The Boy Who Ate Fear Street (3 page)

“Oh, nonsense!” Aunt Sylvie chuckled. “The children know what an odd creature I am!”

Everyone at the table laughed. Everyone but me.

“I'm sorry the spice burned your tongue.” Aunt Sylvie turned to me. “It's supposed to be tangy—not hot.”

“Maybe it turned rotten,” I murmured.

Aunt Sylvie reached over for my bowl of rice pudding. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. “It smells okay, but I bet you're right. It probably has spoiled. I'm going to throw it out—right now.”

“Aren't you going to taste it first?” I asked. “Maybe it's not spoiled. Maybe it was just too spicy for me.”

“Taste it?” Aunt Sylvie gasped. “Oh, no!
I'm
not going to taste it.”

“W
hat?” I shouted. Why aren't you going to taste it?” I leaped up from my chair.

Aunt Sylvie didn't reply.

She headed toward the sink and emptied the jar of flakes down the drain.

“Why didn't you taste it?” I demanded.

“Oh, those flakes are much too strong for me!” Aunt Sylvie smiled. “I don't care for tangy food myself. Now, who would like some vanilla ice cream? I bet you would, Sam. Right?”

*   *   *

Everyone ate the ice cream except me. Those black specks in the ice cream were probably vanilla beans—but I wasn't taking any chances.

After dinner Kevin, Lissa, and I played Kevin's LaserBlast video game. I usually win—but not this time. My stomach was upset, and I felt weird. Kind of hot all over.

“See you guys tomorrow,” I told Kevin and Lissa when it was time to leave.

“Great!” Kevin walked me to the front door. “Aunt Sylvie has some more awesome things you've got to see!”

“And maybe she'll let us play with Shirley!” Lissa called from the den.

I didn't think I wanted to see any more of Aunt Sylvie's things—or play with Shirley. I knew for sure that I didn't want to eat any more of her cooking.

When I reached home, my stomach was still upset so I went right up to bed. I snuggled under my blanket, tucked it under my chin, and fell asleep instantly.

I don't know how much later it was when I woke up. But all the lights were out, and Mom and Dad were in bed.

I made my way down the dark hall, down the steps, and into the kitchen. My stomach felt much
better—back to normal. Now I was hungry. I knew just what I wanted—my favorite sandwich, mayonnaise on white bread.

A full moon hung in the sky. It lit the kitchen with a warm glow.
I'd better not put the light on,
I thought as I searched the kitchen counter for the bread.
I don't want to wake Mom or Dad.

After I found the bread I hunted for a new jar of mayonnaise in the pantry—I finished the old jar at lunch. I eat a lot of mayonnaise, about a jar a week. I can't help it. I really love the stuff!

I stifled a yawn, then, half asleep, I made my sandwich. When it was ready, I sunk my teeth in for a really big bite.

Delicious.

Plain old white food—without a single one of Aunt Sylvie's spices from around the world.

I took another bite. And another. And another.

I needed something to drink.

I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Sprite.

The light from the refrigerator fell on the kitchen counter.

On my half-eaten sandwich.

I stared at the sandwich.

Something was wrong with it. Very wrong.

I rubbed my eyes and focused. I stared at it again, harder this time. Something still didn't seem right.

I lowered my face to the counter.

I squinted closely at the sandwich.

And screamed.

S
ponges! Not bread!

I made a sandwich with two moldy green sponges. And I ate it. And it tasted good.

How could I have made a sponge sandwich? How could I have eaten it? HOW?

The room began to spin. I grabbed hold of the kitchen counter to steady myself.

That's when I saw the yellow ooze seeping out from my sponge sandwich.

Oh, no,
I moaned.
What did I spread inside those slices?

I didn't want to look, but I had to.

I lifted the top sponge. My hand shook.

The yellow ooze ran off the sponge and dripped along the counter, and my stomach lurched

I dipped my finger into it. Sniffed it.

It smelled lemony. Soapy.

Lemon-Fresh Dish Detergent.

I just ate a soap and sponge sandwich. And I liked it.

What is wrong with me? How could I have eaten that?

I quickly tossed the sponges into the trash and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I dove under the covers and stared out my bedroom window at the dark, cloudless sky.

I asked myself over and over again,
How could I have eaten that? How? How? How?

And then the answer came to me.

I was sleepwalking. That had to be it. I dreamed that I was hungry, and I sleepwalked into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich.

The light from the refrigerator woke me up—and that's when I realized what I was doing.

It really did make sense. Mom says Dad walks in his sleep all the time.

I felt better.

I leaned back against my pillow, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

*   *   *

“Sam! Time to get up!” Mom called up the stairs. “Time for breakfast!”

I pulled on my favorite navy blue T-shirt and my favorite jeans, the ones with the rip in the knee. I slipped on my sneakers and ran downstairs without tying the laces. Mom always yells at me for that. She says one day I'm going to trip and break my neck. Mothers say that kind of stuff to their kids.

I sat down at the kitchen table and took a big swallow of milk. “YUCK!”

“What's wrong, Sam?” Dad asked.

“The milk is sour!” I grumbled. “It tastes disgusting.”

“It must be past the expiration date,” Mom said. “And I just bought it yesterday. I'm going to bring it back to the grocery store and lodge a complaint.” She rummaged through the garbage for the empty container.

She took the container from the trash. Then she lifted out the two green sponges. The two half-eaten green sponges.

I held my breath as she studied them.

No way was I going to admit I ate a sponge sandwich last night—even if I did do it in my sleep.

“Hey, Mom!” I tried to steal Mom's attention. “Aren't you going to check the expiration date on the milk?”

My plan didn't work.

Mom continued to stare at the sponges.

“Mom! I'm starving! What's for breakfast? I'm going to be late for school.”

That worked.

She tossed the sponges back into the garbage. “How about some Cream of Wheat?” she asked. A smile formed on her lips. Mom knows that's my all-time-favorite breakfast.

I nodded eagerly. Sometimes I eat two bowls of Cream of Wheat a day, one in the morning and one when I come home from school.

Mom set one bowl in front of me and one in front of Dad. Dad likes Cream of Wheat almost as much as I do.

White puffs of steam floated up from my cereal bowl. Ahhhh, I thought, Cream of Wheat—so nice, so white.

I couldn't wait to eat it. I really was starving.

I dipped my spoon into the bowl.

I slipped the spoon into my mouth.

The Cream of Wheat slid off onto my tongue—and my jaw dropped open in horror.

“Dad!” I screamed. “Don't eat the Cream of Wheat!
DON'T!”

T
oo late.

Dad swallowed a huge spoonful of Cream of Wheat.

“Dad, the Cream of Wheat . . .”

“. . . is delicious!” Dad finished. “What's the problem, Sam? Is there something wrong with yours?”

“It—it tastes gross,” I stammered. “Like sand mixed with vinegar.” I turned to my mom. “What did you do to
my
Cream of Wheat?”

“I didn't do anything to it,” Mom answered. “I made it the way I always do. Half a cup of Cream of Wheat and a half cup of boiling water.”

“You must have done something different to it, Mom,” I insisted.

“No, Sam, I didn't.”

“Well, someone did,” I argued. “It tastes awful.”

Fred trotted into the room. He set his head down in my lap. He does that every morning, waiting for me to share some of my breakfast with him.

I placed some Cream of Wheat on my finger.

I watched closely as Fred licked it off.

Mom and Dad watched too.

Fred licked every last drop off, then wagged his tail, begging for more.

I let out a low sigh.

“Try something else,” Dad suggested. “How about some mayonnaise on white bread?”

“NO! I mean, no, thank you. I'm not hungry anymore.”

I shoved my chair back and headed into the living room. I checked the clock over the fireplace. There was still time before I had to leave for school. I could catch a cartoon. I headed for the TV.

I turned it on and—zzpt!

A small shock ran through my hand. Static electricity.

I shook my hand, trying to stop the tingling. I sat down on the couch. Fred jumped into my lap and scratched at his flea bites. Fred loves to explore the
Fear Street Woods—but the only thing he seems to find there are fleas.

I stroked Fred's head and—zzpt. Zapped again.

I gave Fred a hard shove and he jumped off my lap. He gazed up at me sadly. “Sorry, boy,” I apologized. “I know it wasn't your fault.”

I gave Fred a big hug, then grabbed my backpack and left for school.

I spotted Kevin and Lissa walking up the school steps. “Hey, guys. Wait up,” I called.

As we reached the door, the first bell rang. I grabbed the doorknob—and zzzpt! My whole body shook. A powerful jolt ran from my head right down to my toes.

“Oooow!” I cried out, shaking my arms and legs. “I don't believe this!”

“What's the big deal?” Lissa asked. “It's just static electricity.”

“Yeah, but this is the third time I got shocked this morning,” I explained. “And this one really hurt.” I could still feel the tingling in my toes and fingertips. “Don't you think that's weird—getting shocked three times in one morning?”

“Shocking!” Lissa joked.

“Ha-ha, Lissa. Real funny.” I turned to Kevin, but he just shrugged his shoulders. I guess he didn't think it was such a big deal either.

And maybe it wasn't.

Maybe I was just in a weird mood. I mean, wouldn't you be if you ate a sponge sandwich?

“I have to stop at my locker first,” I told Kevin. Kevin and I are in the same class. “See you inside.”

I grabbed my notebook from my locker and ran to my classroom. I found Kevin waiting for me outside the door.

“Why didn't you go in?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” he whispered. “Touch Lucas on the back of his neck. See if you get a shock.”

“Why?” I asked, confused. “You said the shock thing was no big deal.”