by R. L. Stine
“We’ll take care of you,” Cally replied softly.
She shuddered. She didn’t want to be back in this house either. She had called their cousins from the hospital. She asked if she and her family could move in with them for a short while. The cousins generously agreed.
As soon as Mr. Frasier got out of the hospital, they would pack up and drive there. Then they would be out of this terrifying place.
But would their mother agree to leave without James? Cally wondered.
She hadn’t had the nerve to bring up the subject yet. She hadn’t even told her mother that she had called their cousins.
“Do you think they’ll let Daddy out of the hospital tomorrow?” Kody asked, following Cally downstairs to help get dinner started.
“They’d better,” Cally murmured. “I don’t want to spend another day here, Kody. I really don’t.”
• • •
Leaning over her desk, Cally stared down into her open diary. The blank page gleamed under the desk lamp.
I can’t write tonight, Cally realized.
If I do, I’ll just start to cry. And I already spent all day crying.
Crying for James, for Mom, for Dad—for all of us.
I don’t even know if I have any tears left.
She stretched her arms over her head. Everything ached. Her arms. Her back.
I need a hot bath, she told herself.
But no. Not here. Not in this house.
I’m afraid to get into the bathtub in this house.
Still stretching, trying to stretch the aches away, she stared down at the blank diary page. I’ve written in my diary most nights for the past three years, she thought.
But not tonight. Not tonight—
She pushed the chair back and climbed to her feet.
What would I write anyway? she asked herself bitterly. That my little brother has disappeared? That my mother broke her arm in two places and is in complete shock? That my father has suddenly gone blind and is lying in the hospital, talking endlessly, crazily, not making any sense at all?
With a loud sigh, Cally made her way to her bed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, but still couldn’t stop shaking.
I’ll never get to sleep, she told herself.
I can’t sleep in this house. I know I can’t.
She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the heavy silence. Despite the warmth of the night, she had shut the bedroom window tight and locked it. Her bedroom door was also shut tight.
Will James’s tiny voice interrupt the silence? she wondered, unable to stop her trembling, her chills. Will I begin to hear Cubby’s shrill barks?
“James, James—where are you?” she murmured aloud. And once again the tears began to flow down her cheeks.
I do have more tears, she told herself.
I have endless tears. Endless tears . . .
Her bitter thoughts were interrupted by a startling sound.
Cally jerked up straight, sliding her back up against the headboard.
Three knocks on the bedroom door.
Three soft taps.
Then a pause.
Then three more soft knocks.
“Kody!” Cally cried, her voice a choked whisper. “Kody—after all that’s happened, how could you?”
Chapter 24
“Kody?” Cally called angrily.
No reply.
Three more gentle taps.
Cally jumped out of bed. “Kody, this isn’t funny!” she called. “Have you totally lost it?”
Crossing the room quickly, Cally yanked open the door and stared out into the dark hallway.
Why are all the lights out? she wondered. I told Kody to leave them all on. All of them!
Peering into the darkness, she saw Kody fleeing down the hall. Her long white nightgown—the nightgown she had worn the last time she had tried to scare Cally—floated behind her as she ran.
“Hey, Kody—come back!” Cally shouted. “Let’s talk about this. Why are you doing this?”
Kody has snapped too, Cally realized sadly. The horror in this house—it has been too much for her. And now here’s my sister, playing at being a ghost once again.
Cally let out a frightened sob. Am I the only sane one left in my whole family? she wondered.
She made her way down the dark hallway, following Kody. The white nightgown moved in blues and grays, seeming to float through the dark shadows.
“Kody—stop!” Cally pleaded. “Stop! This is so stupid!”
And at these words, Kody stopped. And turned back to Cally.
Even in the darkness Cally could see the strange, twisted smile on her sister’s face. “Kody—what is it? What’s wrong?” Cally demanded in a whisper. “Kody—why are you grinning at me like that?”
Her sister didn’t reply.
And as Cally drew closer, close enough almost to touch her sister, she stared hard into Kody’s face—
And saw that it wasn’t Kody after all.
Not Kody.
Not Kody.
Cally.
It was Cally.
“Ohhhh.” Cally’s eyes bulged wide with horror as she realized she was staring into her own face.
Chapter 25
Cally stared in horrified silence at the creature with her face.
And as she stared, the creature’s twisted smile grew wider. The face floated back, deeper into the shadows.
“You’re me! You’re Cally!” Cally declared, frozen in fright, in confusion—in terrified amazement.
They gazed at each other for a moment. One face twisted in disbelief, the other grinning its chilling grin.
“But why?” Cally demanded, ignoring the cold chills that swept down her body. “Why do you look like me?”
“Go,” the other Cally whispered. She raised her hand, the long nightgown sleeve fluttering silently, and pointed back toward Cally’s bedroom. “Go,” she instructed.
“I—I don’t understand!” Cally stammered. “Who are you? Tell me! Tell me why you look like me!”
She reached for the grinning girl—but her hand pushed right through her shoulder. It touched nothing, nothing but air.
“Go.” The grin faded as the girl repeated her order. “Go back to your room and read your diary.”
“Huh?” Cally gaped at herself, at the strange duplicate of herself. “My diary?”
“Go. Go now.”
Cally’s legs trembled. Her heart was racing.
Somehow she managed to turn away. Somehow she was able to make her way back to her bedroom.
She clicked on the light.
She crossed to her desk.
The diary was open, just as she had left it.
She clicked on the desk lamp.
She bent over the diary, bringing her face down close.
A new entry. There was a new entry on the open page of the diary. In Cally’s handwriting.
Cally moved her lips silently as she read it.
“I DIED TONIGHT.”
Chapter 26
“Noooo!”
Cally slammed the diary shut.
She heard scornful laughter behind her. She turned to see the girl with her face, floating across the room.
“Noooo!” Cally repeated, a cry of anger, of protest, of disbelief.
“I am your ghost, Cally,” the girl whispered. “Your diary wouldn’t lie.”
Cally started to cry out—but a sharp wave of pain shot up through her body.
“My feet!”
Her feet were burning.
Cally stared down to see the floor bubbling up over them. So hot. Hot and sticky. Steaming black tar, bubbling up over her feet.
“Hey—” Cally struggled to run. But the sticky tar clung tight, pulling and holding her in its simmering heat.
“Help me!” Cally’s plea came out as a choked whisper.
The burning tar was moving now, up nearly to her knees, seething and tossing, tossing like hot black ocean waves.
Cally bent, reached down wi
th both hands, and tried to pull a leg up, up from the bubbling tar.
But as she bent over, hands reached up for her. A dozen hands, poking right up through the steaming, bubbling tar.
So many hands. Tar covered. And hot. So hot.
Scalding her through her nightshirt. Scalding her as they grabbed her legs, her arms.
Hot, sticky hands, burning Cally, burning her, pulling her down into the swirling, swarming black pit.
“Ohhhh, help me!”
Down, down.
“Let go! Let go of me!”
But the hands held on, and pulled her even deeper.
“Kody!” she cried. As she sank into the bubbling black sea, squirming, struggling against the grip of the tar-covered hands, Cally saw her sister in the doorway.
Saw her sister’s horrified stare. Her shudder of disbelief.
“Kody—help me!” Cally desperately reached out to her. “Pull me out! Hurry!”
Kody stood frozen in terror, the seething tar reflected in her gaping eyes.
“Kody—help me! Help me!”
As the hands pulled her down, as the steaming tar rose up over her waist, Cally leaned toward her sister, reaching out to her.
“Pull me out, Kody! Pull me out!”
She saw Kody hesitate, afraid to move, afraid she might also be pulled into the seething tar pit. But then Kody’s hands shot out. Kody leaned into the room, reaching, reaching out for Cally.
“Hurry, Kody!” Cally shrieked. “Hurry! I’m burning! I’m burning!”
Kody’s hands grabbed at Cally’s. Missed.
Grabbed again.
“Pull me out!” Cally screamed as the putrid tar fumes swirled around her face, choking her, blinding her. “Pull me out—please!”
Chapter 27
Cally grabbed Kody’s hand.
Felt its strong tug.
Then felt it slip away.
“Kody! No! Kody—help me!”
Laughter burned Cally’s ears. The scornful laughter of her own ghost.
“Kody—where are you? Kody?”
And then Cally saw the faces emerge from the rolling waves of tar.
The faces of the dead.
The hideous, decayed faces. Grinning skulls with their rotting teeth. Faces with empty eye sockets, dark holes where mouths should be.
Struggling, struggling to free herself as the tar-covered hands pulled her down, down, down into the putrid black heat, Cally stared at the faces as they whirled around her. At the torn lips, the toothless grins, the gaping holes in the flesh of their cheeks.
So many hideous faces. Where did they all come from?
Where where where?
And why are they grinning at me? Why are they pulling me?
Where are they taking me?
“Kody?” Cally’s last word.
And then the tar rolled over her neck. Up to her chin.
Burning her. Choking her.
And she had no choice. She gave in to it, gave in to the darkness, gave in to the boiling, simmering heat, gave in, gave in—gave in to the evil of the house.
Cally let it bubble over her head. Over her—over her—
Over her.
And when she emerged from the tar a few moments later, she was different in every way.
The evil—the overpowering evil of the house—had consumed her.
Cally rose up from the seething tar. And as she rose she realized she had become the ghost, the ghost of herself she had met in the dark hallway.
And as she floated up, she felt the century-old rage, felt all the anger, all the fury, all the smoldering evil. So much evil that the walls rang out with her scornful laughter, the laughter of a hundred tortured souls now triumphant inside her.
Cally floated through the house, floated through a new world of swirling dark shadows, a ghost, an evil ghost in a house of evil, unaware of anything but her own hatred and anger.
Two days later, when the Frasiers returned from Cally’s funeral, Cally gazed at them and felt only envy. Gazed at her weeping sister and mother as they led a blind Mr. Frasier into the house. Gazed at them and wondered, “Why are they alive and I’m not? Why should they be allowed to live when I’m dead?”
Watching Kody collapse onto her bed, racked with sobs, Cally felt nothing but hatred and the desire for revenge.
What are you crying about, Kody? Cally thought, overwhelmed with bitterness. “You won! You’re still alive!”
The family packed up the car the next morning. Cally watched from the window, watched them pause in the driveway.
She saw Mrs. Frasier cling tightly to Cally’s father, both of them finally convinced they would never see James again. She saw Kody standing close behind as they took their last look at the house that had ruined their lives.
“There she is! I see her!” Kody screamed suddenly.
“Huh? See who?” Mrs. Frasier demanded in a trembling voice.
“I see Cally!” Kody cried. “There! In the window!” She pointed frantically. “See her? See her, Mother?”
“Kody—get in the car,” Mrs. Frasier replied sternly. “There’s no one in the window. Just turn around and get in the car.”
But Kody didn’t obey. Cally watched her as she took two steps closer to the window. “I’ll come back for you someday, Cally!” Kody called. “I promise. I’ll come back for you!”
Kody’s solemn vow made Cally laugh. “If you do come back, dear sister, you’ll be sorry!” she uttered to herself, a bitter promise of her own. “You’ll be very sorry!”
She watched her family climb into the car.
Then, as Mrs. Frasier backed down the drive, Cally let out a long, furious wail that shook the walls and rattled the windows. It was a wail of fury, of hatred, of evil—that she hoped would follow her family wherever they went.
Epilogue
Cally floated through the swirling grays in a kind of half sleep. She didn’t fully awaken until the new family moved in.
It was an afternoon in early fall. She heard Mr. Lurie, the real estate agent, outside in the driveway. Peering out of the window, she saw his ghastly smile, saw his gray suit jacket flapping in a strong breeze, saw his bone-pale hand waving as he welcomed the newcomers to the house.
The newcomers. Two parents opening the front door, followed by their teenage son.
Good-looking guy, Cally thought, floating close. Wavy black hair. Flashing brown eyes.
“The front porch will have to be painted first,” she heard the woman say to Mr. Lurie.
“Look around, Brandt,” the father told the boy. “This is our new start, a wonderful new beginning.”
Don’t be so sure about that, Cally thought cruelly. Don’t be so sure.
Watching Brandt, Cally was already making plans.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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 a hundred mysteries and thrillers for young people, all of them best-sellers.
Bob grew up in Columbus, Ohio. Today he lives in an apartment near Central Park in New York City with his wife, Jane.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Simon Pulse edition June 2002
Text copyright © 1994 by Parachute Press, Inc.
Originally published as an Archway Paperback in 1994
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