The Ooze (11 page)

“Attention, teachers and students. We will now all proceed to the auditorium for the Art Fair awards!”

“Please, please make a double line,” Mr. Ridgely ordered.

The class formed two lines and shuffled down the hall.

As I stepped into the auditorium Sharon tapped me on the arm. I barely recognized her.

“What are you doing wearing a dress?” I asked. Sharon usually wears pants and a vest with pockets. She says it makes her look like a real photographer.

“For the art awards today,” she answered, tugging at her hem. “I wanted to look nice.”

“Oh,” I yawned. Sharon gabbed away about the awards. I nodded sleepily. Her voice sounded farther and farther away.

“Helloooo. Vinny, are you with me?
Hey, Vin! Wake up!
” My head snapped up. Sharon's nose was about an inch away from mine. She waved her fingers in my face.

“Uh . . . sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

“What is with you today? It's like you're on another planet.” Sharon stared into my eyes.

“I didn't sleep much, okay?” I grumbled.

She shrugged and pushed her hair back from her face. “Well, fine. But you don't have to be a major grouch about it.”

“Do you mind?” Emily Nicholson shouted from a group of kids behind us. “You're blocking the door.”

Sharon wrinkled her nose at Emily. Then she
grabbed my arm and pulled me into the auditorium. “We need to sit near the front.”

Sharon dragged me down the aisle, past the rows of worn leather seats. “I want to sit close to the stage. I'm sure my project is going to win.”

I was sleepy. But not that sleepy. I locked my knees and screeched to a halt. “
Your
project!” I shouted. “Since when is it
your
project?”

“Try since always,” Sharon said matter-of-factly. “
I
was the one who thought of doing a photo collage.
I
was the one who came up with the theme—‘neighborhood garbage.'

“
I
was the one who took all of the pictures,” Sharon went on. “
I
was the one who developed them in my darkroom—”

“Oh, so I didn't do
anything?
” I cut in.

“All you did was glue them to the poster board and frame the picture.” Sharon tried to drag me into a seat.

I glared at her. I wouldn't budge.

“Okay. Okay,” she gave in. “I mean,
we
are going to win. All right?”

I gave her a “that's better” look and we sat down.

Mr. Emerson stepped up on stage and coughed into the microphone a few times. Then he started one of his long, long speeches. I closed my eyes and dozed off.

“ . . . And congratulations to all the students who
entered this contest. Everyone did a great job!” Mr. Emerson finished. He started clapping. Sharon nudged me in the side. I clapped, too.

Then Ms. Young, our art teacher, took the stage to give out the awards. The kids she announced marched up to the stage. Ms. Young handed them each a ribbon and a certificate, and Mr. Emerson shook their hand. Then they lined up behind him. Big deal.

“And in the photography category, the award goes to Sharon Lipp and Vinny Salvo,” Ms. Young said.

Sharon jumped up from her seat and pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”

She tugged on her dress and headed up the stage steps. I followed her, but I tripped on the last step and bumped into Mr. Emerson.

“Whoa, there,” he said. He grabbed my sweater to keep me from falling off the stage.

The entire auditorium rocked with laughter.

My face felt hot—and I knew it was red. My head down, I followed Sharon as she marched to the podium.

“I thought we would get a trophy, at least,” Sharon complained. We took our place at the far end of the line. “I worked so hard.”

Before I could argue with her, Mr. Emerson said, “Smile, everyone.”

Dustin Crowley, the school photographer, stepped up to take our picture for the school newspaper.

Dustin lifted the camera. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. “I
forgot to load the film. Um . . . stay right there. Be right back.” Then he raced out of the auditorium.

My eyes began to droop.

My glance fell to the floor—and I gulped.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

I saw shadows on the floor—six in all.

Six shadows—but only five winners on stage.

I counted the shadows again.

Definitely six.

My heart began to hammer in my chest as I stared at the sixth shadow. The one that didn't belong to anyone.

It shifted on the floor—changing into something that didn't look anything like a kid.

I tore my eyes away. Peered out into the audience.

I took a deep breath and tried not to glance down—but I couldn't help it. I did.

And gasped—as two twisted horns began to take shape. Then pointy teeth in an alligator snout. And big round eyes.

A thin body began to form. With long legs. And arms that ended in sharp claws!

I leaped back.

It was the shadow. The one I had seen in my bedroom!

The shadow started to slide across the stage. Across the shadows of all the winners—heading straight for me.

R. L. Stine, the creator of
Ghosts of Fear Street
, has written almost one hundred scary novels for kids. The
Ghosts of Fear Street
series, like the
Fear Street
series, takes place in Shadyside and centers on the scary events that happen to people on Fear Street.

When he isn't writing, R. L. Stine likes to play pinball on his very own pinball machine and explore New York City with his wife, Jane, and son, Matt.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Minstrel Paperback published by

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1996 by Parachute Press, Inc.

THE OOZE
WRITTEN BY STEPHEN ROOS

All 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 0-671-52948-X
ISBN 978-1-4424-8736-9 (eBook)

First Minstrel Books printing May 1996

FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.

A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.