Ready for a Scare? (13 page)

Charlie jumped from the sofa and ran to the top of the stairs. He scooped up the little purple phone from where it had fallen on the landing. “Phone's ringing!” he called.

“Give it here.” Chrissie hurried over to him.

“The creepy ringtone?” Kelly asked.

“Just put there to mess with you,” Paige explained. “Good, huh?”

Kelly exhaled. She had the feeling it would take her a while to stop jumping at every little thing. “Ooh, look. Presents,” she cried, suddenly noticing the little pile of packages alongside the sofa.

“Hi, Mrs. Garcia. How are you?” Kelly heard Chrissie greet her mother. “Everything's great here. Storm? Well, it's snowing a lot and all, but it isn't bothering us. We're having a great time.” Chrissie smiled down at Kelly and her friends.

Kelly smiled back and began ripping open the gold wrapping paper on a little package. “This is the best birthday surprise ever,” she announced. “Even if you all did scare me half to death.”

It was after eleven when Spencer, Gavin, and Mrs. Stone, carrying sleeping Charlie, crossed the snowy street to return home. June and Paige trudged over to Paige's house. It was decided that June would spend the night there. The snow was too deep to even walk around the block.

Kelly yawned as she finally pulled open her dresser
drawer for a fresh pair of pajamas. A flash of black fur flew through the air, and she sucked in her breath. Ezra leaped off the top of the dresser once again and scurried out of her bedroom into the dark hallway.

“Good idea!” Kelly called after the cat. “Go bother Ryan.”

She was exhausted. Her brother and Chrissie had already gone to sleep. She pulled back her plaid comforter and crawled into her warm bed. Even though the heat had miraculously turned back on, it was still cold upstairs. She snuggled into the sheets and smiled at how badly her friends had scared her. She still had trouble believing it was all a joke.

Rolling onto her side, she turned off her bedside lamp. The darkness was welcome for the first time today. She felt as if she'd come off the school bus a year ago. She groaned as she rolled back over and saw the glow. She stared at the greenish light of her laptop perched on her desk. She didn't feel like getting up. But she knew she should turn it off.

She pulled herself out of bed and wandered over to her desk. Resting her fingers on the keyboard, she squinted at the screen. Their webcam conference session from earlier was still up and running. Spencer and
Gavin's frame still appeared on her monitor.

Her friends, of course, weren't at their computers. The
Avatar
poster behind Spencer's desk filled the screen. Shadows covered the room. Spencer and Gavin were probably asleep.

She paused before logging off. Then she smiled slyly. She'd send an e-mail to the boys. A little something spooky to wake up to. Her fingers began to type.

MISS MARY. MISS MARY. MISS MARY
.

She chanted the words under her breath as she typed. She was about to hit send when she glanced up. Her breath caught in her throat.

There, in the corner of Spencer's screen, a figure shimmered. A woman in the shadows. Reaching out. Reaching out to her.

The figure moved closer, gliding toward the screen.

Red dress. Translucent skin pulled tight over protruding bones. A skeletal hand reaching out. Pushing up against the screen, scratching and clawing as if trying to get through. To get out. To escape.

Kelly whimpered, then sucked in her breath. She slammed her finger against the power button on the side of the laptop. In a moment, her screen turned dark.

The ghostly figure was gone.

She remained motionless in her chair. She stared at the screen. Her heart pounded. Had she seen what she thought she'd seen? She shook her head. She couldn't have. It had been a long night. She was overtired. That was it. Definitely overtired.

She inhaled deeply. She had to calm down. Breathe. She had to breathe. She exhaled and then breathed in again. And began to shake.

Peppermint.

The overpowering scent of peppermint. The odor came from her computer. As if it was flowing out of the screen!

She couldn't stop shaking.

The smell. It was so strong.

She thought back on the night. She had never told her friends about smelling the peppermint. And now she realized with horror that they had never mentioned it either. The aroma surrounded her, invading her throat, her nose.

She thought about the words she'd just typed to Spencer.

MISS MARY.

 

THIRTY YEARS AGO . . .

“You're fired, Ms. Wormhouse!” barked the principal of Thomas Jefferson Middle School. “And we are canceling your play, forever.” He leaned forward on his desk and locked his piercing gaze on the eyes of the woman seated across from him.

Mildred P. Wormhouse stared back, her dark, sunken eyes blazing with anger. “Canceling?” she barked. “I've worked on this play my entire life. Fire me if you wish, but the play will be performed!” Her curly shock of jet-black hair shook with every word.

“Maybe somewhere else,” the principal said, standing now, his tone growing increasingly impatient. “But it will not be performed here, at this school—ever! Do you have such little regard for human life?”

“Bah!” Wormhouse snarled with a dismissive gesture. She stood, her long black coat flapping near her ankles as she turned away from the principal.

“A girl died last night, Ms. Wormhouse,” the principal said through clenched teeth. “On this school's stage, playing the lead in the play you wrote and directed. And that was only the final terrible incident. The rehearsals have been marred with accidents and other troubles. In
fact, strange things have been happening at this school since the day you arrived. I've heard rumors that your play is cursed. I'm not a superstitious man, but I'm starting to believe them. I've seen to it that every last copy of the play has been thrown out.”

Wormhouse turned slowly back toward the principal. “Cursed?” she hissed, her lips curling in a slight smile. “You really shouldn't let your fears get the best of you—”

“This conversation is over,” the principal interrupted. He marched across the room and threw the door open. A roar erupted from the angry mob of parents and teachers who had gathered outside the office.

“There she is!” one man shouted.

“It's her fault,” a woman yelled. “Her play!”

Wormhouse squirmed out the door and through the crowd; her head bent low, her black coat flapping with every step like a cape. She headed for a hallway that led to the front door of the school. Pausing, she turned back toward the irate crowd.

“You may fire me,” Wormhouse cried. “But you cannot stop my play. It will be performed.” Then she turned down the hall toward the front door of the building.

“Good riddance!” someone in the mob shouted.

“Don't ever show your face around here again!” screamed someone else.

Wormhouse disappeared from view around a corner in the hallway. But instead of turning left toward the front door, she turned right—toward the school's auditorium, where her play had opened last night and where the girl playing the lead had died.

Walking quickly down the center aisle of the empty auditorium, glancing back over her shoulder every few steps, Wormhouse made her way backstage. Spotting an old steamer trunk, she shoved a pile of costumes off the top, then yanked open the lid. Inside the trunk were props from all the years of school productions. She reached into an inner pocket of her long coat and pulled out the last remaining copy of her play. Burying it beneath the mound of props inside the trunk, she gently lowered the lid.

Seething, her breath now labored, she repeated her vow, muttering to herself, “The show must go on.”

PRESENT DAY . . .

Felix Gomez had been the drama teacher at the school for a few years now, and he really wanted to do something different this year. He would put on a new play. . . .

A lifelong night owl,
P.J. Night
often works furiously into the wee hours of the morning, writing down spooky tales and dreaming up new stories of the supernatural and otherworldly. Although P. J.'s whereabouts are unknown at this time, we suspect the author lives in a drafty, old mansion where the floorboards creak when no one is there and the flickering candlelight creates shadows that creep along the walls. We truly wish we could tell you more, but we've been sworn to keep P. J.'s identity a secret . . . and it's a secret we will take to our graves!

Simon & Schuster, New York

Cover art by Aly Turner

© 2012 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Ages 8–12

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