Locker 13 Read online

  Go ahead and scream.

  No one can hear you. You’re no longer in the safe world you know.

  You’ve taken a terrifying step …

  into the darkest corners of your imagination.

  You’ve opened the door to …

  Welcome…

  I’m R.L. Stine, and I want to introduce you to Luke Greene. He’s that short, wiry seventh-grader standing in front of his locker.

  Some kids tease Luke about being too superstitious. He wears a lucky shirt to school, and he never goes anywhere without a lucky rabbit’s foot tucked in his pocket.

  Luke doesn’t mind being teased. He says you can never have enough good luck.

  That’s why he’s so unhappy about his new locker. It’s the first day of school, and Luke has been given Locker 13.

  Luke is staring at the locker in horror—and he has reason to be worried. Now he’s going to need all the lucky shirts, and four-leaf clovers, and good-luck charms he can find.

  Because when he turns the lock and pulls open Locker 13, Luke will actually be opening the door to … THE NIGHTMARE ROOM.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Go Deeper into This Nightmare...

  About the Author

  Preview: The Nightmare Room #3 My Name is Evil

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “Hey, Luke—good luck!”

  Who called to me? The hall was jammed with kids excited about the first day of school. I was excited, too. My first day in seventh grade. My first day at Shawnee Valley Junior High.

  I just knew this was going to be an awesome year.

  Of course, I didn’t take any chances. I wore my lucky shirt. It’s a faded green T-shirt, kind of stretched out and the pocket is a little torn. But no way I’d start a school year without my lucky shirt.

  And I had my lucky rabbit’s foot in the pocket of my baggy khakis. It’s black and very soft and furry. It’s a key chain, but I don’t want to ruin the good luck by hanging keys on it.

  Why is it so lucky? Well, it’s a black rabbit’s foot, which is very rare. And I found it last November on my birthday. And after I found it, my parents gave me the new computer I wanted. So, it brought me good luck—right?

  I glanced up at the red-and-black computer-printed banner hanging over the hall: GO, SQUIRES! SUPPORT YOUR TEAM!

  All of the boys’ teams at Shawnee Valley are called the Squires. Don’t ask me how they got that weird name. The banner made my heart race just a little. It reminded me that I had to find the basketball coach and ask when he was having tryouts.

  I had a whole list of things I wanted to do: (1) check out the computer lab; (2) find out about the basketball team; (3) see if I could take any kind of special swimming program after school. I never went to a school with a swimming pool before. And since swimming is my other big sport, I was pretty pumped about it.

  “Luke—hi!”

  I spun around to find my friend Hannah Marcum behind me, looking as cheerful and enthusiastic as always. Hannah has short coppery hair, the color of a bright new penny, green eyes, and a great smile. My mother always calls her Sunshine, which totally embarrasses both of us.

  “Your pocket is torn,” she said. She tugged at it, ripping it a little more.

  “Hey—get off!” I backed away. “It’s my lucky shirt.”

  “Did you find your locker assignment yet?” She pointed to a group of kids studying a chart taped to the wall. They were all standing on tiptoe, trying to see over each other. “It’s posted over there. Guess what? My locker is the first one outside the lunchroom. I’ll be first for lunch every day.”

  “Oooh, lucky,” I said.

  “And I got Gruen for English,” Hannah gushed. “He’s the best! He’s so funny. Everyone says you can’t stop laughing. Did you get him too?”

  “No,” I said. “I got Warren.”

  Hannah made a face. “You’re doomed.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Don’t say things like that.” I squeezed my rabbit’s foot three times.

  I pushed my way through the crowd to the locker chart. This is going to be an excellent year, I told myself. Junior High is so not like elementary school.

  “Hey, man—how’s it going?” Darnell Cross slapped me a high five.

  “What’s up?” I replied.

  “Check it out. You got the lucky locker,” Darnell said.

  I squinted at the chart. “Huh? What do you mean?”

  I ran my eyes down the list of names until I came to mine: Luke Greene. And then I followed the dotted line to my locker number.

  And gasped.

  “No way!” I said out loud. “That can’t be right.”

  I blinked a few times, then focused on the chart again.

  Yes. Locker 13.

  Luke Greene ............... #13

  #13.

  My breath caught in my throat. I started to choke. I turned away from the chart, hoping no one could see how upset I was.

  How can this be happening to me? I wondered. Locker 13? My whole year is ruined before it begins!

  My heart pounded so hard, my chest ached. I forced myself to start breathing again.

  I turned and found Hannah still standing there. “Where’s your locker?” she asked. “I’ll walk you there.”

  “Uh … well … I can deal with it,” I said.

  She squinted at me. “Excuse me?”

  “I can deal with it,” I repeated shakily. “It’s locker thirteen, but I can handle it. Really.”

  Hannah laughed. “Luke, you’re such a superstitious geek!”

  I frowned at her. “You mean that in a nice way—right?” I joked.

  She laughed again and shoved me into a crowd of kids. I wish she wouldn’t shove me so much. She’s really strong.

  I apologized to the kids I stumbled into. Then Hannah and I started down the crowded hall, checking the locker numbers, searching for number 13.

  Just past the science lab, Hannah stopped suddenly and grabbed something up from the floor.

  “Hey, wow! Look what I found!”

  She held up a five-dollar bill. “Mmmmm—yes!” She raised it to her lips and kissed it. “Five bucks! Yay!”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Hannah, how come you’re always so lucky?”

  She didn’t answer that question.

  It seemed like a simple question, but it wasn’t.

  And if she had told me the answer, I think I would have run away—run as far as I could from Shawnee Valley Junior High, and never come back.

  Let’s skip ahead two months….

  Seventh grade was not bad so far. I made some new friends. I made real progress on the computer animation piece I had been working on for nearly two years. And I actually won a spot on the basketball team.

  It was early November, about two weeks into the season. And I was late for practice.

  Guys were already on the floor, doing stretching exercises, bouncing basketballs to each other, taking short layups. I crept to the locker room, hoping no one would notice me.

  “Luk
e—get dressed. You’re late!” Coach Bendix shouted.

  I started to call, “Sorry. I got hung up in the computer lab.” But that was no kind of excuse. So I just gave Coach a nod and started jogging full speed to the locker room to get changed.

  My stomach felt kind of tight. I realized I wasn’t looking forward to practice today. For a little guy, I’m a pretty good basketball player. I’ve got a good outside shot and pretty fast hands on defense.

  I was so excited to make the team. But I wasn’t counting on one problem—an eighth grader named Stretch Johannsen.

  Stretch’s real name is Shawn. But everyone in the world calls him Stretch—even his parents. You might wonder how he got that name. But if you saw him, you wouldn’t wonder.

  Stretch had some kind of a growth spurt last year in seventh grade, and he became a big blond giant practically overnight. He’s taller than anyone in the high school. He has shoulders like a wrestler and long arms. I mean, really long arms, like a chimpanzee. He can reach halfway across the gym!

  And that’s why everyone started calling him Stretch.

  I think a better name for him would be Ostrich. That’s because he has long skinny legs, like bird legs, and a huge chest that’s so wide it makes his pale, blue-eyed head look as tiny as an egg.

  But I would never try my nickname on him. I don’t think I can run fast enough. Stretch doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. In fact, he’s a pretty mean guy, always trash-talking and shoving people around—and not just on the basketball floor.

  I think once he got over the shock of being a giant, he decided to be really impressed with himself.

  Like being a giant is some kind of special talent or something.

  But don’t get me started. I’m always analyzing people, thinking too hard about them, about everything. Hannah is always telling me I think too much. But I don’t get it. How do you stop thinking?

  Last week after a practice, Coach Bendix said nearly the same thing. “You’ve got to play on instinct, Luke. There isn’t time to think before every move.”

  Which, I guess, is another reason why I ride the bench. Of course, I’m only in seventh grade. So, unless another giant forward tries out for the Squires, I’ll probably get to play next year—after Stretch graduates.

  But for now, it’s really embarrassing not to get to play. Especially since my parents come to every game to cheer me on. I sit on the team bench and watch Mom and Dad up in the gym bleachers, just staring at me. Staring …

  It doesn’t make you feel great.

  Even the time-outs are painful. Stretch always comes trotting over to the team bench. He wipes the sweat off his face and body—and then throws the towel onto me. Like I’m some kind of towel boy!

  During one time-out late in the first game, he took a long gulp of Gatorade and spit it onto my uniform shirt. I looked up and saw my parents watching from the bleachers.

  Sad. Really sad …

  Our team, the Squires, won our first two games, mainly because Stretch wouldn’t let anyone else handle the ball. It was great to win—but I was already starting to feel like a loser. I wanted to play!

  Maybe if I have a really strong practice today, Coach Bendix will try me out at guard, I told myself. Or maybe even as a backup center. I laced up my shoes and triple-knotted them for luck. Then I shut my eyes and counted to seven three times.

  Just something I do.

  I straightened my red-and-black uniform shorts, slammed the gym locker shut, and trotted out of the locker room and onto the floor. Guys were at the far end, taking three-point shots, everyone shooting at once. The balls bounced off each other, bounced off the hoop. The backboard rang out with a steady thud thud thud.

  Some of the shots actually dropped in.

  “Luke, get busy!” Coach yelled, motioning me to the basket. “Get some rebounds. Make some shots. Get loose!”

  I flashed him a thumbs-up and ran to join the others. I saw Stretch leap up and make a high rebound. To my surprise, he spun around and heaved the ball at me. “Luke—think fast!”

  I wasn’t expecting it. The ball sailed through my hands. I had to chase it to the wall. I dribbled back to find Stretch waiting. “Go ahead, man. Shoot.”

  I swallowed hard—and sent up a two-handed shot.

  “He shoots—he misses!” Stretch shouted. Some guys laughed.

  My shot bounced off the rim. Stretch took three fast strides, reached up his long arms, and grabbed the rebound in midair. He tossed it back to me. “Shoot again.”

  My next shot brushed the bottom of the net.

  “He shoots—he misses!” Stretch repeated, as if that was the funniest thing anyone ever said. More loud laughter.

  Stretch took the rebound and tossed me the ball. “Again,” he ordered.

  Everyone was watching now. I sent up a one-handed layup that almost dropped in. It rolled around the rim, then fell off.

  “He shoots—he misses!”

  I could feel sweat rolling down my forehead. Why can’t I get lucky here? I asked myself. Come on, Luke—just one lucky shot. I slapped my left hand rapidly against the leg of my shorts seven times.

  Stretch bounced the ball to me. “Go, champ. You’re O for three. You got a streak going!” More laughter.

  I shut my eyes for a second. Then I sailed this one high—and gasped as it sank through the hoop.

  Stretch grinned and shook his head. The other guys all cheered as if I’d just won the state junior high tournament.

  I grabbed the ball and dribbled away from them. I didn’t want to give Stretch a chance to ruin my victory. I knew he would keep me shooting till I was one for three hundred!

  I turned to see if Coach Benson had watched my shot. He leaned against the wall, talking to two other teachers. He hadn’t seen it.

  I dribbled across the floor, then back toward the others. Then I made a big mistake.

  A really big mistake. A mistake that ruined my life at Shawnee Valley Junior High.

  “Hey, Stretch—think fast!” I shouted. And I heaved the ball at him as hard as I could.

  What was I thinking?

  I didn’t see that he had bent down on one knee to tie his sneaker lace.

  I froze in horror—and watched the ball fly at him. It hit him hard on the side of the head, knocked him over, and sent him tumbling to the floor.

  “Hey—!” he cried out, stunned. He shook his head dizzily. I saw bright red blood start to flow from his nose.

  “Stretch—I’m sorry!” I shrieked. “I didn’t see you! I didn’t mean—!”

  I lurched forward, running to help him up.

  “My contacts!” he cried. “You knocked out my contacts.”

  And then I heard a soft squish under my shoe.

  I stopped. Lifted my foot. Stretch’s contact lens lay flat as a pancake on the gym floor.

  Everyone saw it.

  Stretch was on his feet now. Blood rolled down his lips, his chin.

  He didn’t pay any attention to it. He had his eyes narrowed on me. He lumbered forward, clenching and unclenching his giant fists.

  I was doomed.

  Stretch reached under my arms and lifted me up. He was so huge and strong, he picked me off the floor like I was a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “Whoa. It was an accident,” I whispered.

  “Here’s another accident!” he said. When he talked, he spit blood in my face. He tightened his grip under my arms.

  He raised me higher and gazed up at the basket. Is he going to make a three-point shot with me? I wondered.

  Yes. He is. He’s going to slam dunk me!

  Behind me, I heard shouts. A whistle blowing. Running footsteps.

  “Take it outside, Stretch!” I heard Coach Bendix shout.

  Huh?

  Stretch slowly lowered me to the floor. My knees started to buckle, but I managed to stay on my feet.

  Stretch rubbed a hand across his bloody nose, then wiped it on the front of my jersey.

  “Take it outsid
e,” Coach repeated, edging between us. “Let’s pair up, everybody. One on one. Stretch—you and Luke.”

  “No way,” Stretch muttered.

  “He’s your backup,” Coach said, poking Stretch in the chest with his whistle. “You’ve got to teach Luke. I’m putting you in charge of Luke’s development.”

  Stretch snickered. “Development? He doesn’t have any development!”

  “Go to my office. Get some tissues and stop that nosebleed,” Coach instructed Stretch. “Then take Luke to the practice court behind the playground. Show him some moves. Teach him something.”

  Stretch stared at the floor for a few seconds, as if thinking it over. But he knew better than to argue with Coach Bendix. He nodded at me. “Let’s go, Champ.”

  What choice did I have? Even though I knew it was pain time for me, I turned and followed him outside.

  It was late afternoon, pretty cold to be outside in basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey. Since it was November, the big, red sun had already lowered behind the houses across the street from the playground.

  I shivered.

  Stretch didn’t give me much of a chance to get ready. He pounded the ball hard on the asphalt court and came racing at me like a stampeding bull.

  I tried to slide to the side. But Stretch lowered his shoulder and slammed it hard into my gut.

  “Ohhh.” I groaned and slumped back.

  “Defense!” he shouted. “Get your hands up, Champ! Get ready. Here I come again!”

  “No—wait—!” I pleaded.

  The ball thundered in front of him as he drove into me again. This time he kept his body up straight. The force of the collision sent me sprawling to the asphalt.

  “Defense!” he shouted. “Show me something. Block me. At least slow me down a little!”

  Groaning again, I climbed to my feet. I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck.

  Stretch dribbled around me, circling me, his eyes locked angrily on me. His nosebleed had stopped, but he still had dried blood caked under his nose.

  I rubbed my chest. “I … I think I broke a rib,” I whispered.

  With a wild shout, he slammed into me again. This time I flew back—and smashed into the thick wooden post that held up the backboard.

  “You’re going to pay for those contacts, Champ,” he called, hulking over me so I couldn’t stand up, dribbling the ball inches from my feet.