WHERE YOUR WORST

by
NIGHTMARES LIVE...

[Link]
DONT MISS THE EXCITEMENT AND TERROR OF
EVERY NEW FEAR STREET NOVEL
THE NEW GIRL
THE SURPRISE PARTY
THE OVERNIGHT
MISSING
THE WRONG NUMBER
THE SLEEPWALKER
HAUNTED
HALLOWEEN PARTY
THE STEPSISTER
SKI WEEKEND
THE FIRE GAME
LIGHTS OUT
THE SECRET BEDROOM
THE KNIFE
THE PROM QUEEN
FIRST DATE
Fear Street Super Chillers:
PARTY SUMMER
SILENT NIGHT
All available from Archway Paperbacks
Published by Pocket Books
AND
COMING IN JUNE 1992
Fear Street Super Chiller:
GOODNIGHT KISS
What Was That?

It sounded like whispering. A voice. Nearby. No. It

couldn't be. It was the wind.
Again she heard it. She shivered from the cold,
from surprise, from sudden fear. She gripped the
wheel of the car tighter still and stared straight
ahead.
What was it saying? She could hear it so clearly. A
whisper right in her ear. Did it say her name?
Yes. That's what it sounded like.
Melisssssssssa. Just wind. Cold wind in her ear.
Cold wind whispering so softly in her ear.
Melisssssssssa . . .

Her friend's house was just a few blocks away. I can

make it, she thought, staring straight ahead, ignor-
ing the whispering wind that repeated her name so
insistently, so menacingly.
I can make it. If I can just keep control of the
car . . .

"No!" she cried out, as something — or someone —

seemed to grab the wheel!
Books by R. L. Stine
Fear Street: THE NEW GIRL
Fear Street: THE SURPRISE PARTY
Fear Street: THE OVERNIGHT
Fear Street: MISSING
Fear Street: THE WRONG NUMBER
Fear Street: THE SLEEPWALKER
Fear Street: HAUNTED
Fear Street: HALLOWEEN PARTY
Fear Street: THE STEPSISTER
Fear Street: SKI WEEKEND
Fear Street: THE FIRE GAME
Fear Street: LIGHTS OUT
Fear Street: THE SECRET BEDROOM
Fear Street: THE KNIFE
Fear Street: PROM QUEEN
Fear Street: FIRST DATE
Fear Street Super Chiller: PARTY SUMMER
Fear Street Super Chiller: SILENT NIGHT
Fear Street Super Chiller: GOODNIGHT KISS
HOW I BROKE UP WITH ERNIE
PHONE CALLS
CURTAINS
BROKEN DATE

Available from ARCHWAY Paperbacks

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AN ARCHWAY PAPERBACK
Published by POCKET BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

AN ARCHWAY PAPERBACK Original

An Archway Paperback published by

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 1990 by R. L. Stine

Cover art copyright © 1990 Bill Schmidt

AH rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue
of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-74651-0

First Archway Paperback printing July 1990

10 9 8 7 6 5

Fear Street is a trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.

AN ARCHWAY PAPERBACK and colophon are

registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Printed in the U.S.A.
IL6 +
ffeumted
chapter

j/V^elissa Dryden sat up in bed and

screamed.
Still half asleep, she felt the fear fall over her like a
suffocating blanket.
She screamed again as the noise at the bedroom
window grew louder. "No — please! Don't come in
here!"
She started to scramble out of bed, but her legs were
tangled in the bed sheet. Breathing hard, trying to
choke back her panic, she tugged herself free and
stumbled toward the door — just as her father burst
in.
"Lissa— what is it?"
She ran to him, ran behind him for protection, and
pointed to the window. "Someone is out there," she
managed to say.
The noise at the window grew louder.
1
FEAR STREET

"Huh?" He squinted toward the window. He must

not have had time to find his glasses in the dark. He
heard the noise. He shook his head as if trying to wake
himself up, then pulled the belt on his flannel bath-
robe tighter.
Melissa tried to stop him, but he plunged ahead
toward the window. "No, Dad, wait — " He was
always so reckless. Didn't he ever stop to think about
the danger?
Melissa backed up and bumped into her bed table.
"Ow!" Her phone crashed to the floor. The noise
startled her.
She wanted to run, run from the room, run from the
house. But she couldn't leave her dad.
Why was he laughing?
"Come here, Lissa."
"What?" She tugged at her tangles of blond hair
with both hands.
"I said come here."
"What is it?" She took a few hesitant steps toward
the window.
Mr. Dryden, smiling and shaking his head, held
back the curtain with one hand and pointed outside
with the other. "Here's your prowler."
Melissa heard the tapping noise again. A loud
tapping followed by a scraping sound. Still halfway
across the room, she didn't go any closer. "It's a tree
branch, right?"
"Right."
"What on earth!" Melissa's mother came scurrying
2
HAUNTED

into the room and flicked on the lamp. "What's going

on?"
"Nothing to be concerned about," Mr. Dryden said,
looking out at the sky. "Full moon. Look at that. The
moon's always so big in August."
"I don't want to hear about the moon. I want to
know what all the screaming was about," Mrs. Dry-
den said sharply.
Mr. Dryden let the curtain fall back into place. He
tugged at his bathrobe belt. "Lissa heard a tree
tapping at her window."
"A tree?"
Melissa sighed loudly. "I thought it was a burglar,"
she said, plopping down on the bed. "I was asleep and
I guess the noise woke me up and — "
"You shouldn't watch the news before you go to
bed," Mrs. Dryden said. She walked over and
squeezed Melissa's hand. "All the talk about that
"
prowler —
"Well, there is a Fear Street Prowler, Mother,"
Melissa said, her voice rising several octaves. "I didn't
imagine that, you know. Someone has been breaking
into houses on Fear Street and — "
"We've lived on Fear Street for five years," her
mother said, pushing Melissa's thick hair back off her
forehead. "We've never had the slightest problem.
Don't you ever brush your hair?"
"I like it wild."
"Hey — what are you wearing, Skinnybone?" Her
father walked over, staring at her nightshirt.
3
FEAR STREET

"Don't call me Skinnybone. You promised," Melis-

sa whiped.
"You know she's sensitive about that," Mrs. Dry-
den scolded her husband. "Why do you insist — "
"What are you wearing?" Mr. Dryden demanded,
pulling on Melissa's sleeve.
"Oh. Uh . . . it's one of your old pajama shirts, I
think."
"I've been looking all over for that," her father
yelled, looking up at the ceiling. He was always
complaining straight to the heavens. "I spent hours
searching my dresser and — "
"Sorry. I thought it was old."
"Of course it's old. That's why I like to wear it. Why
can't you wear your own clothes? I don't wear your
clothes, do I?"
Melissa laughed. Her father weighed two hundred
pounds, more than twice as much as she did. "You're
welcome to, Dad. Anytime."
Mrs. Dryden glanced at the clock radio on the bed
table and frowned. "Why are we exchanging clothes at
three-thirty in the morning?"
"Sorry, Mom," Melissa said. She slid under the
sheet. "I'm okay. We can go back to bed now."
"What time did you get in tonight?" Mrs. Dryden
asked. "Late, I'll bet."
"Yeah. It was pretty late. I'm not sure when."
"Pretty late or very late?"
"Come on, Mom," Melissa said impatiently, sitting
up. "Summer's over in a week. Buddy and I haven't
4
HAUNTED
had a chance to see each other. He was away on
vacation with his parents for two weeks and — "
"Well, that's why you're screaming your head off,
imagining prowlers. You're overtired."
Melissa groaned. Her mother's explanation for any-
thing that ever happened was "You're overtired." If
you messed up on a test, or didn't feel like eating, or
were in a bad mood, it had to be because you were
overtired.

"Mother, for the last time, there really is a prowler

on Fear Street. I didn't imagine that. It's in the
newspaper practically every day."
"It's so hot in here," her mother said. She never
could stick to a subject. Her mind flitted from one
thing to another like a bee buzzing from flower to
flower. "It's eighty degrees outside. Why don't you
open that window?"
"I — I really don't want to," Melissa said, feeling a
little of the fear creep back.
"Well then, let's go to bed. Are you coming, Wes?"
She pulled her husband's sleeve.
"Yeah. Sure. But come here a minute, Lissa. I want
to show you something."
"Huh? Can't it wait till morning?" Melissa sudden-
ly felt very sleepy.
"No. Come on." He grabbed both of her hands and
pulled her easily out of bed. "Wow, you're so light."
"Are you starting in again about how skinny I am?"
"No. Come on. I want to show you something that
will make you feel better."
5
FEAR STREET
His expression grew serious as he pulled her across
the hall to their bedroom.
"Wes, really — let her get some sleep. She's very
overtired," her mother said, following behind.
"This'll only take a second. I want to calm her
down," Mr. Dryden said, clicking on the ceiling light.
They stepped into the large bedroom, all shades of
blue, which always smelled of Mrs. Dry den's perfume.
Melissa's father pulled her to his bed table and then
let go of her hands.
He pulled the drawer of the bed table out nearly as
far as it would go and reached into the back of the
drawer. "Here it is," he said, a grim smile on his
round face.
He held up a small silver pistol.
Melissa's mouth dropped open in surprise. "A gun?
Is it real?"
Mr. Dryden dropped it into her hand. It felt much
heavier than it looked and was cold to the touch. "Of
course it's real. And it's loaded."
Melissa shuddered and quickly handed the gun
back to him.
"Hey, don't look so terrified." He spun the gun
around on his finger. "You know, I've been hunting
since I was ten. I know a thing or two about guns."
"Put it away, Wes," Mrs. Dryden 'said from the
other side of the bed. She yawned loudly.
"I bought it right after I read the first news story
about the Fear Street Prowler. I just wanted to show
Lissa that if he ever does try to break in here, I'll be
ready for him."
6
HAUNTED

"Thanks, Daddy," Melissa said, pushing a tangle of

hair off her face. Normally she would have made a
joke or said something sarcastic, but she was just too
tired.

"The gun is always here in this drawer," Mr.

Dryden said, carefully replacing it and sliding the
drawer shut.
"Good night," Melissa said.
"Good night." Her mother was already under the
covers.
"I want that shirt back tomorrow," Mr. Dryden
called after her.
Melissa crept back to her room, turned off the lamp,
and climbed into bed. The tree branch was still
tapping gently against the windowpane. She pulled
the covers up over her head and tried to ignore it.
She turned onto her back, then after a few minutes
slid onto her side. Despite her weariness, she couldn't
fall asleep. What a terrible night! First the argument
with Buddy. Then the false alarm about the prowler.
She thought about Buddy. She had been so glad to
see him. It had been two whole weeks, after all. He
looked so tan, so handsome after two weeks at the
beach.

They had so much to talk about. So she hadn't

minded when he suggested they borrow his dad's car
and drive up to River Ridge to talk. River Ridge, high
above the Conononka River, was one of the prettiest
spots in Shadyside. It was also the favorite makeout
spot of kids from Shadyside High.
Buddy drove really fast. Melissa had to plead with
7
FEAR STREET
him to slow down. He pulled into a secluded spot
overlooking the river and cut the engine and lights.
"[Link] me about your vacation. Did you meet any
cute girls?" Melissa teased.
Instead of replying, Buddy had pulled her close and
wrapped his arms around her. They kissed, a long,
lingering kiss.
"Buddy, I thought we came up here to talk. I
haven't seen you for weeks."
He pushed her hair back behind her shoulders with
both hands. "We can talk later."
"No, Buddy—"
But he didn't want to take no for an answer.
Before Melissa even realized it, he had slipped a
hand under her blouse.

"Move your hand!" She pulled away from him.

"Come on, Buddy!" She reached for the door handle.
He looked very surprised. "Hey — what are you
doing? I thought you'd be glad to see me."
"I said I wanted to talk."
He apologized, and then apologized some more.
But as far as she was concerned, the evening was
ruined. What was the matter with him, anyway? He
had never acted like that before.

"Let's start over," he suggested, looking very un-

happy. They tried to have a normal conversation then,
but it just didn't work. Melissa still felt surprised and
angry, and Buddy was obviously angry too. A short
while later they drove home in silence.
As Buddy pulled up the drive, he apologized again.
He really sounded as if he were sorry. She kissed him
8
HAUNTED
quickly on the cheek and ran into the house, more
upset with herself than with him.
Now as she turned over in bed, trying to get
comfortable, feeling very hot, her hair wet and matted
against the back of her neck, she blamed herself for
spoiling their reunion date. Maybe she had
overreacted. Sure, he came on too strong a lot of the
time. Sure, he could be pushy, even selfish at times.
But he really did care about her. And most of the time
he was a great guy.
If only she could stop thinking and get to sleep. It
must be after four in the morning.
She punched the pillow, fluffing it up. The tree limb
tapped against the window, three short taps. She
pictured her father removing the pistol from the
bed-table drawer with that grim smile.
The silver pistol. She saw him spin it on his finger.
"The gun is always here in this drawer," he had
said.
Despite the heat of the room, Melissa shuddered.
There was something so frightening about that little
silver pistol, lying there in the drawer, just waiting to
be used.

9
chapter

A^aybe I should tie my hair back, Melis-

sa thought. Lying on her stomach on her bed, trying to
read a book, she pulled at her hair with her free hand
and kept pushing strands out of her face.
"Why don't you get it cut before school starts?" her
best friend, Delia O'Connor, had asked a few days
earlier. Delia had perfect hair — straight, black, and
long, past her shoulders, and it always fell perfectly
into place.
"I like it wild like this," Melissa had replied. After
all, what good was hair if you couldn't toss it, pull it,
play with it, and swing it around? Melissa didn't want
perfect hair — she wanted hair with personality!
If only it would stay out of her eyes while she read.
"And why am I reading this Stephen King novel?"
she asked herself. "There I was, scared silly by a twig
10
HAUN 1 LD

on the window last night, and this afternoon I'm

reading this creepy book."
She read a little longer, then looked up.
The room suddenly felt cold.
Had she imagined it?
No. The air was cold, as if a wintry breeze had
blown in.
She looked at the window. The afternoon sun was

still high in the sky. The curtains weren't blowing.

There was no breeze at all.
Still cold, she closed the book and stood up. Shad-
ows from the trees outside her window played against
the wall. She heard the front door slam downstairs.
"I'm home!" her father yelled.
He's home early, she thought. What's going on?
"Lissa — are you home?" He was calling from the
foot of the stairs.

"Yes, I'm here, Daddy." Forgetting about the

strange chill in the room, she tossed the book on her
bed and hurried down the stairs. The air felt warm as
soon as she left her room.
Mr. Dryden, his eyeglasses sliding down his nose as
usual, watched her descend the stairs with a strange
smile on his face.

"What's that smile for, Daddy? Aren't you home a

little early?"
He put on a phony hurt expression. "Aren't you
glad to see me?"
"No. Not at all," she replied with a straight face.
"Well, I think you'll be glad when you see what I
have for you. Where's your mother?"
11
FEAR STREET

"She flew to Florida. She wants to surprise you with

a tan at dinner. What do you have for me?"
"No. Really. Where is she?"
"At the mall. Where else?"
He looked disappointed. "Oh, well. I can't wait for
her. I have to show you." He remained where he was
and slowly pushed his glasses up. They slid right back
down his nose.
"Show me what? Come on! Are you deliberately
keeping me in suspense?"
He laughed. "Maybe I am. Maybe I should make
you guess what your birthday surprise is."
"Birthday surprise? But my birthday isn't until
Friday." She frantically tried to think of what he could
have bought her. He hadn't even asked what she
wanted.

What did she want? She couldn't think of anything.

A new Walkman, maybe. Some CDs . . .
"Maybe I'll make you wait till Friday," he said,
obviously teasing. "Let's change the subject." He
loosened his tie and started to remove his suit jacket.
"No way!" Melissa cried. "You started this. Now
come on, Dad, cough it up."
He reached into his suit-jacket pocket and dropped
a set of keys into her hand. "Okay. There you go.
Happy birthday!"
Melissa stared down at the keys, confused. "What's
this?"
"Look." He pulled open the front door. Sitting in
the drive was a shiny blue Pontiac Firebird.
12
HAUNTED

"Are you kidding?" Melissa cried, finally catching

on. "That's for me?"
He just grinned and nodded his head.
"I don't believe it!" Melissa jumped up and hugged
him, nearly knocking him over backward. Then she
pushed open the screen door and ran out to examine
her new car.

"Well, go ahead. Sit in it," Mr. Dryden said after

they had walked around it at least a dozen times.
"I can't believe this is mine," Melissa said, sliding
behind the wheel. She sniffed, smiling as she breathed
in that wonderful new car smell. She ran her hand
over the leather seat and then tried the steering
wheel.

"I may want to borrow it from time to time," her

father said, lowering his bulky frame into the passen-
ger seat.
"Listen, Dad, this is too much."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. This is too extrava-

gant."
He laughed. "Yeah. You're a spoiled brat. You're
spoiled rotten. Maybe I'll keep the car after all."
He grabbed the keys from her hand, but she grabbed
them back. "On second thought, what's so terrible
about being spoiled rotten?" she said.
He sighed. His smile faded. "When I was your age, I
was lucky to get a toy car. Birthdays were pretty grim
around my house."
"I know, I know. Your mother couldn't afford a
13
FEAR STREET
birthday cake. So she used to buy stale birthday cakes
that other people forgot to picks up. On your third
birthday you told everyone your name was Seymour
because that's what it said on your cake."
He shook his head. "You know all my old jokes.
Listen, it just makes me feel good to be able to give
you nice gifts. It makes me realize how far I've come
from those days."
She kissed him on the cheek. "I've got to show this
to Delia. Can I drive it?"
He shrugged and started to lift himself out of the
car. "It's yours. Go ahead. But don't stay too long.
Your mother will be disappointed if she doesn't get to
see it."
"Great! Delia won't believe this!" She ran into
the house, got her purse with her driver's license in it,
and ran back to the car. Mr. Dryden was still in the
drive, polishing a spot on the hood with his jacket
sleeve.
She climbed behind the wheel and carefully closed
the door. "You look great in it," her father said. "Your
hair looks like it's already blowing in the wind even
though you're not moving yet!"
"Very funny, Dad. Remind me to laugh when I get
home." Why was everybody always putting her hair
down? She turned the key in the ignition. The car
began to purr. She turned to the rear window and
started to back down the drive, slowly, carefully.
He's standing there watching me. I know I'm going
to back right into the hedges, she told herself, realiz-
14
HAUNTED

ing she was really nervous driving a beautiful" new

car.
But she made it past the hedges and onto Fear
Street. A few minutes later she turned up The Mill
Road and headed toward the North Hills section of
town where Delia lived.
The car handled beautifully. It was so easy to drive.
The Mill Road was pretty crowded, with people going
home from work, but most of the traffic was heading
the other way. The sun was low behind the trees, but
the air was still warm and humid.
She turned onto Canyon Drive to get away from the
traffic and pressed down hard on the accelerator. The
car responded immediately with a roar and a burst of
speed.
Wait till Buddy gets a load of this, she thought,
passing a slow-moving vegetable truck, then swerving
back into the right lane. Wait till everyone gets a load
of this!
She glanced at the speedometer — she was doing
seventy-five — so she lightened up on the gas pedal.
She was driving right into the sun now. Lowering the
visor helped a little but didn't cut all of the glare.
"Oh!"
She cried out as the car suddenly veered to the right.
Melissa grabbed the wheel tighter, her heart pound-
ing.
What had happened? Was the car pulling to the
right? No. It happened so suddenly, with such force
that it felt as if someone had grabbed the wheel.
15
FEAR STREET
She felt a sudden chill. She put her hand over the
air vent to see if the air conditioner was blow-
ing. It wasn't. Bright sunlight blanketed the wind-
shield, and yet the air in the car was extremely
cold.
Melissa slowed down, keeping a tight grip on the
wheel. She had just started to relax a little when the
car jerked again, swerving wildly to the right. The tires
spun onto the soft shoulder. Melissa struggled to
regain control.
What was going on?
Again it felt as if someone had jerked the steering
wheel.
She tightened her grip on the wheel and leaned
forward. She slowed down to twenty-five. There's
something wrong with the car, she told herself.
What was that?
It sounded like whispering. A voice. Nearby. No. It
couldn't be. It was the wind.
Again she heard it. She shivered from the cold, from
surprise, from sudden fear. She gripped the wheel
tighter still and stared straight ahead.
What was it saying? She could hear it so clearly. A
whisper right in her ear. Did it say her name?
Yes. That's what it sounded like.
Melisssssssssa. Just wind. Cold wind in her ear.
Cold wind whispering so softly in her ear.
Melisssssssssa . . .

Delia's house was just a few blocks away.

I can make it, she thought, staring straight ahead,
16
HAUNTED
ignoring the whispering wind that repeated her name
so insistently, so menacingly.
I can make it. If I can just keep control of the
car . . .
"No!" she cried as the car swerved hard, this time to
the left, crossing the center lane into the path of an
onrushing oil truck.

17
chapter

"IT

±1 appy birthday, Lissa."

"Hi, Delia. You're late. Everyone's here already."
It was Friday evening. Melissa's house was filled
with kids. Delia stepped into the front hallway. There
was a loud crash from the den, followed by laughter.
"Sounds like I'm just in time," Delia said, handing
Melissa a present: a flat, rectangular box wrapped in
red and blue tissue paper. "It's a car," she said. "I
thought you could use two."
"Don't mention my new car," Melissa said, rolling
her eyes. "Only two days old and in the garage
already."
"Did they find out what's wrong with the steering?"
"No. They can't find anything wrong. Daddy told
them to keep looking till they find it. He's more upset
than I am. And I'm the one who was almost killed by
that oil truck. Hey — where's Pete?"
18
HAUNTED

"Here I am." Pete Goodwin popped up behind

Delia, a broad smile on his handsome face. "Happy
birthday." He handed Melissa a small, flat package,
obviously a CD. "Hope you like Weird Al."
"Oh, get real, Pete," Delia said, poking him hard in
the ribs with her elbow. "It isn't Weird Al," she told
Melissa.

Pete shrugged. "Delia told me you were into Weird

Al."
"HI put it in the other room with the other stuff,"
Melissa said.

Pete's okay, she thought. For a long time she had

wondered why Delia liked him so much. Sure, he was
nice looking. But he was so straight and preppie, and
he always seemed sort of snobby and stiff.
Here he was in his standard outfit — tan chinos and
a white pullover shirt with the little black Polo pony
on the breast. His wavy brown hair was short and
perfectly parted. He looked like such a preppie.
But after spending a lot of time with Pete and Delia,
Melissa had decided her first impressions of Pete were
wrong. He was really nice and very smart, and he
loosened up a lot after he got to know you.
Delia, of course, looked as beautiful as ever. Her
straight black hair, tied loosely by a plain white
ribbon, fell softly down her back. Her silky green
blouse matched her eyes. Her black, straight-legged
jeans showed off her perfect model's figure.
Melissa tugged at both sides of her frizzy blond
hair, which she had actually tried to brush before the
party. I'm not going to be jealous of Delia, she
19
FEAR STREET

thought, staring at Delia's hair as she followed them

into the large and noisy den. I'm not going to be
jealous— not on my birthday.
"Hey, Lissa — good party!" Marnie Foster called.
The stereo was cranked up really loud, and she was
dancing in the middle of the crowded room with Billy
Clawson.
Billy was such a bad dancer. He looked like a
penguin bobbing from side to side. Melissa had dated
Billy for a while in her freshman year. Watching him
flop around to the music with Marnie, she couldn't
imagine why!
"You got any more chips?" David Metcalfe called.
He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, holding
the potato-chip bowl in his lap, stuffing his face.
Krissie Munroe reached out from behind the arm-
chair, grabbed the potato-chip bowl, and dumped it
over David's head. He protested loudly and blindly
reached for Krissie. But she was already halfway
across the room.
"Hey — where's Buddy?" Delia asked, leaning
close to Melissa and shouting to be heard over the
music.
Good question, Melissa thought.
"He's late," she shouted. "So what else is new?"
Buddy wasn't the most punctual person in the uni-
verse. But Melissa was disappointed that he hadn't
tried to be on time for her birthday party. She looked
around the room and realized Buddy would be the last
to arrive.
Can he still be mad at me about the other night? she
20
HAUNTED
wondered, glancing up at the clock over the mantel-
piece.
No, he had been very apologetic. And he had called
her the next day, and they'd had a nice long talk.
Stop being so nervous, she scolded herself. It isn't
even that late.
She thought she heard the doorbell. It was impossi-
ble to hear anything over the loud music ^.nd the even
louder voices. She started out of the den, and there
was Buddy, grinning at her from the doorway.
He was wearing a sleeveless blue T-shirt and white
tennis shorts, obviously showing off his tan. He looks
great, Melissa thought, rushing up to greet him. "Hi."
He kissed her quickly and shoved a small box,
wrapped in silver, into her hand. "Go ahead. Open
it."
"No." She squeezed his hand. "I'll open it later."
"With all the others?" He gave her his hurt look.
She leaned against him and whispered in his ear.
"Stay after everyone's left. I'll open it then."
"Hey, Buddy — " David Metcalfe yelled from the
chair. "Bet I know what you re giving Melissa for her
birthday!" He said it real suggestively, with a dirty
leer on his face, and everyone laughed.
"Shut up, Metcalfe!" Buddy shouted. But he was
laughing too. Melissa punched him playfully on the
chest, and he staggered backward.
"Any more chips?" Metcalfe called, holding up the
empty bowl.
"Turn the music up!" someone yelled. "I can still
hear Metcalfe!"
21
FEAR STREET
Mamie Foster had gone over by the window to talk
to friends, but Billy Clawson was still dancing — all by
himself. He pulled Krissie Munrtfe into the center of
the room, but she stood and stared at him, refusing to
dance. It didn't seem to bother Billy, who didn't slow
down, holding on to both of Krissie's hands as he
bobbed about. Finally Krissie's boyfriend, Ira
Hewlitt, came over to rescue her.
A slow number came on, and a few more couples
started dancing. Melissa had to laugh. Pete was stand-
ing straight as a broomstick as he danced with Delia.
She had her eyes closed and didn't seem to mind.
Melissa looked for Buddy, thinking he might want
to dance. But he was in a corner talking heatedly to
Normie Shrader. They were both demonstrating fore-
hand swings, so Melissa figured they were talking
tennis, which both of them were fanatics about.
The party was going really well. Everyone seemed
to be having a great time. Melissa relaxed and enjoyed
it too. The next time she looked at the clock it was past
eleven-thirty.
Uh-oh, she thought. She had promised she'd try to
have everyone out of the house by midnight. "Cake
time!" she cried, and turned off the stereo. "Cake
time! Come on. Everybody into the dining room."
"You sure know how to spoil a party!" David
Metcalfe yelled.
Everyone hissed him down.
"Just for that, I'm not going to sing," David grum-
bled.
22
HAUNTED

Having them all sing "Happy Birthday" to her was

just as embarrassing on her seventeenth birthday as it
had been on all the others. But the huge chocolate
cake was moist and delicious, and Billy Clawson
was the only one to spill his soda all over the table-
cloth, so Melissa considered this part of the party
a success.

"Aren't we going to play pin the taillm the don-

key?" Krissie asked as they finished their cake.
"Aren't we going to play spin the bottle?" David
Metcalfe asked with a dirty laugh.
"Hey — remember post office? Did you ever play
that when you were a kid?" Pete asked.
"I played it last week," Billy said, and everyone
laughed.
"How about dirty doctor?" Melissa asked.
"Great game! Great game!" everyone agreed.
"My dad's a doctor," Normie said, "so I used to
play it with a real stethoscope!"
"Whoooo!" "Wow!" Everyone seemed really im-
pressed.
"How do you play?" Mamie asked innocently.
That got the biggest laugh of the night.
Billy jumped up and started to pull her away from
the table. "Come in the other room. FU show you. Fll
even let you be the patient!"
This got an even bigger laugh.
"No time!" Melissa cried, swallowing her last
mouthful of cake and jumping to her feet. "You've all
got to be out of here ten minutes
23 ago!"
FEAR STREET

"Party pooper!" someone yelled.

"Open the presents!" David shouted.
"Open the presents! Open the^presents!" a few of
her friends took up the chant.
"Okay. Sorry. I almost forgot."
"Sure. You already got a car. Why should you care
about our presents?" Buddy said.
Nice, Buddy. Melissa knew he was only joking, but
for some reason, the joke annoyed her. Her friends
often gave her a hard time because her family was
wealthy. They were always making cracks. She didn't
expect to hear them from Buddy too.
"Come on. I put them all in the downstairs guest
bedroom," Melissa said. "We'll have to hurry. My
parents will be home soon, and I promised you'd be
out of here when they got back."
"We can take a hint," David said.
Buddy put his arm around her shoulders as she led
them to the guest bedroom. She immediately forgave
him for his stupid remark.
"I stacked all the presents on the bed," Melissa said
to no one in particular, "and I think we can — "
She clicked on the light, looked at the bed, and
gasped.
"Oh, no!"
Everyone pushed into the room. "What's going
on?"
"What happened?"
"Who did that?"
The room grew silent as everyone stared at the
bed.
24
Scho'oF Clbra'ry
Pfefrg Jose. Wfgh
San Dame California 95112 i
HAUN 1 hu
The presents were scattered over the bed and floor.
They had all been ripped open.

Melissa was kissing Buddy good night in the den

when her parents walked in.
"The party's still going on?" Mrs. Dryden asked.
Buddy, embarrassed, pulled away from Melissa and
jumped up from the couch. "I was just,. . . uh . . .
going."
"How was the party?" Mr. Dryden asked, walking
over to the potato-chip bowl, visibly disappointed to
find it empty.
"Great!" Melissa said quickly. She had decided not
to tell her parents about the presents t>eing ripped
open. Why bother them with something so silly. "I
think everyone had a good time."
"Yeah, it was great," Buddy repeated, inching to-
ward the front hall. "Too bad about your rug. And the
wallpaper. And those dishes."
"What?" Melissa's mother looked as if she were
about to have a heart attack.

"Buddy's kidding, Mom," Melissa said, walking

over and giving Buddy a hard shove. "Aren't you used
to his bizarre sense of humor yet?"
"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," Mrs. Dryden
said, slumping into a chair.
"Did they eat all the potato chips?" Mr. Dryden
asked, turning another large plastic bowl upside
down.

"When the potato chips ran out, they ate the

bowls," Buddy said.
25
FEAR STREET^
"Sure," Melissa said. "Do you have anything you
have to do right now?"
"Not really," Delia replied. "Returning the library
books was the highlight of my day."
"I know what you mean. Fm ready for school to
start too," Melissa groaned.
They climbed into the new car. Delia admired the
leather seats and inhaled the new-car smell as Melissa
pulled away from the curb and headed west. "Tracy
lives in the Old Village," Delia said. "I'll direct you."
A short while later Melissa was maneuvering the car
through the narrow streets of the Old Village, where
the early residents of Shadyside had settled, most of
them in the 1 920s when the mill opened and the first
factories were built. They found Tracy in her small
front yard, chasing after two little kids she was
baby-sitting.
Tracy was short and thin and had spiked blond hair.
She looked about ten or twelve, even though she was
sixteen. She was wearing faded jean cutoffs and a
Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. "Hi!" she called, giving up
on catching the two laughing kids.
Melissa followed Delia up onto the freshly mowed
lawn. "Hi, Tracy. You remember Melissa?"
"Yeah. Sure," Tracy said. "You're the one with the
hair."
"And you're the one with the teeth," Melissa said,
laughing.
78 and flashed them both
"Not anymore," Tracy said,
a wide, perfect smile.
HAUNTED

"Melissa wanted to ask you about a boy who went

to South/' Delia said.
"Well . . . maybe he went to South," Melissa said,
bending over to pick up a tennis ball to throw back to
the two kids.

"Well, I know most of the kids at South," Tracy

said, and then added, "unfortunately."
"Come on, Tracy," Delia said. "South isn't that
bad."
"It's a pit," Tracy said, kicking at a tall weed. "But
what's the point of complaining? I'm a senior this
year. Then I'm out of here!"
"Tracy, do you remember anything about a boy
from your school who died?" Melissa asked eagerly.
"Huh?"
"Either this year or last year. Was there a boy from
South about our age who died?"
"Well, yeah. There was," Tracy said, wrinkling her
forehead. "There was a boy who died just before
school let out last spring."

79
FEAR STREET

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" she

cried.

He didn't reply. He moved around the bed, walking

slowly toward her.
The Fear Street Prowler, she thought.
She drew in her breath and screamed at the top of
her lungs.

28
chapter

the dark figure moved closer, his

features remained hidden in shadow. It looked to
Melissa, grasping the bed sheet with both hands,
choked with fear, as if he had no features at all. No
features, no face.
His head, his arms, his whole body came out of the
shadows and now were part of the shadow. And that
shadow was moving forward, arms raised, to engulf
her.
"Melissa — what on earth!"
Her father burst into the room, stumbling over her
sneakers, which she had tossed by the door. He caught
his balance and fumbled for the lamp switch.
"He's in here, Daddy! He's in here!" Melissa man-
aged to cry out in a tight voice she didn't recognize.
Finally the light came on. Her father stood against
29
FEAR STREET
the wall, his face filled with confusion, frantically
looking around the room.
"Where, Lissa?"
"He's here! He's—"
"Who?" Seeing no one, her father started to breathe
normally. He walked over to her bed and slumped
down on the edge.
"Daddy, he—"
"I don't see anyone."
"What happened? Why did she scream again?"
Mrs. Dryden came into the room. She was still
dressed, hadn't even taken off her shoes.
Melissa climbed out of bed. "I'm not crazy! Some-
one was in this room."
Mr. Dryden stood up and walked quickly to the
window. "Did he jump out the window?" He looked
out, leaning far over the window ledge.
"Wes, don't lean out like that!" Mrs. Dryden called,
clutching at her throat, frightened.
He pulled his head back in and turned to Melissa,
who was standing right beside him. He shook his
head. "I don't see anyone."
"Who was in here? A man? What did he look like?
Call the police, Wes." Mrs. Dryden walked over to the
window to pull her husband to the phone.
"How can I call the police? There's no one here."
He looked skeptically at Melissa.
"He ... he disappeared," Melissa said uncertainly.
"I saw him. He was as close to me as you are.
I saw him clearly. I didn't make it up. I wasn't
dreaming."
30
HAUNTED

"And then he disappeared into thin air?" Her father

pushed his glasses up on his nose.
"I— I don't know."
"Well, what did he look like? Can you describe
him?" her mother demanded.
"Well . . . he . . ." Melissa's mouth dropped open.
She pulled absent-mindedly at a curly strand of hair as
she thought. "It was too dark," she said finally. "I
couldn't see his face. I could just see — "
"What? What could you see?" her mother asked.
"I could see that he had long hair."
"And?"
"That's all," Melissa said quietly. She knew it
sounded stupid. But it was the truth. Why were they
doubting her? Why wouldn't they believe what she
was telling them? Couldn't they see how frightened
she was?
Her father walked over to comfort her, as if reading
her mind. He hugged her. "You've got to control your
imagination," he said softly, smoothing her hair with
one hand. "Last time — "
"Last time was a tree branch," Melissa said, becom-
ing impatient with them and letting it show in her
voice. "Tonight was real." She pulled away from her
father and walked to the window and sat down on the
windowsill. The night air felt cool against her back.
"If he was real, where is he?" Her mother just
wouldn't let up. "Why can't you describe him?"
"I told you, Mother," she said angrily. "It was too
dark. I could only see his outline. He raised his arms.
He moved toward me. And then Daddy came in."
31
FEAR STREET

"And he vanished into thin air." Mrs. Dryden

shook her head. "It's just the excitement over your
birthday, the new car. It all caught up with you, that's
all. It's perfectly understandable."
"Please, Mother. Don't talk to me like I'm a baby."
"Come on, Lissa." Mr. Dryden held out his arms.
"There's no need to be angry at us."
"You don't believe me, do you?" Melissa snapped.
"Well, no," her father said, glancing at her mother.
"I think this is all power of suggestion."
"What?"
"I think the stories about the Fear Street Prowler
have upset you, upset you enough to think that you're
seeing him in your room. I believe that you really saw
what you said you saw. But I think your mind was
playing tricks on you. I think — "
"That I'm crazy?"
"No. Of course not," her mother broke in. "Let me
make you some warm milk. It will make you feel

sleepy."
Melissa sighed. There was no way she was going to
convince her parents that she wasn't imagining the
shadowy intruder. "Good night, you two," she said
wearily. She gave them a tired wave and climbed back
into bed. "I'm feeling calm now. I'm sorry I disturbed

you."
Her mother started out the door, looking very
troubled. Her father followed, but stopped at the
doorway and turned back. "Shall I close the window?
Will that make you feel better?"
32
HAUNTED

Melissa shook her head. "The breeze feels nice. It's

the first cool night we've had."
"Shall I turn off the lamp?"
"Yeah. Thanks. 'Night, Daddy. 'Night, Mom."
They muttered good night and walked out into the
hall. A few seconds later Melissa could hear her
parents talking about her in their room across the hall.
She stared up at the ceiling. It seemed to be glowing,
pale yellow from the light coming in-'through the
window.

I'm wide-awake now, she thought. Wide-awake. I'll

never get to sleep tonight.
She sat up, then climbed out of bed. It was so bright
in her room. She didn't remember the streetlight
being that bright before. The breeze blew the curtains
into the room, allowing even more light in.
Impulsively, she walked to the window and pulled
the curtains to the side. The air felt so refreshing, so
soft and cool.
Resting her hands lightly on the window ledge, she
leaned out. It was such a clear night, she could see all
the way down Fear Street. Through the trees that lined
both sides of the narrow street, she could almost make
out the jagged outlines of Simon Fear's burned-out
old mansion at the far end of the street.

Melissa's friends were always telling her terrible

stories about Fear Street. But she loved the neighbor-
hood. Her parents loved antiques and rambling Vic-
torian houses and anything old and interesting, and
they had passed their enthusiasm on to Melissa. Fear
33
FEAR STREET
Street is by far the most interesting street in
Shadyside, she thought.
Looking up, she saw the full moon. It seemed just a
few yards above her head. Its pale light reflected off
the silver pendant around her neck. She lifted the
pendant and stared at the shimmering moonlight in it.
How beautiful, she thought.
She dropped the pendant and stretched farther out
the window, leaning on both hands. What was that
scampering across the grass in the yard across the
street? Was it a rabbit?

Fd better get back to bed, she thought. I'll be totally

wrecked tomorrow.
But as she started to straighten up, she felt two
powerful hands on her back. Before she could resist or
cry out, the two hands shoved her, shoved her hard
from behind, shoved her with startling, almost inhu-
man power.

34
chapter

The hands pushed hard against her back.

She would have sailed out the window if she hadn't
made a desperate grab for the sides of the window
frame.
Gripping the frame tightly, she regained her balance
and pushed back, resisting the steady force on her
back.
Her attacker shoved even harder.
The hands felt so cold on her back. The air felt so
cold.
She sucked in her breath and pushed back with all
her might against the wooden window frame, resisting
the attack, refusing to fall.
Gathering all her strength, she whirled around and
turned to face him.
There was no one there.
35
FEAR STREET
She stared into the darkness of her room, pant-
ing loudly, each breath a cry of pain, of terror, of
relief.
Where are you? she thought. Where did you go?
How did you disappear so quickly?
He must still be in the room. But where?
He had no time to hide, to duck out of sight.
Instead of feeling calmer, she felt the fear begin to
grow. Her legs trembled. She felt sick to her stomach.
She was covered in a cold sweat.
"Hey — I know you're here!" she called, her voice a
choked whisper.
Somehow she made it to the bed and turned on the
lamp. Her eyes darted quickly around the room. No
one was there.
"I know you're here."
On trembling legs she walked to the closet and slid
open both doors. No one.
She could still feel the cold on her back. She could
still feel the hands pushing her with such force, with
such evil determination.
"I know you're here."
She dropped to the floor and looked under the bed.
No one.
Should she call for her dad? No. He would only
come running in to find the room empty once again.
She'd get those looks again, those looks from both her
parents that said they were starting to think there was
something seriously wrong with her.
Well, was there?
Was she cracking up?
36
HAUNTED
She sat on the carpet and leaned back against the
bed. She stared up through the open window at the
yellow full moon.
I almost went flying out that window, she thought.
Someone tried to push me out that window. I didn't
imagine it. I didn't dream it.
I'm not cracking up.
Still feeling trembly, she pulled herself back into
bed. She drew the covers up to her chin and waited for
the shaking to stop. There's no one here, she thought.
I'm safe now. Perfectly safe.
A few minutes later she fell asleep with the light on.
When a cold shadow drifted up to her bed and
hovered over her, she didn't awaken, didn't see it.

Buddy tossed a rake onto his driveway, then a

long-handled broom, and a shovel. "Look out," he
warned Melissa. He heaved an unopened bag of
potting soil out next.
"Why are you throwing that stuff around?" Melissa
asked, making her way across the drive and into the
garage.
"I'm not throwing it around. I'm throwing it out of
the garage."
"Why?"
"So I can carry it all back in. That's called Cleaning
the Garage."
"Didn't you just clean the garage a few weeks ago?"
She moved aside as he tossed a wooden basket con-
taining garden trowels and pruning shears onto the
drive.

37
FEAR STREET

"Yeah. But my dad said I didn't do a good enough

job. I wasn't thorough enough. So today I'm being
thorough."
"You're tossing everything out, then bringing every-
thing-back in?"
"Yeah. But neatly. Look out." He tried to heave a
rolled-up garden hose, but it unraveled, and he had to
drag it out. He dropped it into the wheelbarrow and
returned for more stuff.
He was wearing a stained, plain white T-shirt and
faded jean cutoffs, white tennis sneakers with no
socks. He looks great, Melissa thought. "You should
keep that tan all-year-round," she said.
He laughed. "Yeah. Maybe I'll go to one of those
tanning places every week and barbecue myself." He
picked up a large bag of fertilizer and carried it out to
the driveway.
"You didn't notice that I'm wearing your pendant,"
she said, running her hand over it.
"Sure, I noticed." He wiped the sweat off his
forehead with his arm. "Go on with what you were
telling me on the phone earlier."
She grabbed the handlebars of his bike and leaned
against them. "Nothing more to tell. There was some-
one in my room. And my parents both think I'm
crazy."
She waited for him to say something, but he only
picked up an aluminum ladder and started to carry it
past her.
"You think I'm crazy too?"
He didn't answer until he had carried the ladder
38
HAUNTED
out, set it down on the grass, and walked back in.
"Maybe it was the wind. Or shadows or something."
"Shadows don't push you out windows," she snap-
ped angrily. She shoved the bike against the wall,
turned, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not
crazy, Buddy."
He put down the crate he was carrying and went
over to her. He put a dirty hand on her shoulder. "I'm
just trying to figure out what it could be.''
"Me too," she said, moving out from under his
hand. "And what about the birthday presents? I just
keep seeing them, all ripped up like that. Who
could've done such a stupid, horrible thing?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"I'm kind of frightened," she admitted. "It's all too
weird."
"You have to chill out."
"What's that mean?" she snapped. Then she real-
ized she had no reason to be angry at Buddy. He was
trying so hard to be sympathetic and understanding.
"Sorry," she said, nuzzling her face against his sweaty
T-shirt. "I — I just wish they'd catch that Fear Street
Prowler. I keep thinking he's going to come climbing
in my window and — "
"What makes you think he'll come to your house?"
"I don't know. I have such weird thoughts some-
times. mean,
I I think maybe he's already been in my
house."
Buddy shook his head. "Oh, right. For sure. He
climbed in the window, opened all your birthday
presents, and left. That makes a lot of sense."
39
FEAR STREET
She playfully pushed him away with both hands.
"Thanks for all the support. I've got to run."
"Where to?"
"I promised Delia I'd meet her at the mall. I have a
little iponey. I thought maybe I'd buy some clothes for
school."
"School? Don't remind me. Only a few more days
of freedom."
"I'm kind of looking forward to it," Melissa said,
stepping carefully over all of the stuff strewn in the
drive. "Aren't you?"
"Huh? And give up all the excitement of cleaning
out the garage? Get real!"
"See you later. What time are you picking me up?"
He scratched his forehead, leaving black streaks
across it. "Hey, why don't you pick me up? You're the
one with the awesome car."
She laughed. "I knew you were going to say that.
Okay. Pick you up at eight — if my car is fixed and out
of the garage." She climbed into her mother's Volvo
station wagon and, feeling a little cheered up, gave
Buddy a farewell wave. But he had already disap-
peared back into the garage.

"That looks great on you," Delia said. She reached

over and squeezed the material of the wine-colored
sweater. "It sort of fills you out."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Melissa asked,
frowning at herself in the full-length mirror.
"Stop being so sensitive," Delia said, picking up the
same sweater in light brown.
40
HAUNTED

"I'm a very sensitive person/' Melissa said in a

highfalutin, pretentious voice.
"You're also skinny as a rail," Delia said.
Melissa shot her a dirty look.
"What do you think of these?" Krissie asked,
stepping out of the dressing booth in a pair of straight-
legged black corduroy jeans. Krissie had bumped into
Melissa and Delia just outside the Clothes Closet and
invited herself to tag along with them. She tossed back
her wavy, black hair and made her waylo the mirror
to examine herself.

'They're tight enough," Delia said, rolling her eyes

for Melissa's benefit.
'They look great," Melissa told Krissie.
"Maybe a size smaller," Krissie said, studying
herself from every angle.
"You'd be arrested," Melissa said. All three of them
laughed. A serious-looking salesgirl across the store
looked up to see what was so funny.
Krissie admired herself a while longer. "You think
these are too sexy?"
"You're just fishing for a compliment," Melissa
said, laughing. "No. They're not sexy at all."
"You're lying. I think I'll buy two pairs. Oh, wow,"
she said suddenly, pointing to a girl who had just
entered the store. "Do you believe what that girl is
wearing? Are those plastic pedal pushers?"
"I think they're fake leather or something," Delia
said. She disappeared into the dressing booth with an
armload of clothes.

Krissie couldn't get over

41 the girl across the store.
FEAR STREET

"And look at that tacky top with the fringe. Oh, no. I
don't believe the white plastic boots!"
"Hey, I know her," Melissa said, watching the girl
go through a stack of faded jeans on a table. "Her
name's Marylou. I forget her last name. She was at my
day camp when I was little."
"Someone should send her to camp in that tacky
outfit!" Krissie said.
Melissa didn't laugh. "She's just poor, that's all."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Don't you know what poor means, Krissie? It
means she doesn't have much money. Her family lives
over in the Old Village. She has a whole bunch of
brothers and sisters. She probably can't afford nice
clothes."
"Being poor is in bad taste," Krissie said and then
laughed at her own joke.
"Not funny," Melissa said disgustedly. "I don't ever
want to be a rich snob who turns up her nose at

people."
"Save the lecture," Krissie muttered, heading back
to the dressing booths. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Melissa followed her. "We're so lucky that our
parents are well-off," she said. "But it's just luck. You
and I didn't do anything. We didn't earn it."
"Really, Melissa. If you want to give a sermon, why
don't you go to church?" Krissie jerked the dressing-
booth curtain shut.
Melissa realized she might have gone too far. But
she meant what she had said. Sometimes she felt
really uncomfortable having so much more than other
42
HAUNTED
kids. She wondered what those other kids must think
of her, how much they resented her for being so lucky.
A few hours later she was thinking about all this as
she drove home. After dropping Delia off in North
Hills, she headed the Volvo wagon down Park Drive
toward Fear Street. I'll have to apologize to Krissie,
she decided. I had no business lecturing her like that.
I'm just so edgy these days.
"You're overtired." That's what her mother would
say.
Melissa laughed to herself. But her laugh was cut
short by the whispering sound. Again. The sound of
air, whispering her name.
"Melisssssssssa."
"Oh!" she cried out.
"Melissssssssssa."
No. Not again. What on earth could be making that
sound?
The station wagon suddenly felt cold, the same
chilling, damp cold she had felt in her new car.
"Melisssssssssssa."
And suddenly there he was, in the passenger seat
beside her.
A young man, probably about her age. Tough look-
ing. With black, greasy hair down to his collar. And
dark, dangerous eyes. Dressed all in blue denim.
Melissa cried out, and crashed into the car ahead of
her.

43
chapter

The driver of the car Melissa hit — a

large, middle-aged man in a gray business suit — came
storming out of his car, red-faced and angry. Melissa,
somewhat stunned, didn't move until he tapped on
her window, three hard taps with the back of his hand.
She rolled down the window, but didn't get out.
"Weren't you watching?" the man asked, his face
growing even redder. "I was stopped for the light."
"Sorry," Melissa said, starting to feel a little more
normal. "Are you okay?"
"Why didn't you stop?" the man demanded angrily,
ignoring her question. "Are you stoned or some-
thing?" He stared at her, examining her eyes.
"No. I just didn't see — I mean, this boy popped up
beside me and I was so surprised — "
"Boy?" The man leaned down to the window and
44
HAUNTED
peered past Melissa to the passenger side. She could
smell his aftershave, which was sharp and sweet.
"What boy?"
Melissa turned to the passenger seat, then raised
herself up so she could see the backseat. There was no
one there.

"Hey — where are you?" she cried aloud. "Where'd

you go?" She turned back to the man. "I'm sorry. He
was here. Really. And — "
He threw up his hands impatiently. "I can't listen to
this nonsense. I'm late for a meeting." He left her
window to go examine his rear bumper. Melissa
reluctantly pushed open the car door and stepped
outside. She felt a little shaky from the jolt of hitting
the other car. She took a few steps and began to feel
better.

"Your car isn't even dented," the man said, rubbing

his chin, his face still nearly tomato red.
"And what about your car?" Melissa asked, think-
ing about the boy with the long hair. The boy looked
so tough, so angry. She could see that even in the brief
glimpse she got of him. Have I seen him some place
before? she wondered.

"Just a scratch," the man said, getting down on his

knees to look under the rear of the car. "I guess we're
both okay."
"My parents have insurance."
He climbed to his feet and dusted off the knees of

his trousers even though they were clean. "No need.

Let's just forget about this,
45 okay?" He smiled for the
FEAR STREET
first time. His face started to return to a normal color.
He stretched and rolled his head around. "Neck seems
to be okay. Guess we were lucky."
"I guess," Melissa said doubtfully. "I'm really sor-
ry. Xou're being so nice about this."
"I'm a nice guy," he said flatly, getting back into his
car. "Do me a favor, though, okay? Drive behind
someone else from now on."
"Oh. Sure." Melissa wasn't certain if he was joking
or not. She watched him pull away, thinking about the
long-haired boy. She could see him so clearly, his dark
eyes, his nervous frown. She couldn't have imagined
him.

"Hey— move it!"

Melissa looked up to see two cars behind her, the
drivers poking their heads out of their windows.
"Hey, miss, are you okay? Didn't you hear us
honking?"
Startled, she jumped into the station wagon, pulled
the door closed, and drove away. She hadn't heard the
horns at all. She hadn't heard anything. I was in my
own world, she thought. My own dreamworld where
boys appear and disappear, and the wind whispers my
name. . . .

"I'm really worried about you, Lissa. You're obvi-

ously extremely — "
"No, I'm not overtired, Mother." Melissa tore a
piece off her roll but didn't eat it. She hadn't intended
to tell her parents about the car accident at dinner, but
46
HAUNTED
during a long silence, she had just blurted it out. Now
she was really sorry she had told them.
"This young man you say you saw," her father
asked thoughtfully, wiping sauce off his chin with his
dinner napkin, "did he look like the young man you
claimed you saw in your room last night?"
"Don't say claimed. Why'd you have to say
claimed?" Melissa shrieked, sounding more angry
than she intended. "You really think I'm crazy, don't
you? You think I'm some kind of nut case! Claimed!
Claimed! That's the kind of thing you say to someone
in one of your court cases, Daddy. I'm not your client.
I'm your daughter!"
She knew she had gone too far. She couldn't help it.
It was so infuriating that they both refused to believe
her.

"Calm down, dear. Try to eat." Mrs. Dry den hated

scenes of any kind, especially at the dinner table.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..." Her father pulled off
his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes
looked so much smaller with his glasses off. He
suddenly looked very tired.
"Your dad had a really good idea this afternoon,"
Mrs. Dryden said to Melissa, finishing the last piece of
salmon on her plate.
Here she goes, changing the subject again, Melissa
thought. For once, however, Melissa was relieved.
"Why don't you tell her?" Mrs. Dryden urged her
husband.
Mr. Dryden swallowed a mouthful of scalloped
47
FEAR STREET

potatoes. "Excellent dinner tonight. Remind me to

compliment Marta."
"I hear you. Thanks for the compliment!" Marta
called through the closed kitchen door.
Mr.^and Mrs. Dryden laughed?
Marta probably thinks I'm crazy too, Melissa
thought gloomily.
"Go ahead. Tell Melissa your idea," her mother
urged.
"Well, your mom and I have to go to this lawyers'
convention," Mr. Dryden started. "It's next weekend
in Las Vegas. We're leaving Thursday night to make it
a long weekend. And I thought maybe you'd like to
come too."
"It'll be really good for you," her mother said
quickly, before Melissa had a chance to react. "You
need a change of scenery. School doesn't start until
the following week, so it's the perfect time to go,
and—"
"I really don't want to," Melissa interrupted.
"Well, we really think — " her mother started.
"Why not, Lissa?" Mr. Dryden asked, very disap-
pointed.
"I just don't want to go all the way to Las Vegas with
a bunch of lawyers. It wouldn't be any fun for me.
What would I do while you and Mom are in your
meetings and going to parties? I'm not old enough to
go to the casinos. I'd have to hang around the hotel
waiting for you."
"But, Melissa," Mrs. Dryden argued, "there's ten-
nis, and swimming, and all the shows. I really think
48
HAUNTED

you'd have a great time. You need to get out of this

house."
"Sorry," Melissa said, tossing down her napkin^and
getting up from the table. "No way. No thanks."
"Where are you going?" Mrs. Dryden asked, not
bothering to hide her anger at Melissa's refusal to
accompany them.
"I have a date with Buddy. I'm picking him up.
He'll be so surprised to see my new car is back."
Impulsively, she leaned over and gave her father a
quick kiss on the forehead. "Thanks for picking it up
for me, Daddy." He smiled up at her, a forgiving
smile.

"I really think you should reconsider," Mrs. Dry-

den called. Melissa didn't reply, but hurried up to her
room to get changed.
She showered quickly, then put on a red, ribbed
sweater with fringe along the hem and a new pair of
jeans. She was putting Buddy's silver pendant around
her neck, struggling with the clasp, when the boy
appeared beside her.
He seemed to be off-balance at first, but he quickly
got his bearings, and his dark eyes stared into hers.
She could see him clearly now. He had dark brown
hair that looked as if it hadn't been washed in
weeks. It was parted haphazardly in the middle and
hung down past his collar. He had thick, dark eye-
brows, high cheekbones, and a mouth that seemed
to fall naturally into an unpleasant sneer. He was
wearing a faded blue denim jacket and blue denim
jeans.
49
FEAR STREET

To Melissa's surprise, she wasn't frightened this

time. This time she felt only anger.
"Who are you?" she demanded, taking a step
toward him.
He .seemed surprised by her boldness, but didn't
reply. He looked her up and down, being very obvious
about it.
"You made me dent my mom's car," she said.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders as if to say who
cares. "So? You can just buy another one — right?" he
said bitterly.
His voice was higher, softer than she'd imagined.
"Who are you?" she repeated, staring back at him,
refusing to blink, to back down. "How did you get in
my room? In my car?"
Her anger seemed to amuse him. He looked past her
to the window. Then he walked over to her dressing
table and stared down at her makeup and the other
items.
"You don't remember me?"
He stepped toward her again.
"No. Why should I remember you?" she asked,
feeling the fear return.
"You should remember me," he said, rushing for-
ward and pushing his face up close to hers. "You
should remember me — you killed me!"

50
chapter

She backed away from him, and tripped

on her sneakers and fell over backward.
He put his hands on his hips and smiled down at
her, obviously enjoying seeing her helpless on the
floor like that. She saw that he had tattoos on the back

of his right hand, but she couldn't make out what they
were.
"Let me up."
He sneered again. "Get up. I'm not stopping you."
Melissa rolled to the right and jumped to her feet.
They stared at each other across her bed. "I've never
seen you before," she said.
He tossed his head, then smoothed back his greasy
hair. "Convenient memory," he muttered bitterly.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Stop being
so mysterious."
51
FEAR STREET

He seemed to find that very funny. "I'm not being

mysterious. I told you flat out — you killed me. Take a
good look. Remember me now?"
"You're crazy. If you're dead^ how can you be
standing here now? What are you — a ghost?"
What should she do? Run from the room? Call for
her father? No. She wanted some answers from this
strange intruder. She wanted to find out what was
going on once and for all.
"Don't play innocent." He turned his back on her.
"You mean to say that you killed me and didn't even
notice? You mean you're so rich that — "
"I didn't kill you!" Melissa screamed. "If I killed
you, how did I do it?"
His hands coiled into fists. He remained with his
back to her. "I don't remember," he said in a flat,
emotionless voice. "Most of my memory is gone. But
I know one thing for sure. You killed me."
"That's ridiculous," Melissa cried. "Tell me the
truth. What are you doing here? Why are you trying to
scare me with this ghost nonsense? How did you get

in?"
"I'm dead," he said, turning around. His angry
expression had softened. His eyes were watery. "I'm
dead because you killed me."
His words chilled her. He wasn't joking.
But what he was saying was impossible. "You're as
alive as I am!" she cried. She walked over to him,
reached out, and grabbed his arm.
Her hand seemed to go right through him.
All she felt was a wisp of cold air.
52
HAUNTED

"Oh, no!" she cried, covering her open mouth with

her hand. She stepped back. Her heart was pounding
now. She felt cold all over, chilled inside and out* She
tried to scream but no sound came out.
He smiled, a grim smile. Her horrified reaction
seemed to please him. "You believe me now."
"You're — you're a ghost." She wanted to run, but
her legs were trembling. She felt weak all over. She
slumped down onto the bed and stared up at him.
"Now you believe in ghosts," he said, his smile
fading. "Isn't it amazing how a few seconds can
change your life. Or end it?"
"But I know I didn't kill you," Melissa insisted. "It
isn't something I'd forget, you know."
"You did." He pulled out the chair in front of her
dressing table, turned it around, and sat down on it,
leaning his chin against the seat back. "I can't remem-
ber how, but you killed me."
"Why? Why did I kill you?" Melissa asked.
He'd be good-looking if he washed his hair and
stopped sneering like that, she thought.
"I don't remember," he said with some sadness.
"What's your name?"
"Paul."
"Paul what?"
"I don't remember."
"Huh? You don't remember your own last name?"
"I told you, I don't have much memory. Death
screws you up in a lot of ways, you know. Oh, how
would you know!" He slammed both hands against
the chair back. They didn't make a sound. "I keep
S3
FEAR STREET

fading in and out. I can't control it. I can hardly

remember anything."
"If you have no memory, what makes you think I
killed you? You're haunting the wrong house, Paul.
And that's the truth."
He shook his head. "No. It's one of the few things I
do know. You killed me, Melissa. I do know one other

thing too."
"What?"
"I know why I've come back." He stood up and
started toward her. "I've come back to pay you back.
I've come back to kill you!"
"No!"
She jumped off the bed and started backing toward
the bedroom door. He's crazy, she thought. Totally
crazy. I've got to get away.
He stared into her eyes. "Scared, huh?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"Good. You should be. You finally got wise."
"M'll scream."
"You screamed before. It didn't do you much good.
And it won't help much to run away either. You can't
run from a ghost, Melissa. Haven't you seen any
horror movies?"
"You're making a big mistake, Paul. I didn't kill
you. Really."
She was only a few feet from the door. If she backed
up a few more steps, she could be out of the room and
down the steps.
But then what?
"You've got to believe me," she said. "I never knew
54
HAUNTED

you! I've never seen you. I couldn't have been the one.
It's all a big mistake."
He didn't say anything, just shook his head, staring
coldly at her.
She realized she was shivering, shivering all over.
It was freezing cold in the room. The sudden cold
last night. The sudden cold in the car. He brought the
cold. He did it, she realized.
She backed up and bumped into the wall.
He moved quickly. Before she could get through the
door, he was right in front of her. He raised his arms
to block her path. His face was inches from hers.
He was so cold, so terribly, sickeningly cold.
"I didn't do it, Paul!" Her voice came out choked
and small.

"You're a liar," he said quietly, and his handsome

face suddenly turned quite ugly. "A rich liar. And rich
liars have to die!"

55
chapter

€fK
J

l\o, wait — Melissa pleaded, raising

her hands in front of her face as if to shield herself
from him.
"Wait for what?"
Melissa thought frantically. What could she do to
save her life? What could she do?
"Take your time," he said softly. "I'm not going
anywhere."
She slowly lowered her hands. "Maybe I could help
somehow."
youA bitter smile crossed his face.
"No. Really."
It was so cold. A damp, chilling cold. She wrapped
her arms around herself, but it didn't help.
"I can help you. I can ... uh ... I can find the real
person who killed you."
Where were her parents? Didn't they hear her
56
HAUNTED

talking? Weren't they interested in whom she was

talking to? If only one of them would come into her
room, Paul would surely disappear the way he Jbad
in the past. And she'd be safe — at least for a little
while.

"I already told you, Melissa," he said, making fun

of her name as he said it. "I know who killed me. You
did."
"But you're wrong. Besides . . ." She was thinking
fast now, her mind jumping from thought to thought,
trying to find some way, any way to stop this ghost
from killing her. "Don't you want to find out how you
died? Or why? Don't you want to know why?"
He looked away. He was thinking about what she
said.

"I could help you," she added quickly, encouraged

by his silence. "I will help you. I'll find out everything
for you. I'll do everything I can to find the truth.
Really."
He looked at her skeptically.
"Really," she repeated. "Really, I can help you. If
you'll just give me a chance."
"Well . . ."
If only he'd back away. She was so cold, so freezing,
shivering, shaking cold!
"Okay," he said. "There's no rush. I can kill you
anytime I want."
He started to fade away, first his face and hands,
then his jeans and denim jacket.
Then he was gone. And only the cold remained.
* * *

57
FEAR STREET
A few minutes later still trying to warm up, she
backed her new car down the drive and headed to

Buddy's house. It was a warm night, the temperature

still in the seventies, but she closed the car windows
and turned the heater way up.
She had stopped at the bottom of the stairs and
considered telling her parents what had happened.
But she quickly decided not to. They'd only think she
had completely lost it. Even if they didn't think she
had gone bananas, they would insist that she lie down
or take some sleeping pills or they might even call a
doctor. She really wanted to see Buddy. He was a lot
more likely to listen to her than her mom and dad. He
was a lot more likely to believe her.
She hoped.
Thinking about Paul, she drove through a red light.
Luckily, there were no other cars nearby.
I've got to concentrate on driving, she warned
herself.
But how could she?
She was being haunted by a ghost, a real ghost who
had accused her of killing him. A ghost who had come
back for revenge.
Where have I seen him before? Do I know him?
Have I ever seen him?
She searched her memory, but came up empty.
No. No. No. I've never seen him in my life. I don't
know anyone named Paul. I've never seen him around
school. I don't remember any boy at Shadyside High
being killed.
58
HAUNTED

No. He's wrong. He's made a terrible mistake. And

now what? What am I going to do about it?
She suddenly felt a shiver creep down her spine
despite the scorching heat inside the car.
"Paul — are you here?" she asked aloud.
Silence.

"Paul — answer me. Are you here now?"

Silence.
No whispering of her name.
Complete silence.
She uttered a loud sigh, very relieved.
Then she thought: What if he is here but isn't
answering?
A horn honked angrily. She looked back to see why,
and realized she had gone through a four-way stop.
I shouldn't be driving, she thought.
She was almost to Buddy's house. He could drive
them to the movies. But how could she go to the
movies? She couldn't sit still. She couldn't concen-
trate on a movie. She had to do something.
Maybe Buddy would know what to do.
A few minutes later he met her at his front door.

"Hi. Where've you been?" He looked at his watch.

"It's a long story," she said. "Aren't you going to
invite me in?"
"We'll be late for the movie." He was wearing 501
jeans and a pressed button-down, blue workshirt. He
pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the
front stoop beside her.
"I don't want to go to the movie. I want to talk."
59
FEAR STREET
His brown eyes widened in surprise. He looked past
her to the drive. "You got your car back. Can I drive
it?"
"Yeah. Sure. But you weren't listening to me. I
really, want to talk."
"Well, there's a real mob scene here. My sister has
some friends over, and my parents have company
too." He took her arm. "Why don't we take a drive
and talk?"
"Okay," she said. She finally felt warm again, but
the terror of the scene in her bedroom lingered in her
mind. She took Buddy's arm. "Okay. Let's go."
"Why don't we drive up to River Ridge?" he asked,
a sly smile crossing his face.
She dropped his arm. "No. I mean it, Buddy. I
really need to talk to you."
The smile disappeared immediately. "Is everything
okay?"
"No," she told him.
"You mean it's about us? You want to talk about
you and me?"
Trying not to get exasperated with him, she shook
her head and didn't say anything. He's an okay guy,
she thought. I really do care about him. But he sure
can be self-centered sometimes.
He held open the passenger door and she slipped
into the seat. It was still stifling hot inside the car. She
turned off the heater as he walked around to the
driver's side. They wouldn't be needing it now.
A few minutes later they were driving slowly along
Canyon Road, passing ranch-style houses with neat,
60
HAUNTED

small lawns on both sides of them. "I don't know

where to start," Melissa said, leaning her head on his
shoulder.
"This car really handles great," he said. "What's the
problem, Lissa?"
"Do you remember anyone named Paul at school?
Someone named Paul who was killed?"
"Killed?" He turned his head to give her a confused
look.

"Yeah. Killed. Paul something. I don't know his last

name."
Buddy thought about it. "No. No one from school
has been killed."
"I didn't think so."
"Well, who is this guy, anyway?"
"I don't know. But remember I told you I thought
there was someone in my room and I screamed and
then we couldn't find anyone?"
"Yeah. Of course I remember."
"Well . . ." She stopped. Would he laugh at her?
Would he think she was nuts? Or would he believe
her?
It was too late to back down now. She had to tell
him and hope that she could convince him.
"Please don't say anything until I've told you the
whole story, okay?"
Again he looked confused. He started to turn left on
Park Drive.

"No. Don't go through town," she said, putting her

hand on his arm. "Please. Turn right. Let's just drive
out to the country where there are no distractions."
61
FEAR STREET

He obediently turned right. "Melissa, please — stop

all this suspense. Just tell me what's the matter."
She told him the whole story, speaking rapidly as if
it would be more believable, make more sense if she
got it#all out at once. She was ouf of breath by the time
she told Buddy how she persuaded the ghost to let her
help him, to let her live for a while.
They were outside of Shadyside now, out in farm
country, dark and flat. Buddy pulled the car off the
road onto the tall grass of the shoulder, but he didn't
cut the engine.
He turned to her, leaned close to her, and put a
warm arm around her shoulder. "Lissa — you're shak-
ing!"
"I-I'm so scared, Buddy."
He didn't say anything. She looked up to find him
staring at her.
"Well, say something. What do you think?" she
asked impatiently.
The full moon was low over the flat farm fields. Its
yellow light reflected off the shiny hood of the car.
Thin wisps of gray blue clouds floated in front of it,
and it suddenly grew darker.
"At first I thought you were joking," Buddy said, his
hand gently squeezing her shoulder.
"I'm not," she said quickly.
"No. I see." He stared out through the windshield at
where the moon had been before it had been blan-
keted by the clouds. He seemed to be thinking hard.
Finally he said, "You really don't believe in ghosts, do

you?" 62
HAUNTED
Melissa thought she might cry. She took a deep
breath and held it. She didn't want to cry in front of
him. She didn't want to cry at all "I knew -you
wouldn't believe me," she whispered, her face turned
away from him.
"But do you believe it?" he asked. "Do you really
believe a dead boy named Paul is haunting your room
and wants to kill you? Don't you find that a little hard
to believe?"
"Yes, I believe it, Buddy," she said angrily, taking
his hand and lifting it off her shoulder. "I was there. It
happened. It all happened. I believe it."
He took her hand, which was cold and wet. "Melis-
sa, I'm really worried about you. I think we have to get
you some help right away."
"You won't believe me?"
"How can I? It's not possible. It's just not possible."
"Okay," Melissa said, crossing her arms and facing
forward. "Drive back to my house. Come on. Let's go.
I'm going to prove to you that I'm telling the truth."

63
chapter

1 he Volvo's gone. I guess my parents

went out." Melissa found the key in her bag and
opened the front door.
Buddy held the screen door, then followed her into
the house. The hall light was on, but the rest of the
house was dark. Melissa walked to the living room
and flicked the light switch. "I hate a dark house," she
said.
Buddy followed her into the room, looking uncom-
fortable, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets.
Melissa hadn't said a word to him the entire drive
home.

"Lissa, sit down," he said softly, gesturing to the

overstuffed, upholstered couch by the bay window.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Come on up to
my room. I want you to meet Paul."
64
HAUNTED

"But this is a waste of time," he said. "Please — sit

down. Let's try to talk logically about this."
"I am talking logically," she snapped. "I'm going to
prove it to you now."
"There's no such thing as ghosts," Buddy said,
shaking his head. "Even on Fear Street."
"Fear Street has nothing to do with it," Melissa
said.

"But the Fear Street Prowler does," Buddy said.

"You've been so upset about those news stories. You
haven't been thinking clearly — "
Suddenly they heard floorboards squeaking in the
front hall. Footsteps.
Buddy looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise —
and fear.
Who was approaching? Was it the prowler? Was it
Melissa's ghost?
Melissa stared back at Buddy. Neither of them
moved. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by
the squeaking floorboards.
They both turned to the living-room entranceway as
Marta walked into the room. She was carrying a stack
of freshly laundered bath towels. Her blond hair,
normally pinned back in a bun with bobby pins, had
come undone. "I thought I heard someone come in,"
she said.

"Hi, Marta. It's only us," Melissa said, looking at

Buddy, who seemed very relieved.
"Your parents went to the Daltons'," Marta said. "I
was just going to take these towels upstairs, then go to
bed."
65
FEAR STREET

"We'll close everything up," Melissa said.

Marta disappeared. They listened to her climb the
stairs.
"You can close your mouth now," Melissa told
Buddy.
"I . . . she ... I just wasn't expecting . . ." He
laughed.
"You were expecting to see the ghost," Melissa said.
"See? You do believe me."
His expression turned serious. "Lissa, please.
Please stop talking about this ghost. Let's try to figure
out what you really saw. You know, you might have
dreamed the whole thing. It's possible, isn't it?"
"Aaggh!" she cried out, exasperated. "How could I
have dreamed it? I was awake, wide-awake!"
"But maybe you were asleep and didn't realize — "
She picked up a throw pillow and angrily heaved it
at him. "Just shut up, okay?"
He caught the pillow against his chest and dropped
it to the floor. "Lissa—"
"Come on upstairs," she said, walking quickly from
the room. "When you see the ghost with your own
eyes, maybe you won't think I'm crazy, or too stupid
to know when I'm awake and when I'm asleep."
"I didn't mean — " he started, but she was already
heading up the front stairs. He followed behind,
leaning on the smooth, polished banister.
They passed Marta, who was heading down the
stairs to her room in the back. If Marta thought it
strange that the two of them were heading for
Melissa's bedroom, her face didn't indicate it. She
66
HAUNTED
said good night pleasantly and continued down the
stairs.
Melissa hesitated at the door to her room. She
looked back at Buddy, as if to make sure he was
following her and not chickening out, then she step-
ped inside and clicked on the lamp.
The room had been straightened up. Marta must
have put away the clothes Melissa had scattered
around. She had even straightened the dressing table,
stowing away all of the jars and tubes of blusher,
lipstick, and eye makeup. The bed had been made, the
covers turned down, ready for Melissa to go to sleep.
"Well, where is he?" Buddy asked, speaking loudly
even though he was standing right next to Melissa.
"He's here. I'm sure of it," Melissa said, walking
toward the window.
Buddy plopped down on the bed and lay back, his
hands behind his head. "Hey — we're all alone up
here," he said as if realizing it for the first time.
"No, we're not," Melissa said quietly. "Paul?" she
called. "Paul, are you here?" She turned her head and
looked around the room.
They both listened in silence. Outside they could
hear a car drive past, its radio blaring loudly.
"Paul, I brought someone to meet you," Melissa
said. "I brought someone else who can help you."
Silence.
She turned back to the bed to see if Buddy was
laughing at her. If he was laughing, she vowed, she'd
never speak to him again.
But Buddy did not look amused. He was staring at
67
FEAR STREET
her with concern, his face drawn in a frown of
concentration. "Melissa, please, come here." He sat
up and patted the bedspread beside him. "Sit down."
"Paul?" Melissa refused to give up. "Come on,
Paul."
Silence. No sign of the ghost.
"I can tell he's here. It's so cold in the room,"
Melissa said with a shiver.

"Come over here. I'll warm you up." Buddy flashed

her a grin and patted the bed again.
"Paul? Are you here, Paul?" Melissa couldn't hide
the desperation from her voice. He had to show
himself now. He had to. Or else Buddy would believe
she really was crazy.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Buddy put his
arm around her gently. "Hey — you're freezing cold."
"Aren't you cold?" she asked. "Don't you feel it
too?"
"Not really," he said, pulling her head down onto
his shoulder. "It's a warm August night."
It felt good to snuggle against him. Melissa closed
her eyes.
Buddy put both arms around her. He pressed his
face against hers. "I keep thinking maybe this is a
gag," he said softly. "Some kind of practical joke
you're playing on me. Except that's really not like

you."
"It's no joke," Melissa said, starting to feel angry
again. Did Buddy really think she was doing all this
just to put him on, just for a stupid joke?
"Paul — please! Where are you?" she called.
68
HAUNTED
Buddy pulled her face down close to his and started
to kiss her.
"No, Buddy." She pulled back. "Fm really not in
the mood."
"Sshhh. Come on," he said. He kissed her again,
pressing his mouth hard, harder against hers. He
wrapped his arms around her tightly.
He felt so warm, so safe.
For a brief second she lost herself in the kiss.
Then she opened her eyes and looked upt There was
Paul, standing over them, watching them kiss, his
dark eyes flaring, his mouth twisted angrily.
As Melissa tried to pull away from Buddy's em-
brace, Paul uttered a deafening cry and, arms out-
stretched, lunged at Buddy.

69
chapter

10

^Vfelissa screamed and fell back on the

bed, trying to get out of the way.
Startled, Buddy jumped to his feet and stared down
at her.
"Lissa, what's the matter with you?" he shouted.
Melissa stared up at Paul, who was right behind
Buddy, his face distorted with anger.
"Why did you scream like that?" Buddy demanded.
"Have you lost your mind entirely?"
"Buddy, there he is!" Melissa cried, still on her back
on the bed, pointing at Paul.
"Huh?" Buddy turned around. He and Paul were
face to face, but Buddy's confused expression didn't
change.
"Don't you see him?" Melissa cried. "Didn't you
hear him scream at you?"
Buddy turned back to 70
her, looking very worried.
HAUNTED

"Don't get up," he told her. "Just lie still. I'm going to
call your parents."
"Buddy, what on earth—"
"Some boyfriend," Paul scoffed, now looking
amused. "I'd never treat you like that."
"Paul, make him see you," Melissa pleaded, sitting
up.
"No, please, lie still," Buddy urged her. "You're
going to be okay. Really."
"I guess he can't see me," Paul said. He ptit his hand
on Buddy's shoulder. Buddy didn't react. "He can't
feel me, either." He punched Buddy hard in the back.
"Buddy — watch out!" Melissa screamed, too late.
But Buddy didn't feel a thing.
Paul looked very disappointed.
"Paul, leave him alone!" Melissa cried.
"I-I'll go get Marta," Buddy said, looking panicked.
"Don't get up. We'll call your parents. We'll get you
something to calm you down."
"Buddy, just listen to me. Stop acting so stupid."
"He can't help it," Paul said, sneering. "He is
stupid."
Suddenly Paul started to fade away. First he became
transparent. Melissa could see right through him.
Then he was just a shadowy outline. Then he was
gone, leaving behind a rush of cold air.
"Didn't you even feel that?" Melissa asked Buddy.
"Feel what?"
"That cold air."
Buddy turned around. "It's breezy, out tonight.
Look at the curtains." 71
FEAR STREET

"Buddy, I'm not crazy." She climbed to her feet and

started pacing along the side of the bed.
"No, of course not," Buddy said. "But maybe
you're having some kind of a breakdown or some-
thing."
"I don't get it," she said, stopping right in front of
him. "Why can't you just trust me? Paul was right
here, right behind you. He screamed at you. He
punched you in the back. I'm not hallucinating. It's
just that only I can see him."
"Lissa, calm down. This is real life. It isn't some
stupid TV sitcom."
"Oh, I see. So now I'm crazy and stupid."
"I didn't say that." He put his hands on her
shoulders. "Can't you see how worried I am about

you?"
She backed away, out of his grasp. "Well, go worry
about me at home," she said angrily.
"What?" He looked really hurt.
"You heard me. Go home. I can see that I have to
figure out what to do about the ghost without any help

from you."
"But I do want to get you help. First we have to tell
your parents about this. Then we have to — "
"Go home, Buddy," she said wearily.
"I don't want to leave you like this. Where's the
ghost? Where do you see him now? Show me."
"He faded away. Just go home. Please. I'm begging

you:'
He stood staring at her, trying to read her eyes,
72
HAUNTED

trying to decide what to do. "Okay. I'll go. If you're

sure you'll be okay."
"Yeah. Sure," she said. "I'm going straight to bed,
okay?"
"Call me first thing in the morning?"
"Okay." She gave him a weak smile.
A few seconds later she heard the front door slam
behind him. She sat down wearily on the bed and
stared out the window. The clouds had drifted away,
leaving the moon round and golden again.
"Thanks, Paul," she said aloud. "You just cost me a
boyfriend."
He appeared at the side of the bed, a pleased look
on his face. "So what's the big loss? You can just buy
another one, right?"
"Why do you keep talking about how rich I am all
the time?"
"I know you rich girls. You're all alike," he said
bitterly.
99 "If I were alive, you wouldn't even look at
me.

"How do you know that?" Melissa asked.

"I know it. You rich people like to stick together. It
makes it easier for you to stick up your noses at people
like me." He turned and walked over to the window.
Melissa could see the full moon shining right through
his back.

"Buddy isn't rich," she said, wondering why she

was bothering to defend herself to him. "His father
works at the post office."
"Then what do you see 73 in Buddy?" Paul asked,
FEAR STREET

turning around to face her. "It can't be his great

personality." He laughed a dirty laugh.
"Oh, shut up!" Melissa cried wearily. "Why don't
you just go away and leave me alone?"
"If you were my girl, I would\e been nicer to you,"
Paul said, ignoring her plea. "But you never would've
given someone like me the time of day."
Is he jealous? Melissa suddenly thought. Is that why
he appeared and screamed like that when Buddy was
kissing me?
"Go away — please!"
A shadow fell over his face. His entire body seemed
to be swallowed up by it. Now he was nothing but a
dark, shadowy outline of himself. "I knew you'd
break your promise to help me," he said, lowering his
voice until once again it sounded like the wind in the
car.
"No, Paul. I—"
"I should just kill you now."
The words were a whisper, a whisper in her ear.
"You hit Buddy. He couldn't even feel it," Melissa
said, thinking out loud. "How are you going to kill
me?"
"I did that for your benefit," he said, staring at her
menacingly. "I was just fooling around. Don't worry.
I can make myself felt. I turned the steering wheel in
your precious new car, didn't I? You felt me when I
almost pushed you out the window. I managed to
open your birthday presents for you."
"Why— why did you do74 that?"
HAUNTED

"You don't listen, do you?" The shadow shifted and

floated toward her. "I came back here to kill you. And
I will. But not yet. First I want to have some fun. .

Melissa thanked the librarian and carried the little

roll of microfilm to the viewing booth. It was early
Monday morning, and the library was empty except
for a man with very thick glasses at a table in the front,
leaning over a Wall Street Journal, and ~z shabby,
unshaved man, in a filthy overcoat, snoring loudly in
an armchair.

I've got to find out the truth about Paul, she

thought. Her next thought made her shudder: My life
depends on it.
Taking a seat in front of a viewer, she thought about
Buddy. He really was ridiculous Saturday night, she
thought, feeling her anger return. If he'd only just
given me a chance instead of acting like I was some
kind of raving lunatic. Buddy had let her down, she
realized, at a time when she really needed him.
Trying to insert the roll of microfilm, she dropped it
and it clattered across the floor. She slammed her
hand angrily against the side of the machine, scooted
her chair back, and went chasing after it. It rolled a
few inches from the battered, laceless shoes of the
sleeping man. Melissa picked it up carefully, trying
not to wake him. But he abruptly stopped snoring,
opened one bloodshot eye, raised a finger to his lips,
75
and loudly said, "Sssshhhhhhh!"
Melissa picked up the cartridge and cameo it back
FEAR STREET
to the viewer. A few seconds later she had managed to
insert it and was scanning over editions of the
Shadyside Courier for the past six months.
She figured that the death of a local teenager would ,
be .front-page news, so she carefully scanned every
front page. Then, just to be on the safe side, she
also checked the local news pages and the obituary
page.
It took a long time. She was careful not to skip a
single day of the entire six months. When she finally
finished scanning the most recent paper, she closed
her tired eyes and rested them for a few minutes.
Nothing. She had found nothing at all. No story
about Paul's death. In fact, she hadn't found a story
about a single teenager dying.
Maybe I didn't go back far enough, she thought.
Paul said he thought he had died recently. But he
really didn't remember anything about when it had
happened.
Maybe he's been dead for years, she thought, yawn-
ing and stretching. She looked at her watch. It was
nearly lunchtime. Had she really been staring into this
machine for nearly three hours?
Tired and discouraged, she returned the microfilm,
stepped past the armchair where the man was still
snoring away, and headed out the door. The fresh air
and bright sunlight felt so good!
She crossed the sidewalk to her car and was about to
climb in when she saw a familiar face. "Delia! Hi!"
"Got your car back, huh?" Delia called, hurrying up
to greet Melissa, a stack 76of books in her arm. She
HAUNTED
was wearing a green, sleeveless top and white tennis
shorts. "How's it running?"
"Great. What are you doing here? I'm so happy to
see you."
"Just returning some books," Delia said. "Want to
wait for me? I'll only be a sec."
Delia returned a few minutes later empty-handed.
"So what are you doing here?" she asked, shielding
her eyes from the sun with her hand.
"It's a weird story," Melissa said, sighing. She
wondered if Delia would believe her. Yes. Delia was

such a good friend. She probably would. "Delia, do

you remember a boy about our age who died? His
name was Paul something."
"Paul Something?" Delia laughed. "I knew a Greg
Something and a Mike Something. But Paul — "
"No. Seriously," Melissa said, leaning back against
the shiny fender of her car.
"He died?" Delia asked, thinking. "I can't think of
anyone. Why?"
Melissa had a sudden thought. "You know, I bet he
didn't go to Shadyside. He said he was poor and
everything."
"You talked to him?" Delia asked, confused.
"I'll bet he went to South," Melissa said, caught up
in her own thoughts. She pulled absentmindedly at a
thick lock of her hair. "Yeah. I'll bet he did."
"Well, my cousin Tracy goes to South," Delia said.
"The one with the teeth?"
"She had them fixed," Delia said. "Want to see if
t she's home?"
77
FEAR STREET

"Sure," Melissa said. "Do you have anything you

have to do right now?"
"Not really," Delia replied. "Returning the library
books was the highlight of my day."
"I know what you mean. Fm ready for school to
start too," Melissa groaned.
They climbed into the new car. Delia admired the
leather seats and inhaled the new-car smell as Melissa
pulled away from the curb and headed west. "Tracy
lives in the Old Village," Delia said. "HI direct you."
A short while later Melissa was maneuvering the car
through the narrow streets of the Old Village, where
the early residents of Shadyside had settled, most of
them in the 1 920s when the mill opened and the first
factories were built. They found Tracy in her small
front yard, chasing after two little kids she was
baby-sitting.
Tracy was short and thin and had spiked blond hair.
She looked about ten or twelve, even though she was
sixteen. She was wearing faded jean cutoffs and a
Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. "Hi!" she called, giving up
on catching the two laughing kids.
Melissa followed Delia up onto the freshly mowed
lawn. "Hi, Tracy. You remember Melissa?"
"Yeah. Sure," Tracy said. "You're the one with the
hair."
"And you're the one with the teeth," Melissa said,
laughing.
"Not anymore," Tracy 78
said, and flashed them both
a wide, perfect smile.
HAUNTED

"Melissa wanted to ask you about a boy who went

to South/' Delia said.
"Well . . . maybe he went to South," Melissa said,
bending over to pick up a tennis ball to throw back to
the two kids.

"Well, I know most of the kids at South," Tracy

said, and then added, "unfortunately."
"Come on, Tracy," Delia said. "South isn't that
bad."
"It's a pit," Tracy said, kicking at a tall weed. "But
what's the point of complaining? I'm a senior this
year. Then I'm out of here!"
"Tracy, do you remember anything about a boy
from your school who died?" Melissa asked eagerly.
"Huh?"
"Either this year or last year. Was there a boy from
South about our age who died?"
"Well, yeah. There was," Tracy said, wrinkling her
forehead. "There was a boy who died just before
school let out last spring."

79
chapter

11

1 X ow where did I put that old year-

book?" Tracy said, standing on tiptoe to reach the
cluttered top shelf of her closet. She had deposited the
two kids in the den with a Disney cartoon on the
VCR. Then she led Melissa and Delia up to her room
so she could show them a picture of the boy who had
died.
"Oh. Here it is. Look out!" she cried as a stack of
old magazines came crashing down to the floor. Tracy
waited for the dust to settle, then pulled down the
South High Mirror. "As you can see, I'm a saver."
"Do you ever look at any of those old magazines?"
Delia asked, staring up at the stacks of them that
reached nearly to the ceiling.
"No. Not really," Tracy said, rapidly flipping
through the pages of the yearbook. "Good grief. Did
80
HAUNTED
we really look like that? Look at me. I look like Alvin
the Chipmunk."
"No. You're cuter than Alvin," Delia said, laughing.
"You say the nicest things. Oh. Here he is. He was a
sophomore."
"The boy who died?" Melissa asked eagerly.
"Yeah. It's not a very good picture. He's standing in
the back row. You can only see half his face." Tracy
handed the open book to Melissa.
"Where is he? I don't see—"
"Right there," Tracy said, putting her finger on the
picture. "The tall, blond guy. His name was Vince.
Vince Alexander. Yeah. I remember now. He was a
swimmer. All-state, I think. He was killed in a diving
accident. His head hit the end of the diving board.
Ugh. It was terrible."
Melissa stood staring at the picture of the smiling
blond boy. Delia put a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Lissa, are you okay?"
Melissa silently closed the yearbook. "Yeah. Fine.
It's just . . . he's not the boy."
"Who are you looking for?" Tracy asked, taking the
book and tossing it back up on the closet shelf.
"A boy named Paul," Melissa said. "I don't really
know if he went to South."
"Why are you trying to find out about him?" Delia
asked.

"I . . . uh . . . promised someone I would," Melissa

said.
Delia gave her a curious look, but Melissa was
determined not to say anything more.
81
FEAR STREET

They said good-bye to Tracy, who had to hurry into

the den to stop a fight about who got to choose which
cartoon to watch next. A few minutes later Melissa
dropped Delia off at her house, then turned and
headelti toward her own house.
The late-afternoon sun was still high in the sky. The
windshield seemed to light up as she drove toward the
sun, the road bubbling in the heat. Shadows from the
trees she passed danced on the shiny hood. It all
seemed unreal. She had the feeling that she had left
the road, floated up from the ground, and was driving
high in the sky, on her way to the sun.
"Get real," she said aloud, forcing herself to sit up
straighter. She pulled down the sun visor and gripped
the wheel tighter as if tightening her grip on reality.
She concentrated on the curving road, ignoring the
glare of the sun and the darting shadows on the car.
I'm not cracking up. I'm not. The ghost is real, she
told herself. Paul is real. He lived. He existed. And he
died. Fm not hallucinating him. Sure, the stories
about the Fear Street Prowler had me a little un-
hinged. Sure, I was a little jumpy, a little nervous
because of them. That's only normal.
But if Paul was real, how come she hadn't been able
to find out anything about him?
"Paul, are you here?" she asked out loud and waited
for a reply.
"Paul?"
Silence.
Would she ever be able to go anywhere without
82
HAUNTED
wondering if he was invisible at her side, waiting,
watching her, planning to kill her.
"Paul?"
No. He wasn't there.
She pulled into her driveway and stepped out of the
car. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she started
toward the house. But stopped just outside the living-
room window.
Someone was inside the house. Someone — just a
shadow — was moving about the living room.
Looking at the porch, Melissa saw that the front
door was wide open. Had someone broken the lock
and barged right into the house? She backed away
from the window and pressed herself against the
shingled wall. Was it the Fear Street Prowler?
She crept back up to the corner of the window and
peered inside. The sun glared off the glass, making it
hard to see anything. But, yes — someone was in there,
pacing back and forth, a moving shadow among still
shadows.
Was it Paul?
Had he come downstairs? Was he waiting for her
there, waiting for the news she didn't have, the
information she was unable to find?

A prowler wouldn't pace back and forth, would he?

Of course not.
Melissa took a deep breath, walked quickly past the
window, and headed into the house to see who it was.

83
chapter

12

"Buddy
!"
He spun around, startled by her cry. "Hi."
She saw that his hair was wet and very curly. He
must have just washed it. He was wearing a sleeveless
blue T-shirt and very Hawaiian-looking baggy trunks.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, feeling very
relieved, but remembering how angry she was at him.
"Uh . . . your mom let me in. Then she had to go
shopping. How are you?"
"Okay."
"I came to apologize."
"Really?" She sat down on the back of the leather
couch and crossed her arms. "You really don't have
to—"
"No. I want to. I mean . . . well, I mean I'm sorry.
That's all." He took a few steps toward her.
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HAUNTED

"Buddy, you still don't believe me about Paul," she

said, tugging at the silver pendant on her neck.
"Lissa, please — let's not start up with that."
"But if you don't believe me, if you just think I'm
crazy — "
"I don't think you're crazy," he protested, shoving
his hands into the pockets of his trunks. "Listen, I had
an idea. Let's just go out tonight and have some fun.
What do you say?"
She looked at him doubtfully. "Fun?"
"Yeah. I'll pick you up about eight and we'll go to
Red Heat."
"Well . . ."
"Come on, Lissa. You've always wanted to go
there."
Melissa smiled and uncrossed her arms. Buddy
really was trying to be nice. He hated loud, crowded
dance clubs. He had always refused to take her to Red
Heat in the past. Now here he was suggesting it.
"Okay. Great!" she said. She walked over to him,
leaned forward, and gave him a quick kiss on the
cheek. "You're forgiven."
He grinned back at her. "That was easy. Wow. What
would you have done if I'd asked you out for dinner
"
too?"
"Don't look at me like that," she replied. "I'm not
that kind of girl."

Before it had become a teen dance club, Red Heat

had been a farm equipment warehouse. From the
85
FEAR STREET
outside, the long, tall building still looked like a
warehouse. But all thoughts of farm machinery van-
ished as soon as they stepped onto the hangar-size
dance floor.
Th6 concrete floor, nearly a city block long, had
been covered with long strips of fifties-colors linole-
um, pinks and blacks, orange squares on pale green,
aqua and maroon, all unmatched, all clashing. When
the long rows of colored, flashing lights struck the
dance floor from above, the floor seemed to come to
life, seemed to dance right along with the dancers
above it, and the warehouse became a different world.
The walls had all been painted red, although it was
seldom bright enough to see their true color. The
rafters above had also been painted red. The long
juice bar and all of the other furnishings were red, in
keeping with the name Red Heat. Giant black speak-
ers, mounted at regular intervals from the rafters,
blasted the music down to the floor, which reverber-
ated from the booming sound and echoed the music
right back up beyond the rafters, trapping the dancers
in the middle, encircling them with the music, holding
them as if in a powerful spell.
"I guess they call it Red Heat because it's eight
hundred degrees in here!" Buddy shouted, perspira-
tion dripping down his forehead.
"What?" Melissa, holding on to his shoulders,
leaned closer to hear what he was saying over the roar
of the music.
They had been dancing for nearly an hour. Melissa,
wearing a sparkly midriff-length top and black Span-
86
HAUNTED
dex bicycle shorts under a thigh-length purple skirt,
felt great — dizzy and exhausted, as if she were mov-
ing in a fast-flowing stream, a stream of lights, and
sound, and people. It felt so good not to think about
anything, just to move mindlessly, almost machine-
like, to the music.
She hadn't thought about the ghost once,
Paul.
Where was he, anyway?
She had called to him in her room after dinner. But

he hadn't replied. And there was no sign of him, no

cold wind, no hushed whisper, no shifting shadows
across the carpet.
"I haven't seen the ghost all day," she told Buddy,
thinking about her morning in the library.
"What?" He pulled her off the dance floor, toward
the red neon-lit juice bar against the far wall. "I've got
to get something to drink."
"Me too. A Coke or something." They were both
breathing hard. She followed closely behind Buddy,
the music pounding on all sides. Red and green lights
played against their faces, making them look unreal,
like Halloween characters.

"What did you say?" Buddy asked, still shouting to

be heard.

"Just a Coke or something." She wiped her fore-

head with a tissue from the small bag belted around
her waist.

"No. Before that." The line at the juice bar was long
and moving slowly.
"I said I hadn't seen Paul all day."
87
FEAR STREET

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that,"

Buddy said sharply.
"I wasn't. I mean, I didn't." She grabbed his arm.
"Listen, Buddy, it's hard not to thipk about him. He's
threatened to kill me."
"What?"
"You heard me. I told you the whole story. He
thinks I killed him and unless I find out who really did
it, he's going to — "
"Melissa!" He shouted her name angrily and threw
up his hands. "Stop — please!"
She let go of his arm. "I can't stop. I can't stop
because it's real. It's happening to me, Buddy. And I
can't stop thinking about it. You're just going to have
to believe me, and — "
He pulled out of line, his face red, then green, then
red again, looking very upset. "No. Stop. I can't
believe it. I just can't. You're going to spoil the whole
night, Lissa!"
"No, I'm not!" she screamed. "You already have!"
She turned and started to run, bumping into a
surprised couple. "Hey — watch where you're going!"
But she was already past them, making her way
quickly across the endless, crowded dance floor,
bumping into couples who didn't seem to notice,
surrounded by the throbbing music, her heart pound-
ing along with it, running through the flashing colors.
At the end of the dance floor, she turned back to see if
Buddy was following her. She felt angry, disappointed
— and relieved — when she couldn't see him.
88
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"Hey, miss, if you're coming back in, get your hand

stamped!" the purple-haired young man called to her
in a high-pitched voice.
Melissa ignored him, pushed hard against the heavy
glass door, and escaped into the night.
It was a warm night, but the air felt cold against her
skin. Breathing noisily, she bolted down the three
concrete stairs and kept running across the gravel
walk toward the parking lot.
Where was she going?
She didn't know. She didn't even think about it.
She was so angry, so hurt.
Buddy just wanted her to be cheerful and happy and
pretend everything was okay. He wasn't the least bit
interested in her problem, in her very real problem.
Buddy really thought she was crazy.
Crazy!
As long as she kept it to herself, he was happy. He
didn't care.
He didn't care what happened to her. As long as she
shut up about it.
Well, how could she shut up about it?
She stumbled on the gravel, her sneakers sliding
hard, but managed to catch her balance before falling.
Where was she?
Without realizing it, she had run halfway across the
vast parking lot. She was surrounded by rows of cars.
Pale, white spotlights at the top of poles that circled
the lot provided the only light. Car shadows lay
unmoving at her feet like dark, sleeping animals.
89
FEAR STREET

She turned back toward the club. She hadn't real-

ized she had run so far.
The sound of laughter made her turn around.
Some boys were sitting on car hoods at the dark
edge of the lot. There were four or five of them, some
long haired, some with spiky flattops, wearing blue
denim jeans and black leather or denim jackets. They
were leaning back on the car hoods, laughing, joking
around, tilting their heads back to suck down beers in
cans wrapped in brown paper bags.
Their laughter was loud and cruel. They had obvi-
ously been drinking for quite a while.
I'll just turn around, Melissa thought. I'll head back
toward the club. I don't think they've even noticed me
yet.
She took two steps back, trying to hide in the
shadows of the cars.

One of them called to her. "Hey — how you doin'?"

He raised his brown paper bag in a salute and grinned.
"Don't go!" another one yelled. "Join the party!"
Melissa shook her head and started to back away.
Two of the boys, both sitting on the low hood of a
yellow Camaro, got into a playful shoving match.
"You ask her," one of them said.
"No. You ask her."
The one on the left gave his friend a hard shove, and
the laughing boy, his beer can flying up in the air,
toppled off the car and rolled across the gravel to
Melissa's feet.
"Hey, fox—" he started.
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Uncertain of what to do, Melissa looked down at his
grinning face. And then her mouth dropped open in
surprise.
Even in the dim, gray light in this darkest part of the
parking lot, she recognized him at once.
"Paul — what are you doing here?" she asked.

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13

H e stared up at her. He didn't make any

attempt to get up from the gravel. The wide, foolish
grin seemed to be plastered to his face.
"Hey — do I know you?" he asked.
His friends laughed as if he had just cracked a very
clever joke.
"Paul — " she started, her heart pounding, her
throat suddenly dry.
"That's my name. Don't wear it out."
Again, laughter and knee slapping from his friends.
One of them walked over, a similar foolish grin on
his face, bent down, and with great effort pulled Paul
to his feet. The two of them stood unsteadily, staring
at Melissa, looking her up and down.
Melissa was so startled to see Paul there in that dark
parking lot with his loud, drunken friends that she
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forgot her fear. "You — you can see him?" she asked
the boy who had pulled Paul to his feet.
They all laughed again.
Looking beyond Paul, she saw that they had all
climbed down from the car hoods and were approach-
ing her slowly, sipping from their brown paper bags as
they walked.
"You really can see him?" Melissa repeated.
"Not if I see him first!" Paul cracked and dropped
back down to his knees, laughing. It was obvious that
he'd had too much to drink.
"But . . . you're real!" Melissa stammered.
This got a big reaction from all of them. They
hooted and howled. Turning quickly, Melissa saw that
they had formed a circle around her.
Fm trapped, she thought, feeling a rush of panic.
They're closing in on me.
"Yeah, I'm real," Paul said quietly, turning serious.
"Want me to prove it?" He grabbed her arm.
"Let go of me!" Melissa shouted, forcing herself to
sound more angry than afraid.
To her surprise, he quickly let go. "Hey — you were
coming on to me, weren't you?" he said accusingly.
"No. I wasn't," Melissa protested, trying to figure
out how to get away from these boys and get back to
Buddy inside the club.
Why hadn't Buddy come looking for her? Didn't he
care at all?

"You're just a tease, huh?" Paul said, sneering.

"Paul, why are you doing this?" she asked. "Why
are you acting so . . . different?"
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He glared at her. "Huh?"

"Yeah, Paul. Why are you acting so different?" One
of Paul's friends, a boy with straight black hair down
to his collar, mimicked Melissa. The boy stepped
forward and grabbed Melissa's shoulder. "What do
you see in him, anyway?"
"Hey — leave her alone," Paul said, his face sudden-
ly turning ugly. He gave his friend a hard shove. The
boy fell back against a new Oldsmobile. "She wants
me — not you," Paul said.
The boy got up quickly. "Oh, yeah? How about we
let her decide, okay?"
"She's already decided," Paul said, his hands curl-
ing into tight fists at his sides. His friend glared back
at him, trying to decide whether to fight Paul or not.
"Stop it! Just stop it!" Melissa shouted, frightened
and confused. How come his friends could see Paul so

clearly? Was it possible that he wasn't a ghost after all?

That he had somehow managed to trick her back in
her room?

"Let me go!" she shouted and turned toward the

club.

Paul laughed. "What's your hurry? Didn't you

come out to play?"
She ignored him and took a few steps, her sneakers
crunching on the gravel.
Two of Paul's friends moved to block her path.
She moved quickly to the right. They moved to the
right. She started to the left. Grinning at each other,
they moved left to block her once again.
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"What's the matter?" Paul called after her. "You
too good for us?"
"I want to go now," Melissa said slowly, deter-
minedly, pronouncing each word distinctly. She
didn't want them to know how frightened she was.
Her knees were shaking and her voice had a slight
quiver.
"Let her go," the boy Paul had shoved said quietly.
"Don't tell me what to do!" Paul screamed, turning
on his friend. "Don't ever tell me what to do!"
"I just said, let her go," the boy replied, standing his
ground.
"I'll let her go when I'm finished with her," Paul
said, his voice turning low and threatening. And
without any further warning, he lunged at his friend,
grabbing his shoulders, and the two of them fell to the
gravel, rolling around, wrestling hard and furiously,
screaming and cursing at each other as the others
gleefully looked on.
Melissa hesitated for only a second, then began
running back across the parking lot toward the club.
She had gone only a few steps when they realized she
was escaping.
"Hey — come back here!"
She recognized Paul's angry voice and kept run-
ning. The rows of cars on both sides of her seemed
endless. The gravel flew from under her sneakers.
She heard them coming after her, tried to pick up
speed, slipping and sliding, and nearly lost her bal-
ance. The lights were out in that section of the parking
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lot, and the sudden darkness frightened her even
more.

They're catching up, she realized. What are they

going to do to me?
"Hey, Blondie, we just want to have some fun!" one
of them yelled. The others laughed and kept chasing
her.
Several couples were watching them in the parking
lot. Because of all the laughter, they must have
thought it was all a joke. The double glass-door
entrance to the club came into view. Melissa gasped
for breath. Her head throbbed and her chest felt as if it
were about to explode.
Would she be safe inside the club? Yes. They
wouldn't follow her in there.
"Hey, Blondie, we won't hurt you! Honest!"
Why did Paul act so weird, so cold, so horrible? She
had spent most of the day trying to help him, trying to
find out what really happened to him. Now here he
was, acting so gross, like a complete animal, as if he
didn't know her at all. Was he just showing off for his
buddies?
Two couples came out of the club and stood in front
of the entrance, talking and giggling. "Help!" Melissa
tried to call to them, but her cry was strangled in
her throat. She was too out of breath to make a
sound.

"Help me, please!" She tried again, and again the

words came out weak, a soundless groan. The two
couples laughed among themselves and didn't turn
around.
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She stepped into the glare from the flashing red
spotlight, the light pulsating on and off as quickly as
her heartbeat. I'm almost there, she thought, and
turning back she saw that Paul and his friends werg no
longer chasing her.
In fact, they were gone.
Shadows slid through the long aisle of cars. Was that
them? Were they funning off? Were they hiding out
there, waiting for her to return?
When did they stop chasing her? And- "where did
they go?
She held her hand over her eyes, trying to keep out
the blinding, flashing red light. The club doors opened
and music burst out into the silence, startling her.
The doors shut. The parking lot fell silent once
again.
Still shielding her eyes, Melissa stared out at the
rows of cars. Where did Paul and his friends go? How
did they disappear so quickly?
Were they all ghosts?
"Hey, Melissa!"
Lost in her thoughts, still trying to calm her pound-
ing heart, she didn't hear the voice.
"Melissa!"
A hand touched her shoulder.
"No!" she screamed and backed away.
"What's wrong?" Buddy asked, looking surprised
and concerned, flashing red, then black, then red
again under the spotlight.
"Buddy, please, take me home," she said. She
grabbed his arm. He felt so solid, so real.
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"I couldn't find you," he said. "I didn't know you

were outside."
"I'm sorry — " she started. She heard a noise, a
scuffling sound, somewhere down the nearest row of
cars/ Was that Paul and his friends?

Buddy followed her gaze. "Melissa, what is it?"

"I — I thought I saw something."
"I don't see anything. It's so dark down there. Some
of the lights are out."
She held on to him tightly. They were both flashing
red, then black, red, then black, as if they were
materializing and then disappearing like ghosts.
"You want to go home?"
"Yes. Thanks."
"Melissa, you're shaking all over."
"I'm just . . . tired, I guess." She wasn't going to tell
him that she saw Paul in the parking lot. Paul and his
ghost friends. Paul and his real friends. She knew if
she told Buddy, they'd just start to argue again. He'd
get that worried look on his face and say they should
tell her parents immediately.
She couldn't tell him. She knew she couldn't. It
would just make him more certain that she was losing
it, cracking up. Then her parents would get into the
act, and her life would get even more complicated
than it already was.
"Sorry I'm such a downer," she said. "Please take
me home."
He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to
the car. Melissa walked quickly, alert to any sound or
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sign that Paul and his friends were there, hiding,
watching, waiting.
They had disappeared. Disappeared into thin air.
She slid into the passenger seat and closed her gyes.
Even with her eyelids shut tight, the flashing red light
didn't go away.
Buddy talked excitedly about what a great club Red
Heat was, and what a great sound system they had,
and how they should go there more often, but what a
shame it was that the club was so expensfve. He had
obviously decided to forget the fact that they had had
an argument and that Melissa had stormed out of the
club.
Melissa had to struggle to remember what the
argument had been about. Paul. Of course, it was
about Paul.
Maybe Buddy figured if he ignored the whole thing,
Paul would just go away.
Melissa wished Buddy was right.
If only Paul would go away . . .

An hour later, in bed, Melissa couldn't get to sleep.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Paul and his
friends, saw them shoving one another against the
cars, tilting their heads back to drink from the brown
paper bags, saw them circling her, closing in on her.
She couldn't get Paul's face out of her mind, his
cruel laughter, the way he threatened her, the way he
grabbed her so fiercely, the way he looked at her.
The way he hated her.
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Yes. That was what Melissa found so frightening.
Paul 4iated her.
She didn't even know him, and he hated her.
It was a warm, humid night, but she pulled the
covers up to her chin. The bedroom window was
closed and locked. The streetlight down below cast a
pale yellow light onto the ceiling.
I've never been hated before, Melissa thought.
Sure, there had been kids who didn't like her very
much, kids she didn't get along with. But she had
never been hated so blindly, so heatedly. Never.
He really has come back to kill me, she thought.
Somehow she had never taken his threat seriously.
She had thought she could reason with him, talk to
him, help him. He had seemed jealous of Buddy, after
all. And because of that, Melissa had even fooled
herself into thinking that maybe Paul wasn't so bad
after all.
But seeing him there on that dark parking lot with
his friends, seeing how he fought them, how hard he
was, how bitter, how cruel, she realized that she was
wrong about him.
He would never be her friend.
He could kill her. He meant what he said.
He hated her that much.
She sat straight up when she felt the rush of cold air.
A few seconds later Paul appeared, first a dark outline
in front of the window, then a shadowy form moving
quickly to the foot of the bed.
Melissa couldn't see his face. It was covered in
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shadow. She saw that he was still wearing the straight-
legged blue denim jeans and the faded denim jacket.
He started to move closer.

"Get out of here!" she screamed, gripping the

covers. "Stay away from me! Leave me alone!"
The ghost seemed to float up until he was looming
above her, glowing dark eyes staring coldly down at
her.

"Get out!" Melissa repeated, feeling his eyes burn

into hers. "Just go away!"
The ghost began to fade. The eyes dimmed, the face
darkened, the floating form became a dim outline,
shades of gray against the pale light from the street.
"I'll be back. Fm not finished here," Paul said,
words more chilling than the air he left behind.

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14

C€K
J

1 X o, I can't, Delia. Not this morning

anyway."
Melissa pulled back the curtain and looked out the
bedroom window. It was a gray day, heavy, dark
clouds covering the sky. She shifted the phone from
one ear to the other.

"Yeah. Buddy and I had a pretty good time last

night." She didn't feel like getting into it with Delia
first thing in the morning. She realized she hadn't
confided at all in her best friend. She wanted to tell
her about Paul. She needed to. Delia would probably
believe her, and Melissa desperately needed someone
to believe her.

I'll tell her all about it when my parents are away,

when I stay at her house this weekend, Melissa
thought.
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They chatted aimlessly for a few more minutes.
Then Melissa promised to call her later, hung up, and
went down to breakfast.
She found her mother, wearing a maroon running
suit, at the table, with the morning paper and a
half-eaten dry English muffin. Her father, leaning on
the kitchen counter, was having a heated telephone
discussion with someone about plane reservations.
"Morning," Mrs. Dryden muttered from behind
her paper.
"Who's Daddy talking to?" Melissa asked, pouring
herself a bowl of corn flakes.

"Travel agent," her mother said, chewing the dry,

toasted muffin. "Some problem with our tickets to Las
Vegas. He's going in late today." She lowered the
paper and stared at Melissa. "Look at the rings under
your eyes."
Melissa put down the milk carton. "Mother, that's
physically impossible. You can't look at your own
eyes."
"Didn't you sleep?"
"Not too well," Melissa admitted.
"That sweatshirt is wrinkled," her mother said,
folding the newspaper.
"I know. I'm a slob."
"Didn't it used to be white?"
"No, Mother, it was always gray." Melissa made a
face.

"I'm not interested in your problems." Mr.

Dryden's voice boomed into
103 the phone. "You have to
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get us boarding passes with our tickets. I'm not taking

the chance of being bumped from the plane. I know
how airlines overbook these days."
"Poor Daddy," Melissa said, with a mouth full of
corn flakes.

"I really think you should change your mind," her

mother said.
"What?"
"You know. Come to the convention with us. It'll
do you good to get away. You've had such a boring
summer."
Melissa laughed. "Believe me, Mother, it hasn't
been boring."
Her mother looked disappointed. "You won't
come?"
"No. Really. I don't think so."
Melissa pretended to concentrate on her corn flakes.
Running away to Las Vegas, she knew, wouldn't help
her. She had to find out the truth about Paul, find out
what really happened to him. It was the only way she
could get rid of him, the only way he would leave her
alone.
Melissa ate quickly, pushed her chair away from the
table, and waving to her father, headed toward the
front door. "Where are you off to?v Mrs. Dryden
called after her.
"Just meeting Delia," Melissa lied.
"Looks like rain," her mother said.
"I won't melt."
The sky looked a little less threatening as she
backed her car down the drive. The clouds had lifted.
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They looked as if they might blow past without
leaving any rain. Melissa turned down The Mill Road
and headed toward town. The dashboard clock read
1 1:58. How had she slept so late?
She turned into the large Shop 'N' Stop parking lot
on Division Street and slowly cruised th# rows of cars
looking for a parking place. Maybe today won't be a
total waste of time like yesterday, she thought. Maybe
today I'll find some answers about Paul.
Melissa had recognized one of the boys with Paul in
the parking lot the night before. His name was
Frankie. She couldn't remember his last name. She'd
thought he looked familiar, but she didn't remember
who he was until it came to her in the middle of the

night. He delivered groceries for the Shop 'N' Stop.

The parking lot was completely full, so Melissa had
to park on the street outside the lot. She climbed out,
locked the car, and crossed the lot, walking quickly,
starting to feel nervous.
Frankie, she had noticed, had hung back the night
before. He hadn't threatened her or stood in her way.
In fact, he had seemed a little embarrassed by the
whole incident.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on
Melissa's part.
Anyway, she told herself, talking to him while he's
at work is perfectly safe. He's not going to try anything
in the middle of the supermarket.
Frankie was her only clue now, the only person she
knew who actually could tell her about Paul, who
maybe could clear everything up for her.
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I hope he's here today. I hope I can find him. . . .

The* electric doors swung open with a loud buzz,
and Melissa stepped into the frigid air of the vast
supermarket, with its clattering shopping carts and
rhythmic beeping of computerized cash registers.
She walked through the produce department, past a
tall display of some new kind of cherry soda. She was
surprised to see Frankie without having to search for
him. He was at the end of the nearest checkout line,
bagging groceries for a young woman with a baby in a
carrier on her back.
Melissa hesitated, wondering what she was going to
say to him. Maybe this is a stupid idea, she thought.
Frankie looked up, having packed the last of the
groceries, and saw her. At first he seemed confused,
as if he didn't remember who she was. Then sud-
denly abroad smile of recognition spread over his
face.
As Melissa walked up to him, the smile faded,
replaced by a wary look. "Frankie?" she asked uncer-
tainly.
"Hey, look — I don't want no trouble," he said,
waving her away. His straight brown hair was tied
behind his head in a short ponytail. He was wearing a
long white Shop 'N' Stop apron over black jeans and a
crisp blue work shirt.
"No, I—" Melissa started.
"I didn't do nothing last night. The other guys — I
didn't think they should've . . ." His voice trailed off.
He was looking past Melissa to a large woman behind
a counter, probably his supervisor.
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"I didn't come because of last night. 1 want to ask

you about something else."
He shook his head, straightened the stack of brown
grocery bags.
"It'll only take a minute. I promise," Melissa
pleaded.
He hesitated. "Well, okay. Til take my break now."
He walked over and said something to the woman
behind the counter, then motioned for Melissa to
follow him.
She followed him down the long produce aisle to a
large storeroom against the back wall. It was even
colder in this room and smelled of rotting fruits and
vegetables.
Frankie pulled down a wooden crate and motioned
for her to sit down. Melissa lowered herself onto the

crate and crossed her legs. He continued to stand. "I

only get ten minutes for my break," he said, waving to
two guys unloading lettuce from big crates into a
shopping cart.
"I want to ask you about Paul," Melissa said,
unsure of how to start.

Frankie smiled. "You really got the hots for Paul,

huh?"
Melissa could feel herself blushing. "No. That's not
why ... I mean . . . Listen, you and Paul were
friends?"
"Yeah. We're buddies. Paul's a pretty bad dude."
"What do you mean by bad?" she asked uncomfort-
ably, suddenly feeling very stupid, wishing she hadn't
come here.
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Frankie shrugged. "He's just bad, that's all." His

face filled with suspicion. "Hey, listen — if Paul did
something wrong ... or something, I don't know
anything about it."
"No, listen, I—"
"I mean, he's my buddy, but I don't go along with
some things. I mean, I don't know anything at all.
Really."
Frankie looked up at the clock above the storeroom
door. Melissa realized this wasn't going well at all. She
decided she'd better get to the point. "When did Paul
die?" she asked.
Frankie's mouth dropped open. He pulled at his
ponytail. "Huh?"
"Paul. You know. When did he die? Can you tell
me —
"Paul's dead?" He sat down on the floor next to
Melissa. "When? Last night? No. No. Wait. That's
impossible. I talked to him on the phone this morning.
Before work."
Now Melissa was completely confused. "Maybe
we're talking about different Pauls," she said.
"Yeah. Maybe." Frankie still looked very upset.
"The Paul I'm talking about died some time ago,"
Melissa said.

Frankie got to his feet slowly. "Hey — you really

scared me."
"I-I'm sorry," Melissa stammered. "But I wanted to
ask you — "
Frankie looked up at the clock again. "Hey, sorry,
but I gotta get back to work and I need a soda first. •If
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I'm late after a break, I'll be busted." He turned and

hurried from the storeroom.
The swinging doors closed behind him. Melissa sat
on the crate for a few minutes, staring at the stack of
crates against the wall, trying to make sense of what he
had just told her.
It didn't make sense.
They were talking about the same Paul. That was
the only thing Melissa was certain of. But was Paul
dead or alive, a living, breathing human or a ghost?
She knew that Paul was a ghost. He had told her he
was a ghost. He appeared and disappeared like a
ghost.
So how could Frankie not realize that his buddy was
dead? How could he have talked to Paul before going
to work?
Melissa stood up and walked slowly out of the
storeroom, feeling as disappointed as she was con-
fused. Frankie had been her one clue, her one hope.
But he had only helped to make things more baffling
than ever.
As she walked past him to the exit, Frankie looked
up from the bag he was packing and gave her a curious
look.

He thinks I'm crazy, Melissa thought.

Maybe I am.

Stepping outside the supermarket, she saw that the

pavement was wet. It must have rained while she was
inside, and now the sky was clearing, sunlight spar-
kling off the wet cars in the parking lot.
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She walked around a large puddle and headed for
her car. Thinking about Frankie, she didn't see the car
backing out of its space until it nearly hit her.
"Watch where you're going!" a woman's voice
yelled.
Melissa dodged away, shocked to alertness, and
stepped into a puddle, cold water splashing over her
sneakers. I've got to pay attention, she thought, mak-
ing her way down the endless rows of cars to the street.
She heard footsteps behind her, but didn't think
anything of them. A car trunk slammed shut. A baby
was crying back by the supermarket.
She heard the footsteps again as she turned a corner
and headed down the last row of cars. They sounded
closer behind her now. She turned around, just to see
who it was — and saw a flash of color as someone
ducked behind a car.

What's going on? she wondered.

Was she seeing things?
She turned and started walking again, a little faster.
She took several steps, then spun around again.
Again, a flash of dark color. A dark blue jacket
maybe. Dark hair. Whoever it was disappeared be-
hind ablue Toyota.
Someone's following me. That was her first thought.
It looks like Paul. That was her second.
But why would Paul hide behind a car? He could
appear and disappear. He didn't have to hide.
Should she stop and wait him out?
No. She could feel the fear creeping up her body,
catching at her throat. No. She decided to run.
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She turned and, ignoring the puddles, began run-
ning to the street. He isn't following me — is he? No,
he isn't. He can't be.
Yes.
The footsteps, scraping against the pavement,
splashing through the puddles. Right behind her now.
Closer. Running faster than she was.
What was the point of running? She stopped and
turned. "Paul!"
He stepped close and grabbed her shoulder.

Ill
chapter

15

He grinned at her, a hard, cold grin, not friendly,

not amused. His hand tightened on her shoulder.
"Paul, why—"
"You missed me, huh?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"I heard you calling me back there."
"Let go, Paul. You're hurting me."
He eased his grip but didn't release her.
"I thought I saw you following me, so I called you.
Let go of me."
He slowly let go. He was standing close to her, too
close. He pressed his face close to her cheek. She could
feel his breath, hot against her skin.
Feel his breath?
Did a ghost breathe?
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Frightened, she took a step back, but he moved
forward, staying with her.
"Why'd you run away last night?" he asked, his
dark, cold eyes staring into hers. "You and me could
have a good thing going."
"You were so awful," she said. "And those disgust-
ing friends of yours."
"Hey — they're my buddies." He seemed amused
by her reaction to them. "They're good guys."
"What do you want, Paul?" She took another step
back and realized she had backed into the trunk of a
big Oldsmobile. He moved forward, blocking her
escape. If he took one more step, she'd be pinned
against the trunk.
"What do I want?" He laughed. "What does any
red-blooded American boy want from a nice-looking

girl?"
"Get away from me. Let me go. Why are you acting
like this?"
He looked hurt. "Hey, listen, you came on to me
last night."
"I did not."
"Looked that way to me."
"I don't understand. Why are you acting like such a
creep? I've been trying to help you."
"Huh?"
"Like I promised."
"Huh?" He looked confused. He scratched the side
of his face, then unbuttoned his denim jacket, reveal-
ing a blue, sleeveless T-shirt underneath. "You want
to help me?" He gave her a dirty grin.
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She shoved him and pulled away from the trunk,
running hard between cars to gef to her car on the
street.

"Hey—" he called, trotting after her. "Don't run

away again. I thought you wanted to help me."
"Just go away!" she shouted.
"Now you're hurting my feelings," he called, sever-
al yards behind her. "I don't like that. I don't like it
when rich, snobby girls hurt my feelings."
He's crazy, she thought. I've got to get away from
him. She reached her car, pulled the door handle. It
didn't budge. She forgot she had locked it.
She plunged her hand into her bag and be-
gan frantically rummaging around for her keys.
But now he had caught up to her. Smiling trium-
phantly, he grabbed her bag and held it out of her
reach.

"Give it back," she demanded, reaching for it and

missing.
He backed up, laughing, still holding her bag high
above his head.
"Give it back, Paul."
He laughed again. "Come and get it!"
"Paul!" She grabbed for it, but he twirled away,
keeping it out of her reach. "Give it back — now!
You're not funny!"
He didn't give back the bag, and his smile faded.
"You're not gonna give me a chance, are you?" he
said.
"What?"
"You heard me."
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"I don't know what you're talking about. Just give

me back my bag."
"I'm not a bad guy. Really. But you'd never want to
find that out."
"Paul, you're talking crazy. Please give me back my
bag. I've got to go." She made another wild grab for
the bag. He pulled it out of her reach and drew it
under his arm.

"I can play rough," he said, his dark eyes wild as

they stared into hers. "I can play real rough if I have
to."
"Paul — come on!" she cried.
"How did you know my name?" he demanded.
"What? You told it to me."
"I never did. Come on. Tell me. Where'd you learn
my name?"
"Paul, don't be ridiculous — "
She saw the police car before he did. The black-and-
white car, cruising slowly, pulled up beside her car.
The officer on the passenger side poked his head out
the window. "Problem here?"
"No. No problem," Melissa answered quickly as
Paul handed her back her bag. She expected him to
disappear into thin air, but he stood there frozen on
the spot, staring at the policeman, a phony-looking
smile on his face.

"Well, I think there is a problem," the policeman

said.
He turned and said something to his partner behind
the wheel. Then he opened the door and, eyeing
Melissa and Paul, slowly stepped out of the police car.
J 75
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"This your car?" he asked Melissa.

She nodded, glancing at Paul, who was standing
with his hands behind his back, looking very pale and
worried.

"Well, it's in a No Parking zone." He pointed to a

tall sign several yards away. "You're supposed to park
inside the lot, not outside. What's your name? Can I
see your driver's license?"
"Melissa Dryden," she said searching in her bag for
her wallet. "I didn't see the sign. I didn't realize . . ."
She pulled out her driver's license and handed it to
him.
He started to examine it when his partner leaned
out of the car and shouted, "Forget it, Ernie. We've got
an emergency call. Let's roll!"
The blaring siren starting up made Melissa jump.
"Sorry, miss." The policeman tossed the license to
her and jumped back into his car. She watched them
roar off.

"Hey, listen — " Paul said, smiling and acting very

relieved. "You got a break there, huh? I'd never get a
break like that. That's for sure."
"Bye," she said, unlocking the car and sliding
behind the wheel.

"Whoa. Wait, Melissa, I— uh — I'm sorry I gave

you a hard time," he said, looking contrite. "I was just
having a little fun. I didn't mean — "
She slammed the car door and missed the rest of
what he had to say. The car started right up, and a few
seconds later she pulled away, leaving him on the
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curb, staring after her, an unhappy expression on his
face.
She watched him in the rearview mirror, expecting
him to disappear into thin air. But he didn't move.
I've got to get rid of him, she thought, speeding
through a yellow light, then making a sharp left turn.
He's following me everywhere. He's taking over my
life.
And he wants to hurt me.
A few minutes later she parked the car in the drive,
ran into the house, shouted hello to Marta, who was
vacuuming the living room, and ran up to her room.
"No!" she shouted.
Paul, sitting on her bed, stood up quickly.
"No! Leave me alone! Stop following me! Just leave
me alone!"
Ignoring her pleas, he moved toward her quickly,
his dark eyes aglow.

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chapter

16

S he stepped back toward the hallway. He

stopped in the center of the room. The strong sunlight
from the bedroom window seemed to shine right
through him. His dark hair, his denim jacket, his jeans
were all outlined in gold.
"Hey, what's happening?" he asked.
Melissa didn't reply. She stood waiting to see if he'd
come closer.

"Why are you so scared of me all of a sudden?" he

asked, looking suspicious.
"Don't play dumb," Melissa said, her arms crossed
protectively in front of her.
"I'm losing control," he said softly, and as he spoke
his entire body shimmered and started to fade, mak-
ing the sunlight from the window seem brighter. "I
can't seem to control my strength. I keep fading in and
out." 118
HAUNTED

"You were solid enough in the parking tot/' Melissa

said angrily.
"Huh?" The shimmering slowly stopped and he
stood solidly on the carpet once again. He scratched
the side of his jaw. For the first time, Melissa realized,
he looked frightened. Behind the anger and bitterness,
he was just a frightened teenager.
"How'd you get back here so quickly?" Melissa
asked. The sunlight was hurting her eyes, making it
hard to see him. She circled around him, keeping her
distance, and sat down on the windowsill, her back to
the sun.

"Get back? What are you talking about? Are you

playing some kind of mind game on me?"
"I left you standing outside the parking lot. Now
here you are," she said. The sun felt good on her back.
He shook his head and started to pace. "You've
totally lost it."
"You've totally lost it," Melissa told him. "Not me.
You're not going to tell me that — "
"I've been here all morning," he said. "Sort of
drifting in and out."
Melissa pushed herself off the windowsill and stood
up. "Come on, Paul, you were at the supermarket."
He shook his head. "No. It wasn't me."
"You grabbed my bag and wouldn't give it back."
He moved his hand up to her desk lamp. His hand
went through the lamp. "I can't grab anything today,"
he said with real sadness. "I couldn't grab your bag if I
wanted to." His whole body seemed to fade, as if the
effort of talking was too much for him.
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FEAR STREET

"I don't believe you," Melissa said. "You're playing

some'kind of trick."
He didn't reply, just stared back at her, trying to
read her face, trying to read her thoughts.
What's he doing? Melissa asked herself. Is he pre-
tending to be weak? He looks so sad, so frightened
now. Is he just trying to throw me off guard for some
reason? Just trying to confuse me?
"I suppose it wasn't you last night," she said.
He looked surprised. "Last night? When I appeared
here last night, you screamed at me like a nut and told
me to leave you alone."
"No, I meant before that," Melissa said impatient-
ly. "At the dance club."
"Dance club?" He snickered. "That wasn't me
either." He floated down to the carpet, seemed to sink
into it, his whole body disappearing, then resurfacing
on top of it. "Someone who looked like me, maybe."
She refused to believe him. "It was you, Paul. It
wasn't a look-alike. You mean you don't remember?"
"I remember last night. I went out, trying to find my
old neighborhood. But I couldn't find it, couldn't
remember where it was. So I came back here."
"You're putting me on, right? You were with your
buddies, sitting on cars, drinking beers, and when I
came out, you — "
"My buddies? What buddies?"
"I don't know their names. Frankie was one of
them. And the rest, I don't know."
"Frankie?" A smile slowly crossed his face, a smile
of recognition. "Yeah. Frankie. Hey — I remember
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him. Frankie Marcuso. Yeah. He was my neighbor.
Great guy. Wow. I'd forgotten all about him. Who else
was there?"
His whole face brightened when I mentioned his
friend, Melissa thought. I've been so scared of him,
too scared to realize how lonely andLirightened
he is.

"I don't know," Melissa replied, her mind whirling.

"I don't know your friends. They were creeps."
"Hey, wait a minute." He floated to his feet. "Don't
put my buddies down."
"Listen, is this some kind of joke or something?"
Melissa asked, leaning back against the windowsill.
"Are you putting me on?"
"No. No joke," he said quietly, looking away from
her.

"Then we have to figure this out," Melissa said,

supporting her chin with both hands. "Don't you see?
You weren't there last night and this morning. But you
were there."
"Huh?"
"You were in two places at once, Paul. Right?"
She waited for him to think about it. He looked very
confused, pacing rapidly back and forth the length of
her bedroom. "Yeah. I guess so. I was in two places at
once. So what does it mean?"
Melissa looked down at the floor, thinking hard.
The Paul at the dance club and at the parking lot had
seemed so different, so much more solid, so much
angrier, tougher, so much more — alive!
Alive!
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FEAR STREET
She stared at the ghost, floating so lightly, so
soundlessly back and forth across the carpet. And she
had an idea.
"Paul, I think I know."
He stopped pacing. "I think I know too." He stared
at her angrily. 'This is all a trick, isn't it? Some kind
of stupid trick to stall for time."
"No. Stop. That isn't it—"
"I should've known," he muttered to himself, turn-
ing his back on her.
"Paul, just listen to me. I think maybe I've figured
out what's happening."
He didn't turn around.
She decided to say it anyway. "We just assumed you
were a ghost from the past," she said.
"Huh? What do you mean?" he asked without
turning around.
"We assumed that you died some time ago. You
died in the past, and you've come from the past to the
present to avenge your death."
"Yeah, well ... of course," he said, obviously con-
fused, not understanding where her thoughts were
leading. He turned around and looked at her skepti-
cally, waiting to see what came next.
"Well, maybe we were wrong," Melissa said, strug-
gling to get her idea straight in her own mind. "What
if you are a ghost from the future?"
"What? You mean like some stupid science-fiction
movie or something?"
"No. Not that. Just think a minute. What if you
haven't died yet? What if you're still alive?" As she
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said it, it all became clearer to Melissa. She knew she
was right. She had to be right.
"You mean — "
"I mean you're a ghost from the future, Paul. You
haven't died yet. You've come back in time, back to a
time when you're still alive."
"It doesn't make any sense," he said, scowling. "I
told you, you've totally lost it."
"Just think about it!" Melissa cried, too excited to
get exasperated with him. "The Paul I saw at the
dance club last night, the Paul with all his buddies —
he was still alive. And the Paul who followed me at the
supermarket parking lot this morning — that Paul is
still alive. Don't you see? You've come back in time
from the future. In this time — now — you're still
alive, Paul. You're still alive!"
Without thinking, she ran over to him and happily
threw her arms around his shoulders. She felt nothing,
nothing but cold air.
Feeling foolish, she stepped back. He was looking
hard at her, still thinking about what she had said.
"In other words," he said slowly, "you haven't
killed me yet."
His words sent a chill down her back. She dropped
on her knees onto her bed. "No," she said quietly, "I
haven't killed you yet. That's why I had no memory of
killing you. I haven't done it."
"But you're going to." He stared at her accusingly.
"You're going to."
"No!" she cried. "No! Don't say that! I won't! I
can't! I promise I won't!"
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FEAR STREET

"Fm dead," he said glumly. "Fjp dead and trapped

in thislimbo — and you did it."
"No!" Melissa cried, her voice choked with horror.
The thought of killing Paul — of killing anyone — was
too terrifying to think about. "No! Please, listen!
Don't you see? This is a second chance, Paul. A
second chance for both of us. I won't kill you. I won't!
Just go away. Go away from this house — and stay
away! If you're not here, there's no way I could kill

you."
"Fm already a ghost," Paul said sadly. "It's the live
Paul who has to stay away."
"Of course. Don't you see? That's why you've come
back, Paul. You didn't come back to earth to kill me
and avenge your death. You came back to earth to
prevent your death! You can do it! You can stop
yourself from getting killed!"
His smile was radiant, mixed with the sunlight
streaming into the room, a clean, white light, so bright
Melissa had to shield her eyes with her hand. When
she lowered her hand, Paul was standing in front of
her.
It was his turn to try to hug her. He leaned down.
His arms went around her shoulders* "Can you . . .
feel anything?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered truthfully. "It isn't cold. The
air is warm now. I can almost feel you, Paul."
Still smiling, he stepped back. "I'm getting strong
again. Thanks, Melissa."
"I didn't really do anything," she said uncomforta-
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bly. She suddenly realized, to her surprise, that she
cared about him, about what happened to him.
"Yeah, you did. You helped figure this all out. You
helped me to have a second chance. And I'm not going
to blow it. I'm not."
"I'll help," she said, thinking about how sweet and
boyish he was once you got past the tough exterior, the
bitterness in his eyes. "I'll take you to him. I'll take
you to the live Paul, tonight! You've got to warn him.
You've got to stop him from getting killed!"

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17

jFaul's house stood in a line of graying

clapboard row houses in a run-down neighborhood
west of the Old Village. A scrawny black cat scratched
through a torn plastic garbage bag on the front stoop.
A few stoops down the row, two teenage girls in jeans
and black leather jackets were having a loud argu-
ment, ignoring a neighbor, who leaned out a ground-
floor window, pleading desperately for them to shut
up.
Melissa parked the car and locked it. She wondered
if the car would be okay in this neighborhood.
At first, Paul didn't recognize the house. "This isn't
it," he said. "It doesn't look right."
"But you said Frankie was your neighbor, right?"
Melissa insisted. "Well, I looked up Frankie's address
in the phone book. He lives at thirty-six. So your
house must be thirty-four or thirty-eight."
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Paul, his face as gray as the evening light, shook his
head uncertainly and looked up at the dark, dirty
windows of the houses. "Maybe," he said finally, his
voice a whisper. "Maybe."
Two teenage boys, wearing only jeans and T-shirts
despite the coolness of the evening, came running at
full speed around the corner. Melissa had to leap to
the side to get out of their way. They laughed and kept
running without turning back.
To her surprise, Paul was already halfway up the
steps to number thirty-four. "This is it," he said. "Yes.
This is my house. There's my name on the mailbox.
Starett. I can remember it now. All of a sudden, I have
all these memories." He didn't seem happy about
them, only overwhelmed, filled with sadness, filled
with apprehension. "I'm going in," he said. "Come
with me."
"I can't," she called up to him. "He'll see me."
He turned and looked down at her from the top of
the stoop. "You're right. Okay. Wait for me. Wish me
luck." He tried to make it sound light, but his waver-
ing voice revealed how worried he was.
"Good luck," Melissa said, sitting down uncom-
fortably on a cold granite step. She watched him
walk through the front door without opening it. If
he succeeds, if he can communicate with the live
Paul, he'll go away and I'll never see him again, she
thought.
To her surprise, she wasn't sure how she felt about
that.
* * *
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FEAR STREET
The ghost Paul floated through his old living room,
dark and empty. The furniture looked familiar even
though a few seconds earlier he had no recollection of
any of it. He stopped to rub his hand over the worn
corduroy couch.
Without realizing it, he cried out. It was as if he
were dying all over again, losing everything, losing
this house, his friends, losing his memories, every-
thing that mattered to him.
I can't go through with this, he thought. It's just too
painful. I can't bear it.
He heard a noise in the back. The sound of shoes
scraping against the floor. A cough.
He moved away from the old couch and headed
toward the back. His bedroom was there, he suddenly
remembered. He could picture it so clearly. The long,
narrow room. The bunk bed against the wall. The
folding chair in front of the low, white counter that
served as his desk.
The door to his room was open. The light was on.
He hesitated a few feet from the doorway. He could
feel his energy level surge.
Without any further hesitation, he slid silently
through the doorway and floated into the narrow
room.
And saw — himself.
Sitting on the lower bunk, illuminated by the
shadeless, red table lamp on the low counter, there he
was. How strange to walk into a room and find
yourself. How frightening.
How sad.
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The ghost Paul drifted closer, into the center of the
narrow room. The live Paul tilted a beer can up to his
mouth until it was empty. Then he crushed the can in
his hand and tossed it toward the small, black waste-
basket across the room.
He was dressed identically to the ghost, his denim
jacket open to reveal a yellow T-shirt underneath, his
jeans faded and stained. He ran his hands back
through his long, black hair and stood up somewhat
shakily.
The ghost started to call to him, then stopped. Paul
had walked to the kitchen and pulled the phone book
out from the shelf under the counter. He opened it
and began searching for a name, moving his finger
slowly down the columns.
Then he picked up the phone, an uncertain look on
his face. He pushed a number, referring back to the
phone book twice as he pushed it. He leaned his elbow
against the counter and waited.
"Hello. Is Melissa there?"
The ghost moved closer, realizing that Paul was
calling Melissa.
"No. This is just a friend," Paul said, sounding
disappointed. "My name? It doesn't matter." He
hung up the receiver and kicked the counter angrily.
"It doesn't matter," he repeated bitterly to himself.
Paul kicked the counter again, then, looking out the
window, started to button his jacket.
He's going out. I'd better materialize now, the ghost
thought.
He stepped in front of Paul.
129
FEAR STREET
"Don't be afraid."
Paul finished buttoning his jacket, turned, and
headed out the kitchen door.

"Can you hear me?" the ghost called, following

behind him.
Paul quickly walked back to his room, picked up a
hairbrush from the dresser top, and, tilting his head to
the side, began brushing his dark hair straight back,
staring at himself in the rectangular mirror above the
dresser.

"Turn around!" the ghost yelled. "You've got to

hear me. You've got to!"
Whistling to himself, Paul tilted his head the other
way and continued to brush his hair.
Desperately, the ghost stepped forward and grabbed
at the hairbrush. But his hand went right through it.
Paul's quick brush strokes weren't interrupted.
"Please — turn around! Can't you hear me?"
There was no answer. Paul didn't see or hear him, or
even sense a presence in the room.
The ghost concentrated his energy, tried harder to
appear. Paul turned off the lamp and headed down the
long hall, then out the front door.
Would he run into Melissa on the stoop? the ghost
wondered. He floated through the front wall of the
house. Paul was already down the steps and jog-
ging toward Davis Street. Melissa was nowhere to
be seen.
Paul entered Aldo's, the liquor store on the corner.
A minute later he came out carrying a brown paper
bag. Walking jauntily, he headed out to the parking lot
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at the side of the store. "Hey, Kenny, Frankie — what

are you bozos doing here?"
His buddies, talking under the silver light of a low
street lamp in front of the parking lot, interrupted
their conversation and came hurrying up to him.
"You got beer?" Frankie asked, grabbing at the brown
paper bag.
"Not for you," Paul told him, swinging the bag out
of his reach. "Beer makes you drool."
"So?"
"Where's your rich girlfriend?" Kenny, a skinny
guy with a serious acne problem, asked Paul.
Paul flashed him a dirty look. "Who?"
"That rich girl with all the hair."
Frankie and Kenny both burst into high-pitched
laughter and slapped each other a hard high five.
"You been giving her what she wants?" Kenny
asked, leering.
Frankie made another unsuccessful grab for the
beer.

"I can have her anytime I want," Paul bragged,

tapping himself on the chest. His two friends laughed
again.
"Then how come she came to see me?" Frankie
asked, grinning. "This morning. At the supermarket."
"So that 's why she was at the supermarket." Paul
glared at Frankie suspiciously. "Whafd she want?"
"My bod, I guess." Frankie and Kenny exchanged
high fives again.
"Right," Paul said sarcastically. "What'd she
want?"
131
FEAR STREET

"Give me a beer and I'll tell you/' Frankie said.

"Me too," Kenny added quickly, reaching out his
hand.

"Tell me, or you'll be eating the cans," Paul said

menacingly.
The grins faded from their faces. It was obvious that
they were afraid of him. "She came to ask me about
you," Frankie admitted.
"What'd she want to know?" Paul demanded.
"Hey, you guys," a man's voice called from the
street. "Get moving. Don't hang around here."
They looked up to see a policeman's head poking
out of a black-and-white cruiser.
"We were just going, Officer," Paul said politely,
hiding the bag containing the six-pack behind his
jacket.
They piled into Kenny's old Chevy Malibu, parked
at the edge of the lot. The ghost Paul followed,
wondering how to reach the live Paul, how to give him
a sign. But he sank deeper into despair, feeling that he
was destined to fail.

"Where we going?" Paul asked, seated beside his

ghost in the backseat.
"We can't go anywhere. We've got no money,"
Frankie said.

"Well, there are ways to get money," Paul said,

grinning.
More memories came rushing back to the silent
ghost at Paul's side, night memories, memories of
fear, of the blood pumping at his temples, of scram-
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bling through windows, of desperate, dark searches, of
grabbing what should have been his.
"You really break into houses?" Frankie asked,
turning around in the passenger seat to look at Paul.
Paul nodded, swallowing a mouthful of beer. "No
big deal."
"All those houses on Fear Street?" Kenny asked,
more than a little awe in his voice. "All those stories in
the paper? They're really about you?"
"I said there are ways to get money," Paul said
smugly.
"They're calling you the Fear Street Prowler,"
Kenny said. "You're famous!"
"I don't care about that," Paul replied quietly,
staring out the window as the dark houses and trees
whirred by.
Paul's words jarred more memories for his ghost.
Yes. Of course. How could he have forgotten? He —
Paul — was the Fear Street Prowler.
But now he had to stop Paul. He had to keep him
away from Fear Street.
But how?
Everything went white. He was leaving, leaving
them, leaving the car, drifting into the blank world
where he spent so much of his time. Struggling to stay
with his live self, the ghost faded, ceased to exist.
When he returned, it was some time later. The car was
parked by the side of a road.
Where were they? The ghost could see a tilted street
sign up ahead, fear street. He floated over the lawn
133
FEAR STREET
as Paul made his way around the side of the rambling
old house, keeping against the wall, tight in the
shadows. He was about to break into a house.

No, thought the ghost. No. I've got to stop this.

These break-ins will lead to his death. To my death.
But what can I do?
In the dark he saw a rake tilted against the house a
few feet from where Paul stood. Til lift the rake, he
thought. Til swing the rake. If I can frighten him,
maybe he won't break into this house.
Since fading into the blank, white world, he felt
stronger. Strong enough to lift the rake. He drifted
toward it, summoned his energy, wrapped himself
around the handle, and tugged.
Yes.
Yes, he was moving it.
Finally, he thought. Finally I can get through to
Paul.
He pulled the rake away from the wall, raised it in
the air, and —
Saw that he was too late. Paul had already lifted
himself up to the window ledge and was slipping
inside the dark house.
Too late. The Fear Street Prowler was about to
strike again.
The ghost let the rake fall to the ground, suddenly
feeling powerless and defeated. When the woman's
screams shattered the silence of the night air, he didn't
move.
A second scream. The sound of shattering glass.
And Paul came barreling out of a window, rolling as
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he hit the ground, on his feet in seconds, and running
along the hedge toward the street.
The woman's screams continued. "Help! Help me!
Please, somebody — help me!"
The ghost watched Paul run to the car and pull the
back door open. Then, as Paul dived into the backseat,
the old Malibu roared away, its lights off, the back
door still open.
The screaming stopped. Lights came on all over the
house. The ghost didn't move. He floated there,
somewhere between this world and another, his mind
in turmoil, feeling so light, so invisible, so helpless —
so lifeless.

"Where'd you go?" the ghost asked.

Melissa cried out. "You scared me!" She had just
washed her hair and had a green bath towel wrapped
turban-style around her head. She wore a pale blue
cotton bathrobe over her pajamas.
"Sorry," the ghost said softly, staring out the bed-
room window.

"I couldn't wait for you. It was too creepy there,"

Melissa said apologetically. She sat down on the edge
of the bed, tucking her legs beneath her.
"It's where I grew up," he said bitterly.
"Please don't be angry," she said.
"I spent my whole life angry," the ghost said. The
darkness from outside the window seemed to seep
into him until he was all shadows. "Being poor can
make you angry. It can make you do all kinds of
things." 135
FEAR STREET

"Are you going to start putting me down again for

being rich?" she asked wearily.
"No." The shadows darkened. His voice grew even
softer, more distant. "I saw you that day at the mall. I
saw you get angry at your friend for making fun of that
girl, that girl who was poor. I know you're different."
He stopped. The room was silent for a long while.
"But what difference does it make?" he moaned.
"What happened after I left? Could he see you? Did
you talk to him?"
"No," the ghost explained. "There was no way. I
can't change anything. I'm going to be killed — again."
"No! I won't kill him! I won't kill you!" Melissa
cried.

"You won't be able to help it," Paul said bitterly.

"Then I'll go talk to him," Melissa said impulsively,
playing with the silver pendant around her neck.
"What? No. That's impossible!" Paul declared,
shaking his head. "No! You'll get hurt — "
"I'll go tell him to stay away from Fear Street. I'm
not invisible. He'll listen to me."
"Why should he listen to you?"
"I'll reason with him."
"Don't be stupid."
Melissa looked hurt. "I'm not being stupid. I'm
trying to help. You couldn't get through to him. So
who else is there to try? Only me. Think I want to go
see him? No. No way."
"You-you're doing this for me?" The ghost sudden-
ly sounded truly moved.
Melissa flushed and looked away. "Well, yes. But
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HAUNTED

I'm also doing it for me. I'm just so frightened that

you may be right. Fm so frightened that I can't
breathe! I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want your
insane story to come true. If there's anything I can do
to stop that from happening, I'll do it."
The ghost started to fade. Now he was just a dark
wisp of smoke, a thin shadow against the bedroom
wall. "Forget it. We can't change anything," he said
sadly and then vanished completely.

137
chapter

18

"XT

1 \ o, I can't tonight, Buddy. I was just

on my way out the door."
It was the next night. Melissa was preparing to drive
to Paul's. She adjusted the phone on her shoulder as
she attempted to brush her hair, which had decided to
pop up on both sides like two airplane wings.
"No, I really can't," she said, trying not to sound
annoyed.
Why did Buddy have to sound so concerned about
her every time they spoke? They couldn't have a
normal conversation anymore. All he did was worry
about her and ask questions to find out if she was back
to normal, if she had stopped seeing ghosts.
It was all so annoying. Why couldn't he just believe
her?

"Maybe we can go out tomorrow night," she said.

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"Call me at Delia's. I'll be staying there while my

parents are in Las Vegas. I really have to go now." And
she hung up the phone.
She stared at herself in the mirror. The two wings of
hair had drooped a little, but they still wouldn't lie
flat.
Maybe I am crazy, she thought. Driving off past the
Old Village to that horrible neighborhood to see that
creep. He's just going to tease me and say that I'm
coming on to him again, and it's going to be very
unpleasant.
But if he doesn't listen to me . . .
If he doesn't listen to me — is it possible that I really
am going to kill him?
No. No way. No way I'm going to kill anyone, not
Paul, not anyone.
No matter how many times she assured herself,
there was still a lingering doubt in her mind. And the
only way to get rid of that doubt was to talk to Paul.

Melissa parked the car in front of a fire hydrant,

locked it, and climbed the steps up to Paul's front
door. It was a cool, crisp night, almost cold, a preview
of autumn nights to come. Somewhere down the block
she could hear the steady thud of a basketball bounc-
ing off the pavement and the excited shouts of a
playground basketball game in progress.
She looked for a doorbell, but not finding one
knocked loudly, louder than she had intended.
"Steady, girl," she told herself, glancing nervously
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FEAR STREET
down the block. She pulled do\^n the sleeves of the
Shad^side High sweatshirt she was wearing over
straight-legged jeans.
She knocked again.
And waited.
The house was dark.

He isn't home, she thought, both disappointed and

relieved.
What would I say to him anyway? She had tried to
rehearse in the car, but hadn't been able to come up
with anything that didn't sound totally stupid.
She knocked again, then leaned over the side of the
stoop to peer through the dust-smeared front window.
No. No one coming.
With a loud sigh, she turned and walked down the
concrete stairs. She had started to unlock her car when
she heard laughter at the end of the block.
At first she ignored it. She started to slide behind
the wheel when she heard it again. She thought she
recognized Paul's laugh from that night at the dance
club.
She climbed back out of the car. It was a short walk

to the corner. Why not see if it's him?

Walking quickly along the cracked sidewalk, she
came to a small liquor store on the corner, a neon sign
in the window proclaiming Aldo's. A narrow parking
lot stood at the far side of the store. Illuminated by a
low street lamp, three boys were leaning against a red
Malibu in the parking lot, laughing and drinking from
brown paper bags.
They turned immediately when Melissa came into
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view, and stopped laughing. The boy in the middle,
sitting on the front bumper, was Paul.
She stopped at the edge of the parking lot. Paul
stood up and a smile crossed his face. He recognized
her. It was too late to go back to the car.
"Look who's here!" one of the other boys declared,
putting his paper bag down on the front fender.
Melissa recognized Frankie, the boy from the super-
market. She didn't know the third boy, the one with
the bad skin.

"You following me?" Paul called to her, straighten-

ing his dark hair.
The other two boys laughed.
"No way, man. She came to see me, " Frankie said,
punching Paul on the shoulder.
Paul swung around angrily and glared at Frankie.
Frankie backed away. "Just kidding, man. Chill out,
okay?"
Paul swayed unsteadily as he walked toward Melis-
sa. She realized he must have had a lot to drink
already.
"I — I wanted to talk to you," she said, staying on
the sidewalk near the street lamp, not going any
closer.

"She wants you, Paul," the other boy said.

"She wants what you've got, man," Frankie added.
The two boys laughed and banged their open hands
on the car. Paul ignored them and kept walking
slowly, unsteadily toward Melissa. He had an odd
expression on his face, almost a challenging expres-
sion.
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FEAR STREET
Melissa stood her ground, determined to say what
she Had to say, determined not to be frightened of
him. He looked so much like his ghost, she thought, a
crazy thought. He looked like his ghost, but without
the tenderness in his eyes, without the boyishness.
"Hey," he said, stopping a few inches in front of
her. The light from the street lamp reflected in his
dark eyes and made him look pale, almost ghostlike.
"You didn't answer my question. You following me?"
"I told you. I wanted to talk to you," Melissa said
impatiently.
"Oh, I see." He smiled. His breath smelled of beer.
He held up the can in the bag and offered it to her.
"Want a slug?"
Melissa shook her head. "You look like you've had a
few already tonight." Why did she say that? She was
so nervous, she didn't know what she was saying.
"Who are you — my mother?" he snapped, tilting
the can over his mouth. He finished the beer, then
tossed the bag onto the pavement.
"Listen, Paul—"
"How'd you know where to find me?"
"Paul, if you'd just let me—"
"How'd you know my name? How'd you know
where I was? What do you want anyway?" He smiled,
more a smirk than a smile. "You don't have to answer
me. You want to go somewhere quiet and have a

talk?"
He grabbed her wrist.
The two boys back in the parking lot cheered.
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HAUNTED
He glanced back at them, tightening his grip on her
wrist. "Let's lose those guys," he said, pulling her.
"No. Let go."
He didn't let go. "Hey, you came to see me, right?"
"Yes. I have something very important to — Stop.
You're hurting me, Paul."
Her protest only made him laugh. "No pain, no
gain," he muttered and laughed as if he had made a
very clever joke.
"Please— let go."
"Come on." Still holding her wrist, he pulled her
close to him. "You want to talk? We'll talk, Melissa.
Just the two of us."
He pulled her away from the parking lot, away from
the streetlight, into the dark.
No, she thought. Where is he taking me? I can't let
him. I've got to get away.
She pulled back, staring into his face, and froze with
fear. He looked so angry, so out of control.

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19

1 know where you live," he said sud-

denly.
"What?" Melissa wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.
"I found your house. On Fear Street."
"That's what I want to talk to you about," Melissa
said.

"You found my house, right?" He was twisting her

arm. She wasn't sure if he realized it or not. "So I
found yours. That's fair, don't you think?"
Melissa gave a hard tug and pulled free.
"Hey — " He looked confused, disoriented.
Melissa realized it was the effects of the beer. They
were standing in front of her car now. She began to
feel a little safer, a little less frightened.
"I want you to leave me alone," she said.
He laughed. "That's why you came to see me?" He
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put his hands in his jeans pocket, then took them out.
He didn't seem to know what to do with them.
"Please, don't laugh at me. I'm very serious. I want
you to leave me alone. Stay away from me. Stay away
from my house. It's very important."
A car roared by, tires squealing. The radio blared
through its windows at top volume.
Paul leaned toward her. "I don't get it."
"I really can't explain," she said. "I'm just warning
"
you —
"You're warning me?" he exploded. "Warning me?
You come to my neighborhood? You follow me?
You're warning me?"
"You don't understand. It's for your own good. Just
stay away from Fear Street."
She knew she wasn't getting through to him. She
knew all along that she was bound to sound stupid.
I just want to be away from here, she thought. I just
want to melt away, disappear.
"Don't worry. I'll wipe my feet before I come to
your street," Paul said bitterly, staring past her. His
face turned angry. He called her an ugly name, then
turned and started back toward the parking lot.
"Please listen to me," she called after him, feeling
like a fool. But what could she have said? What else
could she have told him? That his ghost had come to
her? That his ghost was trying to keep him from
getting killed?
For sure. That would really make the right impres-
sion on him.
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FEAR STREET

He's so tanked up on beer, he j)robably won't even

remember that I was here, she thought.
That idea didn't make her feel any better.
Suddenly feeling very tired, she climbed into the car
and headed for home. Paul's ghost warned me that I
wouldn't get through to him, she thought.
He was right.

The next evening Delia called just before dinner.

"Oh, hi, Delia," Melissa said, trying to pull on a
T-shirt and hold the phone at the same time. "I'll be
over right after dinner. I'm all packed for the week-
end. Ihave so much to tell you about. I've been dying
to—"
"There's a, slight hitch," Delia interrupted. "I'm
still at my cousin's. I got hung up here. I won't be able
to get back to Shadyside till tomorrow."
"You mean — " Melissa couldn't hide her disap-
pointment.
"Think you could stay home tonight and come
tomorrow?" Delia asked. "I'm really sorry."
"No problem," Melissa said. "But I don't think I'll
tell my parents. They'll only worry."
"I'm really sorry," Delia said. "But at least we'll
have tomorrow night and Saturday night. You'll be
okay, won't you?"
"Sure," Melissa told her. Besides, she thought, I
won't be alone. Paul is here.
Delia apologized a few more times. Then Melissa
said good-bye and hurried down to dinner.
* * *
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"Fm really worried about you," Mrs. Dryden said,

plucking a red thread off Melissa's white top. Dinner
was over, and her parents were just about to leave for
the airport.
"Mother, I'll be fine. Really." Melissa sat down at
the bottom of the stairs and watched tier father
struggle to close the suitcase. Pushing the side of it
didn't seem to help. Finally, he sat on it and success-
fully managed to bring the zipper all the way around.
"Well, what with this Fear Street Prowler still
around — "
"Do you have to bring that up?" Mr. Dryden
snapped, wiping his forehead with a white handker-
chief. "Melissa isn't even staying here. She'll be with
Delia. So why do you wa ~ make her nervous?"
"I don't, Wes," Mrs. Diyden said, searching the
front closet for something. "I just said I was worried.
There was a story in the paper yesterday about that
prowler. He broke into a house just down the block.
And the woman was home and surprised him."
"I really don't see the point of discussing the Fear
Street Prowter now," Mr. Dryden told his wife. He
buckled another suitcase and turned to Melissa. "You
will remember to lock both doors, right?"
"Right," Melissa said, rolling her eyes.
"When are you going to Delia's? Arc you packed?"
her mother asked.

"Yes, I'm packed." That was the truth. "I'm going

over there soon after you leave." That wasn't quite the
truth.

"Well, well call you tomorrow," Mrs. Dryden said.

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FEAR STREET

"Mother, I'm not ten years old, you know. I really

can manage."
"Where are my golf clubs?" Mr. Dryden demanded,
pushing his glasses up on his nose, spinning around to
survey the room.
"Golf clubs?" Melissa's mother looked as if she'd
never heard the words before. "Oh, dear. You did say
something about golf clubs, didn't you."
Mr. Dryden slapped his forehead in an exaggerated
manner, sending his glasses slipping down his nose
again.
"Hey — I thought this was a serious convention,"
Melissa teased.

"It is serious," he said, heading to the den closet to

get his clubs. "And I intend to get in some serious

It took nearly half an hour to load everything into

golf."
the car. Finally they drove off, after giving Melissa a
few more warnings, reminding her she could call her
aunt Kate if she had any problems, and telling her for
the twelve hundredth time where they had written
down the phone number of the hotel in Las Vegas
where they'd be staying.
Melissa watched them back down the drive. Then,
giving them a final wave as her father honked the
horn, she closed the front door and locked it.
All alone now. Even Marta had left, gone to Cincin-
nati to see her brother for a few days.
All alone. Except for a ghost.
She felt jumpy, nervous, butterflies in her stomach.
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How silly.
It was so quiet. That was the problem. It was much
too quiet.
She walked into the den, searched through the stack
of CDs, and put one on the player. Music flooded the
room. Loud, pounding dance music. She danced
across the floor by herself for a few seconds. She felt
like dancing. Where was Buddy? They could go back
to Red Heat and dance till they dropped. Then she
wouldn't feel so nervous.
Red Heat made her think of Paul. Paul and his
friends out in the parking lot.
The loud music was making her nervous. She
danced over to the CD player and shut it off.
What should she do? Watch TV? Maybe there was a
good movie on. She picked up the remote control,
clicked on the TV, and started speeding around the
dials.

"Hey — Tom Cruise and Paul Newman." She'd seen

the movie at least twice, but she started watching it
again. About half an hour later, she turned it off.
There were too many commercials. Every time she
started to get interested, they interrupted the film for
five minutes.
Now what? She paced back and forth in the den.
But that was only making her feel more nervous. This
is crazy, she thought. I'm an intelligent person. I
should be able to entertain myself for one evening
without going nuts.
She got a Coke from the refrigerator in the kitchen,
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FEAR STREET
then went up to her room to read in bed. She set the
Coke down on the table beside the bed and started to
get undressed. Then stopped.
"Hey, Paul — are you here?"
There was no reply.
She walked around the room, checking to see if
there was a spot of cold air, a sign that the ghost was
there.
"Paul?"
Where was he? Wasn't he at all interested in what
she had told Paul, in what had happened the night
before?
"Paul — are you here?"
Where did the ghost go when he wasn't there? Did
he just fade into nothingness? Or was he always
around, always watching her? Did he watch her un-
dress? The idea was sort of exciting.
Maybe he's here, watching me now.
"Paul?"
She decided to close the window even though it was
so hot. She pushed it down all the way and locked it.
Outside, she saw that it was a clear night, hot and still.
Nothing moved out there. Not a tree leaf. It was so
still, it looked unreal
Feeling strange, she took a long sip of the Coke. "I'll
just go to sleep," she said aloud. She looked at the
clock. It was eleven-thirty. Early, but she could proba-
bly fall asleep.
She got changed into her father's old pajama shirt
and slid under the covers. The bed felt warm, too
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HAUNTED
warm. She kicked the covers down to the foot of the
bed and turned out the lamp.
She closed her eyes, tried to relax. But it was too
hot. With a loud sigh, she climbed out of bed, walked
over to the window, unlocked it, and pulled it up
halfway. There was no breeze at all, but at least it let a
little air into the room.
Back in bed, the sheets were damp from her perspi-
ration. She punched and prodded her pillow, trying to
get it right.
I can't sleep in here, she decided.
She got up and, without turning on a light, padded
across the carpeted hall to her parents' air-
conditioned room. Yawning loudly, she pulled back
the bedspread and climbed under the soft, cool sheet.
The bed felt big and safe. The room was dark and
fragrant from her mother's perfume. She felt snug and
safe as a little girl.
She drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
The noise woke her up. The digital clock on her
father's bed table said 12:13. She sat up, confused at
first, uncertain of where she was.
The noise again. A scrabbling outside, against the
side of the house. Something moved behind the
window curtains.
Melissa knew immediately what was happening.
Someone was trying to open her parents' bedroom
window.

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20

The Fear Street Prowler!

Melissa dropped her feet to the floor but didn't

stand up.
Was this really happening?
She heard the scrabbling sounds again, and a loud
noise that she recognized as a ladder being banged
against the clapboards.
It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. She
looked at the clock: still 12: 1 3. Time wasn't moving at
all!
She suddenly felt as if her heart had stopped too.
Frozen at 12: 1 3. I've stopped breathing, she thought. I
can't breathe. I can't move.
No. This isn't happening. I can't let this happen to
me.
She forced herself to stand up. She took a deep
breath. Then another.
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"Paul?" she called to the ghost in a quavering voice.

"Paul? Help me!"
No reply.
With a trembling hand, she reached over and
turned on the lamp on the bed table. Maybe that
would discourage him. Maybe the light would make
him go away.
She stood there, frozen by the bed, watching the
window.
Go away, go away, go away.
She saw an arm reach up from outside the window
and push the window open. Then she saw the long,
black hair. Then the denim jacket.
He stepped easily into the room, the curtains bil-
lowing behind him.
"Paul!"
He brushed off his jeans and scowled at her.
Was it the ghost? Or was it the live Paul?
"I told you," he said, staring into her eyes. "I told
you I knew where you lived."
It was the live Paul.
"Get out of here, Paul," Melissa said. She hadn't
moved from beside the bed. "Get out of my
house!"
She realized she was only slightly relieved that it
was Paul and not the Fear Street Prowler. Paul looked
dangerous, as dangerous as any prowler.
And he looks so cold, Melissa thought. Cold and
calm, not the least bit nervous about breaking into my
house.
He stepped to the center of the room. His dark hair
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FEAR STREET

fell over his forehead. "I told you," he repeated. "I

told ^ou I knew."
"Please, Paul—"
"I'm not good enough for you, huh?"
"Let's not talk about it now, okay?" She backed
away from him until she was against the wall. "You've
been drinking and — and I just want you to go."
"But I've come to show you how good I am." His
mouth formed an ugly smile, a cold, menacing smile.
"I'm good enough. Really. I'm real good."
"Paul, I'll call the police."
He snickered. "I'm too fast for the police."
"Go home, Paul. Go home and I won't tell anyone
you did this."
I'm all alone here, she thought suddenly. I'm all
alone in this house with him.
She had stood up to him — till now. She could feel
the bravery wearing off, feel the terror taking over.
He could do anything, she thought, watching him
come toward her.

She remembered her vow to the ghost: "I would

never kill you. Never. Never. Never." But watching
this smirking, cold-eyed Paul approach, the words
seemed empty, false.
What if he tried to kill her?
Would she fight back? Would she defend herself?
No. No. No. This can't be happening. I can't kill
him.
But what if . . .
"Come on, Melissa. No more teasing. No more
games. Tonight's the night."
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"No. Go away. I mean it. Just turn around and go

back out the window."
"But I'm good enough for you, Melissa. You'll see.
I'm real good." He spoke quietly, but his eyes revealed
excitement, every word sounded a threat.
Suddenly a picture flashed into Melissa's mind.
The pistol. The little silver pistol.
It was right there in front of her, just a few feet away
in her father's night table. Waiting. Waiting for her.
Waiting to protect her from Paul.
No. No. No way.
She wouldn't shoot it, of course. She would only use
it to frighten him away.
She was so alone, so totally alone. Did she really
have a choice?

Was she about to make the ghost's prediction come

true?

I don't care, she thought, her emotions swirling,

staring at Paul, reading the hatred in his eyes.
I don't care.
I have to protect myself.
I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
No. No. I can't.
She stood frozen against the wall, at war with
herself, watching him approach. Then, without even
consciously making the decision, she dived forward
and pulled open the slender drawer.
There it was. Waiting. Waiting for her.
The small pistol seemed to shine in the lamplight.
She hesitated for only a second. Then she grabbed it.
It felt cool in the palm of her hand.
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FEAR STREET
Paul grinned at her from across jthe bed. She raised
the pistol, and his grin slowly faded.
"Get out, Paul," she cried, her voice trembling. She
held the little pistol with both hands to keep it steady.
"Get out right now. I mean it."
"Whoa, babe." He raised his hands, as if in surren-
der.

"Out. Get out." She took a cautious step toward

him, pointing the pistol at him, studying his face.
"Wow. Is that a real gun?" He was making fun of
her.

"It's real," she said. "Please — just leave."

He stared into her eyes and slowly lowered his
hands. He seemed to be thinking it over, deciding
what to do.

"Go now and I won't tell anyone you did this,"

Melissa repeated. She gestured with the gun toward
the door. "Go. Please. Fm begging you."
But he didn't leave the room. Instead he walked up
to the queen-size bed and, with a quick, frightening
motion, grabbed the bedspread and tugged it off the
bed.
He let the bedspread drop to the floor and, stepping
over it, ran his hand over the smooth, pale blue sheets.
"Paul, what do you think you're doing?"
He smiled at her, his hand still on the sheet. "Nice
bed," he said. "So fancy. So clean."
"I'm warning you — "
"Come over here. Why don't you and me ..." He
patted the bed.
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HAUNTED

She uttered a low cry and ran to the door. She didn't
have a plan. She just knew she had to get out of there.
He moved quickly and blocked the doorway. Melis-
sa couldn't stop herself. She ran right into him.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, grabbing her
by the shoulders and shoving her back. She stumbled,
startled by the force of his push, but caught her
balance against the foot of the bed.
She gestured with the pistol. "Out. Get out." Her
voice revealed how terrified she was. He had blocked
her path and shoved her. What else would he do?
He took a few slow, casual steps toward her. "Go
ahead," he said, an odd smile on his face.
"What?"
"Go ahead. Use the gun. Shoot me."
Melissa kept it pointed at his chest. "Think I
won't?"
He took a step toward her, then another. "Go
ahead. Use the gun. Go ahead."
"Paul— no."
He came closer, and closer. He was laughing at her
now, challenging her, daring her to shoot him.
"Come on, girl. Shoot me. Use the gun. Let's see
you do it."
"No. Stop right there. I mean it, Paul."
But he kept coming, one step at a time.
Her hand tensed. The gun was pointed at his chest,
just inches away from him.
All she had to do was pull the trigger.
But she knew she couldn't do it.
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FEAR STREET
"No. No. No."
No # way. She couldn't pull the trigger. She would
never be able to pull the trigger.
She started to lower the gun.
"No. I can't use it."
"Then I'll use it!" Paul cried and swung his arm up
fast, startling her. He grabbed at the pistol. She tried
to pull her hand away, but was too slow. His hand
missed the gun and slapped against hers.
The pistol dropped to the carpet.
They both stared down at it for a long second.
Then they both dived to the floor, scrambling
frantically to reach it first.

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21

Melissa's elbow hit the floor hard as she dived. The

pain shot up her arm as she reached for the pistol.
I've got it! she thought.
But with an angry groan, Paul shoved her away. The
gun fell out of her hand, and he picked it up.
Breathing hard, his face crimson, he stood above
her, waving the pistol in front of him. "You rich snob!
You're dead now!"
He kicked at her, but Melissa rolled away and
climbed quickly to her feet.
They stared at each other, breathing noisily.
"What good is all your money now?" he cried.
Melissa took a step back, eyeing the door. "Put
down the gun, Paul. Stop being so dramatic. You're
not going to use it either."
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FEAR STREET

His eyes flared. "Want to bet?" He called her a

stream of names.
He could do it. He could shoot me.
The bedroom door seemed so far away. And he was
standing between her and the door.
She held up her hands as if to say, Okay, I give up.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
He's going to shoot me, Melissa thought. I'm going
to die now.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the ghost was standing next
to Paul.
She blinked, thinking she was seeing double at first.
Flickering in and out of view, the ghost stared first
at her, then at Paul. "No! I can't let this happen!" the
ghost cried.
Paul didn't react. Melissa realized he couldn't see
the ghost. He kept the pistol aimed at her chest.
"I can't let him do this to you!" the ghost cried.
Melissa tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The ghost lunged forward and reached for the pistol
in Paul's hand.
Melissa expected his hand to sail right through the
pistol. But it didn't.
The live Paul cried out in surprise as the gun flew
from his hand.
With one quick motion, the ghost pulled the pistol
away and tossed it toward Melissa.
"Hey, what the—" Paul cried.
The gun sailed across the room.
Melissa had to jump up to catch it.
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As her hands wrapped around it, the gun went off.
"No!" Her scream was as loud as the explosion of
sound between her hands.
Paul groaned loudly and grabbed his chest. A dark
red circle formed on the front of the denim jacket.
"Oh, no," he groaned. "Not me . . ."
He dropped to his knees. Blood trickled down onto
the white carpet. Holding his chest, he slumped face
forward onto the rug. He didn't move.
"Paul—" Melissa let the gun fall to the floor.
The red puddle spread out from beneath Paul's
body.
"Paul!" Melissa ran forward, bent down over him,
turned him over.
"Paul!"
He was dead.

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22

JVlelissa stepped back from the body.

She looked down and saw that her bare feet were
stained with blood.
"Oh, no. No—"
The ghost was right beside her, staring down at
Paul's body.
"So that's how it happened," he said, his voice a
soft, stunned whisper.
"But why? Why did you do it? Why did you sacrifice
yourself?"
He didn't answer.
"Why did you knock the gun away, Paul? Why did
you let me kill you?"
He stood so close to her, yet the air wasn't cold.
"I — I couldn't stand to see you killed," he said
finally.
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"What? But you knew I would kill Paul if you took

the gun from him."
"Yes, I knew what would happen," he said, turning
to look into her eyes. "But I couldn't let him kill you.
I— I care about you too much."
"I care about you too," Melissa criecL-
The ghost pulled her close and wrapped his arms
around her. He pulled her face up to his and they
kissed.

"I can feel you, Paul!" Melissa cried. "I really can. I
can feel you now."
She reached for him, but he floated away from her, a
sad smile on his face. He started to speak, but the
words caught in his throat. "I-Fm going, Melissa. I
think I can rest now. I've been so unhappy. Caught
between two worlds. Not knowing why. Not knowing
what happened to me. Thank God it's over."
"But, Paul—"
"I won't forget you. I won't ever forget you. Don't
feel guilty for killing me. Don't ever feel guilty. You
were the only one who ever cared about me. The only
one . . ." The words faded as he did.
He was a shadow, then the outline of a shadow. And
then he was gone.
She stood staring at the spot where he had stood.
She could still feel his arms around her, still feel the
warmth of his lips.
But she knew he was gone forever.
It took her a long time to realize that someone was
pounding on the front door.
163
FEAR STREET
Who could it be this late?

She stepped around Paul's body and ran to the

bedroom window. She pulled it open, stuck her head
out, and looked below to the front porch.
"Buddy!"
He backed up to the edge of the porch and looked
up at her, illuminated by the yellow porch light
"Buddy, what are you doing here? How did you — "
"Lissa, are you okay?" he shouted up to her. "I went
over to Delia's, but you weren't there. I got worried, so
I came here. When I got out of my car, I heard a loud
noise — like a gunshot. I was so worried — "
"I-I'm okay," she called down. "I'm so glad to see

She ran down the stairs and pulled open the front
you."
door. "I'm so glad you're here," she repeated. "I need
help."
She led him up to her parents' bedroom. He
stopped short when he saw the body sprawled on the
carpet. He grabbed her arm, his face filled with
confusion. "Lissa, is that your ghost?"
"No," she said. 'That's not him. The ghost is gone,
Buddy. Gone for good. That's just some prowler."
"I'm so glad you're okay," he said, putting his arm
around her. "Thank God it's over."
That's just what Paul said, Melissa thought.
She leaned against Buddy as they walked down-
stairs to phone the police.

164
About the Author

R. L. STINE is the author of more than a dozen

mysteries and thrillers for Young Adult readers.
He also writes funny novels and joke books.
In addition to his publishing work, he is Head
Writer of the children's TV show "Eureeka's
Castle." And he is Editorial Director of Nickelo-
deon magazine.
He lives in New York City with his wife, Jane,
and son, Matt.
WATCH OUT FOR

HALLOWEEN PARTY
Available as an Archway book

The Halloween party was well under way when

the lights went out. That was to be expected
at a spooky Halloween party on Fear Street.
But when the lights came back on, there was
a boy on the floor with a knife in his back.
Just a halloween prank? Maybe. Maybe not.

For Terry and Niki the trick-or-treating had

turned to terror. To their horror, they realized
that someone at the costume party was dressed to
kill!
Where Your Worst Nightmares Live.

R. L Stine
WE LCOME TO FEAR STREET
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FROM THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE

FINAL FRIENDS
SERIES

No one does it better than Christopher Pike. His

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Haunted

DATE DUE
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"■FT"

Oct to '$7

-OUM
^

APR ) 4 2(105

ary
Notre Dame High School Libr
San Jose, Cali forn ia 951 12
Don't listen to the stories they tell you about Fear
Street. Wouldn't you rather explore it yourself . . . and
see if its dark terrors and unexplained mysteries are
/ true? You're not afraid, are you?
The Night Stalker
Melissa woke up screaming. The prowler was at her
window... or was he? The recent headlines about a
Fear Street prowler Had everyone on edge. Her father
* now kept a loaded pistol in his bedroom. That made it
even more frightening— and real.
j Then the haunting began: her new car driving as if
someone else had taken control; her birthday
L>~ prefce^s ripped open by unseen hands; an invisible
force ttying to push her out the bedroom window.
Out of the shadows of her bedroom came a menacing
figure. Who was he? Did he really come from beyond
the grave? And why had he come to kill her? If
Melissa doesn't solve the mystery fast, these questions
will haunt her— to death!

o l"767U"00375' o

ISBN Q-b71-7MbSl-Q