Camp Fear Ghouls (11 page)

She smiled a ghoulish grin at us. “Fourteen!” she howled. “We can't have fourteen girls. That's breaking the rules!”

Then she shot skyward—and vanished into the night.

The campfire went out.

We were in total darkness.

Then a yellow cone of light shone in my eyes. “Oh, no!” I moaned. Caroline and I clutched at each other. What now?

“Lizzy?” a familiar voice called.

“Lizzy, where are you?” another voice called.

I let go of Caroline. “Mom? Dad?”

I leaped to my feet and ran to my parents.

“Mom! Dad!” I squealed. “What are you doing here?”

“The Weather Service reported severe thunderstorms in the area,” Mom explained. “We just didn't think it was a good idea for you to camp in these woods tonight. We came to take you home.”

“I'm never camping in these woods again!” I said. I flung my arms around her neck.

“Lizzy, where is the rest of your troop?” Dad asked me, frowning.

“They—uh—just left,” I replied.

Well, it was true. Sort of.

“That's why we were so happy to see you,” Caroline added.

We followed my parents out of the woods to our car.

As we drove toward Mill Bridge, Mom turned in her seat. “Oh, Lizzy, I almost forgot. This came in the mail for you.”

She passed an envelope over the back of the seat. I opened it and read the letter out loud. “Join the Shadyside Drama Club.”

Hmm, I thought. A drama club sounds fun. Maybe . . .

“Don't even think about it.” Caroline yanked the letter out of my hands. She tore it into little pieces and tossed them out the window. “We've had enough of clubs—”

“And Fear Street,” I added, watching the bits of paper float away.

“Right!” Caroline slung her arm around my shoulder. “No more Fear Street. No more clubs. From now on, it's just you and me.”

“Oh! Look, girls,” Mom called. She pointed out the window.

I peered out. And gasped.

“Hi, girls!” The Camp Fear Ghouls' driver stood on Mill Bridge. Waving. “See you tomorrow night!”

Are you ready for another walk down Fear Street?

Turn the page for a terrifying sneak preview.

J
esse stared at me. “You really want to go in
there? In Fear Lake?”

The lake, just like the Fear Street Woods, had a pretty creepy reputation.

“No. I don't
want
to go in,” I replied. “But what choice do we have? We have to get our backpacks.”

Jesse knew we
had
no choice. We had to go in.

We pulled off our shoes and socks and rolled up our jeans as high as they would go.

“That water is going to be freezing,” Jesse warned.

I hoped he was wrong. I walked up to the edge of the lake and peered in. Above, the sun slid behind clouds again. The water was so dark and cloudy, I could barely see the bottom. I dipped my big toe in for a half a second—and drew it back.

Cold. Very cold.

“I can't believe the Burger brothers did this to us! I hate them for throwing our packs in Fear Lake!” I cried. “I
wish
we could pay them back!”

I took a deep breath and waded into the cold water, moving as fast as I could. The cold took my breath away. I gasped. And shivered. And gasped again. I wrapped my arms around my body to keep warm.

“Whooooa!” I shouted. Did something slimy brush up against my leg? It sure felt like it. And in Fear Lake, I wasn't taking any chances. I started to wade back to the shore—fast.

“Jesse! Something's here—in the water!” I shouted. “Something
alive!”

Jesse grabbed my wrist. “Yeah. They're called
fish
.”

Together we walked a few more steps into the dark, cold water. Then, in front of me, something splashed to the surface.

A fish?

No. It bobbed in slow circles just under the surface.

What could it be?

“Got it!” Jesse cried.

He yanked his backpack up from the water. “Yuccck!” he moaned. The backpack was covered in black mud.

I lowered my eyes to the water. The strange object began to bob toward me!

A voice in the back of mind told me to get out of the lake right away. To stay away from that thing in the water.

I should have listened.

But instead, I took a step forward. I squeezed my eyes shut—and reached my hand out to grab it.

I wrapped my fingers around the object. It felt slick and hard. I pulled it out of the water and held it up to examine it.

A bottle?

Yes. It
was
a bottle. An ordinary, brown, glass bottle with a cork in it.

I let out a sigh of relief. Nothing spooky or weird about a bottle. Someone probably threw it in the lake after a picnic.

I was about to drop the bottle back into the water, when I noticed something strange about it. It should have been cold—but it felt warm. Warmer than my hand.

I held onto the bottle as I hunted for my backpack.

“Found it,” I called to Jesse, who was already on shore.

I dredged up my backpack. Gross. It was muddy and covered with clumps of soggy green weeds.

I waded back to shore with the bottle and my backpack. “Hey, Jess. Check out this bottle. It feels warm and—”

The bottle jerked in my hand!

I nearly dropped it.

Did something
move
inside it? Was something
alive
in there?

I tried to peer through the brown glass. But it was thick and dirty. I couldn't see a thing.

Get a grip, Hannah! I thought to myself. Nothing could be living in this old bottle.

I turned to Jesse. He frowned as he stared at his mud-soaked backpack. “Totally ruined,” he moaned, shaking his head. “Dad is going to freak. He'll totally freak.”

I began to answer Jesse, when I felt my hand grow warmer. The bottle was heating up! It jerked in my hand again. Harder this time.

Something very weird was going on here. I set the bottle down in the grass. I didn't want to hold on to it another second.

“Hey, what's that?” Jesse asked, nodding his head toward the bottle.

“What does it look like, Brain? It's a bottle I found in the lake.”

“Wow. It looks
really
old,” he said, bending down to examine it.

He reached his hand out and picked it up. “Yuck! It's . . . it's
hot!
”

So I wasn't going crazy! There really
was
something strange about that bottle.

Jesse held it up to the sun. He squinted his eyes, trying to peer inside.

“Is there a note inside? People always do that in the movies.”

“I found this in the
lake,
Jesse. People don't throw bottles with notes in them in a lake. They throw them in the ocean to see how far they will travel.”

“Hey, maybe it's got money inside!” Jesse cried. He
tried even harder to see through the dark brown glass. He shook the bottle.

“Oh, yeah, people are
always
throwing bottles filled with money into the lake.” I scowled at my brother. “Look, just put it down, okay? We're soaked. We have to go home and change.”

Jesse ignored me as he squinted at the bottle. “Hey, it feels as if it's getting even warmer.”

“Jess, put it down!” I insisted. My voice quivered.

“What's your problem, Hannah? It's just a bottle.” He turned it around in his hand, inspecting every inch. “I'm going to open it.”

“No! Wait!” I cried. I grabbed the bottle from him. “There's something written on the side. Maybe it's important.”

“If you say so.” Jesse sighed.

A yellow label clung to the side of the bottle. The letters on it were so faded, I could barely make them out.

“ ‘DANGER,' ” I read out loud. “‘DO NOT OPEN.' ”

The bottle began to vibrate in my hand.

I jumped.

This was definitely
not
my imagination.

I dropped the bottle back onto the ground and kicked it away. “This bottle is bad news. I'm not opening it! I don't even want it near me!”

It sat there on its side in the grass. Then, slowly, it rolled back to me.

“Did you see that, Jesse?” I whispered. “It—it moved on its own!”

Jesse groaned and picked the bottle up again. “It just rolled. Bottles do that.”

“Let's go,” I urged. “I told you what it says on the label. We are
not
supposed to open this bottle.”

Jesse took hold of the cork. “That's stupid.”

“No, Jesse,
don't!
”

I reached out to swipe the bottle from him.

Too late.

He grasped the cork and tugged it out of the bottle.

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 son, Matt.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Aladdin

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing

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Copyright © 1997 by Parachute Press, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

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