“Shine your light over there,” Steve whispered back.
He sounded scared. I knew I was.
I swung my flashlight in its direction—and two human-like forms walked toward us.
Girls.
Two girls squinting in the light and giggling.
Two totally alive girls.
I wanted a ghost. Or a werewolf. Or a vampire. Even a mummy.
But no. I found girls.
“Who are you?” Steve asked as we walked toward them. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m Kate Drennan,” one of the girls answered in a soft voice. “And this is my sister, Betsy.”
Both girls had bright blue eyes and long black hair. The one named Kate had straight hair tied back in a ponytail. The other one had wavy hair with curls that tumbled all the way down her back.
I’d never seen either of them before—even though they looked as though they should be in my grade.
“We were just—” Kate began again. But before she could finish, Betsy cut her off.
“Why do you get to ask the questions?” she demanded. “We have as much right to be here as you do.”
“Okay, okay,” I started to apologize. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you around here before. Do you go to Shadyside Middle School?”
“No,” Kate started to answer.
“We’re on spring break,” Betsy interrupted. “We go to school in Vermont. We don’t know many kids in Shadyside, so it gets pretty boring.”
“That’s why we sneaked out tonight,” Kate added. “We were bored. There was nothing on TV. Nothing to do.”
“We sneaked out, too,” I admitted.
Kate—the quieter one—smiled. And Betsy—the bossy one—seemed to relax a little.
“At least you get a vacation,” Steve added. “We don’t have one until school lets out for the summer.”
“We should head back,” Betsy said. “Our parents might check up on us or something.”
“Us, too. We’ll probably see you around,” I volunteered. “We’ll be out here a lot—we’re going to rebuild that tree house.”
I shone the flashlight up into the branches of the big dark oak. Both girls glanced up. Then I noticed Kate’s expression. She looked scared. Really scared.
Betsy glared at me. “What did you say?” she asked.
“I said we’re going to rebuild that old tree house.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” Betsy replied. “But you can’t.”
“Why can’t we?” Steve demanded.
“No one can,” Betsy insisted.
Kate began chewing nervously on the end of her ponytail. “You can’t rebuild the tree house,” she said. “You can’t because . . . because . . .”
“Because of the secret about it,” Betsy finished for her sister.
“The secret?” I asked. “What secret?”
A tree house with a secret! Is this cool or what?
“We can’t tell you. Everyone knows about this old tree house,” Betsy snapped.
Then she narrowed her eyes. “But I will tell you this—if you don’t want to get hurt . . . you’ll stay away from the tree house!”
“They’re just trying to scare us,” Steve replied. “But it’s not going to work. Right?”
“Right,” I replied, not feeling as convinced as I sounded.
“Well, I—uh—really think you should listen to Betsy,” Kate whispered. “Because we, um, we heard some kids tried to fix up the tree house and they . . .”
“What happened to them?” These girls were driving me crazy. “Did they die? What happened?”
Betsy shook her sister’s shoulder, interrupting her for the millionth time. “Come on. Let’s go. They don’t need to hear that old story,” she snapped. “If they’re smart, they’ll just stay away.”
“Why? Why should we stay away?” I asked.
Then I remembered what I read about ghosts and cold spots. “Wow! I said. “Is the tree house haunted?”
“Come on, Kate,” Betsy ordered. “These guys are hopeless.”
Kate gave sort of a half smile. “We do have to go,” she said. “Our mom will freak if she can’t find us.”
“Wait!” I protested. “Just tell us some more about the tree house. Please!”
I thought Kate was about to say something, but Betsy didn’t give her a chance. “I said come on,” she grumbled, tugging her sister across the clearing.
“Bye,” Kate called over her shoulder.
As they stepped onto the path, Betsy stopped and called back, “Remember, you have been warned. Now if anything bad happens to you, it will be your own fault!”
* * *
The next day at school, I couldn’t concentrate. Betsy’s warning kept echoing in my head. What did it mean? What was the big secret about the tree house?
It must be haunted, I decided. That had to be it. At least I hoped so.
I spent the last part of the day—the part when we were supposed to be doing math—drawing tree house plans on the cover of my notebook.
In some of the plans, I sketched a shadowy figure sitting on the end of a branch. I made it shadowy because I didn’t know what a ghost really looked like. Not yet, anyway.
As soon as the last bell rang, I raced home. I headed straight into the garage and loaded up two big cardboard boxes with nails, old boards, and lots of tools.
That was the easy part.
Next came the hard part—Steve. I found him lying on the couch, watching TV and munching Cheese Curlies.
“Come on,” I said. “We have to start before it gets too dark out there.”
Steve’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “Let’s wait till Saturday,” he answered. “I want to watch the rest of this show.”
I glanced at the TV. “You’ve seen that cartoon at least one hundred times!” I snatched the remote from his hand and clicked off the TV. “We had a deal.”
“Our deal didn’t say when I had to help,” Steve answered. “What’s the big rush, anyway?”
“I think the tree house is haunted! I think someone died up there! And I did see something in the shadows.”
“Dylan,” Steve said, shaking his head, “the only thing that died is your brain.”
“I can prove to you that ghosts are real,” I replied. “Just think about it—this is the perfect chance for us to settle our argument about ghosts. If the tree house is haunted, I know I can prove it.”
Steve shoved himself up from the sofa.
“All right, Dylan, my lad. But if we don’t see a ghost before we finish the tree house, you have to admit I was right and you were wrong.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
“And you have to stop talking about ghosts, reading about ghosts, watching movies about ghosts—even thinking about ghosts. Deal?” Steve asked.
“Deal,” I agreed.
We headed to the garage to pick up the supplies. Steve chose the lightest box, of course.
We cut across the backyard, and I led the way into the woods. “Wow!” Steve cried as he stumbled along behind me. “The woods are even colder than last night. From now on, I’m wearing my winter parka when we come out here.”
“It’s because of the ghost,” I informed him. “Haunted places usually have a colder temperature.”
“Give me a break!” Steve shouted. “It’s cold because of all the trees. The sunlight can’t get through the branches.”
After that we trudged along without talking. My box felt heavier with every step. I thought about turning around and asking Steve to trade. But I didn’t want to start another argument.
I stopped when the path reached the clearing.
I scanned the shadows around the oak tree.
Nothing there.
I dumped my cardboard box on the ground. I turned to Steve—and couldn’t believe what I saw. “Where’s yours?” I demanded.
“Where’s my what?” Steve asked, smiling.
“Your box.”
Ste
ve took off his baseball cap, smoothed his hair, and stuck the cap back on. “I left it at the edge of the backyard. We couldn’t possibly use all that junk in one day,” Steve explained.
“That was not our deal!” I yelled. “Our deal was that you help. Watching me carry a box does not count as help. And neither does leaving our stuff behind!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll get the box,” Steve muttered.
I watched Steve disappear down the path—and realized what a big mistake I had made. I’d be lucky if Steve returned—with or without the box.
In fact, I knew exactly what Steve would do. He would decide he needed a glass of water. No, a glass of water and some more Cheese Curlies—to build up his strength. And since he couldn’t eat and carry the box at the same time, he’d watch a few cartoons until he finished the Curlies. And by then, it would be time for me to go home.
Well, I didn’t need Steve, anyway. I really didn’t expect him to do much work. I just wanted him along because the woods were kind of creepy. Which is exactly what I started thinking as I opened the carton.
It was quiet here. Way too quiet.
And dark. Steve was right about the branches. They blocked out all the sunlight.
I glanced up at the tree house and felt a shiver race up and down my spine. You wanted to see a ghost, I told myself. And now’s your chance.
I forced myself to march over to the tree. I tested the first rung of the ladder nailed onto the trunk. A little wobbly, but okay, I decided.
I stepped on the rung. It held me—no problem. I tugged on the second rung before I climbed up—it felt okay, too. Only three more rungs to go.
I stared up at the tree house again. An icy breeze swept over me and my knees began to shake.
Take a deep breath, I told myself. Don’t wimp out now.
I stepped up to the next rung.
And that’s when I heard the sound.
A sickening CRACK.
My feet flew out from under me as the third rung snapped off the trunk.
I flung my arms around the trunk. I kicked my legs wildly, searching for the next rung.
My heart pounded in my chest until my feet found it. Then I clung there for a few minutes. Hugging the tree trunk tightly, trying to catch my breath.
A cold gust of wind blew. My teeth began to chatter.
I inhaled deeply. “Okay, just one more rung to go,” I said out loud. But I couldn’t move. I remained frozen to the spot.
Then I pictured myself talking to Steve after I’d proven that ghosts exist. “Steve, my lad,” I would say, “don’t feel stupid. Even though you are a year older, no one expects you to be right about everything.”
That gave me the courage to go on.
I made my way to the top rung. I peered underneath the tree house and studied the platform. Half of it was badly damaged. The boards were black and charred. But the other half appeared solid enough. I banged on it with my fist a few times just to make sure.
Then I pulled myself through the open trapdoor—and felt something touch my face. Something soft. Something airy. Something light.
I screamed.
I found the ghost!
About R. L. Stine
R. L. Stine, the creator of Ghosts of Fear Street, has written almost 100 scary novels for kids. The Ghosts of Fear Street series, like the Fear Street series, takes place in Shadyside and centers on the scary events that happen to people on Fear Street.
When he isn’t writing, R. L. Stine likes to play pinball on his very own pinball machine, and explore New York City with his wife, Jane, and fifteen-year-old son, Matt.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Aladdin Paperbacks edition April 2004
NIGHTMARE IN 3-D WRITTEN BY GLORIA HATRICK
Text copyright © 1996 by Parachute Press, Inc.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ISBN 0-671-52944-7
ISBN 978-1-4424-8738-3 (eBook)
FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.
R.L. Stine, Nightmare in 3-D
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