A Night in Terror Tower

  Goosebumps®

  A NIGHT

  in TERROR

  TOWER

  R.L. STINE

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Behind the Screams

  About the Author

  Q & A with R.L. Stine

  Fright Gallery: The Lord High Executioner

  The Smell of Medieval London

  Rats!

  The Scariest Cities in the World

  Teaser

  Also Available

  Copyright

  1

  “I’m scared,” Eddie said.

  I shivered and zipped my coat up to my chin. “Eddie, this was your idea,” I told my brother. “I didn’t beg and plead to see the Terror Tower. You did.”

  He raised his brown eyes to the Tower. A strong gust of wind fluttered his dark brown hair. “I have a strange feeling about it, Sue. A bad feeling.”

  I made a disgusted face. “Eddie, you are such a wimp! You have a bad feeling about going to the movies!”

  “Only scary movies,” he mumbled.

  “You’re ten years old,” I said sharply. “It’s time to stop being scared of your own shadow. It’s just an old castle with a tower,” I said, gesturing toward it. “Hundreds of tourists come here every day.”

  “But they used to torture people here,” Eddie said, suddenly looking very pale. “They used to lock people in the Tower and let them starve to death.”

  “Hundreds of years ago,” I told him. “They don’t torture people here anymore, Eddie. Now they just sell postcards.”

  We both gazed up at the gloomy old castle built of gray stones, darkened over time. Its two narrow towers rose up like stiff arms at its sides.

  Storm clouds hovered low over the dark towers. The bent old trees in the courtyard shivered in the wind. It didn’t feel like spring. The air was heavy and cold. I felt a raindrop on my forehead. Then another on my cheek.

  A perfect London day, I thought. A perfect day to visit the famous Terror Tower.

  This was our first day in England, and Eddie and I had been sightseeing all over London. Our parents had to be at a conference at our hotel. So they signed us up with a tour group, and off we went.

  We toured the British Museum, walked through Harrods department store, visited Westminster Abbey and Trafalgar Square.

  For lunch, we had bangers and mash (sausages and mashed potatoes) at a real English pub. Then the tour group took a great bus ride, sitting on top of a bright red double-decker bus.

  London was just as I had imagined it. Big and crowded. Narrow streets lined with little shops and jammed with those old-fashioned–looking black taxis. The sidewalks were filled with people from all over the world.

  Of course my scaredy-cat brother was totally nervous about traveling around a strange city on our own. But I’m twelve and a lot less wimpy than he is. And I managed to keep him pretty calm.

  I was totally surprised when Eddie begged to visit the Terror Tower.

  Mr. Starkes, our bald, red-faced tour guide, gathered the group together on the sidewalk. There were about twelve of us, mostly old people. Eddie and I were the only kids.

  Mr. Starkes gave us a choice. Another museum — or the Tower.

  “The Tower! The Tower!” Eddie pleaded. “I’ve got to see the Terror Tower!”

  We took a long bus ride to the outskirts of the city. The shops gave way to rows of tiny redbrick houses. Then we passed even older houses hidden behind stooped trees and low, ivy-covered walls.

  When the bus pulled to a stop, we climbed out and followed a narrow street made of bricks, worn smooth over the centuries. The street ended at a high wall. Behind the wall, the Terror Tower rose up darkly.

  “Hurry, Sue!” Eddie tugged my sleeve. “We’ll lose the group!”

  “They’ll wait for us,” I told my brother. “Stop worrying, Eddie. We won’t get lost.”

  We jogged over the old bricks and caught up with the others. Wrapping his long black overcoat around him, Mr. Starkes led the way through the entrance.

  He stopped and pointed at a pile of gray stones in the large grass-covered courtyard. “That wall was the original castle wall,” he explained. “It was built by the Romans in about the year 400. London was a Roman city then.”

  Only a small section of the wall still stood. The rest had crumbled or fallen. I couldn’t believe I was staring at a wall that was over fifteen hundred years old!

  We followed Mr. Starkes along the path that led to the castle and its towers. “This was built by the Romans to be a walled fort,” the tour guide told us. “After the Romans left, it became a prison. That started many years of cruelty and torture within these walls.”

  I pulled my little camera from my coat pocket and took a picture of the Roman wall. Then I turned and snapped a few pictures of the castle. The sky had darkened even more. I hoped the pictures would come out.

  “This was London’s first debtor’s prison,” Mr. Starkes explained as he led the way. “If you were too poor to pay your bills, you were sent to prison. Which meant that you could never pay your bills! So you stayed in prison forever.”

  We passed a small guardhouse. It was about the size of a phone booth, made of white stones, with a slanted roof. I thought it was empty. But to my surprise, a gray-uniformed guard stepped out of it, a rifle perched stiffly on his shoulder.

  I turned back and gazed at the dark wall that surrounded the castle grounds. “Look, Eddie,” I whispered. “You can’t see any of the city outside the wall. It’s as if we really stepped back in time.”

  He shivered. I don’t know if it was because of my words or because of the sharp wind that blew through the old courtyard.

  The castle cast a deep shadow over the path. Mr. Starkes led us up to a narrow entrance at the side. Then he stopped and turned back to the group.

  I was startled by the tense, sorrowful expression on his face. “I am so sorry to give you this bad news,” he said, his eyes moving slowly from one of us to the next.

  “Huh? Bad news?” Eddie whispered, moving closer to me.

  “You will all be imprisoned in the north tower,” Mr. Starkes announced sternly. “There you will be tortured until you tell us the real reason why you chose to come here.”

  2

  Eddie let out a startled cry. Other members of the group uttered shocked gasps.

  Mr. Starkes began to chuckle as a grin spread over his round red face. “Just a little Terror Tower joke,” he said brightly. “I’ve got to have some fun, you know.”

  We all laughed, too. Except Eddie. He still seemed shaken. “That guy is crazy!” Eddie whispered.

  Actually, Mr. Starkes was a very good tour guide. Very cheerful and helpful, and he seemed to know everything about London. My only problem was that sometimes I had trouble understanding his British accent.

  “As you can see, the castle consists of several buildings,” Mr. Starkes explained, turning serious. “That long, low building over there served as a barracks for the soldiers.” He pointed across the broad lawn.

  I snapped a picture of the
old barracks. It looked like a long, low hut. Then I turned and snapped a picture of the gray-uniformed guard standing at attention in front of the small guardhouse.

  I heard several gasps of surprise behind me. Turning back, I saw a large hooded man creep out of the entrance and sneak up behind Mr. Starkes. He wore an ancient-looking green tunic and carried an enormous battle-ax.

  An executioner!

  He raised the battle-ax behind Mr. Starkes.

  “Does anyone here need a very fast haircut?” Mr. Starkes asked casually, without turning around. “This is the castle barber!”

  We all laughed. The man in the green executioner’s costume took a quick bow, then disappeared back into the building.

  “This is fun,” Eddie whispered. But I noticed he was clinging very close to me.

  “We are going to enter the torture chamber first,” Mr. Starkes announced. “Please stick together.” He raised a red pennant on a long stick. “I’ll carry this high so you can find me easily. It’s so easy to get lost inside. There are hundreds of chambers and secret passages.”

  “Wow. Cool!” I exclaimed.

  Eddie glanced at me doubtfully.

  “You’re not too scared to go into the torture chamber, are you?” I asked him.

  “Who? Me?” he replied shakily.

  “You will see some very unusual torture devices,” Mr. Starkes continued. “The wardens had many ways to inflict pain on their poor prisoners. We recommend that you do not try them at home.”

  A few people laughed. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

  “I ask you again to stick together,” Mr. Starkes urged as the group began to file through the narrow doorway into the castle. “My last tour group was lost forever in there. Most of them are still wandering the dark chambers. My boss really scolded me when I got back to the office!”

  I laughed at the lame joke. He had probably told it a thousand times.

  At the entrance, I raised my eyes to the top of the dark tower. It was solid stone. No windows except for a tiny square one near the very top.

  People were actually imprisoned here, I thought. Real people. Hundreds of years ago. I suddenly wondered if the castle was haunted.

  I tried to read the serious expression on my brother’s face. I wondered if Eddie was having the same chilling thoughts.

  We stepped up to the dark entranceway. “Turn around, Eddie,” I said. I took a step back and pulled my camera from my coat pocket.

  “Let’s go in,” Eddie pleaded. “The others are getting ahead of us.”

  “I just want to take your picture at the castle entrance,” I said.

  I raised the camera to my eye. Eddie made a dumb face. I pressed the shutter release and snapped the picture.

  I had no way of knowing that it was the last picture I would ever take of Eddie.

  3

  Mr. Starkes led the way down a narrow stairway. Our sneakers squeaked on the stone floor as we stepped into a large dimly lit chamber.

  I took a deep breath and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air smelled old and dusty.

  It was surprisingly warm inside. I unzipped my coat and pulled my long brown hair out from under the collar.

  I could see several display cases against the wall. Mr. Starkes led the way to a large wooden structure in the crt of the room. The group huddled closely around him.

  “This is the Rack,” he proclaimed, waving his red pennant at it.

  “Wow. It’s real!” I whispered to Eddie. I’d seen big torture devices like this in the movies and comic books. But I never thought they really existed.

  “The prisoner was forced to lie down here,” Mr. Starkes continued. “His arms and legs were strapped down. When that big wheel was turned, the ropes pulled his arms and legs, stretching them tight.” He pointed to the big wooden wheel.

  “Turn the wheel more, and the ropes pulled tighter,” Mr. Starkes said, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Sometimes the wheel was turned and the prisoner was stretched and stretched — until his bones were pulled right out of their sockets.”

  He chuckled. “I believe that is what is called doing a long stretch in prison!”

  Some of the group members laughed at Mr. Starkes’s joke. But Eddie and I exchanged solemn glances.

  Staring at the long wooden contraption with its thick ropes and straps, I pictured someone lying there. I imagined the creak of the wheel turning. And the ropes pulling tighter and tighter.

  Glancing up, my eye caught a dark figure standing on the other side of the Rack. He was very tall and very broad. Dressed in a long black cape, he had pulled a black wide-brimmed hat down over his forehead, hiding most of his face in shadow.

  His eyes glowed darkly out from the shadow.

  Was he staring at me?

  I poked Eddie. “See that man over there? The one in black?” I whispered. “Is he in our group?”

  Eddie shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before,” he whispered back. “He’s weird! Why is he staring at us like that?”

  The big man pulled the hat lower. His eyes disappeared beneath the wide brim. His black cape swirled as he stepped back into the shadows.

  Mr. Starkes continued to talk about the Rack. He asked if there were any volunteers to try it out. Everyone laughed.

  I’ve got to get a picture of this thing, I decided. My friends will really think it’s cool.

  I reached into my coat pocket for my camera.

  “Hey!” I cried out in surprise.

  I searched the other pocket. Then I searched my jeans pockets.

  “I don’t believe this!” I cried.

  The camera was gone.

  4

  “Eddie — my camera!” I exclaimed. “Did you see —?”

  I stopped when I saw the mischievous grin on my brother’s face.

  He held up his hand — with my camera in it — and his grin grew wider. “The Mad Pickpocket strikes again!” he declared.

  “You took it from my pocket?” I wailed. I gave him a hard shove that sent him stumbling into the Rack.

  He burst out laughing. Eddie thinks he’s the world’s greatest pickpocket. That’s his hobby. Really. He practices all the time.

  “Fastest hands on earth!” he bragged, waving the camera at me.

  I grabbed it away from him. “You’re obnoxious,” I told him.

  I don’t know why he enjoys being a thief so much. But he really is good at it. When he slid that camera from my coat pocket, I didn’t feel a thing.

  I started to tell him to keep his hands off my camera. But Mr. Starkes motioned for the group to follow him into the next room.

  As Eddie and I hurried to keep up, I glimpsed the man in the black cape. He was lumbering up behind us, his face still hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

  I felt a stab of fear in my chest. Was the strange man watching Eddie and me? Why?

  No. He was probably just another tourist visiting the Tower. So why did I have the frightening feeling he was following us?

  I kept glancing back at him as Eddie and I studied the displays of torture devices in the next room. The man didn’t seem interested in the displays at all. He kept near the wall, his black cape fading into the deep shadows, his eyes straight ahead — on us!

  “Look at these!” Eddie urged, pushing me toward a display shelf. “What are these?”

  “Thumbscrews,” Mr. Starkes replied, stepping up behind us. He picked one up. “It looks like a ring,” he explained. “See? It slides down over your thumb like this.”

  He slid the wide metal ring over his thumb. Then he raised his hand so we could see clearly. “There is a screw in the side of the ring. Turn the screw, and it digs its way into your thumb. Keep turning it, and it digs deeper and deeper.”

  “Ouch!” I declared.

  “Very nasty,” Mr. Starkes agreed, setting the thumbscrew back on the display shelf. “This is a whole room of very nasty items.”

  “I can’t believe people were actually tortured with this st
uff,” Eddie murmured. His voice trembled. He really didn’t like scary things — especially when they were real.

  “Wish I had a pair of these to use on you!” I teased. Eddie is such a wimp. Sometimes I can’t help myself. I have to give him a hard time.

  I reached behind the rope barrier and picked up a pair of metal handcuffs. They were heavier than I imagined. And they had a jagged row of metal spikes all around the inside.

  “Sue — put those down!” Eddie whispered frantically.

  I slipped one around my wrist. “See, Eddie, when you clamp it shut, the jagged spikes cut into your wrist,” I told him.

  I let out a startled gasp as the heavy metal cuff clicked shut.

  “Ow!” I screamed, tugging frantically at it. “Eddie — help! I can’t get it off! It’s cutting me! It’s cutting me!”

  5

  “Ohhhh.” A horrified moan escaped Eddie’s throat as he gaped at the cuff around my wrist. His mouth dropped open, and his chin started to quiver.

  “Help me!” I wailed, thrashing my arm frantically, tugging at the chain. “Get me out of this!”

  Eddie turned as white as a ghost.

  I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. I started to laugh. And I slid the handcuff off my wrist.

  “Gotcha back!” I jeered. “That’s for stealing my camera. Now we’re even!”

  “I — I — I —” Eddie sputtered. His dark eyes glowered at me angrily. “I really thought you were hurt,” he muttered. “Don’t do that again, Sue. I mean it.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. I know it wasn’t very mature. My brother doesn’t always bring out the best in me.

  “Follow me, please!” Mr. Starkes’s voice echoed off the stone walls. Eddie and I moved closer as our tour group huddled around Mr. Starkes.

  “We’re going to climb the stairs to the north tower now,” the tour guide announced. “As you will see, the stairs are quite narrow and steep. So we will have to go single file. Please watch your step.”

  Mr. Starkes ducked his bald head as he led the way through a low, narrow doorway. Eddie and I were at the end of the line.

  The stone stairs twisted up the Tower like a corkscrew. There was no hand railing. And the stairs were so steep and so twisty, I had to hold on to the wall to keep my balance as I climbed.