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

the dream that was so real.
    She pinched her arm. Hard.
    I’m awake. I’m not dreaming.
    This is real life—not a dream.

    And the sounds were still up there.
    I’m going up, she decided.
    As she pulled herself up the metal ladder and struggled to push the trapdoor away from the opening, she was surprised that she felt less frightened this time.
    She felt only anger. And curiosity.
    What was going on? Who—or what—was making the noise? And why? Just to drive her crazy?
    Dad’s probably right. It’s probably just a roof shingle, she told herself, feeling around on the wall and turning on the yellow light.
    Her own shadow jumped in front of her, startling her.
    Don’t panic.
    Surveying the long, low attic, she carefully made her way over to the boarded-up door, walking slowly, deliberately, listening hard.
    She stopped at the door and leaned forward. She held her breath.
    Yes.
    She could hear voices.
    Too low to make out the words.
    But someone was in there. A girl. It was a girl’s voice.
    Her dream came back to her.
    I’m awake now, she thought. Awake. Awake.
    Lea pressed her ear against the door. Then, picturing the flow of blood down the doorway, thought better of it and pulled her head back.
    She could hear the voice, but she couldn’t make out any of the words.

    â€œWho’s in there?” Lea cried, not recognizing her high-pitched voice. “Who’s there?”
    She waited for a reply.
    The voice on the other side of the door stopped.
    â€œI know you’re in there. I heard you,” Lea called, too excited to be afraid.
    Silence.
    Even the wind outside seemed to stop its steady rush.
    I’m going to solve this mystery once and for all, Lea decided.
    But how?
    â€œAre you in there?” she shouted.
    Silence.
    She raised both fists and pounded on the door.
    â€œAre you in there? Can you hear me?”
    She listened.
    Silence.
    Her heart was racing. Her eyes went out of focus, then focused again. She felt out of control. But there was nothing she could do about it.
    She had to know who was walking around in there, talking, making those sounds.
    Lea grabbed one of the two-by-fours and tugged at it. The heavy board wobbled in her hands.
    It’s loose, she realized. I can pull it right off.
    She steadied herself and prepared to pull.
    An earsplitting roar—the roar of a bomb blast—made her drop the board. She stood paralyzed by the deafening noise—just as enormous, pointed iron spikes shot out at her through the door.

L ea fell back, and the pointed spikes missed their target. As she stared in horror, the spikes slid back into the door before completely disappearing.
    But the roar continued, echoing deafeningly through the low attic. She examined herself, gasping for breath, her legs weak and trembling. “I’m okay,” she said out loud.
    â€œIs this really happening?” she asked herself. “Is it real this time?”
    She turned and ran to the trapdoor, jumping onto the ladder, nearly falling, finally steadying herself by grabbing the top rung with both hands.
    Her heart pounding, Lea pulled the trapdoor over the opening and slid down the ladder onto the hall floor. She stood there for a long time, leaning against the cold metal, her eyes squeezed tight, trying to catch her breath, trying to stop her knees from shaking.

    The roar was still echoing in her ears, as if it had followed her down the ladder. She shook her head trying to rid herself of it, and became aware of another sound too.
    A ringing sound. Very nearby.
    It took her several rings to realize it was the phone.
    Taking in a deep breath and letting it out to calm herself, to slow her racing heartbeat, she made her way into her bedroom and hurried to the night table to pick up the phone.
    How long had it been ringing?
    â€œHello?” Her voice came out shrill and tiny, like a cartoon mouse.
    â€œHello, Lea?” A boy’s voice. Very