The Horror at Chiller House Read online

  We followed a narrow dirt path through the trees. The park was silent. All I could hear was my own heartbeat and the rustling whispers of the trees overhead.

  Belcher took long strides and didn’t look back. Sam trotted up to me. It was so dark, I could barely see him. “Where is he taking us?”

  I shrugged. “We have to trust him. He’s a Helper.”

  The narrow path curved through tall trees. Sometimes Belcher disappeared into the shadows.

  I heard a shrill animal howl. It made the skin on the back of my neck prickle. The howl was joined by other howls.

  Wolf howls? They almost sounded human.

  The path ended suddenly at a tall wire fence. Clouds slid away from the moon. Pale light poured down over a sign halfway up the fence: WOLFSBANE FOREST.

  “I was here before,” Sam said. His voice came out in a whisper. “I’m totally into animals. My first time in HorrorLand, I went straight to the Werewolf Petting Zoo. It was great. But this forest is way creepy at night.”

  We followed Belcher to a gate. “Padlocked,” he said. “The forest closes at dusk. Too dangerous after dark.”

  Was he trying to scare us? If so, he was doing an excellent job. The prickly feeling at the back of my neck spread over my whole body. I realized I was breathing hard.

  “Know the difference between me and the werewolves?” Belcher asked. “The werewolves like their meat uncooked! Hahaha.”

  This guy was about as funny as a bee sting on your butt.

  “Are we going in here?” I asked. “Is there a treasure chest hidden in here?”

  He didn’t answer my question. “Follow me,” he said. He motioned us forward.

  We walked along the high fence. Tall grass slapped at my jeans. I stared through the metal wires. I could see only darkness on the other side.

  Another howl — very nearby — made me jump.

  “The forest is closed, but I know how to get in,” Belcher said. In the moonlight, I saw that his face and forehead were drenched with sweat.

  He grabbed a section of the wire fence with both hands and tugged. The fence didn’t move. He pulled again.

  This time a narrow section began to slide over the tall grass. He pried it open, a space just wide enough for the three of us to squeeze through.

  I took a few steps, then stopped. A long, mournful howl sounded just up ahead.

  “Is it — a real wolf?” I stammered.

  Belcher shook his head. “No. A real werewolf.”

  “I mean, really,” I said.

  “Really,” Belcher insisted. “Don’t you believe in werewolves?”

  “I … don’t … think so,” I said.

  “How about the tooth fairy?” he said. He started to laugh, but another wolf howl cut him off.

  “Where is the red chest?” I asked. “Is it near here?” I shuddered. “Can we find it and get out of here?”

  Belcher mopped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. “This way,” he said.

  He started walking over the tall grass, deeper into the forest. He disappeared in the darkness. I could hear his footsteps up ahead.

  Sam and I cried out as piercing howls rang in our ears.

  I pictured hungry wolf creatures hiding behind the fat tree trunks, preparing to leap out and attack. I could see the drool pouring over their jagged fangs as they opened their jaws to rip apart our flesh.

  Yes, I’ve seen too many horror movies. I like scary movies and books. I like creepy things.

  But not when they are actually happening to me.

  The trees covered us. So thick I couldn’t see the night sky. The grass gave way to patchy dirt. Dead leaves crackled under my shoes.

  “Ouch!” I let out a cry as I stumbled over a fallen tree branch. Pain shot through my leg.

  “Chef Belcher,” I said, “are you sure there’s a chest hidden here?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Chef Belcher?” I called.

  I listened for his footsteps.

  Silence.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Sam called. “Where are you?”

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Chef Belcher?”

  No reply.

  A chill slid down my back. I spun all around, searching for him.

  He had vanished.

  “Hey — he’s supposed to be our Helper,” Sam said. “What a jerk.”

  I took a deep breath. “Belcher said he couldn’t get the chest for us,” I said. “He said he could only lead the way.”

  “Look around, Ray. We’re out in the middle of nowhere,” Sam said. “I don’t even know which way to walk back. He didn’t help us — he got us lost.”

  “But this is the kind of creepy place where Chiller would hide a chest,” I argued.

  A long, low wolf howl made both of us freeze.

  “We have to get out of here,” Sam said. He pulled my sleeve. “Come on. I’ve studied wolves. I told you, I’m an animal nut. But that doesn’t sound like a normal wolf howl to me.”

  I started to follow Sam — but I stopped. And pointed. “Whoa. What’s that?”

  Straight ahead of us, the trees opened. Pale moonlight washed down on a small round clearing. And in the middle of the clearing, I could see a low black mound, like a tree stump or a tiny hill.

  Squinting hard, I saw a small rectangular box resting on top of the hill.

  I slapped Sam on the shoulder. “See it? Belcher led us here. That’s the treasure chest.”

  “Yessss!” We slapped each other a high five. Then, without another word, we went running into the clearing.

  In the moonlight, the dark mound appeared to glow. And move.

  Still too dark to see it clearly. It was nearly as tall as Sam and me. And that was definitely a small box sitting on top of it.

  “Whoa. What’s that sound?” Sam pulled me back.

  We both stopped, breathing hard. I heard a buzzing, low and muffled.

  Was it coming from the low hill? Yes.

  Walking side by side, we crept up close. The buzz became a steady, droning roar. And when we were close enough to see clearly, I let out a gasp.

  “What are those?” I asked Sam in a hushed whisper.

  The hill was alive. It wasn’t dirt or a rock. It was a living, pulsing, buzzing thing.

  “Wasps!” Sam cried. “Ray — look out. Millions of them. Millions of wasps.”

  Yes. We were staring at some kind of enormous wasps’ nest.

  Wings buzzing, the wasps bounced off each other, clumped together, darting in and out. An enormous, deadly mountain of wasps.

  And at the top — I could see it clearly now — a small treasure chest.

  Sam stumbled back. He swatted a wasp off his face.

  I realized I was standing too close to the nest. My head began to itch. I swiped two or three wasps from my face. My skin tingled all up and down my body. I danced and twitched and waved my arms.

  I staggered back. Wasps clung to my shirt-sleeves. I swung my hands hard and sent them flying back to the nest.

  The buzzing rang in my head, surrounded me.

  Sam swatted wasps off the front of his T-shirt. He plucked one off the back of my neck. The wasp was gone, but my skin still tingled.

  Wasps darted back and forth in front of my eyes. I felt a prickle on my forehead and slapped a wasp away.

  “We’re outta here!” Sam declared. He spun away and started to run back to the trees.

  “No — wait,” I called after him. “The chest. I’ve got to get that chest.”

  I turned back and stared at it. Wasps hovered over the chest, buzzing, lighting on it, then flitting off. Hundreds of gleaming wasps slid down the nest, like lava down a mountain.

  “You can’t grab the chest,” Sam said. “You need gloves, Ray. You’ll get a million stings.”

  “I have to try,” I said. “We can’t come this close and not get the chest.”

  I swiped a wasp off my forehead.

  My fast move startled a bunch of them. Buzzing lou
der, they leaped off the nest. They hovered for a few seconds, then settled back down.

  “If we had a shovel or something, we could make them all scatter,” Sam said. “You know. Sweep them away. Then you could just grab the chest and run.”

  “But we don’t have a shovel,” I said. “We don’t have anything. I — I just have to be fast.”

  A gust of wind made the wasps buzz louder. They rose up, then settled back. They swarmed over each other, crawling over each other, darting in and out.

  “Ray — don’t.” Sam grabbed my arm.

  But I pulled free and stepped up to the pulsing, buzzing mountain of wasps.

  I took a deep breath. Stared hard at the little red chest, half buried in buzzing wasp bodies. Shut my eyes for a second. Opened them.

  I stuck my hand into the gleaming, swirling nest — and grabbed the chest.

  “OOWWWWWWWWW!”

  The loud cry of pain came from behind me.

  “Sam?”

  I swung the chest away from the wasps’ nest. Gripping it tightly, I stumbled toward him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry I screamed. I got stung.” He pulled the stinger from his skin. Then he rubbed his neck some more.

  “Look!” I cried breathlessly. I held the chest up in front of me. “Got it.”

  “Excellent!” Sam cried. He pumped his fists in the air. “Belcher led us in the right direction,” he said. “He’s a creep. But he was a good Helper.”

  He gazed around, shivering. “Wish he was here to lead us back.”

  “We’ll find our way back,” I said. “Then we’ll find your Helper. Who is it?”

  “Mondo the Magical.”

  “We’ll find him and find your red chest,” I said. “Come on — let’s roll.”

  Sam stared at the chest in my hand. “Aren’t you going to open it? Ray, go ahead. Check it out.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay.” Behind me, the buzzing from the giant wasps’ nest grew till it became a dull roar. Carrying the chest in front of me, I took several steps toward the trees.

  I stopped at the edge of the clearing and turned to Sam. “Here goes.”

  I pulled the lid open.

  BOINNNNNG.

  I screamed as a grinning clown popped out.

  My heart pounded from the surprise. The chest fell out of my hands.

  I bent down and picked it up. The plastic clown bobbed on a spring. It held a tiny sign on its striped chest:

  YOU LOSE.

  “A stupid joke,” I said to Sam. I tossed the chest to him. “A stupid jack-in-the-box.”

  Sam’s mouth dropped open. “This is horrible! We — we’re never getting out of here! He — he tricked us!” He handed the box back to me.

  “No. Come on. It’s a game — remember?” I said. “This is part of Chiller’s game. We have to keep searching. Find the chest with the Horror in it.”

  Sam shook his head. “Hope you’re right.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. I tossed the chest into the dirt and started to run.

  But I didn’t get far and neither did Sam.

  We were surrounded by wolves.

  No. Not wolves.

  Wolf creatures staggering toward us on two legs.

  They had wolf faces, snouts open as they growled and grunted, snapping their jagged teeth. Furry wolf bodies but human-shaped arms and human legs. Their big feet were also covered in fur, but I saw human toes on the ends. Their tails stood straight behind them, stiff and alert.

  “Those aren’t real animals. They have to be actors,” Sam murmured. He called to them. “Awesome costumes!”

  I wasn’t so sure they were costumes. My legs were trembling. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Listen, we’re playing a game here,” Sam told them. “And we kind of got lost. Can you tell us how to get out?”

  Snarling, the wolf creatures formed a tight circle around us. Two of them tossed back their heads and let out howls.

  As they circled, the wolf creatures lowered their heads. Their eyes glowed red like animal eyes. They circled faster. I counted eight of them.

  “Come on, guys,” Sam said. “We’re sorry. We know we’re not supposed to be here this late. But can you give us a break?”

  They all began to snarl at once. They lowered their bodies until they stood on all fours. They arched their backs. They growled ferociously like attack dogs.

  “Sam — they — they’re NOT human!” I screamed.

  Before we could move, they leaped at us, roaring, gnashing their massive teeth, huge taloned paws raised to attack.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  I raised my hands in front of me to shield myself. And gasped in surprise when I heard a loud THWOCCCK.

  I followed the sound — and saw a long arrow trembling in the trunk of a tree inches from my head.

  The wolf creatures stopped — almost in midair — and backed off.

  THWOCCCK.

  Another arrow whistled just above my head. It sailed past the same tree trunk.

  Whimpering, the wolf creatures retreated.

  Sam and I didn’t move. Another arrow split the air. This one shot right past my head and sailed past the tree.

  And then I heard a voice from somewhere in the trees. Chef Belcher!

  “Look out, boys!” he shouted. “Someone is firing at you. There’s a Hunter here!”

  The wolf creatures let out frightened cries — and took off. Some ran on two legs. Others dropped to the ground and scrambled away on all fours.

  Sam and I didn’t have time to celebrate their retreat. Another arrow split the air between us.

  We dived away from it.

  “Get going, guys!” Chef Belcher shouted. “This Hunter means business! MOVE!”

  We took off, running toward Belcher’s voice. We rocketed through the clearing and back into the trees. No sign of Belcher.

  “Chef Belcher? Where are you?” I screamed. “Chef Belcher?”

  Silence.

  We ran until we couldn’t run anymore. Then we huddled behind some bushes and tried to catch our breath.

  “Am I enjoying this game?” Sam cried. “I don’t think so.”

  I sighed. “What if — what if all the chests are jokes?”

  Sam’s dark eyes widened in fear. “We have to tell the others,” he said.

  The forest was silent now. Sam and I wandered through the trees till we found the tall wire fence. We slipped back out and made our way to the path that led to the front of the park.

  HorrorLand was totally closed. The lights had been dimmed. The shops and restaurants were empty. The food carts had been abandoned. I didn’t see any Horrors or guards.

  We walked past The Play Pen, the carnival games area. A big sign read: IT’S NOT HOW MUCH YOU WIN OR LOSE BUT HOW MUCH YOU SCREAM YOUR HEAD OFF! Helium balloons on strings bobbed and flapped in the evening breeze.

  A skinny orange cat slithered past our feet. I jumped back to keep from tripping over it. The cat turned. It had only one eye.

  “Even the cats are scary here,” I murmured.

  “Where are we going?” Sam asked. “Are we just wandering around, trying to find the others?”

  “No,” I said. “I know where to go. That serious-looking kid with the real dark eyes? The dude who’s into comic books? Marco? I saw his Helper card. It was Murder the Clown.”

  “Cute. So where does Murder the Clown hang out?”

  “The Haunted Theater,” I said. “They do a ghost clown show there.”

  We trotted across the empty Zombie Plaza. Some of the shops were still lighted, but I didn’t see any people or Horrors. Carried by the wind, a paper cup bounced along the ground as if walking with us.

  The Haunted Theater was easy to find. It looked like a big castle, with turrets poking up on both sides. The sign above the ticket window read: MONDO THE MAGICAL. AND GHOST CLOWN REVUE. CAN YOU DIE LAUGHING?

  There was no o
ne in the ticket booth. I tried one of the front doors to the theater. Locked.

  “Marco and that real tall girl, Jessica, went together,” I told Sam. “Maybe they’re inside, looking for the clown.”

  Sam tried another door. Also locked. “Let’s go around the back,” he said.

  We walked around the side of the building, keeping close to the tall stone wall. Near the back, I saw someone leaning against a narrow door.

  As we walked closer, I saw that he was a clown. The saddest-looking clown I’ve ever seen.

  His painted mouth drooped down as if he was bawling. His sad eyes were rimmed with black, and painted teardrops fell down his white cheeks. Even his straw-blond hair drooped down the sides of his face.

  He was dressed in rags. His red clown ruffle was torn and stained. The buttons on his striped shirt were all missing. The shirt hung open, revealing a ripped undershirt. His baggy, wrinkled pants had holes in the knees. The tops of his big brown shoes were loose from their soles.

  He didn’t seem to see us until we were standing right in front of him. Then he slowly raised his head. “Sorry. No autographs,” he said. His voice was harsh, gravelly.

  “We — we’re looking for someone,” I said.

  He squinted at me. “So?”

  “Can you help us?” Sam asked.

  The clown turned to Sam and frowned even harder. “Help you? Do I look like your mother?”

  This guy had to be the least funny clown I’d ever seen.

  He scratched his chest through the torn undershirt. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Murder the Clown,” I said. “I think our two friends —”

  “You have two friends?” the clown interrupted. “Big whoop.”

  “Do you know where we can find Murder?” I said.

  He nodded. His droopy hair fell over his face. “He’s in the basement. I killed him. HAHAHAHAHA.”

  Did he really expect us to laugh at that?

  He pulled open the door. It squeaked as it slid open. “Go ahead,” the clown rasped. “Murder is rehearsing downstairs. Go. Have a picnic. HAHAHAHA.”

  His laughing sounded more like crying. Whatever made this guy decide to be a clown?