by R. L. Stine
Chelsea brought them menus and stood by, hands shoved in her apron pockets, waiting for them to decide. She found her thoughts drifting to Will Blakely.
Staring out the window into the graying evening, she rehearsed her conversation with Will again. She knew every word by heart. She wondered if Will would say the things she had planned for him.
She wondered if Will would ever ask her to go to the movies.
Will you be my first date, Will?
Or will you walk away just as Sparks did?
Will seemed so shy, so painfully shy.
As shy as Chelsea.
Maybe I’ll ask him out, Chelsea thought.
The idea excited her. It opened up a whole new world of possibilities.
She decided to forget the conversation she’d been rehearsing. Instead, she’d ask him out for Saturday night.
No. No way, she immediately decided.
I could never do that. Never. I’d die. I’d die first.
What if he said no?
I’d be embarrassed for life.
Rehearsing how she might ask Will out, imagining their conversation, carried her through the rest of her shift. Seven o’clock, closing time, came quickly for her.
“Let’s go home,” her dad said brightly, emptying the cash register. He carefully placed all the money into a manila envelope, which he kept locked in the desk in a back room until he could take it to the bank the next morning.
“Mom won’t be there,” Chelsea told him.
“I know. She’s working the late shift tonight,” he replied with a helpless shrug.
Chelsea impatiently pulled off the apron she hated, bundled it up, and shoved it into the laundry bag. Her father went to lock the front door.
She heard noise at the front of the restaurant, shouts and feet scuffling.
Uttering a silent gasp, Chelsea focused her eyes on the door and saw three tough-looking young men, dressed in jeans and denim jackets, push their way in past her father.
She started to cry out, but her voice caught in her throat.
“We’re closed!” Mr. Richards was shouting. “You don’t belong in here. We’re closed!”
One of the young men, tall and muscular with long, stringy blond hair, shoved her father back against the counter. “Empty the cash register and we’ll get out,” he snarled.
“There’s nothing in there,” Mr. Richards insisted, his eyes wide with fear. “Nothing!”
“He’s telling the truth!” Chelsea managed to cry. She was huddled in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Let’s just see,” one of them said. He started to the cash register.
“No!” Chelsea’s father screamed. “Get away! Get away from there!” He bolted after the young man and grabbed his shoulders from behind.
“No—Dad! Don’t!” Chelsea screamed. “Dad—look out!”
chapter 5
Mr. Richards’s eyes opened wide and he uttered a groan as one of the young men, a pale, skinny boy with wild gray eyes, stepped up behind him and brought a heavy pipe down on his head.
Chelsea screamed. And screamed again.
Her father’s eyes rolled up in his head, his head wobbled on his neck, and he slumped to the floor as if in slow motion, landing first on his knees, then toppling face forward onto the linoleum.
He didn’t move.
Chelsea’s hands went up to her face, gripped her hair, and tugged. She tried to scream again, but no sound came out. “Dad—” she finally managed to cry. “Dad—”
The tall young man with the stringy blond hair slammed his fist hard against the front of the cash register when he saw that it was empty. “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted to his friends.
“Dad—” Chelsea cried, staring down at her unmoving father, sprawled facedown on the floor, his arms folded under his body.
“Is he dead?” the one who hit him asked, dropping the section of pipe to the floor.
“You want to stick around to find out?” the blond one snapped.
All three of them were laughing as they ran out the front door. Chelsea watched them through the window as they disappeared around the corner.
She realized she was still tugging at her hair. Forcing her hands down, she dropped to the floor beside her father. “Dad—? Dad—?”
He didn’t respond. She gasped as she saw bright red blood oozing from a deep gash on the crown of his head, the blood darkening as it ran through his thinning hair.
“Dad—?”
She rolled him over on his back.
Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive.
His eyes were closed. He was breathing slowly, noisily through his mouth. Each breath sounded like a groan.
Relieved that he was still alive, but alarmed by the dark blood puddling under his head, Chelsea pulled herself to her feet, stumbled to the phone in the kitchen, and dialed 911.
Two hours later Chelsea was home alone, pacing the living-room floor, her sneakers scraping the threadbare carpet, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. The floorboards creaked as she walked over them. The sound of the white enamel clock over the mantel seemed to grow louder with each tick.
Calm down, Chelsea, she told herself. Calm down. Calm down.
She repeated the words in her mind until they no longer made sense.
Everything’s going to be okay, she thought.
Her father was in the intensive care unit of Shadyside General. The doctor told her he was in “serious but stable” condition.
She was too frightened and yet too relieved to ask what that meant.
Serious but stable.
Those words sounded better than dead.
“We don’t detect any internal bleeding,” the doctor, who had red hair and freckles and seemed about Chelsea’s age, told her. “Your father was lucky.”
Lucky? How was he lucky? Chelsea was about to say.
But she restrained herself, held in her bitterness, forced a smile, and muttered some kind of polite answer.
Her mother had arrived at the hospital a few minutes later in her starched white uniform. She was pale and very frightened. The redheaded doctor had led her down the long, green-painted corridor, his hand on her shoulder, talking softly to her.
Now it was nearly ten o’clock, and Mrs. Richards was still at the hospital. From there she’d probably go back to work.
Chelsea was alone. Pacing the living room. The floorboards creaked eerily beneath her as if crying out from every step she took.
I hate this creepy old house, she thought, dropping into the worn corduroy armchair in the corner.
I hate this house. I hate this town.
I hate … everything.
Her anger couldn’t chase away her fear.
The feeling of panic crept up on her, as if someone were pulling a heavy blanket over her, tightening it around her, smothering her under it.
What if Dad dies?
What will happen to us then?
Stop it, Chelsea, she scolded herself.
Stop it—right now.
She looked down and realized she had the phone in her hand. Without thinking, she punched in Nina’s number.
The phone rang three times. Nina answered. “Hello?”
“Nina, it’s me—Chelsea.”
“Oh, hi. How are you doing? Doug and I were just—”
“Nina, something terrible happened,” Chelsea interrupted impatiently, feeling the panic, feeling chilled all over, feeling her heart pound. “The restaurant was robbed. They hit my dad over the head.”
“Oh, that’s terrible!” Nina exclaimed. “Is he okay?” Chelsea could hear Doug in the background, asking what was going on.
“I’m not really sure. He’s in intensive care. They say he’s stable. My mom’s at the hospital. I’m all alone here,” Chelsea said, staring at the clock over the mantel until it became a white blur. “Could you do me a favor, Nina? Could you come and stay here tonight?”
“Sure. No problem,” Nina said quickly. �
��I think it’ll be okay. Let me ask my mom.”
Chelsea heard the phone being put down, heard voices in the background but couldn’t make out their words. Still staring at the clock, she waited and drummed her fingers on the soft arm of the big old chair.
“Be right over,” Nina said.
“Thanks,” Chelsea replied gratefully and hung up.
A few minutes later Chelsea saw car headlights in the driveway. She eagerly pulled open the front door and turned on the porch light.
This is really nice of Nina, Chelsea thought, peering out at the driveway through the storm door. She’s a true friend.
Then she saw that Doug had come too.
Nina stepped into the hallway accompanied by a burst of cold air. She threw her arms around Chelsea, startling her, and gave her a hug. “Are you okay? You must have been so frightened!”
“Yes. I—” Chelsea suddenly couldn’t find the words.
Doug pushed his way past them, rubbing his hands. “It got so cold,” he said, peering curiously into the living room.
“I’ll make some hot chocolate,” Chelsea offered.
“Coffee would be better,” he said, tossing his down jacket onto the floor in front of the couch.
“Okay. Coffee,” Chelsea replied.
Doug and Nina followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll make instant, okay?”
“Let me do it,” Nina insisted. “You poor thing. Look—your hands are shaking.”
“It—it was really scary,” Chelsea admitted, stepping back and letting Nina fill the kettle. “I thought Dad was—I mean, there was so much blood.”
“Who were these guys?” Doug asked, hoisting his large body onto a tall kitchen stool and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter.
“I don’t know,” Chelsea replied. “I never saw them before. They were all wearing denim jackets. Tough looking. Sort of like a gang.”
“My dad says there’s an awful lot of crime in the Old Village,” Nina said thoughtfully.
“Is your dad going to be okay?” Doug asked.
“I think so,” Chelsea said, suddenly afraid again, barely able to choke out the words.
A few minutes later they were back in the living room, the TV on, rapid-fire images of an MTV video filling the room with color. Chelsea sat in the corduroy armchair in the corner, her legs tucked under her, the coffee mug between her hands. Nina and Doug were on the couch.
Chelsea turned her eyes from the TV and saw Doug pull Nina close to him. She raised her face to his, and they kissed, a long, lingering kiss.
That’s why Nina was so eager to leave home and come over here, Chelsea thought bitterly. So she and Doug would have a place to make out.
The two of them kissed again, as if they were alone in their own world, as if Chelsea weren’t in the room.
She tried to watch the flickering images of the music video, but her eyes kept returning to Nina and Doug.
Watching them, she felt even more alone than before.
Why isn’t that me with a guy on the couch? she asked herself. Why do I have to be the one by myself in the corner?
I’m so tired of being lonely, she thought.
I’m so tired of never going out, of never being with a boy, of never having a boy care about me.
Then she thought, If that tough-looking boy who came into the restaurant—Tim Sparks—yeah, if Sparks comes back and asks me out, I’ll say yes. I won’t hesitate for a second.
Chelsea closed her eyes.
She pictured her father being hit over the head again. She pictured the surprise on his face, the way his eyes rolled back in his head, the way he slumped to his knees, then fell forward. She pictured the blood gushing from the top of his head.
A frightening thought flashed into her mind just then. A thought about Sparks.
He had left so suddenly. Without even eating his hamburger.
He left as soon as he saw Chelsea’s father.
As soon as he saw that Chelsea and her father were the only ones working in the restaurant.
What if Sparks was sent ahead to check out the place for the other three guys?
That would explain why he hurried out so quickly. And why the kids had appeared a short while later.
It can’t be possible—can it? Chelsea asked herself.
Well, if he is one of them, he’ll never come back.
He knows if he comes back, he could be caught.
Her mind spun faster than the images of the MTV video. She suddenly felt as if her brain were about to burst. She shut her eyes tight, the sound of the video throbbing in her ears.
What if he does come back?
What will I do?
chapter 6
It was cold by the river, but pretty.
He liked cold weather. He liked the sharpness of wind that cut right through him. He liked the heaviness of it in his nostrils and against his forehead.
The morning sun was still low over the trees. Droplets of cold water clung to the shock of curly black hair protruding from under his wool ski cap. The wind gusted past him, then calmed.
The river was wider than he had imagined. He liked the cold, trickling sound it made as it moved past. Standing in the tall grass, he stared motionless into the bubbling brown waters for a long time, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.
The wind swirled and returned to blow the grass almost flat against his ankles. It felt good. Good against his face too. His face was burning, burning. He needed the wind to cool it.
The river was called the Conononka. That’s what the sign had said. It was probably an Indian name. What did it mean? Small, muddy river?
He chuckled to himself.
Across the river, wooded cliffs rose. He could see a road winding up them to the top. River Road it was called. He had read his map, studied it carefully.
He pulled off the wool ski cap and jammed it into his jacket pocket. It was keeping him warm. He wanted to feel cold. Especially his face. His face always felt so hot, as if he were under a burning sun, as if he were sunburned. The air was so cold, so sharp. But still it didn’t cool his face.
He started walking again through the tall grass, his boots making squishing sounds in the soft ground, his cuffs soaked through from the morning dew.
Shadyside wasn’t a bad town, he decided.
He’d made a good choice.
It was a pretty town, for the most part. And the river was nice.
He liked looking at the big houses in North Hills with their big, clean front yards, their tall hedges and perfectly trimmed evergreens. Of course, he could never fit in there. He didn’t belong, and he knew it.
He liked the Old Village too, a more friendly part of Shadyside, more comfortable, more familiar.
Not a bad town, he thought, picking up a large, flat pebble from near the shore and trying to skip it across the rapidly flowing water.
It sank out of sight.
Of course, there were girls in this town who needed to die.
Girls just like you, Mom, he thought, jamming his hands back into his pockets.
He felt the anger begin again.
It always started in his stomach, then worked its way up his back until his neck muscles tightened. Then his head started to throb, throb with pain, throb from the anger.
And his face felt so hot, so burning hot.
The cold, trickling water, the cool, gusting wind, the damp, swaying grass at his feet—none of it helped.
None of it could stop the anger once it started.
And once he started thinking about his mother, the anger always came.
Some girls need to die, Mom. Just like you.
He had felt the anger for so many years. Since he was four.
Since his parents divorced.
Since his mother went away and took his big sister to live with her.
Since he was left with his father.
You knew what you were doing, Mom, he thought, heaving another stone into the river, heaving it with all his migh
t, with all his anger, not trying to make it skip, trying to bury it deep, deep in the murky, brown waters.
You knew what you were doing.
You knew that Dad got drunk every night. You knew that Dad beat me when he got drunk.
But still you took my sister and ran. You left me behind. You left me with—him.
Every night I thought of you, Mom.
Every beating, I thought of you.
I thought only of you. And of my revenge.
I’m going to pay you back, Mom. I’ve already started to pay you back. In every town I visit.
If only I could find you. If only I knew where you lived.
A white kitten suddenly appeared at the edge of the trees. It stared across the grass at him with bold, black eyes.
“Here, kitty,” he called, bending down and motioning with his hands. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
The kitten stared back, tilted its head, but didn’t move.
Sometimes I get my revenge, Mom, he thought, squatting down, motioning to the timid, white puffball. And it makes me feel better.
It makes me feel better to kill.
For a while.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” He made clicking noises with his tongue and teeth. “Come here, kitty.”
It has to be the right girl, Mom.
It can’t be any girl. It has to be the right girl.
And I’ve found the right girl here in Shadyside.
She’s dark like you, Mom.
At least, that’s how I remember you.
I don’t have a picture of you. You never sent me a picture. Or a letter.
You just left me behind to be beaten every night.
But I think she looks like you. She’s dark and kind of chubby.
She’s not real pretty, but she’s okay.
And she seems so shy.
So perfectly shy.
She’s right, Mom. I think she’s just right.
When the anger comes again, I think she’ll do fine.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” he called.
The kitten took a reluctant step toward him, mewing softly. Then another step. Then another, staring at him, studying him warily.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” he said in a soft, high voice. “I won’t make you suffer long.”
He picked up the kitten by the neck and strangled it.
