R. L. Stine_Mostly Ghostly 06 (3 page)

“I … I'm painfully ticklish,” he said finally. His hand shook as he brushed a thick strand of hair off his forehead. “It's crazy. But if I even
see
someone getting tickled, I panic.”

Colin giggled. “You're joking, right?”

“It's true,” Quentin insisted. “I'm so ticklish, I can't even stand to
think
about being tickled. And if I see someone else being tickled, I … I freeze. It's like I go into a trance state.”

Colin gave me a hard shove. “Whoa, dude.
Your new friend is as weird as your old one, Aaron.”

“Hey —cut me some slack,” Quentin said. The poor guy was still trembling.

Colin raised two fingers in the air and pretended to tickle me.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “That's not funny!”

Shaking his head, Colin trotted out of the room.

I turned back to Quentin. “Are you feeling okay now?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. I'm all right. But I'd better get home. It's kinda late.”

I glanced at the clock. Only a little after eight. “Just let me show you my new trick,” I said.

“Sorry. I'm outta here,” Quentin replied. “I'm working on a project at home and I want to get back to it. You know, I build things too.”

“Cool,” I said. I walked him downstairs to the front door. “Sorry about Colin,” I said. “He's kind of a jerk.”

“Kind of,” Quentin murmured.

We both laughed. My armpits still burned as if they were on fire.

I said good night to Quentin and climbed back upstairs. I could hear the TV on in Colin's room at the end of the hall. When I walked into my room, Nicky and Tara were waiting for me.

“There's something strange about Quentin,”
Tara said. She was pacing back and forth, pulling at her long earrings. She does that when she's stressed or when she's thinking hard about something.

“Don't pick on Quentin,” I said. “He had a rough night.”

“That's just my point,” Tara replied. She stopped pacing and stared at me. “There's something totally weird about how he just froze like that. Like he's a robot and his circuits blew out.”

“You've been seeing too many dumb movies,” I said. “He explained what happened. He's just very ticklish.”

“Hel-
lo.
No one is
that
ticklish,” Nicky said. He was sitting on my bed, juggling one duckpin between his hands. “No one goes into a trance because someone
else
is being tickled.”

“Quentin does,” I said, frowning at him. “Since when are you a tickling expert?”

“There's something else very strange about him,” Tara said. One of her earrings had gotten tangled in her floppy hat, and she struggled to free it.

I rolled my eyes. “What else?”

“His magic is too good,” she replied. “Way too good.”

“I hate to say it, but Tara is right,” Nicky said, tossing up the duckpin. “There's something very suspicious about Quentin.”

I let out a long sigh. “You two are just jealous,” I snapped. “You're jealous because he's my best friend now.”

Tara laughed. “Us? Jealous? You're joking, right?”

“Hel-
lo,
” Nicky said. “We're just looking out for you, Max. You've already got that weird boy in black following you.”

“Whoa. Wait!” Tara stopped pacing and clapped her hands together. “That's it! Quentin is working with that weird ghost in black. They're pals, and they're working together.”

Nicky nodded. “One outside the house and one inside,” he said.

“Stop it. You're both crazy!” I cried. “Quentin is my friend. He isn't a robot or a ghost. He's a kid who's very ticklish and very good at magic. That's all.”

“He's up to no good,” Nicky said. He dropped the duckpin and jumped to his feet. “I know he is. Tara and I are going to prove it.”

“Leave him alone,” I shouted. “I mean it. He's my friend, and he's a good guy.”

“We'll see …,” Tara said.

I started to reply, but Colin's voice boomed from his room down the hall. “Max, get in here! Hurry!”

Uh-oh. Now what?

C
OLIN WAS LYING ON
his bed with a big bag of potato chips cradled under one arm. When I walked up close to him, he spit a mouthful of chips at me, then laughed.

“Is that why you called me in?” I asked, wiping the glop off my face.

He jammed another handful of chips into his mouth. When I reached for the bag, he swiped it away from me.

“Give me a break. What do you want?” I asked.

He chewed loudly and pointed to the TV. It looked like some kind of news show.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“It's
The Best News Bloopers of the Year
on Channel 600,” he said. “Watch what's next.”

Channel 600 is our local TV station, and I knew what was coming up next. A heavy feeling of dread swept down over me as I watched the next news blooper.

Because there I was. Last month, at the dedication of the new swimming pool at my school. I was chosen to give the school trophy to Mayor Stank. It was supposed to be a big day for me, but it got messed up.

It got messed up because of Nicky and Tara. They showed up and tried to help me, as usual. They tried to help me give the trophy to the mayor.

Instead, things got a little out of control. I clonked the mayor in the head with the trophy by accident, and he fell into the pool.

That's bad luck, right? Want to hear
more
bad luck?

Mayor Stank didn't know how to swim.

So he was spluttering and sputtering and screaming his head off, bobbing around helplessly in the water.

The teachers were all frozen in shock. So I reached in to try to rescue him —and accidentally pulled his pants off.

Ha, ha. Funny blooper, huh?

No one has let me forget it. Colin teases me about it every day. Billy and Willy, the Wilbur brothers, acted the whole scene out at the talent show at school last week.

And now there I was on Channel 600, knocking Mayor Stank into the water again. And again. And again. One of the best news bloopers of the year.

“Hey, thanks for sharing that,” I told my brother.

He laughed. “Face it, Maxie. Your whole life is a blooper.”

I started toward the door. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I snapped. “I'm not in a good mood.”

Colin's smile faded. He sat up. “Hey, come back,” he said. “Here.” He tossed me the bag of potato chips.

I caught it in both hands. “Thanks,” I said. I pulled out a few chips and shoved them into my mouth. “Did you spit on them?”

“No way,” he said. He slapped the bed. “Come here. Sit down.”

“You've injured me enough today,” I said, backing away. “I'm going to have to sleep with ice cubes in my armpits.”

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, raising his right hand to swear. “Sit down. Let's have a talk. Why are you in a bad mood?”

I stopped with a handful of potato chips halfway to my mouth. “You're kidding, right? You want to have a talk with
me
?”

The last time Colin and I had a “talk,” I was black and blue for a month.

“Sit down, Max,” he said. “I'm your big brother. Maybe I can help.”

He looked totally serious. I inched my way back over to him. I tensed up, waiting for him to
jump me and punch my lights out. Or maybe dump the potato chip bag down the back of my shirt.

But no. He sat there on the edge of the bed with his hands at his sides. “What's up with you, bro?” he asked. “Tell me what's wrong.”

I sat down next to him. “No way can I tell you,” I said. “If I tell you something, you'll just go running to Mom and Dad to tell them I'm still making up crazy ghost stories. You know what Dad said. He said he'd ground me for life if I don't give up the ghost stories.”

“I know,” Colin replied. He didn't laugh at me. His expression was serious. Thoughtful.

“I won't tell on you, Max,” he said softly. “I just want to be a big brother to you.” He gave me a gentle shove. “Hey, you're turning twelve. It's time for you and me to be buddies.”

Was I dreaming this?

“Okay,” I said. “I'll tell you why I'm in a bad mood.”

I took a deep breath, then told him about the boy in black. “He's been watching me for weeks,” I said. “He follows me everywhere I go. And I've seen his face change. From young to old, then back again. I'm really scared. He must be some kind of ghost, don't you think?”

Colin stared at me for a long moment. A smile slowly spread over his face.

He jumped up, using my shoulder to hoist himself to his feet. Then he ran out into the hall. And I heard him running downstairs, yelling at the top of his voice:

“Mom! Dad! You won't believe this! Max is still making up ghost stories!”

ON MY WAY TO
school Monday morning, I saw the boy in black.

As I walked he stayed half a block behind me, ducking behind bushes and hedges.

I stopped and turned around, my backpack swinging. I saw him dive behind a tree.

A shiver ran down my body.

He was like my shadow. A dark, evil shadow.

What did he want? Why was he watching me?

I kept hearing his warning to me, the words he'd rasped in my ear:

“Don't you understand? They're going to
kill
you. They're going to
kill
you!”

Who did he mean? Who wanted to kill me?

Was he going to hurt me?

My heart pounded in my chest.

I just wanted him to vanish, disappear for ever. I wanted to turn around and not see that dark shadow with those silvery eyes locked on me.

But I could see him peeking out at me from behind the wide tree trunk, waiting for me to move on so he could move on too.

And I spun around and took off, running the rest of the way to school. My backpack bounced hard on my back. I thought about Nicky and Tara and what they'd said about Quentin.

“There's something very suspicious about Quentin.”

“Quentin is working with that weird ghost in black. They're pals, and they're working together.”

To do
what
?

The whole idea was crazy. I refused to believe any of it.

Nicky and Tara had been wrong before. And they were wrong now. They were wrong about Quentin.

I ran up the front steps of my school and glanced back just before I stepped through the double doors. The boy in black stood across the street —in plain view. He stood between two cars, watching me … just watching.

I shivered again, glad to have the doors close behind me. I felt safe in school. But what would be waiting for me when I stepped back outside?

That afternoon, I went to return a bottle of glue to the art supply closet, and I spotted Traci Wayne in the pottery room.

I peeked through the doorway. I saw the low gray kiln against the back wall. The other walls had tall shelves for holding all the pots and bowls and things kids made. Two long worktables stood beside rows of pottery wheels.

Traci sat at one of the wheels, working with clay. She didn't see me. She was concentrating on her work, her head down as she molded wet red clay, forming a bowl on the spinning wheel.

“Hannnnh hunnnnh.” My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, as usual. My heart started to do a hip-hop rhythm in my chest.

I glanced around. Traci was all alone in the pottery room. This was a perfect time to try once again to invite her to my birthday party.

“Hannnhh. Thannnnth.” I pulled my tongue free and stepped into the room. My legs were shaking, so I sat down at a pottery wheel across from her.

“Hi, Traci,” I managed to say.

Her hands were smoothing a bowl as it spun. She glanced up from her work. “Oh no,” she groaned. “Please don't fall on me, Max.”

“I can't fall on you,” I said. “I'm sitting down.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, sighing.

I took a deep breath. “Traci, I just wanted to ask you —” I started. But I stopped when my wheel started spinning.

Hey —I didn't turn it on. What's up with this? I wondered.

And then I saw a big glob of clay come flying across the room and land on my wheel as it started to pick up speed.

The red clay plopped onto the pottery wheel in front of me. And then I felt someone grab my hands and push them onto the clay.

And I knew.

I knew Nicky and Tara were back. Invisible. Trying to help me again.

“Max, I didn't know you were into pottery,” Traci said, without looking up from her work.

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I love it. I pot all the time. Every chance I get, I just sit down and start potting.”

Another big glob of wet clay landed on my wheel. I tried to smooth it down, but some of it shot off. The wheel was spinning too fast.

“Traci, can I ask you a question?” I said.

The wheel picked up speed. I pushed my hands into the wet clay and tried to mold it into a nice bowl shape. But another glob of clay flew down and hit the wheel.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I whispered to Nicky and Tara.

Traci glanced up. “I can't stop now. The clay will dry and harden. Why do you want me to stop?”

“I wasn't talking to you,” I said. “I was talking to the wheel. I always talk to the wheel.”

“Were you
born
weird?” Traci asked.

I didn't really know how to answer that.

Plop!
More clay dropped onto the wheel. Gobs of clay flew off in all directions.

“Hey!” Traci let out a startled cry as a flying red clay blob smacked into her forehead. “Watch it, Max!”

Too late.

A huge hunk of clay spun off my wheel, flew into the air, and landed in Traci's hair. She let out a scream. Her hands shot up to her head, and her bowl fell off the wheel and plopped onto the floor.

Big pieces of clay flew off my wheel and splattered the wall and ceiling. “Stop it!” I screamed to Nicky and Tara. “Can't you stop this —
gulp!
”

A glob of wet clay flew into my open mouth. I started to choke.

Traci jumped to her feet. “I'm
outta
here!” she cried. She took two steps, slipped in a puddle of clay, and fell on her face.

I swallowed the clay in my mouth. It didn't taste too bad. I glanced down at Traci. She was covered from head to foot in the wet, sticky stuff.