I guess he’s into scaring himself. He’s been very weird ever since we moved into this creepy old house last year.
We had a perfectly nice house back in Toledo. But Dad got a new job, and we had to move to Forrest Valley. And Mom and Dad bought this huge, old, broken-down heap.
The house leans over a high peak on the top of Hunter Hill. You can see our house from town in Forrest Valley below. Even from so far away, the house looks like a haunted house in a horror movie.
I think they bought this wreck because Dad likes to build and repair things. He watches all those “Fix Up Your Own House” shows on TV and says, “I can do that. I can do that.”
Except he really can’t.
As Mom says, “When it comes to being handy, he’s all thumbs!”
Anyway, Todd has been acting really weird ever since we moved in. He is convinced the house is haunted. He’s always seeing ghosts in every room.
He’s always screaming and carrying on and freaking himself out. Do you believe it? The poor guy has to sleep with his lights on!
And now he stood trembling in my doorway, motioning frantically with both hands for me to follow him. He’s so skinny and blond and pink. I had to laugh. The way he was twitching and shaking, he looked like a frightened bunny rabbit.
“Mitchell — hurry! Please!” he cried. “There’s a ghost in my room!”
“Not again,” I groaned. I dropped the broken fiberglass fender to the table and glared at my brother. “Todd, your brain is haunted. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no ghost in this house!”
“Please —” he pleaded.
“Have you been reading those scary books again?” I asked. “You know you’re too young for them.”
“No. Really. I’m not making it up this time,” he insisted. He turned and gazed down the hall, quivering all over. “It — it’s down there.”
“Okay, okay,” I muttered. I climbed to my feet, shaking my head. “You wrecked my Camaro fender. There’d better be a real ghost this time.”
“There is,” he murmured. “For real. In my closet. I saw it.”
He stepped aside to let me pass. I peered down the long, dark hallway. Gray light washed in from the tiny window at the far end. Dad had started to put up ceiling lights. But he needed someone to help him with the wiring.
In the meantime, the long hall was always dark. And the ancient brown wallpaper on the walls, cracked and peeling, didn’t make it any brighter.
The old floorboards creaked under our feet as I led the way to Todd’s room.
“A ghost in my closet,” Todd whispered. “I’m not making it up.”
He stayed behind me, one hand clinging to the back of my T-shirt. I glanced over my shoulder. His bunny face twitched, blue eyes wide with fright.
Todd always was the weird one in the Moinian family. He doesn’t even look like us. Mom, Dad, and I are all tall and dark, with brown eyes and brown hair.
I stopped at the doorway and peered into Todd’s room. Gloomy gray light washed over the room from the rain-spotted window.
“Do you see it? Do you see it?” Todd eagerly whispered behind me, his fist still clinging to my shirt.
“Of course not —” I started.
But then my eyes moved to Todd’s half-open closet door. And I saw the ghostly figure floating inside the closet.
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 © 1993 by Scholastic Inc.
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This edition first printing, May 2015
e-ISBN 978-0-545-82053-0
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R. L. Stine, The Ghost Next Door
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