by R. L. Stine
“You could get a bad burn today, even though it’s spring,” the man said. “I thought I’d better wake you.”
“Uh—thanks,” Maggie choked out. As she stared up at him, he came into sharper focus.
He was old, with a heavy white stubble on his leathery, creased face. He wore a battered orange cap and had a toothpick wedged in his mouth. His smile revealed uneven yellow teeth.
He held a hand out. It took Maggie a while to realize he was offering to help her up. Reluctantly, she took his hand and climbed to her feet.
I am so jumpy and stressed out, she thought, scolding herself. I think everyone in the world is out to get me!
“Milton Avery,” the old man said in his harsh voice. He nodded and raised two fingers to his cap. “I’m your neighbor.”
He held out his right hand to Maggie. Maggie shook it. The old man held on to her hand a moment longer than Maggie would have liked. His skin felt like old paper.
“You haven’t told me your name,” Mr. Avery said.
“Oh, sorry. Maggie. Maggie Travers.”
“Maggie Travers,” the man repeated. He nodded thoughtfully. “Nice name.”
Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”
The man smiled back warmly. He removed his cap, revealing a head that was bald except for a fringe of scraggly white hair. He scratched the top of his head, then put the cap back on. He looked up at the house. “It sure is nice to have this house occupied again,”
Maggie stared at the house too, as if she hadn’t seen her own house before.
“It was on the market a long time,” Mr. Avery said.
Maggie felt her spine tingle. “Was it?”
“A long time” The way he said it, Maggie wanted to ask just how long he meant. Years? Decades? He obviously could remember back a long way.
Mr. Avery went on. “I didn’t like having an empty house next door. Kind of gave me a dead feeling every time I saw it. Know what I mean?”
Maggie knew exactly what he meant.
Mr. Avery took his cap off again and used it to point at his house. “I even took to keeping the shades down on this side of the house. So I wouldn’t have to see yours.”
Maggie glanced at the still-drawn shades as another thought rolled through her mind. “Did you know the people who used to live in my house?” she asked.
Mr. Avery didn’t answer right away. “Not really. They didn’t live here very long. Terrible story. Terrible.”
Her heart pounded hard. “Why—what?”
The old man searched her face. “The real estate salesman didn’t tell you the story?”
“No, what story?”
Mr. Avery frowned. “Well, I guess I can’t blame him for keeping it from you. I mean, Bob Jamison is a pretty honest guy, for a salesman, anyway. But he hadn’t been able to sell this house for months. I guess he figured that if you didn’t ask, he didn’t have to tell.”
He cleared his throat. His eyes focused on hers, boring into her. They were old eyes, pale gray, but clear and hard.
“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “My wife, Claire, would sure love to meet you. A pretty young girl like you would brighten up her morning. She could use that. Why don’t you come on over for a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Maggie glanced up at her house again to see if her mom was watching. But her bedroom window was dark. “That sounds great,” she said.
Mr. Avery pointed to a break in the hedge. “This way,” he told her. He took off his cap, bowed, and gestured. “After you.”
Mr. Avery’s house was warm and cozy. There were family photos on the walls—children, grandchildren.
Mrs. Avery was sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper folded beside her plate as she worked the daily crossword. She had a round moon face, accentuated by a halo of thin white hair. “I thought you were going to do some gardening, Milton,” she said without looking up.
“I am, Claire,” he said. “But as you can see—”
Mrs. Avery raised her eyes and smiled warmly.
“This is our new neighbor,” Mr. Avery explained, placing a hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Claire, this is Martha—”
“Maggie,” she corrected him.
“Maggie. Sorry. Maggie Travers.”
Mrs. Avery stood up and smiled broadly. She shuffled over to shake Maggie’s hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you. Such a pretty girl. Are those green eyes?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied uncomfortably.
“Gorgeous,” Mrs. Avery said, nodding her head in admiration. “Oh, it must be nice to be young.”
It hadn’t been nice this week, that was for sure. “Mr. Avery said he was going to tell me—” Maggie started.
“Would you like some tea?” Mr. Avery interrupted. “And a gingersnap. Do we have any left, Claire?”
Claire moved to the stove, hefted the kettle to make sure there was water inside, then turned on the burner full blast. “I don’t know,” she said. “Check the cookie jar.”
Maggie couldn’t wait any longer. “What happened in my house?” she asked bluntly.
Mrs. Avery gave her a sharp look. “You don’t know?”
Back to square one again. “No,” she said. “I—”
“Milton,” Mrs. Avery said sharply, narrowing her eyes at her husband. “Are you trying to scare this nice young girl?”
Maggie felt a trickle of sweat run down between her shoulder blades. So she was right all along. Something awful had happened in that house. She knew it! She wasn’t crazy after all!
Maggie sat down at the table, trying to stay calm.
Mr. Avery set his cap down. “Such a sad story,” he muttered.
“Please, Milton, we didn’t even know the poor people—the Heifers,” Mrs. Avery chimed in. She shuffled back to the stove to lift the whistling kettle. “So many horrible stories on this street …”
Mr. Avery continued. “There was a girl about your age—named Miranda. Pretty girl with blond hair.”
Miranda!
Maggie knew instantly that Miranda had to be the blond girl in her dream!
“Did Miranda live in my house?” Maggie asked eagerly.
“She and her family lived in your house, yes,” answered Mr. Avery.
“Milton, that’s enough,” Mrs. Avery spoke up.
“No, please tell me,” Maggie pleaded.
“She was killed,” the old woman blurted out. “Murdered.”
“She was stabbed,” Mr. Avery said in a hushed whisper. “Stabbed right in her own bed.”
chapter
12
Justin had his arm around her. That felt good.
It was Saturday night. The movie he had taken her to was a goofball comedy. Maggie usually enjoyed silly movies, but this time she couldn’t lose herself in the story.
A girl was murdered, really murdered, in my bed and now I’m dreaming about her. That was all Maggie could think about.
After the movie, Justin kept his arm around her as he guided her out with the crowd, out into the mall parking lot. It was a balmy spring night, the air soft and sweet. A pale half-moon floated low in a purple sky.
“I guess you didn’t like the movie as much as I did,” Justin said.
“No, I liked it,” Maggie lied.
She suddenly had the feeling that she was being watched.
She turned and stepped out from under Justin’s arm.
Dawn, her arm in a cast, was standing at the edge of the parking lot with Tiffany. She waved to Maggie. “Don’t you want to sign my cast?”
“Dawn!” Maggie cried, startled to see her. “I’ve been trying to call you. I—hope you still don’t think—” She hurried over to them. Justin followed slowly behind.
“Guess I should apologize,” Dawn said, flashing her a warm smile. “I said some pretty weird things after I fell.”
“Well, you have to believe me. I didn’t do it, Dawn,” Maggie said simply.
Dawn shrugged. “Wel
l, somebody pushed me. But it doesn’t really matter now.” She grinned at Maggie. “Tiffany’s going to beat you out for the two-hundred IM anyway. Hey, Justin.”
Justin nodded. “Hey.” Then he tugged on Maggie’s arm, impatient to lead her away.
Maggie signed Dawn’s cast.
“We’ve got to get going,” Justin urged.
“See you at practice,” Maggie told Tiffany. She told Dawn she’d call her. Then she hurried after Justin, who had already started toward his car.
Maggie couldn’t help sneaking glances back at the two girls. Even though she knew she hadn’t pushed Dawn, Maggie still felt guilty.
“I know Dawn thinks I pushed her,” Maggie told Justin. “No matter what she says.”
“That’s Dawn for you,” Justin said, unlocking the door on the passenger side for Maggie. “Like when she loses a meet, there’s always an excuse.” He opened the door for her. “And if she trips, she was pushed.”
“I guess,” Maggie replied thoughtfully. But as she climbed into the car, her good mood faded. The uneasy feeling had returned.
Justin’s car was upholstered in soft black leather. Maggie settled back in her seat. Relax, she told herself.
Justin started the car, then fiddled with a control on the dash. The top cranked down, letting in the moonlight and the warm spring breezes. He smiled at her. Then he pulled out of the parking lot, making the tires squeal.
They didn’t drive far. About a block from the mall, he parked on a deserted street.
Maggie glanced around, surprised. “Why are we stopping here?”
Justin pretended to peer outside. “Looks like we’re lost,” he said, and grinned. Even in the evening darkness, his blue eyes were gorgeous.
Maggie grinned back. “I don’t mind.”
Justin leaned over, slowly bringing his face toward hers.
Her eyes were locked on his. She felt her heart start to pound with excitement.
But she quickly found that kissing was awkward in the tiny car. For one thing it had bucket seats. They were so low, it was hard to reach each other.
Then they both got tangled in their seat belts.
Untwisting herself, a gruesome thought suddenly filled Maggie with cold dread.
This was what that girl had felt like when she got tangled in the covers. Miranda. The girl who died in Maggie’s bed.
She was tangled, tangled in the bedsheets. And then she was stabbed.
With a sigh, Maggie clicked her seat belt open and let it slide away from her shoulders.
Why can’t I stop thinking about Miranda?
Justin reached for her.
“Wait,” Maggie said, pulling her face away.
“Huh? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t want to tell him. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just—so cramped in here.”
Justin uttered an annoyed sigh. He sat back in his seat and stared straight ahead in angry silence. Finally he turned back to her. “There’s a nice big tree over there,” he said. “We could sit under it.”
She hesitated. “I’m really sorry. My mind—It’s somewhere else.”
Justin sighed again. “Mags, what’s wrong?” he asked finally. “All of a sudden—”
“It’s that dream again,” she confessed.
“The dream?” Justin’s face knotted in confusion. “What dream?”
“Remember I told you about a nightmare I had? A girl with blond hair, I couldn’t see her face …”
Justin’s face remained blank.
“I tried to put it out of my mind,” Maggie rushed on. “But then I had the dream again, and this time the girl was stabbed, in my bed.”
“In your dream,” Justin corrected her.
“Right,” said Maggie. “That’s what I thought. It was just a dream. But guess what I found out from my neighbors? The last people who lived in our house—their daughter was murdered. In bed. In my bed.”
“Weird,” Justin muttered. “Who was she?”
“Her name was Miranda Heifer. Did you know her? Did you ever hear about the murder?”
“Miranda Heifer?” He thought for a moment. “No. Never heard of her.”
Justin’s expression brightened. “Well, that explains why you’re having nightmares.”
“No. Don’t you see?” Maggie said impatiently. “I had the nightmares before I knew about the dead girl.”
“Huh?” Justin reacted with surprise.
“The real estate guy didn’t tell us,” Maggie continued. “And I started dreaming about the murder my first night in that old canopy bed. There’s no way I could have known about it, Justin. No way. So it must be something—you know—supernatural.”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You know, like the bed remembers the murder and it’s trying to transmit it to me, to warn me, to—something!”
Justin ran his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Mags,” he said, rolling his eyes scornfully. “The bed remembers? The bed? Earth calling Maggie. Earth calling Maggie …”
“I know, I know. It sounds dumb. But can you think of a better explanation?” Maggie demanded earnestly. “Why am I having this dream?”
“Maggie,” Justin said, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Dreams are always mixed up and crazy.”
“Well, I think this one means something,” Maggie replied heatedly. “I think Miranda is trying to tell me something. I think she’s trying to warn me about something.”
Justin gaped at her. He let out a high-pitched giggle. “From the grave?”
Maggie nodded solemnly. “From the grave.”
Maggie cupped her hand at the perfect angle, cutting deep into the water with each stroke. She was swimming beautifully. She could feel it.
She wasn’t surprised when she pulled her head up at the end of the race and saw she had finished first—by half a lap.
Behind her, the water churned. The other two swimmers, Andrea and Tiffany, swam neck and neck, battling it out for second.
Hanging on to the edge of the pool, Maggie started shouting, “Go, Andrea! Pull!”
With her bathing cap and dark goggles, Andrea looked like some strange water creature surging through the pool. Maggie barely recognized her. “You can do it, Andrea!” she shouted.
But Tiffany pulled ahead, and her hand hit the wall first.
“Okay, good race,” Coach Randall called out a moment later. “I need to see the three of you over here.”
They stood in a semicircle around the team bench, where Coach Randall sat, studying the notes on her clipboard. Even though it was warm in the pool area, the three girls all held their hands crossed over the chests of their dripping bathing suits, as if to protect themselves.
Maggie had always noticed that about swimming. You felt vulnerable when you came out of the water.
Raising her eyes to the bleachers, Maggie spotted Dawn in the top row. She was dressed in street clothes, her feet on the bench below her. Even at this distance, Maggie could see that Dawn wasn’t smiling.
Well, what did I expect? Maggie asked herself. If I had broken my arm and lost out on swimming All-State, I wouldn’t be in the friendliest mood either.
Coach Randall scribbled something on her clipboard. “All right,” she announced. “Maggie, Tiffany, you’re going to swim the two-hundred IM in the All-State.”
Tiffany danced away from them, throwing her arms up in the air excitedly. “I made it!” she shouted to Dawn.
Dawn cheered. “Way to go, Tiffany!” She didn’t congratulate Maggie, of course—no surprise there.
Maggie congratulated Tiffany. But her smile faded fast when she caught Andrea’s expression.
Andrea’s lower jaw was jutting out in an expression Maggie knew only too well. Her sister was fuming.
“Andrea,” the coach continued, “if it’s any consolation, you didn’t miss out by much. You’re swimming better than you ever have.”
“Great,” Andrea muttered.
“I wan
t you to keep training hard, Andrea,” Coach Randall instructed. “The two-hundred IM is the most important event. You’re our number-one alternate.”
“Obviously,” grumbled Andrea, rolling her eyes. “There’s no one else left.”
Coach Randall stared at her sternly. “There’s a whole team left. There are eleven other girls. If you don’t want to swim the two-hundred IM, just say so.”
Andrea shrugged.
“Being an alternate is important,” Coach Randall continued. “And don’t forget that you’re a year younger than Maggie and Tiffany. You’ve got another year to go.”
Maggie gave Andrea a sympathetic glance.
“You can stop with the pity act!” Andrea snapped at her. She turned sharply and stalked off to the showers.
Coach Randall turned to Maggie. “Don’t worry,” she said. “She’ll get over it.”
Somehow, I doubt that, thought Maggie.
It wasn’t the first time she wished that her younger sister didn’t hate her so much.
Maggie couldn’t get comfortable. The sheets felt as if they were burning.
Normally she liked to sleep on her right side. But that night, she could hear—and feel—her heart pounding. It made her so uncomfortable. As if any moment her heart might stop.
Tossing and turning.
She was tossing and turning.
Just like the girl in the dream.
No. Please no.
I’m tossing and turning like Miranda.
I’m just like Miranda.
She felt herself falling now, falling into the dream.
No turning back.
She fell through a pink haze.
From high above, she gazed down at the billowing pink canopy of her bed.
I’m dreaming, she told herself. It’s just a dream.
Why didn’t that thought offer any comfort?
Through the pink canopy. Through the pink gauzy top. Into the bed.
And she saw the girl. She saw Miranda. Her ash-blond hair matted and wet against the pillow.
The girl’s face was turned away as always.
Then the dark shadow swept over the bed.
Maggie whirled. Just in time to see the glint of the knife blade in the dim light.
