The Secret Bedroom by R.L. Stine, Bill Schmidt

curled his big hand up and moved the fingers, a demonstration of a raccoon paw.
    â€œMaybe it
was
a raccoon,” Lea said, taking a sip of orange juice. “Yuck. Pulp.” She made a sour face.
    â€œI’m sorry,” her mother said quickly. “I know you hate pulp. I couldn’t find the kind you like. The supermarket is different here.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Lea said. She gingerly took another sip.
    â€œI’ll take a look up there later,” Mr. Carson said. “But from now on, if you hear noises, just ignore ‘em, okay?” He smiled at her, his eyes dark above the red-brown mustache. “Don’t panic. That’s our motto, right?”
    â€œRight,” Lea said, picturing the blood pouring down the door again.
    What a dream!
    â€œTime to get a move on,” her mother declared, glancing at the stove clock. “We’re working on the downstairs bathroom today.” Both of Lea’s parents jumped up and hurried from the room.
    Lea lingered at the table, scooting her chair over to get out of the sunlight. “Don’t panic,” she said out loud, mimicking her father.
    â€œEasy for him to say.”
    *  *  *

    That night, hunched over her desk, making her way slowly through an endless chapter in her government text, Lea ignored the scraping, tapping sounds above her head.
    The following night, lying in bed, thinking about Don Jacobs despite all her best intentions not to think about him, she forced herself to ignore the sounds again.
    Thump thump thump.
Then back in the opposite direction:
thump thump thump.
    Mr. Carson went up to the attic as he had promised and came back down with nothing to report. “I saw a few dust bunnies up there,” he said, smiling. “Maybe we’ve got very noisy dust bunnies.”
    â€œBut I heard the sounds again last night,” Lea protested. “Loud. Like drumbeats. Or footsteps.”
    Her father scratched his head, wrinkling his face in thought. “Could be a loose shingle. I’m going to have the roof checked in a week or so.”
    Lea buried herself in her homework, trying to concentrate the sounds away. Late at night, lying in bed, watching the dim moonlight filter in through the new curtains her mother had just put up, she thought she heard a voice up there, someone talking in a low tone right above her head.
    Just ignore it, she instructed herself, and the sound did immediately disappear.
    The next night she dreamed about the room above her head.
    In the dream she was in bed, unable to sleep because of loud, persistent footsteps on the ceiling. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. The light fixture was shaking.The whole room began shaking then from the force of the footsteps.
    She dreamed that her bed started to slide across the room and she jumped up to run out in the hall in her pajamas. It was very cold in the hallway. She began to climb the ladder to the attic. She felt very afraid, not a daytime fear, but the type that sweeps over you, controls you completely, weakens your muscles, paralyzes your mind—the kind of fear that comes only with a dream.
    The attic was dark and cool. When she clicked the light switch, it grew even darker. She crept up to the locked door. At this point Lea knew it was a dream. She wanted to wake up. She
tried
to wake up.
    But she couldn’t.
    She couldn’t escape from what was to happen next.
    She heard a voice behind the locked door. It was a girl’s voice, small and frightened, and sounding very far away.
    Lea listened at the door, heard the voice, then started to pull away the heavy boards that blocked the doorway. To her surprise, the boards lifted off easily, as if they were cardboard, and floated away.
    Lea hesitated, then placed her hand on the doorknob. It was burning hot!
    She screamed and jerked her hand back in pain.
    I want to wake up, she thought.
    Please—let me out of this dream.
    Almost against her will,