The Dead Boyfriend by R. L. Stine Page A

“Fun?”
    He glanced to a window at the side of the house. His parents’ room? Was he afraid I might wake his parents? Is that all he cared about?
    â€œYou creep !” I cried. I had the handle of my bag gripped tightly in my right hand. I raised my arm and swung the bag at him, swung it with all my strength.
    â€œHey!” Blade uttered a startled cry and stepped back. He lowered his shoulder, and the bag swung over his head.
    â€œHey, stop, Caitlyn. Stop it.”
    â€œFun?” I shrieked. “Fun?”
    I swung the heavy bag again. This time it glanced off his shoulder.
    â€œWhoa.” His expression turned angry. “I’m warning you,” he murmured. “Stay back. Stop it.”
    My next swing caught him on the chest. I couldn’t stop myself. I swung again, narrowly missing his head. I swung the bag again. Doubled him over with a blow to the stomach.
    â€œEnough!” he groaned. He made a grab for the bag. Caught it from the bottom.
    â€œNoooo!” I struggled to pull it away from him.
    â€œCaitlyn—chill! Stop! Calm down! Can we talk?” He gripped the bottom of my bag and jerked his hands hard.
    â€œGive it back!” I screamed. “Give it!”
    The handle snapped out of my hand. I stumbled back. Blade held onto the bottom as we both watched all the contents spill onto the ground.
    â€œYou creep! You creep!” I was shrieking without even hearing myself.
    Blade tossed the bag across the driveway. He glared furiously at me. “You crazy idiot. Are you going to leave?”
    In the dim light from the stoop, I saw the knife. It lay on top of a scarf I had stuffed into the bag. With a shuddering moan, I dove for it. I gripped the handle tightly and raised it in front of me.
    â€œHey—what’s that?” Blade demanded, gazing from the knife to me.
    My thumb fumbled for the button, and I released the blade. It snapped out instantly and I held it in front of me so Blade could see it clearly.
    â€œCome on, Caitlyn. Put that down,” he said, holding his arms out at his sides, as if preparing to defend himself.
    â€œFun? We had fun ?” I cried.
    No way he could defend himself. I lunged forward and poked the sharp tip of the blade into the front of his hoodie.
    He gasped and stumbled back. “Put it away. Are you crazy? Put it away!”
    I jabbed at him, just enough to make him feel it. I poked him in the chest. Then I lowered the blade and poked his stomach.
    â€œYou’re crazy! You’re crazy! Stop. Put it down. Let’s talk.”
    His eyes were wide. I could see he was in a panic. He kept his arms lowered, tensed, ready to fight back. He retreated a step, then another—and backed into his car.
    I had him trapped now. I moved forward and poked him again, pushing the tip of the blade against his belly.
    â€œGive that to me!” He uttered an angry scream and swiped at the knife.
    I tried to swing the blade out of his reach. But instead, I sliced through the palm of his hand. The blade cut silently. I gasped. I started to choke.
    Eyes bulging in disbelief, he raised his hand in front of his face as a line of blood oozed onto the palm.
    The blood trickled for a few moments. Then it started to spurt.
    We both stared at the bleeding hand in silence. It was too horrifying for either of us to make a sound.
    And then he began to wail, shrill high-pitched cries, waving the spurting blood in the air.
    Like a fountain, I thought. Blood spurting like a bright fountain.
    His shrieks made my ears ring. The sight of the blood made my stomach lurch. I gagged.
    I had to stop that horrible sound he was making.
    I swung the knife back, then plunged the blade deep into his stomach.
    Again. I stabbed him again. Stabbed again.
    That stopped the screaming. He made a gurgling sound and grabbed his belly with both hands. Dark blood seeped through the red hoodie and poured over his hands.
    He dropped to his knees, moaning,