Read The Children of Fear Online
Authors: R.L. Stine
The Children of Fear
Prologue
The Dark Cellar
C
old. Icy needles that pierced to the bone.
Racked with chills, the young man huddled over the solitary candle. He stretched his frozen hands to the flickering orange light. Then pushed his fingers even closer to the flame.
He smelled the skin on his fingertips burn. But felt nothing.
Totally numb.
Cold death is coming, he thought.
And soon. Too soon.
He shuddered. The wavering flame glowed dimly. And beyond the pale yellow glow, the darkness shifted and coiled.
For in the darkness, they waited.
Waiting only for the flame to sputter out and die, he
knew. Then they'll come for me. I won't escape. This dank cellar will be my coffin.
His weary, burning eyes closed. His chin dropped heavily to his chest.
Outside the stone walls, he heard the raging storm claw at the night. Icy rain pelted the tiny window; a freezing wind rattled the glass.
He lifted his head and stared at the window. If only I were a little boy again ⦠if only my shoulders weren't so broad ⦠my legs so long ⦠I could break that glass and squeeze out through the window.
But there's no way out for me now. The window is too small. And the oak door is too thick. I could never break it down.
Luke stared back at the candle and listened to water dripping along the stone walls. A steady rhythm that beat out the words⦠.
No way out. No way out.
Lightning flashed.
His eyes flew open.
In the blink of an eye, he saw them.
Their thick, scaly bodies coiled and slithered across the stone floor. His breath caught in his throat as he heard a low hiss. Their lifeless black eyes fixed on him ⦠waiting ⦠waiting for the flame to die.
The darkness closed in around him again. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The flame sputtered. Grew smaller.
“Not yet!” his mind screamed. “You can't go out yet. You have hours left to burn. Hours!”
The flame flickered and nearly went out. He gasped.
Then the yellow light flared up again, burning low. He watched large drops of molten wax slide down the side of the thick candle and pool on the cold floor.
Like bits of sand in an hourglass. Each drop marking another moment of his life, gone.
Someone will find me someday, he thought. They'll find my bare white bones scattered over this filthy floor. I want them to know how I died. I want them to know
why
I died!
He cupped his hand around the flickering flame and lifted the candle off the floor. He took a step back.
A loud hiss rose from the shadows. He heard a swishâcold scales slithering over stone.
He held his breath and took another cautious step back.
He heard another swish. Faster than before. A rattle, as though a baby played in the corner with a wooden toy.
But he knew there was no baby in the cellar.
No wooden toys. Only death.
Another hiss echoed around him. His head spun to the other side and he peered into the pitch-black darkness. He couldn't see them. They could be anywhere.
His knees felt rubbery as he took another slow step backward.
Swish. Hiss. Rattle.
He swallowed hard. His hand trembled and the candle nearly went out.
He took a deep breath.
Stepped back.
Hiss. Swish. Rattle.
He took another step back, and then another, until he finally felt the damp stone wall against his shoulders.
He waited.
The hissing rose and rose. Louder and louder. Until
the very air vibrated with the sound. Vibrated right through him. Then it grew softer, fading into a low whisper.
He slowly released his breath.
They won't come as long as the candle burns, he realized.
The candle looked a few inches longer than his index finger. If he handled it carefully and the flame didn't go out, he guessed that it might burn for a few hours more.
Maybe, just long enough. Enough time to tell my story.
He crouched and placed the candle on the floor. The flame danced. His shadow floated over the wall.
What can I use? he wondered. What can I use to tell my story?
He searched the small surrounding circle of light on the floor and walls. Reaching down, he picked up a nail. Bent, crooked, rusty.
He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Then fiercely stabbed the nail into his palm. He gasped with the pain and stared down at the blood pooling in his hand. He watched as the red drops splattered on the floor.
So warm, he thought. At last my fingers will be warm.
The candlelight shimmered off his bright red blood. He dipped his fingers into the glistening pool, giving them a moment to thaw.
Then he stood. He coated the nail with his blood and began to write on the stone wall:
If only I had known the horrors that my silence would bring⦠.
1
Western Pennsylvania, 1876
L
uke Fier slapped the heavy reins over the mule's backside.
“Get on there,” he ordered, pushing hard on the plow. He felt his anger rising as the mule slowly turned its big head to stare back at him.
“Go on now! Pull!” Luke urged with another slap of the reins. The mule took a slow step forward. Then another.
Luke plodded behind the slow mule. His arms ached from pushing the plow. He felt the sun high over his shoulder and knew that the morning was almost half over. He had been at work since sunrise and had only two long furrows to show for his efforts.
We'll lose the farm at this rate, he thought wearily. I was born on this farm. So was my father and his
father before him. I've lived here for sixteen years. I don't want to live anywhere else.
He felt the sweat slide down his back and wiped his shirtsleeve across his sweat-covered brow. He imagined a cool drink of water or lemonade sliding down his parched throat.
No time to stop. Keep going, he pushed himself. He looked ahead to the end of the row, trying not to think about water.
The mule stopped, refusing to pull anymore. Luke dropped his chin to his chest. I might as well pull the plow myself.
He swept his battered brown hat from his head and tossed it to the ground. The warm breeze whipped his black hair across his face. He stood straight up and pressed his fists against the small of his back. He felt a fierce burning ache. It felt worse every day. He straightened and heaved a deep sigh.
“Pa, could you talk to Henriettaâ”
The words clogged his throat. He still couldn't believe that his father was dead.
“You could always make Henrietta obey,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don't have your skill. Or your gift.”
Luke looked toward the house. His gaze fell to the huge white stone that stood beneath the towering oak tree. The smooth marble bore his mother's and his father's names. A chill swept through him.
“How could you die and leave me alone?” he asked in a raw voice. “How could you?”
He closed his eyes against the pain and the bitterness.
I know I'm not alone. I have Corey and Leah. And the farm.
But you should be here to take care of them. To take care of me.
He could see so clearly the afternoon his parents had died. Gray clouds massed in the sky. A cool wind carried the scent of rain.
Luke stood on the front porch of their two-story clapboard house. He watched as his father helped his mother into the wagon. They were going to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia.
His mother straightened the bow on her best bonnet. She glanced at Luke. “Promise me you'll take good care of your sister and brother, Luke,” she asked him. Luke nodded in answer.
Then she turned to Leah and Corey. “And you two must obey your brother. Or there'll be no presents when we return. Do you understand?”
Leah nodded sulkily at her mother and Corey said nothing. He frowned and twisted a rag toy in his small, soft fist. “We want to go with you, Mama. Please?” he asked one more time in his lispy voice.
“Corey, you know you must stay here with Luke and Leah,” she reminded him. “Be good children and we'll bring each of you a present,” their mother promised.
“I don't want a stupid present,” Leah whined. “I want to go too.”
“Shush up,” Luke scolded. He glared at her. He hoped his parents hadn't heard Leah's complaining. They'd already heard enough of it.
Earlier that morning, Corey had cried and tugged on his mother's skirt. Leah hadn't shed tears. But she'd been sulking for days. Both were unhappy because their parents were leaving them behind. Leah
was thirteen. Corey was six. They were huddled so close together on the porch steps that they reminded Luke of a pair of Siamese twins he'd seen at the circus the year before.
They both had black hair. Their green eyes glittered with angry tears.
“They'll do their chores and go to bed early every night,” Luke promised.
From the corner of his eye, Luke saw Leah stick her tongue out at him. Luke laughed.
I'll be in charge, he thought as he watched his father climb onto the bench seat and release the brake. I can take care of them and the farm too. My folks will be surprised when they get back and see how well I've run everything here.
“Take care now, children,” Luke's father called out. “We'll be back next Saturday.”
Luke admired the easy way his father snapped the reins and set the four horses into motion.
Luke's mother turned on the bench and began to wave.
Luke waved back. “Wave good-bye,” Luke instructed his sister and brother.
“No,” Leah said, crossing her arms over her chest. She pushed out her lower lip in a pout.
“No,” Corey said, imitating his sister's actions.
“We wanted to go with them,” Leah whined. Luke jumped at the sharp sound as she angrily stamped her foot on the porch step.
Corey jumped up and did the same. Luke began to scold him.
Suddenly, lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rumbled and Luke felt the earth beneath his feet
shake. A fierce blast of wind sent a frigid chill slicing down his back.
Then Luke heard the hysterical scream of the horses harnessed to the wagon. He watched in horror as they reared up and clawed the air. Then began a wild gallop.