The Boy Who Ate Fear Street

  “What do you mean, Aunt Sylvie?” Lissa asked.

  “I read a Middle Eastern folktale once about a boy who ate the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—white rice and beets. That’s all he would eat.

  “One day he and two boys from his village took a walk in the woods—where they discovered a most unusual berry bush. It had bright red leaves. And on each leaf hung a tiny black berry. Smaller than a pea.

  “His friends quickly gobbled a handful of the small berries. They had never tasted anything so sweet, so delicious. They ate and ate until the berry bush was bare.

  “Then they headed home—and ate everything in their kitchen cupboards. They wandered through the village, day after day, searching for food. They grew fatter and fatter, but they couldn’t stop eating.

  “The picky eater couldn’t believe what was happening to his friends. He watched in terror as they devoured every last crumb in the village.

  “The boys grew so fat that their skin just couldn’t take the strain. It couldn’t stretch another inch. But that didn’t stop them from eating. They traveled to the next village and devoured all the food there. And that’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?” Lissa’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Those poor boys exploded.” Aunt Sylvie nodded knowingly. “Spilled their insides all over everything.”

  A piece of macaroni stuck in my throat and I started to choke. Mrs. Sullivan patted me on the back. “What a terrible story!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, I thought so too,” Aunt Sylvie agreed. “Now, who wants dessert? I bet you can’t wait for dessert, Sam. Right?”

  “NO! I mean no, thank you,” I replied. “I’m full.”

  “Nonsense!” Aunt Sylvie said. “I made it especially for you. Rice pudding. Your favorite!”

  Aunt Sylvie spooned some rice pudding into a bowl and set it in front of me. Then she stared at me, waiting for me to try it.

  I scooped up a tiny bit and ate it. It was delicious. The best rice pudding I ever tasted.

  “This is great!” I said, swallowing a big mouthful.

  I took another spoonful—this one with a few raisins.

  I chewed the raisins—and cried out in horror.

  I felt my face turn bright red.

  My tongue began to burn.

  My mouth was on fire!

  4

  “Help!” I cried, leaping up from my chair. “My mouth is on fire!”

  Mrs. Sullivan handed me a glass of milk. I gulped it down. Then I reached over and grabbed Lissa’s glass of milk. I gulped that down too.

  The burning feeling spread across my lips and down my throat. Even my chest felt scorched, and my tongue began to swell.

  I grabbed every glass of milk on the table and gulped it down. Then I snatched the milk container from the kitchen counter and chugged that.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Aunt Sylvie asked, patting me on the back.

  “What . . . did . . . you . . . put . . . in . . . my . . . pudding?” I sputtered, jerking away from her.

  “Aunt Sylvie didn’t put anything in your rice pudding,” Lissa said. “You probably just swallowed wrong.”

  The Sullivans and Kevin nodded in agreement, but Aunt Sylvie tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger. “Hmmmm, let me think. Let me think,” she repeated over and over again.

  While Aunt Sylvie tried to remember, I poked around the top layer of rice pudding with my spoon.

  I found rice. I found pudding.

  Nothing else.

  I poked around some more.

  Ah-ha! At the bottom of the bowl I found what I was looking for. Little dark flakes. So little that I thought they were specks of cinnamon at first.

  “What’s this?” I asked Aunt Sylvie, pointing a shaky finger into my bowl.

  “Great-Uncle Henry!” Aunt Sylvie exclaimed.

  “Huh?”

  “Now I remember! While I was making the rice pudding, Great-Uncle Henry visited for a chat,” Aunt Sylvie began to explain. “And he suggested that I use the new spice I brought back from the Orient.”

  Aunt Sylvie held up a bottle of the black flakes. “I enjoyed speaking to Uncle Henry.” She sighed. “We’ve spoken so little since he died.”

  “Aunt Sylvie,” Mrs. Sullivan chided, “you’re going to scare the children.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Aunt Sylvie chuckled. “The children know what an odd creature I am!”

  Everyone at the table laughed. Everyone but me.

  “I’m sorry the spice burned your tongue.” Aunt Sylvie turned to me. “It’s supposed to be tangy—not hot.”

  “Maybe it turned rotten,” I murmured.

  Aunt Sylvie reached over for my bowl of rice pudding. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. “It smells okay, but I bet you’re right. It probably has spoiled. I’m going to throw it out—right now.”

  “Aren’t you going to taste it first?” I asked. “Maybe it’s not spoiled. Maybe it was just too spicy for me.”

  “Taste it?” Aunt Sylvie gasped. “Oh, no! I’m not going to taste it.”

  5

  “What?” I shouted. Why aren’t you going to taste it?” I leaped up from my chair.

  Aunt Sylvie didn’t reply.

  She headed toward the sink and emptied the jar of flakes down the drain.

  “Why didn’t you taste it?” I demanded.

  “Oh, those flakes are much too strong for me!” Aunt Sylvie smiled. “I don’t care for tangy food myself. Now, who would like some vanilla ice cream? I bet you would, Sam. Right?”

  * * *

  Everyone ate the ice cream except me. Those black specks in the ice cream were probably vanilla beans—but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  After dinner Kevin, Lissa, and I played Kevin’s LaserBlast video game. I usually win—but not this time. My stomach was upset, and I felt weird. Kind of hot all over.

  “See you guys tomorrow,” I told Kevin and Lissa when it was time to leave.

  “Great!” Kevin walked me to the front door. “Aunt Sylvie has some more awesome things you’ve got to see!”

  “And maybe she’ll let us play with Shirley!” Lissa called from the den.

  I didn’t think I wanted to see any more of Aunt Sylvie’s things—or play with Shirley. I knew for sure that I didn’t want to eat any more of her cooking.

  When I reached home, my stomach was still upset so I went right up to bed. I snuggled under my blanket, tucked it under my chin, and fell asleep instantly.

  I don’t know how much later it was when I woke up. But all the lights were out, and Mom and Dad were in bed.

  I made my way down the dark hall, down the steps, and into the kitchen. My stomach felt much better—back to normal. Now I was hungry. I knew just what I wanted—my favorite sandwich, mayonnaise on white bread.

  A full moon hung in the sky. It lit the kitchen with a warm glow. I’d better not put the light on, I thought as I searched the kitchen counter for the bread. I don’t want to wake Mom or Dad.

  After I found the bread I hunted for a new jar of mayonnaise in the pantry—I finished the old jar at lunch. I eat a lot of mayonnaise, about a jar a week. I can’t help it. I really love the stuff!

  I stifled a yawn, then, half asleep, I made my sandwich. When it was ready, I sunk my teeth in for a really big bite.

  Delicious.

  Plain old white food—without a single one of Aunt Sylvie’s spices from around the world.

  I took another bite. And another. And another.

  I needed something to drink.

  I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Sprite.

  The light from the refrigerator fell on the kitchen counter.

  On my half-eaten sandwich.

  I stared at the sandwich.

  Something was wrong with it. Very wrong.

  I rubbed my eyes and focused. I stared at it again, harder this time. Something still didn’t seem right.

  I lowered my face to the counter.

&nb
sp; I squinted closely at the sandwich.

  And screamed.

  6

  Sponges! Not bread!

  I made a sandwich with two moldy green sponges. And I ate it. And it tasted good.

  How could I have made a sponge sandwich? How could I have eaten it? HOW?

  The room began to spin. I grabbed hold of the kitchen counter to steady myself.

  That’s when I saw the yellow ooze seeping out from my sponge sandwich.

  Oh, no, I moaned. What did I spread inside those slices?

  I didn’t want to look, but I had to.

  I lifted the top sponge. My hand shook.

  The yellow ooze ran off the sponge and dripped along the counter, and my stomach lurched

  I dipped my finger into it. Sniffed it.

  It smelled lemony. Soapy.

  Lemon-Fresh Dish Detergent.

  I just ate a soap and sponge sandwich. And I liked it.

  What is wrong with me? How could I have eaten that?

  I quickly tossed the sponges into the trash and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I dove under the covers and stared out my bedroom window at the dark, cloudless sky.

  I asked myself over and over again, How could I have eaten that? How? How? How?

  And then the answer came to me.

  I was sleepwalking. That had to be it. I dreamed that I was hungry, and I sleepwalked into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich.

  The light from the refrigerator woke me up—and that’s when I realized what I was doing.

  It really did make sense. Mom says Dad walks in his sleep all the time.

  I felt better.

  I leaned back against my pillow, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Sam! Time to get up!” Mom called up the stairs. “Time for breakfast!”

  I pulled on my favorite navy blue T-shirt and my favorite jeans, the ones with the rip in the knee. I slipped on my sneakers and ran downstairs without tying the laces. Mom always yells at me for that. She says one day I’m going to trip and break my neck. Mothers say that kind of stuff to their kids.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and took a big swallow of milk. “YUCK!”

  “What’s wrong, Sam?” Dad asked.

  “The milk is sour!” I grumbled. “It tastes disgusting.”

  “It must be past the expiration date,” Mom said. “And I just bought it yesterday. I’m going to bring it back to the grocery store and lodge a complaint.” She rummaged through the garbage for the empty container.

  She took the container from the trash. Then she lifted out the two green sponges. The two half-eaten green sponges.

  I held my breath as she studied them.

  No way was I going to admit I ate a sponge sandwich last night—even if I did do it in my sleep.

  “Hey, Mom!” I tried to steal Mom’s attention. “Aren’t you going to check the expiration date on the milk?”

  My plan didn’t work.

  Mom continued to stare at the sponges.

  “Mom! I’m starving! What’s for breakfast? I’m going to be late for school.”

  That worked.

  She tossed the sponges back into the garbage. “How about some Cream of Wheat?” she asked. A smile formed on her lips. Mom knows that’s my all-time-favorite breakfast.

  I nodded eagerly. Sometimes I eat two bowls of Cream of Wheat a day, one in the morning and one when I come home from school.

  Mom set one bowl in front of me and one in front of Dad. Dad likes Cream of Wheat almost as much as I do.

  White puffs of steam floated up from my cereal bowl. Ahhhh, I thought, Cream of Wheat—so nice, so white.

  I couldn’t wait to eat it. I really was starving.

  I dipped my spoon into the bowl.

  I slipped the spoon into my mouth.

  The Cream of Wheat slid off onto my tongue—and my jaw dropped open in horror.

  “Dad!” I screamed. “Don’t eat the Cream of Wheat! DON’T!”

  7

  Too late.

  Dad swallowed a huge spoonful of Cream of Wheat.

  “Dad, the Cream of Wheat . . .”

  “. . . is delicious!” Dad finished. “What’s the problem, Sam? Is there something wrong with yours?”

  “It—it tastes gross,” I stammered. “Like sand mixed with vinegar.” I turned to my mom. “What did you do to my Cream of Wheat?”

  “I didn’t do anything to it,” Mom answered. “I made it the way I always do. Half a cup of Cream of Wheat and a half cup of boiling water.”

  “You must have done something different to it, Mom,” I insisted.

  “No, Sam, I didn’t.”

  “Well, someone did,” I argued. “It tastes awful.”

  Fred trotted into the room. He set his head down in my lap. He does that every morning, waiting for me to share some of my breakfast with him.

  I placed some Cream of Wheat on my finger.

  I watched closely as Fred licked it off.

  Mom and Dad watched too.

  Fred licked every last drop off, then wagged his tail, begging for more.

  I let out a low sigh.

  “Try something else,” Dad suggested. “How about some mayonnaise on white bread?”

  “NO! I mean, no, thank you. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  I shoved my chair back and headed into the living room. I checked the clock over the fireplace. There was still time before I had to leave for school. I could catch a cartoon. I headed for the TV.

  I turned it on and—zzpt!

  A small shock ran through my hand. Static electricity.

  I shook my hand, trying to stop the tingling. I sat down on the couch. Fred jumped into my lap and scratched at his flea bites. Fred loves to explore the Fear Street Woods—but the only thing he seems to find there are fleas.

  I stroked Fred’s head and—zzpt. Zapped again.

  I gave Fred a hard shove and he jumped off my lap. He gazed up at me sadly. “Sorry, boy,” I apologized. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

  I gave Fred a big hug, then grabbed my backpack and left for school.

  I spotted Kevin and Lissa walking up the school steps. “Hey, guys. Wait up,” I called.

  As we reached the door, the first bell rang. I grabbed the doorknob—and zzzpt! My whole body shook. A powerful jolt ran from my head right down to my toes.

  “Oooow!” I cried out, shaking my arms and legs. “I don’t believe this!”

  “What’s the big deal?” Lissa asked. “It’s just static electricity.”

  “Yeah, but this is the third time I got shocked this morning,” I explained. “And this one really hurt.” I could still feel the tingling in my toes and fingertips. “Don’t you think that’s weird—getting shocked three times in one morning?”

  “Shocking!” Lissa joked.

  “Ha-ha, Lissa. Real funny.” I turned to Kevin, but he just shrugged his shoulders. I guess he didn’t think it was such a big deal either.

  And maybe it wasn’t.

  Maybe I was just in a weird mood. I mean, wouldn’t you be if you ate a sponge sandwich?

  “I have to stop at my locker first,” I told Kevin. Kevin and I are in the same class. “See you inside.”

  I grabbed my notebook from my locker and ran to my classroom. I found Kevin waiting for me outside the door.

  “Why didn’t you go in?” I asked.

  “I have an idea,” he whispered. “Touch Lucas on the back of his neck. See if you get a shock.”

  “Why?” I asked, confused. “You said the shock thing was no big deal.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he reminded me. “Lissa did. Maybe something weird is going on with you,” he went on. “Lucas wears braces. Let’s see if you get a shock from them.”

  I sat down at my desk. Lucas Johnson sits directly in front of me. Since school started three months ago, I’d seen a lot of the back of his neck, but I never felt like touching it. And I didn’t feel like touching it now.

  I glanced
sideways at Kevin. He nodded his head, urging me on.

  I’ll just brush the back of Lucas’s neck, I thought. Then when Lucas turns around, I’ll apologize. Pretend it was an accident.

  I leaned forward.

  I reached out my fingers.

  Even though I was pretty sure nothing would happen, my hand started shaking.

  I moved it closer.

  I glanced at Kevin. “Hurry up!” he mouthed. “Do it now!”

  I moved my hand closer—it was an inch away from the back of Lucas’s head.

  Then I did it. I touched Lucas’s neck.

  Lucas jerked in his chair.

  His entire body stiffened.

  Then he began to quake—as if he had been struck by lightning.

  He lurched to one side and fell over.

  The whole class gasped as he crashed to the floor.

  8

  “Lucas! Lucas!” I jumped out of my seat. I knelt over Lucas’s trembling body. “Help!” I cried out. “Somebody, help him.” I gripped Lucas’s shoulders, trying to stop his body from jerking.

  It didn’t work. The harder I held Lucas, the more his body twitched.

  “You jerk!” Kevin cried.

  “Don’t call him a jerk!” I shouted. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

  “You,” he said, pointing—at me. Then he burst out laughing.

  Lucas started laughing too.

  My hands dropped from Lucas’s shoulders.

  “Very funny,” I said, taking my seat. “You guys are a riot.” I glanced around the classroom. All the kids around us giggled.

  “Aw, come on,” Lucas said. “Kevin told me about the shocks. Lighten up. It was just a joke. Admit it—it was funny.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I really thought I electrocuted Lucas. I guess it was pretty funny. I even managed to laugh a little later when I thought about it again. And I started to feel a better.

  And then it was time for lunch.

  And everything turned worse.

  Much worse.

  * * *

  As soon as the bell rang for lunch, all the kids shoved their books into their desks and ran for the cafeteria. Even though I didn’t eat breakfast, I just wasn’t all that hungry. I took my time putting my things away.