The Ooze Read online

  He hit the floor with a dull thud.

  “Tubby! Tubby!” I scrambled over to my dog. “Are you okay?”

  Tubby stared back at me with vacant eyes. The same look Chester had after the ooze sucked out his brain.

  “Oh, Tubby,” I moaned. “He took your brain. He took your brain.”

  Squish. Squish.

  I jerked my head up. The ooze creature loomed over me.

  It was enormous now.

  And so was its brain.

  I could see it pounding, pounding, pounding against its quivering skull.

  “I want the rest of your brain now!” it declared. “I want your brain.”

  “No!” I shouted. “No! You can’t have it. It’s mine! It’s mine!” I kicked and punched the creature’s slimy ooze body. But it was too strong for me.

  It lifted me off the floor.

  It pulled me up to its awful mouth.

  And then, with a horrible slurping sound, it shoved my head down its hot throat.

  18

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  I kicked my legs.

  I beat against the creature’s slimy body with my fists.

  “I’m coming, Al!” I heard Colin shout. “I’m coming!”

  I struggled in the creature’s hold, and suddenly I felt its grasp weaken. Weaken until it dropped me to the floor.

  I watched as it rocked back and forth, moaning in agony.

  And then it began to shrivel.

  “It’s shrinking!” Colin yelled. “It’s shrinking! What did you do to it? What did you do?”

  “I-I didn’t do anything,” I stammered.

  “You must have,” Colin insisted. “You must have done something!”

  We stared at the creature as it withered away—growing smaller and smaller. Turning into a formless glob of ooze.

  I could still see its brain. But it was the size of a pea.

  I could still see its empty eyes.

  And there was its mouth. “Look, Colin! Look!” I pointed to the creature. “It’s opening its mouth!”

  The ooze creature stared up at us.

  It opened its mouth.

  “Arrf.” It barked.

  “Whoa! I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” I shouted.

  “What? What?” Colin asked.

  “Tubby’s brain! Tubby’s brain took over the ooze. It neutralized it!” I said. “I bet it could live on only smart brains. Tubby’s dumb brain must have put him in shock or something. It couldn’t handle Tubby’s dumb brain!”

  I glanced back at Tubby. He seemed exactly the same as always. I guess he didn’t use his brain much.

  “You were right, Colin. The ooze had to be neutralized. And Tubby’s dumb brain did it! It destroyed the creature.”

  “Wow! Wow! Wow!” Colin couldn’t seem to say anything else.

  “Hey! Colin! I’m smart again. I’m smart!” I realized. “I got my brain back! And—I know what we have to do next!”

  “What?” Colin asked, puzzled.

  “We have to get rid of it.” I jerked my head toward the small puddle of ooze. “We’ll stuff it in the cooler and bury it.”

  “Good idea,” Colin agreed. “I’ll get the cooler.”

  I kneeled and tickled Tubby’s ears. He rolled onto his back, and I scratched him on the stomach—his favorite spot.

  “You saved me, Tub-man,” I told him. “If I had a smart pet like Chester, I’d be ooze-food by now.”

  I guarded the ooze puddle until Colin returned with the cooler and a shovel. We shoveled the puddle into the cooler and slammed the lid on. Then I tied a rope around it, just to make sure the lid stayed on tight.

  We dug a deep hole in the backyard—under the apple tree.

  Colin and I began to set the cooler into the hole when Colin said, “Wait!”

  “What? What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “What’s the capital of Brazil?” he asked.

  “Brasilia,” I answered, without even thinking.

  “Great.” Colin grinned. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  We dropped the cooler into the hole and covered it up.

  We stomped on the dirt until it was hard and flat.

  And that was the end of the ooze.

  19

  About a week later everything was back to normal.

  Michelle started to teach Chester how to multiply—now that he’d remembered how to add.

  I gave up trying to teach Tubby how to fetch. It was hard enough when he had a brain. Now it would be impossible. But he’s still a great dog.

  The other Science Bowl kids all got their brains back, too. We apologized to Mr. Emerson. We blamed our weird behavior on the cafeteria food. We begged him to give us another chance, and he finally agreed.

  Which is why I’m stuck outside today studying. I’m spending a great, sunny Saturday afternoon with Science Teasers and Mom, Dad, and Michelle. My three coaches.

  “Next question, Al,” Dad announced. He turned the page of my Science Teasers book. “What was Galileo’s earth-shaking discovery?”

  “I’m sure you know the answer to that one, son,” Mom said with a laugh.

  While I pretended to think, Michelle wandered over to the apple tree.

  “What do you suppose these little orange drops are?” she asked as she gazed at the ground.

  I felt my stomach clench as Mom wandered over to the tree. “I’ve never seen anything like them! They almost glow!” she exclaimed.

  “Maybe it’s some sort of pollution in the water table,” Michelle suggested. “I wonder if they feel as sticky as they look.”

  She reached out her hand to touch one.

  “Don’t!” I shouted. “Don’t go near it! It could be toxic or something.”

  “Al’s probably right,” Mom said, stepping back.

  “I don’t take advice from inferior life-forms,” Michelle declared.

  Then she reached down and rubbed one of the orange drops between her fingers.

  See? Didn’t I tell you that Michelle was just a little too smart for her own good?

  Are you ready for another walk down Fear Street?

  Turn the page for a terrifying sneak preview.

  Mom smiled, then stood up and headed for the door. “Sleep well,” she said, and flicked off the light.

  I watched her leave the room.

  I heard her gently shut my door.

  The room instantly darkened.

  I gulped and glanced up at the ceiling.

  The same ceiling I saw every night. No shadow.

  Then why did I feel someone—or something—was watching me?

  I quickly felt under my bed for my silver Eveready flashlight. I keep it there for late-night reading under the covers.

  I flicked on the flashlight. The beam of light caught the ceiling. My dresser. My closet.

  Nothing unusual. Still, I had that creepy feeling—as if a pair of staring eyes were stalking me.

  I clicked off the flashlight. Then I clicked it on again. Having it on made me feel better.

  I clutched it to my chest and sat up in bed. I slid up against my headboard, my knees pressed to my chest. I pointed the beam of light out in front of me.

  The clock on my dresser said midnight. I felt sleepy, but I couldn’t close my eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about that big, black claw reaching for my throat. And now that I was all alone again, it seemed more real than ever. I shivered and pulled the comforter up to my chin.

  I stared up at the ceiling.

  The head, the horns, the snapping jaw, the shadowy body taking shape on my ceiling. I had seen it. I had no doubts.

  I knew that the shadow monster on my ceiling was real.

  And I knew it was still there. Somewhere.

  And I knew something else.

  I knew it was after me.

  * * *

  Brrring!

  The noise shot straight through my brain. I bolted up in bed, lost my balance, and hit my head against my h
eadboard.

  I rubbed the sore spot with one hand and shut off the ringing alarm clock with the other. Then I flopped back down on my pillow.

  “Yeow!”

  I banged my head against the flashlight. Now both sides of my head ached.

  What a day. And I wasn’t even out of bed yet.

  I picked up the flashlight, trying to remember why I had slept with it.

  The shadow!

  My eyes shot up to the ceiling. Rays of sunlight streaming in from the window lit up the constellations of star stickers there and made them sparkle.

  No shadow.

  I sighed with relief—until I glanced at my clock. And groaned. I’d gotten only three hours of sleep last night.

  I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. I felt so tired I could hardly push my legs into my jeans. It took all my strength to pull my T-shirt and sweater over my head.

  Down in the kitchen I swallowed a few spoonfuls of cereal, then headed for school.

  When the bell rang, I sat at my desk, my head propped up in my hand. Mr. Ridgely waddled in and stood at the front of the room.

  “Good morning, people,” he greeted us in his droning voice. “Let’s go over last night’s reading assignment.”

  I opened my book and stared down at the page. I tried to focus on the words, but they swam in front of my eyes.

  My eyelids began to droop. My head began to nod.

  Bang!

  I shot up in my seat. My heart thudded in my chest.

  Two rows over I spied Bobby bending down to pick up his textbook. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  I thought Bobby’s scare would keep me awake for a while, but it didn’t. My eyelids felt like two twenty-pound weights. I couldn’t keep them open.

  I tried pinching myself whenever they began to close. It worked, but only for a few seconds.

  Finally, I sat up straight. I stared wide-eyed at my textbook. Concentrate! Concentrate! I ordered myself.

  The next thing I knew, I felt a trickle of drool drip down the side of my chin.

  And something hit me in the head.

  I bolted up. Blinked my eyes. I heard everyone laughing.

  I spotted the chalkboard eraser on the floor next to me.

  Mr. Ridgely stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, staring.

  “Sorry to wake you up, Vinny. Have a nice nap?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer—and yawned. Which made everyone laugh even more.

  “Do you have the answer, Mr. Salvo?” Mr. Ridgely asked stiffly.

  Everyone in the classroom grew silent. “Answer?” I chuckled nervously. I didn’t even know what the question was.

  I glanced at the chalkboard. There were numbers scrawled across it. We were doing math.

  I peered over at Bobby for a clue. He shrugged his shoulders.

  I was toast.

  “Vinny, I’m waiting,” Mr. Ridgely said, sneering. “The whole class is waiting. What is the answer?”

  I gulped.

  “Four?” I squeaked.

  Mr. Ridgely’s sneer faded from his face. “That is correct, Mr. Salvo. I apologize. I thought you weren’t paying attention.”

  Whew! What a lucky guess.

  When Ridgely turned back to the chalkboard, I glanced at Bobby again. He wiped his hand across his forehead and mouthed “How did you do that?”

  I didn’t know how I did it—but I did know I wouldn’t be that lucky again. Which definitely kept me awake for the rest of the morning.

  An hour later, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker system. It was our principal, Mr. Emerson.

  “Attention, teachers and students. We will now all proceed to the auditorium for the Art Fair awards!”

  “Please, please make a double line,” Mr. Ridgely ordered.

  The class formed two lines and shuffled down the hall.

  As I stepped into the auditorium Sharon tapped me on the arm. I barely recognized her.

  “What are you doing wearing a dress?” I asked. Sharon usually wears pants and a vest with pockets. She says it makes her look like a real photographer.

  “For the art awards today,” she answered, tugging at her hem. “I wanted to look nice.”

  “Oh,” I yawned. Sharon gabbed away about the awards. I nodded sleepily. Her voice sounded farther and farther away.

  “Helloooo. Vinny, are you with me? Hey, Vin! Wake up!” My head snapped up. Sharon’s nose was about an inch away from mine. She waved her fingers in my face.

  “Uh . . . sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

  “What is with you today? It’s like you’re on another planet.” Sharon stared into my eyes.

  “I didn’t sleep much, okay?” I grumbled.

  She shrugged and pushed her hair back from her face. “Well, fine. But you don’t have to be a major grouch about it.”

  “Do you mind?” Emily Nicholson shouted from a group of kids behind us. “You’re blocking the door.”

  Sharon wrinkled her nose at Emily. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the auditorium. “We need to sit near the front.”

  Sharon dragged me down the aisle, past the rows of worn leather seats. “I want to sit close to the stage. I’m sure my project is going to win.”

  I was sleepy. But not that sleepy. I locked my knees and screeched to a halt. “Your project!” I shouted. “Since when is it your project?”

  “Try since always,” Sharon said matter-of-factly. “I was the one who thought of doing a photo collage. I was the one who came up with the theme—‘neighborhood garbage.’

  “I was the one who took all of the pictures,” Sharon went on. “I was the one who developed them in my darkroom—”

  “Oh, so I didn’t do anything?” I cut in.

  “All you did was glue them to the poster board and frame the picture.” Sharon tried to drag me into a seat.

  I glared at her. I wouldn’t budge.

  “Okay. Okay,” she gave in. “I mean, we are going to win. All right?”

  I gave her a “that’s better” look and we sat down.

  Mr. Emerson stepped up on stage and coughed into the microphone a few times. Then he started one of his long, long speeches. I closed my eyes and dozed off.

  “ . . . And congratulations to all the students who entered this contest. Everyone did a great job!” Mr. Emerson finished. He started clapping. Sharon nudged me in the side. I clapped, too.

  Then Ms. Young, our art teacher, took the stage to give out the awards. The kids she announced marched up to the stage. Ms. Young handed them each a ribbon and a certificate, and Mr. Emerson shook their hand. Then they lined up behind him. Big deal.

  “And in the photography category, the award goes to Sharon Lipp and Vinny Salvo,” Ms. Young said.

  Sharon jumped up from her seat and pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”

  She tugged on her dress and headed up the stage steps. I followed her, but I tripped on the last step and bumped into Mr. Emerson.

  “Whoa, there,” he said. He grabbed my sweater to keep me from falling off the stage.

  The entire auditorium rocked with laughter.

  My face felt hot—and I knew it was red. My head down, I followed Sharon as she marched to the podium.

  “I thought we would get a trophy, at least,” Sharon complained. We took our place at the far end of the line. “I worked so hard.”

  Before I could argue with her, Mr. Emerson said, “Smile, everyone.”

  Dustin Crowley, the school photographer, stepped up to take our picture for the school newspaper.

  Dustin lifted the camera. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. “I forgot to load the film. Um . . . stay right there. Be right back.” Then he raced out of the auditorium.

  My eyes began to droop.

  My glance fell to the floor—and I gulped.

  Something was wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  I saw shadows on the floor—six in all.

  Six shadows—but only five winners on stag
e.

  I counted the shadows again.

  Definitely six.

  My heart began to hammer in my chest as I stared at the sixth shadow. The one that didn’t belong to anyone.

  It shifted on the floor—changing into something that didn’t look anything like a kid.

  I tore my eyes away. Peered out into the audience.

  I took a deep breath and tried not to glance down—but I couldn’t help it. I did.

  And gasped—as two twisted horns began to take shape. Then pointy teeth in an alligator snout. And big round eyes.

  A thin body began to form. With long legs. And arms that ended in sharp claws!

  I leaped back.

  It was the shadow. The one I had seen in my bedroom!

  The shadow started to slide across the stage. Across the shadows of all the winners—heading straight for me.

  About R. L. Stine

  R. L. Stine, the creator of Ghosts of Fear Street, has written almost one hundred scary novels for kids. The Ghosts of Fear Street series, like the Fear Street series, takes place in Shadyside and centers on the scary events that happen to people on Fear Street.

  When he isn’t writing, R. L. Stine likes to play pinball on his very own pinball machine and explore New York City with his wife, Jane, and son, Matt.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Minstrel Paperback published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1996 by Parachute Press, Inc.

  THE OOZE WRITTEN BY STEPHEN ROOS

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN 0-671-52948-X

  ISBN 978-1-4424-8736-9 (eBook)

  First Minstrel Books printing May 1996

  FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.

  A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.