Fear: 13 Stories of Suspense and Horror by R.L. Stine

increasingly blinding. I am flipping the antiglare visor down over my helmet,” he said, finally.
    â€œI am attempting to contact the light with a series of laser signals. . . . Nothing.”
    More silence behind the hum of the speakers.
    I wondered why he wasn’t speaking.
    â€œThe light is just out there,” he said, and I noticed that his voice had lost its commanding strength.
    â€œIf it is, in fact, God, it is not responding,” he spoke again, his voice weaker still.
    â€œI’m not sure what to do next. Even with this suit on, I’m sweating.”
    I stood, alarmed. “Tell him to come back,” I said.
    â€œCan’t,” the technician said, “we’ve lost two-way. That light is affecting our communication signals.”
    â€œHe’ll be okay,” said the man in the suit.
    The next time Dad spoke, he sounded drunk, though I knew he couldn’t be. “A strange feeling is taking hold of me—a certainty of what I have to do next,” he reported. “It’s as if I have no choice anymore. I know this is crazy but I can’t stop myself. I am going to the leave the module to go to the light.”
    â€œNo!” I shouted as a deafening crackle filled the control room.
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    It is now a year later and I am back on Earth living with my aunt and uncle. They have brought me to a special session of an investigative committee in Washington, D.C.
    I sit, anxiously waiting as a senator takes to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, this session of our committee is called to order. We have finally recovered the space module flown by John Biggs Boreidae. As you know, for some reason we have yet to understand, the heroic Mr. Boreidae chose to leave his spacecraft in a delusional attempt to go toward the light. However, we have recovered the badly charred module and discovered that its recorder caught these voices. What you are about to hear might be the voices of an alien race far more sophisticated than our own, or as the esteemed Dr. Peterson has suggested, it could, in fact, be the very voice of God.”
    I sat forward, my fists clenched in anticipation. In the next minute, the module’s recorder was played over the public-address system.
    Female voice: “Damned fleas! I don’t know how we got this infestation. The cat probably brought them in.
    â€œNothing gets rid of them! I’ve tried spraying insecticide. I’m sick of vacuuming. The only thing that works at all are these flea traps. They can’t help but jump to the lightbulb and then they fall on the sticky paper below.
    â€œIt’s weird to think that such tough little survivors have such a stupid streak. Who knows why they jump into the light? They just can’t help themselves, I guess.”

THE PERFECTS
    â–¼ JENNIFER ALLISON ▼
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    T he chances are pretty good that I’m going to be killed before daylight, and I can’t help but think this never would have happened if we hadn’t moved to Entrails, Michigan. I know there’s no point in thinking this way, but really, there’s nothing I can do but sit here and think. I’ve already panicked, banged on the bars of my cage, and searched for an escape. Now all I can do is consider how I got into this situation in the first place. Naturally, I find myself wishing I could rewind time—wishing I could go back and redo any of the events and choices that led me to the end of the road.
    Did I mention I wouldn’t be stuck here now if we hadn’t moved? That part certainly wasn’t my choice. My dad lost his job in Detroit and, when neither he nor my mother could find work in their fields, they got the bright idea to move to a small town in the country. My mother managed to find a teaching job but my father’s plans were vague: some days he said he planned to start his own business; other days he said he planned to write a bestselling novel or