Goosebumps Most Wanted #5: Dr. Maniac Will See You Now

  Contents

  Title Page

  Welcome. You Are Most Wanted.

  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

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Preview: Goosebumps® Most Wanted #6: Creature Teacher: The Final Exam

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Hello. Come in. Don’t stand on the WELCOME mat. It’s sleeping, and it gets angry when people wake it up.

  Actually, I don’t think it’s a WELCOME mat at all. I think it’s a very furry stingray that crawled to shore. Go ahead. Step on it. See what it does.

  OUCH. You woke him up — didn’t you? Ooh, that’s a nasty sting. Why don’t you scream a lot and see if that helps get rid of the pain?

  While you’re screaming, come on inside. Welcome to the Goosebumps office. I’m R.L. Stine. This is where I write all the books.

  Just shove those drooling Gila monsters out of your way. I really should have this place cleaned.

  No. Don’t sit there. That’s not a chair. It’s my grandfather. I’ll dust him off so you can see him better. Look. I think he’s smiling. Cute.

  I see you’re admiring the WANTED posters on the wall. Those posters show the creepiest, crawliest, grossest villains of all time. They are the MOST WANTED bad guys from the MOST WANTED Goosebumps books.

  That crazy-looking dude in the weird costume with the leopard-skin cape and the yellow-feathered boots? Of course he’s on a WANTED poster. DR. MANIAC is the Most Wanted Maniac on the planet.

  What is so evil about him? A boy named Richard Dreezer will tell you the whole story. It’s pretty scary — especially when Richard found himself at the end of the world!

  Go ahead. Start the story — if you dare. Dr. Maniac Will See You Now!

  Hold on. I can’t start my story yet. I have to sneeze.

  CHOOOOOOOOOO.

  Yes, I sneeze a lot. I can’t help it. I have a lot of allergies.

  My name is Richard Dreezer, but the kids at my school call me Richard Sneezer. Funny, huh?

  Some kids call me the Faucet because my nose runs all the time. That’s not funny, either.

  Having a lot of allergies is a riot — only to people who don’t have a lot of allergies.

  I wish that was my only problem. I am also the only kid in the sixth grade with red hair and a face full of freckles. And I’m short and thin and look about eight even though I’m twelve. What can I do about that? Nothing.

  Maybe this is why I daydream a lot. I mean, a lot. And maybe this is why comic books are so important to me. I mean, I like to imagine I’m this big, hulking, powerful superhero-guy, with wavy black hair and rippling muscles. And I can fly and escape to a new world any time I want.

  Sometimes I sit in class and daydream about being evil. I call myself the Revenger. And I use my incredible powers to take my revenge on the kids who sneeze at me and mess up my red hair and call me names.

  I defeat them all and leave them collapsed in a heap on the classroom floor. And then I take Bree Birnbaum’s hand, and the two of us fly out the window and sail over the town. And we fly to my secret Fortress of Coolness, the source of my amazing powers and my true home.

  Yes, I have a crush on Bree Birnbaum. Everyone at Hugh Jackman Middle School knows it. Everyone but Bree, that is.

  Today I was daydreaming about my Fortress of Coolness. I keep the Crystals of Many Colors there, and I needed them fast. Each crystal holds a power. I ran through the secret tunnel to the underground vault where they’re hidden. When I reached them, I quickly wrapped my hand around the red crystal —

  Whoa. Did someone just call my name?

  “Richard? Earth calling Richard Dreezer? Can you hear me?”

  Oh, wow. It was Mrs. Callus, my teacher. I guess she had been calling my name for a while. Everyone in the room was staring at me.

  I leaned forward on my desk and raised my eyes to her. “Yes?”

  Mrs. Callus squinted at me. “Richard? Where were you? Were you on Planet Dreezer again?”

  Everyone laughed.

  Actually, Mrs. Callus is very nice. She’s young and very cool looking. She doesn’t look old enough to be a teacher. She has short blond hair and a great smile and a diamond stud in her nose. And she wears jeans and rock band T-shirts to school.

  “Richard, are you ready to give your book report?” she asked.

  A stab of fear ran down my body. I hate getting up in front of the class. I think I’m allergic to it. I felt a big sneeze coming on. I held my breath to fight it back.

  “Y-yes,” I stammered.

  “What book did you read?” she asked.

  “Actually, it was a graphic novel,” I said. “It’s about the zombie apocalypse, but the zombies are the good guys. It’s called War of the Zombie Freakazoids.”

  She motioned toward the front of the room. “Come up here and tell us about it.”

  My chair made a loud scraping sound as I climbed to my feet. I picked up my two-page book report and started to carry it down the aisle. My hands were suddenly cold and sweaty.

  “Mrs. Callus, are we allowed to read comic books for our report?”

  That was Marcus Maloney. He’s a pain. He’s always on my case. He’s always on everyone’s case.

  Why is he so mean? Maybe because he’s the biggest sixth grader in the world? He’s a little bit bigger than a whale I saw last summer at SeaWorld. Know what he likes to do? He likes to walk up to you and bump you down the hall with his stomach.

  “It — it’s not a comic book,” I said. “It’s a graphic novel.”

  I was almost to the front of the room when my sneeze exploded.

  CHOOOOOOOOOO-EEEY.

  I sneezed all over Lateesha Franklin, who sits in the front row. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t turn away in time. I told you, my sneezes are majorly big.

  She screamed and waved her arms in the air. Like she was trying to shield herself.

  Too late.

  Then she went crazy, wiping off her sweater with both hands. I saw that I totally sprayed her from head to foot.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  I don’t know if she heard me. The others were laughing so loud. Marcus Maloney laughed so loud, he fell off his chair. Nice.

  Whoa. I turned my head and sneezed again. A big glob of snot splattered the chalkboard.

  Now everyone was in hysterics. I mean, ha-ha. How funny was it?

  “People. People …” Mrs. Callus jumped to her feet and struggled to quiet everyone. “We’ve talked about this before. It’s not nice to make fun of someone who is allergic —”

  That’s when I let go with my loudest, wettest sneeze yet.

  Oh, noooo.

  I
totally sprayed Mrs. Callus. It was like a tsunami of snot.

  She groaned and spun away. Her hands stabbed at the sides of her T-shirt. I could see glistening wet stuff in her hair.

  “S-sorry …” I murmured.

  When she turned back to me, her expression had changed. Her eyes were wide — with fury. She uttered an angry groan. “Richard —” Her voice was ugly, menacing.

  I took a step back. What is she going to do?

  She lurched toward me. And with superhuman strength, she lifted me off the floor … swung me high in the air … and heaved me through the plate glass window.

  No. That didn’t happen. That was a daydream. I imagined it.

  Maybe I do read too many comic books.

  Mrs. Callus didn’t heave me out the third-floor window. She just told me to forget about my report till later. And she sent me back to my seat.

  That was worse than sailing out the window. Because I had to listen to everyone laughing at me and making fun of me. I lowered my head and stared straight ahead and tried to force their ugly voices from my ears.

  How totally embarrassing.

  I could feel my nose running. I wiped it with the sleeve of my shirt. I tossed my book report onto my desk and dropped into my seat.

  Mrs. Callus was still wiping off her T-shirt with a handkerchief. I knew I hadn’t heard the end of this. I knew that drowning the teacher in snot would haunt me all day.

  And I was right.

  After school, Marcus Maloney and a bunch of other kids followed me down the hall, sneezing their heads off. They thought they were hilarious. All sneezing together as loud as they could and hee-hawing like donkeys.

  They won’t be laughing when the Revenger has his way.

  That’s what I was thinking when I saw Bree Birnbaum at the back of the group. She was laughing, too.

  That was cold. That really hurt.

  They followed me outside, giggling and sneezing on me. Marcus Maloney bumped me from behind and sent me sailing headfirst over the hedge at the bottom of the school yard.

  I hit the ground hard on my stomach. My backpack bounced on top of me.

  When I looked up, I saw my parents’ yellow Camry parked across the street. I pulled myself to my feet, stumbled away from the laughing kids, and jerked open the back door of the car.

  Dad sat behind the wheel. Mom turned and smiled at me. “Hi, Richard. Looks like you were having fun with your friends.”

  “Yeah. Fun,” I muttered.

  She’s totally clueless. No point in telling her the truth.

  Dad had his eyes on his phone. He mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like, “Mumble mumble.” Dad is a great mumbler.

  My parents are, like, out of a horror movie. They are both incredibly thin and pale as zombies. Dad grumbles and groans like the Frankenstein monster. When Mom smiles, her teeth shoot out like fangs.

  Okay. Maybe I exaggerate.

  But Mom only smiles for my little brother, Ernie. He’s a spoiled monster, but she thinks everything he does is adorable.

  Also, my parents spend most of their time arguing. They argue about everything. It’s like it’s their hobby.

  How did I get in this family? Seriously.

  I’m pretty sure I’m a superhero alien from another planet. I came to Earth as a baby, and these people, the Dreezers, adopted me.

  It’s the only good explanation I can think of.

  I settled back in the seat. “Why are you picking me up?” I asked.

  Dad pulled the car away from the curb. “Ask your mother,” he mumbled.

  “I saw an ad for an allergy doctor,” Mom said.

  “You’re taking me to a new doctor?”

  “He might be able to help you,” Mom replied.

  “He doesn’t need an allergy doctor,” Dad said, turning onto Kirby Street.

  “Yes, he does,” Mom snapped. “Be quiet, Barry.”

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet. He doesn’t need a doctor. He needs to man up.”

  “You can’t blame Richard if he has bad allergies,” Mom said.

  “Bad allergies? He has a bad attitude, that’s all.”

  They started to shout at each other. I pressed my hands over my ears. Mom and Dad fight like this all the time. I should be used to it.

  If I were going to draw a comic book about my family, I’d call it Battle Quest: Attack of the Screaming Parents.

  Sometimes Ernie and I hide at the top of the stairs and listen to them argue. We make funny faces and jokes, and try not to let them hear us crack up.

  But it’s not funny when they fight about me. That’s what I really hate.

  And now here they were screaming at each other about whether I needed an allergy doctor or not.

  “I can’t keep the kid in tissues,” Dad grumbled. “He goes through a box a day.”

  “What? Do you want him to reuse them?” Mom shouted. “Maybe give him a tissue a day? Would that save you money, Barry?”

  I felt a really big sneeze coming on.

  Luckily, it was a short drive. Dad turned onto Ditko Avenue, went a few blocks, then pulled the car to the curb.

  I gazed out the window and saw a dark brick building. A small sign next to a glass door read: DR. ROOT, ALLERGIST AND REALLY GOOD DOCTOR.

  “Whoa!” I let out a cry. “Look where we are! Right across the street from the Comic Book Museum.”

  Yes! How lucky was this?

  The Comic Book Museum is where I spend all my spare time. I know every inch of the place. I wish I could live there. They have the biggest, most amazing collection of comic books in the world. No. Maybe the universe.

  “Dr. Root is expecting you,” Mom said. “Be sure to tell him about how your skin itches when you eat tortilla chips.”

  “Aren’t you coming in with me?” I asked.

  “We can’t,” Dad said. “We have to pick up Ernie.”

  “Where’s Ernie?” I asked.

  “At his pottery class,” Mom answered. She gets a special smile on her face when she talks about her precious Ernie.

  “He doesn’t make pottery,” I said. “He just throws clay at the other kids.”

  Truth.

  “Don’t say bad things about Ernie,” Mom snapped.

  “At least Ernie doesn’t sneeze his brains out every five minutes and drip snot all over the carpet,” Dad added.

  Nice.

  See, Ernie can’t do anything wrong. Seriously. They think everything my kid brother does is adorable.

  I climbed out of the car. The cool afternoon breeze felt good on my face. The sun was beginning to drop behind the downtown buildings. Long purple shadows stretched across the sidewalk.

  I glanced across the street at the big, white stone museum with its domed roof. I’ll stop by there after my doctor appointment, I decided.

  “See you later,” I called to my parents. I slammed the car door shut. They were already arguing about something else.

  I turned and stepped up to the glass door. I glanced at the doctor’s sign again. Then I pulled the door open and stepped into the building.

  How was I to know that the whole world was about to go crazy?

  A sign in the lobby told me Dr. Root was in Room 301. I took an elevator to the third floor and found the office at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway.

  I stepped into a pale green waiting room. No one there. No one seated at the reception desk at the front. I saw two pale green couches against the wall. A low table was stacked with a pile of old People magazines.

  “Anyone here?” I called.

  No answer.

  “Dr. Root?” My voice rang loudly through the empty office.

  I was about to leave when I heard footsteps from a back room. Heavy, thudding footsteps. The back office door opened, and a huge man in a white short-sleeved lab coat lumbered out.

  He had short black hair over a round red face that looked like an inflated balloon. His enormous belly pushed against the front of the lab coat. I could see that
two or three buttons had popped off. Fat folds of his stomach poked out. His arms were bare and pink, like two big hams.

  He had tiny, black bird eyes tucked into his head. And when he smiled at me, folds of fat formed three or four chins under his mouth.

  “I … I think I’m in the wrong office,” I stammered.

  His smile spread. “No. I’ve been expecting you, Richard.” His voice was soft and seemed to come from deep inside him.

  His body bounced as he stepped toward me. He reached out a pink hand to shake. His fingers looked like fat sausages. Standing so close, I could see big drops of sweat on his forehead.

  He held on to my hand. His hand was warm and spongy. His tiny eyes locked on me. “I hear you have allergy problems,” he said. “You sneeze a lot, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat.

  He finally let go of my hand. He nodded, studying me. Out the window, I could see the Comic Book Museum across the street. I really wanted to be there instead of in this empty office with this weirdo blob of a doctor bulging out of his lab coat.

  I mean, he was like Marcus Maloney gone WILD.

  “Don’t be nervous, Richard,” he said softly. “I think I can help you. I have my own treatment. It’s taken me years to develop. But I think I can change your life.”

  “Uh … change my life?”

  “Follow me.” He turned and waddled to the back office.

  I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. I sneezed. And then sneezed again.

  “I believe you are allergic to dust in the air,” Dr. Root said. “You are very sensitive. You are allergic to tiny particles.”

  I wiped my nose with my shirt sleeve. I stepped into the back room. It was also green. Green wallpaper. Green countertops. Even the light seemed to be green.

  He was bent over a cabinet drawer. The flab on his arms rippled as he searched through the drawer. “Would you like to stop all the sneezing, Richard?”

  “Well, yes. I sure would,” I said. “But I’ve had these allergies since I was born. I —”

  “I’m going to give you one shot,” he said. He stood up. I couldn’t see what he held in his hand. It was hidden behind the bulging lab coat.

  A stab of fear shot down my back. “One shot?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I think that’s all it will take. One shot, and your allergies will disappear.” He motioned for me to turn around. “I’m going to give you the shot in your back.”