“Please! Don’t!” Benny cries. “If only you knew —”
Well?
If you put the key in IT’S TIM, turn to PAGE 43.
If you want to find out what Benny knows, run over to PAGE 68.
Parked at the curb is a shiny black car with dark tinted windows. The words HASLEY TOY COMPANY are printed on the side.
As the rain pours down, a tall, thin man gets out and opens the trunk. That’s Whittle, you think. It’s got to be!
Whittle is the scariest-looking person you’ve ever seen. A hideous six-inch-long scar slashes across his left cheek. His stringy black hair blows wildly in the wind. His eyes are like black marbles: hard, shiny, and cold. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and black leather gloves.
Something about the way he opens and closes his gloved fists makes you want to run screaming for help.
Instead, you run to the front door and double-bolt the lock. Then you peer out through the curtains. Whittle is lifting a large box out of the trunk of his car.
No! You want to scream when you see what’s in the box.
It’s another Annihilator!
Turn to PAGE 117.
Benny runs toward you.
“Those ninjas caught me when I was trying to run out. They had me surrounded!” he pants. “I thought I was dead! And then they were just — gone!” He snaps his fingers.
“Where did everything go?” you ask, your mouth hanging open so wide, you could probably fit Nasty Kathy’s head in there.
“The toys? Oh, that was all a hologram,” Bobaloo explains. “This is a new theme park called TOY WORLD. The whole thing is done with holograms. From that box there.” He points at the gray box.
Bobaloo explains that they’re testing TOY WORLD to see if kids like it. And to see if it’s scary enough.
“That’s so cool!” you announce. “Can we come again?”
“Uh, sure,” Bobaloo answers. “Here are some tickets.”
He hands you a ticket book that says Win Ten Tickets to Toy World!
But when you read the small print, you see you haven’t really won at all.
First you have to buy ten magazine subscriptions!
Happy reading!
THE END
You stare at Benny with wide eyes.
“What just happened?” you ask slowly.
“The toys went back to being just toys,” he explains. “At least all the ones inside the factory.”
“Huh?” you ask stupidly, your mouth hanging open.
“The toys we brought out are still alive,” he goes on. “That’s why I didn’t want you to put the key in IT’S TIM until we got out. I knew that every toy — and every life-sized doll — in the factory would go to sleep forever when you used the key.”
You blink. “I don’t get it,” you say. “You cared that much about keeping these toys alive?”
The pig under your arm squirms happily. “I’m glad you did, though,” you add, giving the pig an affectionate squeeze.
“The toys are cool.” Benny hesitates for a second. “But mostly I cared about keeping myself alive!”
“Keeping yourself alive?” you say. “What do you mean?”
Benny gazes solemnly at you.
“I’m going to tell you the truth,” he says. “I knew all about the living toys. And that they were making human-looking dolls to carry out a secret plan. Because I’m a doll!”
Go on to PAGE 90.
Desperately, you glance at the red light again.
It’s a beam of some sort, coming from a box in the corner of the wall.
What’s it for? you wonder.
On instinct, you put the palm of your hand up, intercepting the beam.
The instant you do, all the toys in the warehouse … vanish!
They just … disappear. Every single one of them. Every game, car, doll, puzzle, and weapon.
Simply gone!
A second later, the bright overhead lights come on. Bobaloo bursts into the warehouse through the glass door.
“Okay, the tour’s over,” Bobaloo says cheerily. “How did you like it?”
Give him an answer on PAGE 131.
“Wait!” you cry out, kicking and squirming inside the spiderweb. “Wait! Let me go — please! I’ll make it worth your while.”
The army captain strokes his chin.
“Really?” he asks, sounding interested.
“Sure,” you answer eagerly. “Anything! I’ll give you anything. What do you want?”
“What have you got?” the captain asks.
Hmmm. Good question. What have you got?
“How about my old toys and games?” you offer weakly.
“Games? Toys? Are you kidding?! Ha!” The captain sweeps his arm toward the overflowing warehouse.
All the soldiers start laughing and slapping their knees. Even the ninjas chuckle.
“Turn on the machines!” the captain commands with a little wave of his hand.
“Wait! How about a bag of chocolate gold coins? A million dollars in Monopoly money?” you try.
But it’s no use. The conveyor belt is moving again. You ride closer and closer to the hole-punching machine.
THWACK. KA-CHUNK!
Go to PAGE 124.
The hand grabs the phone and slams it down before anyone answers.
You turn around — and gasp.
Benny is standing there. And Bobaloo, too!
Your jaw drops. So it’s true. Benny is in on the toys’ plot. That rat!
You want to scream for help, but your voice seems stuck.
“Let’s go,” Bobaloo says, grabbing your elbow roughly. “It’s time to put an end to all of this.”
You glance at Benny pleadingly. How could he do this? Even if he is a toy … he was your friend!
“Where to?” he asks Bobaloo. They both shove you into the backseat of the long black car.
“There’s only one place,” Bobaloo answers. “The Dark Hole.”
Face the Dark Hole on PAGE 112.
You stare in horror at the flashing swords.
They sweep down on you …
And slice away the Instant Spiderweb that’s tying you down!
A few seconds later, you’re free.
You hop off the conveyor belt and open your mouth to say, “Thanks.” But just then your walkie-talkie crackles to life again.
“Thank you for helping me,” the voice in the walkie-talkie declares. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got something important to do. In the warehouse — Aisle One.”
“Sorry about that,” the army captain mutters. “We were just following orders.”
“You should think before you follow orders,” the pig scolds through the walkie-talkie.
You smile to yourself as you hurry toward the glass wall. Then in through the glass door. Toward Aisle One.
Inside the door, you see Benny on the floor, still tied up with jump ropes. Right where the soldiers left him.
Only he’s just lying there, curled up. Completely still.
Is he even breathing?
“Benny!” you call out. “Benny!”
Turn to PAGE 35.
The Annihilator looks confused for a moment.
Then it raises the truck above its head and smashes it down! Bright red pieces of plastic scatter all over the kitchen floor.
“Oh, no,” you moan, backing up fearfully.
The Annihilator stalks toward you, its face lights flashing. Then it holds out one hand.
“What do you want?” you whisper. “Another toy to destroy?”
You glance around quickly. There — on the counter. Your little brother’s plastic stretchy man. A toy called Big Bob.
Without getting too close, you push Big Bob toward the Annihilator.
The robot’s lights flash eagerly as it picks up Big Bob. But the stretchy toy doesn’t beep or glow.
The Annihilator doesn’t like it!
With one powerful twist of its hands, it tears Big Bob’s head off and
slams it to the floor!
WHHIRRR …
The Annihilator gazes around again. For something else …
Hurry to PAGE 36 — before it tears your head off!
I stepped down from the bus and squinted into the sunlight. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I searched the small parking lot for Uncle Colin and Aunt Marta.
I didn’t remember what they looked like. I hadn’t seen them since I was four, eight years ago.
But the Wolf Creek bus station was so tiny. Just a little wooden shack in the middle of a big parking lot. I knew I couldn’t miss them.
“How many suitcases?” the bus driver growled out of the side of his mouth. Despite the cold October air, he had a damp sweat stain on the back of his gray uniform.
“Just one,” I said. I was the only passenger to get off at Wolf Creek.
Across from the bus station, I saw a gas station and a one-block stretch of small stores. Beyond that, I could see the woods. The trees shimmered yellow and brown, the autumn leaves still clinging to their branches. Dry, brown leaves fluttered across the parking lot.
The driver grunted as he hoisted up the sliding door to the baggage compartment. He pulled out a black bag. “This yours, kid?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I shivered from a gust of cold wind. I wondered if Mom and Dad had packed enough warm clothes for me. They’d had to pack me up in such a hurry.
They weren’t expecting to be called out of the country on business just before Halloween. They’d had to fly to France. And they’d had to find a place for me to stay for two weeks. Maybe longer.
My aunt and uncle were the lucky winners!
I adjusted the camera bag on my shoulder. I kept my camera on my lap the whole bus ride. I didn’t want it bouncing around in the baggage compartment.
My camera is the most valuable thing I own. It’s the old-fashioned kind with film. I don’t go anywhere without it. And I seldom let it out of my sight.
The driver slid my suitcase over the pavement to me. He slammed shut the baggage compartment. Then he started back into the bus. “Someone picking you up?”
“Yes,” I replied, searching for Uncle Colin and Aunt Marta again.
A mud-splattered blue van squealed into the parking lot. The horn honked. I saw a hand waving to me from the passenger window.
“There they are!” I told the bus driver. But he had already climbed back inside and shut the door. The bus hissed and groaned, and pulled away.
“Alex — hi!” Aunt Marta called from the van.
I picked up my suitcase and trotted over to them. The van screeched to a stop. Uncle Colin climbed out from behind the wheel. Aunt Marta came running from the other side.
I didn’t remember them at all. I pictured them as young and dark-haired. But they were both pretty old-looking. They were both very tall and lean. As they hurried across the lot to me, they reminded me of two skinny grasshoppers with tufts of gray hair on their heads.
Aunt Marta wrapped me in a hug. Her arms felt so bony. “Alex — it’s so wonderful to see you! I’m so glad you came!” she exclaimed.
She let go quickly and backed away. “Uh-oh. I’m crushing your camera case!”
I shifted it around my neck. “No, it’s a hard case,” I replied. “It’s okay.”
Smiling, Uncle Colin shook hands with me. His wavy gray hair fluttered in the breeze. His cheeks were red and sort of cracked. Age lines, I guess.
“You’re so big and grown-up,” he said, “I’m going to have to call you Mr. Hunter instead of Alex.”
I laughed. “No one calls me Mr. Hunter — yet,” I told him.
“How was the long bus ride?” he asked.
“Bumpy,” I told him. “I don’t think the driver missed a single pothole! And the man next to me had the hiccups the whole way.”
Aunt Marta chuckled. “Sounds like a fun trip.”
Uncle Colin lowered his eyes to my camera case. “Like to take pictures, Alex?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want to be a photographer someday. Just like you two.”
Their smiles grew wider. That seemed to please them.
But Uncle Colin’s smile faded quickly. “It’s a hard way to make a living,” he said. “Lots of traveling. We never stay in one place for long.”
Aunt Marta sighed. “That’s why we haven’t seen you for so many years.” She hugged me again.
“I was hoping maybe I could go out on a shoot with you,” I said. “I’ll bet you two could teach me a lot!”
Uncle Colin laughed. “We’ll teach you all our secrets.”
“You’re staying for at least two weeks,” Aunt Marta added. “So we’ll have plenty of time for photography lessons.”
“Not if we spend the whole time in this parking lot!” Uncle Colin declared. With a groan, he hoisted my suitcase into the back of the van.
We climbed in. And a few seconds later, we pulled away from the bus station, into town.
A post office whirred past. Then a small grocery and a dry cleaner. We crossed a street, and thick woods surrounded us on both sides.
“Is that all there is?” I cried.
“Alex,” Aunt Marta replied, “you’ve just had the grand tour of Wolf Creek.”
“Hope you won’t be bored in such a tiny town,” Uncle Colin added, turning the van sharply as the road curved through the trees.
“No way!” I cried. “I really want to explore the woods.”
I’m a city kid. I seldom even get to touch a tree. Going into the woods, I thought, will be so interesting — like visiting another planet.
“I want to shoot a hundred rolls of film in the woods!” I declared. The van bumped hard, sending my head bouncing against the van roof.
“Slow down, Colin!” Aunt Marta scolded. She turned back to me. “Your uncle only knows one speed — light speed.”
“Speaking of light, we’ll show you some tricks for shooting outdoors,” Uncle Colin said, pressing his foot even harder on the gas pedal.
“I’ve entered a photography contest back home,” I told them. “I want to snap a great Halloween photo. Something really wild to win the contest.”
“Oh, that’s right. Halloween’s only a couple days off,” Aunt Marta said, glancing at my uncle. She turned back to me. “What do you want to be for Halloween, Alex?”
I didn’t have to think about it. I’d already decided back home.
“A werewolf,” I told her.
“NO!” she screamed.
Uncle Colin also let out a cry.
The van plowed through a stop sign. I flew off the seat and hit the door hard. And stared helplessly through the bouncing windshield — as we swerved into the path of a roaring truck.
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 © 1997 by Scholastic Inc.
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, 1997
e-ISBN 978-0-545-82081-3
All rights reserv
ed 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, Toy Terror
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