Nightmare Hour Page 9

  How old was she? I couldn’t tell. Maybe thirty, maybe younger.

  She squeezed my arm with a smooth, pale hand. “Are you afraid?” she asked. Her voice was soft and velvety.

  “N-no,” I stammered. “I don’t think so.”

  She squeezed my arm tighter, until it whitened beneath her fingers. “You should be,” she said.

  I held my breath.

  Was coming here a horrible mistake?

  Finally she let go of my arm. Her black fingernails sparkled as she raised her hand and brushed back my stringy, mouse-brown hair.

  She didn’t smile. “Stephanie, why do you want to be a witch?” she asked.

  I let out a long sigh. “Because I’m so unhappy,” I said.

  Then I didn’t hold back. I let it all out.

  I told her how I hate my looks, my pointed chin, my piggy snub nose, my scraggly hair. I told her how I have no friends. How the kids at school tease me because I’m ugly and cross-eyed.

  I told Gemma the horrible nicknames the kids call me. I told her how even the teachers don’t like me. How they’re all so mean to me. How both my parents ignore me and give all their attention to Roddy, my baby brother.

  I told her a lot more. It was so hard to tell it all, and it made me feel good at the same time.

  Maybe someone would finally understand how unhappy I am. Maybe Gemma would see why I had to forget my fear and come to see her.

  Her silvery eyes didn’t blink or move from my face as I told my long, painful story. The sunlight kept fading, then returning, casting us in shadow, then brightness.

  In the other room a clock ticked loudly.

  I stopped to catch my breath. I gazed around the cluttered kitchen, at the wonderful, mysterious bottles of insect wings and animal parts.

  Gemma frowned suddenly. “So you are very unhappy, Stephanie,” she said softly. “But why do you come to me, dear? Why do you want to be a witch?”

  “I--I want powers!” I shouted. “I want to be able to show the others, to pay them all back for being so cruel to me, for making fun of me, for picking on me, for never giving me a chance.”

  Gemma squinted at me. “Revenge? You just want revenge?”

  “No! Not just revenge!” I cried, my voice rising with excitement. “People come to you. They come to you for help. They’re afraid of you. But they respect you. I--I want people to respect me too!”

  I was breathing hard now. Tears poured down my cheeks.

  With a toss of her head Gemma swung her black hair over her shoulder. “You really want to be like me?” she asked, still studying me with those intense eyes. “You really want me to give you powers?”

  I nodded eagerly, letting the tears flow. “Yes. Please. It’s all I dream about. I’ll do anything.”

  Her eyes widened. “Anything?” She motioned for me to sit down on a kitchen stool.

  “I can do as you ask, Stephanie,” she said softly. “But the price will be…high.”

  “Price?” I choked out.

  “Of course,” Gemma said, crossing her arms over the front of the black dress. “A very high price. You may not wish to pay it.”

  “I’ll do anything,” I repeated. “I don’t have any money, but--”

  “Stephanie, I don’t want money,” Gemma interrupted. “Money means nothing to me. If you are serious about becoming a witch, you must pay a much higher price than money.”

  “Wh-what is it?” I asked. “What do you want?”

  Gemma didn’t hesitate. “Bring me your baby brother!”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “Your baby brother. That is the price,” she said. “Bring him to me, and I will make you a witch.”

  I stared at her, tears still stinging my eyes. My throat suddenly ached. My stomach felt heavy and tight.

  Can I bring her the baby? I wondered.

  Can I really do that?

  Dad was in the den, his face buried in the newspaper. He didn’t even look up when I came in. I called hi to him, and he grunted in reply.

  I found Mom in the kitchen, snapping string beans. “Hi,” I said. She knows I hate string beans. I think that’s why we have them nearly every night.

  “Your hair is a mess,” Mom said. “Can’t you do anything with it?”

  “I--I don’t know,” I answered.

  “If you tried harder, you could look almost pretty,” Mom said without glancing up from her beans.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” I replied.

  She never says anything nice to me. Never.

  “Where’s Roddy?” I asked.

  “He’s in his crib. Napping. Don’t wake him up,” Mom said. “It took me hours to get him to go down. Don’t go into his room at all, Stephanie. You always scare him.”

  “No problem,” I muttered.

  I left the kitchen and went straight to Roddy’s room. He was sleeping, all curled in a ball, in his cuddly yellow feet pajamas. He was pink and bald and as cute as can be.

  I rested my arms on the bars of the crib and gazed down at the little guy. My hands were suddenly cold. My stomach churned.

  Can I really do this? I wondered.

  Can I steal my baby brother and hand him over to a witch?

  I lowered my face toward him. He opened his eyes--and his fat, pink hand shot up and grabbed my hair.

  “Ow!” I gasped.

  He tugged my hair with all his strength.

  “Let go!” I jerked my head up. But he held on--and pulled my hair into his mouth.

  “Roddy--let go!” I grabbed his little fist with both hands and struggled to pry it open.

  He’s always grabbing things. And he’s so strong. Once he wrapped his tiny fingers around my nose and squeezed it so hard, it bled.

  “Let go! You’re really hurting me!” I cried. I finally pulled his fist open and jerked my hair free.

  Roddy opened his mouth and began to scream at the top of his lungs, waving his fists angrily in the air.

  “What’s going on?” Mom burst into the room. “Stephanie--I told you not to wake him up!”

  “But--but--” I sputtered. “It’s not my fault! He pulled my hair!”

  “Get out!” Mom ordered, picking up the baby. “You’re always scaring him. Just get out!”

  I turned and ran.

  I tore into my room and threw myself facedown on my bed.

  I suddenly knew I could do it. I could take Roddy to Gemma.

  No problem.

  I waited until late at night. Mom and Dad had gone to bed. Roddy was asleep.

  I crept into his room and tiptoed up to his crib. He was making soft cooing sounds, his tiny thumb curled in his mouth.

  I suddenly realized I was shaking all over.

  “I’m sorry, Roddy,” I whispered. “I have to do this. I have no choice.”

  I picked the little guy up and held him against my chest. He felt so soft and warm. He smelled so good. He cooed softly but didn’t wake up.

  Tiptoeing, trying not to make a sound, I carried him out into the hall.

  Am I really doing this? I asked myself, still shaking.

  I swallowed hard. I knew if I stopped to think, I’d put Roddy back in his crib, and that would be that.

  So I ran.

  I ran through the front hall. Across the living room. And out the front door.

  I ran down the front lawn, crossed the street, and kept running. The wind whispered through the trees. No moon or stars in the sky. No cars on the street.

  Nestling the baby tightly against my chest, I ran through the darkness, ran all the way up the steep hill to Gemma’s house.

  I didn’t stop to knock. I burst breathlessly through the front door.

  I found Gemma in the kitchen, standing at the stove, brewing a pot of thick, black tea.

  I stopped in the doorway. Roddy cooed in my arms, still asleep.

  Gemma turned to me, her eyes wide with surprise.

  What am I doing? I asked myself again. Am I really going to give her my little bro
ther?

  Yes.

  I’d dreamed of changing my life for so long…

  I shut my eyes--and shoved Roddy into her arms. “Here,” I whispered.

  Gemma’s mouth dropped open. She held the baby out in front of her like a football she was about to punt. She kept staring from me to the baby, then back to me.

  “You really are serious, Stephanie,” she said finally, unable to hide her surprise. “You really want to become a witch.”

  I nodded.

  Roddy raised his tiny arms and stretched. His eyes were still closed.

  “Wh-what are you going to do with him?” I asked Gemma in a trembling voice.

  Gemma grinned. She smoothed a finger under Roddy’s soft chin. “I need baby powder,” she said. “I’m going to grind his bones.”

  “NO!” I screeched. “You can’t!”

  Gemma tossed back her head and laughed. “I’m teasing you, Stephanie,” she said. “I was just joking.”

  “Well, what are you going to do with him?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied, raising the baby to her bony shoulder. “This was just a test, Stephanie.”

  “Huh? A test?” I gasped.

  “I wanted to see how serious you were,” she replied. “I needed to see just how far you were willing to go.”

  “Well, I showed you,” I said. “Now, will you keep your part of the bargain?”

  “Come here,” Gemma said. She carried the baby to the kitchen counter. I followed her, my heart thudding in my chest, my legs shaky and weak.

  Gemma pointed to two green capsules on the counter. “I mixed these up this afternoon,” she said. “You swallow one, and I’ll swallow one. And we’ll trade bodies.”

  “What?” I gasped. I grabbed the counter to keep myself from falling. “Trade bodies?”

  Gemma nodded, her soft, black hair falling over her shoulders.

  “You will enter my body and become Gemma the witch, with all my knowledge and powers,” she said, smiling. “And I will float into your body and be Stephanie the twelve-year-old. We will trade bodies and trade lives.”

  “But--why?” I demanded. “You are so beautiful and so powerful. Why on earth would you want to trade places with me?”

  Gemma sighed. “I’m very lonely here. And tired of spells and curses. I’m bored. I like the idea of starting over in a new body, in a new family.”

  Roddy opened his eyes wide and gazed around. Gemma shifted him to her other shoulder. “Easy,” she whispered tenderly to him. “Easy, little fellow. You’re going to be my brother now.”

  I swallowed. “Are you sure you really want to live with my family? Do you really want to have my life?”

  Gemma’s eyes narrowed coldly. “Don’t waste my time, Stephanie. You’ve come this far. You’re so close to the moment you dreamed of. Will you do it? Will you swallow the capsule and trade places with me?”

  I hesitated. I stared at Roddy, then at the two green capsules on the counter.

  I’ll be beautiful, I thought.

  I’ll have power and magic.

  People will respect me. People will come to me for help. People will fear me….

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll do it, Gemma. I’m ready.”

  Gemma’s eyes flashed excitedly. “Excellent!” she cried. Grinning at me, she grabbed a capsule off the counter, slid it into her mouth, and swallowed.

  I took a deep breath. My hand shook as I reached for the other capsule.

  “Hurry, Stephanie! Do it now!” the witch said.

  But before I could pick it up, Roddy’s hand shot out--and grabbed it.

  “No!” we both shrieked.

  Roddy stuffed the capsule into his mouth. And swallowed.

  “No! No! No!” I screamed.

  I stared in horror, helpless horror. It took only a few seconds for them to trade bodies.

  Roddy was the witch now, standing at the counter in Gemma’s body, wearing Gemma’s black dress.

  He held the baby in his arms. Gemma, squirming frantically, shot her tiny fists into the air. Gemma the baby now, in the arms of Roddy the witch.

  And there I stood. Still me. Still Stephanie.

  “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll pay you back for this!” the witch boomed angrily at me.

  I lowered my gaze to the red-faced baby.

  “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll pay you both back for this!” he squeaked.

  The Ghostly Stare

  INTRODUCTION

  ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN JUDE PALENCAR

  I’ve never seen a ghost, but my friend Richie claims she has. Richie grew up in New Orleans, and she says a ghost lived in her house. She saw him several times, wrapped in a silvery glow, and she wasn’t at all afraid. I said, “Maybe you weren’t afraid, but how do you get rid of a ghost? Do you stare him down? Do you chase him away?”

  Richie shook her head. “We couldn’t get rid of him. We had to move.”

  I remembered this conversation when I wrote this story. How do you defeat a ghost that wants to possess you? Can you stare it down? What happens if you try?

  Mark and I didn’t really want to go on the class trip to the graveyard. But it meant we got out of school, and that’s always a good thing.

  The Graystone Graveyard is at the end of our street. We pass by it every day on our way to and from school. It’s a very old graveyard. It goes back to Pilgrim days. The gravestones are all cracked and tilted and broken. And a lot of people say the place is haunted.

  Mark and I don’t believe in ghosts. But we always walk on the other side of the street. Why take chances?

  Mark and I are twins. People always try to be funny and ask, “Are you identical twins?” Ha ha. Mark is a boy and I’m a girl. We’re Mark and Lauren, the Goodman twins. I like being a twin, except for the dumb jokes.

  It had snowed during the night, just enough to leave a thin, powdery cover over the ground. Our shoes crunched over the patchy snow as our social studies class stepped up to the old iron cemetery gate.

  The wind howled through the trees and made the bare branches whip around, sending showers of snow over us as we walked. I pulled up the hood on my down parka and slid my new gloves over my hands.

  I loved my new gloves. My favorite aunt gave them to me on my twelfth birthday. They were beautiful--soft brown leather on the outside, and lined with some kind of fur inside that made them toasty warm.

  “I hope everyone brought Ghost Repellent!” Miss Applebaum, our teacher, called. Where does she come up with these crazy ideas? Going to the old cemetery on the coldest day of the year to do gravestone tracings?

  “Do you know what to do if you see a ghost?” Rachel Miller asked, pushing her way between Mark and me.

  “Yeah. Run!” Mark exclaimed.

  “No. That’s exactly wrong,” Rachel told him. “My grandmother taught me this. You give the ghost a ghostly stare.”

  I rolled my eyes. “A ghostly stare? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rachel stopped walking. She grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward her. Then she raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes wide, as wide as they could go. “Lauren, this is a ghostly stare.”

  Mark laughed. “You look like a geek.”

  “Don’t laugh,” Rachel snapped. “It could save your life. My grandmother knew about these things. She said never run. Instead, you stare into the ghost’s eyes. Stare as deeply as you can, as if staring at the ghost’s soul.”

  Rachel gave Mark the wide-eyed stare. “Don’t blink,” she instructed. “Stare at the ghost’s soul.”

  “Why does that work?” I asked.

  “Because ghosts are dead,” Rachel replied, still staring at Mark. “They don’t have souls. Your stare goes right through them. They can’t defend themselves against it. It makes them shrivel up and disappear.”

  Rachel talks a mile a minute. She thinks she’s an expert on everything. I don’t really like Rachel. She pretends to be my friend. But I know it’s only because she has a crush
on Mark.

  “Can I be your partner, Lauren?” Rachel asked. “Miss Applebaum said we have to have partners. Do you believe in ghosts? I do. My grandmother told me she saw one rise up from one of these old graves.”

  “Remember the Klavans’ dog?” Mark said. “It used to prowl around in the graveyard, and then one day it disappeared. Hilary Klavan said a ghost reached up from a grave and pulled the dog into the ground. Hilary saw it! That’s why she started to stutter.”

  I frowned at Mark. I’d never heard that story. I think he made it up to impress Rachel.

  Miss Applebaum opened the iron gate, and we followed her into the graveyard. Rows of black and gray gravestones poked up through the shallow snow.

  The old stones tilted at all angles, like crooked teeth. Most of them were cracked and broken. Several had fallen over and lay on their backs, covered with snow.

  We passed some simple markers and crosses with no inscriptions at all. Leaning into the wind, Miss Applebaum led us up the sloping hill to some larger stones. Many had been rubbed smooth by time. Others had long inscriptions etched into the stone.

  “Too cold for the ghosts to come out today!” Miss Applebaum joked. “Let’s get to work now, everybody!”

  We split up. Rachel and I made our way around to the other side of the hill. I thought it might be less windy here, but I was wrong. A strong gust pushed back my hood. My long, red hair flew up in the air like a flag.

  We crunched over the snow, bending to read the old inscriptions on the stones. Some of the gravestones were from the sixteen-hundreds.

  “Nothing too interesting here,” Rachel complained. “Let’s try those old ones down there.”

  We stopped at the first grave we came to. The tiny, old stone was cracked and chipped. I kneeled down to read the inscription: ABIGAIL WILLEY. 1680–1692. REST IN HEAVEN, CHILD.

  “Wow!” I cried, staring hard at the dates. “Rachel--she was our age!”

  Rachel leaned down to read it too. “I wonder how she died, Lauren. Everyone died so young in those days.” Rachel opened her backpack and pulled out the tracing-paper pad. “Let’s do this one. It’s a really cool one.”