The Sign of Fear

The Sign of Fear by R.L. Stine Page B

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Authors: R.L. Stine
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Mistress Peterson stood watching them closely.
    Matthew rose to his feet. “I must continue on to the village,” he informed Christina and Mistress Peterson. “I have arranged for a place to stay there.”
    He gazed over at Christina, his eyes warm. “I will return as soon as I can.”
    Silently, Christina and Mistress Peterson walked Matthew to the door. They stood on the cold front porch and watched him mount his horse.
    Christina squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. I’m all alone now, she thought. There is no one to protect me. I must be strong and take care of myself . . . until Matthew can return for me.
    Mistress Peterson put her arm around Christina’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about Christina, Matthew,” she called. “We will take good care of her.”
    â€œThank you,” Matthew answered. “I know you will.” Then he spurred Thunder and rode away.
    The second he disappeared from sight, Mistress Peterson grabbed Christina by the hair. She shook Christina’s head back and forth. “You broke my pitcher, you stupid girl! Nobody breaks my things and gets away with it. It’s the cellar for you tonight!”
    Mistress Peterson hauled her inside. Christina struggled, twisting and turning. But she couldn’t loosen Mistress Peterson’s grip.
    Step by step, Mistress Peterson dragged Christina to the dark cellar door. She threw the door open, and pushed Christina in. She stumbled on the narrow wooden steps.
    Mrs. Peterson slammed the door shut. A chunk of dirt fell from the wall and landed near Christina.
    â€œNo!” Christina cried out, throwing herself against the door. “You can’t do this! It isn’t fair! I didn’t mean to break it!”
    Mistress Peterson slid the latch into place.

Chapter
17

    T he earth walls of the cellar made Christina feel as if she had been buried alive. Her breath came in shallow gasps.
    Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She noticed dozens of red spots along the floor and dotting the walls.
    Eyes! Not spots—dozens of tiny red eyes!
    Christina pressed her back up against the cellar door. I’m imagining things, she thought. There’s nothing in here with me.
    But everywhere she glanced, she could see them. Tiny pinpoints dividing up the darkness. Tiny red eyes.
    She heard a rustling sound. The eyes moved forward up the stairs toward her. Something scurried over her feet. Christina kicked it away.
    High-pitched squeals filled the cellar. A thousand scrabbling feet raced over her. Piercing her with theirsharp claws. A cold nose pressed against her cheek. Another rooted in her hair.
    Christina screamed. And screamed again. Rats! Dozens of rats.
    She reached into her hair and pulled out a wriggling, warm body. She threw it down the cellar steps.
    Thunk!
    She tried to grab another one. The rats scattered, scurrying out of reach.
    Christina sat down on the top step. She rocked back and forth with her back to the door. What if they weren’t rats? If the Petersons practice black magic they could be—
    Stop, she ordered herself. Things are bad enough without making up monsters. I’ve got to be like Matthew. I’ve got to be strong.
    She wished Matthew was there with her. Holding her. Just the thought of him made her feel better.
    Christina wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stay warm. She felt something hard pressed against her chest. The silver pendant. She had almost forgotten about it.
    She tugged on the chain and pulled the pendant free. She cradled it in her hands. It felt warm to the touch.
    Holding it made her feel comforted. Just as thinking of Matthew did.
    â™¦Â â™¦Â â™¦
    â€œGet up, you lazy girl! I didn’t pay good money for you just to have you sleep all day!”
    Mistress Peterson opened the door to the cellar with a jerk. Christina tumbled backward and struck her head on the bottom cellar stair.
    â€œClumsy oaf,”

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