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Authors: R. L. Stine

Tags: #Speculative Fiction

BOOK: A Midsummer Night's Scream

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THE DIRECTOR’S CUT

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

I held the glass door of the clock open and stared at the shiny pendulum as it swung back and forth. As if hypnotized, I couldn’t take my eyes off it as I stood trembling, not breathing, imagining … imagining the unbearable pain of having my hands chopped up … sliced and bleeding … and then my whole body cut.

Click. Click. Click.

“Go ahead, Claire.” Puckerman’s voice broke into my panic. “Reach for it. This is your moment. Reach for it.”

I raised my hands in front of me. I curled my fingers, preparing to grab the sharpened metal.

Click. Click. Click.

“Go for it, Claire.” The evil bearded creature forcing me, willing me with his mind … his twisted mind.

My hands slid forward. I couldn’t stop them. I had no control.

“Not like that. Like
this,
” Puckerman instructed. “Grab it. Grab it.”

He coiled his hairy paws, demonstrating. He moved toward me, eyes on my hands. “Grab it.”

“No,” I uttered. I lurched back.

I bumped Puckerman. He stumbled over my leg—and toppled forward.

He shot out both hands, trying to stop his fall. But he had nothing to grab on to.

“Whoooa.” His cry was cut off as the top of his head hit the clock.

Click click.

I gasped as the pendulum blade sliced off his head. A fast, clean cut.

The little man’s body crumpled like a balloon deflating, and his head bounced on the floor in front of me. It rolled a few feet, then stopped, nesting in its own thick beard.

The dark eyes remained open, staring blankly up at me, still bulging with surprise.

“Wow! Oh, wow!” I heard Shawn cry out behind me. “We’re going to be okay!”

Jake came up behind me and put his hands on my trembling shoulders. “Claire? You’re all right?”

I couldn’t stop shaking. I stared down in horror at Puckerman’s head. And then I choked out, “No blood.” I pointed frantically. “Look. He didn’t bleed. There’s no blood.”

“What a freak!” Shawn declared. “Let’s get out of here.”

I turned and saw Delia standing up now, a big smile on her face. She held Ace in her arms and kept nuzzling him and pressing him against her.

Shawn grabbed up two beer bottles and pumped them over his head. He did a victory dance around Delia, shouting and laughing.

Jake tugged my hand. “Come on, Claire. Let’s get away from this place. Let’s find a way out of here.”

I forced myself to stop looking at Puckerman’s sliced-up head, his bloodless body heaped on the floor. I started to breathe normally. I forced my heartbeats to slow.

“Yes,” I said to Jake. “Yes, let’s get out of here. We’re okay. Let’s go.”

The four of us started to the front door.

But then a hoarse voice rang out behind us.
“Not so fast! Where do you think you’re going? We still have scenes to shoot.”

I gasped and spun around. And stared down at Puckerman’s head on the floor.

The fat eyebrows moved. The dark eyes blinked. The lips tightened around the teeth.

“The door is still locked,” Puckerman’s head shouted. “One little accident won’t stop my movie. Places! Places, everyone!”

TIME TO DANCE?

I FELT MY HEARTBEATS PULSE IN MY CHEST. I struggled to breathe.

The head—the ugly, bearded head—it shouted at us.

And then we all screamed as Puckerman’s stumpy body pulled itself up. It staggered forward, bent, and lifted the head off the floor, lifted it to its place on the creature’s hairy shoulders.

The hands twisted the head on the neck, twisted it right, then left, and pressed it down.

“There. That’s better,” Puckerman said, moving his head from side to side with both hands, testing it.

He turned to me. “That was good improvising, Claire. I got it all on film. See? We are making progress.”

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Aren’t you glad to see me back? Did you really think I waited sixty years to fail because of a minor accident?” He giggled.

He moved forward suddenly and tightened his fingers around my arm. “Come on, Claire. It’s getting late. The camera is rolling.” He started to pull me toward the kitchen door.

“Let go!” I cried. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

He glared at the others, daring them to try to help me. “Let’s hurry. We have four deaths to go.”

“No! Let go!” I tried to pull free of his grasp, but the little beast had inhuman strength. He pulled me into the kitchen. I saw the others follow, their faces tight with fear.

“Let go!” I screamed again. “What are you going to do?”

“Let’s do the toaster scene,” he said in my ear. “Your turn, Claire. No tricks this time. Are you a good dancer? I know you’re going to be terrific.”

He pushed me to the counter in front of the toaster, gleaming in the dim light. “Go ahead. Do it, Claire,” he urged, pushing my arm from behind. “Pick it up. Hurry. Pick it up. It’s your turn to dance.”

“THAT’S A WRAP”

MY HAND TREMBLED OVER THE TOASTER. I could feel the blood racing at my temples. Behind me, my friends were pleading with Puckerman to let me go.

He whipped around furiously and menaced them with his fists. “Don’t worry. Your turn will come.”

He gave me a hard shove from behind. “Go ahead. Pick up the toaster. Now.”

When he turned back to threaten my friends, I had a few seconds to act. I reached into my bag, the bag I kept the stolen potions in. I grabbed the love potion and pulled it out.

I had a desperate plan. Pour the love potion on Puckerman. He instantly falls in love with me. And it makes him change his mind. He loves me too much to kill me with the toaster.

Yes, it was a crazy, desperate plan. But I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Grab the toaster,” Puckerman said, with another shove. “Let’s see you dance.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I spun around, raised the potion bottle over his head, and dumped the glittery powder onto his thick, matted hair.

“Hey—!” The little creep uttered a startled cry. He slapped at his hair, trying to brush the powdery flakes away. “What did you do? What was that, Claire? What did you do?”

He staggered back against the counter. He glared at me furiously.

Where was the love in his eyes?

As I stared back at him, his eyes grew watery. The color seemed to wash from his face. His dark beard, his bushy hair faded to gray, then white. His face sagged and wrinkled. His stumpy body hunched over, sank to the floor. A weak moan escaped his throat.

“Oh, wow,” I murmured, moving to join my friends. I knew what I’d done. I’d grabbed the wrong potion. Again. I’d grabbed the
aging
potion from my bag.

I tossed the bottle to the floor. I was panting hard, struggling to catch my breath. My fear made my whole body shudder.

I felt Jake step up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. He held me tight. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Look. It’s okay.”

As the four of us stared in disbelief, Puckerman aged before our eyes. His skin began to peel off. Gray bone showed through open patches in his face. The skin drooped, then oozed off his head, revealing the toothy skeleton underneath. His body shrank into his baggy overalls.

Puckerman slumped in a heap on the kitchen floor, a pile of wrinkled, decayed skin, dried-up organs, and yellowed bones. And then the bones and skin disintegrated, just fell apart, crumbling to a pile of gray ashes.

A pile of dry ashes at our feet.

“We’re outta here!” Shawn cried, and took off toward the front.

“This movie is over!” I shouted. “That’s a wrap!”

Laughing like lunatics, shouting out our victory at the top of our lungs, we ran to the front door.

THE FINAL CURTAIN

WE HAD THE PREMIERE OF
Mayhem Manor
at Century City.

I know, I know. How could there be a premiere of a film that was never finished?

Well, the cameras were rolling the whole time, remember?

They captured Puckerman’s head being sliced off in the clock. And then his body pulling the head back on. We also had Puckerman’s amazing transformation into an old man—and then to
dust.

My parents gave Les Bachman the go-ahead. And he turned the whole thing into a wild, insane horror movie/documentary.

Jake, Shawn, Delia, and I sat halfway back in the theater so we could see the premiere audience’s reaction. We didn’t have to guess. They were
loving
it. They screamed and hid their eyes at the horrible deaths. And you should have heard them laughing their heads off when Delia started kissing the dog near the end.

Don’t worry. Delia is fine now. That spell wore off quickly. Now, she and Shawn have a thing going. Delia is a happy person. Not to mention a movie star.

And me? Sure, there were a lot of horrifying moments. I’ll never forget that people died. But I can’t tell you how exciting it was to see myself on that big screen in front of hundreds of people. They cheered when I poured the potion on Puckerman’s head and he started to grow old and shrink. I guess I’m the hero in the film.

As we followed the crowd out of the theater, I felt an arm go around my shoulder.

I turned my head and saw that it was Jake. He spun me around and hugged me. “Claire, you were awesome,” he said.

“Hey, thanks,” I said.

“I never told you,” he continued. “But when we were trapped in the house with that psycho, I … well … I was so scared for you. I … I didn’t know what to do.”

I could feel my heart beating. I held on tightly. I didn’t want the hug to end. I pressed my face against his. I just wanted to stay like this.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jake said softly.

The love potion,
I thought.
I still have it in my bag.

Jake kept his arm around me as we followed Shawn and Delia out the door.

We both sighed and raised our faces to the sky as we stepped into the night air. The air smelled so fresh and sweet. All around us, people were talking about the movie. Smiling at me. Congratulating me.

Magic.

A magical night.

I couldn’t resist. I had to try it. After everything that had happened … why not?

I raised the little bottle—and poured some sparkly love potion crystals on Jake’s head.

He turned and looked at me. He smiled. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Hey, babe,” he said, “what was
that
?”

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding, but a dream …

—William Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream