by R. L. Stine
I watched in the darkened room with a handful of technicians as the module took off. “Now we’re going to closed-circuit inside the module,” a technician with red hair announced.
For a second, I saw Dad sitting at the helm of the cramped cockpit. Then, abruptly, the screen fuzzed before going blank. “We’ve lost visual,” the technician stated the obvious. “The immense heat must be sending solar flares.”
“Let’s hope the heat panels hold,” said the man in the suit.
I sat with my stomach in knots as Dad’s voice came into the room. I wished I could’ve seen him but at least I could hear him.
“I have left Lectus’s atmosphere and am heading toward the mysterious light. My solar defense suit is equipped with an internal cooling device. I’m glad of that because already it’s scorching up here,” he reported.
For several long minutes he was silent.
“As the module gets closer, the light is increasingly blinding. I am flipping the antiglare visor down over my helmet,” he said, finally.
“I am attempting to contact the light with a series of laser signals. . . . Nothing.”
More silence behind the hum of the speakers.
I wondered why he wasn’t speaking.
“The light is just out there,” he said, and I noticed that his voice had lost its commanding strength.
“If it is, in fact, God, it is not responding,” he spoke again, his voice weaker still.
“I’m not sure what to do next. Even with this suit on, I’m sweating.”
I stood, alarmed. “Tell him to come back,” I said.
“Can’t,” the technician said, “we’ve lost two-way. That light is affecting our communication signals.”
“He’ll be okay,” said the man in the suit.
The next time Dad spoke, he sounded drunk, though I knew he couldn’t be. “A strange feeling is taking hold of me—a certainty of what I have to do next,” he reported. “It’s as if I have no choice anymore. I know this is crazy but I can’t stop myself. I am going to the leave the module to go to the light.”
“No!” I shouted as a deafening crackle filled the control room.
It is now a year later and I am back on Earth living with my aunt and uncle. They have brought me to a special session of an investigative committee in Washington, D.C.
I sit, anxiously waiting as a senator takes to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, this session of our committee is called to order. We have finally recovered the space module flown by John Biggs Boreidae. As you know, for some reason we have yet to understand, the heroic Mr. Boreidae chose to leave his spacecraft in a delusional attempt to go toward the light. However, we have recovered the badly charred module and discovered that its recorder caught these voices. What you are about to hear might be the voices of an alien race far more sophisticated than our own, or as the esteemed Dr. Peterson has suggested, it could, in fact, be the very voice of God.”
I sat forward, my fists clenched in anticipation. In the next minute, the module’s recorder was played over the public-address system.
Female voice: “Damned fleas! I don’t know how we got this infestation. The cat probably brought them in.
“Nothing gets rid of them! I’ve tried spraying insecticide. I’m sick of vacuuming. The only thing that works at all are these flea traps. They can’t help but jump to the lightbulb and then they fall on the sticky paper below.
“It’s weird to think that such tough little survivors have such a stupid streak. Who knows why they jump into the light? They just can’t help themselves, I guess.”
THE PERFECTS
▼ JENNIFER ALLISON ▼
The chances are pretty good that I’m going to be killed before daylight, and I can’t help but think this never would have happened if we hadn’t moved to Entrails, Michigan. I know there’s no point in thinking this way, but really, there’s nothing I can do but sit here and think. I’ve already panicked, banged on the bars of my cage, and searched for an escape. Now all I can do is consider how I got into this situation in the first place. Naturally, I find myself wishing I could rewind time—wishing I could go back and redo any of the events and choices that led me to the end of the road.
Did I mention I wouldn’t be stuck here now if we hadn’t moved? That part certainly wasn’t my choice. My dad lost his job in Detroit and, when neither he nor my mother could find work in their fields, they got the bright idea to move to a small town in the country. My mother managed to find a teaching job but my father’s plans were vague: some days he said he planned to start his own business; other days he said he planned to write a bestselling novel or become an organic farmer. At any rate, both of my parents were convinced that out here in Entrails we could live like kings for very little money, and they weren’t about to take the advice of a fifteen-year-old girl who didn’t want to move.
My parents bought a new house that was about five times the size of our old house in the Detroit suburbs. “And we got it for a song!” my father crowed. It was a foreclosed property; the previous owners had just stopped paying the bills and left town.
Our new house was enormous, but the house next to ours was even bigger—a mansion four stories tall with two towers that popped up from the roof, reminding me of turrets on a medieval castle.
“That house next door is an amazing example of Victorian architecture, Hannah,” my mom declared when we first arrived in our new neighborhood.
“Our family and the neighbors next door have the best houses in the whole town,” my dad added. “In this town, we’re like royalty.”
That was the moment I first glimpsed something disturbing—something I did my best to ignore. In an upstairs window of the house next door, a shadowy figure parted the lace curtains and stared down at our car. I had the distinct sense that someone up there was looking at us—sizing us up. But I told myself I was just feeling anxious about being in a new place.
My parents and I went inside to check out the long hallways and empty rooms in our new house. I was trying to decide between two large bedrooms on the second floor when someone rang the doorbell.
I heard my mother open the door.
“Hello. I wanted to welcome you to our neighborhood.” It was a woman who spoke with a smooth, formal voice.
Curious, I stepped out of the second-floor bedroom and leaned over the hallway banister to listen more closely.
“My name is Rebecca Perfect,” the woman announced. “I live in the house next door.”
“Oh, nice to meet you!” In contrast, my mother’s voice sounded nasal, high-pitched, and nervous. “Your house is just beautiful!”
From my perch, I saw my mom hurriedly tucking her frizzy hair behind her ears—something she does when she feels embarrassed or intimidated.
“I noticed you have a teenage daughter,” said the woman.
“Why, yes. Hannah is fifteen. Hannah, are you up there?” My mother turned and saw me peeking over the banister. “Oh! There you are, Hannah. Come say hello to our next-door neighbor.”
I trudged downstairs to meet Rebecca Perfect.
You’ve got to hand it to Mrs. Perfect: On first impression, she really lives up to her name. She wore a neatly tailored pantsuit, designer shoes with tiny heels, and black leather gloves. Not a hair was out of place. She smiled with approval, as she swiftly eyed me from head-to-toe.
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand.
“Does Hannah babysit?” Mrs. Perfect directed her question to my mother as she shook my hand with a limp grip that was more of a pinch than a handshake.
“Oh, yes. Hannah is a very experienced babysitter. Right, Hannah?”
“I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Perfect, before I had a chance to answer. “I realize this is a last-minute request, but my husband and I have a very important engagement tonight. Could you come over to our place at about seven o’clock, Hannah?”
“Okay,” I said. “But don’t your kids go trick-or-treating on Halloween night?”
“They
prefer to celebrate the holiday at home.”
I’d like to tell you that I had some sense of foreboding about a last-minute babysitting invitation on Halloween night, but I didn’t. I was thrilled, even relieved. For one thing, it was nice to have any kind of social invitation in a town where I knew absolutely nobody. Besides, I’ve always liked kids, probably because children and babies have always been drawn to me. Babies like pulling on my long ponytail and hoop earrings, and older kids like the silly games I make up after their parents leave the house. Back in my old neighborhood I made a small fortune as a babysitter. In fact, when my dad lost his job, he joked that I was going to have to step in as the breadwinner of the family. With no friends in my new neighborhood, I figured I might as well spend Halloween night babysitting.
As I was contemplating my luck at finding a babysitting job so quickly, Mrs. Perfect pulled her cell phone from her purse, opened it, and snapped my picture with a single swift movement. “For my children,” she explained, punching a number into her phone with her gloved finger. “So you won’t be a complete stranger when you come over.”
“Oh. Sure.” Nobody had ever taken my picture in advance of a babysitting job before. Maybe she’s actually taking the picture as a security precaution since she doesn’t know me well, I thought.
Well, in hindsight, I know that Mrs. Perfect was telling the truth: The photo really was for her kids. Just not in the way I expected.
“So we live next door to the Perfects,” I remarked wryly after we said good-bye to our new neighbor. “I guess we’re moving up in the world.”
“Isn’t it funny?!” My mom grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open one of the storage boxes that were stacked in the room. “Here I am looking my worst, and who comes over but ‘Mrs. Perfect’!”
Oh, it was funny, all right.
If you like being killed, this whole thing is hilarious.
It’s hard to believe that just hours ago, I was sitting on a window seat in my new bedroom peering down into the next-door neighbors’ backyard and feeling almost happy as I spied on Mrs. Perfect’s three kids—a girl and boy who appeared to be about five or six, and a baby girl who looked as if she were about one year old. The children were cute, but something about their demeanor seemed joyless and somber—older than their years. Sitting silently in an old-fashioned baby buggy, even the baby struck me as unusually reserved and serious as she sucked on her bottle.
Surrounding the children were some of the most enthusiastic backyard Halloween decorations I had ever seen. Tiny ghosts made of gauzy material dangled from tree branches, dancing in the wind. The lawn resembled a tiny church graveyard filled with small, fake tombstones. Well, I assumed they were fake. It’s funny how the scene struck me as simultaneously adorable and sad. For some reason, I felt sorry for those strangely forlorn little kids. I imagined myself befriending them: reading funny stories, playing hide-and-seek in the yard, tickling the baby’s toes and making her giggle.
I must have dozed off while sitting in the window seat daydreaming, because the next thing I knew, all three children had vanished from the garden below. I felt strangely dizzy, so I decided to take a walk and get some fresh air.
I quickly realized that it took only about ten minutes to see just about everything there was to see in the town of Entrails—a “dollar store,” a bakery, a McDonald’s, a gas station, a church, a dentist’s office, a bar called Tim’s Lounge, and a gift shop called Sweet Memories that sold sentimental greeting cards, candles, and hundreds of dolls and stuffed animals dressed up in elaborate costumes. A large, vintage-looking sign on the wall in Sweet Memories announced:Custom-Built Dolls
REAL HAIR
Order Today
I had never seen so much velvet and lace in one store, and I couldn’t help wondering how a store that sold mostly dolls could stay in business in such a small town. It was as silent as a tomb in the store; I was the only customer in sight.
As I browsed shelves stacked with floppy-eared rabbits wearing petticoats and dolls with clear-blue glass eyes that stared out of painted porcelain faces, the ladies working at the checkout counter observed me with prim, unfriendly interest. All three were middle-aged, dressed in colorful, preppy sweaters.
“She’s the one,” I heard one of the ladies whisper.
I felt paranoid. Were they talking about me?
“They already moved into the Morgan house?” The other lady didn’t even try to lower her voice.
“Morgan” was the name of the family who used to live in our new house. Now I felt certain they were talking about me.
“I recognize her from the rush order we got in earlier today.”
What “rush order”? I wondered. What were they talking about?
“Shame about the Morgans.”
“They say one person’s misfortune is another’s opportunity.”
Were they annoyed that my family had snapped up their former neighbor’s foreclosed property? It wasn’t my family’s fault the Morgans couldn’t pay their mortgage, was it?
“Shame about that poor girl Jessica, too.”
Who in the world was Jessica, and what happened to her? Now I was too curious to keep quiet. I figured these ladies knew just about everything that went on in the town of Entrails, so I thought I’d try to talk to them.
“Excuse me,” I ventured. “I couldn’t help overhearing you. . . . My name is Hannah and my family just moved into the house the Morgans used to own.”
The three women stared as if they were shocked that I knew how to talk. One of them refused to make eye contact: She looked down, pretended to shuffle some papers, then turned and walked away, shaking her head. Was I going to be a social outcast in my new town?
“Um—sorry to interrupt your work,” I said, secretly reflecting that they had actually been standing there doing nothing. “I’m just curious about the neighborhood, and I heard you mention something about the Morgans—the people who used to live in our house.”
“You don’t know what happened to the Morgans?” The woman standing at the cash register squinted at me as if trying to see me more clearly.
I shook my head. As far as I knew, my parents didn’t know either.
“They had a girl about your age,” she said, coldly. “She went missing. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but she’s gone.”
At these words, I felt a cold sensation in my bones, like a warning from my own body. I guess my body was smarter than my brain.
“We can guess what happened,” the other lady mumbled.
“Carol—“ The other lady shot Carol a warning glance, as if telling her to put a lid on it. “You don’t want to scare the girl.”
“I think she has a right to know something.” Carol turned back to me and gave me a pointed look. “Anyway, things have a way of falling apart after something like that.”
I already knew we had moved to a small, boring town, but now it seemed that we had moved to a small, creepy (not to mention decidedly unfriendly) town. What in the world had my parents been thinking?
“So what do you think happened to Jessica?” I asked.
“All we can tell you is that none of the Morgans are around anymore.”
“Well, thanks for the info,” I said, feeling overwhelmed and suddenly wanting to get out of that store as quickly as possible,
“Just be careful around here,” Carol warned.
“I will,” I said, not having the faintest idea how, exactly, I was supposed to “be careful.”
A fall storm was brewing as I approached the Perfects’ house in darkness. Dry leaves stirred and whispered in the warm wind reminding me of tornado weather.
“Hello, Hannah.” Mrs. Perfect greeted me at the door. Her slender figure was defined by an elegantly tailored black dress, a long strand of pearls, and shiny high heels.
“Thank you for coming over at such short notice.” Mrs. Perfect spoke with a cool familiarity, once again eyeing me up and down, as if conducting a quick assessment of my skin, hair, and b
ody. Registering a tiny smile, she stepped aside so I could walk past her. I felt her eyes on me as she followed me into an enormous, high-ceilinged kitchen where two of the children I had observed through the window earlier in the day sat on stools around a high table, eating dinner.
The kids regarded me with mild interest, but without smiling.
“Hannah, these are my children, Maddie and Jackson.”
Maddie and Jackson said hello and then turned back to watching a large flat-screen television. I don’t think I had ever met anybody whose kitchen contained such a huge flat-screen television.
As I mentioned before, I’ve always liked children—kids of all ages, sizes, colors, and shapes. In my experience, there’s always something funny or cute about even the most difficult or homely child. But strangely, I found myself reflecting that Maddie and Jackson had looked a whole lot cuter from the safe distance of my bedroom window. Up close, something was wrong with these two kids. I just couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly, it was. Maybe it was the way their blue eyes had a glassy, puffy look that suggested illness. Their rosy, flushed cheeks looked feverish instead of healthy. Maybe they’re fighting a flu bug, I thought. But then I realized that it wasn’t so much their appearance but what they were doing—and what they were watching—that made these two children instinctively unappealing.
Maddie’s and Jackson’s sharp knives and forks clinked against their plates as they carved nearly raw slabs of steak, their white porcelain plates stained with bloody juices. While they ate, they calmly watched television footage of a surgical procedure with the volume muted. Chewing their red meat and gulping their milk, they stared as scalpels made incisions and clamps revealed internal organs.
“You like watching this stuff?” I was baffled by the family’s choice of viewing material during a meal.
The kids nodded with blank expressions.
