The Boy Who Ate Fear Street (2 page)

Kevin and Lissa thought Aunt Sylvie was awesome. I thought she was creepy.

“What do you want me to see?” I asked as we climbed the stairs.

“Aunt Sylvie's room,” Kevin replied. “It's full of the most incredible stuff you've ever seen.”

We stepped into Aunt Sylvie's room. Just a few days earlier it had been a regular bedroom—with pictures on the walls, a big bed with an oak headboard, and a colorful rug on the floor.

Now everything was gone. Even the bed.

“Where does she sleep?” I asked.

Kevin pointed to a straw mat on the floor. “Aunt Sylvie doesn't like clutter. She says if you surround
yourself with too many things, the spirits will have a hard time finding you.”

I made up my mind right then and there to fill my bedroom with as much junk as possible.

“Get this, Sam,” Kevin called to me from across the room. He pointed to a wooden mask that hung on the wall. Its mouth twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Pretty spooky,” I said, glancing away from the dark eye sockets. They seemed to stare right through me.

“It's not spooky,” Lissa said. “It's a medicine mask from an ancient mountain tribe. Aunt Sylvie says when you put it on, it will chase the germs right out of your body if you're sick.”

“Does Aunt Sylvie think it really works?” I asked, turning my back to the mask.

“She's not really sure,” Kevin replied. “But she says it's important to keep an open mind.”

“Yeah,” Lissa added. “She says even the impossible is possible—whatever that means.”

I wandered around the room, studying Aunt Sylvie's stuff. Tacked on the wall over the sleeping mat I saw an Indian dream catcher. I made one in camp last summer. It's a big wooden hoop with a web made of string inside it. It's supposed to catch bad dreams and let good dreams pass through.

“Sam, check this out!” Lissa held a silver mirror
in front of my face. Just as I caught my reflection in it, Lissa flipped it over.

I gasped.

A dozen black eyes stared back at me!

“The eyes are carved into the wood,” Lissa explained. “They look almost real, don't they?”

They looked
totally
real to me, but I nodded in agreement.

I walked around the room some more, studying Aunt Sylvie's collection. On the dresser sat a jar of cold cream and dozens and dozens of crystals. Pink, purple, green, red—all shimmering in the glow of the bedroom lamp's light.

I made my way over to the back of the room—where I spotted an old aquarium.

I peered inside.

It was empty.

“Kids, dinner is ready!” Mrs. Sullivan called from downstairs.

“Let's go!” Lissa declared. “I'm starving.”

Lissa and Kevin bolted from the room, shutting the lamp off on the way out.

“Hey, thanks, guys,” I said, standing in total darkness.

I walked toward the door—and stepped right on the straw mat.

Oh, no. I'm standing on Aunt Sylvie's bed. With my shoes on. She's not going to like that.

“Sam! Hurry up!” Kevin called from downstairs. “We're really hungry.”

“Sure, Kevin,” I grumbled. “No problem.”

I tiptoed across the mat.

And then I felt it.

Something moving up my leg.

Higher and higher.

I ran the rest of the way across the mat.

I charged into the lighted hall.

I peered down at my leg—and screamed in horror.

“Snaaaaake!”

“A
snake! It's a snake!” I cried out. “Help me!”

All the Sullivans charged up the steps.

“Get it off me!” I shrieked.

I shook my leg as hard as I could. But the snake just coiled around it. Tighter and tighter.

“My leg—it's turning numb!” I shouted. “Get it off!”

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Sylvie murmured. She wasn't wearing the baseball cap anymore. Instead, she had two long, pink feathers sticking up from the back of her hair. She shook her head and the feathers fluttered.

“Shirley, how did you get out?” Aunt Sylvie
wagged her finger at the snake. Then she leaned over and uncoiled it from my leg. “It's back to the terrarium for you,” she said, kissing the snake on its head.

“Isn't Shirley a cool pet?” Kevin exclaimed.

“Uh, yeah, cool,” I said, hoping my voice didn't shake too much.

“I think Shirley frightened Sam.” Mrs. Sullivan placed her arm around my shoulders. “We'll make sure Shirley doesn't escape again. Now—let's all go down for dinner.”

I wondered if Shirley was poisonous, but I decided it would be better not to ask.

Everyone took their seats at the table. “Come sit by me, Sam.” Aunt Sylvie patted the chair next to her. “I'm sorry if Shirley frightened you.”

“She didn't,” I lied. “She just surprised me, that's all.”

“Did you like my little collection?” she asked. “I'm especially fond of the crystals. Some people believe they have healing powers, you know. But I like them mostly for their beautiful colors.”

“Aunt Sylvie knows all about things with strange healing powers,” Lissa explained.

“And she knows all about the spirit world,” Kevin added. “She travels around to lots of countries and collects stories about ancient spirits and magic spells.”

I could see why Kevin and Lissa thought Aunt Sylvie was cool. I guess it was pretty neat to have a great-aunt who knew all this weird stuff. But I still thought there was something creepy about her.

“And tomorrow I begin my newest study—in Shadyside. It's so exciting—I can't wait.” Aunt Sylvie clapped her hands.

“What are you studying in Shadyside?” I asked.

“Fear Street.” Aunt Sylvie's eyes lit up. “I've heard so many stories about it. Ghosts in the Fear Street Woods. Haunted tree houses. A mysterious cave where shadow people live.

“I've never actually seen a ghost,” Aunt Sylvie continued, “but I've heard that many people in Shadyside have. Oh, it would be so exciting to meet one!”

“I hope you won't be too disappointed,” Mr. Sullivan said, chuckling. “We
live
here—and we've never seen a ghost. And Sam actually lives on Fear Street.”

“Really, Sam?” Aunt Sylvie shifted her gaze to me. “You live on Fear Street?”

I nodded.

“Well?” Aunt Sylvie stared hard into my eyes.

“Well, what?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” she demanded.

“Um, no,” I replied. “Everyone says weird things
happen to you if you live on Fear Street. But I've lived there my whole life, and nothing weird has ever happened to me.”

“That's right, Sam,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “I'm afraid they're just stories. Silly stories.”

“I'm starving!” Lissa shouted. “Let's eat!”

Mrs. Sullivan removed the cover from a large, steaming bowl of squid stew.

“I—I'm not really hungry,” I said, pushing my chair away from the table. “Can I be excused?”

“Of course you're hungry!” Aunt Sylvie exclaimed. “Don't worry, dear. This is not for you. Here is your dinner.”

Aunt Sylvie began to remove the lid from a dish in front of her.

I held my breath.

I didn't want to look.

“Macaroni and cheese,” Kevin announced when the lid was lifted. “See—I told you my mom was making it for you!”

“We warned Aunt Sylvie that you wouldn't eat her stew,” Lissa said. “We explained to her that you're a picky eater.”

As I ate my macaroni and cheese, I could feel Aunt Sylvie's eyes on me.

“Sometimes it's smart to be a picky eater,” she said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean, Aunt Sylvie?” Lissa asked.

“I read a Middle Eastern folktale once about a boy who ate the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—white rice and beets. That's all he would eat.

“One day he and two boys from his village took a walk in the woods—where they discovered a most unusual berry bush. It had bright red leaves. And on each leaf hung a tiny black berry. Smaller than a pea.

“His friends quickly gobbled a handful of the small berries. They had never tasted anything so sweet, so delicious. They ate and ate until the berry bush was bare.

“Then they headed home—and ate everything in their kitchen cupboards. They wandered through the village, day after day, searching for food. They grew fatter and fatter, but they couldn't stop eating.

“The picky eater couldn't believe what was happening to his friends. He watched in terror as they devoured every last crumb in the village.

“The boys grew so fat that their skin just couldn't take the strain. It couldn't stretch another inch. But that didn't stop them from eating. They traveled to the next village and devoured all the food there. And that's when it happened.”

“What happened?” Lissa's eyebrows shot up.

“Those poor boys exploded.” Aunt Sylvie nodded
knowingly. “Spilled their insides all over everything.”

A piece of macaroni stuck in my throat and I started to choke. Mrs. Sullivan patted me on the back. “What a terrible story!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I thought so too,” Aunt Sylvie agreed. “Now, who wants dessert? I bet you can't wait for dessert, Sam. Right?”

“NO! I mean no, thank you,” I replied. “I'm full.”

“Nonsense!” Aunt Sylvie said. “I made it especially for you. Rice pudding. Your favorite!”

Aunt Sylvie spooned some rice pudding into a bowl and set it in front of me. Then she stared at me, waiting for me to try it.

I scooped up a tiny bit and ate it. It was delicious. The best rice pudding I ever tasted.

“This is great!” I said, swallowing a big mouthful.

I took another spoonful—this one with a few raisins.

I chewed the raisins—and cried out in horror.

I felt my face turn bright red.

My tongue began to burn.

My mouth was on fire!

“H
elp!” I cried, leaping up from my chair. “My mouth is on fire!”

Mrs. Sullivan handed me a glass of milk. I gulped it down. Then I reached over and grabbed Lissa's glass of milk. I gulped that down too.

The burning feeling spread across my lips and down my throat. Even my chest felt scorched, and my tongue began to swell.

I grabbed every glass of milk on the table and gulped it down. Then I snatched the milk container from the kitchen counter and chugged that.

“Are you okay, dear?” Aunt Sylvie asked, patting me on the back.

“What . . . did . . . you . . . put . . . in . . . my . . . pudding?” I sputtered, jerking away from her.

“Aunt Sylvie didn't put anything in your rice pudding,” Lissa said. “You probably just swallowed wrong.”

The Sullivans and Kevin nodded in agreement, but Aunt Sylvie tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger. “Hmmmm, let me think. Let me think,” she repeated over and over again.

While Aunt Sylvie tried to remember, I poked around the top layer of rice pudding with my spoon.

I found rice. I found pudding.

Nothing else.

I poked around some more.

Ah-ha! At the bottom of the bowl I found what I was looking for. Little dark flakes. So little that I thought they were specks of cinnamon at first.

“What's
this?”
I asked Aunt Sylvie, pointing a shaky finger into my bowl.

“Great-Uncle Henry!” Aunt Sylvie exclaimed.

“Huh?”

“Now I remember! While I was making the rice pudding, Great-Uncle Henry visited for a chat,” Aunt Sylvie began to explain. “And he suggested that I use the new spice I brought back from the Orient.”

Aunt Sylvie held up a bottle of the black flakes.
“I enjoyed speaking to Uncle Henry.” She sighed. “We've spoken so little since he died.”

“Aunt Sylvie,” Mrs. Sullivan chided, “you're going to scare the children.”