Scare Me Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Follow Me Sneak Peek

  Copyright

  Nothing scares me.

  That’s why I’m the best at what I do—making haunted houses. My friends and I, we’re called the Bloody Banshees, and every year we make it a point to outdo ourselves and scare the entire town of Happy Hills in our yearly haunted house competition.

  We’ve created some of the scariest rooms this town has ever seen. Labyrinths filled with terrifying beasts. Chambers filled with horrific old dolls and cracked mirrors that reflect back ghosts. A circus tent complete with contorted clowns and roaring zombie lions.

  But this year, I know we have to do more. Ever since our rivals, the Monster Mashers, cheated and stole our title last year, I’ve been dreaming up something even more terrifying than all our old scares combined. This year, my team and I will create something so horrifying, even the bravest adult will fear going inside. We’ll create something that might even scare me. It will have to be completely, utterly horrifying. And I think I have the perfect plan.

  Nothing will get in our way.

  Nothing human, at least …

  “Ewww, I have fake blood on my shirt!”

  I glance over to Julie, who—sure enough—has bright red corn syrup dripping down from the pocket of her T-shirt.

  Tanesha breaks into laughter.

  “That was me,” she says. “I put a blood capsule in your pocket. Don’t worry—it will wash out.”

  Julie glowers over at her, but Julie’s anger never lasts very long. Almost immediately, she starts laughing.

  “Good one, Tanesha, but just remember—”

  “I don’t get mad, I get even,” both Tanesha and I say. And then we all start giggling. It’s Julie’s favorite phrase. But I’m pretty certain that she’s never actually tried to get even.

  Which is good, because Tanesha is a master prankster. If Julie tried to pull one over on her, I don’t think it would end well.

  Still giggling, we continue carrying our crates of scary props to the big old mansion in front of us. Three stories tall, with fading blue paint, huge windows, and a yard the size of a football field, Corvidon Manor is our town’s largest and oldest home. Most of the year, it’s a history museum, where people can look at old photographs of our town or talk to Mr. Evans, the proprietor, who gives free tours. I’ve been inside a few times for school field trips. From November to September, it’s pretty boring.

  Then October arrives.

  For the month of October, Corvidon Manor is our playground. Every Halloween, Happy Hills holds a fund-raiser for our animal shelter. Four teams of kids each design a creepy experience for the mansion, one per floor, including the basement. The one with the scariest floor gets a year’s supply of pizza and ice cream from Jolly Jerry’s Pizzeria.

  For the other teams, it’s just a fun way to raise money. For me, it’s a life calling. Someday, I want to build real haunted houses or work in movies. I take this seriously.

  Which is why, when I see Patricia’s mom’s sports car rounding the corner, a sick acid roils in my gut. She and her team beat us last year. And they didn’t win fair.

  “Come on, Kevin,” Tanesha says, noticing my stare. “We’re going to win this year. Don’t let her psych you out.”

  I nod glumly.

  “Bloody Banshees forever,” Julie says hopefully. Our little slogan.

  “Bloody Banshees forever,” Tanesha and I repeat.

  I stare up at the house as we reach the wraparound patio. In the summer, this place is green and filled with birds and a gurgling fountain. But it’s like the moment October hits, the house itself knows it’s game time. The trees in the yard have already turned a deep red orange. The fountain no longer gurgles and instead sits heavy with fallen leaves and wary toads. And maybe it’s my imagination, but the closer we get to the house, the colder it seems to become.

  As if the house knows it’s time to get scary.

  As if it, too, is excited.

  Our feet creak on the wooden front steps.

  Behind us, a murder of crows startles from a tree, flying off in a flutter of angry caws and black wings and orange leaves.

  Julie shivers.

  “Do you think that’s a good sign?” she asks quietly.

  I smile.

  “Definitely. I think it’s a sign that this year is going to be the scariest yet.”

  Mr. Evans holds open the front door for us as we lug our first load of decorations inside. Today is for scouting out the space—we’ve got paper and pens to plot the layout and decide what exactly we need. Tomorrow, my dads will bring it all to the manor in their truck. That way we’ll only have the necessities and can get right to work. I kind of have this down to a science.

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans,” I say as we pass by.

  “Of course, children. Do you already have something scary dreamed up for this year?”

  I smile to my friends. “Oh, we’ve had this figured out since last Thanksgiving.”

  Mr. Evans chuckles as he guides us down the hall. He honestly looks like he’s as old as the manor, if not older. He has wispy white hair and round wire-framed glasses and always wears suspenders. He looks old and frail, but something about him says he will live forever. “I expect nothing less from the Bloody Banshees. You were so close to winning last year. I bet you’ll take the gold this time around. If you’d follow me? I know you know where to go, but I’ll show you to the basement.”

  The long hallway is carpeted in plush, well-treaded crimson, and the faded floral wallpaper has turned yellow over the years. The air in here distinctly smells of lemon cleaner, mothballs, and dust. It’s a smell I’ve started associating with Halloween. Antique curios and bookshelves line the hall, and above them are photos from our town’s past: farmers in the field, a gathering at town hall, that sort of thing. One of them catches my eye—it’s a photo from ages ago, and the woman in white stares down at us unhappily.

  It must be a trick of the light, but I swear she scowls at me.

  Despite the sleepy warmth of the hall, shivers wash over my skin. But instead of creeping me out, it makes me smile. I mean, I know the picture didn’t move. The fact that my imagination is already geared up for scare mode has me excited. I love that feeling. This is going to be a great year.

  The feeling of excitement and chills intensifies as we get closer to the basement. We pass by an open room that is currently an explosion of boxes and costumes. The Masked Mummies have already started setting up their creepy fun house. I nod at them and smile (since my hands are holding a box of animatronic plastic skeletons), and they wave back. Except for my rivalry with the Monster Mashers, I try to stay friendly with the competition.

  Mr. Evans opens the door
to the basement for us. Our feet creak on the wooden steps as we walk down, the air dropping ten degrees the moment we pass the door.

  My smile widens.

  The basement is already creepy. Concrete floors and flickering lights and low-hanging air ducts and metal support pillars scattered about. It’s damp and dusty and smells like a crypt.

  Which is why it will make the perfect graveyard.

  I can already picture it—I’ll put papier-mâché around the support pillars and turn them into trees and hang moss and cobwebs from the ducts, and we’ll throw in some creepy lighting so everything looks moonlit. Then we’ll gather some leaves to throw over the ground and—

  “You’re doing it again,” Tanesha says.

  I snap out of it and look at her.

  “What?”

  “Looking around like you’re about to make this a whole heck of a lot more work than it needs to be.”

  Despite her words, she’s grinning. Tanesha loves building haunted houses almost as much as I do.

  “What can I say? I’m inspired.”

  The door clicks behind us. I didn’t even hear Mr. Evans say goodbye, I was so caught up in my daydreams.

  “You’re always inspired,” Julie says.

  “Just because my friends are so inspiring,” I reply.

  Julie and Tanesha both roll their eyes.

  “What do we do first, boss?” Julie asks.

  I set my box down by the steps. The basement is lit by a few bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Creepy, but too industrial for the ambience we’re going for. For a split second, I consider changing our theme to some sort of abandoned-warehouse-torture-chamber, but then my eyes snare on something in the back corner.

  “Dang it,” I mutter, walking toward it. “They were supposed to clean before we got here.”

  Because there, lurking in the shadows, is a pile of what I’m assuming is old junk. Maybe posters or furniture from upstairs.

  Julie and Tanesha follow at my side as we near.

  When my eyes adjust and I see what the shape is, I shudder.

  Facing the wall is a large mannequin wearing a wedding dress and veil. Julie inhales sharply.

  “That’s just creepy,” she whispers. “I don’t want to touch it.”

  “Me neither,” Tanesha whispers. “Maybe we should get Mr. Evans.”

  “It’s just a mannequin,” I say. I look to Tanesha skeptically. She’s normally the brave one of my friends. “And why are you whispering?”

  She shrugs. She doesn’t take her eyes off the mannequin.

  We step toward it slowly, and for some reason I can’t make my heart stop beating frantically in my chest. The mannequin is tall and slender, made of pure white porcelain. Its face is completely smooth, featureless, which makes it even more eerie behind its lace veil. The dress it wears is beautiful and ornate, though definitely old—the hems are frayed and ragged, and it looks dusty and tan rather than pure white. Something about it just seems … sad.

  There’s something at the base. A little placard resting on the stand the mannequin poses on. For some reason, it makes me pause. Maybe this isn’t just a leftover. Maybe this was some sort of display. One that’s been hidden from the public for a while.

  I crouch down and try to make out the words, but I can barely read them in the gloom. There are newspapers pasted to the sign. I can make out the headlines TERRIBLE TRAGEDY and MISSING BRIDE. I peer in closer, squint, and try to make out the words.

  Local Bride Drowns Herself in Lake.

  Mourning Family Creates Counterfeit.

  A loud thud echoes from upstairs, and I flinch up to standing. I knock right into the mannequin bride as I do so.

  “Careful!” Julie yelps.

  I reach out and grab the mannequin as fast as I can, but it’s too late. Although I catch it by the arm, her head keeps falling, toppling off her shoulders. It seems to fall in slow motion. I watch it, heart paused in my throat, a sense of dread in my gut. It can’t fall. It can’t fall—

  Her head crashes to the ground, exploding in a million tiny shards of porcelain.

  Julie yelps. Even Tanesha makes a startled noise.

  I stand there, still holding the rest of the mannequin up, and stare at the remains of her head on the concrete. I don’t know why, but the sight almost makes me sick. I glance over to the placard, to the photo I can barely make out and the headlines burned into my thoughts. TRAGEDY TRAGEDY TRAGEDY. I try to shake the dread from my bones. It’s way too early on to get creeped out, and we have a lot of work to do.

  “Dang it,” I mutter, making sure the rest of the bride is stable when I let go. “Now we have to clean this up.”

  “I hope we don’t have to pay for it,” Tanesha says.

  “It feels like we already have,” Julie whispers.

  Tanesha runs upstairs to grab a broom and comes back with Mr. Evans. He takes one look at the mannequin before shuddering himself. His eyebrows furrow with confusion.

  “What?” I ask. I stand beside him while my friends start unpacking. They’re more than happy to be far away from the mannequin in her dress, but I’m intrigued. It creeps both of them out, so there has to be something to it.

  “Oh, nothing,” Mr. Evans says. He starts to sweep up the shards of her head into a dustbin. For a moment, I worry that he’s not going to say any more. Then he continues. “It’s just that I thought our people got everything out of here. Packed it all up in a big truck and moved it into storage. I don’t know how they could have missed this. Honestly, I forgot we’d even held on to this thing. Such a sad, sad story.”

  More chills wash over me.

  “You mean this wasn’t supposed to be here?” I ask. I keep my voice low, so my friends can’t hear.

  “The whole basement was meant to be cleared out for you. Sorry about this.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, an idea worming its way through my heart. “What did you say you were going to do with the rest of it?”

  Mr. Evans looks at me with an eyebrow raised.

  “Why?”

  “No reason,” I say. “Just wondering.”

  I try to sound disinterested, but Mr. Evans seems to see right through it.

  “She’s just going to go into the broom closet upstairs until we find out where she’s supposed to be. She is not meant to be a part of this contest. As you know, the rules forbid you from using the objects that belong to the house. You must provide your own scares!”

  I nod and ask him how admissions were this summer, hoping to make him think I don’t care about the creepy mannequin or where he’s going to hide it. The truth is, I can’t get the mannequin out of my mind. It feels important. More important than just some old trash left in the basement. I want to know its story. Its “terrible tragedy” of a story. Something shifts on the mannequin and I glance over to see a large, furry black spider crawl out from the bride’s neck before scurrying into her dress. I shudder. Not much scares me, but that doesn’t mean I like creepy crawlies.

  Which makes me think …

  I wanted to create something that might scare even me, and when I look at the broken bride, I think I may have found the answer. The question is: Am I willing to risk it?

  Last year, Patricia broke the rules and got away with it.

  Why can’t I this year?

  Mr. Evans moves the bride back upstairs after he’s cleaned up her shattered head.

  I can’t help but watch him go—just seeing the bride tugs at my chest, and not in a good way. I mean, it creeps me out, so I guess it’s a good thing. It’s just weird; I’m not used to being creeped out.

  “What was it even doing here?” Julie asks. Her voice wavers.

  I shrug and kneel down, picking up the placard at the mannequin’s base. I read the small article aloud. This one isn’t from a newspaper, but seems to be some sort of museum piece.

  Missing Bride Found—Local Tragedy Unfolds. In late winter of 1941, the body of Miss Anna Corvidon was found in the frozen Lake Charm. Earlier
that winter, her fiancé, Mr. Colin James, had died in the war. Their wedding had originally been set for a few days after he was deployed. He never returned. Although originally thought an accident, authorities believed the grief-stricken Anna was so devastated by the loss of her fiancé that she drowned herself in the frozen lake. She was found the next day by her family. Miss Corvidon’s family was never able to recover. Shortly after her funeral, they dressed a store mannequin in her gown, preserving her memory for the fiancé, who would never lead her down the aisle. The mannequin stood in their care up until their deaths; then it was bequeathed to the historical society. Some believe the mannequin is haunted, and caretakers have reported strange sounds or shadows whenever the mannequin is installed.

  I swallow and look to my friends, my gut sinking and pulse racing.

  “That’s terrible,” Julie says.

  “Yeah,” Tanesha replies. “The poor girl.” She looks at me and smacks me on the arm. “And you had to go and break her head!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say, rubbing my arm. She hits hard.

  “Well, hopefully Mr. Evans can fix it and she can, I don’t know, rest in peace.”

  I swallow. I have a feeling neither of them would like it if they knew what I was thinking. Not just because they are very much against breaking the rules, but because it’s clear they feel bad for the girl.

  But … it was just a dress on a mannequin, right? Not the girl herself. And it’s not like I was planning on stealing it or anything. Just borrowing it for our display.

  A shadow twitches in the corner of the basement. My heart freezes. Was that—? No. Strange.

  I thought there was a woman in the corner.

  More thudding upstairs brings me back to the task at hand.

  “Come on, we have a lot of work to get done tonight.”

  My friends nod, and together they go sort plastic spiders from the spiderwebs while I begin mapping out the basement. It’s one large open space, with a low ceiling supported by concrete and steel beams and a bare concrete floor. The swamp can go here in this corner, but we’re going to need a few extension cables for the fog machine and air pump. We can line up the skeletons over here. Dang it! I think the caskets are too tall for the ceiling. We’ll have to prop them at an angle. How in the world am I going to get the lights installed on those beams?