by R. L. Stine
No face. No words.
Gwynnie walked across the room and leaned against the window ledge. She crossed her arms in front of her. “That was a joke—right?” she demanded.
I couldn’t take my eyes from the screen. Had I imagined the face? No! I saw it there.
I’m not crazy! I told myself.
“He did it!” I told Gwynnie, my voice shaking. “Keith. His name is Keith. He—he’s playing tricks on me. He’s haunting me!”
Gwynnie eyed me suspiciously. “Marco, when did you see him for the first time? After the hit on the head—right?”
“I don’t care!” I cried. “He’s here, Gwynnie. I saw him. He sat right there. Right on my bed. He says he lives in my basement.”
Gwynnie shook her head. Her dark hair tumbled over her face again. “Calm down, Marco. Stop and think about it.”
“I can describe him,” I insisted breathlessly. “He has black hair. Same color as yours. And dark circles around his eyes. And a real serious expression.”
Gwynnie tsk-tsked. “Just think about it,” she repeated. “Why would he be here? Why would he be in your basement?”
“He told me I have to take care of him,” I replied heatedly. “He said I have to take care of him for the rest of my life!”
Gwynnie narrowed her eyes at me. She didn’t say anything. I could see her studying me.
And I could almost read her thoughts:
Poor Marco.
He’s totally lost it.
An idea flashed into my mind.
“Gwynnie, he’s down there,” I said softly. “Keith is down in the basement. I know he is.”
She still didn’t reply.
“Come down with me?” I asked. “Please?”
She bit her bottom lip.
Gwynnie is a lot braver than I am, I told myself. She’s bigger than I am. And she’s meaner and stronger.
If we find Keith down in the basement, I’ll feel a lot safer if Gwynnie is around.
“This is dumb,” she said finally. “I should get home. I haven’t even started the creative writing assignment.” She headed for the door.
“No. Wait!” I pleaded, hurrying after her. “I’m not crazy, Gwynnie. Come down to the basement with me so I can prove it.”
She stopped at the doorway. “Well…”
“Please!” I begged again. “He’s down there. We’ll find him. I know we will.” And then I added, “You’re not afraid—are you?”
“Of course not!” Gwynnie snapped. She groaned and tossed up her hands. “Okay. Okay. Let’s go down to your basement.”
I knew that would get her.
“Come on. Hurry,” Gwynnie urged. “Show me your little friend. Then I’ve got to get home.”
I led the way to the basement stairs. Then I pulled open the door and clicked on the light.
I peered down the wooden stairway. Nothing to see down there.
But I felt a chill of fear, anyway.
“You go first,” I told Gwynnie.
17
Our sneakers thudded on the wooden steps. The air grew colder as we made our way down. Mom is always complaining that we have no heat in the basement.
Gwynnie led the way, moving quickly. My hand gripping the banister, I hurried to stay close to her.
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped short to keep from bumping into her. We both glanced around the main room.
A ceiling light had gone out. Half the room was hidden in deep shadows. I heard the DRIP DRIP DRIP of a faucet, coming from the laundry room at the far wall.
The sound of heavy breathing made me gasp. Then I realized the sound came from Gwynnie.
Gwynnie took a few steps into the room. Then she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Hey, boy—are you down here?”
I crept up beside her. And listened.
No reply.
“Keith?” Gwynnie shouted. “Keith? Where are you?”
I shuddered. He was down here. I knew he was. Why wasn’t Gwynnie afraid?
A sudden sound made me jump. My eyes moved up to the ceiling. Gusts of wind were rattling the basement windows.
I stopped to listen to another strange sound. A mouse?
No. Just Gwynnie’s sneakers squeaking over the linoleum floor.
We moved deeper into the room. I stepped up to the pool table. I peered underneath.
No one under there.
Gwynnie pulled open the pantry door beneath the stairwell. She clicked on the light and searched the shelves.
She closed the door and turned to me. “I’m starting to feel a little silly, Marco.”
“He’s down here,” I insisted, my voice just above a whisper. “He says he lives down here. I know he’s here.”
Gwynnie sighed. “I’ll give it a few more minutes. Then I’m out of here.”
“Let’s search over here,” I said. “By the furnace.”
We made our way across the room. The furnace stood in the dark part of the room. It rose up in front of us like some kind of gigantic creature.
“Keith?” Gwynnie called. “Keith—where are you hiding? Come out, come out—wherever you are!”
Her voice echoed off the dark walls. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows.
“Hey—wait up!” I whispered. I didn’t want Gwynnie to get too far ahead of me.
She pulled open an old clothes cabinet. “Keith—are you in there?”
The smell of mothballs floated out. Gwynnie slammed the closet door shut.
“Keith? Don’t be shy, Keith!” she called.
We peered behind the furnace. No one hiding back there.
“The laundry room is the only room we haven’t searched,” I told her.
“I’ll bet he’s hiding in the dryer,” Gwynnie teased.
I knew she wasn’t taking me seriously. But I didn’t care. I was glad to have her down there with me. I never could have searched the basement on my own.
I followed her toward the laundry room against the wall. We were halfway across the floor when she stopped suddenly.
“Oh, wow!” she exclaimed. “There he is! I see him!”
18
“Huh?” My heart leaped. I let out a gasp and spun around.
And stared at my mom’s old clothing dummy.
Gwynnie laughed. “Ooops. A little mistake!”
My whole body was shaking. “You’re not funny!” I managed to choke out. I tried to punch her. But she dodged away from me, laughing hard.
“Marco, give up,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you’re trying to scare me with this phony Keith story. But it just isn’t scary enough. I know there’s no one down here.”
“But—but—but—” I sputtered. “You mean you didn’t believe me for one second?”
“Of course not,” Gwynnie replied. “Who would believe a story like that?”
“And you thought I was just trying to pay you back for hitting me on the head?” I asked shrilly.
She nodded. “You want to go to school tomorrow and tell everyone how you scared me,” Gwynnie accused.
“No. You’re wrong. Listen to me—” I pleaded.
“No way,” she interrupted. She turned and headed toward the stairs.
“Gwynnie, listen—!” I begged, chasing after her.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned back to me. “You can’t scare me, Marco,” she said. Her eyes caught the light from the stairwell. A strange smile spread over her face.
“You can’t scare me,” she repeated. “I’ll show you why.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t understand. “If you’d only listen to me…”
“I’ll show you something,” Gwynnie said.
She placed both hands on the wooden banister. Then she opened her mouth. Wide.
Wider.
Her mouth stretched open. Wider… wider.
Until the rest of her face disappeared behind her open mouth.
Her tongue plopped heavily over her chin.
And then
something pink began to pour out.
Something pink and glistening wet rolled out from the gaping mouth.
More… more… swelling as it poured out.
At first, I thought she had a big gob of bubblegum in there. But as the pink gunk flowed up from her throat, the mouth pulled open even further, and her head disappeared behind it.
And I realized…
I realized…
I realized I wasn’t staring at bubblegum.
I was staring at Gwynnie’s insides!
I saw yellow organs clinging to the glistening pink flesh. Something long and gray twisted out of her mouth, wrapped around itself.
Dark purple lungs slid over the drooping tongue.
And then her red heart—so red, so startlingly red—plopped from her open mouth, throbbing, throbbing steadily, throbbing wetly.
“Ohhhhh.” I uttered a long moan of horror.
But I couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t take my eyes off Gwynnie as her insides poured from her mouth.
I stood there. Stood there and stared in amazement and cold horror at the pulsing, quivering organs clinging to the oozing pink flesh.
Stood there watching Gwynnie—until she had turned completely inside out.
And then I opened my mouth in an endless scream.
19
My scream rose like a shrill siren.
Gwynnie—inside out Gwynnie—quivered in front of me, quivered and pulsed.
The sound of my scream seemed to make her quiver harder, quiver like a mound of pink and yellow Jell-O.
And as I screamed, a white light flashed around us. So bright, I closed my eyes and still saw it.
Such a bright white, blinding white.
My scream cut through the whiteness. Gwynnie vanished inside it. The basement vanished too.
I sank into the white, into the shrill wail of my own cry.
And when I opened my eyes, I stared up at a white ceiling. A white ceiling light. White curtains over a half-open window, revealing gray clouds.
My throat ached. I cut off my scream.
I blinked into the new whiteness.
And Mom’s face floated into view.
“Marco? Are you waking up?” she asked softly.
Her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes were bloodshot. I saw dried tear tracks on her pale cheeks.
“Waking up?” I choked out, my voice hoarse and sleep-clogged.
“You’re going to be okay,” Mom said, patting my chest under the blanket.
I glanced around. I was lying on my back in a bed. In a small room. A hospital room.
“You had a bad hit on the head, Marco,” Mom said. “The ambulance rushed you here, to the hospital. You’ve been out for nearly an hour.”
“Huh? I’ve been out?” I whispered. “You mean asleep?”
Mom nodded.
“But I was down in the basement,” I protested. “Gwynnie and I were searching for the boy.”
Mom’s expression turned fearful. Her chin trembled. “Boy? What boy?”
“Keith,” I told her. “The boy who says he lives in our basement.”
“Marco, you were dreaming,” Mom said.
“It—it was so frightening,” I sighed.
“From your hit on the head,” Mom explained. “You were out cold. It must have given you terrible nightmares.”
“You mean I haven’t been home?” I cried. “I haven’t been in school?”
Mom eyed me carefully, studying me. “No. You’ve been in this hospital bed ever since you were hit.”
She shook her head. “I warned you, Marco. I told you not to play baseball. I knew something like this would happen.”
She kept on talking, but I didn’t listen.
I was thinking hard. And feeling so happy.
It had all been a dream. Keith living in my basement… Dr. Bailey wanting to remove my brain… Gwynnie turning inside out…
All a wild, frightening dream.
It never happened. None of it.
And now it was over. And I was going to be okay.
I felt so great, I wanted to leap up from the bed. I wanted to shout and cheer and jump for joy.
But then I gazed over Mom’s shoulder to the door.
And I saw… Gwynnie!
“Noooo!” I uttered a horrified cry.
Gwynnie was real. Gwynnie was alive! And she was coming for me, hurrying across the room to get me, an evil gleam in her eyes!
20
I let out a scream. I struggled to climb up. But the sheet and blanket were tucked in too tight.
I couldn’t move.
“Mom—stop her!” I pleaded. “Please—don’t let her hurt me!”
Gwynnie stepped up to the side of the bed, her eyes glowing. Mom put a hand on Gwynnie’s shoulder. “Marco, what’s wrong?” Mom demanded. “Why are you afraid of your own sister?”
Sister?
“No—!” I protested. “She swung the bat. She hit my head. And then—”
“I did not!” Gwynnie whined. “I wasn’t the one who hit you! Are you crazy?”
Mom tugged Gwynnie back a few steps. “Gwynnie didn’t do it, Marco,” Mom said softly. “Gwynnie wasn’t at the playground. Don’t you remember?”
“That bump on his head messed up his memory,” Gwynnie said. She stared hard at me, shaking her head. “Do you remember anything, Marco?”
“Of course,” I murmured.
But I suddenly felt dizzy. As if my brain were spinning inside my head. I felt so confused. I didn’t know what I remembered and what I’d forgotten.
“How much is four and four?” Gwynnie demanded.
“Gwynnie, give Marco a break,” Mom scolded. She turned back to me. “You do remember your little sister now—right, Marco?”
Little sister?
Gwynnie was twice my size.
“Yes, I remember her,” I replied. I rolled my eyes. “How could I forget her? I guess the horrible dream mixed everything up,” I explained. “In my dream, she wasn’t my sister. And she swung the bat that—”
“Your friend Jeremy swung the bat!” Gwynnie declared. “Don’t you remember anything?”
“Jeremy?” I cried.
“It will take Marco a little while,” Mom told Gwynnie. “But Dr. Bailey says he will be perfectly okay.”
“But he’ll be stupid,” Gwynnie insisted.
Mom gasped. “Gwynnie! Why do you say that?”
Gwynnie giggled. “Because he was stupid before he got hit on the head!”
I let out a growl. I wanted to jump up and punch Gwynnie. But the sheet was too tight. And I felt too weak.
My head throbbed. Pieces of my dream kept flashing back into my mind.
Once again, I saw Gwynnie down in the basement, turning inside out. I saw her pink and yellow insides quivering like a pile of Jell-O.
And I saw Keith, sitting on my bed. So calm and relaxed, as if the bedroom was his!
“Mom,” I said, trying to force away the strange, confusing pictures. “There is no boy named Keith—is there? I mean, I don’t know a boy named Keith. He doesn’t live in our basement—does he?”
“Of course he does!” Gwynnie cried.
21
“Huh?” I stared at her in horror.
Gwynnie grinned. “The basement is filled with people!” she exclaimed. “Dozens of them. They call themselves The Basement Club. They stay down there until we all leave. And then they come upstairs and use our stuff.”
She laughed, as if she had just made up the funniest joke.
“Stop teasing your brother,” Mom scolded her. “Why are you picking on him, Gwynnie? Can’t you see he’s had a rough time?”
“Sorry,” Gwynnie said to me, still grinning.
“She’s just nervous,” Mom explained. “She was very worried about you, Marco. Really.”
I settled back on the pillow. “The dream… it seemed so real,” I murmured.
“Get some rest,” Mom replied tenderly. “You need time to get over this.”
“But—when can I go home?” I demanded.
“Soon,” Mom promised. “As soon as Dr. Bailey checks you out. He said if you’re okay, you can come home right away.”
“Great!” I cried.
I really wanted to get out of that hospital bed. For one thing, the tight sheets were strangling me. And I knew I wouldn’t have such weird, disturbing dreams in my own bed.
“See you later, Marco,” Gwynnie called as she stepped out the door. She instantly poked her head back in. “One last question. How much is four and four?”
“Gwynnie—!” Mom shoved Gwynnie down the hall.
“Nine!” I called after them.
Gwynnie laughed. “Hey—you got it right!”
I stared at the doorway for a long time after they left. Then I stared at the ceiling for a while, counting the white squares.
My head throbbed. But I started to feel calmer. The room stopped spinning.
I shut my eyes, and I guess I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, I felt someone gently tapping my shoulder. I opened my eyes to find a young doctor in a white lab coat staring down at me.
“Marco? Are you awake?” he asked softly. “I’m Dr. Bailey.”
He didn’t look anything like the Dr. Bailey in my dream. He had wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He was young and tanned. He looked like an actor—a TV doctor—not a doctor in real life.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and whispery. “A little dizzy? Do you have a headache?”
“A little,” I replied.
“That’s normal,” he said. “Let me just check you out, Marco. Bet you’re ready to go home.”
“I’m ready,” I declared.
“Well, let’s see…” Dr. Bailey said, studying my eyes. “Your eyes look nice and clear. That’s a very good sign. Open your mouth, please.”
I opened my mouth.
The doctor reached in with his right hand. He grabbed my tongue. And started to pull it.
“Hey—!” I tried to protest. But I couldn’t speak.
His fingers tightened their grip on my tongue. And he pulled harder.
