Chuck nodded. “I’m having a little trouble getting this mask off. Think you guys could help me?”
I sat at the dinner table and wished I was invisible.
If I were invisible, I could sneak away from dinner without finishing my string beans. And I could creep up to my room and finish the book of ghost stories I’d been reading.
I started to daydream. I’m Sammy Jacobs, the Invisible Boy, I told myself. I tried to picture how I’d look if I were invisible.
Last week, I saw a movie about an invisible man. You couldn’t see his face or his body. But when he ate, you could see the food digesting in his invisible stomach.
It was totally gross.
I loved it.
Staring at my string beans, I pictured them rolling around in my stomach.
My parents’ voices droned on in the background. My parents are research scientists. They work in a college lab. They do weird things with light and lasers.
And then they come home and talk about their work at dinner. And talk about their work. And talk about their work.
My ten-year-old brother, Simon, and I can’t get a word in.
We have to sit and listen to them talk about “light refraction” and “ocular impediments.”
I’m a science-fiction freak. I love reading science-fiction books and comics. And I rent any movie that has an alien from another planet in it.
But when I have to listen to my parents talk about their work, I feel like an alien from another planet. I mean, I can’t understand a single word they say!
“Hey, Mom and Dad.” I tried to get into the conversation. “Guess what? I grew a tail today.”
Mom and Dad didn’t hear me. They were too busy arguing about something called “morphology.”
“Actually, I grew two tails,” I said, louder.
They didn’t care. Dad was drawing some kind of chart on his napkin.
I was really bored. I kicked Simon under the table. Just for something to do.
“Ow! Stop it, Sammy!” he cried. He kicked me back.
I kicked him again.
Dad kept scribbling numbers all over his napkin. Mom squinted at his chart.
Simon kicked me back. Too hard.
“Whoa!” I screamed. My hands flew up — and sent my dinner plate flying.
SPLAAT.
Into my lap.
A whole plateful of spaghetti and all the string beans — slid down my jeans.
“Look what Simon made me do!” I shouted.
“You started it!” Simon protested.
Mom glanced up from the chart. At least I had her attention. And maybe I’d even get Simon into trouble. Simon never gets yelled at. He’s good.
Mom’s gaze shifted from me to Simon. “Simon,” Mom started.
All right! I thought. Simon is in for it now!
“Help your clumsy brother clean up,” Mom said. She glanced down at the floor and pointed to the pile of spaghetti. “And make sure you mop up this mess.” Then she grabbed Dad’s pencil and scribbled a bunch of numbers next to his.
Simon tried to help me clean up. But I pushed him away and did it myself.
Was I steamed? Take a guess.
Okay. Okay. Maybe the spaghetti wasn’t Simon’s fault. But nothing is ever Simon’s fault. Ever.
Why?
I told you — Simon is the good one. He never waits until the last minute to do his homework. He never has to be reminded to throw his clothes in the hamper. Or take out the garbage. Or wipe his feet when he comes in the house.
What kind of kid is that?
A mutant — if you ask me.
“Simon is a mutant,” I mumbled as I used my napkin to wipe my dinner from my lap.
“My Brother — the Mutant.” I smiled. I liked the sound of that. It would make a good science-fiction movie, I decided.
I tossed the paper napkin into the trash and returned to the table.
Well, at least I won’t have to eat any more string beans, I thought, staring down at my empty plate.
Wrong.
“Sammy, give me your dish. I’ll refill it.” Mom stood up, took my plate — and slipped on the spaghetti on the floor.
Uh-oh.
I watched as she lost her balance and slid across the kitchen. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I mean, she looked pretty funny — sliding across the floor like that.
“Who laughed?” Mom turned to face us. “Was it you, Simon?”
“Of course not,” Simon answered.
Of course not. Simon’s favorite words.
Simon — do you want to watch TV? Of course not. Want to play ball? Of course not. Want to hear a joke? Of course not.
Simon would never laugh at Mom.
Simon did only serious things.
Simon — the Serious Mutant.
Mom turned to me and let out a long sigh. She returned to the table with my plate. Refilled. With lots more string beans. Great.
Disappear. Disappear. I stared at my string beans and chanted silently. Last week I read a story about a kid who could make things disappear just by concentrating hard.
It wasn’t working for me.
“I can’t wait for Saturday to come,” I said, burying the string beans under the spaghetti.
“Why?” Simon was the only one who asked.
“I’m going to see School Spirit,” I told him.
“School spirit?” Dad glanced up from his napkin chart, his eyes finally wide with interest. “School spirit is great! Who has school spirit?”
“Nobody, Dad. School Spirit is the name of a new movie. It’s about a ghost that haunts an old boarding school,” I explained. “I’m going to see it on Saturday.”
Dad placed his pencil down. “I wish you were more interested in real science, Sammy. I think real science is even stranger than the fantasy stuff you like.”
“But ghosts are real, Dad!”
“Your dad and I are scientists, Sammy,” Mom said. “We don’t believe in things like ghosts.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” I declared. “If ghosts don’t exist, why have there been stories about them for hundreds of years?
“Besides, this movie isn’t fantasy stuff,” I told them. “It’s a true story. Real kids were interviewed for it. Kids who swear they saw the ghost in school!”
Mom shook her head.
Dad chuckled. “What are you doing in school, Simon? Seen any ghosts lately?”
“Of course not,” Simon replied. “I’m starting my science project this week. It’s called: How Fast Do We Grow? I’m going to study myself for six months. And make a growth graph for every part of my body.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom said.
“Very original!” Dad exclaimed. “Let us know if we can help.”
“Oh, brother,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes. “Can I be excused?” I pushed my chair away from the table. “Roxanne is coming over to do math homework.”
Roxanne Johnson and I are both in the same sixth-grade class. We like to compete against each other. Just for fun.
At least, I think it’s for fun. Sometimes I’m not sure what Roxanne thinks.
Anyway, she’s one of my best friends. She likes science fiction, too. We planned to see School Spirit together.
I went upstairs to search for my math book.
I opened the door to my room.
I stepped inside — and gasped.
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.
Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
Copyright © 1995 by Scholastic Inc.
Cover art by Tim Jacobus
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, 1995
e-ISBN 978-0-545-82073-8
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
R. L. Stine, Haunted Mask II
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends