Scream and Scream Again!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction by R.L. Stine

  The Best Revenge by R.L. Stine

  Raw Head and Bloody Bones by Bruce Hale

  Bricks and Bones by Emmy Laybourne

  Ring and Run by Steve Hockensmith

  The Unknown Patriot by Chris Grabenstein

  Summer of Sharks by Lisa Morton

  Rule Seven by Ray Daniel

  Cat Got Your Tongue by Wendy Corsi Staub

  The I Scream Truck by Beth Fantaskey

  The Witch of Byron’s Bayou by Heather Graham

  Bloodstone by Phil Mathews

  Area Code 666 by Carter Wilson

  The Trouble with Squirrels by Doug Levin

  The Necklace and the Monster by Jeff Soloway

  The Only Child by Joseph S. Walker

  Kamikaze Iguanas by Alison McMahan

  The Nightmare Express by Daniel Palmer

  The Girl in the Window by Tonya Hurley

  Feed the Birds by Stephen Ross

  The Platform by Peter Lerangis

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  by R.L. Stine

  YAAAAAAIIIIIII!

  That scream is to kick off an entire book of screams, and howls, and mystery, and horror, and frantic suspense, and cries in the night.

  When you read a book, do you enjoy a cold tingle of fear at the back of your neck? A tense feeling that tightens every muscle in your body and makes you suddenly breathless?

  You’ve come to the right place.

  We call this book Scream and Scream Again because every story begins or ends with a scream. And trust me, there are plenty of screams in between.

  Here are twenty scary stories by twenty different authors. Some of them you know, and some of them will be scaring you for the first time. I promise every story will be a scream.

  For example:

  “The Platform” by Peter Lerangis begins with a girl falling onto the subway tracks as a speeding train approaches. Our hero, Justin Blonsky, dives to rescue her. The terror and screams build from there.

  In “Cat Got Your Tongue” by Wendy Corsi Staub, kids start hearing screams in the night. Are they the cries of bobcats? Or has something more terrifying moved into the woods?

  Chris Grabenstein takes us back in history in “The Unknown Patriot.” In this story a field trip to Colonial Williamsburg takes a boy time traveling to a frightening night nearly three hundred years ago.

  In Emmy Laybourne’s story “Bricks and Bones,” Ben and Jamal, two skateboarding dudes, decide to skate in a place they never should have entered—and may never escape.

  Who can create the most terrifying Halloween haunted house? A competition to see who can scare people the most goes badly out of control in Bruce Hale’s shivery nightmare of a story “Raw Head and Bloody Bones.”

  And much, much more. Twenty stories. Twenty authors. All waiting to give you the shivers and shakes. So . . . what are you waiting for?

  Let the screams begin!

  The Best Revenge

  by R.L. Stine

  THIS STORY STARTS WITH SCREAMS, but don’t worry—they are screams of delight. Freddy, twelve, and Teddy, his eleven-year-old sister, had been wanting new bikes for ages. And now the two kids stood at the door to their garage as Mr. Hardwick, their grinning father, waved a hand at the bikes, shining in the afternoon sunlight against the back wall.

  Freddy recognized his bike immediately—a black-and-green Razor high-roller BMX bike: sleek and hot and very sporty. Dad explained that Teddy’s bike was a bright blue single-speed. She instantly loved the whitewall tires with their purple rims.

  Mr. Hardwick enjoyed their happy screams as they raced across the garage, grabbed handlebars, and ran their hands over the smooth leather seats. “Check them out,” he said. “See if we need to adjust the seats or anything.”

  Freddy was already out of the garage and halfway down the driveway. Teddy, the more cautious one, was still admiring the shiny-smooth fenders and just the newness of her treasure.

  “Let’s take them down Millstone Hill!” Freddy shouted. “See how speedy they are. Fast and Furious Ten!” Freddy was a movie fan.

  Teddy struggled with her balance. She leaned forward, testing the handlebars as she glided out of the garage. “Awesome, Dad!” she called as she sailed past him, pedaling harder to catch up to her brother. “Totally awesome!”

  A giddy, gleeful moment.

  Purple afternoon shadows danced around puddles of sunlight. The air splashed their faces, cool and sweet-smelling.

  Of course, they had no idea they would soon run into the nasty Darrow brothers. Or that Harry and Cletus Darrow would make sure to spoil their fun. In fact, spoil their day.

  In winter Millstone Hill was the perfect sledding hill because it slanted steep and straight. The hill seemed to go down a mile, and then you could bounce safely into the empty field at the bottom.

  In summer it was crowded with neighborhood kids on all kinds of boards—skateboards, roller boards, even Hoverboards. If you had the need for speed in Mt. Sterling Village, you headed for Millstone Hill.

  The hill was deserted when Freddy and Teddy arrived. They gazed down the sloping pavement, imagining it to be a mountainside. They were side by side when they slid their hands away from the brakes, leaned over the handlebars, assuming their best racing pose, and began to pedal. And side by side they flew down the hill, screaming at the top of their lungs, wind rushing at them like a storm. At the bottom, the new bikes glided along the pavement, smooth and fast. And both kids realized their hearts were pounding, and they were laughing, heads tossed back, laughing at the thrill of it.

  They walked their bikes back up, keeping to the tall grass at the side of the road. A few cars came down the hill, picking up speed as they descended. But there was never much traffic in this quiet part of town.

  “Let’s race,” Freddy suggested when they reached the top. He was the competitive one; not really a show-off but generally wanting to be the best.

  Teddy started to protest. She didn’t want to turn it into a contest. She just wanted to enjoy the feel of her new bike. But Freddy had already started pedaling downhill.

  “Cheater!” she shouted. “That’s not fair! I’m not racing!”

  She watched as Freddy rocketed down. She heard the squeal of his brakes as he started to stop at the bottom. And then she cried out in alarm as his bike stopped too fast. Freddy wasn’t used to those brakes. And he went sailing up from the seat and over the handlebars.

  He made a hard crunch as he landed on the pavement. Teddy saw his body bounce once. And then the bike fell on top of him. And she was pedaling without even realizing it, hurrying down the hill. Not gleefully this time, but with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  She slowed to a stop and climbed off the bike. “Freddy?”

  He shoved the bike tire off his chest, rolled over with a groan, and slowly climbed to his feet, shaking his head. Then he pulled the bike up by the seat and handlebars and inspected it for damages. “Not a scratch,” he reported.

  “But . . . are you okay?” Teddy demanded, eyeing the long dirt patch scraped along the leg of his jeans.

  “Of course I’m okay,” he replied.

  Freddy couldn’t be hurt. He was invincible. That’s the word he always used, and he believed it.

  “Now let’s race,” he said.

  Teddy didn’t want to argue. She followed him up the hill, feeling the late-afternoon sun on her back, listening to the soft thrum of the new tires against the pavement.

  Then the Darrow brothers appear
ed at the top of the hill; just appeared the way they often did. Floating in silently like a dark cloud.

  They were tall and big for their ages—thirteen and eleven. They had scrubby brown hair—very straight and falling over their eyes—and tight pale faces, with dark angry eyes like wolf eyes.

  They were mean boys and proud of it. Sometimes they acted like your friend, and that was when they were the meanest.

  They never got in much trouble. They seemed to know how to hurt you—how to bump you hard enough to knock you into a wall, dig their knuckles into your side, or swing a punch that made you flinch—without being caught.

  And so here came the Darrows, walking with that peculiar strut, their wolf eyes unblinking, trained on the bikes. Freddy and Teddy watched them draw near, and tightened their hands on their handlebars and felt the fear sweep up from their stomachs, knotting all their muscles. The kind of dread they always felt when a Darrow brother approached.

  “Hey, are those new?” Cletus Darrow had a hoarse voice that sounded like he was gargling.

  Freddy and Teddy didn’t answer.

  “New bikes. We love new bikes,” Harry said. When he grinned, you could see how crooked his front teeth were; big crocodile teeth.

  “We have to get home,” Freddy said.

  “Not till we test out your bikes,” Harry said. “It’s a thing we do. We test out new bikes.”

  “Kind of warm them up for you,” his mangy brother added. His grin was just as ugly as Harry’s.

  “No. We just got them,” Teddy said. “We have to go now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cletus croaked.

  And then there was some shoving and pushing. And Freddy and Teddy found themselves standing hunched at the side of the road, watching Harry and Cletus settle themselves on the two bikes.

  “Give them back,” Freddy said, tight fists at his sides. “Those are our new bikes. If you steal them . . .”

  “We don’t steal bikes,” Harry said, wrapping and unwrapping his dirty paws over the clean handlebars. “We break them in.”

  “You should thank us,” Cletus added, and both boys hee-hawed like donkeys.

  And without a signal, they took off together, pedaling furiously, then letting the bikes shoot down the steep hill. Shouting, laughing, they raised their hands from the handlebars and squealed straight down, as if they were on a roller coaster.

  When they reached the bottom, the Darrows were going light speed. Freddy and Teddy squinted into the dying sun—and both gasped as the howling brothers turned the wheels and crashed the bikes into the wide trunk of an ancient sassafras tree.

  The high whine of crumpling metal made Freddy think his ears would bleed. Teddy covered her face. Her whole body trembled.

  When she uncovered her eyes, she saw the damage. Saw the mangled, ruined bikes. The wheels bent like flattened soda cans. Saw Cletus and Harry leap off and do a wild, clumsy dance.

  “Hey! Hey!” Freddy was shouting. “Hey! Hey!” Like that was the only word he could get out.

  “Your bikes are no good,” Harry yelled up at them. “You can have them back!”

  And then the Darrow brothers were running away, slapping each other on the shoulders, hee-hawing and hooting. They flew through the knee-high grass and disappeared.

  It took a long time to walk their twisted bikes back home. They dropped them in the front yard and hurried inside to tell their dad their sad saga.

  Mr. Hardwick shook his head, as if he didn’t believe it. He gazed at the fallen bikes through the living room window. “That Darrow family is trouble,” he murmured.

  “We have to pay them back, Dad,” Freddy said. His voice caught in his throat.

  Teddy was afraid her brother might cry. She felt more angry than sad. “Revenge,” she muttered. “It’s only fair, Dad. Freddy and I . . . We need to take our revenge.”

  Mr. Hardwick turned away from the window. His face was covered in shadow, but they knew his expression was serious. “That’s not the way I brought you up,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “But, Dad—” Freddy started to protest.

  Mr. Hardwick raised a hand to silence him. “No more. We’ve talked about this many times. We must be patient with people like the Darrow brothers. Show no anger. We don’t believe in revenge.”

  That night, Freddy tossed and turned in his bed. It felt like a stone slab beneath him. He stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling and tried to count sheep. But he didn’t see sheep. He saw his bike. He saw Cletus Darrow bouncing on the bike seat, laughing like a maniac as he drove the front wheel into the fat tree.

  Freddy’s throat felt as dry as sandpaper. He wanted to scream. His anger made his chest burn.

  He was just drifting off into a restless sleep when a sound woke him. He sat up, listening, and heard a soft shuffling. A scrape. A footstep?

  The air seemed to ring in his ears. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck.

  He heard a muffled cough. His body shuddered and stiffened in sudden fright. Freddy’s eyes went to the bedroom window. It was wide open. But he had shut it before he climbed into bed.

  His room was on the first floor. So easy . . . so easy for someone to climb through the window. Another soft scrape. Yes. Yes. He wasn’t alone. He was sure of it now.

  A cold shiver lingered over his shoulders. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was still too dry.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” His voice came out in a scratchy whisper, so faint, so soft and frightened.

  He heard the shuffle of feet now. By his closet on the other side of the room?

  “Who are you? I know you’re in here.” Another choked whisper.

  Freddy took a deep breath. He shoved his hands behind him and used them to push himself up. The light switch seemed a mile away.

  He heard another cough, followed by a soft laugh. And then a scrambling shadow darted across the room. A clump of shoes thudded on his carpet. The big shadow rumbled past him, big and heavy, plodding like a dark rhinoceros.

  A ball of darkness—it pounded over the floor—bent forward and dove out the open window.

  Freddy was on his feet now, legs trembling like rubber bands. His breaths came out wheezy and rapid, his chest heaving up and down beneath his pajama top.

  He darted to the window. Grabbed the ledge with both hands. Peered into the yellow light from a streetlamp at the curb. And saw Harry Darrow running, head lowered like a running back, big shoes clomping across the front lawn, his dark hair tossing in the wind.

  “Harry Darrow. In my room,” Freddy murmured.

  He spun and stumbled to the light switch. Blinking in the bright light from the ceiling, he saw a sheet of paper on the rug at the foot of his bed.

  A note? Yes. He lifted it with a trembling hand. Squinting against the bright light, Freddy read the note, scribbled in black marker—half printed, half written—words tilting across the page:

  IF YOU TELL ABOUT THE BIKES, YOU’RE DEAD.

  A simple message, but Freddy read it three times. The words pulsed in his eyes. With a groan of disgust, he crinkled the note in his fist and tossed it back to the floor.

  “My room. He was in my room.” The words escaped Freddy’s mouth in a voice he barely recognized.

  I’m not safe in my own room.

  He untwisted his pajama bottoms. Shook his head hard, as if shaking his fear and anger away. And bolted across his room and through the open door into the blackness of the hall.

  Dark as a tomb. The air cool and heavy. His bare feet scratching against the carpet as he trotted toward his father’s room.

  Not safe in my room. Harry Darrow was in my room. Dad will know what to do. He will have to deal with this now. We will have to send a strong message to Harry.

  “Huh?” Freddy uttered a soft cry. And stopped. His shoulder bumped the wall. His eyes widened but couldn’t focus in the total blanket of darkness.

  He heard the creak of the floor beneath the hall carpet. He saw blacknes
s slide over blackness. A figure. So near. So close in front of him.

  It must be the other Darrow brother, he realized. Cletus Darrow. They’ve both invaded our house. They’re here to frighten us.

  Against the inky black, Freddy saw red. A wave of anger swept over him. “Gotcha!” he screamed. He plunged forward and pounced, grabbing the Darrow brother with both hands.

  A scream. A struggle.

  A light flashed on.

  Freddy found himself gripping Teddy by the shoulders. She spun around. “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

  He stumbled back. Nearly knocked over a flower vase on the small hall table. “I—I thought . . .” He could only stammer.

  Teddy brought her angry face close to his. “You thought what?”

  “I thought . . . you were Cletus Darrow,” he managed to say.

  “Do I look like Cletus Darrow?”

  “It was pitch-black. I couldn’t see.”

  And then Mr. Hardwick was in the hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the belt dangling from his robe. “What on Earth—”

  Freddy and Teddy both started talking at once. But Freddy was the one with the story to tell. The words rushed out like a waterfall as he told his dad about Harry Darrow breaking into his room to scare him and leave a threatening message.

  His dad pressed both hands on Freddy’s shoulders, trying to calm him. But Freddy wouldn’t be calmed.

  “I have to pay him back, Dad. He was in my room. He . . . he threatened me.”

  “He’ll get tired of scaring you,” Mr. Hardwick said softly. “The Darrows will move on. They will get bored with you and move on.”

  Teddy stepped between them. She tossed back her dark hair. Her eyes were wide and angry. She could feel the anger burn her throat. “It isn’t right, Dad. They have to be punished. We can’t let them get away with this.”

  “And look at our bikes,” Freddy added, his voice high and shrill. “Wrecked. They wrecked our bikes.”

  “Revenge,” Teddy said. “Revenge, Dad. We need a plan to pay them back.”

  Mr. Hardwick shook his head. His eyes became narrow slits. “No. That’s not the way to go. We’ve talked about this many times. That’s not our way, and you know it.”