Fright Christmas Page 5
“Kenny is a dummy. Kenny is a dummy.” Their hideous, chilling cries echoed through the empty store.
I covered my ears and ran back down the aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more of them chasing me. An army of them—marching out of the men’s clothing department!
“Kenny is a dummy. Kenny is a dummy,” they all chanted.
I ran faster!
Straight toward the toy department—and stopped.
In the dim light, two giant wooden soldiers twisted their stiff heads. Stretched out their stiff arms. Then stepped forward awkwardly.
They slid their long, golden sabers out of their belts.
They gazed straight at me—and began to march.
Their long, sharp blades whistled as the soldiers sliced the air with them.
“Give up, Kenny!” they screamed. “We know what to do with a monster like you.”
Fighting my panic, I turned and ran.
The wooden soldiers chased after me.
“We’re going to get you, Kenny!” they shouted. “You don’t have a chance!”
I ran faster and faster.
My lungs burned and my legs ached. But I couldn’t stop.
I had to get away!
PING!
The sound came from directly in front of me.
The sound of an elevator!
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
No time to figure it out.
I ran straight to it. The doors flew open. I jumped in.
The soldiers approached. Only a few feet away now.
I jumped into the elevator. I frantically banged the buttons.
Nothing! The doors wouldn’t close.
The soldiers moved in closer.
I hit the buttons again and again.
“Here we come, Kenny!” The soldiers waved their sabers over their heads.
One reached into the elevator and pinned me against the wall.
I pushed and kicked it. I tried to shove it off. It wouldn’t let go.
“Hold him!” the other soldier ordered. “Don’t let him escape!”
The soldier in the elevator grabbed my arm and yanked it hard, dragging me out.
“No!” I shouted. “Let go! Let go!”
One foot in the elevator, one foot out—I slammed my hand against the buttons.
The elevator doors began to close.
With one mighty yank, I wrenched free of the soldier—just as the doors slammed shut.
I felt the elevator jerk under my feet. I could feel it begin to move. Going down.
Going down.
I stared up at the floor numbers.
The number three lit up.
Would the soldiers take the escalator down? Would they be there on the first floor? Waiting for me. Ready to attack.
Hurry! Hurry!
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.
I hit the button for one again and again.
The light at three went dark.
Two lit up next.
Then one.
I faced the doors—ready to jump out and run.
But the elevator didn’t stop. It kept moving. Down. Down. Down.
I pounded on the emergency stop button, but the elevator kept falling.
I swallowed hard.
I felt the elevator picking up speed. Dropping faster and faster.
This can’t be! No building in Shadyside had a basement so far down!
The elevator continued to drop—zooming down now.
I crouched down and got ready to crash. I covered my eyes with my hands.
And suddenly it started to slow.
Then it stopped—and the doors swished open.
I stepped out into a narrow room.
In the dim light, I could barely see the brown walls. I felt a damp chill. I choked on a musty smell.
Ping!
I spun around. The elevator was gone! Vanished!
I let out a low groan.
Now what?
I touched a wall. The surface crumbled beneath my fingertips.
Dirt! The wall was made of dirt!
I groped the other three walls. Dirt—all dirt.
I gazed up at the ceiling—but there wasn’t one!
The bare branches of a tree swayed overhead. Through the branches, I glimpsed stars and a crescent moon in the night sky.
I turned around slowly, gazing at each dark dirt wall.
Where am I?
Suddenly I knew.
I stood in an open grave.
17
Oh, noooo! What am I doing in a grave?
Don’t panic, I ordered myself.
Think.
The Fear Street Cemetery is only three blocks from home. That’s where I am.
I gazed at the grave walls. If I can climb out of here, I can run home! I can be back in my own house, in my own bed, in minutes.
I dug my fingers into the dirt walls and started climbing. The grave was deep, with really steep walls.
I raised a foot and shoved into a wall. I plunged my fingers into the dirt. Then I heaved myself up.
I planted my other foot in the wall and climbed some more.
I slowly made my way up.
The soil crumpled under my fingertips and fell on my face. Into my eyes. On my lips. I could even taste it on my tongue.
I climbed and climbed.
I was halfway there.
But I had to stop. Something cold, something slimy, wriggled across my hand.
I released my grip and shook my fingers.
Yuck.
A fat, bloated worm flew off.
I began to raise myself up again—but . . .
I felt something slither under my jacket sleeve. Under both sleeves. Down my shirt.
I lost my hold—and plunged to the bottom of the grave.
I tore off my jacket—and screamed.
Worms!
Hundreds of worms slithered around my arms. Slid down my chest. Crept up my legs.
“Get off! Get off me!” I shrieked, shaking my whole body.
The worms crawled up my neck. Up my cheeks. Into my hair.
I shook my head wildly. I jumped up and down. A clump of worms fell off—but more seemed to take their place.
I clawed at my arms and chest. I brushed the worms frantically from my neck and face.
I heard a sickening plop as their juicy purple bodies fell to the ground.
I grabbed at the dirt, searching for a tree root to hoist myself out.
I found one.
I grabbed on to it and scaled the grave walls. Climbing up, up.
I was almost out.
I peered over the top of the grave.
The moonlight cast a warm, spooky glow over the tombstones. Over the trees. Shadows shifted over the graves. A heavy mist hung in the air.
The cemetery was quiet. Totally silent.
I reached over the top of the grave with both hands.
With all my strength, I began to pull myself out.
But something was wrong.
My leg seemed to be caught.
I gazed down—and gasped.
Stretching up through the dirt, I saw—a hand. A hand gripping my ankle. A bony, skeleton hand!
Its fingers gripped my ankle tighter and tighter.
“Noooo!” I screamed.
I kicked and kicked.
The bony fingers dug deeper into my flesh.
“Let me goooo!” I shrieked. I tried to pull myself out—over the edge of the grave.
But the hand pulled me down.
Down.
Down to the bottom of the grave.
18
“Let me goooo!” I screamed again and again.
I clawed at the dirt. Found the tree root.
With all my strength, I dragged myself up. Kicking, kicking, trying to kick free of the skeleton’s deadly grip.
I reached the grave opening. Peered over the edge. Started to lift myself out.
My hands began to slip.
Was someone out there?
“Help me!” I screamed. “Somebody, help me!”
The bony fingers tugged at my leg. Pulling me harder. Pulling me down.
Something moved out in the cemetery!
This time I was certain.
A figure moved through the mist. I saw it—moving toward me.
“Help me!” I gasped. “Help . . .”
The figure stopped.
“This way!” I screamed. “Help me! You’ve got to help me!”
The shadowy form moved forward. It heard me! It was coming to save me!
“Hurry!” I cried. “Before it’s too late!”
It moved nearer and nearer. It was a man carrying something. A long pole.
The cemetery caretaker—that’s who it must be!
Then I saw the long black robe. And the peaked hood almost completely covering his head.
Who was this man?
He approached the edge of the grave—and I screamed.
Five long, bony fingers grasped the pole. The hand of a skeleton. Under the hood, no face. Just a skull with red, glowing eyes!
“The third ghost!” I stammered. “The Ghost of Christmas Future.”
The ghost of my future.
19
The ghost slowly nodded its head.
Silently, he drew a bony hand from under his robe and raised it in the air. The index finger glowed yellow in the mist.
With his glowing finger, he pointed to the other side of the cemetery.
To three figures coming through the mist. Coming my way.
As they neared, I could see they were kids. About my height. About my age. A boy with curly blond hair. Another boy with short dark hair. A girl with long blond hair.
These kids would help me!
“Over here!” I shouted. “Help! I can’t hold on much longer!”
The kids came closer. Slowly.
“Hurry!” I yelled.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t quicken their pace.
What’s wrong with them? Why aren’t they running over here? Why don’t they say something?
They came closer.
Something about the way they walked looked strange. So stiff.
Something about their faces looked strange too. Dull and vacant.
“Are you okay?” I shouted up to them. “Are you guys in trouble too?”
The kids stopped at the edge of the grave.
I peered up into their faces—and they began to hum.
Softly at first.
Then louder. More like moaning now.
The boy with the blond hair stood closest to me. “Help me! Give me your hand!” I called out to him.
He didn’t answer.
Their moaning grew louder.
Then, suddenly, it stopped—and the kids began to laugh. And as they did, their faces began to change.
Their eyes bulged out.
Their lips turned black and scaly.
Their skin began to rot away.
I stared in horror as slimy mucus oozed from their pores.
A foul stench drifted down toward me. The stench of their decaying flesh.
Monsters!
They were monsters!
Hideous monsters!
20
“Monsters!” I cried, glancing away from their terrifying faces.
“Look, Kenny!” they shrieked in unison. “Look at us!”
“I—I can’t,” I stammered.
The monsters shrieked with laughter. The girl monster pushed her hideous face close to mine. “Aren’t I beautiful?” she grinned, revealing a row of black, rotted teeth.
“Answer her!” the blond-haired boy ordered.
“You’re—you’re the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!” I choked out.
“You’ll change your mind soon,” the brown-haired monster hooted. “When you look just like us!”
His eyeballs rolled back in his bulging eye sockets and disappeared totally.
“Never!” I shrieked. “I’ll never look like you!”
“Live a monster. Die a monster. Live a monster. Die a monster,” the three hideous creatures began to chant.
They lowered themselves to the edge of the grave. Their stench filled my nostrils. I started to gag.
“Go away!” I shouted. “Leave me alone!”
“Thought you wanted our help,” the brown-haired boy chuckled.
“Help me. Somebody helllp meeee,” the girl mimicked me. “Hur-rry!”
The monsters burst out laughing.
I glanced at the ghost. He held up his glowing finger and the laughter abruptly stopped.
“We used to be just like you!” one of the monsters said. “We loved being mean.”
“Just like you. Just like you,” the three monsters chanted.
The three monsters giggled.
“You are our past,” the girl rasped. “But we are your future!”
“Oh, noooo!” I moaned.
Now I understood.
That woman in Dalby’s called me a monster.
And the wooden soldiers did too.
Live a monster. Die a monster.
Now I definitely understood.
I stared up at the third ghost.
He pointed his glowing finger at me.
He was going to turn me into a monster—for real.
The ghost brushed his finger across my cheek.
“Noooo!” I begged. “Don’t!
“Please, please! Give me a second chance! I’ll do anything! Anything! I’ll change. I’ll be . . . good!”
21
“Please!” I screamed. “Please! Please!”
“Calm down, son!” A light flashed on above me. “Believe me. There’s nothing to get upset about!”
Someone grabbed my arm. I opened my eyes. It was a security guard. A Dalby’s security guard.
“The door jams now and then,” the guard explained as he led me out of the closet.
A crowd of shoppers gathered around us. I could see Santa’s Village just ahead.
“It took us a while to realize you were in there,” the guard continued as he patted me on the shoulder. “With all the noise out here, it was hard to hear you yelling!”
I glanced back over my shoulder at the computer control room. The guard reached back and closed the door.
I checked my wristwatch: 7:50.
I checked the date window: 12-24.
“Is it still Christmas Eve?” I asked—just to make sure.
“Of course it’s Christmas Eve,” he replied with a puzzled look. “But the store closes in ten minutes. If we hadn’t found you now, you might have been here right through Christmas Day!”
I glanced down Santa Street.
I saw Santa give the last kid in line a candy cane.
The kid beamed a smile from ear to ear!
I saw all the cheerful little elves gather around the Christmas tree to sing one last Christmas carol.
I’d never seen anything so wonderful in my whole life.
“Your mom and sister thought you’d left without them,” the guard went on. “So they went home. You’d better hurry back, before they start to worry about you!”
“Right, I’d better hurry!” I agreed.
I checked my watch again: 7:55.
Only five minutes till the store closed.
Was it enough time?
I raced over to the doll display.
I had to find that cute little ballerina doll! Kristi never did finish telling Santa about it. And it was my fault. If I didn’t give it to her, who would?
I spotted the doll at the bottom of a pile of dolls. I snapped it up and ran over to a salesclerk.
“How much is this doll?” I asked.
“Oh, that one is ten dollars,” the lady said pleasantly. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I let out a sigh.
I reached into my pocket—even though I knew I had only a
five-dollar bill.
“Do you have a smaller doll? One that costs five dollars?” I asked the clerk as I unfolded the bill.
I glanced down—and gasped with surprise.
In my hand I held a ten-dollar bill!
“Here you are!” I exclaimed, handing her the money. “I can buy this doll after all. Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you too.” The woman smiled. She dropped the doll in a bag and carefully reached over the counter to give it to me.
I raced through the store.
“Merry Christmas!” I shouted, and waved as I glided down the escalator. “Merry Christmas, everybody!”
“It’s Kenny Frobisher,” I heard a woman exclaim.
“No, it can’t be,” another woman said. “Kenny Frobisher never said anything nice to anyone.”
“But it is me,” I shouted. “And a happy new year too!” I exclaimed as I dashed out the store.
22
I ran all the way home, hugging the shopping bag that held Kristi’s gift.
As I dashed down Fear Street, I saw the Christmas wreaths on all our neighbors’ doors. Through their windows, I could see their Christmas trees all lit up. They looked so beautiful!
But the most beautiful tree stood in the big front window at 27 Fear Street. My house.
I knocked hard on the front door. Mom flung it open.
“Kenny!” she exclaimed. “There you are!” Her face lit up with a huge smile. “I was so worried about you, honey!”
“Merry Christmas, Mom!” I greeted her. I jumped inside and ran into the living room.
The Christmas tree, the roaring fire in the fireplace, the Christmas music—it was all perfect. Just the way Christmas Eve is supposed to be.
Dad sat in front of the tree. There was an old book on his lap. Mom sat down next to Kristi in front of the fireplace.
On the coffee table sat a tray with mugs of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of homemade cookies.
“Sorry, Kenny,” Dad said softly. “We were reading A Christmas Carol I know how you hate it.”
“Not anymore, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. I grabbed a mug of hot chocolate and flopped down on the couch. “I love it! It’s one of my favorite stories now!”
Laughing, Dad shook his head. “Since when, Kenny?” he asked. “How did that happen?”
I took a sip from my mug and snuggled into the couch pillows. “It’s a long story, Dad,” I replied.