Don't Stay Up Late

by R. L. Stine

  I could hear the kids cheering on the next block. I guessed they had succeeded in rescuing the cat.

  Gazing at the concrete stoop in front of the small house, I began walking up the front lawn. I could tell it hadn’t been mowed yet this spring. The ground beneath the sprawling grass was lumpy and hard.

  A black mailbox was hung beside the front door. It had the number 32 in stenciled silver letters on the front. My chest felt fluttery as I climbed the two steps onto the stoop. I pressed the doorbell and took a deep breath.

  Joy, please be home.

  I didn’t have to wait long. A short woman with cropped gray hair pulled the door open as if she’d been waiting in front of it. Her silver-gray eyes looked me up and down. Her face was overly made-up with bright red circles on her cheeks and thick lipstick over her mouth. She wore a black-and-yellow Steelers sweatshirt over gray sweatpants.

  “Hello, I—”

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a hoarse smoker’s voice. Her face was tight with suspicion. She sneered. “You’re too old to be selling Girl Scout Cookies.”

  That made her start to laugh, a dry raspy laugh that ended in a coughing fit.

  “I … I’m looking for Joy,” I said when she finally stopped hacking and coughing.

  She winced. Her eyes bulged for a quick second. She narrowed the strange silvery eyes at me. “Is this a joke?”

  “N-no,” I stammered. “Does she live here? Is she your daughter? I really need to talk to her.”

  The woman sneered again, revealing yellowed teeth. “Did someone dare you to do this?” she demanded. “Did someone play a mean joke on you? Is that what this is?”

  I swallowed. I took a step back and nearly toppled off the stoop. “No—” I started.

  “Everyone knows Joy isn’t here,” the woman rasped.

  “Do you know where she is?” I asked.

  “Of course I know where my own daughter is,” the woman snapped. “She’s in the hospital, isn’t she! She’s in the hospital up in Martinsville. Why would you come looking for her here when she’s in the state hospital?”

  “I-I didn’t know,” I stammered. I backed off the stoop. “Really. I didn’t know.”

  “Joy is in the state mental hospital!” the woman shouted. “She doesn’t need any Girl Scout Cookies.”

  46.

  I found the hospital after driving around the same neighborhood twice. The streets in Martinsville are all one-way and confusing, and even though it’s the next town to Shadyside, everyone always has to circle in on where they are going. There’s never a direct route to anywhere.

  While I was driving, I had plenty of time to think. My thoughts weren’t bright or happy or hopeful. The more I thought about Joy, the more I was frightened for myself.

  She had the same job before me. She babysat for Brenda Hart and took care of Harry. And terrible things happened. Things frightening enough, horrifying enough to put her in the state mental hospital.

  Of course my biggest question was: Am I next?

  The hospital was a tall, white stucco building with tall hedges all around. Three cherry trees in the front had lost most of their blossoms. I parked the car in a visitor parking lot and followed a narrow stone path to a side entrance.

  A bronze plaque beside the door proclaimed that the hospital was built by someone named Jacobus Fear in 1911. The silhouette of a face of a distinguished-looking man wearing a bowler hat was carved into the plaque.

  At least they didn’t call it Fear Hospital, I thought.

  I was met at the door by a middle-aged man with shaggy white hair. He wore a gray uniform, like a custodian’s uniform. His cheeks were bright pink and his blue eyes gleamed, as if he was happy to see me. His cheeks were so close-shaved, it looked like he had peeled off layers of his skin.

  “I’d like to see one of the patients,” I said.

  He didn’t reply. He held the door open, then led the way down a long dimly lit hallway of dark green walls and a hard tiled floor. The air smelled like cleaning products, very piney and sharp. I heard voices all down the hall, laughter and shouts, and music playing, some mellow rock tune I didn’t recognize.

  The man walked jauntily with his back straight up, shoulders back. He led me to a round desk in what had to be the front hall. A sign on the desk read: INFORMATION. But no one sat there.

  The man smiled at me, his cheeks burning, and motioned for me to wait. Then he took my hand, raised it to his mouth, and licked it.

  “Hey—!” Before I could pull my hand free, he slobbered all over the back of my hand. Then he uttered a short, high-pitched giggle. He turned and strode away, a strange stiff walk with his back as straight as an ironing board.

  Well, what did I expect? I AM in a mental hospital.

  I heard moans, sad moans, from a hallway on the other side of the desk. Someone shouted, “My cracker is on fire! My cracker is burning!”

  Then silence.

  A Barry Manilow song played from somewhere behind me.

  I had a sudden strong feeling that I shouldn’t be here. I should have called ahead. What made me think it’s okay to visit?

  Sure, I desperately wanted to talk to Joy. But the clatter of voices down the long halls, the sad cries and moans … the voices became noise. The noise turned into a roar.

  I must have turned away from the desk because a woman appeared in the chair as if by magic. She had wavy brown hair tied back with a red hair scrunchy. She appeared to be fifty or so. She had a colorful scarf at the neck of her blouse and wore a dark business suit with a gold pin of a bird on one lapel.

  She scrolled down the monitor in front of her and typed something, eyes reflecting the screen. Finally, she turned to me. “Sorry. I was on my break.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I wasn’t waiting long. I—”

  “Did Travis lick your hand?” she asked.

  I held it up for some reason. “Yes, he did.”

  She shook her head. Her eyes flashed with amusement. “He’s a nice man. That’s his way of showing that he likes you.”

  “I-I came to visit someone,” I stammered. “Is it okay? I mean, are there visiting hours?”

  Her expression turned serious. She glanced at her screen, then back at me. “Which patient would you like to see?”

  I suddenly realized I didn’t know her full name. “Uh … her name is Joy,” I said.

  She blinked. “Joy Fergus?”

  I nodded.

  The woman toyed with the bird pin on her lapel. “Are you a family member?”

  “No. I’m a close friend,” I lied.

  “Well … I can check for you,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “But I’m afraid Joy isn’t having one of her good days.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. “If I could only…”

  She picked up the desk phone and talked to someone. Her eyes studied me while she talked. She tsk-tsked and talked some more in hushed tones I couldn’t hear. “And what is your name?” she asked me, hanging up the phone.

  I told her. She handed me a clipboard with some kind of form on it. “Just sign at the bottom,” she said. “They will bring Joy to the library. You can talk to her there.”

  I signed it. My hand was shaking so hard I couldn’t read my own name. I heard a howl from down the hall. And then someone giggling loudly. The two sounds blended together and rang off the walls of the waiting room.

  The woman pointed down the hall to her right. “You’ll see the library. It’s near the end of the hall.” I thanked her. “Joy may seem different to you,” she added. “She is slightly sedated, which makes her talk slowly. But she’s doing very well. Most days.”

  I thanked her again. And stepped into the hallway. A cold feeling of dread swept over me as my shoes clicked over the hard floor. Doors on both sides of the hall were closed, but I could hear voices in almost every room.

  A white-uniformed nurse with a tall Afro hairdo led a young woman past me. The woman was sobbing, dabbing at her face with a yellow hand
kerchief and sobbing so hard she struggled to breathe.

  Joy Fergus was waiting for me in the library. I stopped at the doorway and studied her. The room looked like a comfortable living room with armchairs and couches and bookshelves against three walls. Pale light trickled in through a tall window in the back. Even though it was spring, a low fire burned in a brick fireplace.

  I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Joy was sitting stiffly in a dark leather armchair. She turned as I entered.

  She looked better than in the photograph I’d seen in Brenda’s house. Her brown hair was pulled neatly back in a tight ponytail. She had pale orange lipstick on her lips, and her eyes were big and clear. She wore a long-sleeved blue tank top and baggy faded jeans with a hole on one knee.

  “Hi,” I said. I gave an awkward wave as I came close. “I’m Lisa.”

  She had a half-smile on her face, but it faded as I stepped up to her chair. “They told me a friend came to see me. Are you my friend?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I kinda lied about that.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” Her voice was deep and smooth, velvety. I gazed at her. She seemed totally normal in every way. The only thing that marked her as a patient was the white name-bracelet around her left wrist.

  “Can I sit down?” I asked, motioning to the armchair across from her.

  “Sure,” she said. She crinkled her forehead. “Do I know you?”

  “No. I’ll explain,” I said. The armchair was softer than I expected and it made a loud whoosh as I sank into it.

  “I h-have a problem with strangers,” she stammered, lowering her dark eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t keep you long. I just want to talk to you about—”

  “Who are you?” she interrupted, eyeing me suspiciously. She tugged at the ID bracelet on her wrist. “Tell me. Who are you? Did they send you from school?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.” She had been calm but now I could see she was getting agitated. She tugged at the bracelet, then clasped and unclasped her hands.

  “Really. I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “You see … I babysit for Harry. Brenda Hart’s son and—”

  Her whole body arched up and went stiff. Her dark eyes bulged. She jumped to her feet. “I … can’t talk about that.”

  “No. Just one minute. Please,” I begged. I jumped up, too, and stood facing her. “I need to know—”

  “I have nightmares,” she said. Her smooth voice had become strained, harsh. “I have nightmares. That’s why I have to stay here.”

  “I have nightmares, too,” I said. “And I’ve seen things in the house. I’ve seen—”

  She raised both hands and backed away from me. “I can’t talk. Please go away.”

  “I just need to know some things,” I insisted.

  But she covered her ears with her hands. “I can’t talk,” she said through gritted teeth. “I can’t talk. He’s a demon. He’s a monster.”

  I gasped. “You know Nate? Nate Goodman? Do you?”

  “He’s a demon!” she cried. “He’s my nightmare. He’s a demon!”

  A stab of cold at the back of my neck froze me in place. “Nate—?” I gasped.

  Joy stood red-faced, her hands still pressed tightly over her ears.

  “Please, Joy,” I begged. “Tell me—”

  “He’s a demon.”

  The door swung open, and two nurses burst in, eyes on Joy. They grabbed her arms gently. One of them smoothed a hand down her back, petting her, comforting her. The other one turned to me: “Don’t blame yourself. She has these bad days. It’s not your fault.”

  47.

  Nate wasn’t in school. Someone said he had a virus or something. Saralynn said she hadn’t talked to him. She had been away doing college visits with her parents in Boston.

  Saralynn wants to study to be a nutritionist. Sure, she hangs out at Lefty’s like the rest of us, gobbling his two-dollar double cheeseburgers. But she thinks she can improve people’s lives by teaching them the right way to eat. She says she will probably become a vegan some day. But not till after high school because Lefty’s hamburgers are so good.

  I cornered her in the hall before third-period study hall to question her about Nate. “Why was Summer coming to warn me about him?” I demanded.

  Saralynn leaned back against a locker. “Beats me. They went out together for a while in tenth grade. I think maybe she was too intense for him or something.”

  “Did she know something bad about Nate?” I asked.

  Saralynn scrunched up her face. “Bad about Nate? Like what?”

  I shrugged. “You’re his cousin. Is there something weird about Nate?”

  “Lisa, you mean because of his horror collection?”

  “No,” I said. “Something weirder.”

  “Nate is Nate,” she replied. “What do you want me to say?”

  I want you to tell me if he turns into a demon late at night and murders and eats people he doesn’t like. I want you to tell me if he terrified Harry’s last babysitter and drove her crazy.

  I want you to tell me if I’m in danger.

  The bell rang. The hall emptied out as everyone headed to class.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” Saralynn said. “Sorry.” She turned and headed down the hall, her backpack bouncing on her back.

  * * *

  I picked up Harry at Alice’s house at four. Harry grabbed my hand. He was eager to go home. He wore a funny SpongeBob T-shirt and baggy white shorts that seemed way too big for him. He had a smear of chocolate on his chin.

  “Alice said we can bake brownies when we get home,” he said, tugging my hand hard. His blue eyes pleaded with me. “Can we?”

  “Well…”

  “Brenda left a box of brownie mix for you on the sink,” Alice said, appearing behind me. She had a stack of folded laundry in her arms.

  “Nice,” I said.

  Alice narrowed her eyes at Harry. “You can have brownies tonight if you promise to go to bed on time.”

  Harry raised his right hand and uttered in a deep voice, “I swear.”

  For some reason, that made Alice and me both laugh. I guess it was the solemn way Harry said it.

  “Okay, brownie night tonight,” I said. Harry tugged me to the back door. I called goodbye to Alice and followed him outside.

  A sunny afternoon, warm with a cool breeze shaking the fresh spring leaves so that the trees all seemed to be whispering. Two robins were ducking their beaks into the back lawn, pulling up fat brown earthworms.

  Harry and I strolled to the front of the house, then along the sidewalk toward his house. Joy was on my mind. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her. I decided I had to ask Harry about her.

  “Did you have a babysitter before me?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Joy. She was nice, but she had to leave.”

  “Why did she have to leave?” I asked him.

  The sun washed over his blond hair and made it glow. His blue eyes stared up at me. He didn’t answer.

  “Why did Joy leave?” I repeated.

  “Mom said she got sick.” He kicked a small stone to the curb. He ran ahead and kicked it again. The conversation had ended.

  Joy got sick all right, I thought. Something happened that sent her to a mental hospital.

  We’d walked a full block. I suddenly realized Harry was traveling a little light. “Harry—your backpack?”

  His eyes went wide. “Uh-oh. I left it at Alice’s.” He raised his hands in a begging pose. “Can we leave it there?”

  “And not do your homework tonight?”

  He nodded with a grin.

  “No way.” I stopped him with both hands on his shoulders. “You stay right here. Don’t move. I’ll get it.”

  I turned and took off running before he could argue. My shoes thudded the grass as I darted through the front lawns of the houses I’d passed. A few seconds later, I step
ped into Alice’s kitchen, breathing hard.

  No sign of her in the kitchen. “Alice? It’s only me,” I called.

  I hurried to the little office at the side of the house where Harry and Alice held their classes together. Harry’s backpack was usually on the table they used, but not today. I didn’t see it in the living room, either.

  Did he leave it in the kitchen?

  I was halfway through the back hall when I heard the howls.

  I stopped. And listened. The cries sounded so sad. And so human.

  Definitely not a cat.

  Such sad, desperate howls for help. From the basement?

  I hesitated at the top of the basement stairs. Then I grabbed the wooden banister and made my way down the stairs.

  I was nearly to the bottom when I turned and saw who was howling.

  And then my startled scream echoed through the basement.

  48.

  “Noooo. Oh, no,” I moaned. “No. Please. It can’t be.”

  Still on the steps, I stared at the three cages lined up against the basement wall. Three cages with three creatures, one in each cage.

  They were hunched low because the cages weren’t tall enough for them to stand. They gripped the bars with long bonelike fingers. And howled in almost-human voices, so high and shrill and filled with pain.

  “Ellpusssss,” the nearest to me hissed.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move off the steps. They were so sad and ugly. Human monsters. Like the demon I saw in Brenda Hart’s house. Only their faces were more twisted and wrong and hideous.

  One of them had an empty eye socket where one eye should be. The creature in the next cage had tiny arms, too short … too short for his body. The third creature … his bottom jaw was missing. No lips, only long upper teeth that hung straight down and a fat tongue that seemed to spring from deep in his throat.

  Half of his face is missing.

  I felt my stomach lurch. A wave of nausea swept over me. I started to vomit. Choking, gagging, I somehow forced it down.

  On shaky legs, I left the stairway behind and stepped closer to the cages. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The creatures were so hideous, so malformed, and so sad. Their bodies were bent. Their arms were too short and too skinny. Their faces had pieces missing.