by R. L. Stine
“Come in,” Oliver called.
Shawn scurried to a corner. Far away from Oliver. His eyes were twice their normal size.
Mr. Bowen stepped into the attic. “How’d it go, son?” he asked.
“Great, Dad. They’re gone!” Oliver smiled broadly. His fangs hung over his bottom lip.
“Good job, Oliver! Congratulations! So I can now certify this house ghost free?”
“Yup.”
“Excellent. I’ll include that in my next report.”
“Yes!” Oliver punched the air.
“What—what are you talking about?” Shawn asked.
Oliver glanced at the terrified ghost.
“My dad works for the Federal Anti-Spirit Task Force,” he explained proudly. It had to be the coolest job ever. “He’s a specialist in de-haunting houses. Dad’s been teaching me how to help him with his work. We moved into this house because we knew it was haunted. And the best method to get rid of ghosts is to scare them more than they scare you.”
“You came up with a great plan,” Mr. Bowen said.
Oliver beamed. “Thanks,” he murmured.
“Have you heard about any more ghosts in the neighborhood?” Mr. Bowen asked.
Oliver peeked at Shawn. Shawn hunched his shoulders and looked even more terrified.
Should Oliver tell his dad about Shawn?
No. No way.
Maybe it was weird for a ghost hunter to have a ghost for a friend. But Oliver didn’t care! He liked Shawn. Shawn was fun. Even if he was a ghost.
Besides, what better way to do research?
“Uh—there are lots of rumors,” Oliver said. “Shawn’s been telling me some of them. He’s a valuable local source.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bowen studied Shawn up and down.
“And all the kids at school talk about ghosts too,” Oliver added quickly, so his dad would stop staring at Shawn. “It sounds like there’s enough work around here to keep us busy for years. But there aren’t any more bad ghosts in this house.”
“Good. Fine work, and a fine report.” Mr. Bowen patted Oliver’s shoulder. “This calls for a celebration. Let’s go get some ice cream!”
“Okay, Dad. I just have to catch my tarantula.”
“That thing got loose again? You know how your mother hates it when that happens. Better catch it right away,” Mr. Bowen said. He headed down the stairs.
Oliver listened for the sound of the door shutting at the bottom of the stairs. Then he turned to Shawn.
Shawn was staring at him. “Thanks for not turning me in,” he whispered.
Oliver shrugged. “Hey, you’re my friend.” He pried the fake fangs out of his mouth.
“You mean—you’re not really a vampire?” Shawn asked.
“Naw. It was just part of the plan. Pretty good, huh?”
Shawn shook his head in wonder. “Awesome. And you don’t really have the Sight?”
Oliver grinned. “Nope! I was just guessing where they were.”
“It was great.” Shawn paused. “So when they did all that stuff to you, you knew it was happening?”
“Yeah.” Oliver laughed. “I bet I drove those ghosts nuts pretending I didn’t notice their hauntings.”
“You drove them crazy!” Shawn exclaimed. “It was pretty funny. But how—” He nodded toward the mirror.
“I painted part of the mirror with a special goo that doesn’t reflect,” Oliver explained. “We scared them right out of the house!”
Shawn shivered. “Those two scared me! They knew good tricks.”
“Yeah,” Oliver admitted. “But that skull popping out of the TV trick was cool too. I wish I could do that.”
“Thanks,” Shawn said with a grin.
“I wasn’t even sure this vampire trick would work.” Oliver stared at the fake fangs in his hand. “For one thing, what would a vampire want with ghosts? No blood!”
He and Shawn laughed.
Oliver popped the fangs back into his mouth.
“Besides,” he added. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as vampires!”
Are you ready for another walk
down Fear Street?
Turn the page for a terrifying
sneak preview.
MONSTER DOG
The beast waits for me every day after school.
It hides in the bushes along Fear Street. It licks its teeth. It sharpens its claws.
It waits just for me.
I never know exactly where it will hide. I never know when it will attack.
But I know it’s there.
And it wants to get me.
* * *
“Once again, Maggie Clark was the only student who managed to get an A on the last three homework assignments.” Mrs. Jenkins announced to the class. She beamed at me.
I sank further into my seat. I felt my face grow warm.
“Little Miss Perfect does it again,” Billy Smithers whispered behind me. Someone giggled.
Luckily the bell rang. Whew! Just in time. No more embarrassment.
I know Mrs. Jenkins means well, but all her compliments are killing me!
Mrs. Jenkins reminded the class to read chapter ten in our science books. All the kids jumped up from their seats and rushed to their lockers. Everyone was thrilled that school was over for the week.
Except me.
Because now it was time to walk home. And I dreaded it.
The beast was waiting.
I trudged through the crowded hallway. I pushed my way to my locker and organized my school books.
Someone shouted my name. “Maggie!”
I turned and gazed past a sea of students. I spotted my best friend Judy right away. She was taller than most of the boys and had bright red hair. Just the opposite of me. I’m kind of short with long dark hair.
I waved at her as she rambled toward me.
“Happy birthday!” Judy greeted me cheerfully. “Ready to go home and open your presents?”
I nodded weakly. Turning twelve was fun. Getting home was the scary part.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Judy asked, seeing my expression. I could have told her—but I decided to keep quiet. I already had sort of a wimpy reputation. It kind of went with being “Teacher’s Pet.”
“I wish I didn’t have so much homework on my birthday,” I complained.
Judy eyed the pile of books in my arms. “Knowing you, you’ll knock it all off before dinner. And then volunteer to do extra chores or something.”
“Oh, stop.” I rolled my eyes. I slammed my locker and turned around. “I’m not that bad.” I giggled. “I mean good.”
“I think you should forget homework tonight. Just as an experiment,” Judy suggested as we headed out of school.
“Then who would explain our science homework to you?” I teased. I pushed open the front door of the school building and stepped outside.
The sidewalk was filled with students. We waved good-bye to a group of friends and headed down the street.
“So do you know what you’re getting for your birthday? Anything special?” Judy asked.
I smiled. “Something very special,” I replied.
Judy grabbed my arm. “What? A CD-player? A TV for your room? Tell me!” she insisted.
“Come over for some birthday cake after dinner,” I offered. “And I’ll show you.”
Judy sighed. “Oh, all right,” she said. “If you won’t tell me now!”
We kept walking. All the other kids turned off onto side streets. My stomach tightened as we approached my street.
Fear Street.
Where the beast lived.
“Well, here you are, birthday girl,” Judy called. “See you around seven o’clock!”
I turned toward Fear Street. I took a step forward, then hesitated.
Judy noticed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
I hugged my school books. “Nothing,” I mumbled.
I felt my face turn red. For the second time that day.
It was
so embarrassing to be afraid. I mean, I just turned twelve. It’s not like I’m a baby. I worried that if Judy knew how scared I was, she would think I was a complete wimp.
“Everything’s fine!” I declared. I gave her a big smile and a wave. I hoped she believed me.
She did. “All right,” she replied. “See you later!”
She turned and crossed the street.
And I was all alone—on Fear Street.
Everything seemed calm and peaceful. The sun shone. Birds chirped. Leaves twirled in the trees.
But I knew it was there—waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and hugged my school books.
“Here I go,” I murmured to myself. I took a few steps and stopped.
Something rustled in the bushes.
I froze. And stared at the bushes.
The branches snapped. I took a step backward. Something dashed out at me.
A squirrel.
I screamed before I could stop myself. The poor little squirrel jumped in fright and scampered up a tree.
I burst out laughing.
Get a grip, Maggie! I scolded myself. Afraid of a squirrel? How pathetic!
I studied the entire length of Fear Street.
Nothing but trees and grass and sunshine.
I picked up my school books and marched boldly down the street. I glared at every bush I passed.
I expected the beast to jump out at me any second. But it didn’t.
“Okay, Maggie,” I whispered. “You’re halfway home. You don’t have to be afraid of that crummy beast. Not anymore.”
Then something growled behind me.
I clutched my school books so tightly, my knuckles hurt. Slowly I turned around. My heart raced.
Something moved in the shrubbery near the sidewalk. Something big.
It was him—the beast! I stepped backward. “N-nice boy,” I stammered. “G-good boy.”
The thing in the shrubs moved.
Then it attacked!
I screamed as the beast lunged out of the shrubbery.
Bullhead!
The biggest, ugliest, meanest dog on Fear Street!
It was coming after me!
I shrieked and ran.
The massive thing snarled and snapped at my ankles. His huge, hideous head bobbed up and down. His sloppy, wet tongue flopped from side to side.
“No, no!” I screamed.
My sneakers slapped against the sidewalk. My long hair flew in my face. I could hardly see where I was going, but I didn’t care. I had to get away from the thing chasing me.
Its sharp toenails clicked on the sidewalk behind me. It was getting closer.
I flew forward, even faster. “I’m almost home,” I chanted under my breath. “Almost home . . . almost home . . . almost home . . .”
I spotted my house in the distance. The front porch. The oak tree. The white picket fence.
Home!
I glanced over my shoulder as I bolted across the street.
It was right behind me!
I was going to have to dive over the fence. It was my only chance.
I dashed forward and threw my books over the fence. Then I leaped into the air.
Up, up, up, and over . . .
I was halfway over the fence when something tugged at my leg. I shrieked.
It was the beast.
And its jaws were clamped around my ankle!
About R.L. Stine
R.L. Stine is the best-selling author in America. He has written more than one hundred scary books for young people, all of them bestsellers.
His series include Fear Street, Ghosts of Fear Street and the Fear Street Sagas.
Bob grew up in Columbus, Ohio. Today he lives in New York City with his wife, Jane, his teenage son, Matt, and his dog, Nadine.
This book is a work 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.
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