Nightmare Hour by R. L. Stine Page A

away the seconds to my doom…
    â€œBut why do I have to have them out?” I whined. “I’ve grown attached to them!”
    Mom and Dad laughed. I can always make them laugh.It’s a talent that comes in handy whenever they’re angry at me. Of course, they weren’t angry today. But I always make jokes when I’m nervous.
    â€œJust think. No more of those horrible sore throats every time you catch a cold,” Dad said, his eyes on the door numbers. “No more swollen glands.”
    â€œWhoop-de-doo,” I muttered. “None of my friends have had their tonsils out. How come I have to have mine out? And on Halloween?”
    â€œJust lucky,” Dad said.
    He’s a big joker too.
    â€œBut Halloween is my favorite holiday!” I said. I love scaring people and getting scared. And now I was missing it all. I had no way of knowing that this would turn into my scariest Halloween ever.
    Â 
    As we turned a corner, I heard a kid sobbing loudly.
    Mom sighed. “There are so many sick kids in this hospital, Sean. Really sick kids. You should remember how lucky you are. So many kids here have serious trouble.”
    A few seconds later we met a kid with serious trouble.
    His name was Martin Charles. I read his name on top of the chart that hung from the foot of his bed.
    I saw Martin as we stood in the open doorway of room B-twenty-two. Martin’s bed was by the window. An empty bed--my bed--stood across from it against the puke-green wall.
    I stared at my new roommate. He was short and had dark eyes and very short, brown hair. He sat on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs, glaring at two white-uniformed nurses.
    â€œI’m not Martin!” he shouted.
    One of the nurses held a needle in one hand. The other nurse struggled with the sleeve on Martin’s green hospital gown.
    â€œMartin, please…” she pleaded.
    â€œI’m not Martin!” he shouted again. He jerked his arm out of the nurse’s grip.
    She gave a startled cry and stepped back.
    â€œMartin, we just need a blood sample,” the other nurse said.
    â€œI’m not Martin! I’m not Martin!” he screamed, pounding the bed with both fists.
    â€œYes, yes. We’ve both heard that before,” the nurse grumbled.
    Then she turned and saw us standing in the doorway. She lowered the needle and took a step toward us. “Are you Sean Daly?” she asked.
    I nodded.
    â€œThat’s your bed over there, Sean,” the nurse said. “How does your throat feel?”
    â€œIt’s kind of sore,” I confessed. “It hurts every time I swallow.”
    She smiled at my parents. “Why don’t you take Sean’s things over there? You can unpack. Use that closet near the bed.”
    I followed my parents across the room. “What is that guy’s problem?” I asked.
    Mom raised a finger to her lips. “ Ssshhhh . He seems to be very frightened.”
    I wanted to see what they did to him. But one of thenurses pulled the curtain between the beds.
    The sound was muffled now. But as I unpacked my bag, I could still hear him protesting, “I’m not Martin! Leave me alone! I’m not Martin!”
    A few minutes later the curtain slid open a few feet, and one of the nurses stepped to our side of the room. She shook her head. “Poor guy,” she said softly.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?” I asked.
    The nurse handed me a green hospital gown. “Martin is having major surgery tomorrow morning,” she said, glancing toward the curtain. “He’s so terrified, I think he has convinced himself that he’s someone else.”
    â€œYou mean--?” I started.
    She pulled back the covers on my bed. “The poor guy has been trying to trick us ever since he arrived in the hospital. He’s been insisting that he’s not Martin. He wants us to think we have the wrong kid.”
    â€œThat’s terrible,”