by R. L. Stine
I thought hard. I’ll take a snapshot of the empty classroom, I decided. Or maybe the lunchroom or the gym when no one is there.
As soon as Mr. Saur changes my grade to an A, I’ll return the camera, I promised myself. I’ll shove it back into its hiding place. And I’ll never take it out again.
After school, I searched for Shari. She lives next door, so we usually walk home together. But I didn’t see her anywhere.
I crossed the street, kicking a bottle cap I found at the curb. Thinking about my plan. Thinking about the camera.
I had walked about half a block when I heard voices behind me. “Greg! Hey—Greg!”
Two hands grabbed my shoulders and spun me around hard.
Brian Webb!
“Greg—Donny and I went to the Coffman house!” he exclaimed, grinning, holding me in place. “We found the evil camera!”
“Say cheese!” Donny cried.
He pointed the camera and flashed it in my face.
I uttered a hoarse cry.
And shut my eyes against the white flash.
Something horrible is going to happen to me now, I realized.
The picture is going to show me in pain. In agony. In terrible trouble. And then it’s going to come true!
When I opened my eyes, Brian and Donny were laughing. They slapped each other a high five.
I stared at the camera in Donny’s hand.
A yellow cardboard camera. One of those cheap throwaway cameras.
Not the evil camera. Not the old camera from the Coffman house.
“Good joke, guys!” I said sarcastically. I blinked several times, trying to make the yellow dots disappear. “You guys are a riot.”
“You’re the funny one!” Brian shot back. “That was such a funny story you told in class!”
“Yeah. It had us all laughing,” Donny chimed in.
I stared angrily at them. My heart thumped loudly. Brian and Donny. They were so big, they nearly blocked out the sunlight!
I knew they wanted to keep on teasing me. Have some more laughs at my expense. Maybe get into a fight.
But I didn’t have time to fight with them.
“Maybe you won’t be laughing tomorrow,” I murmured. Then I turned, jogged across the street, and headed for home.
At dinner, I stared down at my plate. I was too nervous to eat. My stomach felt as if it were tied in a tight knot.
“Pass the potatoes,” my brother, Terry, said with a mouth full of chicken.
“It’s not potatoes. It’s turnips,” Mom corrected him.
Terry shrugged. “Whatever.” He scooped a pile onto his plate and began spooning them quickly into his mouth.
“Slow down, Terry,” Dad scolded. “You’re eating so fast, you don’t know what you’re eating!”
“Sure, I do,” Terry protested. “I’m eating dinner!”
Mom and Dad laughed.
Terry looks a lot like me—blond hair, green eyes, kind of a goofy smile. We could almost be twins, except that he’s sixteen, four years older than me.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Mom asked him.
Terry burped. “Excuse me.” He licked chicken grease off his fingers. “I have to get back to work. A lot of special orders came in today. So I promised Mr. Kramer I’d put in a few extra hours in the developing lab.”
“You’re learning a lot about photography—aren’t you?” Dad said.
“Yeah. A lot.”
Oh, please! I thought. Please don’t talk about photography!
I knew that soon after dinner, I’d be sneaking out to that creepy old deserted house. I didn’t want to think about cameras or photography.
Terry’s chair scraped the floor as he jumped to his feet. He tossed his greasy napkin onto the table. “Got to run. See you later.” He loped to the door.
“Don’t you have any homework tonight?” Mom called after him.
“No,” he shouted from the front hall. “They don’t give homework in high school!” The front door slammed behind him.
“What a comedian,” Dad muttered, shaking his head.
They both suddenly remembered that I was at the table, too. “Greg—you haven’t touched your chicken!” Mom said, staring at my full plate.
“I ate too much junk after school,” I lied. “I’m not too hungry.”
“Your mom and I are going over to Alana’s after dinner,” Dad told me. Alana is Mom’s sister. “Alana still isn’t feeling well. Do you want to come with us?”
“Uh … no,” I replied, thinking hard. “I’ve got too much homework. I’m going to be studying all night.”
I don’t like to lie to Mom and Dad—if I can help it.
Tonight I couldn’t help it.
“How are your grades this semester?” Mom asked.
“Yes, how are they?” Dad repeated, leaning closer. “Pete and Alice out in Yosemite called me this afternoon. They asked if you are coming to visit them this summer. I told them we’d know as soon as your next report card arrives.”
“Uh … I’m doing real well,” I told them, staring down at my chicken and turnips.
I’ll be doing real well after tomorrow, I thought. My stomach knotted even tighter.
Mom and Dad stood up to clear the table. “Pete and Alice said to be sure to bring a camera,” Dad said. “It’s such beautiful country out there.”
“Maybe Terry can get you a good camera at the store,” Mom suggested.
Please stop talking about cameras! I thought, gritting my teeth.
“Maybe he can,” I said.
I waited till Mom and Dad drove off for Alana’s house. Then I waited ten minutes more. Sometimes they forget something, turn around, and come back home.
I peered out the window. Under the white moonlight, the bare trees were bending and shaking. A breezy night. Still cold even though spring was only a few weeks away.
I pulled a long-sleeved flannel shirt over my T-shirt. Tucked a pocket flashlight into my jeans. And headed out to the garage to get my bike.
The swirling wind felt heavy and wet. I glanced up at the sky, hoping it wasn’t getting ready to rain. A pale half-moon floated over the quivering trees.
The front tire on my bike was a little low. But I guessed I could make it up the hill to the Coffman house. I walked the bike out of the garage, then climbed on.
I’d left all the lights on in the house. From the driveway, it looked so bright and warm and safe. For a moment, I was tempted to go back inside and forget about the evil camera.
But my mind was made up. I desperately wanted to visit my cousins this summer. No way I could do that if I got an F from Mr. Saur on my report.
I took a deep breath. Clicked on the bike headlight. And pedaled down to the street.
It was lucky that Mom and Dad had to go away, I told myself. At least I didn’t have to sneak out of the house.
“That’s it, Greg,” I said out loud, pedaling harder. “Look on the bright side.”
The street seemed darker than usual. Glancing up, I saw that two streetlights were out.
The wind swept toward me. On both sides, the trees appeared to be shivering. I swerved to miss a sheet of old newspaper fluttering across the street.
I shifted gears as the street sloped uphill. I pictured the ramshackle old Coffman house. Hidden behind ancient oak trees at the top of a weed-choked lawn.
I remembered that it stood three stories tall, gray shingle, with a wraparound screened porch, a sloping red roof, and tall chimneys on either end.
Many years ago, it must have been a really fancy house. But no one had lived in it for dozens of years. And the house had crumbled and decayed until it looked like a wreck.
I crossed a street, pedaling smoothly and steadily uphill. Familiar houses rolled past in the darkness. And then a small wooded area.
I felt my throat tighten. And my hands grow cold.
The house—the Coffman house—stood just beyond the woods.
The tree branches swayed, glowing gray�
��the color of bone—under the cold moonlight.
I squeezed the brake as I rolled past the woods.
Past the sloping lawn. Past the ancient oak trees.
Up to the old house—and gasped in shock.
The house was gone.
I jumped off my bike and let it fall to the sidewalk. I uttered a low cry of surprise.
Then I blinked several times. Tried to make the big, old house appear where it belonged behind the oak trees.
But no.
The trees rose up over the lawn, silvery-gray in the moonlight. Now they protected only scattered piles of boards and shingles.
The house had been torn down.
Totaled.
Dazed, I stood at the curb, staring up to where the house should be. Staring hard. Trying to force it to come back.
A minute or two later, I felt a stab of pain—and slapped a mosquito on my forehead. It’s too early in the spring for mosquitoes, I thought. I felt wet blood on my forehead.
Rubbing the bite, I turned to the gravel driveway. And saw a stenciled sign near the street: SOLD.
So the Coffman house had been sold.
And the new owner tore it down.
I rubbed the mosquito bite, thinking hard. The house was gone. But what about the basement?
What about the basement workshop? I remembered it so well. I remembered the worktable. And I remembered the hiding place in the wall above it. The small compartment where the camera lay hidden away.
What about the basement?
Before I even realized it, my feet were carrying me up the hill. My sneakers slid over the slick, tall grass. I inhaled the fresh dew. I kept my eyes locked on the trembling silver trees.
I stepped around a pile of rusted nails and bolts. Jumped over a low stack of rotted shingles. Shingles that had been pulled off the house.
Halfway up the lawn, I could see what else was left of the house. Wooden doors stacked in a high pile. Broken glass over the ground. Window frames leaning against a wall of rotting boards. Cracked shingles everywhere. A white sink on its side against a tree. An old washtub resting beside it.
But what about the basement?
I crept closer. My legs suddenly felt heavy. My whole body felt heavy—as if some invisible force were pushing me back, pushing me away.
A deep shadow ran along the ground behind the round, old oaks. At first glance, I thought I was staring at a pool of water. A small lake.
But as I made my way closer, I saw that the deep shadow was a hole. A huge, square pit in the ground.
The basement.
Nothing but a hole now.
I stopped at the edge, my body feeling even heavier. Heavy with disappointment. I stopped and stared down into the deep hole.
The trees shut out most of the moonlight. With a trembling hand, I pulled out my pocket flashlight and clicked it on. I aimed the narrow beam of yellow light into the hole.
Empty down there. The light slid over the dirt. On one side, thick tree roots poked into the open square.
I ran the light over the pit walls. Tangles of roots spread over the smooth, black dirt.
Nothing left. The basement had been completely cleared out. Even the concrete floor had been broken up and carted away.
And where was the camera?
Where?
Had someone found it? Pulled it out and kept it?
Or had it been crushed when the workers smashed the concrete? Crushed and destroyed forever?
I moved the beam of light back and forth along the far wall. I’m not sure what I expected to see.
Did I think I’d find the camera hidden in its square hole in the pit wall? Did I think I would see it in a corner of the muddy floor?
The light swept over dirt and knots of tree roots.
Nothing else.
I clicked off the flashlight and shoved it into my pocket.
I turned away from the hole, side-stepping a pile of broken shingles.
A strong gust of wind made the old trees groan and creak. I barely noticed the eerie sounds.
I’m going to get an F, I thought unhappily.
The camera is gone forever, and I’m going to get an F.
My summer is ruined. And the other kids in class will never believe me. They will laugh at me and click cameras at me forever.
I let out a long, glum sigh.
Angrily, I kicked a broken board out of my path and started down the lawn to my bike.
I had taken four or five steps when a shrill voice yelled, “Caught you! You’re not going anywhere!”
The high voice in the night air startled me. Without thinking, I started to run. Then stopped.
I spun around, my heart heaving against my chest.
And saw a boy. About my age. He had picked up a board from the ground and held it high, as if ready to swing it.
He wore a black sweatshirt over faded jeans, holes in both knees. His dark hair was cut very short. He glared at me with dark, tense eyes.
“Dad—I caught him!” he shouted. He had a high, shrill voice that made him sound like a little kid.
“Whoa. What do you mean?” I cried. “Caught me?”
“Don’t move,” he ordered me, raising the board higher. He took a step closer. Then another. His eyes burned hard into mine.
“I wasn’t doing anything!” I told him. “I—I was just looking.”
As he stepped up to me, I saw his expression change. The anger faded from his eyes. His mouth slid open.
“You—you’re not him!” he stammered.
“Huh? Who?” I cried. “I’m not who?”
“Hey—I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Well … I’m not someone else!” I replied. “I’m me.”
“There’s a kid who lives down the block,” the boy explained, scratching his dark crew cut. “He’s been sneaking over here at night and stealing stuff from the yard.”
My eyes wandered over the cluttered lawn. “What was he stealing? There isn’t much left.”
The boy nodded. He tossed away the board he planned to use as a weapon. It clattered against a pile of boards beside me. “He was taking lumber and stuff. I thought you were him.”
“Did your family buy the Coffman house?” I asked. Even though it was such a cool, windy night, my forehead was all sweaty. I reached up and mopped the sweat with the back of my hand.
“Yeah. We bought it,” he replied. “But Dad said the house was too wrecked to fix up. So he had it torn down. We’re going to build a new house.”
The wind made the trees creak again. I glanced down to the street and saw the back wheel of my bike spinning.
“People told us the Coffman house was haunted,” the boy said. “So I’m glad Dad tore it down.” He kicked at a shingle on the ground. “My name is Jon. What’s yours?”
“Greg. I—I live down at the bottom of the hill. A few blocks past the school.”
I gazed to where the house had stood. “My friends and I used to sneak into the old house,” I told him. “You know. Just for fun. For excitement. I think it was haunted. Really.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, studying me. “What were you doing here?” he demanded. “Why did you come up here tonight?”
I decided to tell him the truth. “I was looking for something,” I said. “A camera.”
He scratched his short hair again. “An old camera?”
“Yes!” I cried excitedly. “An old camera. It was hidden down in the basement. Did you see it?”
“Yeah,” Jon replied. “The men dug it up when they pulled out the basement.”
“Oh, wow!” I cried. I couldn’t hide my excitement. “Where is it, Jon? I mean—what did they do with it? Do you know where it is?”
He pointed over my shoulder toward the street. “Probably over there,” he said. “I don’t think they emptied it yet.”
I spun around and saw a big dumpster on the other side of the driveway. “They threw it in there?” I demanded
.
I didn’t wait for him to answer. I started running full speed through the tall weeds to the street. I stopped in front of the big steel dumpster. I could see all kinds of junk piled over the top.
“Is it okay to look for it?” I called back to Jon.
He came walking slowly down to me, hands shoved in his pockets. “Sure. Go ahead. Why do you want a stupid old camera, anyway?”
I didn’t answer him. No time for answering questions.
I lifted both hands to the top of the dumpster. It was pretty high. It took me three tries to pull myself up and in.
A street lamp across the street cast a glow of dim yellow light over the dumpster. My eyes wandered quickly over the trash. All stuff from the basement, I realized.
I saw rusted old tools from the workshop. Part of an ancient vacuum cleaner. The spin cylinder from a dryer. Old clothes. Torn suitcases.
Is it here? I asked myself. Is the camera in here?
I pulled away a broken suitcase and tossed it aside. I grabbed stacks of old magazines and shoved them out of the way.
I’m going to search every inch of this dumpster till I find it, I told myself.
I pulled away a torn section of a garden hose. Then I pawed through a pile of old clothes.
Where is it? Where?
I dropped onto my hands and knees and dug deeper into the garbage. The stale odor of dust and decay floated up to me, swept over me. I held my breath and kept pawing away.
I had to find it. I had to.
I didn’t stop until I saw the two eyes staring up at me.
Two eyes. Yellow in the pale light.
Staring up at me from the trash. Staring up at me without blinking.
I’m not alone in here! I realized.
And then I opened my mouth in a shrill, terrified scream.
The eyes stared up at me without blinking. Yellow and cold.
A chill tightened the back of my neck.
I stared down at them, waiting for them to move. Waiting for something to jump up at me.
“What’s wrong? Did you find the camera?” Jon called from the sidewalk.
“No. I—uh—I—”
I reached my hand down toward the glassy yellow eyes. And felt bristly fur.
