They can never finish a puzzle.
Lots of times, they end up fighting about how to spell a word. Usually, they give up and rip the puzzle to pieces.
Then a few days later, they start a new one.
They both looked up as I lugged the typewriter toward my room.
“What’s that?” Mom demanded.
“It’s a typewriter,” I groaned.
“I know that!” Mom protested. “I meant—where did you get it?”
“It’s… a long story,” I choked out.
Dad climbed up from the couch and hurried over to help me. “Wow. It weighs a ton,” he said. “How did you ever carry it home?”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad,” I lied.
We carried it to my room and set it down on my desk. I wanted to try it out right away. But Dad insisted that I return to the living room.
I told them the whole story. About lightning hitting the store. About going in to explore. About Mrs. Carter and how she gave me the typewriter.
I left out the part about the bad electrical shock that knocked me to the floor.
My parents are the kind of people who get upset very easily. I mean, they start yelling and screaming over crossword puzzles!
So I never tell them much. I mean, why ruin their day—or mine?
“Why do you need an old typewriter?” Mom asked, frowning at me. “No one uses typewriters anymore. You only see them in antique shops.”
“I want to write my scary stories on it,” I explained.
“What about your new computer?” Dad demanded. “What about the laser printer we gave you?”
“I’ll use that too,” I said. “You know. For school-work and stuff like that.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Next Zackie will be writing with a feather quill and an inkwell,” she said.
They both laughed.
“Very funny,” I muttered. I said good-night and hurried down the hall to my room.
I turned the corner that led to my bedroom—and stopped.
What was that strange crackling sound?
It seemed to be coming from my room. A steady, crackling buzz.
“Weird,” I muttered.
I stepped into the doorway, peered into my room—and gasped!
9
“My typewriter!” I cried.
The typewriter was bathed in a bright blue glow. Blue sparks buzzed and crackled off and flew in all directions.
I stared in amazement as the blue current snapped and hummed over the typewriter.
I thought about the shock that had knocked me to the floor in the antique shop. Had the typewriter stored up some of that electricity?
No. That was impossible.
But then why was the typewriter glowing under a crackling, blue current now?
“Mom! Dad!” I called. “Come here! You have to see this!”
They didn’t reply.
I hurtled down the hall to the living room. “Quick! Come quick!” I shouted. “You won’t believe this!”
They had returned to their crossword puzzle. Dad glanced up as I burst into the room. “How do you spell ‘peregrine’?” he asked. “It’s a kind of falcon.”
“Who cares?” I cried. “My typewriter—it’s going to blow up or something!”
That got them off the couch.
I led the way, running full speed down the hall. They followed close behind.
I stopped at my doorway and pointed to my desk. “Look—!” I cried.
All three of us peered across the room.
At the typewriter. The black metal typewriter with its black roller and rows of black keys ringed with silver.
No blue.
No blue electrical current. No sparks. No crackle or buzz.
Just an old typewriter sitting on a desk.
“Funny joke,” Dad muttered, rolling his eyes at me.
Mom shook her head. “I don’t know where Zackie gets his sense of humor. Not from my side of the family.”
“Your side of the family doesn’t need a sense of humor. They’re already a joke!” Dad snapped.
They walked off arguing.
I edged slowly, carefully, into my room. I crept up to the typewriter.
I reached out a hand. I lowered it toward the typewriter.
Lowered it until it was less than an inch away.
Then I stopped.
My hand started to shake.
I stared down at the solid, dark machine.
Should I touch it?
Would it shock me again?
Slowly… slowly, I lowered my hand.
10
Alex slammed her locker shut. She adjusted her backpack and turned to me. “So what happened? Did the typewriter zap you?”
It was the next morning. Spring vacation was over. School had started again.
I had hurried down the hall to our lockers to tell Alex the whole typewriter story. I knew she was the only person in the world who would believe me.
“No. It didn’t zap me,” I told her. “I touched it, and nothing happened. I pushed down some of the keys. I turned the roller. Nothing happened.”
Alex stared hard at me. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn’t a very good story,” she teased. “It has a very weak ending.”
I laughed. “Do you think it would be a better ending if I got fried?”
“Much better,” she replied.
It was late. The first bell had already rung. The hall was nearly empty.
“I’m going to rewrite the Blob Monster story,” I told her. “I have a lot of new ideas. I can’t wait to start working on it.”
She turned to me. “On the old typewriter?”
I nodded. “I’m going to make the story longer—and scarier. That old typewriter is so weird. I know it’s going to help me write scarier than ever!” I exclaimed.
I heard giggling.
I spun around and saw Emmy and Annie Bell. They’re twins, and they’re in our class. Adam came trailing after them. He punched me in the shoulder—so hard, I bounced against the lockers.
Emmy and Annie are good friends with Adam. But not with Alex and me.
They both have curly red hair, lots of freckles, and lots of dimples. The only way to tell Emmy from Annie is to ask, “Which one are you?”
Emmy grinned at me. I mean, I think it was Emmy. “Do you really believe in monsters?” she asked.
They both giggled again, as if Emmy had asked something really funny.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I wasn’t talking about real monsters. I was talking about a scary story I’m writing.”
And then I added nastily, “You two wouldn’t understand—since you haven’t learned to write yet!”
“Ha-ha,” they both said sarcastically. “You’re so funny, Zackie.”
“Funny-looking!” Adam added. The oldest joke in the universe.
<
br /> “But do you believe in monsters?” Emmy insisted.
“Adam says you do,” her sister added. “Adam says you think a monster lives under your bed!”
“I do not!” I screamed.
They both giggled.
“Adam is a liar!” I cried. I tried to grab him, but he dodged away from me, laughing his head off.
“Zackie sees monsters everywhere,” Adam teased, grinning at Emmy and Annie. “He thinks when he opens his locker door, a monster will jump out at him.”
They giggled again.
“Give me a break,” I muttered. “We’re going to be late.”
I turned away from their grinning faces. I turned the lock on my locker and pulled open the door.
Then I knelt down to pull out my books.
And something leaped out of my locker!
I saw a white flash.
“Huh?” I cried out in surprise.
Another one jumped out.
And then I gasped when something plopped onto my head. Something alive!
I fell to my knees. Reached up to grab for it. I felt its claws tangle in my hair. “Help!” I cried. “Help me!”
11
The creature moved across my head.
And dropped down the back of my shirt!
Its hot body slid down my skin. Its claws prickled and pinched.
“Help me! Help!” I jumped up, kicking and stomping and squirming.
I frantically slapped at my back.
Adam stepped up to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders. Then he tugged open the back of my shirt.
And plucked the creature off my back.
He held his hand in front of my face. “Wow! What a monster!” he exclaimed. “That’s scaaaaaary!”
Still trembling, I stared at the creature.
A white mouse.
A little white mouse.
Emmy and Annie were doubled over beside Adam, laughing their heads off.
Even Alex was laughing. Great friend, huh?
“Zackie, I guess you really do see monsters everywhere!” Annie exclaimed. “Even teeny white ones!”
That got them all laughing again.
“Did you see that awesome dance he did?” Adam asked. Adam did an imitation of my frantic dance. He slapped at his head and neck and stomped wildly on the floor.
