Nightmare Hour

by R. L. Stine

  No one here. No sign that anyone had been in the room.

  Jillian shut her eyes. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “It was a dream,” Jillian moaned. “It was just a dream.”

  Mrs. Warner squeezed her shoulder tenderly. “Dr. Meyer said you might have a nightmare from time to time. Forget it. Push it right out of your mind. Let’s go get some dinner.”

  Jillian spent the next morning helping Priscilla hang wallpaper in the front entryway. Then Priscilla drove them into town. They had lunch at a quaint New England chowder house. Then they prowled the shops and antique stores of the little town.

  On their way back to the inn, Priscilla turned to Jillian. “I heard you had a nightmare last night.”

  Jillian shuddered. “Sometimes I have bad nightmares. But I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  Priscilla nodded. “Sorry.”

  Hours later, back in the room, Jillian glanced at the clock radio. Almost nine thirty.

  She gazed out the window. It was dark out now. The pale, yellow moon floated low in a purple sky. The full moon…

  “Mom…where are you?” Jillian said out loud. “Come back. I don’t like it here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

  Sighing, she turned on the TV. Nothing but static. She curled up on the bed. The cold moonlight washed over her. She shut her eyes….

  Were those footsteps? A cough? From out in the hall?

  Am I having another nightmare?

  She heard someone running past her door, down the long hall. As if in a trance she stood up, stepped out of the room, and followed the sound. Around a corner, she found James unlocking one of the room doors.

  “James! What are you doing out here?” Jillian called.

  His eyes were wild. His hair fell in tangles around his face. “It’s time!” he shrieked frantically. “It’s time!”

  With an animal cry he reached out and grabbed Jillian roughly by the shoulders.

  “LET ME GO!” she screamed.

  But he held on to her and shoved her against the wall. “It’s time! It’s time! I warned you!”

  As Jillian struggled to free herself, the muscles in James’ face bulged and twisted. His eyes narrowed to slits and pulled back as a long animal snout formed beneath them. Glistening gobs of saliva poured over his thickening black lips.

  Jillian stared at jagged rows of yellow teeth. At bristly black fur sprouting over James’ cheeks and forehead.

  It’s just a dream. Jillian’s heart pounded. Just a nightmare…

  But she couldn’t wake herself out of it.

  The growling werewolf lowered his teeth to her throat. With a cry of terror Jillian pulled free. She whirled away from him, dazed and dizzy. Staggered a few steps, then started to run.

  “Help!” she cried out when she saw Priscilla loping quickly toward them down the long hallway. “Priscilla! Oh…help!”

  But as Priscilla came into the light, Jillian froze. She saw thick fur sprouting over Priscilla’s face and hands. Saw Priscilla’s lips pulled back in a ferocious snarl, revealing jagged rows of pointed teeth.

  “Two werewolves!” Jillian cried out in terror.

  Priscilla raised fur-covered arms. Animal claws shot out from her padded wolf paws. She leaped at Jillian with a deep-throated roar.

  Screaming in horror, Jillian staggered back to the wall.

  “She’s MINE!” James roared. “Get away!”

  Priscilla opened her frothing wolf jaws in a furious growl. “No--she’s MINE!” In a rage, Priscilla leaped onto James’ chest and knocked him to the floor.

  As he fell, James raked his claws down Priscilla’s cheek, cutting deep into her flesh.

  Priscilla howled. Four rivers of bright-red blood bubbled up and flowed over the thick, dark fur on her cheeks.

  Jillian huddled against the wall as the werewolves battled, rolling and wrestling over the carpet, punching, jabbing, tearing at each other. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she pushed away from the wall and forced her legs to run.

  The furious wolf growls rang in her ears as she bolted down the hall. Run, Jillian. Don’t look back. Just run!

  Into her room now. She slammed the door hard and turned the lock.

  The fierce animal growls echoed down the hall.

  Jillian threw herself onto the bed. Her whole body trembling, she clamped her hands over her ears and shut her eyes.

  When Jillian opened her eyes, Priscilla was leaning over her. A smile spread over Priscilla’s pretty face as Jillian slowly lifted her head.

  “What?” Jillian muttered, her throat dry, her tongue thick. “Where am I?”

  Blinking hard, she saw that she was under a blanket, in bed in the room.

  “I heard you scream,” Priscilla said. “I was passing your room and heard you scream. So I looked in.”

  Jillian took a deep breath and tried to clear her head.

  Priscilla patted her hand. “It must have been a really bad nightmare,” she said softly. “Sometimes people have bad dreams when they stay here. Maybe that’s why they call this place Nightmare Inn.”

  Jillian heard a cry at the door and saw her mother come bursting in. “Jillian, what’s wrong? Why were you screaming?”

  Priscilla turned and offered Mrs. Warner a reassuring smile. “Everything is fine. Jillian had a nightmare. But she’s okay now.”

  Mrs. Warner gasped. “Another nightmare? Oh, Jilly, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m okay, Mom,” Jillian said, sitting up. She sighed. “Just another dumb dream.”

  “Thanks for looking in on her, Priscilla,” Mrs. Warner said. “That was really nice of you. Oh--what’s that on your cheek? It looks like a nasty cut.”

  Jillian glanced at Priscilla’s face and gasped.

  Priscilla rubbed her fingers gently along the four dark lines down her cheek. “Must have been the cat.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Jillian. “It had to be the cat…right?”

  I’m Not Martin

  INTRODUCTION

  ILLUSTRATED BY CLAY PATRICK MCBRIDE

  Where do you get your ideas? That’s a question everyone asks me. Actually, anything can suggest a story to me.

  This story came from one sentence I overheard. One sentence was all I needed to imagine what I think may be my most stomach-churning story ever.

  The sentence? I overheard it on a city bus. Two boys were talking in the seat in front of me, and I heard the one named Nate say, “I have to have my tonsils out on Halloween.”

  That’s all I had to hear. My mind whirred into action. A hospital can be a scary place, I thought. But on Halloween night? What special scares will Nate find in a hospital on Halloween night? I hurried home to write the story. If you have to go to the hospital, remember--it’s just a story. It could never really happen… Or could it?

  The first thing I noticed about the hospital was the sick, green walls. Such a drab, dull color. Almost gray. The color of the sky on a raw, stormy day.

  Someone had draped orange and black streamers from the ceiling because it was Halloween. And some of the doors had cardboard witches and jack-o’-lanterns taped to them.

  But the decorations didn’t help. Even if you were feeling cheerful, the grim color of the walls would change your mood and make you feel sad and nervous and afraid.

  I sure wasn’t feeling cheerful as I walked between my parents down the long, green hall to my hospital room.

  Mom squeezed my hand. Her hand was warm. Mine was cold and clammy.

  “Nothing to worry about, Sean,” she said softly. She stared straight ahead. Her shoes clicked on the hard tile floor.

  Under his breath Dad read off the room numbers as we passed each green door. “B-twelve…B-fourteen…B-sixteen…”

  “Having your tonsils out is no big deal,” Mom said. She’d already said it a hundred times. “You’ll have a sore throat for a few days. But then you’ll be fine.”

  Click click click. Mom’s shoes echoed down the lon
g hall like a ticking clock. A clock clicking away the seconds to my doom…

  “But why do I have to have them out?” I whined. “I’ve grown attached to them!”

  Mom and Dad laughed. I can always make them laugh. It’s a talent that comes in handy whenever they’re angry at me. Of course, they weren’t angry today. But I always make jokes when I’m nervous.

  “Just think. No more of those horrible sore throats every time you catch a cold,” Dad said, his eyes on the door numbers. “No more swollen glands.”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” I muttered. “None of my friends have had their tonsils out. How come I have to have mine out? And on Halloween?”

  “Just lucky,” Dad said.

  He’s a big joker too.

  “But Halloween is my favorite holiday!” I said. I love scaring people and getting scared. And now I was missing it all. I had no way of knowing that this would turn into my scariest Halloween ever.

  As we turned a corner, I heard a kid sobbing loudly.

  Mom sighed. “There are so many sick kids in this hospital, Sean. Really sick kids. You should remember how lucky you are. So many kids here have serious trouble.”

  A few seconds later we met a kid with serious trouble.

  His name was Martin Charles. I read his name on top of the chart that hung from the foot of his bed.

  I saw Martin as we stood in the open doorway of room B-twenty-two. Martin’s bed was by the window. An empty bed--my bed--stood across from it against the puke-green wall.

  I stared at my new roommate. He was short and had dark eyes and very short, brown hair. He sat on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs, glaring at two white-uniformed nurses.

  “I’m not Martin!” he shouted.

  One of the nurses held a needle in one hand. The other nurse struggled with the sleeve on Martin’s green hospital gown.

  “Martin, please…” she pleaded.

  “I’m not Martin!” he shouted again. He jerked his arm out of the nurse’s grip.

  She gave a startled cry and stepped back.

  “Martin, we just need a blood sample,” the other nurse said.

  “I’m not Martin! I’m not Martin!” he screamed, pounding the bed with both fists.

  “Yes, yes. We’ve both heard that before,” the nurse grumbled.

  Then she turned and saw us standing in the doorway. She lowered the needle and took a step toward us. “Are you Sean Daly?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “That’s your bed over there, Sean,” the nurse said. “How does your throat feel?”

  “It’s kind of sore,” I confessed. “It hurts every time I swallow.”

  She smiled at my parents. “Why don’t you take Sean’s things over there? You can unpack. Use that closet near the bed.”

  I followed my parents across the room. “What is that guy’s problem?” I asked.

  Mom raised a finger to her lips. “Ssshhhh. He seems to be very frightened.”

  I wanted to see what they did to him. But one of the nurses pulled the curtain between the beds.

  The sound was muffled now. But as I unpacked my bag, I could still hear him protesting, “I’m not Martin! Leave me alone! I’m not Martin!”

  A few minutes later the curtain slid open a few feet, and one of the nurses stepped to our side of the room. She shook her head. “Poor guy,” she said softly.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  The nurse handed me a green hospital gown. “Martin is having major surgery tomorrow morning,” she said, glancing toward the curtain. “He’s so terrified, I think he has convinced himself that he’s someone else.”

  “You mean--?” I started.

  She pulled back the covers on my bed. “The poor guy has been trying to trick us ever since he arrived in the hospital. He’s been insisting that he’s not Martin. He wants us to think we have the wrong kid.”

  “That’s terrible,” Mom said sadly, shaking her head.

  “He thinks if he can convince us he’s not Martin, he won’t have to have the operation.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right kid?” Dad asked.

  The nurse nodded solemnly. “Yes, we’re sure. He’s Martin Charles. No matter how many times he says he isn’t.”

  “What kind of operation does he need?” I asked her.

  She brought her face close to my ear and whispered, “He has to have his left foot removed.”

  Doctors and nurses were in and out of the room all afternoon. They explained for the hundredth time about how a tonsilectomy works and told me what to expect.

  Mom and Dad stayed until dinnertime. It was kind of hard to come up with things to talk about. I couldn’t stop thinking about Martin.

  Just the thought of having a foot cut off made my feet itch like crazy and my stomach clench into a tight knot.

  No wonder he was so terrified.

  After dinner it grew very quiet. I could hear a baby crying far down the hall. I heard phones ringing and nurses talking quietly outside the door.

  I tried to be brave. But I felt really alone with Mom and Dad gone.

  It’s Halloween, I thought. I shouldn’t be here. I started to picture ghosts and mummies and vampires floating silently down the hospital halls.

  I picked up a book and tried to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. I was alert to every hospital sound. I heard carts rattle down the hall. Whispered voices. The eerie bleep bleep bleep of some kind of machine.

  I shut the book. I can’t read. I have to talk to someone, I decided.

  I took a deep breath, pulled open the curtain, and said hi to my roommate.

  “I’m Sean Daly,” I said. “I’m having my tonsils out tomorrow.”

  He was sitting up in bed, reading a comic book. He turned the page, then stared at me. He had orange spaghetti stains on his chin from dinner.

  “You’re Martin, right?” I said softly.

  He opened his mouth and shouted, “I’m not Martin!”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I jumped back.

  Why am I such a stupid jerk? I asked myself. Why did I say that?

  I sat on the edge of my bed. The hospital gown rode up way over my knees. I tugged it down. I couldn’t get used to wearing the stupid thing.

  “You into comic books?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he said. He tossed the comic to the floor. “Martin is into comic books. But I’m not.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. This guy is definitely weird, I thought.

  I couldn’t help it. I kept glancing at his feet. But they were under the bedsheet. I couldn’t see anything.

  “Uh…where do you go to school?” I asked.

  “I don’t go to Martin’s school,” he said, eyeing me strangely. “I go to a different school.”

  Creepy. I wished I hadn’t started talking to him. But it was too late.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Middle Valley,” he said. “It’s not bad.” He stopped staring at me and started to relax. We talked about our schools, and our brothers and sisters, and we talked about movies and sports.

  And we talked about how we were missing Halloween, cooped up in this horrible hospital. That got us started on what kinds of candy we liked.

  We were still talking when a nurse walked in at ten o’clock. “It’s your last chance for a glass of water, Martin,” she said.

  He pounded his fists on the bed. “I’m not Martin!” he cried. “I’m not having surgery!”

  “Please--” The nurse frowned at him sternly. “Enough of that, okay, Martin?”

  “I’m not Martin! I’m not Martin!”

  “Whatever,” she replied, rolling her eyes. She turned to me. “How about you, Sean?”

  “No thanks,” I said quietly.

  She said good night and strode out of the room.

  I listened to her footsteps down the hall. Then I turned back to Martin. I found him staring at me intently.

  “Are you a sound sleeper?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” Hi
s question took me by surprise.

  “Are you a sound sleeper or are you a light sleeper?” he demanded.

  “Uh…a sound sleeper, I guess.”

  He studied me for another moment. Then he grabbed the curtain and pulled it shut.

  “I’m tired now,” he said coldly.

  I didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep. Nurses were talking out in the hall, and I heard a girl coughing and coughing in a room nearby. But to my surprise I drifted quickly into a deep sleep.

  I had a lot of strange dreams.

  In one dream I was being chased down a long, green hall by someone I couldn’t see. In another dream my dog was bigger than me. He carried me around in his teeth. Then I turned into a grinning jack-o’-lantern and rolled away.

  But in my most vivid dream I was in the hospital. I saw a boy at the foot of my bed. He held two clipboards with charts in his hand. I could read the name on the top of only one chart: MARTIN CHARLES.

  The boy hung that chart on my hospital bed. Then, smiling, he crept away, carrying the other chart under his arm.

  When I awoke, I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming or not.

  Two men in white lab coats stood beside my bed. They wheeled a long cart up to me.

  One of them picked up the chart from the end of my bed. “This is him,” he told his partner.

  “Huh?” I gazed up at them, still half asleep. What is happening? I wondered.

  They picked me up gently and slid me onto the cart.

  “Easy does it, Martin,” one of them said, untangling my arm from the bedsheet.

  “No--wait--” I choked out. I tried to sit up. “I’m not Martin!”

  One of them held me down. The other checked the chart again, reading the name out loud: “Martin Charles.”

  “Let’s go,” his partner said.

  They wheeled me to the door.

  “No--stop!” I screamed. “I’m not Martin! Really! You’re making a big mistake! He--he’s Martin!” I pointed back to the room.

  They pushed the cart down the empty hall. The wheels clattered loudly over the tile floor.

  “They warned us you’d say that,” the taller one said. “They said you’ve been lying about your name since you arrived.”