The 12 Screams of Christmas

by R. L. Stine

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue: 1882

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part One: December, This Year

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Two: Twelve Screams

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

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  About the Author

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  Copyright

  “Give me my cap!”

  My little sister, Flora, made a wild grab for her cap. But Ned swiped it out of her reach. “Give it back to me, Ned,” Flora said. “I mean it.”

  My name is Abe Marcus. Ned and I are identical twins. We look exactly alike. Even Ma and Pa can’t tell us apart. But we don’t act alike. I am the serious twin. Maybe it’s because I am two minutes older.

  Ned pulled the floppy cap down on his head and took off, running around the parlor, laughing like a madman. Flora chased after him, grabbing for the bright red cap with both hands.

  Ned loves to tease Flora and play jokes on everyone. He is always getting into trouble and making people angry and being noisy and causing a ruckus.

  At our old school, Ned poured molasses in all the inkwells in our classroom desks, and no one could write a word for weeks. He was sent home by the teacher for a talk with Ma and Pa. But they were so busy getting ready for our move to this new house, they didn’t have time to punish him.

  Ned and I are twelve, and Flora is eight. She is the baby of the family, and Ma says she is as spoiled as four-week-old buttermilk.

  Ned told Flora she smelled like sour buttermilk, too. And Flora grabbed him around the waist and started to tickle him in the stomach with both hands. Ned is very ticklish, and Flora wouldn’t let him get away. She tickled him until he burped up some of his lunch, and Ma finally made her stop.

  Flora is tiny, but she’s a terror.

  That was at our old house. Now, here we were on our first day at the new house. Flora was chasing after Ned, darting through the moving crates stacked up in the parlor.

  Ned started to wave the red cap in the air over his head, shouting, “It’s mine now! All mine!”

  “I’m warning you, Ned Marcus. I’ll tickle you again if you do not give me back my cap!” Flora cried.

  That made Ned stop. I told you, he hates being tickled. I think he’d rather have a tooth pulled. He crinkled the cap between his hands, then he tossed it at her.

  Flora growled at him and jammed it down over her dark, wavy hair. All three of us have dark, wavy hair. But you never see Flora’s hair, because she wears that floppy, ragged cap day and night, even to the dinner table.

  “Keep your smelly hands off my cap,” Flora warned Ned. “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a cap. And because you and Abe have to share a room, and I have a room of my own.”

  “Ned and I don’t mind sharing,” I said. “Because we never had a room of our own before. Remember? We had to sleep in Ma’s sewing room.”

  “My room is better than yours,” Flora sneered. “I am going to have linen curtains as soon as Ma can go into town and buy the fabric.”

  “We don’t want curtains,” I said. “Curtains are for girls.”

  Truth is, Ned and I were thrilled to move into this new house. It was a hundred times bigger than the little cottage we lived in before. It had stairs that led up to a second floor and an attic above that. We never had stairs before. And we had a large backyard that stretched to a fence at the end of the property.

  The backyard had lots to explore. There was a white-shingled garden shed, some kind of falling-down shack, a chicken coop, and an old stone well near the back fence.

  We couldn’t wait to celebrate Christmas in the new house. Pa said he would cut down a fresh pine from the woods down the block. I could already picture it decorated with popcorn and cookies and lighted candles.

  When we first saw the new house, Ned’s eyes went wide. “Are we rich?” he asked.

  Pa never laughs. But he actually chuckled when Ned said that. “We’re far from rich, son,” he said. “But we should be just fine here.”

  Pa is a stonecutter. He has so much work, he hired two apprentice stonecutters to work for him.

  Now, here we were, Ned, Flora, and me, exploring every inch of the new parlor, the clear glass windows, the wide fireplace with its tall mantel.

  We heard a loud thud. I turned to see Pa backing into the room. He and Mr. Powell, our new neighbor, were carrying in the couch. Hoisting the couch in both hands, Pa nearly backed into Ned. “If you’re not going to help, at least get out of the way,” Pa said.

  “Can we explore the backyard?” Ned asked.

  “Yes, can we?” Flora and I said together.

  “Not you,” Ned told Flora.

  “Why not?” she demanded angrily, hands pressed to her waist.

  “Because you’re too ugly. You’ll scare the birds,” Ned said.

  “I’m not as ugly as you,” Flora shot back. “You scare the sun every morning. That’s why it hides behind the clouds.”

  I burst out laughing. Flora is a poet sometimes.

  Pa and Mr. Powell set the heavy couch facing the fireplace. Pa adjusted the straps on his denim overalls. “Flora, go help your mother in the kitchen,” he said. “There is much to unpack.”

  Flora made an unhappy face. Then she tugged her cap down lower on her head, turned, and hurried to the kitchen.

  Pa squinted at Ned and me. “Okay. Go out back and explore. But wear your coats. I think there’s snow on the way.” He sniffed the air. “I can smell it coming.”

  “And better stay away from that well near the fence,” Mr. Powell added. He was a big, red-faced man with straight, straw-colored hair. His stomach bulged under the bib of his overalls.

  “That well is deep,” he said. “And the stone walls are crumbling. It could be very dangerous.”

  Ned and I didn’t wait for any more warnings. We pulled on the sheep’s-wool coats Ma had made for us and ran through the kitchen, where Flora and Ma were opening a big moving crate. Then out the back door and down the steps, into the wide yard with its tall grass and weeds swaying from side to side in the gusting wind.

  We couldn’t hold in our excitement. We let out loud yips and skipped over the grass, cheering for our new freedom, our new life.

  We had no way of knowing it was going to be the worst day of our lives.

  Gray clouds covered the afternoon sun. The air felt cold against my face. Two fat crows perched on the fence at the back of the yard. They cawed loudly as Ned and I ran and skipped over the tall grass.

  We took turns hopping over a stack of firewood logs. We pulled open the door to the narrow garden shed. It smelled of fertilizer inside. A rusted wheelbarrow stood tilted again
st the back wall. Some kind of animal had chewed a ragged hole in one of the floorboards.

  “What about that shack over there?” Ned said, motioning toward it with his head. “Let’s look inside it.”

  The little shack reminded me of a gingerbread house my grandmother made one Christmas. It was a perfect, square little house — until Flora accidentally sat on it. She crushed one whole side of the roof. Ma turned it around so the crushed side didn’t show.

  The shack behind the garden shed was falling down, too. It was probably built before our house was. But it had gone to ruin. A lot of the shingles were missing. Green moss covered one wall. The window beside the entrance was cracked.

  Ned started running to it, but I held him back. “Pa said not to go there,” I said. “He said it might be haunted. That’s what he heard in town. Something bad happened in there. And now it’s haunted. That’s why no one has lived in there for lots of years.”

  A smile spread over Ned’s face. His dark brown eyes flashed. “It’s haunted, Abe? Let’s go!” he exclaimed. “Let’s chase out the ghosts.”

  He was always braver than me. I couldn’t let on that I was afraid of ghosts. Pa used to tell us ghost stories before bedtime when we were Flora’s age. Ned loved them. But hearing about headless ghosts returning from the grave to find their heads, or restless spirits that clanked and howled at night — hearing those stories gave me nightmares.

  Ned picked up a long stick from the grass and walked toward the old shack, pretending the stick was a cane. I followed close behind, my eyes on the broken window and the darkness beyond it.

  As we stepped into the shadow of the little house, a chill swept down my back. My skin tingled. Were there ghosts inside? Were they friendly? Or did they hate intruders?

  The wooden front door squeaked and nearly fell off its hinges as we pulled it open. A sour smell greeted us as we stepped inside.

  “Ooh, something died in here,” I said. I pinched my fingers over my nose.

  “We could fix this up and live back here,” Ned said, gazing around. “Our own little house.”

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “It’s filthy. Everything is covered in dust. And it’s falling apart. Those ceiling boards are cracked. They’ll probably fall on our heads and crush us.”

  Ned laughed. “Are you afraid, Abie? You are — aren’t you. Look. You’re trembling.”

  “I am not,” I replied through gritted teeth.

  We were standing in a tiny, bare front room. No furniture. No lanterns for light. Outside, the storm clouds lowered. The room grew darker, nearly as dark as night.

  The floorboards squeaked as Ned and I made our way to the next room. A small bedroom. A narrow cot stood against one wall. Its canvas was ripped down the middle.

  “It smells even worse in here,” I whispered. I felt my stomach start to churn.

  “Think about it,” Ned said, peering out the cracked window. “If we clean it up, we could have our own house right in the backyard.” He forced open a door. Behind it, I saw a small closet.

  The putrid odor was really making me sick. “I … think we should leave now,” I said. I turned and started walking out of the bedroom.

  And that’s when I heard it. That’s when I heard the ghost’s harsh whisper. It seemed to be coming from the open closet.

  “Welcome …” I heard. “Welcome. Welcome to your DOOM.”

  “No!” The word burst out of me in a choked cry. I could feel a chill tighten the back of my neck.

  “Welcome to your doom, Abe.” The raspy whisper again.

  I turned back. My eyes searched the darkness of the tiny bedroom. Suddenly, I realized what was happening.

  “Ned!” I cried. “You … you fooled me again!”

  He burst out of the closet laughing and slapped me hard on the back. “You catch on fast, Abie.”

  I raised my hands to wrap them around his neck and strangle him. But he danced away, still giggling.

  He loves scaring me. And he’s very good at it.

  He picked up the long stick and swung it at me like a sword. “Do you believe in ghosts, Abie?”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “Everyone believes in ghosts.” I started to the front door. I wanted to get out of there. But I was turned around and found myself in another small room in back.

  This room had a low wooden chair with one of its legs missing. And a wide dresser, covered in at least an inch of dust. An oval-shaped mirror hung above the dresser. The glass was so stained and cracked, I couldn’t see myself in it.

  “It’s hard to believe people actually lived in this shack,” I said. “Why do you think it’s been empty so long?”

  Ned tapped the dresser with his stick, sending up a wave of dust. “Too many ghosts, I guess,” he said. He started to say more, but he stopped.

  We both heard the sound. A loud hum. No. More of a buzzing sound.

  “What is that?” I said, tilting my head to listen harder.

  “I think it’s coming from the front room,” Ned said, pointing with his stick.

  I stumbled over a crack in the floor as I followed him to the front.

  The sound rose, then fell, a little like an ocean wave.

  Gray light washed in through a dirt-caked window. The room was bare. I spotted something high in one corner up near the ceiling. The buzzing grew louder as Ned led the way across the room.

  We stared up at the large, gray, oval-shaped object. It appeared to be stuck up there.

  “What is that?” Ned whispered. He raised the stick and poked the middle of the object.

  A mistake.

  I saw the big black insects fly out, buzzing louder.

  Ned must not have seen them. Because he poked the nest again. And now a raging sound surrounded us as dozens of wasps angrily shot out and began darting in wide, crazy circles above us.

  Ned turned to me, a confused expression on his face, the stick still raised. “Are those wasps?”

  “I think so,” I replied. I’d never seen a wasp’s nest before. But I’d seen drawings of them in a science book at school.

  As the big insects raged and swarmed and buzzed, I grabbed Ned by the shoulder. “Run!” I cried.

  I gave him a hard push. The two of us stumbled to the door. The furious sound followed us.

  “They’re chasing us!” I screamed.

  I reached the door first and shoved it open with both hands. My shoes hit the ground running. Ned was running at my side, his eyes wide with terror.

  I turned back and saw the dark cloud of wasps, rising and falling against the gray sky, soaring toward us. “We … made them … angry,” I gasped, struggling to breathe.

  The wasps shot over us, so many of them they blocked the sky.

  “Run! Run!” Ned cried.

  He didn’t need to say it. I was running harder than I’d ever run, heart pounding, throat so dry I started to choke. But we couldn’t outrun them.

  The black cloud lowered over us. The furious buzz rattled in my ears.

  “Owww! I’m stung!” Ned screamed. “Help! Abie — they’re stinging me!”

  I ducked my head. Wasps attacked my back, my shoulders, my chest. I swatted at them, swinging my arms frantically.

  “I’m stung!” Ned screamed. “Oww. My neck.”

  I grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward. “Keep your head down,” I rasped.

  The garden shed came up in front of us. I grabbed the door, heaved it open, and we fell inside. I pulled it shut. And the two of us stood there in the darkness, breathing in the sour odor of fertilizer, wheezing, shaking, our whole bodies shuddering.

  I could hear the wasps outside, hear them circling the shed. I heard their bodies bumping the wooden shed walls as if trying to force their way in.

  Bump bump bumpbumpbump. It sounded like a hailstorm, pounding the little shed.

  Ned and I stood there listening, trembling, afraid to make a sound.

  How long did it take for the angry swarm to move on? Probably a minute or t
wo. But it seemed like days.

  Finally, the sound faded. We could hear the wind again.

  But we didn’t move. Ned scratched his neck. “That really hurt,” he murmured.

  I grabbed the door handle and slowly … slowly pushed the shed door open a crack. I peeked out, ready to slam the door shut if I saw any wasps.

  But they had moved on.

  Ned and I stepped out of the shed. The nasty smell followed us. It was on our clothing, on our skin. But I didn’t care about that. We had escaped a hundred stings.

  I turned Ned around and examined his neck. He had a round red bump where a wasp had stung him.

  “We’re safe!” Ned cried happily. “Hey — we outsmarted those wasps! Are we clever? You bet we are!”

  He slapped me on the back. Then he jumped onto a low stone wall that zigzagged through the yard. He started to do a Ned dance. That’s what I call the crazy, flapping, arm-waving, shoe-tapping dance he does.

  I laughed and joined him on the low wall. I can’t dance the way Ned does. My arms and legs just don’t fly around the way his do. But I started to dance, too.

  Shouting and laughing, the two of us did a celebration dance, a dance to celebrate escaping those swarming wasps.

  But the celebration didn’t last long.

  Flora’s shout broke into our laughter. “Look!” she cried. “I can dance, too.”

  Ned and I stopped our dance. I jumped off the wall. We turned to the back of the yard. And we both started to scream in horror.

  “No, Flora! Get off there! Get off the well!”

  “Flora — jump off! Get off! Don’t climb on the well! You’re going to fall!”

  She tossed back her head and laughed. From under her cap, a strand of her wavy black hair fell over her forehead.

  “I can dance, too!” She kicked up her shoes and started to do a jig, grinning at us, her dark eyes glowing.

  “No, Flora — please!” I cried. “Please!”

  Ned and I both froze in horror as she slipped. Her arms flew up over her head. She opened her mouth in a deafening scream of horror.

  Kicking her feet, she dropped into the well. She made a desperate attempt to grab the top of the well wall with both hands. But they slid right off and she dropped out of sight.