The Birthday Party of No Return! (12 page)

I tell my brother, Mitch, a scary story every night before he goes to sleep. I just make them up as I go along.

Mitch likes my stories and he hates them at the same time. He doesn't really like to be scared. He grits his teeth and shuts his fists and pretends he's brave.

I don't want to torture the poor kid. But I only know how to tell scary stories. That's the only kind of story I can dream up. I guess I just have a scary mind.

Mitch and I look alike a little bit. We both have straight black hair and dark eyes and round faces. I'm very thin, but he's pretty chubby. Mom says he hasn't lost his baby fat.

How do you think that line goes over with Mitch?

Not too well.

Mitch is a quiet, serious kid. He's only eight, but he likes to read endlessly long fantasy books about ancient kingdoms and dragons and battles and stuff.

He gets straight A's at Meadowdale, his elementary school. But he doesn't have a lot of friends.

I think it's because he's so quiet and shy.

We get along great even though we're so different. The only thing we fight about is breakfast — toaster waffles or toaster pancakes? He goes for waffles, and I like the pancakes. Mom says it would be silly to buy both. So … big fights in the supermarket.

I took Mitch into the kitchen for his nightly bedtime snack — Oreos and a glass of milk to dip them in. Then we headed upstairs. Mitch climbed into his platform bed and pulled up the covers.

Dad got him a platform bed down on the floor because he tosses and turns and rolls around a lot at night. And he was always falling out of his old bed and hurting himself.

“What's the story about?” he asked, fluffing the pillow behind his head. “Don't make it too scary, okay?”

“Okay. Not too scary,” I said. Total lie.

“Tonight's story is about an evil old man. The man was so evil, he could turn himself into a snarling, clawing monster. Just by concentrating on being evil.”

“What's his name?”

“His name was Mitch,” I said. “Stop interrupting.”

“No. Really. What was his name?”

“His name was Evil Boris. But people just called him Evil. Everyone was afraid of him. Every night, Evil Boris would take a walk around town and do something evil.”

“Like what?”

I had the bedroom lights turned low. Mitch's dark eyes glowed in the dim light, wide with fright. His hands gripped the top of the blanket. I told the story in a whisper, just to make it scarier.

“Evil Boris liked to step on cats. Some nights he picked up big, metal trash cans and poured garbage into people's cars. He crushed birds in his bare hands. He liked to smash windows on houses just to hear the crackling glass sound. And — and guess what else?”

“What else?” Mitch asked in a tiny voice.

“Once a week, he ate someone.”

“He ate people?” Mitch asked.

“He only ate kids, about your age,” I said.

I almost laughed. I love making up these stories. And it makes me happy when I can think of creepy ideas like that.

“He liked to taste them first. Maybe he'd start by chewing on an arm. Sometimes he started with a leg. But the strange thing is … Evil Boris always saved the head for last.”

Mitch made a gulping sound.

“Can you picture it?” I whispered. “Can you picture Evil Boris turning himself into a fanged monster and pulling apart someone your age … chewing … chewing … chewing and swallowing.”

“Stop, Lu-Ann,” Mitch begged. “I don't want to picture it. You said you wouldn't make it too scary.”

“But I didn't tell you the scary part,” I whispered. “Don't you want to hear the scary part?”

“No!” Mitch shouted. “No, I don't.”

“The scary part is … Evil Boris lives in your closet, Mitch. He lives in the back of your clothes closet.”

“Noooo!”

Uh-oh. I think I went too far. Mitch was starting to lose it.

I could see the bedcovers trembling. And I saw the dark glow of his wide, frightened eyes.

“Mitch,” I said softly. I patted his shoulder. “It's just a story. It isn't true.” I smoothed a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I made the whole thing up. Don't be afraid.”

“Too scary,” he murmured. His eyes were on the clothes closet across the bedroom.

“Go ahead. Check out the closet,” I said. I tugged him up. “Go look in the closet. You'll see. It's empty. There's no one in there.”

He pulled back. “I don't want to.”

“It's just a story,” I said. “Quick. Go look in the closet. Prove it to yourself. Then you can go to sleep.”

He climbed slowly to his feet. His eyes were locked on the closet door. He crossed the room to the closet.

“Go ahead. Open it,” I urged. “You'll see. No one there.”

Mitch grabbed the door handle. He pulled open the door — and a hideous old man with long curled fangs and a dangling eyeball came roaring out at him.

Mitch opened his mouth in a shriek of horror.

I clapped my hands to my face. “My story!” I cried. “It
came true
!”

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.