by R. L. Stine
He nodded and kept walking.
The black cat vanished behind a snowdrift. I realized I was shivering.
I had just said I needed some good luck. And then the ghostly black cat appeared. Did that mean I was about to have bad luck?
“A ghost! There’s a ghost in the house!” I cried. “Doesn’t anyone care?”
Jack shook his head. “You don’t sound frightened enough.”
I laughed. It was kind of funny — since I’ve had a lot of experience with ghosts and screaming.
We were in my den, rehearsing for the play tryouts. First, we had warmed ourselves with steaming mugs of hot cocoa. Then we had closed ourselves in the den to act out the brother and sister roles in the script.
The den is my favorite room in our house. It has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls. A fireplace with soft, comfy green leather couches and armchairs facing it. And a beautiful antique piano in one corner.
Dad wanted a flat screen TV above the fireplace. Dad would like to have a giant TV in every room. But Mom put her foot down and said the den should be a quiet, peaceful place.
I tried the line again, making my voice more shaky. “A ghost! There’s a ghost in the house! Doesn’t anyone care?”
Jack frowned. “Not frightened enough, Kate,” he repeated. “I think you need to scream. I mean, you and I are all alone in this old house, and we’ve just seen a ghost on the stairs.”
“Then you should scream, too,” I said.
“Boys don’t scream,” he said.
“They do in horror movies,” I replied.
“No way,” Jack said. “I’m not going to scream here. Look at the script. It doesn’t say I should scream.”
“What are you two arguing about?”
My mother strode into the den, carrying a bowl of nacho chips. She took a chip, then set the bowl on the coffee table in front of the couch.
My mom is the kind of person who can eat just one chip. When she was in her twenties, she was a fashion model in New York. She is still thin and as pretty as a model, with big blue eyes, a dramatic helmet of short blond hair, high cheekbones, and perfect, smooth skin.
I know what people think when they see the two of us together. They think what a shame Kate looks like her father instead of her mother.
Or am I being a little crazy?
“Well?” Mom said. She nibbled at the nacho chip, making it last.
“We’re not arguing,” I said. “We’re rehearsing.” I waved the script in the air. “We have tryouts after dinner for The 12 Screams of Christmas. Remember? I told you about it? It’s Mr. Piccolo’s Christmas play?”
She chewed some more. So far, she’d only eaten half the chip.
Jack grabbed up a handful of them and began jamming them into his mouth, crunching loudly.
“Mr. Piccolo, right,” Mom said. “He’s your music teacher? What a perfect name for a music teacher.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good one. No one ever thought of that before, Mom.”
She made a face at me. “Kate, were you born sarcastic?”
“No. I took a class,” I said.
That made Mom and Jack laugh. I told you, I’m pretty funny.
“Tell me about the play,” Mom said, finally finishing her chip.
“Mr. P wrote it,” I said. “It’s got all these songs in it.”
“And it’s supposed to be scary,” Jack said, reaching for another handful of nacho chips.
Mom blinked. “Huh? A scary Christmas play? You mean like Dickens’s A Christmas Carol?”
“Kind of,” Jack said. “It’s about a family who moves into a haunted house on Christmas Eve. The house is haunted by a ghost family who used to live there. But they had a terrible tragedy that ruined their lives. And now they want to celebrate Christmas and keep the new family there forever.”
Mom had turned her eyes on me. “It’s a ghost story,” she said. “Kate, you know you have a thing about ghosts. Are you sure you want to be in this play?”
I gasped and the script fell from my hand. I bent to pick it up. “Mom, I don’t have a thing about ghosts,” I said. “I —”
Jack laughed. “What about at the fifth-grade overnight last spring?”
“Are you really going to bring that up again?” I cried.
“Kids still call you Ghost Girl because of that night,” Jack said. “Seriously. You totally lost it.”
I wanted to punch him. I could feel my face growing hot and knew I was blushing. “I can’t believe we’re still talking about this,” I muttered.
“Kate, calm down,” Mom said, taking a few steps toward me.
But I was too angry. “I don’t care if anyone believes me or not about that night,” I said, curling and uncurling my fists. “I really did see a ghost in that tree.”
“Kate, please —” Mom tried to stop me.
“It was an old man, and he was sitting on a tree limb, smoking a pipe, and watching us.”
Jack shook his head. “It turned out to be a white plastic trash bag.”
“It did not!” I said. “I saw what I saw. I don’t have a ghost thing, Mom. I saw a ghost that night. I — I —”
I was about to tell her and Jack about the ghosts I’d just seen in the graveyard. And about the hissing black cat.
Somehow, I stopped myself. I held myself back. They wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said. And Mom would just repeat that I shouldn’t be in the play since I have a thing about ghosts.
“Can we change the subject?” I said. “Can we —”
I stopped midsentence. I froze because the piano in the corner began to play. All by itself. No one there.
I stared at it in horror as the music filled the room. Stared at it — and opened my mouth in a shrill scream.
“Kate? What’s wrong with you?” Mom cried. She spun away from me and hurried to the piano. “That’s my ringtone,” she said.
She picked her phone up from the piano and held it toward me. “See? It’s not the piano. It’s my phone.”
She gave me one more concerned look. Then she raised the phone to her ear and walked out of the den, talking to someone.
Jake was watching me from the couch.
Did I feel embarrassed? Did I feel like a total moron? Three guesses.
I wanted to follow Mom out of the room and shout at her: “Of course I have a thing about ghosts. Because I can see ghosts!”
But what was the point of that?
I raised a finger to my lips. “Don’t say a word, Jack. Don’t say a word about the piano, hear?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. He made a zipping motion over his mouth.
I glanced at the silver clock on the mantel. “Can we get back to the script?”
Jack took another handful of chips. The bowl was nearly empty. “Didn’t you say Courtney would come over and rehearse with us?”
“Oh, right. Guess I forgot to invite her.”
He frowned at me. “How come you and Courtney are so messed up? I thought you were good friends. You’ve known her since kindergarten, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”
Jack shrugged. “I just don’t understand —”
“She’s always on my case,” I said. “She’s the one who started calling me Ghost Girl. She’s never forgiven me for making us lose that state gymnastics meet.”
“You mean last year? When you thought you saw another ghost?”
I smacked the rolled-up script across his leg. “I don’t want to talk about it. I fell off the balance beam, remember? I could have broken my neck. But no one cared about that. They were only upset because I lost the match for the team.”
“Because you thought you saw a ghost in the bleachers,” Jack said.
“Whatever.”
I really wanted to stop this ghost talk. I liked Jack. I didn’t want him to think I was loony.
“Courtney thinks she’s so much better than me,” I said. “And now here we are, trying out for the same part in the Christmas play.” I l
et out a sigh. “I just have to win — for once. Just once.”
Jack scratched his head. “I think you’re taking it all too seriously.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, thanks for your support.”
Does he have a crush on Courtney? I wondered.
“Let’s practice screaming,” I said. “That will impress Mr. P. We have to scream like we’re terrified out of our shoes.”
“Okay, Kate. You go first.”
I took a deep breath — and opened my mouth in a shrill scream. I cut it off and made a choking sound as I saw the figure float into the den.
A girl. All white. Her face, her arms, her flowing dress. Her hair fell to her shoulders, white, white as snow. She didn’t appear to see Jack and me. She floated past the piano, her pale arms raised at her sides, floated silently, easily.
I jumped to my feet from my chair, holding my breath, my eyes on the ghostly girl.
I turned to Jack. His eyes were following the pale, floating figure.
“Jack,” I whispered. “Do you see her, too?”
The ghostly girl laughed. “You like my ghost makeup? I made you scream — didn’t I?”
“Courtney!” I cried. “How —”
“Your mom let me in,” she said. Her long white gown flowed around her as she crossed the room to us. “I thought I’d give you a little surprise.” Courtney laughed again. “Ghost Girl, you look terrified!”
“I … I wasn’t screaming because of you,” I stammered. My heart was still pounding in my chest. “Jack and I were rehearsing. Practicing our screams.”
Courtney dropped down on the couch next to Jack. Her face was caked with white makeup. And now I could see that she was wearing a white wig. She was white from head-to-shoes, except for her light brown eyes.
She smiled at Jack. “My sister Chloe’s friend is a makeup artist. Look at me. It took over two hours to do this. Seriously. Think Mr. P will be impressed?”
I slapped the rolled-up script against my palm. “It’s not really fair,” I said. “Mr. P didn’t tell us to come to the tryouts tonight in costume.”
“I wanted to do a little extra,” Courtney said. She brushed the end of the white wig behind her white shoulders. She turned to Jack. “You know, since the gymnastics team bombed out — thanks to Kate — I decided I want to be an actress. I’m serious. That’s why I really want to get this part in the play.”
She was talking only to Jack, as if I wasn’t in the room.
He stared at her but didn’t reply.
I didn’t know what to say. Courtney knew that she and I were competing for the same part. So was my friend Carol Ann.
Did she really think she could steal the part by showing up in ghost makeup?
“You two go ahead,” she said. “I don’t need to rehearse. I’ve got the part down.” She tapped her temple with a pale white finger. “It’s all in here.”
I bit my bottom lip. I fought to keep my anger down. She thinks she has already won the part, I thought. She thinks it’s a done deal. Well … I’m going to surprise her. I’m going to be the winner. I’ll do anything to win that part. Anything.
It would be funny if Mr. Piccolo resembled a piccolo, but he doesn’t. Actually, he’s quite round. More like a bass fiddle. He has a big pouch of a belly that stretches the oversized turtleneck sweaters he always wears.
He has a round face, too. He’s mostly bald and his scalp shines like a bowling ball. He wears square eyeglasses, which are always sliding down his long, straight nose. He peers at you over his glasses with his little sparrow eyes.
He reminds me of an owl that should go on a diet.
He has a high voice and a nervous way of talking really fast. I guess it’s because he gets very excited about everything we do in his class.
Most everyone likes him because he’s kind and patient and never makes you feel bad even when you totally mess up a song or act up in class. And because he’s always so up, so enthusiastic and gung ho.
He greeted us at the auditorium door as we trooped in for the tryouts. I counted at least twenty kids, mostly from our music class, but some from the seventh and eighth grade, too.
The snow had stopped but the temperature had dropped into the teens. We tossed our winter coats and parkas and hoodies onto chairs at the back of the auditorium. And we kicked the snow off our boots before following Mr. P up to the front.
I hugged myself to stop my shivers. I had layers on, but I should have worn a heavier sweater. Down the long aisle, some kids were grouped around Courtney, admiring her ghost makeup and costume.
I looked around. She was the only one in costume.
Across the aisle, my friend Carol Ann flashed me a thumbs-up, and I returned it. “Break a leg!” I called to her. She shook her head hard, brushing snow from her coppery, curly hair.
It was cold in the auditorium. I hoped it would be warmer onstage.
“People. People!” Mr. P called, clapping his hands. “People — follow me. Let’s take a seat on the stage.”
He bounced down the aisle. It looked like he had a beach ball under his yellow turtleneck. He snapped his fingers as he walked. He always had some kind of rhythm going.
He sat down on a canvas director’s chair and waited for us to get seated in front of him on the stage. I wanted to sit next to Jack, but Courtney plopped down between us.
The auditorium was dimly lit, but the stage lights were on. Kids were chattering and laughing. But I stayed quiet. I kept going over the lines for the tryout. I didn’t know them by heart. I had the script rolled up in my backpack.
Mr. P raised his hands to get everyone quiet. The bright stage lights made his glasses gleam like silver. He shielded his eyes with one hand.
“Before we start the tryouts,” he said, “maybe you’d all like to hear a true ghost story. It happened right here in this auditorium. Did any of you know that this auditorium is haunted?”
Before anyone could answer, Courtney spoke up: “Don’t freak out, Kate. Maybe you should cover your ears.”
That got everyone laughing. I guess they all knew how I lost it last spring at the overnight.
I could feel myself blushing. I pretended to laugh, as if she’d made a terrific joke. Then I gave Courtney a playful shove — only I didn’t mean it to be playful.
Mr. P leaned forward in his canvas chair. “This story happened more than eighty years ago,” he said. “A boy named Cliff went to this school. Cliff was a sickly boy. Very frail. In very bad health. But his dream was to be in the school play.”
Mr. P shoved his glasses up on his nose. His eyes swept over us. I guess he was making sure we were paying attention. We definitely were. The auditorium was silent except for the hum from the furnace vents along the walls.
“Cliff won the starring role in the play,” he continued. “But he was so weak, he could barely make it through rehearsals. The doctors said Cliff shouldn’t be in the play. They said he was too frail and sick.
“But Cliff argued with his doctors. He said being the star of the play was his biggest dream, and he wouldn’t quit for any reason.”
Mr. P pushed his glasses up again. He shifted his weight in the narrow chair. “The play was given right here on this stage,” he continued. “And guess what? Cliff was amazing in it. He gave a wonderful, powerful performance, as if he wasn’t sick at all. It was like the performance had given him new strength, new life.
“It was a triumph in every way. When it ended, the audience cheered and clapped and made Cliff take a second bow.”
Mr. P cleared his throat. He swept a hand back over his bald head. “After the show, everyone wanted to congratulate Cliff and tell him how great he had been. But … no one could find him. They searched the dressing rooms backstage. They searched the whole school. But no sign of Cliff.
“Finally, the drama coach telephoned Cliff’s home. After several rings, his mother answered. Her voice trembled. She sounded as if she’d been crying. She said: “I’m sorry Cliff couldn’t be in the
play tonight. It was his dream, but he didn’t make it. He died yesterday morning.”
I let out a gasp. A hush had fallen over the stage. No one moved or made a sound.
Mr. P took a long pause. Then he said: “Yes, I see that you understand. Cliff came up on this stage and performed the play one day after he died.”
He paused again. Then: “The show must go on. That’s what Cliff believed. Ever since that night, ever since that ghostly performance, we leave the last seat in the top row of the balcony for him. Sometimes, actors onstage look up — and they say they can see Cliff in his seat, watching their play. Others have said they’ve seen him walking on the stage. Many people believe that Cliff’s ghost refuses to leave this auditorium.”
I couldn’t resist. I turned and raised my eyes to the balcony.
Dark up there. No lights were on. The only light washed up from down below.
But squinting up to the last row, I moved my eyes to the very last seat. And saw something move there. Was it a face? Yes.
Looming from the shadows. A face. A boy’s face. And then I could see the outline of his body. Could see him lean forward, his eyes on the stage.
My breath caught in my throat. I raised my hand to my forehead. And gasped. “Cliff? I see him. Cliff? Is that you?”
“No. It’s me — Paco!”
The voice rang down from the top of the balcony.
I sucked in a breath. Laughter burst out all around me. The laughter echoed off the walls of the empty auditorium. Everyone was laughing, even Mr. P.
“Way to go, Ghost Girl!” Courtney slapped me hard on the back.
I wanted to hide. I wanted to die. I wanted to fall off the stage and disappear through the floor below. I’d never been so embarrassed. My face was blazing hot. My hands started to shake.
It was just a ghost story Mr. P made up. And I fell for it.
Of course, there was a good reason for that. But, still, I looked so stupid.
Mr. P slid off the chair and stood waiting for everyone to settle down. When they finally stopped hooting and laughing at me, he waved a hand up at Paco. “For those of you who don’t know,” Mr. P said, “Paco is a seventh grader. He is on the tech squad for our play. He’ll be in charge of sound and lighting.”
