Scare School by R. L. Stine

Studying me as if I were an alien from a different planet.
    He tsk-tsked several times and kept shaking his head. Then he tried rubbing a few different liquids over my hands.
    They were supposed to loosen the glue. But they didn’t work.
    My hands were totally cramped now. And my shoulders ached from holding the heavy metal sax parts for so long.
    Finally, he turned to my parents. They were huddled together on the other side of the exam table.
    “I may have to try a mild acid,” he said.
    “NO WAY!” I shouted.
    “If I can’t find something to dissolve the glue, I might have to bum it off,” Dr. Gubbin said. “It will do some skin damage. But we should be able to heal it up in a month or so.”
    “Please—” I begged. “No acid!”
    Dad’s face had turned as green as the doctor’s lab gown. “If that’s the only way … ” he muttered.
    “It will burn a little bit,” Dr. Gubbin told me.
    “No. Please—” I repeated. “If you bum my hands … ”
    I tried to raise them—and one hand pulled loose.
    The saxophone piece clattered to the floor.
    “Hey—!”
    Everyone cried out at once.
    “See?” I said. “We don’t need acid!”
    “Good news. I guess that last solvent did the trick,” Dr. Gubbin said. “Let’s apply some more to the other hand and see what happens.”
    A few minutes later, Dr. Gubbin released my other hand.
    A few minutes after that, I was riding home with my parents in the backseat of the Taurus. My hands still stung and ached. Patches of skin had been torn off on both palms, and two of my fingers had to be bandaged.
    “Sam, who would do such a horrible thing to you?” Mom asked, turning to face me from the passenger seat.
    “You just started this school,” Dad said, turning onto Palm Street. “You haven’t made any enemies already—have you?”
    “Well …”
    I took a deep breath and let it all come out.
    “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen to me. The school is haunted by a vicious creature,” I said. “He’s about three feet tall and looks like a big green rat. Except he has a human face.”
    “Excuse me?” Mom turned around again to look at me.
    “It’s an imp,” I continued. “Imps are not supposed to be real. But this one is.”
    I took another breath. The words came tumbling out of me. “Everyone in school is terrified of the imp,” I said. “Even the teachers. The imp has magical powers, and he can do horrible things if he gets angry.
    “Remember when I came home without my jacket?” I continued breathlessly. “I told you the imp took it. You laughed at me. But it was true. I tried to take back the jacket. I got into a fight with him. And I pulled off his tail.”
    I raised my raw red hands. “This was his revenge,” I said. “A kid didn’t do this to me. The imp did.”
    We weren’t home yet. But Dad pulled the car to the curb. He and Mom both turned to me. “Sam—” Dad started.
    “You’ve got to help me,” I said. “We’ve got to get rid of this imp. No one else will do it. So, will you help me? Will you?”

17
    My parents stared at me for the longest time. Mom chewed her bottom lip. Dad tapped his fingers nervously on the seat back.
    “You believe me—don’t you?” My question came out in a whisper.
    Mom shook her head.
    “Sam, this is exactly what you did at your last school,” Dad said. “Blaming your problems on others.”
    “You promised us you wouldn’t do this anymore,” Mom said in a trembling voice. “You are making up stories to keep from facing the truth.”
    “But this time you’ve gone too far. Your story is too crazy for anyone to believe,” Dad said.
    “I’m very worried about you,” Mom said. “Very worried.”
    “Me too,” Dad said softly.
    “You … don’t believe me,” I muttered. I had a heavy lump in my throat.
    I wanted them to believe me. I needed them to believe me.
    “Okay. I’ll prove it to you,” I said.
     
    I knew what I had to do. I had to draw the imp out. I had to force