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

become an organic farmer. At any rate, both of my parents were convinced that out here in Entrails we could live like kings for very little money, and they weren’t about to take the advice of a fifteen-year-old girl who didn’t want to move.
    My parents bought a new house that was about five times the size of our old house in the Detroit suburbs. “And we got it for a song!” my father crowed. It was a foreclosed property; the previous owners had just stopped paying the bills and left town.
    Our new house was enormous, but the house next to ours was even bigger—a mansion four stories tall with two towers that popped up from the roof, reminding me of turrets on a medieval castle.
    â€œThat house next door is an amazing example of Victorian architecture, Hannah,” my mom declared when we first arrived in our new neighborhood.
    â€œOur family and the neighbors next door have the best houses in the whole town,” my dad added. “In this town, we’re like royalty.”
    That was the moment I first glimpsed something disturbing—something I did my best to ignore. In an upstairs window of the house next door, a shadowy figure parted the lace curtains and stared down at our car. I had the distinct sense that someone up there was looking at us—sizing us up. But I told myself I was just feeling anxious about being in a new place.
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    My parents and I went inside to check out the long hallways and empty rooms in our new house. I was trying to decide between two large bedrooms on the second floor when someone rang the doorbell.
    I heard my mother open the door.
    â€œHello. I wanted to welcome you to our neighborhood.” It was a woman who spoke with a smooth, formal voice.
    Curious, I stepped out of the second-floor bedroom and leaned over the hallway banister to listen more closely.
    â€œMy name is Rebecca Perfect,” the woman announced. “I live in the house next door.”
    â€œOh, nice to meet you!” In contrast, my mother’s voice sounded nasal, high-pitched, and nervous. “Your house is just beautiful!”
    From my perch, I saw my mom hurriedly tucking her frizzy hair behind her ears—something she does when she feels embarrassed or intimidated.
    â€œI noticed you have a teenage daughter,” said the woman.
    â€œWhy, yes. Hannah is fifteen. Hannah, are you up there?” My mother turned and saw me peeking over the banister. “Oh! There you are, Hannah. Come say hello to our next-door neighbor.”
    I trudged downstairs to meet Rebecca Perfect.
    You’ve got to hand it to Mrs. Perfect: On first impression, she really lives up to her name. She wore a neatly tailored pantsuit, designer shoes with tiny heels, and black leather gloves. Not a hair was out of place. She smiled with approval, as she swiftly eyed me from head-to-toe.
    â€œHi,” I said, extending my hand.
    â€œDoes Hannah babysit?” Mrs. Perfect directed her question to my mother as she shook my hand with a limp grip that was more of a pinch than a handshake.
    â€œOh, yes. Hannah is a very experienced babysitter. Right, Hannah?”
    â€œI’m so glad,” said Mrs. Perfect, before I had a chance to answer. “I realize this is a last-minute request, but my husband and I have a very important engagement tonight. Could you come over to our place at about seven o’clock, Hannah?”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “But don’t your kids go trick-or-treating on Halloween night?”
    â€œThey prefer to celebrate the holiday at home.”
    I’d like to tell you that I had some sense of foreboding about a last-minute babysitting invitation on Halloween night, but I didn’t. I was thrilled, even relieved. For one thing, it was nice to have any kind of social invitation in a town where I knew absolutely nobody. Besides, I’ve always liked kids, probably because children and babies have always been drawn to me. Babies like