The Boy Who Ate Fear Street by R.L. Stine Page B

ailment or another. Nagging backache, clogged sinuses, hacking cough. You name it, this book had a cure for it.
    I knew I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in there. The book explained how to make people better—not what made people sick.
    Kevin and Lissa searched through the bookshelves. “Do you see any books on poisons?” I asked.
    â€œNot yet,” Lissa called out.
    â€œWell, keep looking!” I pleaded.
    I wandered around the room searching for a clue.
    I gazed up at the wooden mask.
    A medicine mask from an ancient mountain tribe.
    I remembered what Kevin and Lissa had told me about it. They said it was supposed to drive germs right out of a sick person’s body.
    But how did it work? Did the sick person wear it? Or did a witch doctor have to wear it and say some weird chant?
    I didn’t know—but I decided to try it. Maybe it could help me.
    I carefully lifted the mask from the wall.
    I slipped it over my face—and waited.
    I could see out of the eyeholes. And I was breathing through a hole for the mouth.
    I didn’t feel any different.
    With the mask over my face, I continued to roam around the room. I ran my fingers over the dream catcher’s feathers, over Aunt Sylvie’s crystals, over a jar of face cream that sat on the dresser.
    I unscrewed the lid and dipped my fingers into the pure white cream. Then I licked my fingers.
    Mmmm. So smooth. So good.
    I scooped out a bigger glob and ate that.
    â€œAhhhh!” Lissa screamed.
    Kevin whirled around to face me. “It’s just Sam wearing a mask, Lissa. Get a grip.”
    â€œIt’s not the mask, you jerk,” she yelled. “He’s eating Aunt Sylvie’s face cream.”
    Lissa and Kevin threw the coat over my head. “Let’s get him out of here before he finishes the jar,” Kevin said.
    They dragged me from Aunt Sylvie’s room. They pulled me along the hall and down the stairs. When they reached the kitchen, they let me go.
    I threw the coat off.
    â€œAunt Sylvie’s going to be mad now,” Kevin said. “Very mad.”
    â€œYeah,” Lissa agreed. “That cream is two hundred years old. She told us it contains ancient powers for long-lasting beauty. And it was her last jar.”
    â€œHer only jar,” Kevin corrected his sister.
    â€œHow can you worry about her jar of facecream?” I yelled. “Your aunt is evil. She put a curse on me!”
    But Lissa wasn’t listening. She gazed over my shoulder—at something out the back door.
    I turned and scanned the garden.
    Flowers, trees, shrubs, a wooden bench.
    Then I saw her. Aunt Sylvie.
    Lissa grabbed my hand. “You have to tell Aunt Sylvie what’s going on. She can help you!” she pleaded.
    â€œNO!” I declared. “Never.”
    Lissa and Kevin dragged me out the back door—and I gasped.
    Aunt Sylvie sat on the ground, cross-legged, with her eyes closed.
    Six black snakes slithered around her neck, her arms, her legs.
    I watched in horror as they twisted along her body, their long, pointed tongues darting in and out.
    Aunt Sylvie swayed back and forth, in a deep trance.
    â€œOndu . . . ondu . . . ondu,” she chanted.
    She waved her hands over a big iron kettle that bubbled over with a dark brown liquid.
    Then she lifted a wooden mask from the ground. A mask with black lips twisted into a sickening leer. She placed it over her face.
    â€œShe’s a witch doctor!” I cried.
    â€œAunt—Aunt Sylvie,” Lissa stammered. “Are you a witch doctor?”
    Aunt Sylvie slowly removed the mask from her face.
    Her eyes fluttered open.
    She leveled a steady gaze at us.
    â€œYes, dear, I am.”

18

    A unt Sylvie slowly rose to her feet—as though some strange power we couldn’t see lifted her up. Singing softly to her snakes, she swayed back and forth on her heels.
    The snakes around her arms slithered across her