The First Horror

by R. L. Stine

  Cally was right behind her. “Daddy—are you okay?” she shouted up the stairs.

  Silence.

  “Daddy?”

  Cally stared up the steep, dark stairs. Then she turned to Kody, her eyes wide with fright. “Why doesn’t he answer?”

  Chapter 15

  “Daddy—are you all right? Can you hear me?” Cally’s thin voice echoed up the steep stairs.

  She breathed a loud sigh of relief as her father appeared at the top of the stairs. Pressing his hands against the walls on both sides, he came down slowly, one step at a time.

  When he stepped into the light, Cally saw that his expression was dazed and confused.

  “Daddy?” she started to say, taking his hand. It was as cold as ice.

  “Heads,” he murmured, trembling all over. He blinked several times as if trying to blink away what he had seen up there.

  “Huh? What did you see up there?” Mrs. Frasier demanded from the bedroom doorway.

  “H-heads,” Mr. Frasier stammered, his eyes dancing wildly. “Three human heads. A woman—two children. No! No!” He let out a wailing sob.

  With a shudder, Cally glanced up the attic stairs.

  “No!” her father screamed. “Don’t look! Don’t go up there! So much blood . . . the heads . . . the poor heads. Call the police! Hurry! Somebody—call the police!”

  • • •

  After the police officers finished their search, Cally showered for nearly half an hour. But no matter how much she scrubbed, the sour smell clung to her.

  Why couldn’t the police find anything in the attic? Cally wondered. Why couldn’t they explain the bloodstains on the bedroom ceiling?

  A doctor had been called. He gave Mr. Frasier something to calm him and help him sleep.

  Poor Daddy, Cally thought.

  When the doctor left, Cally’s mother had also taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dark, caked blood.

  The two sisters and their mother worked for hours to clean the disgusting green liquid off the sink and bathroom floor. When they finished, they all showered again.

  Pulling a robe over a fresh nightshirt, Cally made her way downstairs to get a cold drink. The kitchen clock revealed that it was nearly five in the morning.

  Cally could hear her mother in the den with James, speaking in low, soothing tones, trying to calm the poor boy. Cally listened for Cubby’s barking. But all she could hear now was the hum of the refrigerator and her mother’s low voice from the den.

  As she poured herself a glass of orange juice, Kody wearily entered the kitchen. “It’s a little early for breakfast,” she groaned. “But pour me a glass too.”

  Cally still felt shaky. She nearly dropped the glass as she handed it to her sister.

  “Now maybe you’ll believe me about this place,” Kody said, her green eyes locked on Cally’s.

  Cally felt a cold chill run down her back. She nodded solemnly, unable to hide her fear. “Yeah. Maybe I will,” she whispered. “But, Kody—what can we do?”

  • • •

  “I’m going to talk to Mr. Lurie,” Cally’s father said. “He had to know about the weird problems with this house! If he refuses to make everything right, I’m going to demand our money back and ask him to tear up the mortgage!”

  It was a little after ten now. The family was sitting around the kitchen table, yawning, resting their heads in their hands, trying to choke down toast and tea.

  Only Mr. Frasier had slept, thanks to the doctor’s medication. The others had been too frightened to return to their rooms, and Mr. Frasier had stretched out on the couch in the den.

  Cally stared across the table at her father. His eyes still darted around rapidly, and he was breathing hard. He talked quickly in a breathless voice Cally had never heard him use before.

  He kept muttering crazily about the three heads and the police. He should lie down, Cally thought, worried. He isn’t really making sense. He isn’t ready to be up.

  Cally had called the boutique and explained that she couldn’t go in to work. Luckily, the inventory hadn’t been completed, and Cally’s new boss didn’t need her.

  “I can’t believe I’m missing my first day of work,” Cally said, shaking her head. “But I can’t go to town while things are all so—crazy.”

  “Are you sure you should go out, dear?” Cally’s mother asked timidly, squeezing her husband’s hand.

  “I have to!” Mr. Frasier insisted. “I have to find out what Mr. Lurie is going to do about our trouble!”

  “Mr. Lurie probably didn’t know the story of the house,” Kody said quietly. Despite Cally’s reluctance, Kody had told her parents the frightening story that Anthony had revealed.

  Both parents had reacted with disbelief. “It can’t be true,” their father had murmured, his face still as pale as a ghost. “Bodies buried—unmarked coffins. The heads—the three heads . . .”

  Mrs. Frasier had remained silent, chewing her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed.

  Now, as the morning light filtered through the kitchen window, Mr. Frasier muttered to himself, his lips moving rapidly, his eyes unfocused.

  “Mr. Lurie had to know the story. The horrible story,” he insisted. “He told me he’s been a real estate agent in Shadyside for more than thirty years. I’m going to give him a call right now.”

  He pulled out his wallet, searched through it, then pulled out the real estate agent’s business card. “Hmmm. That’s strange,” Cally’s father murmured, squinting at the card through his glasses.

  “What’s strange?” Cally demanded.

  “There’s no phone number on his card.” Mr. Frasier handed the card to Cally. “Can you find one?”

  Cally studied the card. In small, engraved letters, the card read:

  JASON LURIE

  REAL ESTATE

  424 FEAR STREET

  Cally handed the card back to her father. “Just an address,” she said.

  Mr. Frasier climbed to his feet and walked over to the wall phone. Cally turned at the table to watch him. He punched in Information.

  “Could I have the phone number of the Jason Lurie Real Estate Agency?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen wall. “It’s on Fear Street.”

  A long pause.

  Then Cally saw surprise on her father’s face. “There’s no listing?” he asked into the receiver. “Are you sure?”

  A moment later he replaced the receiver and returned to the table, shaking his head.

  “I never heard of a real estate agent without a phone,” Mrs. Frasier said, staring into her tea cup.

  “I’m going over there right now,” Mr. Frasier declared, frowning. “I’m not going to spend another night in this house until I talk to him. Until I find out the truth about this house.”

  “And make him find Cubby too!” James insisted, pouting.

  Mr. Frasier patted James’s disheveled hair. “I don’t think Mr. Lurie can do that,” he said softly. “But we’ll find the puppy, James. I know we will.”

  “Can I come with you?” Cally asked. She realized she didn’t want to leave her father on his own. Mr. Frasier nodded. “Yes. Come with me. I can use the moral support.”

  “Hurry back,” Cally’s mother called after them. “Don’t leave us alone here too long, okay?”

  • • •

  Cally took a deep breath as she let the fresh air caress her face. Then she climbed into the blue Taurus beside her father.

  The car crunched down the gravel drive. When they backed into the street, out from under the blanketing trees, the sun appeared. Cally saw that it was a warm, beautiful day.

  “It’s a short drive,” her father said, the sunlight reflecting off his glasses as he guided the car slowly down Fear Street. “What’s the address again?”

  He had given the card to Cally. She read the number off the card. “Four twenty-four.”

  She watched the old houses pass by. Many of them were set far back from the street, half hidden by tall hedges and shrubs.<
br />
  As he drove, Mr. Frasier kept clearing his throat and tapping the wheel nervously.

  Poor Dad. He’s in such bad shape, Cally thought. Whatever he saw up in the attic last night has totally changed him.

  The Fear Street cemetery passed by on the driver’s side. Beyond the fence stretched crooked rows of white tombstones, gleaming like bones in the bright sunlight.

  Cally held her breath until the cemetery rolled out of sight. That was one superstition she and Kody agreed upon. Always hold your breath when you pass by a graveyard.

  “It should be on your side,” Mr. Frasier said, clearing his throat. “Keep an eye out, Cally.”

  He slowed the car. “See any numbers?”

  Cally squinted up at the mailboxes along the street. “That one is Four hundred,” she said. “It must be on this block.”

  Mr. Frasier slowed the car to a crawl. “What’s that number?”

  Cally squinted hard at the mailbox on a tilted pole. “That’s Four ten,” she announced.

  They passed the next house, a tall stone house with an old-fashioned-looking turret that made it resemble a castle. “That’s Four twenty-two,” Cally told her father. “So it’s got to be the next one.”

  “Okay, Mr. Lurie—ready or not, here we come!” Mr. Frasier declared.

  He pulled the car to the curb.

  They both peered out of the passenger window.

  And gasped.

  “It’s an empty lot,” Cally said.

  Chapter 16

  They both stared out at the tangle of tall weeds, low shrubs, and wild grass. “There’s nothing here,” Cally whispered.

  Mr. Frasier cleared his throat nervously. “It—it must be the next one,” he stammered.

  He pulled the car away from the curb and edged slowly down the street. The empty lot ended at the corner. A large brick house rose up behind a tall hedge on the corner of the next block.

  “This has got to be Lurie’s office,” Mr. Frasier said.

  Cally leaned out the window. “No number,” she said. “Oh, wait.” She spotted a low wooden address sign at the bottom of the hedge. “It’s four twenty-six.”

  “But that’s impossible!” her father cried shrilly. He grabbed the business card from Cally’s hand and studied it.

  Then he backed the car up slowly, checking the numbers on both sides of the street. “An empty lot,” he said, sighing. “An empty lot.” His weary voice revealed his defeat.

  “Hey—I’ve got an idea,” Cally said, brightening. “Anthony told us about the town historian from the library. Maybe he’s still working at the library—and maybe he’ll know where we can find Mr. Lurie.”

  Cally’s dad gazed at her. His expression frightened Cally. He seemed so far away, so lost in his own thoughts. She wondered if he had even heard her suggestion.

  She felt a little relieved when he finally said, “Okay. It’s worth a try.” But his voice sounded strained, and his eyes still seemed focused somewhere far away. “We gave Lurie all our money,” he muttered more to himself than to Cally. “Every penny went for the house. Every penny.”

  They had to drive around for quite a while before they found the Shadyside Library, a square redbrick building in the North Hills section of town, three blocks from the high school.

  A gray-haired woman at the front desk carefully stamped half a dozen books, checking the date on each one, before raising her eyes to acknowledge Cally and her dad. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for a man who is the town historian,” Cally told her. “Does he work here?”

  “You mean Mr. Stuyvesant,” the woman replied curtly. “Reference room.” She pointed down the hall, then returned to stamping books.

  Mr. Stuyvesant, dressed in a white shirt, a narrow yellow tie, and black trousers, sat hunched over a small metal desk that stood in front of the card catalog. As Cally approached, she saw that he was nearly bald except for a tuft of white hair just above his forehead. He had a round red face, a thin, pointed nose, and tiny black eyes, which reflected the blue glow of the computer monitor on his desk.

  He flashed them a pleasant smile as they came close. “This is the reference room. May I help you find something?”

  “Well, we’re hoping you can help us find someone,” Mr. Frasier said, his voice echoing in the empty room.

  “Someone told us you were the town historian,” Cally said.

  Mr. Stuyvesant seemed pleased by this. His smile widened and his face grew even redder. “I take a special interest in Shadyside’s past,” he said with obvious pride.

  “We’re trying to find a real estate agent,” Mr. Frasier said impatiently.

  The librarian’s smile faded. “Have you tried the Yellow Pages?”

  Mr. Frasier blushed. “You don’t understand,” he said irritably.

  “We’re trying to find a man named Jason Lurie,” Cally interrupted. “He is the man who sold us our house. We thought you might have some kind of town directory.”

  “I am a town directory,” Mr. Stuyvesant boasted, his tiny black eyes sparkling. “I know just about every business in Shadyside. People say I mind everyone’s business but my own!” He laughed, a high-pitched giggle, at his own joke.

  “Have you heard of Mr. Lurie?” Cally’s dad asked, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  Mr. Stuyvesant wrinkled his bald forehead. “You sure you don’t mean the Lowry Agency? They’re over on Division Street.”

  “Lurie,” Mr. Frasier repeated. “Jason Lurie.”

  “Hmmm.” Mr. Stuyvesant rubbed his chin. “Lurie. Lurie—it does sound familiar.”

  He stood up from his small desk chair. He was a big man, and had to push himself up with both hands. He made his way to the shelf behind his desk and picked up a large book. “This is the current business register,” he said.

  He set the book down on his desk and, leaning over it, his face just an inch or two from the book, began thumbing through the pages. “Judson Lurie?”

  “No. Jason,” Cally’s dad replied, frowning. “Jason Lurie.”

  “Nope.” Mr. Stuyvesant slammed the book shut. “Not in Shadyside.” He scratched his bald head. “Let me check something for you.”

  He made his way back to the shelf and returned with a larger volume, bound in dark leather. The worn cover indicated to Cally that the book was quite old.

  “This is a historical record,” Mr. Stuyvesant told them, setting it down carefully on the small metal desk. “It’s my own personal record. I’ve kept it myself since the early fifties. Let’s see if your Mr. Lurie exists in here.”

  Breathing noisily, Mr. Stuyvesant began searching through the big volume, running a finger down the columns.

  Cally and her father stood impatiently on either side of him, watching the librarian as he made his way through several pages.

  Suddenly his finger stopped. He lowered his face even closer to the page, and his lips moved silently as he read. When he raised his eyes to Cally and Mr. Frasier, the color had drained from his face and his tiny eyes were wide with shock.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Stuyvesant?” Cally asked.

  “Well . . .” The librarian hesitated. “I have a listing here for Jason Lurie. But it isn’t quite what you’d expect.”

  “Read it. Please,” Cally’s father urged.

  Mr. Stuyvesant lowered his face to the book and, moving his finger over the page, began to read in a quiet voice.

  “Jason Lurie, real estate agent. In July of 1960, found his family murdered in a new house he had built for them. Hanged himself one month later in the same house. House located at 99 Fear Street.”

  Chapter 17

  Dear Diary,

  We’re all so frightened now. We want to move away from here, to leave this house as fast as possible. But Dad says we don’t have the money to go.

  Poor Dad has been acting so strange. He has a faraway look in his eyes all the time, as if he’s so upset, so lost in his own disturbed thoughts that he can’t
focus.

  And I caught him talking to himself twice today. He was pacing back and forth in the backyard, talking out loud to himself a mile a minute.

  He was muttering something about Simon Fear and bodies buried in the basement. That really gross story that Anthony told us. He was muttering about Mr. Lurie too.

  I’m so worried about him.

  I’m worried about James too. Mom and Dad signed him up for day camp—I think mainly to get him out of the house. When the bus came to pick him up Tuesday morning, James refused to go. He cried and carried on. Not like James at all.

  He said he couldn’t leave Cubby.

  Yes, we still hear Cubby’s sad cries. We hear them late at night now. Mournful, lonely howls. James won’t give up the search. When he hears the dog crying, he tries to track the puppy down. But he never finds him.

  At least there haven’t been any more nights like last Sunday. No more green vomit spewing into the sink. No more blood dripping from the ceiling.

  But we’re all nervous all the time. Whenever the house creaks, we expect something frightening to happen.

  As much as I try, I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Lurie. I met him. I shook hands with him.

  How could he have hanged himself in our house thirty years ago?

  There has to be a logical explanation—right?

  Dad keeps saying he’s going to find Mr. Lurie. He keeps saying that Mr. Lurie isn’t dead, that it’s all a trick by Mr. Lurie to run away with our money.

  But I don’t think Mr. Stuyvesant in the library lied to us. Poor Dad. He isn’t thinking clearly at all.

  At least Kody and I have been getting along pretty well. I haven’t forgiven her for pretending to be a ghost and deliberately scaring me. But I’ve had to put my anger aside since we have so many real problems now.

  And I feel sorry for Kody. She’s stuck hanging around the house all day while I go off to my job.

  Mr. Hankers still comes every morning and disappears into the basement. I guess he’s still fighting rats. But no other work is being done.

  My job at the boutique is really fun. I’ve met some great people. And I even managed to go to The Corner a couple of times to see Anthony.