The Horror at Chiller House

  TITLE PAGE

  MEET JONATHAN CHILLER …

  PART ONE: 1960

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  PART TWO: TODAY

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  PART THREE

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  EPILOGUE

  TEASER

  HORRORLAND TRADING CARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  He owns Chiller House, the HorrorLand gift shop. Sometimes Chiller refused to let kids pay for their gifts. He said, “You can pay me next time.”

  What did he mean by that?

  You’re about to find out.

  Because next time has arrived!

  Six kids find themselves pulled from their homes, back to Chiller’s frightening shop. “It’s payback time,” Chiller tells them. “We’re going to play a game.”

  The kids quickly discover his game may have no winners.

  They have no choice. They must play to survive. They are trapped in the most terrifying HorrorLand adventure of them all!

  He didn’t want to do his homework. He hated the big science and math textbooks. Sometimes he thought about ripping out each page. Every one of them, one by one. He wanted to rip them out and crinkle them up and toss them into the fireplace.

  He’d be so happy watching them smoke and burn.

  Except he didn’t have a fireplace in his bedroom. His walls were filled with bookshelves. That’s where he kept all his board games, and puppets, and action figures, and toy soldiers, and costumes. Everything was all jammed together, as if he were living in a big closet.

  Maybe that’s why he spent so much time gazing out the window. His one window that looked out on his backyard.

  The grass was tall in the back. There were a few low evergreen bushes. And his mother had a small vegetable garden behind the wooden shed. That was all. The yard was pretty bare.

  No swing set or lawn furniture. No patio. No place to sit in the sun or play. Well, his parents didn’t like him to play outside. And they definitely didn’t like it when he sneaked out the back door and took himself for a walk in the woods.

  The backyard ended at the woods. So it was a short walk to the tall, tangled trees, the cool darkness, the tangy, piney smells, the crunch of dead brown leaves under his shoes.

  He liked to hide back there and pretend he was an explorer in a new country. You might guess that he had a good imagination — and you’d be right.

  He imagined that no one had ever walked there before. He was the first. He was discovering new lands and claiming them for himself.

  He battled the wild woods people. He defeated them. He destroyed them. Then he moved on to discover even more lands.

  He had to sneak out to do his exploring. Mother and Father said it was dangerous in the woods. His father wouldn’t go there without his hunting crossbow. Mother forbade him to go past the backyard.

  That’s why he gazed out the window so often. Right now, two shiny black crows were fighting over a worm in the grass. He liked to watch them fight. The way they flapped their wings so furiously and pecked at each other.

  He liked to see them peck and peck and peck, till the feathers flew and blood spattered all over the grass.

  Sometimes he imagined he saw kids in the backyard at the edge of the woods. Kids his age who were coming to visit him. He imagined they were his good friends, and they were coming to play games, and watch him do a puppet show, and share secrets, and have bowls of popcorn with him.

  He wanted to be a normal ten-year-old. He thought he could be a normal ten-year-old.

  He’d love to go to school and have friends and go to birthday parties and sleepovers. But Mother said he was better than that. She said he had a special brain that must be nurtured.

  He didn’t really know what nurtured meant. And he refused to look it up in the fat dictionary they made him keep on the corner of his big mahogany desk.

  If he had a special brain, he didn’t want it. He’d give it back. He’d trade it for a normal brain. No joke.

  Sometimes he played a game he invented called The Brain Game. He asked himself really hard questions and then made up really stupid answers. He didn’t know why, but he thought it was very funny. His stupid answers always cracked him up.

  He liked to make up games. And he liked to put on plays with his toy soldiers and spacemen. That was normal — right?

  Wow. Those two crows were really having a battle. They were shrieking and cawing their heads off. They made such a racket, he didn’t hear his bedroom door open. And he didn’t hear his mother walk into the room.

  “Why aren’t you studying?”

  Her voice made him jump. He nearly banged his head on the window.

  His mother had a big, powerful voice. She never whispered.

  Everything about her was big. She was tall, taller than his father. She had broad shoulders and big hands, and she walked heavily, as if she was wearing boots even when she wasn’t.

  He thought she was kind of pretty. Her eyes were steely gray, and she had a cold stare. But her wavy blond hair was nice. And when she smiled, her whole face crinkled up, the only time she looked gentle.

  He turned away from the window to face her. “Just taking a break,” he said.

  He got the cold, silvery stare. “I heard you playing a game before. You are wasting your good brain. Get to your studies.”

  She pointed to the stack of textbooks on his desk. “The great scientists await,” she said.

  Let them wait! he thought.

  But he said, “Okay.” And he shuffled over to the desk. He slid into his big black leather desk chair and opened a science book.

  She stood there watching him, her arms crossed in front of her white sweater. He pretended to read. He suddenly had an idea for a new puppet show. Two puppets fighting to the death.

  “Every day you need to expand your brain,” Mother said. “Every day your brain will grow bigger.”

  That made him snicker. It sounded like a horror movie. The Brain That Wouldn’t Stop Growing.

  He wasn’t allowed to watch horror movies. But he read about them.

  Finally, Mother strode to the door. She closed it behind her.

  As soon as she was gone, he stood up and walked over to his puppet shelf. He had marionettes and hand puppets. And a set of finger puppets his grandmother sent him when he was six.

  It was a very good puppet collection. He liked to collect things. It made him feel like his room was crowded. And then he wasn’t so lonely.

  He picked up his sad-clown puppet. It had a bright red-and-white-striped costume with a red ruffle around its neck. But it had the saddest frown on its face and little teardrops under its eyes. He named the puppet Droopy.

  He carried Droopy to his desk and made him sit next to his science textbook. “We’ll read it together,” he told him. “That’s what friends do. They share things.”

  He started to read. But voices outside his bedroom door made him stop and look up.

  Mother and Father were in the hall. They were arguing. This happened a lot.

  They were talking in hushed whispers. They didn’t want him to hear. But the whispers were loud enough. He could hear every word. br />
  “Why don’t you let him be normal?” Father demanded.

  Mother didn’t reply. So Father continued. “You are turning my son into a freak.”

  “He’s our son,” Mother said.

  “I don’t care. I don’t like what you are doing to him. You have to let him go to school and be with other kids.”

  “He’s not like other kids,” Mother insisted.

  He’d heard her say this so many times. He imagined himself grabbing her arms and shaking her … shaking her and saying, “Yes, I am. Yes, I am like other kids.”

  The crows finally stopped cawing. He could hear his parents’ hushed voices so clearly now.

  “He is too smart for the other kids,” Mother said. “He has to study. He has to use his brilliant mind.”

  “You’re ruining him,” Father told her. Even through the thick door, he could hear the anger in Father’s voice. He pictured his face, hard and tight and red. “You’re turning him into a freak. He’s a weird little freak.”

  A door slammed.

  He jumped to his feet. He let out a hoarse cry of anger. “No, I’m NOT!” he screamed at the door. “I’m NOT a freak! NOT a freak!”

  He grabbed Droopy. He squeezed his cloth body hard with one hand — and ripped off one of his arms.

  “Not a freak! Not a freak!”

  He tore off Droopy’s head and tossed it in the trash basket. He tore off a leg. Then another arm. Pulling and tearing and screaming. He ripped the striped costume to shreds.

  His chest was heaving. He couldn’t catch his breath. He ripped and clawed at the puppet.

  It felt good. It really did.

  War on the Red Planet!

  He lined his spacemen up, ready for battle. This was the biggest war the planet Mars had ever seen.

  He collected monster figures, too. He had some of the most popular ones from TV. Billy Bigfoot. And The Creature from the Bottomless Sewer. And Abominable Two-Headed Spider Boy.

  He wasn’t allowed to watch TV. But he read about all the monster movies and shows.

  He pretended the monsters were the Martians. His silver space cadets were the good guys. Their ray guns could blast a Martian to molecules.

  He made all the sound effects with his mouth. Explosions. The zip zip zip of ray guns. Martians screaming as they fell.

  It was a few days after he ripped Droopy the Clown to pieces. He missed Droopy. He was an important part of his puppet collection. When he tore him up, he didn’t even realize it. It was scary to be that angry and not even know what he was doing.

  That morning before the war on Mars, he worked on his stamp collection. And he organized his antique bottle collection on its shelf.

  He was doing anything he could to keep away from the chapter entitled “The Physics of the Gravitational Pull” he was supposed to be reading in his science book.

  Last night, Mother made him read his history text till bedtime. When he looked in the mirror this morning, his eyes were tired and bloodshot.

  KABOOOOOM.

  He dropped a pillow over the Martian monsters. They crumbled beneath it. The war was brutal.

  But he stopped the battle when once again he heard his parents arguing outside his door. His father sounded very angry this time. His mother was not arguing back.

  “Listen to him in there,” Father said. “All he does is make up baby games and play with toys. He lives in a fantasy world.”

  “I keep telling him to study harder,” Mother said. “What else can I do?”

  “You won’t let him be normal,” Father boomed. “It’s enough. Enough! I’m going to make a man out of him!”

  The spaceman figure dropped from his hand. He shoved the monsters off the bed and climbed to his feet.

  He heard Father’s heavy footsteps treading toward his room.

  And he heard Mother’s frightened voice: “Charles — stop. What are you going to do?”

  The bedroom door swung open. He felt a shock of fear as Father came bursting in.

  Father wasn’t tall but he was built like a bear, big and athletic, broad and tough looking. He was red-faced and stubbly. He didn’t like to shave. He had straight black hair cut in a short flattop. His eyes were pale blue, under thick black eyebrows. He had a stare like a ray gun beam.

  He wore flannel shirts and baggy jeans that he seldom had cleaned. He laughed sometimes, big he-man, cruel laughter. But he seldom smiled.

  Father turned his blue eyes on the monsters and spacemen scattered on the bedroom floor. Then he raised his gaze. He scratched his stubbly beard and stared hard.

  “There are wild turkeys in the woods,” he said. He didn’t talk — he boomed.

  The boy didn’t know how to reply to Father. He just stared back at him, his legs trembling.

  “You want to come hunting with me?” Father demanded.

  The boy swallowed. His mouth suddenly felt so dry.

  He pictured the big crossbows his father kept in the mudroom at the back of the house. The boy liked to fight pretend wars. But those crossbows frightened him a lot.

  Father didn’t believe in using a hunting rifle. He said rifles made it too easy. Hunting with a crossbow required skill.

  The boy shuddered every time he walked past the weapons case.

  The crossbows terrified him.

  Father narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Do you want to come hunting or not?”

  No. No way. He didn’t want to go.

  But he wanted Father to like him. He had to show his father that he wasn’t a cowardly baby and a freak.

  “Yes,” he said. His voice cracked just a little. “Yes. Okay. Let’s go.”

  Clouds covered the sun, and the woods grew dark. It was early spring, and the air still carried a chill. It had rained the day before, and the ground was soft and muddy.

  His shoes sank into the mud as he hurried to keep up with Father. Father took long strides, crunching the twigs and leaves under his boots.

  He had the crossbow slung over the right shoulder of his brown leather jacket. A quiver of arrows bounced on his back.

  The boy heard the trees shaking overhead. Birds probably, lighting in the branches.

  Something scampered across their path. A fat brown squirrel.

  “The turkeys were on the other side of that clearing,” his father whispered. He pointed. “Two families of them. Some fat, juicy birds. They travel together in a line.”

  His words made the boy excited. He guessed because Father was actually talking to him, explaining something to him.

  He usually only grunted a few words. Or shouted at the boy about something he had done wrong.

  This was the first time ever that the two were on an adventure together — like friends, almost.

  So the boy was excited — but also frightened. Watching that deadly crossbow made him feel shaky and afraid.

  And as they walked, he kept his eyes on it. He watched it bob up and down over his father’s shoulder.

  And he thought about what a powerful weapon it was. How fast and straight it sent the arrows flying.

  He imagined the thwocccck the arrow made, driven deep into a tree trunk.

  He had watched Father practice target shooting for hours in the back of their house. It never failed to fill him with cold dread.

  The sky brightened a little. Some light washed down through the thick trees overhead. A gust of wind made the branches tremble and creak.

  Father kicked a rock out of his way. It made a loud thump as it slammed into a tree trunk, then bounced aside.

  The boy slipped over a thicket of wet leaves and fell to his knees. His father didn’t notice. He just kept taking those long strides. The boy scrambled to catch up to him.

  “Father —” he started.

  He raised a hand to shush the boy. He led the way into a small grassy clearing. He pressed a finger against his lips, then pointed.

  The boy saw four or five fat wild turkeys, heads bobbing as they walked. “There they are,” Father whispered. r />
  Then, to the boy’s surprise, Father slid the crossbow off his shoulder and shoved it hard into his hands. The boy wasn’t expecting it. He nearly dropped it.

  He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He felt a little dizzy. The crossbow was heavier than he imagined.

  “But, Father —” he started.

  Father had his eyes on the bobbing, strutting turkeys.

  “Let’s see you give it a try, son,” he whispered. “Hurry. Hold it steady like this.”

  “But, Father —”

  He moved the boy’s hands over the handle. He pulled an arrow from the quiver and fit it into the crossbow.

  “I’ll steady it for you, son,” he said softly. “Hold it here.” He moved the boy’s hand down to the trigger. “Aim through the sight.”

  The boy struggled to hold it up. It was heavy — and too long for him. He couldn’t balance it. He didn’t know how to aim or keep it steady.

  “I — I’m just a kid, Father,” he stammered. “I’m only ten. This thing is too big for me.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so whiny. “Look. It’s almost as long as I am.”

  Father made a disgusted face. His blue eyes turned cold. “You’ve got to learn sometime,” he said through his clenched teeth.

  The boy didn’t want him to be angry. He wanted desperately to make his father proud of him. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  “Be a man,” he said. “A man has to know how to hunt.”

  He raised the crossbow to his shoulder. His knees started to fold. He almost sank to the ground. He just couldn’t balance it.

  “Hold it like this,” Father said. He moved the handle over the boy’s shoulder. Then he slid his son’s hand to the trigger.

  Across the clearing, two more wild turkeys appeared. They began to peck at something in the grass. There were at least seven or eight of them now.

  “I — I don’t really know how to aim,” the boy said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Father replied. “Just get the feel of the crossbow. You don’t have to shoot any turkeys today. First you have to learn to handle the weapon.”

  The boy nodded. His heart was still racing. But he felt a little better. At least his father didn’t really expect him to shoot anything.

  “Take a practice shot,” Father said. He turned his son slightly and pointed. “Just aim at those trees. Go ahead. Take a shot. You’ll get the feel of it.”