The Haunted Car

  Her hard, cruel laughter rang out over the shrill siren.

  I jammed the brake down again. Again.

  I could see the flashing red lights in the mirror now.

  Can the police catch up? I wondered. Can they stop this car? Can they rescue me before I crash?

  The shrill siren wailed so close behind me.

  The red lights flashed brightly in the mirror.

  And then passed by on the left. Passed my speeding car.

  And I saw that it wasn’t a police car. It was a long red fire truck.

  It swerved past me, siren blaring, and kept going.

  I stared at the back of the fire truck, twin ladders poking from the sides. And then it vanished around a curve.

  I let out a long, disappointed sigh.

  “Only fourteen,” the girl’s voice repeated, as if the fire truck hadn’t even existed.

  The car hurtled down the middle of the road, spinning so close to the edge of the hill.

  “Only fourteen. I took the car out for a drive. I crashed it, Mitchell. I died. I’ve haunted the car ever since, waiting … waiting for someone to join me, to keep me company. And now I’ve found you.”

  “No — please!” I screamed.

  The car bounced hard. My head slammed into the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry you died,” I told her. “I’m really sorry. But I don’t want to join you. Please — take me home!”

  Silence.

  And then the car went into a skid. The tires squealed over the pavement.

  The car spun wildly. Once. Twice.

  Spun completely around.

  “You want to go home?” the ghost asked.

  “Yes!” I cried. “Yes! Take me home!”

  “Okay,” she replied, her voice as cold as the air in the car. “Okay, Mitchell. I’ll take you home.”

  The car jolted forward. Gripping the bouncing wheel, I peered out through the windshield and realized we were headed back up the hill.

  Toward my house.

  “You’re doing it?” I cried, my heart racing. “You’re taking me home?”

  “If that’s where you want to die,” she replied. “You can die just as easily against the front of your house.”

  “No, wait —”

  The car picked up speed. It felt as if we were flying now, flying around the curves, following the road as it twisted uphill.

  Houses shot past in a gray blur. I recognized the neighborhood. And then I recognized my block.

  Faster. Faster.

  I pumped the brakes. I spun the wheel.

  Helpless. I was totally helpless.

  She’s going to smash the car into the front of my house, I knew.

  “It won’t hurt for long,” the ghost murmured as if reading my thoughts. “And then we’ll be together forever.”

  I shut my eyes.

  The car squealed to a stop. I heard the screech of skidding tires.

  I opened my eyes — and saw a wall of orange.

  Flames!

  My house! My house was on fire!

  Fire trucks were scattered over the front yard. Solemn-faced neighbors huddled in the driveway.

  Was that Todd? Yes. Todd standing with my parents, their faces caught in the flickering, orange light, their expressions so worried, so horrified.

  “I — I would have been inside the house,” I stammered to the ghost. “I would have been asleep in there. I would have died. But you saved me. You saved my life!”

  “Noooooooooo!” I heard her howl in horror.

  And then I saw her again. The hideous, ghoulish face. The blond hair, stiff as straw. The dead girl, dead and decayed, all in black.

  She sat beside me again, her toothless mouth open in a scream of horror. She raised bony hands and tore at her hair, tore off hunks of it, revealing cracked gray skull bone underneath.

  “Noooooo!” she wailed. “I’m evil! I’m so evil! My mission is evil!”

  “But — you saved my life!” I protested.

  “I’ve failed! Failed!” she shrieked, ripping out hunk after hunk of her hair.

  Her inky black eyes turned to me, glowing with hatred. “I have failed. I have accidentally done GOOD! And now I must pay. Now I must die forever!”

  Once again, she started to shrink, to melt away.

  The wet eyes rolled from their sockets. Plopped onto her lap. Her skull cracked open. Her body slumped forward.

  I stared helplessly as she melted away. Shrank and melted until nothing was left but a puddle of thick green slime on the car seat. And then the slime melted away, too.

  The car door swung open.

  Strong hands pulled me out.

  Dad wrapped me in a hug. Then Mom joined in.

  “You’re okay! Mitchell — you’re okay!” Mom kept repeating, holding me close.

  “We — we thought you were trapped inside!” Dad declared.

  Todd had tears running down his cheeks. He rushed across the grass to hug me, too. “I thought you were on fire,” he murmured.

  “The ghost saved me,” I told them, shouting over the roar of the flames and the rush of the fire hoses. “The ghost drove me away in the car. She saved my life.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged glances. I could see that they didn’t believe me.

  But I didn’t care. I was so glad to be back safe.

  All four of us jumped as part of our roof fell with a crash into the leaping flames.

  “It’s all my fault,” Dad sighed, shaking his head. “I should never have tried to fix the wiring. From now on, I’m never going to fool around with electricity again.”

  “It’s okay,” Mom said, her arms around Todd and me. “We’re all safe. All of us.”

  “I was right,” Todd whispered to me. “The car was haunted. And it was Marissa, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied uncertainly. “You were right, Todd. You knew. You —”

  I stopped when I saw her standing near the car.

  The ghost.

  Marissa.

  “Mitchell!” Marissa cried, running over to me, her blond hair flying behind her.

  I took a step back. My throat tightened. “You — you told me in the car that now you would die forever,” I gasped.

  “Huh?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Mitchell — you’re okay?”

  “Don’t pretend. Don’t act innocent,” I replied sharply. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re evil!”

  Her expression changed. She grabbed my arm roughly. “Come over here, Mitchell.”

  “No!” I protested. “Haven’t you done enough? Please —”

  I tried to pull away. But she dragged me toward the street.

  “Why are you doing this?” I cried. “I know you’re the ghost, Marissa. I went to your father’s house. I saw your portrait and the candles on the mantel.”

  She tightened her grip on my arm. Her eyes burned into mine. “I’m alive, Mitchell,” she whispered, bringing her face close to mine. “See? I’m real.” She squeezed my arm.

  “But —” I started.

  “That photo you saw,” Marissa continued, not letting go. “That was my twin sister, Becka. Becka was so evil.”

  “Your sister?” I choked out.

  “Last summer, Becka took the car. She didn’t know how to drive. She crashed and killed herself.” Marissa’s voice cracked with emotion. “It broke my father’s heart. He’s never been the same.” She lowered her eyes.

  “I’m … sorry,” I muttered.

  “Dad was desperate to sell the car,” Marissa continued after taking a deep breath. “He didn’t want the car Becka died in. When I saw your father buy it, I decided I had to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” I cried. I pulled my arm free from her grip. “You mean you knew your sister was haunting the car? You knew she planned to kill me?”

  Marissa nodded.

  “How?” I demanded. “How did you know?”

  “She told me,” Marissa replied. “I was sitting in the car one day, waiting for my dad. Becka
appeared. All ugly and dead. She told me she haunted the car now. She told me she’d haunt the car until she got revenge — revenge for dying so young.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you —”

  “I wanted to,” Marissa interrupted. “But I didn’t think you’d believe me. So I waited. And then on the phone, you told me you knew the truth — remember? So I figured if you knew, I didn’t have to warn you.”

  “Becka saved my life,” I told Marissa. “She didn’t mean to. But she did.”

  A strange smile spread over Marissa’s face. She wiped tears from her eyes. Then she turned to the car.

  “Poor Mitchell.” She sighed. “You were so excited about the new car….”

  “Uh … that’s okay,” I replied with a shudder. “I’ve kind of lost my interest in cars. I think maybe I’ll get into baseball or hockey or something.”

  * * *

  We spent the night at the O’Connors’ house, next door. The following morning, Mom fretted over me at breakfast. “Your dad and I are very worried about you, Mitchell. All this talk about ghosts.”

  “But, Mom —” I started.

  “You’re frightening Todd with all your ghost stories,” she continued. “And he was already frightened before you began.”

  I sighed and shoved my cereal bowl away. “Mom — what do you want me to do? I’ve been trying to tell you the truth. But you and Dad refuse —”

  “Enough,” she insisted sharply. “I want you to talk to Todd. Tell him you made up the ghost story. Tell him the car isn’t haunted.”

  “But, Mom —” I tried again.

  This time, Dad interrupted. He came lumbering through the back door from outside, shaking his head. “I’ve got to drive to town,” he grumbled, “but the car won’t start. I called the guy from the garage and —”

  A knock on the door.

  We all turned to see a man in a gray work uniform, carrying a big toolbox. “You called the garage?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The blue car out front. It won’t start,” Dad said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  I followed them out to the car. Next door, the ruins of our house still smoldered. The yard was littered with broken glass and hunks of blackened wood. The air smelled smoky and sour.

  The guy from the garage pulled up the hood of the car. He leaned in over the engine. Then he quickly stood back up and squinted at Dad. “This is a joke, right?”

  Dad gaped at him. “Joke?”

  The man pointed to the engine. “I think the car would probably start if you had a battery!”

  Dad stepped up beside him and peered under the hood. “Hey — you’re right. I don’t believe it. There’s no battery.”

  Dad turned and stared at me. “No battery,” he murmured, his face twisted in confusion. “No battery. But we’ve been driving it anyway. And it ran last night …”

  I couldn’t keep a grin from spreading over my face.

  It’s going to take Mom and Dad a while, I told myself. But I think they’re finally going to believe me!

  “MY HOMETOWN”

  by Spencer Kassimir

  My name is Spencer Kassimir and I live in a town called Highgrave.

  If you lived in Highgrave, you’d know how it got its name. You see, an old graveyard stands high on the hill that overlooks the whole town.

  You can see the graveyard from just about anywhere. From Main Street. From my classroom. I can even see it from my bedroom window.

  If you live in Highgrave, you can’t escape the graveyard.

  Even the sunniest days aren’t really sunny here. Highgrave Hill casts a deep shadow over the roads, the buildings, the treetops down below.

  On clear days, you can look up and see the old gravestones on top of the hill. They gleam like crooked teeth in the tall green grass.

  At night, when a moon hangs low over the hill, the graveyard becomes a frightening place. An eerie gray mist clings to the hill. And the gravestones appear to float free.

  Yes. The old tombstones seem to float by themselves. To float over the shimmering mist. To float over the town. Over my house at the bottom of Highgrave Hill.

  I guess that’s why I have the nightmares….

  * * *

  I cleared my throat and lowered the pages of my essay to my side. Reading a paper in front of the whole class makes me really nervous.

  My throat felt as dry as sandpaper. And my hands were so wet, they smeared the ink on the pages.

  “Very good writing,” Mrs. Webster said, nodding. She had her hands clasped tightly on her desk. “Good description, Spencer. Don’t you agree, class?”

  A few kids muttered yes. My friend Audra Rusinas smiled and flashed me a thumbs-up. Behind her, Frank Foreman yawned really loudly. That caused his pal Buddy Tanner to burst out laughing. A few other kids laughed, too.

  Mrs. Webster narrowed her eyes at Frank. Then she turned back to me. “Go on. Read the rest, Spencer.”

  I glanced up at the big clock, above the chalkboard behind her. “Are you sure there’s time?”

  The next part of the paper was kind of personal, kind of embarrassing. I knew it would probably give Frank and Buddy a good laugh.

  Like the last paper I had to read to the class. I wrote about the only thing in the world that terrifies me — spiders.

  Frank and Buddy never let me forget that paper. After I read it, I found a spider in my desk every morning for a month!

  “Read until the bell,” Mrs. Webster insisted.

  I cleared my throat again and started reading….

  * * *

  Some nights I dream about the graveyard ghouls. Everyone in my family dreams about them.

  One night, my eight-year-old brother, Jason, woke up screaming. “They’re coming to get me! They’re coming to get me!” It took a long time to convince Jason it was just a dream.

  My little brother and sister, Remy and Charlotte, also have nightmares about the graveyard ghouls.

  And I dream that the ghouls rise up from their old graves and float down the hill. They float into the foggy mist on the side of the hill and wait there. Hiding. Waiting for innocent victims to come by.

  And then the ghouls swarm around their victims. Sweep around them, wispy as the fog. And pull them up … up into the old graves at the top of the hill.

  Everyone in Highgrave knows about —

  * * *

  “Very good!” Mrs. Webster interrupted. She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Very good writing, Spencer!”

  Audra shot me a big smile. Behind her, Frank and Buddy were giggling about something. They slapped each other a high five.

  “Do you think you might want to be a writer when you grow up?” Mrs. Webster asked me.

  I could feel my face turn hot. “I … I don’t know,” I stammered. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe.” I heard Frank mimic me in a high, shrill voice. Buddy burst out laughing again.

  “Frank, would you like to read your paper next?” Mrs. Webster demanded.

  Frank’s mouth dropped open. “Well … it isn’t quite finished.”

  Mrs. Webster leaned over her desk. “What is your essay about?” she asked.

  Frank hesitated. Then he finally replied, “I’m not sure.”

  The whole class broke up laughing. Frank tried to keep a straight face, but he laughed, too.

  Mrs. Webster shook her head. “I don’t think it’s funny,” she murmured. She turned back to me. “Finish reading your piece, Spencer. Maybe you will inspire Frank.”

  Frank let out a loud groan.

  Mrs. Webster ignored him and motioned for me to read.

  Why can’t I be cool like Frank and Buddy? I asked myself.

  They are total goofs. They never do any work at all. They spend the whole day laughing and talking and messing around.

  And everyone likes them. Everyone thinks they are the coolest guys in school.

  I want to be cool, too. I want to make kids laugh. I don’t want to be standin
g up here, having the teacher tell me what a goody-goody I am. Asking me in front of everybody if I want to be a writer.

  How totally uncool can you be?

  I glanced at Frank. Even though he sat toward the back of the room, I could see him clearly. His head towered over all the others.

  Frank is a big, strong, muscular guy.

  I’m short and kind of scrawny and I wear glasses.

  That’s what I am, I thought, a scrawny goody-goody.

  I could feel my face growing hot again. I raised the pages in front of my face and continued reading….

  * * *

  Everyone in Highgrave knows about the graveyard ghouls. Some kids told me about them on the day my family moved here.

  They said that the dead people buried in the Highgrave graveyard can’t rest. They can’t rest because the graveyard is up too high.

  The dead have become restless, angry ghouls. Rotting and decayed, they climb out of their graves. They cannot sleep. They can only pace the graveyard and look down on the houses below.

  At night, their howls and moans float over the town. If you look really closely, you can see the ghouls. You can see them shuffling through the fog that rolls low over the hill.

  And if you go up there at night, the ghouls —

  * * *

  The bell rang.

  Books slammed shut. Kids cheered.

  “Thank you, Spencer. Sorry we couldn’t finish. But that was excellent.” Mrs. Webster jumped to her feet. “Okay, everyone. That’s all for today.” She had to shout over the loud voices and scraping chairs.

  “But Spencer has given me a really good idea,” Mrs. Webster called out.

  The room grew quieter.

  “Tomorrow, pack a lunch and wear your hiking boots,” Mrs. Webster instructed. “Tomorrow, we will all climb up to the graveyard.”

  “Huh? Why?” someone called out.

  The teacher’s eyes flashed. “To summon the ghouls,” she replied.

  R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.