First Date
Into the Dark …
He put his arm around her shoulders, guiding her away from the cliff and back toward the woods behind the road. “We’ll walk this way,” he said softly. “I like the woods at night, don’t you?”
“It’s a little cold,” Chelsea said with a shiver, her breath steaming in front of her, white against the black night. “But I like it,” she added quickly. “It’s so peaceful up here.”
He slowed his pace, let Chelsea get a few steps ahead. Then he pulled the length of cord from his jacket pocket, silently untangled it, and pulled it taut between his hands with a silent snap.
Don’t miss these chilling tales from
FEAR STREET®
All-Night Party
The Confession
First Date
Killer’s Kiss
The Perfect Date
The Rich Girl
Secret Admirer
The Stepsister
After hours, the horror continues at
FEAR STREET® NIGHTS
#1: Moonlight Secrets
#2: Midnight Games
#3: Darkest Dawn
A Parachute Press book
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 1992 by Parachute Publishing, L.L.C.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.
Designed by Sammy Yuen Jr.
The text of this book was set in Times.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Simon Pulse edition January 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Library of Congress Control Number 2005921099
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-0819-7
ISBN-10: 1-4169-0819-6
eISBN: 978-1-439-11568-8
chapter 1
“ We can’t see out, and no one can see in,” she said, snuggling against his shoulder. “It’s like we’re in our own private world.”
He smiled at her and hugged her closer. He kissed her, a long, lingering kiss. She closed her eyes. He kept his wide open, staring at the windshield, which was completely steamed over as if covered by a white blanket.
It’s so hot in this car, he thought, kissing her again.
I can’t breathe.
I’ve got to get some air. Or I’ll die.
She pulled her head back and smiled up at him dreamily. “Joe,” she whispered.
He stared at the windshield, imagining the night beyond it, picturing the tall, wet grass, the dark trees.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
She pressed her forehead against his chest and sighed. He could smell oranges in her hair. He could still taste her lipstick on his mouth, sweet and sour at the same time.
What was her name, anyway?
Holding her close, he tried to remember.
Candy.
That was it. Candy Something-or-Other.
It’s so steamy in here.
I feel so … locked in. Trapped. As if the car is closing in on me.
“I’ve never been up here with a boy before,” she said, pressing her face against his leather jacket.
She’s smothering me, he thought. I’m going to smother in here.
Why does it have to be so steamy?
He slid his arm away from her and reached for the window handle. He started to roll down his window, but she grabbed his arm. “No. Don’t. Someone might see.”
“But we’re all alone up here,” he said. “We’re lucky there are no other cars tonight.” He took a long, deep breath of cool air before closing the window. Outside, he caught a glimpse of the moon, a pale gray sliver low in the sky.
“I like you, Joe,” Candy said as he moved his arm back around her shoulder.
“I like you too,” he said automatically, immediately wishing he had sounded more sincere. He kissed her ear.
I’m sweating, he thought. It’s October and I’m sweating.
I’m going to suffocate.
She’s going to suffocate me.
“I like boys with curly black hair,” she whispered. She brushed her hand tenderly through his hair.
I hate that, he realized.
Mom used to do that to me.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, reaching for the door handle.
“I don’t know. Is it safe?” Her dark eyes gleamed with excitement.
He shrugged. “I don’t come up here much, either.”
Rainer’s Point was the big make-out spot for Central High kids. The narrow road stopped at a grassy clearing that sloped to the edge of a steep rock cliff. Behind the clearing were thick woods.
It was silent out there, except for a whisper of wind through the trees.
“Come on,” he urged, squeezing her hand. “I’ll protect you.”
She giggled for some reason.
He pushed open the car door, bathing them in harsh yellow light.
“Wait, Joe,” she said and reached down to the car floor. “You dropped your wallet.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He reached for it.
But he saw it come open. Then he saw her eyes grow wide as she stared at his driver’s license inside.
“Joe—?” She raised her eyes to him, questioning him.
Here we go, he thought, his heart racing.
“Joe Hodge,” she said, returning her glance to the driver’s license. “You told me your name was Joe Hodge. But your license says Lonnie Mayes.”
“It’s—someone else’s license,” he said.
I can’t breathe.
I’m suffocating.
The car door is open, and I’m still suffocating.
Don’t suffocate me, Candy. I’m warning you. Don’t do it.
She tossed her long brown hair. It fell quickly back into place. Her expression was thoughtful, troubled. “But it’s your picture on the license,” she said. She held it up to show him, as if he hadn’t seen it before.
He sighed.
What a shame, he thought.
Why does she want to suffocate me?
Why is she accusing me?
“I lost my license,” he said, taking the wallet from her hand. “So I’m using this one.” He pushed the wallet into his jacket pocket.
“So you’re Joe Hodge? You’re not Lonnie Mayes?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.
What a shame, he thought.
Shame, shame, shame.
He pushed the car door open the rest of the way and slid out. He stood up, arched his back, his hands in his jacket pockets, and stretched. Then he took a deep breath, leaned back in, and smiled reassuringly at her.
“Come on, Candy. Let’s take a walk. A short one. It’s so nice out here. And there’s no one here tonight. No one around for miles.”
No one, he thought, his mind whirring, his muscles tensing.
No one around for miles.
He suddenly felt very alert. Ready. r />
She stepped out of the car and closed the door. The car light went out, leaving them in darkness.
Taking long, deliberate steps, he crossed the clearing, dew from the tall grass clinging to his shoes, and stared down over the cliff edge. There was nothing but darkness below.
She stepped up beside him and reached for his hand. Her hand felt hot and wet in his. She lowered her eyes to the cliff edge.
“Can we back up?” she asked in a pleading whisper. “I have a problem with heights.”
“Sure,” he said. He began leading her across the clearing toward the trees, walking slowly, squeezing her hand tightly.
What a shame. What a shame.
“How old are you?” she asked suddenly.
I’m twenty, he thought.
“Seventeen,” he said.
“How did you lose your driver’s license so soon? Were you in an accident or something?”
You’re the one who’s going to have an accident, he thought.
A fatal accident.
If only you hadn’t tried to suffocate me.
If only your hair wasn’t the same dark color as—hers.
“No. I just lost it,” he said softly.
He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close as he led her under the trees. “I like you, Candy,” he said, whispering into her ear.
Again, he smelled oranges in her hair.
Did he really like her?
Was he lying to her?
He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know.
He only knew it was a shame she had to die.
A real shame.
A few minutes later he walked slowly, calmly back to the car. Alone. His heart was racing in his chest, but otherwise, he felt fine.
Just fine. Killing her was so easy.
He zipped his leather jacket, then climbed behind the wheel. The car started quickly. He started the defroster and sat waiting for the windshield to clear.
The air from the defroster felt dry and cold.
He laughed out loud, a giddy laugh, a laugh of release.
The fog on the windshield began to clear.
“Joe Hodge,” he said aloud. I told her my name was Joe Hodge.
Why should I tell her my real name? It was our first date, after all.
Our first date.
He hadn’t planned on murdering her tonight.
He liked her. He really liked her.
She didn’t remind him so much of the others. Just her hair. The long brown hair.
He wasn’t really prepared for this one.
Why did she have to suffocate him? Why did she have to toss her hair like that? Why did she have to see the driver’s license?
Why did she have to ask so many questions?
Why didn’t she let him breathe?
He wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t planned it.
He always liked to plan it.
But she was dead anyway.
I’ll be out of here by the time they find her, he thought.
I haven’t left any traces. No one was here.
I’ll be okay.
Now at least I can breathe again.
The windshield was clear. He turned on the headlights and started to back up onto the road.
On to another town.
Sooner or later it was time to move on.
He didn’t really like it that way, but what choice did he have?
What choice did he have if girls looked like that? If they asked him questions and wouldn’t let him breathe?
He pushed the gearshift into Park, then reached into the glove compartment.
His hand wasn’t shaking.
That was a good sign.
He could breathe again, and his hand wasn’t shaking.
He turned on the light, pulled out the road map, unfolded it carefully, his hands steady. His eyes darted over the map and stopped at the name of the next town.
Shadyside.
He mouthed the word several times, silently to himself.
Shadyside.
Sounds like my kind of place.
He replaced the worn, wrinkled map, switched off the ceiling light, then, humming softly to himself, roared off into the cool, silent darkness.
chapter 2
Chelsea Richards blew a sour honk and pulled the saxophone from her mouth in disgust. “I hate my life,” she said flatly and without emotion.
“Don’t start,” her mother said quietly from across the small living room. She lowered the newspaper enough to give Chelsea a warning look, a look that said “I’m not in the mood to hear your usual list of complaints.”
Chelsea fingered the saxophone, leaning over in the folding chair she used for practice, nearly bumping her head on the music stand in front of her. “Sometimes I think I’m not a real member of this family,” she complained, ignoring her mother’s warning glance. “I mean, like I’m adopted or something.”
“You weren’t adopted. You were hatched,” Mrs. Richards cracked, hidden behind her newspaper. “Are you through practicing that thing—I hope?”
“You hate my saxophone playing,” Chelsea accused.
“You were playing it? I thought you were torturing it!” Mrs. Richards said and laughed.
Chelsea was used to her mother’s dry sense of humor. Sometimes it helped snap Chelsea out of a bad mood, but not now. “You really crack yourself up, don’t you?” Chelsea said angrily.
I don’t have my mother’s good looks, and I don’t even have her sense of humor, she thought bitterly.
“If I’m not adopted, how come you’re so tall and thin and I’m so short and dumpy?” Chelsea asked, pulling off the mouthpiece and blowing the saliva out of it.
“Chelsea, please!” her mother cried impatiently. She lowered the newspaper to her lap and shook her head. “Why do you like to have the same conversations over and over?”
“At least it’s a conversation,” Chelsea replied with growing anger. “Usually we just grunt at each other before you hurry off to work.”
“Boy, you have a million complaints today—don’t you,” her mother said. “I’m very sorry, but your father and I have to work very hard. It’s not like you’re bringing in a fortune with your saxophone playing.”
“Hey, I work in Dad’s restaurant. I earn my own money,” Chelsea snapped. “Stop giving me a hard time about my music. It’s the only thing I enjoy.”
The only thing, Chelsea repeated to herself.
The only thing in my whole miserable life.
“Why are you feeling so sorry for yourself these days?” Mrs. Richards asked. She put the newspaper down on the coffee table and walked over to Chelsea.
Chelsea shrugged. “It’s this new town. Shady side. And this creepy old house.”
“Please stop complaining about the house. We’ll fix it up,” Mrs. Richards said, crossing her slender arms over her pale blue turtleneck. “You know your father has always dreamed of owning his own restaurant, Chelsea. Moving here is a great opportunity for him. For all of us.”
“The kids at school tell stories about this street. Fear Street. They say all kinds of weird things happen here.”
“Weird things happen everywhere,” her mother said dryly. She glanced at the window. The clouds were drifting apart. Afternoon sunlight filtered into the room.
Chelsea finished taking apart her instrument. She placed the sections carefully into their slots, then closed the case.
“Why don’t I have straight hair like yours?” Chelsea demanded, realizing she should quit but unable to do it. “Why does my hair have to be so curly and this awful mousy brown color?”
“You want to change your hair color?” her mother asked, surprised. “That’s easy to do.”
“Then how do I change my face?” Chelsea cried, glancing into the mirror on the wall by the entryway.
My nose is too wide and my chin is too small, she thought for the millionth time.
“Chelsea, you’re a very attractive girl,” her mother said, her arms still c
rossed. “If you’d lose a little weight and put on some lipstick—”
Chelsea uttered a cry of disgust and jumped up from the chair. Her mother, startled, took a step back.
“Mom, give me a break. Don’t say I’m attractive. That’s what you say about people who aren’t. Why don’t you just say I have a nice personality and be done with it? That’s what people always say about ugly girls. They have nice personalities.”
“Frankly, your looks are great. It’s your personality I’m not crazy about,” her mother said, doing her impression of a stand-up comic.
“Mom—” Chelsea screamed, feeling herself lose control. “Can’t you ever be serious?”
Mrs. Richards stepped forward and wrapped her daughter in an awkward hug. The gesture caught Chelsea by surprise. Her mother was not given to outward displays of affection. Chelsea couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her.
“I-I’m sorry, Mom,” she blurted out, not exactly sure why she was apologizing.
“Ssshhh.” Mrs. Richards raised a finger to Chelsea’s lips. Then she took a step back. “It’s having to move here, dear,” she said, staring reassuringly into Chelsea’s eyes. “It’s having to start all over again in a new town, at a new high school. That’s what’s making you so—edgy.”
Chelsea nodded, thinking about what her mother was saying.
“And you’re unhappy because your dad is always at the restaurant and I’m always at the nursing home taking care of patients instead of being home with you. But we can’t help it, Chelsea. This is a great opportunity for us. Especially for your father. If he can make this restaurant work, he’ll be so happy. And we can get out of debt.”
Mrs. Richards shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and began to pace back and forth across the small room. “Don’t get down on yourself. That’s all I ask,” she told Chelsea. “You can be down on your situation, on having to move. But don’t start doubting yourself.”
Chelsea glanced in the mirror again. Easy for her to say, she thought unhappily. She’s tall and pretty. And I look like a cow.
“Okay, Mom,” she said with false brightness. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Her mother’s face revealed her worry. “You’ve made one good friend here already, haven’t you?”
Chelsea nodded. “Nina Darwin.”
“Why don’t you give her a call?” Mrs. Richards suggested. “She seems really nice. And really popular. I’m sure she’ll introduce you to a lot of other kids.”