The 12 Screams of Christmas

by R. L. Stine

  But I didn’t turn around. I ran full speed from the front room.

  I didn’t see the bookshelf jutting out at the doorway. I didn’t see the long wooden shelf poking out from the hall. I shot right into it. My head rammed into the sharp corner of the shelf.

  “Owwwwww!”

  I heard myself scream. Stunned, I felt the blazing pain shoot through my body. Down from my head, like a hundred explosions … the pain rippling over me, folding me up, bringing me to the floor.

  And then … only darkness.

  The light seemed bright at first. I blinked several times until my eyes adjusted.

  I’d only been out for a short time. Less than a minute, I think.

  I could still hear the kids laughing and hooting in the front room. I figured they didn’t see me bomb into the bookshelf headfirst. I rubbed my forehead.

  “Ow.” It really hurt to touch it. I knew I’d soon have a nasty bump there.

  I picked Carol Ann’s Cubs cap up from the floor and jammed it onto my head. Should I go back into the front room? Rejoin the chorus?

  No. I couldn’t stand any more of their jokes.

  I turned and started up the stairs. No sign of the twins. I still felt dizzy from my bookshelf accident. Shaky-legged. My head throbbed. I held the banister tightly as I pulled myself up the creaking steps.

  I planned to go to my room. Crawl into bed. And then …

  Then what, Kate?

  Regroup.

  Yes. That was the word. Regroup.

  If they didn’t want to believe that this house was haunted … fine.

  No problem.

  I could handle their jokes. I’d been handling the jokes since fifth grade.

  It hurt a little to see Jack laugh at me. I kind of had a crush on him.

  But … whatever.

  No one wanted to believe it, but I do have a special talent. I can see ghosts.

  This talent got me in a lot of trouble. But maybe I could use it to help the others. Maybe I could somehow help protect them from the ghosts in this house. The ghosts no one wanted to believe in.

  I started down the hallway to my room. I ran one hand along the wall because I still felt dizzy. I pressed a palm against my forehead. I could feel a small bump there. But it wasn’t bleeding.

  I stopped outside the room. Did I hear voices?

  Was someone else upstairs?

  I leaned against the door frame and listened.

  Yes. Soft voices. A man and a woman. Nearby.

  I took a few steps toward the sounds and saw an open door. Peering into the doorway, I saw steep steps leading up to a brightly lit area. An attic.

  I crept up to the stairway. Yes. The voices were coming from the attic.

  I took a step back. Be sensible, Kate, I warned myself. Don’t go up there.

  But I didn’t listen to myself. Maybe I was still stunned by the ferocious bump on my head. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly at all.

  But I raised myself onto the first step, slid my hand over the slender wooden banister, and began to climb.

  “Hello!” I called. “Who’s up there? Hello?”

  “Whoa.”

  Some of the stairs were broken. I had to grip the banister to keep from falling. The whole stairway seemed to tilt from side to side as I pulled my way up.

  At the top I could see flickering shadows over an orange light. The reflection of a fire.

  I was breathing hard by the time I made it to the top. Gazing into the flickering light, I gasped in surprise.

  I stepped into a long, low, old-fashioned looking room. Orange and yellow flames danced in a wide fireplace. I saw dark wood furniture, a dining room table set with many plates and glasses, a wood-burning stove in the center of the room.

  Who lives up here?

  Cinders from the fire made my eyes burn. I wanted to see every detail, but my eyes kept watering over.

  At the far end of the fireplace, I saw a scraggly, almost-bare Christmas tree. It was decorated with strings of popcorn and burning candles. A ragged, dried-out holly wreath was hung over the attic window at the end of the room.

  Blinking, struggling to focus, I finally saw them. The two boys on their stomachs on the floor. The two ghost boys, Ned and Abe, raised on their elbows, concentrating hard on a board game.

  “Hello?” I called.

  They didn’t look up.

  Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I get out of there as fast as I could? I guess I was still stunned from my accident. In some kind of shock.

  As I let my eyes wander away from the two boys, a man and woman came into focus. She stood beside the dining room table. She was plump, round-faced, dark ringlets of hair falling to her shoulders. She wore a white apron over a simple gray dress that came down to the floor.

  He was lanky, bone thin. He had scraggly brown hair parted in the middle and down the sides of his dark-stubbled cheeks. His eyes were red and sad. He had a weary look about him as he gazed at me from a stiff-backed wooden chair.

  “Welcome home, Flora,” the woman said. A smile broke out over her face, and I saw several missing teeth. “Welcome home, dear.”

  “N-no,” I stammered. “I’m not Flora.”

  The twins continued their game. They rolled a pair of wooden dice and moved small pieces around a game board. They didn’t look up.

  “In time to celebrate Christmas,” the man said. He had a scratchy whisper of a voice. He kept his watery red eyes on me. He didn’t smile.

  The fire crackled loudly. I took a few steps into the room.

  “Do you … live here?” I asked.

  “We exist here,” the man corrected me.

  “We don’t live anywhere anymore,” the woman said. She shook her head sadly. Her chins quivered above the high, lacy neck of her dress.

  You don’t live anywhere because you are ghosts.

  I was standing in this attic talking to a family of ghosts. All by myself with these sad-looking ghosts. How dangerous was this? I couldn’t even imagine.

  The woman motioned me forward. “We are so happy you came back to us to celebrate Christmas.”

  “Came back to you? No —” I said.

  “Christmas has always been a hard time of year,” the man said, rubbing his narrow, bearded chin. “It’s when we lost you.”

  “Please,” I begged. “Listen to me. I’m not Flora. My name is Kate. Kate Welles.”

  The woman’s smile didn’t fade. She stretched out her arms and moved toward me. “Let me hug you. It’s been so long.”

  “No!” I cried. I raised my hands as if trying to shield myself. “No — please. Listen to me ….”

  The woman wrapped me in a hug. Pulled me into that huge gray dress. I felt myself disappear. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. It was as if she had jammed me into a heavy wool blanket.

  “Please —” My voice was muffled, my face pressed into the rough fabric of her dress. “I … can’t … breathe.”

  Did she plan to suffocate me?

  Finally, she pulled back. Her arms slid away. I gasped for air.

  “What a wonderful celebration we shall have,” she said, beaming at me. She straightened her apron.

  The boys finally glanced up from their game. I recognized Ned. His hair was longer than Abe’s. “Flora,” he said. “We are playing Parcheesi. Do you want to play the next game?”

  “No,” I said. “Stop calling me Flora. You know I am Kate.”

  I turned to see that the father had risen from his chair. He stood in front of the fireplace, shadows darting over his dark overalls. His eyes were narrowed on me. His expression was grim.

  I gasped when I saw a long-bladed knife in his hand.

  “Wh-what are you doing with that?” I stammered, pointing.

  “I am going to carve the bird,” he said softly.

  I glanced around. I didn’t see a turkey anywhere.

  I took a step back. He didn’t take his eyes off mine. He gripped the handle of the knife tightly in one fist. “It
is time to carve the bird,” he said again.

  “No. Please —” I suddenly felt in terrible danger. “This isn’t happening,” I said out loud.

  I turned to the stairway, my heart pounding. “I am so sorry. I have to leave now. Sorry. Really. But I … I can’t stay.”

  Where are the attic steps?

  Somehow, I got turned around. I thought the stairway leading down was behind me. But now I saw only solid wall.

  I turned back into the room. There is an attic door. The stairs lead down from the door.

  But I saw no door. No stairs.

  I saw only solid wall all around.

  There is no way out of here! I realized. No escape.

  “Time to carve the bird,” the man said, raising his knife.

  The man moved toward me, the knife at his side. The boys watched from the floor, their faces calm, almost bored.

  I swung around and slammed the wall with my fist. I knew the stairs had been there. I hadn’t walked far into the room. The attic door and stairs had to be behind me.

  But my fist hit solid plaster.

  Suddenly, the wife stepped in front of her husband. “Put the carving knife down, Aaron,” she said. “It isn’t time to eat yet. We have to celebrate first.”

  Aaron nodded and set the knife down on the table. “Sorry, Peg. I guess I was hurrying us,” he said. “It has been so long since we had Christmas dinner.”

  “First, we will sing carols,” Peg said. “Then the children can sit on Father Christmas’s lap.”

  Huh? Father Christmas’s lap?

  My eyes searched the four walls. I even examined the floor, looking for steps going down or perhaps some kind of trapdoor.

  No. No way out.

  “Stand up, sons,” Peg said. “It’s time to celebrate with Flora. You can finish your Parcheesi game later.”

  She turned to me. “Now, Flora, tell us — what is your favorite carol?”

  I stared at her. All four of them were watching me. My mind spun.

  How do I get out of this attic? How do I get away from here?

  “I’m sorry. I … need to get back to the others,” I stammered.

  Aaron shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

  “But Mr. Piccolo will be looking for me,” I said.

  “No, he won’t,” Aaron answered.

  Suddenly … suddenly, I realized what was going on.

  I ran into that bookshelf and hit my head. I knocked myself out.

  I was still unconscious. Just like after Courtney and I fell down that trapdoor in the school auditorium. I was still out cold.

  And dreaming.

  Yes, I had to be dreaming this whole scene. An attic without a way out? That had to be a dream. Four ghosts living in such a cozy place, waiting for their daughter to return for Christmas?

  A dream.

  And so, I knew what I had to do. I knew the only way to escape these ghosts and their attic home. I had to wake myself up.

  Wake up, Kate. Come on. Pull yourself out of this nightmare.

  Wake up — now.

  I shut my eyes. I gritted my teeth. I tightened every muscle as I concentrated …. Concentrated …

  Wake up, Kate. You can do it.

  Rise up from this. Pull yourself up. Wake up.

  I knew this was the answer. I knew I could end this crazy dream.

  When I open my eyes, they’ll all be gone.

  I opened my eyes.

  And gazed at the ghostly family staring back at me.

  The fire crackled behind them. The big carving knife rested on the edge of the dining room table.

  Not a dream.

  Nothing had changed. This was happening. This was real.

  I was trapped here, trapped in this attic with these frightening ghosts who insisted on calling me Flora.

  A shiver went down my back. My knees started to fold. I forced myself to keep standing.

  Stay alert, Kate. There has to be a way to escape.

  “Sing a Christmas song for us, Flora,” Peg said. “Sing something nice.”

  “They were singing new Christmas songs downstairs, Ma,” Ned said.

  “Yes, we listened to the new songs,” Abe said.

  Peg’s smile grew wider. “Go ahead, Flora. Please. Sing us a new Christmas song.”

  I swallowed hard. My mouth was suddenly dry as cotton.

  “Sing! Sing! Sing!” The twins jumped up and down and chanted.

  My brain totally froze. Which song should I sing? I didn’t really know them all by heart yet.

  “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

  “Okay,” I said, motioning for them to settle down. “Here’s one of the new songs from our show.”

  I took a deep breath and began to sing:

  “Have a haunted haunted Christmas,

  And a scary New Year’s, too.

  Have a haunted haunted Christmas,

  And to one and all say, BOO.”

  “STOP!” Aaron screamed. “Stop singing that horrible song!”

  I looked at the two boys. Their mouths had dropped open in shock.

  Peg started to cry. Big tears ran down her cheeks. “That song has made me very sad,” she said. “Why did you sing a song that makes fun of us? Why did you sing a hurtful song? Didn’t you know how bad it would make us feel?”

  “S-sorry,” I stammered. “I … didn’t think.”

  How could I have been so stupid? They didn’t want to hear a funny Christmas ghost song. They were ghosts! They were dead. It wasn’t a funny song to them.

  “Really. I’m very sorry,” I repeated.

  Peg mopped the tears off her cheeks with both hands.

  Aaron shook his head, his eyes on the floor. Both boys remained silent.

  “Let’s not spoil this special day,” Peg said finally. “It’s time for you kids to sit on Father Christmas’s lap.”

  The boys clapped their hands. “Will Father Christmas bring us presents this year?” Abe asked.

  “Our special present is to have Flora back,” Peg said. She grinned at me lovingly. “Flora, since it’s your special day, you can be the first to sit on Father Christmas’s lap. Be sure to tell him all the gifts you would like this year.”

  What did she mean? I knew that Father Christmas was what they used to call Santa Claus back in the day. But how could I sit on his lap?

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  Aaron disappeared into a closet at the back of the room. A short while later, he came out pushing a tall-backed chair. It was like a throne. And seated in the chair was a figure in a red-and-white Santa Claus suit.

  Beneath the Santa hat, his head was tilted forward. So I couldn’t see his face. At first, I thought it was a large puppet, some kind of mannequin. But as Aaron pushed the tall chair across the attic to me, I could see the bony hands and then the dull, yellowed skull.

  And I realized I was staring at a human skeleton. A skeleton dressed in a wooly red Santa costume. The red coat was tattered and stained. One sleeve had nearly torn off. And the pants sagged, bony knees poking through holes in the fabric.

  “This is one of our favorite traditions,” Peg said, clasping her pudgy hands in front of her apron. “Father Christmas pays us a visit every year.”

  “Can I sit on his lap now?” Abe pleaded.

  “No. Me,” his twin insisted.

  Peg pushed them back. “I told you, Flora will go first this year.” She turned to me. “Go ahead, Flora. Sit on his lap. Tell him your Christmas wishes.”

  I swallowed hard again. I squinted at the grinning skull, tilted forward beneath the ratty cap. And as I stared, I saw the eyes move.

  I gasped.

  No. Wait. The eyes weren’t moving. Something was moving inside the empty eye sockets.

  “Sit on his lap, Flora,” Peg urged. “You know you look forward to it.”

  Yes. Something inside the open eye sockets. Worms. Fat brown worms curling and uncurling where the eyes used to be.

  “Sit down, Flora. Don’t ke
ep everyone waiting.”

  Peg’s voice was becoming strained, harsh. She gave me a gentle push toward the chair.

  I stood frozen as a long brown worm lowered itself from Father Christmas’s nostril. And then another worm curled out from the grinning, toothless mouth.

  “N-no …” I stammered.

  “Go on, dear.” Peg gave me another gentle shove. I stumbled over something on the floor. My arms shot out as I fell forward.

  I fell headfirst onto the wormy skeleton. My face pushed into the scratchy wool jacket. My hands grabbed the hard shoulder bones.

  It smelled. Oh, it smelled. My face buried in the jacket, I inhaled the odor of death. So sour and thick and strong. I felt like I was drowning in it, drowning in the putrid aroma.

  I squeezed the arms and tried to pull myself up. But the arm bones cracked off. The arms slid off the shoulders. And my face dove into the bony chest again.

  “Help me …” My cry was muffled by the scratchy jacket. “Oh, help …”

  A few seconds later, I felt strong hands lifting me off the disgusting skeleton. Aaron stood me on my feet, then backed away. His face was set in a hard scowl.

  The smile had faded from Peg’s face, too. Her eyes were cold. She sneered at me. “Don’t disappoint us, dear. We get angry when we’re disappointed.”

  Her words sent a shiver to the back of my neck.

  She seemed like a nice, enthusiastic mother, eager to enjoy the holiday. But I was frightened by her hard expression, the way she scowled at me so impatiently, so angrily.

  This wasn’t a happy family. These were dead people. And I was trapped here in this attic with them.

  What would they do to me if I kept disappointing them?

  Aaron pushed Father Christmas’s chair back to the closet. The skeleton head bobbed as the chair bumped along the floor.

  The boys shook their heads at me, frowning, as if they couldn’t understand why I hadn’t sat on the wormy skeleton’s lap.

  “Never mind,” Peg said finally. She wiped her hands on the front of her apron. She forced a smile. “Let’s have our Christmas dinner.”

  The boys hurried to the dining room table. Peg motioned for me to follow them. “Sit wherever you like, dear. I hope you are hungry.”