Nightmare Hour

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Illustrator Credits

Introduction

Pumpkinhead

Alien Candy

The Most Evil Sorcerer

Nightmare Inn

I'm Not Martin

The Black Mask

Afraid of Clowns

The Dead Body

Make Me a Witch

The Ghostly Stare

About the Author

Back Ads

Also by R.L. Stine

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY CLIFF NIELSEN

T
he pumpkin farm stretched before me under a gray afternoon sky. I planned to pick out a big, round pumpkin for a Halloween jack-o'-lantern. But it had been a warm autumn, and as I made my way through the rows of pumpkins, I realized I'd come too late. Most of the pumpkins were soft and rotting, with dark-purple spots spreading over their sides and swarms of insects crawling over the decaying rinds.

The sun went down as I continued my search. The air grew cold. I stopped when I heard a soft thudding sound. I watched as a pumpkin came rolling toward me. It rolled over wilted vines, over the flat, dark field--and stopped at my feet.

I stared at it. What had made it roll? The field was totally flat. Suddenly vines began to wriggle and twist. Another pumpkin came rolling over the ground. I turned and hurried away without a pumpkin.

When I wrote this story, I thought about that eerie, gray day--and the pumpkin field that came alive….

“
H
alloween is ruined!”
Mike declared. “It's no fun trick-or-treating while it's still light out! Why do we have to be home by eight o'clock?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Get in the car,” she told him. “And stop complaining. You know why there's a curfew this year.”

“Because parents are stupid,” Mike grumbled.

“Because those kids disappeared last Halloween,” I said. “And the Halloween before.”

Mike shrugged. “What's that got to do with us?”

“Come on, Mike,” I said. “Get in the car. Liz and I want to get going.”

“But I don't want to pick pumpkins. It's bor-ring.” Mike crossed his skinny arms over his chest and made his pouty face. “Why do we have to go?”

“Because we do it every year,” Mom replied patiently. She is used to Mike's tantrums. We all are.

“Let's skip it and pretend we went,” Mike said. He's a real wise guy. Mike is ten, two years younger than me, and he's angry all the time.

Mom says he can't help it because he's a redhead. “Redheads have tempers,” she says.

I don't know what red hair has to do with it. Mike is always growling and complaining and shaking his fists and looking for trouble.

He got into a fight in school last week and had two of his teeth knocked out. Luckily, they were already loose.

He looked like a jack-o'-lantern with those two teeth out. But when I made a joke about it, he punched me really hard
in the stomach and I almost puked up my whole dinner.

“Come on, Mike. Let's go,” I said. I gave him a playful bump from behind to get him moving.

He spun around and swung a fist at me. “Watch it, Andrew!”

“Hey!” I laughed. “It was an accident!”

“Your face is an accident!” Mike snapped.

“Come on, Mike,” my friend Liz chimed in. “I've never picked pumpkins before. You can help me find a good one.”

Mike likes Liz. He's usually on pretty good behavior when she's around. Still pouting, he climbed into the front seat of the car.

Liz and I rolled our eyes, relieved that we were finally on our way. We climbed into the backseat and buckled our seatbelts.

Liz is twelve like me, and she lives across the street. But her parents both work till late every day, so Liz spends a lot of time at our house.

We both gazed out the window, watching the trees whir past. Autumn leaves fell all around, like red and yellow rain. Soon the trees ended, and we zoomed past farms and fields plowed over for winter.

“Well, are you going to help me pick a pumpkin, Mike?” Liz asked.

“Yeah. Just don't let Andrew help you,” Mike replied. “Andrew's pumpkins are always rotten inside. Just like him.”

“Whatever,” I said. I knew he was just looking for a fight, but I really hate arguing with him all the time. Why does he always have to be so wired?

I peered out the window and saw an orange, pumpkin-
shaped sign on the side of the road. It said:
PALMER'S PUMPKIN FARM, 1 MILE
.

I pictured Mr. Palmer, the owner of the pumpkin farm. What a scary guy. He reminded me of one of his scarecrows: tall and skinny, wearing overalls that were way too big for him. He always walked so stiffly, patrolling his fields, staring at everyone with frightening, blank eyes that looked like deep, dark holes in his face.

“Here we are,” Mom said brightly. She turned into the long gravel driveway and followed it to the parking lot. Four or five cars were parked near the ragged wooden fence.

I climbed out of the car and stretched my arms over my head. It was a sunny day, cold for October. I could see my breath steam in front of me. The farm air smelled fresh and sweet.

A young woman in an orange parka and orange wool ski cap greeted us at the gate. “The pumpkins on the first hill are a little too ripe,” she told us. “And the ones near this gate have already been picked over. Try the next field.”

We thanked her and started through the gate. “Oh--one more thing…” she called after us. She pointed to the left. “See that tall, green wooden fence over there? Mr. Palmer doesn't want anyone near that fence, okay?”

“Why not?” Mike asked. “What's over there?” Typical Mike.

“That's Mr. Palmer's
private
pumpkin patch,” the young woman answered.

We made our way through the gate. The pumpkin fields stretched on forever, uphill then down, as far as I could see. Slender, green vines unfurled like long snakes over the dirt.
At the ends of the vines sat pumpkins--all different sizes, hundreds and hundreds of them, like orange balloons tethered to the ground.

Scarecrows on tall poles tilted over the pumpkins. They were just old coats stuffed with straw. But from a distance they looked like tired old men leaning against the wind.

“Hey, Andrew,” Mike whispered, trotting to keep up with Liz and me. “Let's check out Palmer's private patch. I'll bet he keeps the best pumpkins there.”

“No way!” I said. “Try not to get us in trouble today. Okay?”

“Wimp,” Mike muttered.

I ignored him. I really didn't want to fight.

My sneakers scraped over the hard dirt as I led the way to the rows of pumpkins. Peering into the glare of afternoon sunlight, I saw two kids at the top of the first hill. They came staggering down, struggling to carry an enormous pumpkin between them.

Mike laughed. “Look at those geeks. They'll never make it.”

He bent and scooped up a softball-sized pumpkin from the dirt. “Think fast, Andrew!” He tossed it at me.

Startled, I raised my hands too late. The pumpkin sailed over my shoulder and landed on the ground with a
splat
.

“Ooh--a ripe one!” Mike shouted, laughing.

He ducked as I heaved one at his head. He laughed again. “Missed me, Andrew! You throw like a girl!”

“Watch it, Mike!” Liz warned playfully. “I'll show you how a girl throws!” She bent and grabbed a half-rotted pumpkin to toss at him.

“Hey--whoa. Stop it!” Mom cried. “Mr. Palmer is watching you.”

Mr. Palmer stepped out from behind a scarecrow. He walked toward us, a scowl on his face. Despite the cold he had no coat. He wore baggy denim overalls over an orange flannel shirt. Beneath an orange baseball cap, turned sideways on his head, his greasy gray hair fell to his shoulders.

He had the weirdest beard I've ever seen. It was orange and stringy and hung from his cheeks in patches. It looked like the yucky stuff you find when you cut open a pumpkin.

He shook his head at us, those dark, empty eyes glaring so coldly.

Liz dropped the pumpkin she was about to toss.

Mom shivered. “These pumpkins are all picked over. Run up the hill. See if you can find some better ones. I'll catch up to you.”

We took off, making our way through the rows of pumpkins. As we reached the top of the hill, the wind gusted, blowing Liz's blond hair into her face. A cloud rolled over the sun, sending a shadow sweeping over the pumpkin field like a dark ocean wave.

“Hey!
Now
what is Mike doing?” I cried out, pointing. I saw him halfway down the hill, in the shadow of the tall green fence, tugging at the latch on the gate. “Mike! Get away from there!” I yelled.

He ignored me and tugged harder at the latch. Liz and I ran down the hill. We tried to pull Mike away. But he wouldn't let go of the latch.

“
Move away! Move away!
” a voice boomed from behind us.

With a startled gasp, I spun around to see Mr. Palmer
standing over us, hands at his waist, staring at us with those eerie scarecrow eyes.

Mike dropped the latch and stumbled back.

“That's my private collection,” Mr. Palmer said in a voice that seemed to come from deep in his chest. “My babies. My special babies. I don't think you want to see them.”

“Sorry,” Mike said quietly.

I've never heard Mike apologize to anyone about anything. But even my tough little brother withered under Mr. Palmer's icy stare.

Mr. Palmer scratched his stringy orange beard. Then, to my surprise, he reached out his big paw of a hand. He spread his fingers over the top of Mike's head--and squeezed.

“Not quite ripe,” Mr. Palmer said. “But it's getting there.”

Was that supposed to be a joke? Was he trying to be funny?

Liz and I let out nervous laughs.

But Mr. Palmer's expression remained cold and serious. He motioned to the fence. “Those are my experiments,” he said. “My babies. Stay away from my babies.”

“Uh…come on, Mike,” I stammered. “I saw a good pumpkin over there.” I pointed across the pumpkin field. Then I grabbed Mike's arm and tugged him away.

“What's
his
problem?” Mike muttered angrily. He glanced over his shoulder, but Mr. Palmer had disappeared. “Maybe I'll come back and
smash
his babies!”

“Calm down,” I said. “Just forget about it.”

“Mike is right,” Liz said. “Palmer is a creep. He had no right to squeeze Mike's head like that.”

“Mike asked for it,” I said. I hate it when Liz takes Mike's side.

Mike stared back at the tall fence. “What could be so special about those pumpkins? Why won't he even let us
see
them?”

“Who cares?” I snapped. “Let's just choose some good ones and get out of here.”

Mike kicked a pumpkin. It bounced once, then rolled down the hill. He laughed and kicked another one.

“Stop it,” I yelled. “You'll get us in even more trouble.”

“
Who cares?
” Mike shouted. He took off, kicking pumpkins as he ran.

“Stop!” I chased after him, slipped on something soft, and toppled over backward.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned, plopping down on a soft, rotting pumpkin. A sour aroma rose up around me.

I climbed slowly to my feet. The soft, wet pumpkin clung to the back of my jeans and my coat. I twisted around to see the pulpy, orange gunk stuck to me.

“Oh, sick,” Liz said, laughing.

Mike tossed back his head and laughed too.

That's when I lost it.

With a roar I ripped a rotting pumpkin off the ground. I heaved it at Mike's chest.

The soft rind split. Thick, orange pumpkin meat, seeds, and stringy white stuff ran down the front of his leather jacket.

My turn to laugh--but I didn't get a chance.

“What are you DOING?”

I heard Mr. Palmer's angry cry. He ran stiffly down the hill, his powerful arms raised above him like wings.

“What are you DOING?” he screamed. “These are living things!”

“Huh?” I said.

“Out!” Mr. Palmer bellowed. He motioned wildly toward the parking lot. “You are out of here. Come on. Get out.”

“What's going on? What
happened?
” Mom came running down the hill, stepping around pumpkins, her face twisted in confusion.