I didn’t know that my brush troubles weren’t over yet.
The next morning I peered through my bedroom window down to the backyard. “What?” I let out a hoarse cry when I saw that the first trash can had been tipped over.
I turned and saw the paintbrushes stacked on the side of my drawing table. “Oh no!” I moaned. “They’re back!”
My heart pounding, I raced across the room and grabbed them. My parents were in the backyard talking to our neighbors. Holding the brushes tightly in both hands, I ran down the stairs to the basement.
I carried them past the laundry room to Dad’s workshop. My dad is a real handyman, and he has a lot of major-league tools.
I flicked the switch on Dad’s table saw. Of course, I’m not allowed to use it. But this was an emergency.
The saw hummed to life. The round, jagged blade began to spin. Holding the ends of the brushes, I slid them toward the blade.
“Good-bye, brushes!” I shouted.
The big blade made a whining sound as it grated against the first wooden brush handle.
To my shock the wood didn’t split. The brush bounced off. The blade couldn’t cut through it!
I tried again, pushing the brush handle against the whirring blade. The blade whined—and bent. The brush bounced off, unharmed.
No. This is impossible, I thought. This can’t be happening.
I shut off the table saw. I grabbed the blowtorch from the floor beside the worktable.
I definitely was not allowed to use this. But I didn’t care. I was in a total panic. I had to destroy these brushes—before they ruined my life!
I set the brushes on the concrete floor. Then I lit the blowtorch. A bright-blue flame burst out with a roar.
“Yikes!”
Startled, I nearly dropped the heavy thing onto the floor. But I held on and aimed the flame at the brushes.
And waited for them to burn. And waited.
The brushes didn’t burn.
Cold panic swept over me. I stared at the brushes lying unharmed under the powerful, hot flame.
I’ll take them far away, I thought. Maybe I can mail them to another country. Or maybe I can bury them.
I turned off the blowtorch. Then I gathered up the brushes and carried them back to my room.
I tried to drop them onto my drawing table, but the brushes stuck to my hands.
I struggled to uncurl my fingers, to let the brushes fall. But instead my fingers tightened around the handles.
“No! No! No!” I chanted, squirming, pulling, twisting, fighting the power of the brushes.
But I no longer had control of my hands. They were dipping the brushes into paint, then moving to the paper on the drawing board.
“No! No! No!”
I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t free myself from them.
The brushes scraped across the paper, painting words in fat red letters.
“No! No!”
I gaped in horror at the message the brushes had written:
YOUR HANDS ARE MINE NOW. WE WILL PAINT TOGETHER—FOREVER.
The message done, the paintbrushes dropped from my hands beside the paper.
I was gasping for breath. My entire body trembled. I stared down at them. How can I get rid of these brushes? How?
Then, suddenly, I had an idea.
A month later Julie and I were at her house, watching a newsmagazine show on TV in her den. Julie started toward the kitchen to make popcorn, but I pulled her back. “It’s coming on now,” I said. “Watch.”
She sat back down, and we watched my dad appear on the TV show. The camera backed up, and we could see Flash holding Dad’s hand. The chimp was all dressed up in a silvery suit.
Dad led Flash to a drawing table. Flash sat down, picked up a long-handled brush, and started to paint.
“This is amazing!” the TV reporter exclaimed. “He’s painting a monster. His paintings are strange and ugly. But this chimp paints better than most humans!”
The camera caught a big smile on Dad’s face. “That’s why we’re selling Flash’s work to museums all over the world,” he said.
The camera moved in close on Flash’s hands as the chimp changed brushes and continued to paint.
“How did this happen?” the reporter asked Dad. “How did you discover this chimp had so much talent?”
Dad smiled into the camera. “It was an accident, really,” he said. “My son Dylan gave Flash an extra set of brushes. We sat Flash down in front of a drawing board—and the rest is history!”
Flash jumped up and down and uttered a hoo hoo hoo as his hands moved the brushes over the paper.
Julie turned to me. “Dylan, don’t you feel bad?” she asked. “You’re so serious about your painting. Aren’t you jealous that Flash is such a famous artist?”
A big smile spread over my face. “Me? Jealous?” I said. “No way!” And I settled back to watch Flash paint.
About the Author
ROBERT LAWRENCE STINE is the best-selling children’s author in history. He began his writing career at the age of nine writing short stories, joke books, and comic books for his friends and has been at it ever since. A graduate of Ohio State University, Mr. Stine served as editor-in-chief of Bananas, a humor magazine for children, before teaming up with Parachute Press to create Fear Street, the first young adult horror series. Stine and Parachute went on to launch Goosebumps, the best-selling series that made Stine an international celebrity and the #1 best-selling children’s author of all time (Guinness Book of World Records). His newest book series, The Nightmare Room, also published by Avon, is terrorizing a whole new generation of kids and has been adapted for TV. Check it out on the web at www.thenightmareroom.com
R.L. Stine lives in Manhattan with his wife, Jane. Their son, Matthew, is a college student. You can read more about Mr. Stine in his autobiography IT CAME FROM OHIO.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by R.L. STINE
Nightmare Hour
When Good Ghouls Go Bad
Beware!
Dangerous Girls
Dangerous Girls #2: The Taste of Night
Series:
The Nightmare Room
The Nightmare Room Thrillogy
Rotten School
Copyright
The Hub and Hub logo are registered trademarks and © 2011 Hub Television Networks, LLC. All rights reserved. Cover photograph by Katie Yu. From R.L. Stine’s THE HAUNTING HOUR: The Series on the HUB. Used by permission.
The Haunting Hour
Copyright © 2001 by Parachute Publishing, L.L.C.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text 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 hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stine, R.L.
The haunting hour / by R.L. Stine.
p. cm.
Summary: A collection of ten short horror stories featuring a ghoulish Halloween party, a long, mysterious car trip, and a very dangerous imaginary friend. Each story includes drawings by a different illustrator.
Contents: The Halloween dance — The bad baby-sitter — Revenge of the snowman — How to bargain with a dragon — The mummy’s dream — Are we there yet? — Take me with you — My imaginary friend — Losers — Can you draw me?
“A Parachute Press Book.”
ISBN 978-0-06-210691-9
1. Horror tales, American. 2. Children’s stories, American. [1. Horror stories. 2. Occult—Fiction. 3. Short stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.S86037+ 2001
[Fic]—dc21
2001039142
CIP
AC
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EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062107695
11 12 13 14 15 CG/CW 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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R.L. Stine, The Haunting Hour
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