Liar Liar

  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. Let me introduce you to Ross Arthur. He’s that boy with straight, brown hair and a slightly crooked smile, talking to two girls by the swimming pool.

  You might say that Ross has everything. He’s popular, smart, and good looking. His father is an exec for a big movie studio. Ross lives in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool and tennis courts in his backyard.

  A perfect life? Not quite.

  Ross has a little problem. He constantly tells stories. Some people might call them lies. In fact, Ross has told so many lies to so many people, it’s hard for him to tell what’s real and what isn’t.

  Ross’s little problem is about to take him to a frightening place—The Nightmare Room. And once he’s inside, Ross is going to make a terrifying discovery—you can’t talk your way out!

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Go Deeper Into This Nightmare…

  About the Author

  Preview: The Nightmare Room #5 Dear Diary, I’m Dead

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  When I was little, a kid told me that everyone has an exact double somewhere in the world. I told the kid he was crazy.

  I’m twelve now. And I just saw my exact double. Of course, I didn’t believe my eyes. He didn’t just look like me—he was me!

  I wasn’t staring into a mirror. I was staring at a boy with my face—my straight, brown hair, my blue eyes, my sort-of crooked smile. My FACE! My BODY! I was staring at ME! ME!

  I know, I know. I sound a little crazed.

  But you’d be crazed too if you had an exact double, and you didn’t know who he was or where he came from.

  I’m going to take a deep breath. That’s what my dad always tells me to do. “Take a deep breath, Ross,” he says.

  My dad is a studio exec—one of the bosses at Mango Pictures. He spends his day arguing with movie producers, directors, and movie stars. He says he takes about a million deep breaths a day. It helps keep him calm.

  So, I’m going to take a deep breath. And I’m going to start my story at the beginning. Or maybe a little before the beginning.

  By the way, I lied about the blue eyes.

  I don’t have blue eyes. Actually, they’re dark gray. Which is almost blue—right?

  I guess I’ll start my story at school. I go to Beverly Hills Middle School, which is only a few blocks from my house.

  I know what you’re thinking. I’m so lucky to have a dad in the movie business and live in a big house in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool and a tennis court, and our own screening room in the basement.

  You’re right. It’s lucky. I’m very lucky. But I still have problems. Lots of problems.

  The other morning Cindy Matson was my problem. I ran into Cindy in the hall between classes, and I could see she was really steamed. Her face was red, and she kept tugging at her black bangs, then clenching and unclenching her fists. Tense. Extremely tense.

  “Ross—where were you?” she asked, blocking my way.

  Cindy is taller than I am. She’s at least seven or eight feet tall. And she works out. She could be a stuntwoman for Xena: Warrior Princess. So I try to stay on her good side.

  “Uh…where was I?” I thought it might be safe to repeat the question.

  But Cindy exploded anyway. “Remember? You were going to meet me? We were going to Urban Outfitters together yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “But you see…” I had to think quickly. “My tennis lesson got switched. Because my regular instructor hurt his hand. He was trying to open one of those cans of tennis balls. And his hand got stuck, and he sprained his wrist. Really. So my lesson got moved. And my racket was being restrung. So I had to go to the tennis shop on Wilshire and get a loaner.”

  I stopped to breathe. Was she buying that excuse?

  No.

  “Ross, that is so not true,” Cindy said, rolling her eyes. “Your tennis lessons are on Saturday. Can’t you ever just tell the truth? You forgot about me—right? You just forgot.”

  “No way,” I insisted. “Actually, what happened was … the truth. The total truth. My dog got sick, and Mom asked me to help take him to the vet. And so I—”

  “When did you get a dog?” Cindy interrupted.

  “Huh?” I stared at the floor, thinking hard. She was right. We don’t have a dog.

  Sometimes I work so hard on these stories, I mess up some of the details.

  Cindy rolled her eyes for about the thousandth time. “You do remember that you’re going with me to Max’s pool party Friday night—don’t you?”

  I had completely forgotten.

  “Of course,” I said. “No way I’d forget that.”

  The bell rang. We were both late for class.

  We turned and jogged off in different directions. I turned a corner—and bumped into Sharma Gregory.

  Sharma is tiny and blond and speaks in a mousy whisper. She is the anti-Cindy. She’s very pretty, and she’s a true brainiac. Last April she won a trip to Washington, D.C., because of an essay she wrote. (But she didn’t go because she was invited to a really cool Oscar party.)

  “Hey, Ross—” She pointed at me. “Max’s party Friday night—right?”

  I grinned at her. “Yeah. For sure.”

  “Should I meet you there, or do you want to come over to my house first?”

  Oh, wow. I’d also asked Sharma to go with me to the party!

  Why did I invite her? She’d let me copy off her chemistry test. So I thought I’d give her a break.

  “Uh … I’ll meet you there,” I said. I flashed her a thumbs-up and hurried into English class.

  I closed the classroom door carefully behind me and tiptoed to my seat. I hoped Miss Douglas wouldn’t notice I was late. Luckily, my seat is in the back row, so it’s easy to sneak in and out.

  “Ross, you’re late,” Miss Douglas called.

  “Uh … yeah,” I said, tugging my notebook from my backpack. Think fast, Ross. “I had to stay late in Mr. Harrison’s class and … uh … help him return some books to the library. Mr. Harrison meant to give me a late pass, but he forgot.”

  Miss Douglas nodded. I think she believed me.

  “If you will all take out your essays,” she said, straightening the books on her desk. She’s always lining up the things on her desk, making them perfectly straight.

  “I’d like for some of you to share your essays with the class. Why don’t we start with you, Ross?” She flashed me a toothy grin. Her gums show when she smiles.

  “Uh … share my essay?” I had to stall for time. Had to think fast.

  I started the essay last night. Well,
actually, I started to think about starting the essay. But then WWF Smackdown came on. And by the time it was over, it was time to go to bed.

  Miss Douglas’s grin faded. “Do you have your essay, Ross?”

  “Well, I wrote it,” I told her. “But it’s still in my computer. Because we had some kind of electrical backup or something at my house. And my printer blew up! Smoke was pouring out of it like a toaster. So I couldn’t print what I wrote. But I’m getting a new printer after school. So I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”

  Good one, huh?

  At least, I thought it was good. But before I knew it, Miss Douglas swept down the aisle until she stood right over me.

  She gazed down at me sternly through her red-rimmed glasses. “Ross,” she said through gritted teeth. “Listen to me. Be careful. If you keep this up, you may fail this course.”

  I stared back at her. “Keep what up?” I asked.

  I hurried to my locker after school. Some guys wanted to hang out, but I couldn’t. I knew my dad was waiting outside to drive me to my acting class.

  Dad isn’t thrilled about my acting lessons. But Jerry Nadler, my teacher, is an old friend of Dad’s. And Jerry says I have talent. He says I look like a young Tom Cruise. And he thinks my crooked smile will make people remember me.

  I know I don’t have much chance of being a big movie star. A lot of movie stars come to my house, and they’re really awesome people. But I wouldn’t mind maybe acting in some commercials and making a lot of money.

  I started to toss stuff into my locker. But then I stopped and let out a groan. A brown envelope stuck out from the pile of books on the floor. My dad had asked me to mail it for him two days ago, but I forgot.

  I’ll mail it tomorrow, I decided. I slammed the locker shut and clicked the combination lock. I saw Cindy waving to me down the hall. But I shouted that I was late.

  “Where are you going?” she called.

  “Uh … got to help my mom do some charity work,” I called back. “Collecting candles for the homeless!”

  Why did I say that?

  Why didn’t I just tell her the truth? Sometimes I don’t know why I make up these stories. I guess I do it because I can!

  I flashed her a thumbs-up and made my way out the front door.

  Dad’s black Mercedes was parked right across the street. It was a sunny day, bright blue skies, hot as summer even though it was late autumn. The sun made the car sparkle like a big, black jewel.

  “Yo yo yo!” Dad greeted me. “What up, Ross? What up, dude?” He thinks it’s funny to talk really dumb, ancient rap talk. Mom says if we just ignore it, maybe he’ll stop.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said. I slid onto the black leather passenger seat. “Ow.” It was burning hot from the sun.

  Dad checked himself out in the rearview mirror. He patted down the sides of his hair.

  Dad is very young looking, and he’s proud of it. He has straight brown hair and dark gray eyes, just like me. I see him check out his hair every time he passes a mirror, making sure he isn’t losing any.

  He’s always tanned. He says it’s part of the job. He always wears the same thing—black pants and a black T-shirt under an open sports jacket. He says it’s the company uniform. Just like the black Mercedes is the company car.

  Dad is always making fun of the movie business. But I know he loves being a studio big shot.

  He checked the mirror again, then pulled the car away from the curb. I leaned forward and turned the air-conditioning to high.

  “I’ve got to stop at the Universe Films lot and see a producer I’m trying to sign up,” Dad said. “Then I’ll take you to Jerry. How are you and Jerry getting along? Is he teaching you anything?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s good. We’ve mainly been reading scripts. You know. Out loud.”

  Dad snickered. “You ready for your screen test?”

  I laughed, too. “Not yet.”

  The car phone rang. He pressed the phone button on the steering wheel and talked to his secretary about some budget mixups.

  Palm trees rolled past us on both sides. Dad turned to me. “You mailed that envelope, right? It had very important contracts inside.”

  “Yeah. I mailed it,” I said. A white lie. I knew I’d mail it tomorrow.

  “Whew. That’s good.” Dad sighed. “If it’s late, they’ll nail my hide to the wall.”

  “No problem,” I replied.

  “I’ve been out of the ’hood, on location so long, we haven’t had a chance to rap much,” Dad said. “How’s school?”

  “Great!” I told him. “Miss Douglas said today I’ll probably make the honor roll.”

  “Hey—all right!” Dad slapped me a high five and nearly drove off the road.

  The phone rang again. Dad talked until we pulled into the Universe lot. The guard waved us through.

  I’d been here with him before. We drove past the long, low white buildings until Dad found a parking space.

  He ushered me into a big room that looked more like a living room than an office. It had two long, red leather couches, facing each other on a thick, white pile carpet, red drapes that matched the couches, three TV sets, a black-and-chrome bar, and bookshelves all around.

  No desk.

  “This is Mort’s office,” Dad said. “You wait here. I’ll only be five minutes. This is really important to me. I’ve got to sign Mort on the dotted line.”

  He gestured to the tall shelves cluttered with framed photos, award statues, plaques, vases, and other junk. “Look around. But be careful, Ross. Don’t touch anything. Mort is a nut about his collections. He goes berserk if he finds a fingerprint on anything!”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “I’ve got to get this guy on my side,” Dad said. Then he vanished out the door.

  I settled onto one of the red couches. I sank about two feet into the cushion! It was the softest couch I’d ever sat on in my life!

  After a minute or two I got bored. I walked over to the shelves and began to check out all of the photos and awards.

  I saw a framed photo of Mort and the President of the United States, grinning together on a golf course. It was signed by the President.

  And there were dozens of other photos of Mort with movie stars and important-looking people.

  One shelf held a knight’s helmet and a gleaming silver sword. Probably props from a movie.

  The next shelf was filled with award statuettes and plaques. I stopped in front of a familiar gold statue. An Academy Award! An Oscar!

  I rubbed my hand over its smooth, shiny head. I realized I’d never touched an Oscar before.

  “Totally cool!” I said out loud.

  I couldn’t stop myself. I had to hold it. I had to see how heavy it was, and what it felt like to actually hold an Oscar in my hand.

  It was a lot heavier than I thought. I gripped it tightly in both hands. It was so smooth. The gold gleamed under the ceiling lights.

  Holding it around the middle, I raised it high over my head. “Thank you!” I shouted to an imaginary audience. “Thank you for this award! I love it and I really deserve it!”

  I raised the statuette higher—

  —and it slipped from my hand.

  I fumbled for it. Made a wild stab.

  Missed.

  And watched it crash to the floor.

  It made such a heavy thud as it landed on its side. And then a horrible craaaack! I knew I’d never forget that sick sound.

  I dropped to my knees to pick it up.

  “Please be okay…. Please be okay!”

  No. It wasn’t okay.

  The Oscar’s round head had broken off.

  I held the statue’s body in one hand, the head in the other.

  And then, still on my knees, I heard the rapid click of footsteps.

  Someone was stepping into the office!

  I froze in panic. My heart raced in my chest. I could hear the rasp of my rapid breaths.

  I dived to the couch and franticall
y stuffed the Oscar—both pieces of it—under the couch.

  I glanced up to see Dad enter the room. “Ross? What are you doing down on the floor?”

  “Oh. I … dropped my chewing gum,” I said. “But I got it back.” I climbed shakily to my feet.

  Dad eyed me curiously. “I thought I heard a crash in here. Is everything okay?”

  I shrugged. “A crash? I didn’t hear anything.”

  He studied me for a long moment. “Well … what did you do with the chewing gum?”

  “Swallowed it,” I said.

  That struck him as funny. He laughed. “It went great with Mort. I think I won him over. Come on. Let’s get you to Jerry’s. You’re late.”

  My knees were still shaking as we walked to the car. That was such a close one, I thought. But I should be okay now.

  Of course, I was wrong.

  We got home just before dinnertime. Hannah, our cook, was already bringing dishes to the table. Dad went into the den to make some phone calls.

  I dropped my backpack in my room. Then turned to see my eight-year-old brother, Jake, walk in. “Hey—Jake the Snake!” I greeted him. I raised my hand. “Give me six!”

  “I don’t have six fingers!” Jake whined. “And stop calling me that!”

  “Okay. How about Jake the Jerk?”

  “Don’t call me that, either!” My little brother is the Whining King of Beverly Hills.

  You’ve probably already guessed that we don’t get along. The problem is, Jake and I just don’t have anything in common. He doesn’t have a sense of humor. He isn’t fast thinking.

  He doesn’t even look like me. He looks like Mom’s side of the family—curly, carrot-colored hair, pale white skin, green eyes, a narrow rat face with his front teeth poking out.

  “Hey, Rat Face!” I said. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “I want my comic books back,” he whined. Jake has a huge collection of Japanese comic books.

  “Comic books? I don’t read comic books,” I said.

  “You borrowed them!” Jake cried. “You borrowed them last week. You said you’d return them!”

  “I never borrowed any comic books. Get lost,” I said.

  Why do I torture Jake like that? I don’t know. I had the comic books in my bottom desk drawer. I could just hand them back to him. But I wanted to make him work for them.