The Nightmare Room #4: Liar Liar
Book Jacket

Rating: 

Tags: 
Fiction, General, Social Issues, Juvenile Fiction, Ages 9-12 Fiction, Children's Books, Social Issues - General, Children: Grades 3-4, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Mysteries; Espionage; & Detective Stories, Horror & Ghost Stories, Horror stories, Honesty, Twins, Horror tales

	EDITORIAL REVIEW:
	That tall boy walking so confidently into the party is Ross Arthur. This isn't a surprise party, but Ross has a frightening shock in store. You see, standing across the room is Ross's identical twin. The problem? Ross doesn't have a twin. It looks as if tonight this party is being held in *The Nightmare Room.*
SUMMARY:
That tall boy walking so confidently into the party is Ross Arthur. This isn't a surprise party, but Ross has a frightening shock in store. You see, standing across the room is Ross's identical twin. The problem? Ross doesn't have a twin. It looks as if tonight this party is being held in The Nightmare Room. 

	
	Go ahead and scream. 
	No one can hear you. You’re no
	longer in the safe world you know. 
	You’ve taken a terrifying step . . . 
	into the darkest corners of your
	imagination. 
	You’ve opened the door to . . . 

	Liar Liar
	R.L . S T I N E
	AVON BOOKS
	An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
	Liar Liar
	Copyright © 2000 by Parachute Publishing, L.L.C. 
	Go Deeper Into This Nightmare . . . © 2000 Parachute Publishing, L.L.C. 
	All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in 
	any manner whatsoever without written permission except in 
	the case of brief quotations embodied in critical 
	articles or reviews. 
	R.L. Stine asserts the moral right 
	to be identified as the author of this work. 
	Adobe Acrobat E-reader edition v 1. March 2001 ISBN 0-06-621434-3
	First print edition, 2000. ISBN 0-06-440902-3. 
	Welcome... 
	I’m R.L. Stine. Let me introduce you to Ross
	Arthur. He’s that boy with straight, brown hair and a
	slightly crooked smile, talking to two girls by the
	swimming pool. 
	You might say that Ross has everything. He’s
	popular, smart, and good looking. His father is an
	exec for a big movie studio. Ross lives in Beverly
	Hills with a swimming pool and tennis courts in his
	backyard. 
	A perfect life? Not quite. 
	Ross has a little problem. He constantly tells stories. Some people might call them lies. In fact, Ross
	has told so many lies to so many people, it’s hard for
	him to tell what’s real and what isn’t. 
	Ross’s little problem is about to take him to a
	frightening place—The Nightmare Room. And once
	he’s inside, Ross is going to make a terrifying discovery—you can’t talk your way out! 
	v
	Contents
	One
	Two
	Three
	Four
	Five
	Six
	Seven
	Eight
	Nine
	Ten
	Eleven
	Twelve
	Thirteen
	Fourteen
	Fifteen
	Sixteen
	Seventeen
	Eighteen
	Nineteen
	Twenty
	Twenty-one
	Twenty-two
	Twenty-three
	Twenty-four
	Twenty-five
	Twenty-six
	Twenty-seven
	Twenty-eight
	Twenty-nine
	Thirty
	Thirty-one
	Thirty-two
	Go Deeper into this Nightmare . . . 
	About the Author
	Take a look at What’s Ahead
	Credits
	About the Publisher
	
	When I was little, a kid told me that everyone has
	an exact double somewhere in the world. I told the
	kid he was crazy. 
	I’m twelve now. And I just saw my exact double. 
	Of course, I didn’t believe my eyes. He didn’t just
	look like me—he was me! 
	I wasn’t staring into a mirror. I was staring at a
	boy with my face—my straight, brown hair, my blue
	eyes, my sort-of crooked smile. My FACE! My
	BODY! I was staring at ME! ME! 
	I know, I know. I sound a little crazed. 
	But you’d be crazed too if you had an exact double, and you didn’t know who he was or where he
	came from. 
	I’m going to take a deep breath. That’s what my
	dad always tells me to do. “Take a deep breath, 
	Ross,” he says. 
	My dad is a studio exec—one of the bosses at
	Mango Pictures. He spends his day arguing with
	movie producers, directors, and movie stars. He says
	1
	he takes about a million deep breaths a day. It helps
	keep him calm. 
	So, I’m going to take a deep breath. And I’m going
	to start my story at the beginning. Or maybe a little
	before the beginning. 
	By the way, I lied about the blue eyes. 
	I don’t have blue eyes. Actually, they’re dark gray. 
	Which is almost blue—right? 
	I guess I’ll start my story at school. I go to Beverly
	Hills Middle School, which is only a few blocks from
	my house. 
	I know what you’re thinking. I’m so lucky to have
	a dad in the movie business and live in a big house
	in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool and a tennis
	court, and our own screening room in the basement. 
	You’re right. It’s lucky. I’m very lucky. But I still
	have problems. Lots of problems. 
	The other morning Cindy Matson was my problem. I ran into Cindy in the hall between classes, and
	I could see she was really steamed. Her face was red, 
	and she kept tugging at her black bangs, then clenching and unclenching her fists. Tense. Extremely
	tense. 
	“Ross—where were you?” she asked, blocking my
	way. 
	Cindy is taller than I am. She’s at least seven or
	eight feet tall. And she works out. She could be a
	stuntwoman for Xena: Warrior Princess. So I try to 
	stay on her good side. 
	2
	“Uh . . . where was I?” I thought it might be safe
	to repeat the question. 
	But Cindy exploded anyway. “Remember? You
	were going to meet me? We were going to Urban
	Outfitters together yesterday afternoon?” 
	“Yes, I know,” I said. “But you see . . . ” I had to
	think quickly. “My tennis lesson got switched. 
	Because my regular instructor hurt his hand. He was
	trying to open one of those cans of tennis balls. And
	his hand got stuck, and he sprained his wrist. Really. 
	So my lesson got moved. And my racket was being
	restrung. So I had to go to the tennis shop on
	Wilshire and get a loaner.” 
	I stopped to breathe. Was she buying that excuse? 
	No. 
	“Ross, that is so not true,” Cindy said, rolling her 
	eyes. “Your tennis lessons are on Saturday. Can’t you
	ever just tell the truth? You forgot about me—right? 
	You just forgot.” 
	“No way,” I insisted. “Actually, what happened
	was . . . the truth. The total truth. My dog got sick, 
	and Mom asked me to help take him to the vet. And
	so I—” 
	“When did you get a dog?” Cindy interrupted. 
	“Huh?” I stared at the floor, thinking hard. She
	was right. We don’t have a dog. 
	Sometimes I work so hard on these stories, I mess
	up some of the details. 
	3
	Cindy rolled her eyes for about the thousandth
	time. “You do remember that you’re going with me to
	Max’s pool party Friday night—don’t you?” 
	I had completely forgotten. 
	“Of course,” I said. “No way I’d forget that.” 
	The bell rang. We were both late for class. 
	We turned and jogged off in different directions. I
	turned a corner—and bumped into Sharma Gregory. 
	Sharma is tiny and blond and speaks in a mousy
	whisper. She is the anti-Cindy. She’s very pretty, and
	she’s a true brainiac. Last April she won a trip to
	Washington, D.C., because of an essay she wrote. 
	(But she didn’t go because she was invited to a really
	cool Oscar party.)
	“Hey, Ross—” She pointed at me. “Max’s party
	Friday night—right?” 
	I grinned at her. “Yeah. For sure.” 
	“Should I meet you there, or do you want to come
	over to my house first?” 
	Oh, wow. I’d also asked Sharma to go with me to
	the party! 
	Why did I invite her? She’d let me copy off her
	chemistry test. So I thought I’d give her a break. 
	“Uh . . . I’ll meet you there,” I said. I flashed her
	a thumbs-up and hurried into English class. 
	I closed the classroom door carefully behind me
	and tiptoed to my seat. I hoped Miss Douglas
	wouldn’t notice I was late. Luckily, my seat is in the
	back row, so it’s easy to sneak in and out. 
	4
	“Ross, you’re late,” Miss Douglas called. 
	“Uh . . . yeah,” I said, tugging my notebook from
	my backpack. Think fast, Ross. “I had to stay late in
	Mr. Harrison’s class and . . . uh . . . help him return
	some books to the library. Mr. Harrison meant to give
	me a late pass, but he forgot.” 
	Miss Douglas nodded. I think she believed me. 
	“If you will all take out your essays,” she said, 
	straightening the books on her desk. She’s always
	lining up the things on her desk, making them perfectly straight. 
	“I’d like for some of you to share your essays with
	the class. Why don’t we start with you, Ross?” She
	flashed me a toothy grin. Her gums show when she
	smiles. 
	“Uh . . . share my essay?” I had to stall for time. 
	Had to think fast. 
	I started the essay last night. Well, actually, I
	started to think about starting the essay. But then
	WWF Smackdown came on. And by the time it was 
	over, it was time to go to bed. 
	Miss Douglas’s grin faded. “Do you have your
	essay, Ross?” 
	“Well, I wrote it,” I told her. “But it’s still in my
	computer. Because we had some kind of electrical
	backup or something at my house. And my printer
	blew up! Smoke was pouring out of it like a toaster. 
	So I couldn’t print what I wrote. But I’m getting a
	new printer after school. So I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” 
	5
	Good one, huh? 
	At least, I thought it was good. But before I knew
	it, Miss Douglas swept down the aisle until she stood
	right over me. 
	She gazed down at me sternly through her redrimmed glasses. “Ross,” she said through gritted
	teeth. “Listen to me. Be careful. If you keep this up, 
	you may fail this course.” 
	I stared back at her. “Keep what up?” I asked. 
	6
	
	I hurried to my locker after school. Some guys
	wanted to hang out, but I couldn’t. I knew my dad
	was waiting outside to drive me to my acting class. 
	Dad isn’t thrilled about my acting lessons. But
	Jerry Nadler, my teacher, is an old friend of Dad’s. 
	And Jerry says I have talent. He says I look like a
	young Tom Cruise. And he thinks my crooked smile
	will make people remember me. 
	I know I don’t have much chance of being a big
	movie star. A lot of movie stars come to my house, 
	and they’re really awesome people. But I wouldn’t
	mind maybe acting in some commercials and making
	a lot of money. 
	I started to toss stuff into my locker. But then I
	stopped and let out a groan. A brown envelope stuck
	out from the pile of books on the floor. My dad had
	asked me to mail it for him two days ago, but I forgot. 
	I’ll mail it tomorrow, I decided. I slammed the locker
	shut and clicked the combination lock. I saw Cindy waving to me down the hall. But I shouted that I was late. 
	7
	“Where are you going?” she called. 
	“Uh . . . got to help my mom do some charity
	work,” I called back. “Collecting candles for the
	homeless!” 
	Why did I say that? 
	Why didn’t I just tell her the truth? Sometimes I
	don’t know why I make up these stories. I guess I do
	it because I can! 
	I flashed her a thumbs-up and made my way out
	the front door. 
	Dad’s black Mercedes was parked right across the
	street. It was a sunny day, bright blue skies, hot as
	summer even though it was late autumn. The sun
	made the car sparkle like a big, black jewel. 
	“Yo yo yo!” Dad greeted me. “What up, Ross? 
	What up, dude?” He thinks it’s funny to talk really
	dumb, ancient rap talk. Mom says if we just ignore it, 
	maybe he’ll stop. 
	“Hi, Dad,” I said. I slid onto the black leather
	passenger seat. “Ow.” It was burning hot from the
	sun. 
	Dad checked himself out in the rearview mirror. 
	He patted down the sides of his hair. 
	Dad is very young looking, and he’s proud of it. 
	He has straight brown hair and dark gray eyes, just
	like me. I see him check out his hair every time he
	passes a mirror, making sure he isn’t losing any. 
	He’s always tanned. He says it’s part of the job. 
	He always wears the same thing—black pants and a
	8
	black T-shirt under an open sports jacket. He says it’s
	the company uniform. Just like the black Mercedes is
	the company car. 
	Dad is always making fun of the movie business. 
	But I know he loves being a studio big shot. 
	He checked the mirror again, then pulled the car
	away from the curb. I leaned forward and turned the
	air-conditioning to high. 
	“I’ve got to stop at the Universe Films lot and see
	a producer I’m trying to sign up,” Dad said. “Then I’ll
	take you to Jerry. How are you and Jerry getting
	along? Is he teaching you anything?” 
	“Yeah,” I said. “It’s good. We’ve mainly been
	reading scripts. You know. Out loud.” 
	Dad snickered. “You ready for your screen test?” 
	I laughed, too. “Not yet.” 
	The car phone rang. He pressed the phone button
	on the steering wheel and talked to his secretary
	about some budget mixups. 
	Palm trees rolled past us on both sides. Dad
	turned to me. “You mailed that envelope, right? It
	had very important contracts inside.” 
	“Yeah. I mailed it,” I said. A white lie. I knew I’d
	mail it tomorrow. 
	“Whew. That’s good.” Dad sighed. “If it’s late, 
	they’ll nail my hide to the wall.” 
	“No problem,” I replied. 
	“I’ve been out of the ’hood, on location so long, 
	we haven’t had a chance to rap much,” Dad said. 
	“How’s school?” 
	9
	“Great!” I told him. “Miss Douglas said today I’ll
	probably make the honor roll.” 
	“Hey—all right!” Dad slapped me a high five and
	nearly drove off the road. 
	The phone rang again. Dad talked until we pulled
	into the Universe lot. The guard waved us through. 
	I’d been here with him before. We drove past the
	long, low white buildings until Dad found a parking
	space. 
	He ushered me into a big room that looked more
	like a living room than an office. It had two long, red
	leather couches, facing each other on a thick, white
	pile carpet, red drapes that matched the couches, 
	three TV sets, a black-and-chrome bar, and bookshelves all around. 
	No desk. 
	“This is Mort’s office,” Dad said. “You wait here. 
	I’ll only be five minutes. This is really important to
	me. I’ve got to sign Mort on the dotted line.” 
	He gestured to the tall shelves cluttered with
	framed photos, award statues, plaques, vases, and
	other junk. “Look around. But be careful, Ross. Don’t
	touch anything. Mort is a nut about his collections. 
	He goes berserk if he finds a fingerprint on anything!” 
	“No problem,” I said. 
	“I’ve got to get this guy on my side,” Dad said. 
	Then he vanished out the door. 
	I settled onto one of the red couches. I sank
	10
	about two feet into the cushion! It was the softest
	couch I’d ever sat on in my life! 
	After a minute or two I got bored. I walked over to
	the shelves and began to check out all of the photos
	and awards. 
	I saw a framed photo of Mort and the President
	of the United States, grinning together on a golf
	course. It was signed by the President. 
	And there were dozens of other photos of Mort
	with movie stars and important-looking people. 
	One shelf held a knight’s helmet and a gleaming
	silver sword. Probably props from a movie. 
	The next shelf was filled with award statuettes
	and plaques. I stopped in front of a familiar gold
	statue. An Academy Award! An Oscar! 
	I rubbed my hand over its smooth, shiny head. I
	realized I’d never touched an Oscar before. 
	“Totally cool!” I said out loud. 
	I couldn’t stop myself. I had to hold it. I had to see
	how heavy it was, and what it felt like to actually hold
	an Oscar in my hand. 
	It was a lot heavier than I thought. I gripped it
	tightly in both hands. It was so smooth. The gold
	gleamed under the ceiling lights. 
	Holding it around the middle, I raised it high over
	my head. “Thank you!” I shouted to an imaginary
	audience. “Thank you for this award! I love it and
	I really deserve it!” 
	11
	I raised the statuette higher—
	—and it slipped from my hand. 
	I fumbled for it. Made a wild stab. 
	Missed. 
	And watched it crash to the floor. 
	It made such a heavy thud as it landed on its
	side. And then a horrible craaaack! I knew I’d never 
	forget that sick sound. 
	I dropped to my knees to pick it up. 
	“Please be okay. . . . Please be okay!” 
	No. It wasn’t okay. 
	The Oscar’s round head had broken off. 
	I held the statue’s body in one hand, the head in
	the other. 
	And then, still on my knees, I heard the rapid
	click of footsteps. 
	Someone was stepping into the office! 
	12
	
	I froze in panic. My heart raced in my chest. I
	could hear the rasp of my rapid breaths. 
	I dived to the couch and frantically stuffed the
	Oscar—both pieces of it—under the couch. 
	I glanced up to see Dad enter the room. “Ross? 
	What are you doing down on the floor?” 
	“Oh. I . . . dropped my chewing gum,” I said. “But
	I got it back.” I climbed shakily to my feet. 
	Dad eyed me curiously. “I thought I heard a crash
	in here. Is everything okay?” 
	I shrugged. “A crash? I didn’t hear anything.” 
	He studied me for a long moment. “Well . . . what
	did you do with the chewing gum?” 
	“Swallowed it,” I said. 
	That struck him as funny. He laughed. “It went
	great with Mort. I think I won him over. Come on. 
	Let’s get you to Jerry’s. You’re late.” 
	My knees were still shaking as we walked to the
	car. That was such a close one, I thought. But I
	should be okay now. 
	Of course, I was wrong. 
	13
	• • •
	We got home just before dinnertime. Hannah, our
	cook, was already bringing dishes to the table. Dad
	went into the den to make some phone calls. 
	I dropped my backpack in my room. Then turned
	to see my eight-year-old brother, Jake, walk in. 
	“Hey—Jake the Snake!” I greeted him. I raised my
	hand. “Give me six!” 
	“I don’t have six fingers!” Jake whined. “And stop
	calling me that!” 
	“Okay. How about Jake the Jerk?” 
	“Don’t call me that, either!” My little brother is
	the Whining King of Beverly Hills. 
	You’ve probably already guessed that we don’t
	get along. The problem is, Jake and I just don’t have
	anything in common. He doesn’t have a sense of
	humor. He isn’t fast thinking. 
	He doesn’t even look like me. He looks like
	Mom’s side of the family—curly, carrot-colored hair, 
	pale white skin, green eyes, a narrow rat face with his
	front teeth poking out. 
	“Hey, Rat Face!” I said. “What are you doing in
	my room?” 
	“I want my comic books back,” he whined. Jake
	has a huge collection of Japanese comic books. 
	“Comic books? I don’t read comic books,” I said. 
	“You borrowed them!” Jake cried. “You borrowed
	them last week. You said you’d return them!” 
	“I never borrowed any comic books. Get lost,” I said. 
	14
	Why do I torture Jake like that? I don’t know. I
	had the comic books in my bottom desk drawer. I
	could just hand them back to him. But I wanted to
	make him work for them. 
	He deserves it. He’s such a whiner. And he never
	helps me out. 
	Last week I wanted to go hang out with some
	guys at the Planet Hollywood over on Wilshire. I
	begged Jake to tell Mom and Dad that I went to
	Sharma’s house to study chemistry. 
	But he wouldn’t do it. “I can’t tell a lie!” he said. 
	“Why not?” I asked him. 
	“Because it’s not right.” 
	That’s why I enjoy torturing him. 
	“I know where the comics are,” he said. He dived
	past me and pulled open the bottom desk drawer. 
	“There!” 
	I started to protest when I heard Dad’s voice from
	downstairs. “Ross—get down here!” 
	Uh-oh. He sounded angry. Really angry. 
	I picked up the stack of comics and heaved them
	at Jake. Then I slowly made my way downstairs. 
	“You called me?” I asked in a tiny voice. 
	Dad had his cell phone gripped tightly in one
	hand. “I have Mort on the phone,” he said, scowling
	at me. “Mort says he changed his mind about working with me. He found the broken Oscar.” 
	My mouth dropped open. “Oscar? What Oscar?” 
	“Ross, I told you not to touch anything. I told you
	15
	what a nut Mort is about his stuff. He found the
	Oscar pieces shoved under the couch.” 
	“But . . . I sat on the couch the whole time,” I
	said, my heart leaping around in my chest, my
	mouth suddenly dry. “I never saw any Oscar.” 
	Dad said something into the phone, then clicked
	it off. He glared angrily at me. “You were the only one
	in the office.” 
	“No,” I replied. “Actually, a cleaning lady came
	in. Uh . . . two cleaning ladies, and I saw them dusting the shelves. I—” 
	Mom came in, carrying a load of shopping bags. 
	“What’s going on?” 
	“Ross is standing here, dissing me. He’s lying to
	my face,” Dad said, shaking his head. “Lying to my
	face!” 
	Mom sighed and let the bags drop to the carpet. 
	“Ross,” she whispered. “You’re making up stories
	again?” 
	“No—” I started. 
	“Punish him!” Jake cried from the top of the
	stairs. “Punish him!” 
	“This is serious, Ross,” Dad said, rolling the cell
	phone in his hand. “Very serious. You may have just
	lost me millions of dollars. You do have to be punished for this.” 
	“Cut off his hand!” Jake shouted. 
	Mom gasped. “Jake! Where did you get a horrible
	idea like that?” 
	16
	“It’s what they do to liars,” Jake said. “In some
	country somewhere. I learned it in school. Cut off his
	hand!” 
	Mom shook her head. “Well, we’re not going to
	do that.” 
	“No, we’re not,” Dad said. “We’re going to do
	something much worse.” 
	17
	
	“You’re grounded,” Dad said. 
	He slapped the cell phone against his palm as if
	it was a policeman’s club. “You’ve got to stop being
	so dishonest all the time.” 
	“But I’m not!” I protested. “I—” 
	“You’re grounded until I say you’re not,” Dad
	said sharply. Slap slap slap. The phone against his 
	hand. 
	I swallowed hard. “But—what about Max’s swim
	party Friday night? A lot of people are counting on
	me!” (Mainly the two girls I asked to go with me!)
	“Sorry, Ross,” Mom said softly. “You’ll just have
	to miss it.” 
	“But—I’ve learned my lesson!” I cried. “I’ll never
	lie again. I swear!” 
	“He’s lying.” Jake walked into the room. 
	“Shut up!” I screamed at him. I turned back to
	Mom and Dad. “Really. I promise. I’ll never tell
	another lie as long as I live.” 
	18
	“That’s no good, Ross,” Dad said firmly. “You
	have to prove yourself.” 
	“I’ll prove myself after Max’s party,” I said. 
	“Please—?” 
	Mom and Dad both shook their heads. “No more
	arguing. You’re grounded.” 
	“Don’t ground him. Cut off his hand!” Jake insisted. 
	Dad turned to Jake. “Jake, they cut off a hand for
	stealing—not for lying,” Dad said. 
	“Oh,” Jake replied. “Then cut off his lips!” 
	Mom and Dad burst out laughing. 
	I didn’t think it was funny. With a growl I
	stomped up the stairs. 
	I deliberately bumped Jake into the wall. 
	Swinging my fists, I raged into my room. 
	I was so furious, I thought I’d explode. “I hate my
	parents!” I screamed. And I kicked the wall with all
	my strength. 
	“Oh, wow.” 
	My sneaker went right through the wall! Plaster
	crumbled to the floor. I had kicked a big hole in the
	wall! 
	“Ross? What was that?” Dad shouted. 
	“Uh . . . nothing,” I called. “Nothing.” 
	Friday night. Party night. And where was I? 
	In my brother’s room, playing a stupid Nintendo
	wrestling game with Jake the Jerk. 
	Jake loves this game because it gives him a
	19
	chance to beat me up. On the screen, he pounds me
	and knocks me to the canvas. Then he jumps up and
	down on me for half an hour. Then he lifts me over
	his head and heaves me to the canvas a hundred
	times. 
	He goes nuts, furiously pushing the controller, 
	beating me to a pulp. 
	It’s a thrill for him. 
	But I wasn’t thrilled. Stuck at home watching Jake
	while all my friends were partying. And Cindy and
	Sharma were there waiting for me, getting angrier
	and angrier. 
	Maybe I should have called them and told them
	I’d been grounded. 
	But I couldn’t. It was too embarrassing. 
	Dad was thousands of miles away, in the Philippines, 
	shooting a kung fu movie. Mom was visiting the
	Lamberts, friends of ours in Malibu. 
	The game ended. Jake pumped his fists above his
	head and did a victory dance. 
	Loud music floated in through the open window. 
	Max’s house was just down the block. 
	I leaned on the windowsill and peered out. I
	could see the lights from Max’s pool. I heard kids
	shouting and laughing. 
	“I should be there,” I muttered. 
	I turned to my brother. “Here’s the deal,” I said. 
	He shoved a game controller at me. “Come on. 
	Let’s go. Round Twelve.” 
	20
	“Here’s the deal,” I repeated. “I’m going to let you
	watch a DVD in my room.” 
	That’s usually a big deal to Jake. Because he
	doesn’t have a DVD player in his room. And I have
	all the best movies. 
	But he frowned at me. “And where are you
	going?” 
	“Out,” I said. “Just for a short while. Just for an
	hour. Then I’ll be right back.” 
	“I’ll tell,” Jake said. 
	I made a fist. “No, you won’t.” 
	“You’re grounded, Ross,” he said. “You’re not
	allowed to go out. I’ll tell.” 
	“You can watch any movie you want,” I said. 
	“And you can eat a whole bag of M&M’s. You don’t
	have to share or save any for later.” 
	A few minutes later I crept out of the house. I’d
	changed into a baggy, black swimsuit and a cool
	black-and-red Hawaiian shirt, my party shirt. And I
	packed a towel and a spare swimsuit into a plastic
	bag. 
	“Ross—!” Jake called from my bedroom window. 
	“Ross—you’ll be sorry!” 
	I just laughed. 
	21
	
	“Party time!” I declared, taking my usual shortcut
	through the tall hedges, onto the terrace in Max’s
	backyard. It was bright as day, and the teardropshaped pool sparkled. Dance music blasted from the
	big speakers on the roof of the pool house. 
	In the center of the terrace a man in a white jacket
	stood behind a table, making tacos. I glimpsed Max’s
	parents sitting with some other adults away from
	everyone near the back of the house. 
	Wild splashing. Shouts. Loud laughter. 
	I saw a vicious splashing battle at one end of the
	pool. Some poor guy was being splashed by four or
	five girls, who were really into it. 
	Across from them a pool noodle war was taking
	place. Guys were smashing each other with pool
	noodles, beating each other, slapping backs and
	shoulders and heads. Thwack. Thwaaack. Smaaaack. 
	Two pool noodles cracked in half, and everyone
	laughed like crazy. 
	“Hey, Ross!” Max came hurrying over, carrying a
	22
	can of soda in one hand and a taco in the other. 
	Max is big. Big arms, big chest. He looks like a
	jock, but he isn’t into sports at all. 
	He has short, spiky brown hair, and big brown
	eyes, and a grin that spreads over his entire face. And
	the girls all think he’s one big puppy dog. 
	He was dripping wet. He’d just climbed out of the
	pool. He was wearing denim cutoffs, soaked to his
	skin. He had spilled some taco meat on his chest. 
	“Ross, I didn’t think you were coming, man.” He
	tried to flash me a thumbs-up and nearly dropped his
	taco. 
	“Hey, it’s a party—right?” I replied. “So I’m here.” 
	He chewed off a hunk of taco. “I heard you were
	grounded for life or something.” 
	“No way!” I protested. 
	“That’s what your brother said.” 
	“He’s crazy,” I told Max. “Why would I be
	grounded?” 
	I saw Cindy jump up from a chair at the edge of
	the pool. She wore a white two-piece swimsuit. Her
	black hair bobbed behind her as she ran across the
	terrace toward me. “Hey, Ross—where were you?” 
	“Hi,” I flashed her my best smile. “How’s it
	going?” 
	“You’re an hour late,” she boomed, crossing her
	arms in front of her. “What happened?” 
	“Well . . .” I thought hard. 
	“It was my brother,” I said. “Jake wasn’t feeling
	23
	well. He was kind of sick. So I wanted to stay home
	and cheer him up. You know. Read him a few books. 
	Play some games. I guess I lost track of the time.” 
	Cindy’s stern expression faded. “That was really
	nice of you,” she said softly. 
	“Well, he’s my only brother, you know. I try to
	take good care of him.” 
	Over Cindy’s shoulder, I saw Sharma waving frantically to me from the deep end of the pool. 
	“I’m starving,” Cindy said. “Those tacos look
	really good. But I waited for you to get here.” She
	started pulling me towards the food table. 
	“Uh . . . go get yourself one,” I said. “I’ll meet you
	over there in a sec. I just want to drop my bag somewhere.” 
	She hurried to the taco guy, and I jogged around
	the pool to Sharma. “Hey—what’s up?” 
	She narrowed her eyes at me. “Where have you
	been?” 
	I told her the same story about staying home to
	cheer up my brother. She ate it up, too. 
	“What were you talking to Cindy about?” she
	asked. 
	A Frisbee came flying out of the pool. I grabbed it
	and tossed it back. “Oh. Just something about
	school,” I said. 
	“Want to get some tacos?” Sharma asked. 
	I looked across the pool and saw Cindy waiting
	for me by the taco table. 
	24
	“Uh . . . not right now,” I told Sharma. “I really
	need a swim. That water looks awesome, doesn’t it? 
	Why don’t you get in, and I’ll meet you in a sec?” 
	I spun away and hurried back to Cindy. 
	I’m going to be running back and forth between
	the two girls all night, I realized. This is like a totally
	bad TV sitcom. Only, it’s my life! 
	“Here. I got you a taco,” Cindy said, handing it to
	me. “What were you talking to Sharma about?” 
	“Just a school thing,” I said. “She had a question
	about some homework.” 
	Cindy stared at me suspiciously. 
	I turned and saw Sharma waving to me from the
	deep end of the pool. 
	How long did it take Cindy and Sharma to figure
	out the truth? 
	Not long. 
	Somehow, a few minutes later, all three of us
	found ourselves standing together at the edge of the
	pool. Cindy looked at Sharma. Sharma looked at
	Cindy. 
	“Are you here with Ross?” Cindy asked. 
	“Yes,” Sharma replied. “You, too?” 
	“I can explain,” I said. 
	They didn’t give me a chance. 
	Cindy grabbed me around the waist. Sharma
	grabbed my legs. They picked me up—and heaved
	me into the pool. 
	I splashed hard. 
	25
	The cold, clear water rose around me. 
	I bobbed to the surface. And felt hands grab my
	hair. And shove me back down. 
	“Hey—help!” I sputtered. 
	But they pushed me underwater. Held my head
	down. 
	I wrestled and thrashed my arms. I burst free. 
	Shot up to the top, gasping and choking. 
	I saw them both laughing, both excited. They
	thought it was so funny. 
	They shoved me under again. And held me down. 
	I squirmed and kicked. But I couldn’t pull free. 
	I could hear them laughing above me. They were
	paying me back. Having their revenge. Enjoying it so
	much. 
	They pushed my shoulders down. Pressed down
	on my head. 
	Too long . . . I thought. Too long! 
	I felt panic tighten my chest. I swallowed some
	water and started to choke. 
	Hey—I’m drowning! I realized. 
	Let me up! Too long! You’re DROWNING me! 
	26
	
	My chest ached. I swallowed more water. 
	Didn’t they realize what they were doing? 
	Not funny! You’re DROWNING me! 
	Lights flashed in the water. Blue. White. Blue. 
	White. 
	I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . . 
	And then—finally—I broke free. 
	The hands lifted. The weight vanished. 
	I shot up hard. And broke the surface, coughing
	and sputtering. 
	I sucked in breath after breath, my chest still
	aching. The lights flashed in my eyes. 
	The pool sparkled so brightly. . . . So painfully
	bright. 
	I shut my eyes and plunged back into the water. 
	I dived underwater and started to swim away
	from the two girls. Moving smoothly now, taking
	slow, steady strokes. I opened my eyes and swam, 
	feeling my body start to relax. 
	I was nearing the deep end when I saw the figure
	27
	swimming toward me. 
	He was underwater, too, and taking the same
	slow strokes. He stared through the clear water at
	me. 
	At first I thought I was gazing at my reflection. 
	Did Max’s parents put a mirror in the pool? 
	But no. 
	I was staring at another boy. Another boy swimming straight at me. A boy with my hair, my eyes, my
	face. 
	Closer . . . 
	The water was so clear . . . so bright and clear. 
	I stopped my swim strokes. I let my arms float to
	my sides. And I stared through the water . . . stared
	at a boy who looked exactly like me! 
	28
	
	We both stopped and stared wide-eyed at each
	other. Lights shimmered and flashed in the water, 
	making it seem unreal, like in a dream. 
	He seemed to be just as surprised to see me! 
	This isn’t happening, I thought. He’s a total twin. 
	He’s even wearing a baggy black swimsuit. 
	No. No way. 
	I swam closer. 
	His eyes grew wider. His expression changed. 
	Now he looked angry. Upset. 
	Air bubbled from his open mouth. 
	And then he formed two words with his lips. 
	What was he saying? I struggled to understand. 
	Floating in place, I stared harder. 
	Go away. 
	That’s what I thought he was saying. 
	More air bubbles escaped his open mouth, and
	he formed the words again:
	Go away. 
	Why was he saying that? Why did he appear
	so angry? 
	29
	Who was he? What was he doing here? I wanted
	to ask a dozen questions. 
	But my chest felt about to burst again. 
	I had to get air, had to breathe. 
	I raised my arms and kicked, and pulled myself
	up to the surface. Again, I took in breath after breath. 
	And then I waited for the other boy to surface. 
	He had to breathe, too—right? 
	I treaded water and waited, brushing water from
	my eyes, sweeping back my dark hair with one hand. 
	Where was he? 
	He didn’t surface. 
	I swam slowly in his direction, my eyes searching
	the water. 
	I did a breast stroke, moving a few inches at a
	time, ducking my head under the surface, peering
	into the shimmering, blue light. 
	No. 
	No sign of him. 
	I reached the wall at the deep end, turned and
	floated back. I dived under, down to the pool floor, 
	then back up to the top. 
	He was gone. Vanished. 
	But—how? 
	Who was he? Why did he look so much like me? 
	Why did he tell me to go away? 
	Questions, questions. 
	I climbed out of the pool. Shook myself like a dog
	trying to get dry. I grabbed my towel and wrapped it
	30
	around my shoulders. 
	Cindy and Sharma were still at the edge of the
	pool. They were laughing and dancing to the music
	blasting from the pool house. 
	I ran to them, waving frantically, my bare feet
	slapping the stone terrace. “Did you see that guy?” 
	They didn’t stop dancing. 
	“Did you see him? The boy in the pool who looks
	like me?” I asked. 
	They ignored me. I guess they were still angry. 
	“I—I think I have a twin,” I said. 
	Sharma scowled at me and rolled her eyes. “One
	of you is enough,” she snapped. 
	“You really didn’t see him?” I asked. 
	They kept dancing. 
	I suddenly realized it was getting late. “What time
	is it?” I asked. 
	They talked to each other as they danced and
	pretended I didn’t exist. 
	I ran across the terrace to Max. He was kidding
	around with three girls from our class. 
	I slapped him on the back with a wet towel to get
	his attention. 
	“Got to run,” I said. “I have to pick Jake up at a
	friend’s house. Awesome party!” 
	“It’s just starting!” he protested. 
	But I gave him a thumbs-up and took off. I
	stopped at the hedge and turned back. 
	Shielding my eyes from the bright lights, I
	31
	searched for the boy who looked so much like me. 
	No sign of him. 
	Cindy and Sharma were laughing hard about
	something. A boy did a bellyflop into the pool, sending up a high wave that drenched both of them. 
	I ducked through the crack in the hedge and
	began to jog across backyards toward my house. I
	knew I had to get home before Mom returned. 
	Jake the Snake would never lie for me. He’d love
	it if Mom got home first so he could tell her I sneaked
	off to Max’s party. 
	I stopped at the bottom of the driveway and
	gazed up at the house. “Oh no,” I moaned. 
	The lights were on in the front rooms. Mom’s
	Jaguar was in the driveway. 
	No. No. No. 
	When did she get home? I wondered. Does she
	know that I’m not there? 
	Has Jake already squealed on me? 
	Keeping in the shadows, I made my way around
	to the side of the house. 
	The gardener planted a row of olive trees there a
	few years ago. The trees are short, but one of them is
	tall enough for me to stand on a branch and reach
	my bedroom window. 
	I only use it for emergencies. 
	And this was definitely an emergency. 
	If Mom found out that I left Jake by himself and
	sneaked out to Max’s party, I’d be grounded until I
	32
	was at least sixty years old! 
	I had to climb through the upstairs window into
	my bedroom, then walk downstairs as if I had been
	there all along. 
	If Jake said I went out, I’d tell Mom he was crazy. 
	I stopped a few feet from the olive tree. I gazed up
	at my dark bedroom window. 
	An easy climb. 
	No problem. 
	I reached for the bottom tree limb. Started to hoist
	myself up. 
	And two hands wrapped around my waist, grabbed
	me hard, and pulled me down. 
	33
	
	As I fell back, I heard a high-pitched giggle in my
	ear. 
	I tumbled to the ground. Spun around quickly. 
	Jumped to my feet. 
	And stared angrily at Jake. 
	“What are you doing out here?” I cried. My voice
	cracked. 
	That made Jake giggle even harder. His eyes
	flashed excitedly in the dim light. He loves scaring
	me. It’s a total thrill for him to sneak up behind me
	and grab me or shout, “Boo!” 
	“What are you doing outside?” I repeated, grabbing him by the shoulders. 
	His grin grew wider. “I saw you coming.” 
	I squeezed his tiny shoulders harder. “When did
	Mom get home? Does she know I went out?” 
	“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe I told her. Or maybe
	I didn’t.” 
	“Which is it?” I demanded. 
	“Maybe you have to find out,” he said. 
	34
	I loosened my grip. I smoothed the front of his
	T-shirt. “Listen, Jake, help me out here. I—” 
	The dining room window slid open. Mom poked
	her head out. “There you are, Rosssss.” 
	I could tell by the way she hissed my name that
	she was totally angry. 
	“Get in here,” she said. “Both of you. Right now.” 
	She slammed the window so hard, the glass panes
	shook. 
	She was waiting for us in the kitchen, hands
	pressed tightly against her waist. “Where were you, 
	Rosssss?” 
	“Uh . . . nowhere,” I said. 
	“You were nowhere?” 
	“Yeah,” I said. 
	Jake laughed. 
	Mom’s eyes burned into mine. “You weren’t home
	when I got here. Were you?” 
	“Well . . . it’s not what you’re thinking,” I said. “I
	mean, I didn’t go to Max’s party.” 
	“Yes, you did!” Jake chimed in. 
	“Then where did you go?” Mom asked. “Why are
	you wearing a bathing suit? And why is it wet?” 
	“Uh . . . you see, Jake was watching a video. And
	I was so hot . . . I just went outside to cool off. I took
	a swim in our pool. Really. I knew I was grounded. 
	So I just hung around the pool.” 
	Jake laughed. 
	“Shut up, Jake!” I shouted. I spun away from
	35
	him. “He just wants to get me in trouble, Mom. I was
	in the backyard. Really.” 
	Mom scrunched up her face as she studied me. I
	could tell she was trying to decide whether or not to
	believe me. 
	The phone rang. 
	Mom punched the button on the speakerphone. 
	“Hello?” 
	“Oh, hi. Mrs. Arthur?” 
	I recognized Max’s voice. I could hear the party
	going on in the background. 
	“Yes, Max. Did you want to speak to Ross?” 
	“No,” Max replied. “I was just calling to tell him
	he left his towel and his extra suit at my house.” 
	I slumped onto a kitchen stool. Caught again. 
	Mom thanked Max and clicked off the speakerphone. When she turned back to me, she did not
	have her friendly face on. In fact, she was bright red. 
	“I’m really worried about you, Ross,” she said in
	a whisper. 
	“Huh? Worried?” 
	“I don’t think you know how to tell the truth anymore.” 
	“Sure, I do,” I said. “I just—” 
	Mom shook her head. “No. Really, Ross. I don’t
	think you know the difference between the truth and
	a lie.” 
	I jumped off the stool. “I can tell the truth!” I
	protested. “I swear I can. Sometimes I make up
	36
	things because . . . because I don’t want to get in
	trouble.” 
	“Ross, I don’t think you can stop making up
	things,” Mom said softly. “When your father gets
	back from his shoot, we need to have a family meeting. We need to talk about this problem.” 
	I stared at the floor. “Okay,” I replied. 
	And then I suddenly remembered the boy in the
	pool. And I had to ask. 
	“Mom, can I ask you a strange question? Do I
	have a twin?” 
	She narrowed her eyes at me for a long moment. 
	Then her answer totally shocked me. “Yes,” she said. 
	“Yes, you do.” 
	37
	
	I gasped. “Huh?” 
	Mom nodded. “There’s a good twin and a bad
	twin. You’re the bad twin.” She laughed. 
	“Ha ha,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Good joke, 
	Mom.” 
	Mom squeezed my shoulder. “Why would I want
	two of you?” 
	“I want a twin!” Jake cried. “Then we could both
	pound Ross!” 
	“We have more serious problems to talk about,” 
	Mom said, sighing. “Let’s drop the twin talk.” She
	opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of
	water. She raised it to her mouth and took a long
	drink. 
	“But I saw a kid who looks just like me,” I said. “I
	mean, exactly like me. He could have been my twin!” 
	Mom took another drink, then shoved the bottle
	back into the fridge. “Were you looking in a mirror?” 
	I rolled my eyes again. “Ha ha. Another good one, 
	Mom. Remind me to laugh later.” 
	38
	
	“I’m going to bed,” Mom said. She clicked off the
	kitchen lights and started out of the room. 
	“No, wait.” I hurried after her. “I really did see my
	twin.” 
	As Mom turned back, she looked troubled and
	sad. “Ross, what am I going to do with you?” she
	whispered. “You really can’t go two minutes without
	making up a story.” 
	I felt my anger rise. I balled my hands into tight
	fists at my sides. “I’m not making this up,” I
	screamed. “It’s the truth!” 
	I pushed Jake out of the way and ran up to my
	room. 
	I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I kept thinking
	about that boy swimming toward me in Max’s pool. I
	kept picturing the angry expression on his face. I
	kept seeing him mouth the words Go away. 
	And then he vanished. 
	And I kept thinking about Cindy and Sharma. 
	How angry they were over a simple mix-up. 
	Mom’s words kept repeating in my mind: “I don’t
	think you know the difference between the truth and
	a lie.” 
	That was crazy. Totally wrong. 
	But how could I prove it to her? 
	Finally I drifted into a restless sleep. I dreamed
	that I was running through an endless field of tall
	grass, being chased by Cindy and Sharma. They were
	39
	waving their arms furiously, calling to me, shouting
	their lungs out—but I couldn’t hear them. And I
	couldn’t stop running through the tall grass. 
	I was awakened by voices. 
	I sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. My 
	pajama shirt clung wetly to my skin. 
	I glanced at my clock radio. Two o’clock in the
	morning. 
	Who was talking at this time of night? I held my
	breath and listened hard. 
	The voices came from downstairs. I heard a
	woman’s voice. She was speaking loudly, sharply. 
	But I couldn’t make out her words. 
	Had Dad come home early from his shoot? Were
	he and Mom talking down there? 
	I slid out of bed and tiptoed to the hall. Nearly to
	the stairs, I stopped and listened again. 
	It was dark downstairs. No lights on in the living
	room. They must be in the kitchen, I realized. 
	The woman was talking. It was Mom. I recognized
	her voice. 
	I leaned into the stairwell to try to make out her
	words. 
	“Are you going crazy or something?” 
	That’s what she said. She didn’t sound angry. She
	sounded worried. 
	“You don’t have a twin,” she said. “No twin. Why
	would you say such a crazy thing?” 
	And then I heard a boy answer. 
	40
	“But I saw him!” the boy said. “Really. I saw
	him.” 
	I let out a low gasp. I gripped the banister to keep
	from falling. 
	The boy . . . 
	The boy . . . had MY voice! 
	41
	
	“I’m not making it up,” the boy said—in my
	voice. “I saw him, and he saw me.” 
	“It’s late. We should be asleep,” Mom said. 
	“Come on. Turn off the lights.” 
	“Why don’t you believe me?” the boy demanded
	shrilly. 
	Gripping the banister, I realized my whole body
	was trembling. 
	How can he have my voice? Who is he? Why is
	Mom talking to him in the middle of the night? 
	I had to see what was going on. I took a step—
	and stumbled. 
	My bare foot slid over the wooden stair, and I
	started to fall, tumbling down step by step. 
	A painful thud with each step. 
	I landed hard on my elbows and knees. My heart
	pounding, I waited for the pain to stop. And listened
	for approaching footsteps, for cries of surprise from
	the kitchen. 
	Mom must have heard me thumping and
	42
	
	bumping down the stairs. 
	Why didn’t she come running to see who had
	fallen? 
	Silence in the kitchen now. 
	I picked myself up and straightened my pajamas. 
	One knee throbbed with pain. I rubbed it carefully as
	I limped toward the kitchen. 
	“Who’s down here?” I called. “Mom? Is that you?” 
	No reply. 
	The kitchen was dark. No lights on. Silvery
	moonlight poured in from the windows. No color in
	the room, only shades of gray. 
	I suddenly felt as if I were in a black-and-white
	movie. 
	“Mom? I heard you talking!” I called. 
	I made my way across the kitchen, running my
	hand along the counter. “Anyone in here?” 
	No. 
	I peered out at the backyard. Under the bright
	moonlight, the swimming pool shimmered, and the
	grass glowed like silver. 
	Unreal. 
	I turned away—and the kitchen lights flashed on. 
	Blinking from the shock of the light, I saw Mom in
	the doorway. 
	“Ross? What are you doing down here?” she
	asked, holding a hand over her mouth and yawning
	loudly. 
	“I—I heard you talking,” I said. 
	43
	She tightened the belt of her robe. “Me? It wasn’t
	me. I was asleep.” 
	“No,” I said. “I heard voices. You were here in the
	kitchen, talking to a boy.” 
	Mom rubbed her eyes with both hands. “No. 
	Really, Ross. Why are you down here?” 
	“I told you,” I said, clenching my fists. I banged
	one fist on the Formica counter. “Why don’t you
	believe me?” 
	“Because I wasn’t in here talking to anyone,” 
	Mom said. “I was in my bed, sound asleep. Until I
	heard you wandering around.” 
	She yawned. “You must have been having a
	nightmare. Sometimes nightmares can seem very
	real.” 
	“I didn’t dream it,” I insisted. “I know the difference
	between a nightmare and what’s really happening.” 
	I could see she wasn’t going to believe me. So I
	shrugged and followed her out of the kitchen, clicking off the lights as I left. 
	I didn’t get back to sleep that night. 
	I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Listening for
	the voices downstairs. Waiting . . . listening for Mom
	and the boy with my voice. 
	I didn’t know I would see the boy in a few hours. 
	I didn’t know how dangerous he was. 
	I didn’t know the terrifying trouble I was in. 
	44
	
	Cindy stopped me after school Monday afternoon. I was kneeling down in front of my hall locker, 
	lacing my new tennis sneakers. She stepped in front
	of me and stomped down hard on one of them. 
	“Hey!” I snapped angrily. “Why’d you do that?” 
	She shrugged. “Just felt like it.” 
	I tied the laces quickly, then spit on my fingers
	and tried to rub off the scuff mark she’d made. “If
	you’re still angry at me about Max’s party . . .” 
	“I’ve decided to be nice to you again,” she said. 
	“Nice? By stomping on my foot?” 
	She laughed. “That was just to be funny.” She
	raked her fingers through her straight black bangs. 
	“Why did you leave the party so early Friday night? 
	Afraid Sharma and I would toss you in the pool
	again?” 
	“You almost drowned me!” I grumbled. 
	“You deserved it,” Cindy replied. “So why did you
	leave in such a hurry, Ross?” 
	“Oh, I was worried about my little brother,” I said. 
	45
	“I don’t like to leave him alone for long.” 
	Cindy stared hard at me. “Is that the truth?” 
	I slammed my locker shut. “Of course,” I said. 
	Cindy shifted her backpack on her shoulders. 
	“Maybe you could come over to my house now. We
	could study for the government test together.” 
	I waved to some guys down the hall. “I can’t,” I
	told Cindy. “I have tennis team practice.” 
	I glanced at the clock above the principal’s office. 
	“I’m already late.” 
	Cindy frowned at me. “Where’s your tennis racket?” 
	I started jogging to the back doors. “Steve
	Franklin said he’d bring an extra one for me. I left
	mine at home this morning.” 
	“Where are you really going?” Cindy called after
	me. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?” 
	“It’s true!” I shouted. I trotted out of the school
	building and hurried across the playground to the
	tennis courts. 
	I heard the thock thock thock of rackets hitting tennis balls. Guys on the team were already warming up. 
	I searched the long row of courts for Steve
	Franklin. He had a bucket of balls and was hitting
	one after another, practicing his serve. 
	I started jogging over to him to get the racket he’d
	promised to bring. But Coach Melvin blocked my
	way. “Ross, you’re ten minutes late. We really need
	you here on time. You missed the whole warm-up.” 
	46
	“Sorry, Coach,” I said. “I . . . uh . . . had a really
	bad nosebleed.” 
	He squinted at my nose. “You okay now?” 
	I nodded. 
	“Well, go warm up. Practice your serves, okay? 
	Take the court next to Steve.” 
	I took a basket of tennis balls and trotted over to
	Steve. He stopped serving and tossed me an old
	racket of his. “What’s up, Ross?” he asked. 
	I swung the racket hard a few times to get the feel
	of it. 
	“I’m thinking of quitting the team,” I said. “I
	might go pro.” 
	Steve laughed. “Yeah. Me, too.” 
	“Not a bad racket,” I said, twirling it in my palm. 
	“Not a good racket. But not a bad racket.” 
	“You want to come over and practice some time
	this weekend?” Steve asked. “My dad built a new
	court in our backyard. It’s clay. Very sweet.” 
	“Cool,” I said. I dragged the bucket of balls over
	to the next court and started practicing my serve. The
	first three flew into the net. 
	I turned and saw Coach Melvin frowning at me
	from the next court. 
	“Just testing the racket,” I called to him. 
	I served a few more. My arm felt stiff. I hadn’t
	practiced in a while. 
	Down the long row of courts, guys were volleying
	back and forth. The afternoon sun suddenly
	47
	appeared from behind a high cloud. The bright light
	swept over me. 
	I shielded my eyes with one hand—and saw him. 
	Squinting into the sunlight, I saw the boy—me!—
	my twin. He was six or seven courts down, at the far
	end. 
	He was volleying with Jared Harris. He was
	dressed in the same tennis whites I wore. His dark
	hair flew up as he ran to the net. 
	He looked just like me! 
	The racket fell out of my hand and bounced in
	front of me. 
	“Hey!” I shouted. I waved frantically. 
	He didn’t hear me. He returned a serve from
	Jared, then ran to the corner to return Jared’s shot. 
	“Hey—you!” I cried. “Wait!” 
	My heart pounded. I squinted hard, trying to
	block out the bright sunlight. Trying to make sure I
	wasn’t seeing things. 
	No. It was me. 
	It was my exact double on that court. 
	And suddenly he turned—and saw me. 
	I saw his eyes go wide. I saw his expression
	change. He recognized me. 
	For a long moment we stared at each other down
	the long row of tennis courts. 
	And then his mouth formed the words . . . the
	same words they had formed underwater in Max’s
	pool: Go away. 
	48
	Even from so far away, I could see the angry
	scowl on his face. Cold . . . his glare was so cold. 
	“GO AWAY!” he repeated. 
	“No!” I screamed. “No!” 
	I started to run, shouting and waving my arms
	wildly. 
	I got about two steps and tripped over the racket
	I had dropped. 
	The racket slid under my feet. I fell onto my stomach and bounced hard over the asphalt. 
	“Owww!” 
	Ignoring the pain, I scrambled to my feet. 
	Lurched a few steps toward the far court—and
	stopped. 
	The boy—my twin—was gone. Vanished again. 
	I stared into the light. Jared had his back turned. 
	He was leaning over, pulling a white headband out of
	a canvas bag. 
	He had missed the whole thing! 
	Finally Jared turned around. “Hey, Ross,” he
	called. “Are you going to play or not?” 
	I ran over to him. “Th-that wasn’t me,” I said. 
	He narrowed his eyes at me. “Excuse me? I
	thought we were playing a practice game.” 
	“It wasn’t me,” I repeated shakily. 
	The guys in the next court had stopped playing. 
	They were staring at me now. 
	I saw Coach Melvin jogging over from the other
	end of the courts. 
	49
	“That boy—” I said to Jared. “Did he tell you his
	name or anything?” 
	Jared laughed. “I don’t get the joke, Ross.” 
	“It—it wasn’t me!” I cried shrilly. 
	Jared shook his head. “Well, he looked like you, 
	and he talked like you, and he sounded just like you. 
	And he played like you. So . . .” 
	“What’s the problem, Ross?” Coach Melvin hurried up to us, gazing at me sternly. “What’s happening?” 
	“Uh . . . nothing,” I said. “Really. Nothing.” 
	I felt dazed. Kind of dizzy. 
	The bright sunlight turned white . . . white . . . 
	whiter. It flashed in my eyes. 
	What’s going on? I wondered. 
	Who is that kid? 
	50
	
	“Sharma—hey!” I saw her on the steps in front of
	school and ran over to her. “You stayed after?” 
	She nodded. “I had a makeup test in government. 
	It wasn’t too bad.” 
	“That means you aced it,” I said. Sharma is a
	total brain, but she doesn’t like kids to say it. Her
	idea of a bad test score is anything below 110! 
	“Are you walking home?” I asked. “Can I walk
	with you?” 
	She nodded again. She pulled a bug or something
	off my tennis shirt. “How was tennis practice?” 
	“Totally weird,” I said. As we started to walk, I
	decided to tell her the whole story. I had to tell someone! 
	“This kid is my exact twin,” I told her. “But he
	keeps disappearing before I can talk to him. Today, 
	he was at tennis practice, playing with Jared. But it
	wasn’t the first time I saw him. I saw him in Max’s
	pool Friday night. He was swimming right at me!” 
	Sharma laughed. “You make up the dumbest stories.” 
	51
	“No. I’m serious!” I said. “He is my exact twin. In
	every way. He even wears the same clothes as me.” 
	“Give me a break,” Sharma said. “You should be
	a writer, Ross. You have such an awesome imagination.” 
	I groaned. “But I’m not making it up. Why won’t
	anyone believe me?” 
	“Because it’s crazy?” Sharma suggested. 
	We stopped at a corner. “I’m telling the truth,” I
	insisted. “I saw this boy twice. And he was me. 
	Really.” 
	Sharma narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you
	believe in ghosts?” 
	“Ghosts? No,” I said. “Why?” 
	“Well, I saw this movie on TV about a girl who
	kept seeing her twin. And her twin turned out to be
	her ghost. The ghost came back from the future
	because she wanted to possess herself and take over
	her own life.” 
	“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I muttered. 
	“I know,” Sharma said. “But maybe the boy you
	keep seeing is your own ghost.” 
	“But don’t I have to die to have a ghost?” I asked. 
	Traffic drowned out Sharma’s answer. Cars
	whirred through the intersection. The afternoon sun
	was lowering behind the hills. People were speeding
	home from work. 
	The light turned green. I started to walk. 
	“Hey—stop!” Sharma pulled me back. “Where
	are you going?” 
	52
	“But the light—” I protested. 
	“You’re so busy making up invisible twins, you
	don’t know what you’re doing!” Sharma said. 
	“He’s not invisible,” I told her. 
	The light turned red. Sharma tugged me into the
	street. “We can go now.” 
	“Huh? You’re going to get us killed!” I cried. 
	I pulled back and stumbled over the curb. 
	Sharma laughed as I fell flat on my back on the
	grass. “What is your problem, Ross? Have you totally
	lost it?” 
	I pulled myself up and brushed off the back of my
	jeans. “Sorry,” I said. “But you started to walk on red, 
	and—” 
	I realized she was staring over my shoulder. Not
	listening to me. She was waving at Cindy who was
	coming our way. 
	I glanced down—and uttered a cry of surprise. 
	The grass where I had fallen—it had turned
	brown. You could see the outline of my shoulders
	and my back and one of my arms. 
	The grass along the curb was all green—except
	for where my body had touched it. 
	And as I stared, the patch of brown grass made a
	sizzling sound, as if it was on fire. Black smoke
	floated up. 
	The grass burned away until the outline of my
	back and shoulders was bare dirt. 
	“Wow,” I murmured. “That is so weird! Sharma—
	look at this.” 
	53
	I glanced up to see Sharma walking away. “See
	you, Ross.” She gave me a quick wave. “I have to
	talk to Cindy.” 
	“Wait, Sharma! Come back!” I shouted. 
	“We’ll walk home together tomorrow, Ross. Hey, 
	why don’t you invite your ghost? We can all walk
	home together!” She laughed as she headed down
	the street to Cindy. 
	“Sharma! Hey—Sharma!” I called after her. But
	she didn’t slow down or turn back. 
	I stared down at the grass again. “What is that
	about?” I muttered. I waited for the traffic to stop. 
	Then I ran across the street and kept running until I
	reached home. 
	The gardeners were just finishing for the day, 
	packing up their truck. I ran through the front lawn
	sprinklers. The cold water felt great! 
	To my surprise, Mom was waiting for me at the
	front door. “What’s wrong?” I cried. 
	“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “Your karate
	teacher just called. He said—” 
	“My what?” I interrupted. 
	“Mr. Lawrence said he’s coming early. Right after
	dinner. So, if you have homework to do . . .” 
	“But—but—but—” I sputtered. “I don’t take
	karate lessons, Mom!” 
	Her mouth dropped open. She narrowed her eyes
	at me. “Only since you were seven,” she said. 
	I felt a chill run down my back. 
	54
	She wasn’t joking. 
	But how could she say that? 
	The only karate I ever did was in Nintendo
	games! 
	“Don’t just stand there, Ross. Come in,” Mom
	said. “How was your tennis practice?” 
	“Weird,” I said. I opened my mouth to tell her
	about seeing my twin again. But I stopped myself. 
	She’d just think I was making it up. 
	“Why was it weird?” she asked. 
	“Well . . . I played so well for a change. No one
	could touch my serve. Coach Melvin thinks I’m
	going to be the star player on the team this year.” 
	“Excellent,” Mom said. She hugged me. “We’ll
	have an early dinner since your karate lesson is
	early. You can thank me in advance. I made your
	favorite.” 
	“My favorite?” 
	“Yes. Brussels sprouts. Jake won’t eat them. But I
	know you love them.” 
	Huh? Brussels sprouts? I HATE them! Just thinking about them makes me want to puke! 
	“Mom?” I cried weakly. “What is going on here?” 
	55
	
	She didn’t hear my question. The phone rang, 
	and she hurried to answer it. 
	I was going to ask where Jake was. But then I
	remembered that he has his guitar lesson on
	Mondays. Amelia, our housekeeper, always brings
	him home around dinnertime. 
	I made my way up to my room to change out of
	my tennis whites. I opened my closet door—and
	gasped. 
	A white karate robe hung on the door hook. 
	How did that get here? I wondered. 
	I backed out of the closet and glanced quickly
	around my room. Had anything else changed? Was I
	into other activities that I had no memory of? 
	My eyes swept over my Jimi Hendrix posters, my
	autographed baseballs, my snow globe collection, 
	my stuffed leopard from when I was four. 
	Everything was there. Everything was the same. 
	Except for that white robe in my closet. 
	And the sour smell of brussels sprouts floating up
	56
	from the kitchen downstairs. How could Mom forget
	how much I hate brussels sprouts? 
	I started to change into a clean pair of baggy
	jeans and a black T-shirt. But as I pulled the shirt
	from my dresser drawer, a sharp pain shot through
	my forehead. 
	“Huh—?” I gasped. The shirt fell from my hands. 
	I grabbed my head as another pain rocked
	through it. I saw a white flash, like a lightning bolt. I
	pressed my hands tightly to my head. 
	“Ohhh . . . what is happening?” 
	Stab after stab of pain pierced my head. I felt as
	if someone kept jamming a knife into my eyes. 
	I dropped to my knees, weak from pain. Flash
	after flash of white light blinded me. 
	“Whoa . . .” 
	And then it stopped. 
	I blinked several times. Still holding my head, I
	waited for the pain to return. 
	But I felt normal again. I opened my eyes. I could
	see clearly. 
	Shaking my head, I climbed to my feet. What was
	that about? I’d never had a headache like that
	before. 
	I stared out the window, breathing slowly, trying
	to get my head straight—when Mom called me from
	downstairs. “Ross, I need you to do me a favor.” 
	I pulled on the T-shirt, brushed back my hair. 
	Then, still feeling shaky, I made my way down the
	57
	stairs and met her at the bottom. 
	“I just had the worst headache,” I groaned. 
	She rolled her eyes. “Ross, why do you always
	have a headache when I need you to do me a favor?” 
	“No. Really,” I insisted. “But I’m okay now. 
	What’s the favor?” 
	“The milk went sour,” she said, holding her nose. 
	“I need you to go to the store and buy another carton.” 
	My mouth dropped open. “Huh? Walk to the
	store? This is Beverly Hills, Mom. People don’t walk
	to the store. That’s too weird. Why don’t you drive?” 
	“I can’t,” she said. “I’m waiting for a call from
	your dad. He’s been so busy on the set, I haven’t spoken to him in three days.” 
	“But he can call you in the car,” I said. “It’s
	almost four blocks to the store, and—” 
	“Ross, just go,” Mom said. She stuffed a twentydollar bill into my T-shirt pocket. 
	Normally, I’d come up with a great excuse: “I
	can’t walk that far. I sprained my ankle at tennis
	practice. Coach Melvin said I should stay off my foot
	all week.” 
	But I decided it would be good to get out of the
	house. It would give me time to think about all the
	weird stuff that was happening. 
	“Back in a few minutes,” I said. I took off, walking fast. 
	I had walked about two blocks—halfway to the
	58
	store—when I saw my twin. He was half a block
	ahead of me, walking fast. 
	He was wearing baggy jeans and a black T-shirt, 
	just like me. He had Walkman headphones over his
	ears and was snapping his fingers, jiving along. 
	I stopped in shock. My heart started to pound. 
	“This time you’re not getting away!” I said out
	loud. 
	I took off, running full speed to catch up to him. 
	He had the music blasting in his ears. So he didn’t
	hear me. 
	You’re not getting away. You’re not getting away. 
	I chanted those words in my mind as I ran. 
	I stretched out my arms as I caught up with him. 
	I grabbed him by the shoulders. He was real! 
	I grabbed him from behind. Spun him around. 
	And gasped in shock. 
	59
	
	Not him! It wasn’t my twin! 
	It was another guy, a stranger. 
	His dark eyes bulged in surprise. His mouth
	dropped open. 
	I held my grip on his shoulder. I was too startled
	to move. 
	And then I felt the shoulder move under my
	hand. It started to wriggle . . . then shrink . . . to melt
	away. 
	I uttered a cry. My hand flew off his shoulder. 
	And I stared in horror as the boy’s shoulder
	shrank under the sleeve of the black T-shirt. And his
	hand . . . his hand clenched in a tight fist . . . grew
	smaller . . . melted away . . . melted into the wrist. 
	And then the arm curled like a fat snake. 
	Boneless . . . no longer a human arm, it twisted and
	curled, and reached out for me like the tendril of a
	plant. 
	“You . . . You . . . You . . .” the boy choked out
	in a hoarse gasp. 
	60
	“Huh?” I gasped. I stepped back, trying to escape
	the curling tendril of an arm. 
	He uttered a gurgling sound, tore off the headphones, and staggered toward me. 
	I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from
	screaming as his face began to change. 
	The skin peeled away. Peeled off like onion skin . . . 
	flaked away in chunks . . . until he had no skin. 
	No skin on his face at all! 
	His hair fell off in thick clumps. And then the pale
	skin flaked off his scalp. And now his whole head
	glowed bright red. Red and wet. 
	Just like raw meat. 
	His face was raw meat, chunks of meat, crisscrossed with bulging purple veins. 
	His dark eyes stared out at me from wet sockets. 
	No nose. Just two deep holes, two gaping nostrils
	carved into the meaty slab. 
	“The pain. It hurts,” he moaned. 
	His whole face jiggled and throbbed. 
	I staggered back. “What—what’s happening to
	you?” I stammered, raising my hands to shield
	myself from the hideous sight of his raw face. From
	his arm, wriggling in front of him like a pale snake. 
	He tossed back his throbbing, glistening red face
	and uttered a shrill howl. 
	And then he spun away—and took off, howling
	as he ran. And screaming at the top of his lungs, 
	“Help! Help!” 
	61
	I grabbed my stomach. I felt sick. 
	What just happened? I wondered, hugging
	myself, trying to stop trembling. 
	I shook my head to try to clear it. 
	But I couldn’t force the picture of the kid’s face
	from my mind. The throbbing red meat, glistening
	and wet. The purple veins pulsing in his choppy face. 
	“I’ve got to get away from here!” I said out loud. 
	I started to jog—but another sharp pain shot through
	my head. 
	On fire, I thought. My head is on fire! 
	I grabbed my head with both hands. Stab after
	stab of pain made me cry out. I shut my eyes. I
	pressed my hands tighter over my throbbing head. 
	Once again the pain stopped as abruptly as it had
	started. 
	I shook my head hard. I saw the little grocery
	store up ahead. It’ll be cool inside, I decided. 
	And normal. 
	Please, I pleaded silently, let everything be normal again. 
	The store was nearly empty. A couple of teenagers
	were discussing candy bars at the front counter. A
	boy was trying to get his friend to buy a Zigfruit bar. 
	His friend said only freaks buy Zigfruits. He was
	sticking with Four Musketeers. 
	Zigfruits? Four Musketeers? 
	Since when did they add another musketeer? 
	62
	I picked a carton of milk off the shelf and carried
	it to the woman behind the counter. “Is that all?” she
	asked. 
	I nodded. “Yes. Just the milk.” 
	I shoved the carton across the counter. 
	And felt the cardboard carton melt away in my
	hand. 
	The milk poured out, steaming . . . making a loud
	hissing sound. 
	“Oh!” I gasped as the hissing milk poured out in
	thick lumps. It spread over the counter. Bubbling . . . 
	steaming . . . turning bright yellow. 
	A sick, sour smell rose up from the yellow clots. 
	The shocked woman gazed down at the steaming
	mess. Then raised her eyes to me—frightened eyes—
	and opened her mouth in a scream: “GET OUT! 
	OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!” 
	“S-sorry!” I choked out. My stomach lurched
	from the sick smell. I gagged. Spun away from the
	counter—and staggered outside. 
	I stumbled to the curb, feeling dazed, sick. I
	glimpsed the two guys from the store, holding strange
	candy bars, staring at me from the doorway. 
	“Hey—!” I called to them. My legs shaking, my
	whole body trembling, I walked up to them. “What
	just happened?” I asked. “Did you see—?” 
	“Don’t touch us!” one of them screamed. 
	They both raised their hands as if shielding
	63
	themselves from me. 
	“Keep back! Don’t touch us!” 
	“But—but—” I sputtered. “What’s wrong? What’s
	happening?” 
	64
	
	The two boys scrambled away. One of them
	dropped his candy bar. He didn’t stop to pick it up. 
	I ran all the way home. Gasping for breath, sweat
	pouring down my face, I burst into the house. 
	“Mom? Where are you? Mom?” 
	“In the dining room,” she called. “Jake and I
	started without you.” 
	I lurched into the dining room. Mom and Jake sat
	at one end of the long table. Jake opened his mouth
	wide and showed me a disgusting, chewed-up blob of
	spaghetti inside. 
	I ran up beside Mom’s chair. “I—I have to talk to
	you,” I said. 
	“Sit down,” Mom said sharply. “What took you so
	long? Mr. Lawrence will be here any minute.” 
	“Listen to me!” I cried. “Something strange is
	going on and—” 
	“Your face is strange!” Jake shouted. He burst out
	laughing at his own dumb joke. 
	“At least my nickname isn’t Rat Face!” I shot
	65
	back. “Hi, Rat Face! What’s up, Rat Face!” 
	“I’m not a Rat Face! You’re a rat! You’re a whole
	rat!” Jake screamed. “Go eat some cheese, Rat!” 
	“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Mom cried. She
	turned to me. “Where’s the milk?” 
	“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said breathlessly. “I couldn’t—” 
	“You came home without milk?” Mom sighed. 
	“Sit down, Ross.” She pushed me toward my seat. 
	“Don’t talk. Try to eat something before your lesson.” 
	“But—But—” 
	“Don’t talk! Just eat!” She scooped a mound of
	spaghetti onto my plate. Then she piled on a ton of
	brussels sprouts. 
	Yuck. 
	The smell made my stomach lurch. 
	Mom leaned over the table, watching me. “Go
	ahead. Try the sprouts. I know you love them.” 
	“We have to talk—” I started. “You see, I don’t
	like brussels sprouts. I’m trying to tell you—” 
	She shook her head. “Stop it. Not a word. I’ve
	heard enough of your crazy stories to last a lifetime. 
	Just eat.” 
	I had no choice. I speared one of the disgusting, 
	squishy balls on my fork. I raised it slowly to my
	mouth. 
	I felt sick. My stomach tightened. 
	I started to gag. 
	Mom stared across the table at me. 
	66
	I held my breath. And slid the brussels sprout
	into my mouth. So squishy and slimy and sour . . . 
	I swallowed it whole. 
	Mom sat back in her seat. “Good?” 
	I couldn’t reply. I was trying with all my strength
	to keep from puking. 
	The front doorbell rang. I saw Amelia, the housekeeper, hurry to answer it. 
	“That’s Mr. Lawrence,” Mom said. “Hurry, Ross. 
	Get into your karate robe. You’ll have to eat later. 
	We’ll keep dinner warm for you.” 
	I gulped down a glass of apple juice, trying to get
	the brussels sprouts taste out of my mouth. “Uh . . . 
	maybe I should skip the lesson tonight,” I said. “I
	have a big homework project, and—” 
	“Mr. Lawrence drove all the way from Burbank,” 
	Mom said. “Get upstairs and get changed. What’s
	wrong with you tonight?” 
	That’s what I want to know! I said to myself as I
	hurried to my room. 
	What’s wrong with me tonight? 
	I stared at the white robe hanging on my closet
	door. Which way does the belt go? I wondered. Does
	the collar stay up or down? 
	How am I going to fake my way through this
	lesson? I asked myself. I can’t. I don’t know anything about karate. And I’ve never seen this Mr. 
	Lawrence before in my life. 
	67
	Why did Mom say I’ve been taking lessons since
	I was seven? 
	How can she be so totally confused? 
	I pulled on the robe and tied the belt in front of
	me. My hands were trembling. 
	This guy could kill me, I realized. 
	I can’t go through with this. I’ve got to stop it. 
	Downstairs, I heard voices coming from Dad’s
	gym in the back of the house. Dad has a Stairmaster, 
	a weight bench, and a treadmill in there. 
	As I stepped into the room, I was surprised to see
	a canvas floor mat spread out in the center of the
	gym. Jake was on the mat, kidding around with a
	huge, bald, red-faced man in a white robe. Mr. 
	Lawrence. 
	The karate teacher was letting Jake throw him
	over his little shoulder. Jake laughed as Mr. Lawrence
	flipped over and landed with a hard thud on his
	back. 
	“You didn’t know you were so strong, did you?” 
	Mr. Lawrence asked Jake. 
	“I’m stronger than Ross!” Jake bragged. He
	crooked both arms to show off his pitiful, pea-sized
	muscles. 
	Mr. Lawrence sprang easily to his feet and turned
	to me. “Hi, Ross. You ready?” He bowed to me. 
	I bowed back. “Uh . . . I don’t think I can do this
	tonight,” I started. “You see, I’ve had these terrible
	headaches—” 
	68
	“Tension,” Mr. Lawrence said. “This lesson
	should help.” 
	“No. Really,” I insisted. “Maybe . . . uh . . . Jake
	would like a lesson tonight. I can’t—” 
	He wasn’t paying any attention to me. “Let’s practice what we were doing last time, okay?” 
	He stood stiffly, facing me, hands placed firmly
	on his hips. He stared straight ahead, concentrating. 
	His round, bald head glowed under the ceiling light. 
	What is he waiting for? I wondered. What is he
	going to do? 
	It didn’t take long to find out. 
	With a grunt, he swung off the floor. Flew up off
	the mat. Both legs rose sideways—and landed a
	hard, pounding kick in my stomach. 
	“Unnnnh!” I groaned in pain. 
	I doubled over. It hurt . . . hurt so much . . . I
	couldn’t breathe . . . couldn’t breathe . . . 
	I felt my stomach tighten—then heave. 
	“Unnnnnh.” The whole brussels sprout flew out
	of my mouth and plopped onto the mat. 
	Gasping, holding my aching stomach, I collapsed
	to the floor. 
	Mr. Lawrence huddled over me. “What happened?” He knelt beside me, his heavy arm on my
	shoulders. “Ross, you’ve defended against that a
	hundred times. Why didn’t you move?” 
	“Uh . . .” I couldn’t speak. My breaths were
	rasping in my throat. 
	69
	Somehow I managed to stand. My stomach
	ached. I felt about to heave again. 
	“Ross, are you okay? Why didn’t you defend
	yourself?” Mr. Lawrence asked. 
	I turned away. Bent over, I started to run. Out of
	the gym. Down the back hall. 
	“Ross, come back!” Mr. Lawrence shouted after me. 
	I was nearly to the stairs when a figure jumped
	out to stop me. 
	My twin. 
	I let out a startled cry. “You—?” 
	Scowling at me furiously, he grabbed my arm. 
	“I’m late—and you try to take over my life! It’s not
	going to work, Rosssss,” he hissed. “Give me that
	robe—and get out of here!” 
	“But—” I groaned weakly. 
	“Get out! Go away!” he cried in a harsh whisper. 
	“I’ve been warning you! You don’t belong here!” 
	70
	
	Angrily I pushed his hand away. “Get off me!” I
	cried. 
	“Go away, Rossss!” he hissed. He shoved me. 
	“You don’t belong here. You have to leave.” 
	“But—it’s my house!” I cried. “Who are you? 
	What are you doing here?” 
	He raised a finger to his lips and glanced nervously down the hall. “Keep it down. I can’t explain. 
	But I’m trying to tell you—you’re in danger. Don’t
	say anything. Don’t touch anything. Just give me that
	robe and get lost! Fast!” 
	“I won’t leave!” I insisted. “You have to leave! I’m
	going to tell Mom. I’m going to explain that you
	aren’t me!” 
	“She’s my Mom!” my twin declared. “Please! 
	Leave! Just—go!” 
	“No way!” I said. 
	I heard voices from the gym. Footsteps in the hall. 
	“Get upstairs!” my twin whispered frantically. He
	grabbed the robe and struggled to tug it off me. I let
	71
	him take it. Then he pushed me to the stairs. 
	“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Who are you? 
	Why do you look like me?” 
	“I can’t explain now. Go up to my room—quick!” 
	“It’s my room!” I protested. 
	“Get upstairs before they see you!” he ordered. 
	“But I have to talk to Mom!” I said. 
	“No way.” He twisted my arm up hard behind my
	back. 
	“Ow.” 
	He’s real, I realized. He’s a person. He’s not a
	ghost. A ghost couldn’t shove me or twist my arm like
	that. 
	Squeezing my arm behind my back, he forced
	me up the stairs and into my room. “You can’t—” I
	started to say. 
	But he practically heaved me into the room. “I’ll
	come back after the lesson. I’ll explain,” he said
	breathlessly. “Don’t try to escape. And don’t touch
	anything. I’m warning you.” 
	Then he hurried back out to the hall and closed
	the bedroom door behind him. 
	“No! Wait!” I shouted. 
	I grabbed the doorknob and started to pull the
	door open. But I heard the lock click on the other
	side. 
	He’d locked me in. 
	“Hey—come back!” I shouted. I pounded on the
	door with my fists. “Give me a break! Let me out of here!” 
	72
	I pounded till my fists hurt. Silence out there. 
	With a defeated sigh, I slumped away from the
	door. I’m a prisoner, I realized. A prisoner in my own
	room. 
	But was it my room? 
	I spun around. My eyes swept over all the familiar things. My Jimi Hendrix posters . . . my snow
	globe collection . . . my things. 
	Yes. I was in my own room. My room in my
	house. 
	But why does everything seem right and wrong at
	the same time? 
	I remembered falling. Then watching the grass
	burn. 
	I thought about the boy on the street. I had
	grabbed his shoulder, and his arm had changed until
	it slithered and curled. And his face . . . 
	I didn’t want to think about that hamburger face. 
	The milk in the store. I held the carton . . . and it
	blew up or something! And then everyone started
	screaming at me. 
	What was going on? 
	Did I cause those things to happen? 
	Why? How could I? 
	I paced back and forth, my heart pounding. I
	clenched and unclenched my fists. I stopped at the
	window and peered out. 
	A warm, clear night. Stars in a purple sky. The
	olive tree below the window shimmered in a soft
	73
	wind, as if inviting me. Inviting me to climb out and
	lower myself down its trunk. 
	Yes! 
	I’ll escape, I decided. Then I’ll run back inside the
	house and find Mom. I’ll show her the other Ross. I’ll
	tell her he’s an impostor, a total fake. I’ll make her
	believe me. And I’ll tell her about all the other weird
	things that have happened. There’s got to be a logical explanation for all of it. Once Mom sees the other
	Ross, she’ll know I’m not lying. She’ll help me figure
	out what’s going on. 
	My hands trembled as I reached for the window. 
	I slid it up as high as it would go. Warm, damp air
	floated into the room. It smelled so sweet and fresh. 
	I lowered myself onto the windowsill and slid one
	leg over the side. 
	This was the tricky part. The nearest branch was
	a foot or two below the window. I had to lower my
	feet onto it carefully, then swing my body out and
	grab onto the slender trunk. 
	If I slipped . . . 
	I didn’t want to think about it. 
	I turned and started to swing my other leg out the
	window. 
	But I stopped when I saw the bedroom door open
	behind me. My twin burst in, still wearing his karate
	robe. His eyes searched the room, then stopped
	when he spotted me at the window. 
	74
	“Good!” he said. “Go. You have to go. There isn’t
	room for both of us!” 
	And then I gasped as he dived forward, arms outstretched. Running to push me out the window. 
	75
	
	I spun to fight him off. 
	But my leg caught on the side of the house. 
	He grabbed my arm with both hands. And to my
	shock, pulled me back into the room. 
	I landed on the floor, breathing hard, my body
	bathed in a cold sweat. 
	He stared down at me, a crooked smile on his
	face. My crooked smile. 
	“Did you think I was going to push you out?” he
	asked, breathing hard. 
	“Well . . . maybe,” I muttered. 
	I climbed slowly to my feet. I stood facing him, 
	tensed and ready. 
	“I’d love to push you out,” he said, squinting at
	me angrily. “But the fall wouldn’t kill you. And I have
	to get you out of here—out of here for good.” 
	“So why didn’t you let me go out the window?” I
	demanded. 
	“You wouldn’t get very far,” he said menacingly. 
	“What do you mean?” I demanded. 
	76
	“You don’t understand. You don’t know anything,” 
	my twin said, shaking his head. “I guess I have no
	choice. I have to explain it all before you go.” 
	“But I’m not going,” I said firmly, crossing my
	arms in front of me. “You are going. You are the one
	who doesn’t belong.” 
	He made a disgusted face and motioned for me to
	sit down. 
	I dropped down tensely on the edge of the bed. 
	He tugged off the white robe and tossed it into the
	closet. Then he pulled out the desk chair and sat on
	it backward, resting his hands on its back. 
	“This is your own fault,” he said bitterly. He
	glanced to the door. I guessed he was making sure it
	was closed. 
	“My own fault?” I cried. “What are you talking
	about?” 
	“You told a lot of lies—didn’t you!” he accused. 
	“You lied and lied and lied. You told so many lies, 
	you broke the fabric of truth and reality!” 
	“I didn’t lie that much!” I protested. 
	“Ross, you lied so much, you lost all track of
	what’s real and what isn’t real,” he continued. “You
	slipped into a parallel world. Into a whole different
	reality. Out of your world—into my world.” 
	I jumped to my feet. “Are you crazy?” I shouted. 
	“What are you talking about?” 
	“Didn’t you learn about parallel worlds?” my twin
	asked. “What kind of school do you go to? We study
	that in fourth grade.” 
	77
	“You’re totally crazy,” I muttered, dropping back
	onto the bed. 
	“Well, didn’t you notice things are a little different
	here?” my twin demanded. “Didn’t you notice that
	things are almost the same—but not quite?” 
	“Well . . . yeah,” I replied. 
	My twin climbed to his feet. He shoved the chair
	back under the desk. “You lied and lied until you lost
	your reality,” he said. 
	“No—” I said. 
	“Now you’re in a world where you don’t belong. 
	And it’s your fault. All your fault.” 
	“How do you know?” I screamed. “What makes
	you the expert? How do you know anything about
	me?” 
	“Because I am you!” he shouted back. “I’m Ross 
	Arthur in this reality, in this world. And you don’t
	belong here! You’re an Intruder. A dangerous
	Intruder. You can’t stay!” 
	“No!” I cried again. “You’re not Ross—I am!” I
	screamed. 
	But I knew I didn’t belong here. 
	I couldn’t belong here. Too many weird things
	had happened. Things I couldn’t explain. 
	My twin said I broke the fabric of reality. But that
	sounded totally crazy. 
	Was I really in a parallel world? 
	My head began to throb. I didn’t know what to
	believe. 
	78
	“You have to go,” my twin ordered. “Get out—
	now!” 
	“GO? Where am I supposed to go?” I shouted. 
	“I’m staying. You leave!” 
	And then I lost it. 
	I jumped on him. In a wild fury, I grabbed him
	around the neck. 
	I dropped him to the floor. 
	I kicked him hard in the stomach. 
	With an angry groan, he rolled on top of me. 
	Punched me in the chest. 
	And we wrestled, wrestled frantically, rolling over
	the floor, punching, clawing, pounding each other. 
	“Only one of us belongs here, Ross,” he gasped. 
	“Only one of us can stay. Me! You can’t survive here! 
	I’m telling the truth. You can’t survive. You’re going
	to die!” 
	79
	
	I wrapped my twin in a headlock. I tightened my
	grip until his face turned red. 
	“I’m not going to die!” I gasped. 
	He twisted free and slammed me to the floor. He
	jumped on top of me and started to twist my arm. 
	“Owwwwww.” I let out a howl of pain. 
	A hard knock on the bedroom door made us both
	stop. We were wheezing, choking, gasping for breath. 
	My side ached. My head throbbed. My neck was
	stiff. 
	He had a deep, red scratch down his left arm. 
	“Ross, what on earth are you and Jake doing in
	there?” Mom called in. 
	“Uh . . . nothing,” my twin answered, wiping a
	gob of spit off his chin. “We’re just . . . kidding
	around.” 
	“No! Mom, help me!” I cried. “It’s me! Please! 
	Open the door! I—” 
	My twin clamped his hand over my mouth before
	I could say more. He furiously motioned for me to be
	quiet. 
	80
	
	I struggled to get free. 
	My twin clamped his hand tighter over my
	mouth. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make a sound. 
	Please, open the door! I silently begged. Please, 
	Mom! 
	But the door remained closed. “Just don’t wreck
	your room. It was cleaned this morning,” Mom called
	in. 
	“No problem,” my twin answered. 
	We listened to her footsteps padding down the
	stairs. 
	When she was gone, my twin finally lifted his
	hand from my mouth. “That was very stupid,” he
	muttered. “She wouldn’t help you. She would know
	instantly that you don’t belong here.” 
	“What are you saying?” I cried weakly. 
	I pulled myself to a sitting position on the floor
	and leaned my head against the bed. 
	“You just don’t get it, do you,” he said. 
	I wiped sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of
	my T-shirt. “Get what?” 
	“You don’t understand what is happening here,” 
	he said, rubbing the red scratch on his arm. “You
	really never studied parallel worlds?” 
	I shook my head. 
	“Well, there are many, many parallel worlds,” he
	said. “I live in one world, and you live in another.” 
	“You live in the world of the cuckoos,” I muttered. 
	He sighed and continued. “That night at Max’s
	81
	party, the portal between our worlds opened up.” 
	I frowned at him. “You mean in the swimming
	pool?” 
	He nodded. “I saw you there in the water. I couldn’t
	believe what I was seeing. I was so scared. It took me
	a while to figure out what had happened.” 
	“What happened?” I asked. 
	“You slipped into my world, Ross. You slipped
	through the portal. You swam into my world.” 
	I rolled my eyes. Something weird was definitely
	going on. But portals? Parallel worlds? “I don’t think
	so,” I said. 
	He jumped to his feet. “I’m trying to explain,” he
	snapped. “I’m sure it looked to you like your world. 
	The people were all the same. The places were all the
	same. But it’s different in a lot of ways. It’s a parallel
	world. It’s my world.” 
	“Tell me another one,” I muttered. 
	This guy was as good a liar as I was! He was so
	good, he almost had me believing him. 
	“Since that night at Max’s party,” he continued, 
	“you’ve been slipping in and out of my world. You’ve
	been going back and forth between our worlds. And
	now you seem to be stuck here. But you can’t stay in
	this reality. You don’t belong.” 
	“Then why don’t you leave?” I shot back. 
	All this talk about parallel worlds was starting to
	give me the creeps. 
	“You don’t belong,” he repeated. “And you . . . 
	82
	you can do a lot of damage.” 
	I swallowed hard. “Huh? What do you mean?” 
	“You are from another world. You can’t just barge
	in and interfere with our world. You are dangerous. 
	You are an Intruder. That’s what we call people like
	you.” 
	An Intruder? 
	“Intruders are very dangerous,” my twin continued. “Even if they don’t mean to be. Sometimes
	when they touch things, they change them. 
	Sometimes they destroy things completely.” 
	“Okay. I get it,” I said. “I’m an Intruder. If I touch
	something, I destroy it.” 
	“You believe me?” he asked. 
	“Yes,” I replied. 
	I crossed the room and grabbed him with both
	hands. 
	“Goodbye!” I shouted. “Goodbye!” 
	83
	
	He jumped up and shoved me away. “Nice try,” 
	he muttered. “But you can’t control it. You can’t just
	grab people and destroy them any time you want.” 
	He glared at me angrily. He balled his hands into
	fists. “Don’t ever try anything like that again,” he
	said. 
	And then he lowered his voice. “But there isn’t
	much point in worrying about you. You’re going to
	die in a day or two.” 
	“You’re crazy,” I muttered, breathing hard. I
	balled my hands into fists, too. I was ready to fight
	again if I had to. 
	“Haven’t you already started to feel the pain?” he
	asked. “The pain of being in a world where you don’t
	belong? Intruders always feel more and more pain.” 
	I swallowed hard. The headaches? The powerful, 
	stabbing headaches I’d had this afternoon? Is that
	what he was talking about? 
	No way. Everyone gets headaches from time
	to time. 
	84
	
	“And when the pain becomes unbearable, 
	Intruders start to fade away,” my twin continued. 
	“They get lighter and lighter . . . they fade until you
	can see right through them . . . lighter and lighter . . . 
	until they blow away like a dead leaf.” 
	“Nooooo!” A scream of protest burst from my
	throat. “You’re crazy! You’re a liar!” 
	A crooked smile spread slowly over my twin’s
	face. “You’ll see,” he murmured. 
	“No!” I shouted again. “No—you’ll see!” 
	I lowered my shoulder and rammed right into
	him, shoving him hard. He let out a startled cry and
	toppled onto the bed. 
	By the time he regained his feet, I had the bedroom door open and burst out into the hall. 
	“Mom! Mom—help me!” I shouted, running to
	the stairs. 
	I leaped down the stairs, two at a time. “Mom! 
	Where are you?” 
	I ran through the house, calling for her. Back to
	the gym. Down to the family room. No sign of her. 
	I peered into the garage. Her car was gone. She
	must have gone out, I realized. 
	My heart pounding, I ran out onto the driveway. 
	I’ve got to get away from here, I decided. I’ve got to
	get away and think. 
	I took off, running across front lawns. It was a
	hot, smoggy L.A. night. The air felt heavy and wet. I
	was already sweating. My shoes thudded over the
	perfectly trimmed lawns. 
	85
	A Jeep rolled past, music blaring out the window. 
	Its headlights rolled over me as it passed. 
	Normal. Everything normal. 
	Max’s house came into view on the other side of
	the long, low hedges. Maybe Max is home, I thought. 
	Maybe I’ll stop in and see what’s up with him. Try to
	talk to him. Maybe he can help me figure out what’s
	really going on. 
	I ducked through the spot in the hedge that I
	always use. The backyard was dark. One terrace light
	on at the garage. The house was dark, too. 
	No one home, I decided. I wiped sweat off my forehead. Despite the heat of the night, I felt chilled. The
	back of my neck tingled. I’m just tense, I decided. 
	I started back toward the street but stopped when
	I heard a sharp yip. I turned and saw Flash, the
	O’Connors’ Dalmatian, come trotting across the
	grass. 
	“Flash!” I called. I was glad to see him. I’d known
	Flash since he was a puppy. 
	The O’Connors live across the street. Sometimes
	when they go on vacation, we take Flash to our
	house. “Hey, Flash—how’s it going?” 
	The dog stopped suddenly, a few feet from me. He
	began sniffing the air furiously. His ears perked
	straight up. 
	“Hey—Flash?” I called. I knelt down and
	motioned for him to come get some hugs. “Here, 
	boy. Come on, boy.” 
	86
	To my surprise, the dog lowered his head—and
	started to snarl. 
	“Hey—” I jumped to my feet. 
	Flash pulled back his lips, revealing two rows of
	sharp teeth. He snarled menacingly, his entire body
	arched, tense. 
	“Flash—it’s me!” 
	With a furious growl, the big dog leaped at me. 
	I dodged to the side. Lost my balance. Slid on the
	grass. Landed hard on my side. 
	The snarling dog turned. Eyes red. White drool
	making the sharp teeth glisten. 
	He uttered another angry growl. Leaped hard. 
	Lowered his head—and sank his teeth into my arm. 
	87
	
	I let out a howl of pain and tried to roll away. 
	But the dog was too heavy, too strong. 
	Pain shot down my arm, my entire side. 
	With a groan I reached up both arms and grabbed
	the dog around the neck. I shot my hands forward, 
	struggling to pull the furious Dalmatian off me. 
	He snapped his jaws angrily, snarling, clawing
	at me. 
	I held on to his neck. Held on tight, trying to push
	him away. 
	And then suddenly he uttered a high, soft cry. 
	Like the mew of a cat. 
	Flash’s red eyes appeared to dim. He backed off
	me, staggered back. He raised his head and opened
	his mouth wide in a high, shrill howl. A howl of pain. 
	I rolled away. Stumbled to my feet, gasping for
	breath, rubbing my throbbing arm. 
	And I saw the white fur on Flash’s neck. Saw it
	blacken. Saw the red handprints on the dog’s bare
	skin. 
	And then Flash uttered a choking sound. A gurgling from deep in his throat. 
	88
	He gazed up at me—no longer angry, but surprised. Confused. 
	The fur fell off his body. And his skin peeled. 
	Flaked away. 
	“Ohhhhhh.” A moan of horror escaped my throat
	as the dog toppled onto its side. 
	It dropped heavily onto the grass and didn’t move
	again. 
	And its skin—its skin and fur—melted away as I
	stared down at the lifeless form. 
	“No!” I cried. I knelt down and grabbed the dog
	in my hands. “Flash! Flash!” 
	His skin peeled off in my hands. Warm, wet
	chunks of skin. 
	I gagged. Jumped away, frantically wiping my
	hands on my jeans. 
	The dog’s skin all melted away until I was staring
	at the gray skeleton. Shimmering in the light from the
	low half moon, gray rib bones curling up from the
	grass. And an eyeless, silvery dog skull, jaw open in
	a silent cry. 
	I did this! 
	The words rang in my ears. 
	I did this to Flash! 
	No. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to
	believe it. 
	Holding my hands over my ears, I turned and
	ran. Ran without seeing. Ran without thinking. 
	The dog’s last pitiful howl repeated in my ears. I
	89
	kept running as if trying to escape from it, to escape
	from the sound in my own head. 
	I don’t know how long I ran. I suddenly found
	myself on Rodeo Drive. The classy shops were all
	closed. The sidewalks were empty, except for a few
	window-shoppers, peering into the brightly lit store
	windows. 
	I stopped running. I was drenched in sweat, my
	hair matted to my head. My T-shirt stuck to my body. 
	My chest ached from running for so long. 
	I leaned in a doorway and gazed down the street. 
	It all looked normal to me. The shops, the restaurants. The same as always. 
	I stepped away from the building when I heard
	shouts. Angry, excited shouts. Across Wilshire
	Boulevard, a block away. 
	I crossed Wilshire, followed the voices—and
	found myself on a street lined with small stores. They
	were all closed. The sidewalk was deserted—except
	for the shouting men. 
	Three L.A. cops surrounded a young man. Two of
	the cops held the guy tightly by his arms. The third
	cop stood in front of the guy, blocking my view of
	him. 
	What’s going on? I wondered. 
	I ducked behind the trunk of a huge palm tree
	and watched from my hiding place. 
	The cops were wearing uniforms I’d never seen
	before. Uniforms that looked like spacesuits, shiny
	90
	silver and padded, and helmets just like the ones
	astronauts wear. Weird. 
	“Looks like we caught one,” one of the cops said. 
	“Yep. He’s an Intruder,” another one said excitedly. 
	“I’ve never seen one—have you?” 
	“No. But let’s keep this quiet,” he answered. “We
	don’t want the neighborhood in a panic.” 
	I moved in the shadows. Ducked behind another
	tree to get a closer look. 
	Finally I could see the young man. He had long, 
	blond hair. Wild, blue eyes. A tattoo snaking along
	one arm. 
	He was struggling to free himself from the two
	cops who held him. Bending and twisting. He started
	screaming at the top of his lungs, his hair flying up, 
	head tossed back. 
	“I’m not an Intruder!” he shrieked. “I’m not! 
	You’ve got the wrong guy!” 
	The cops weren’t buying it. “Calm down,” one of
	them said. “Save your strength.” 
	“Why fight?” the other cop shouted. “You don’t
	have much time.” 
	“Give up.” 
	Instead, the man lurched forward with a furious
	cry, struggling to burst free. 
	The two cops lost their hold for a moment. Crying
	out, they made a wild grab for him. And ripped off
	the man’s sport shirt. 
	One of the cops screamed. Another one shut his
	eyes and turned away. 
	91
	I gaped in amazement at the man’s bare chest. I
	could see his heart pumping inside him . . . see his
	stomach churning and bobbing . . . see blue blood
	pulsing through his veins, his guts twisting and curling. 
	I could see right through him! 
	Suddenly the man doubled over. He uttered gasp
	after gasp. The light faded from his eyes. He hugged
	himself tightly. “The pain . . .” he moaned. “Ohhhh, 
	help me. I can’t stand the pain.” 
	His screams and cries rang in my ears. My head
	started to throb. 
	I shrank back. Pressed myself against the tree. I
	shut my eyes and covered my face with my hands. 
	It was all true, I realized. 
	My twin had told the truth about Intruders. He
	had told the truth about me. 
	I didn’t belong here. I was an Intruder, too. 
	And in a day or two . . . in a day or two . . . 
	I’d be gone. Forever. 
	92
	
	The cops shoved the poor Intruder into the back
	of a van. The van sped off quietly. No flashing lights. 
	No siren. 
	I was the only one on the sidewalk. I felt paralyzed, frozen with fear. 
	How could I save myself? How could I return to
	my own world before I faded away? 
	My head felt ready to burst. My panic made my
	heart leap around in my chest. 
	How did I get here in the first place? I asked
	myself. 
	The portal . . . The portal . . . 
	“Whoa!” I let out a cry. My twin had already told
	me the answer. It was so simple! 
	Max’s swimming pool! That’s where he and I had
	seen each other for the first time. That’s the portal
	between our two worlds! 
	I had just been there a few minutes ago, in Max’s
	backyard. I was so close . . . so close to returning
	93
	home . . . and didn’t even realize it. 
	Yes! 
	I pumped both fists in the air. I let out a happy
	shout. 
	I turned and made my way back across Wilshire
	Boulevard. Back down Rodeo Drive. I knew what I
	had to do. It was so clear, so easy. 
	I’ll return to Max’s backyard, I told myself. And I’ll
	jump into the pool. Clothes and all. I’ll dive 
	down . . . swim underwater . . . through the portal . . . 
	swim back to my world. 
	I’m so lucky, I decided. 
	I figured out how to return home before I got too
	weak. Before I started to fade away. Before the pain
	became unbearable. 
	So lucky . . . 
	I was just a block from Max’s house, walking fast, 
	swinging my arms, when the black-and-white police
	cruiser pulled up beside me. 
	“Stop right there,” a gruff voice barked. 
	94
	
	I froze. A cold shudder shook my body. 
	Panic choked my throat. My knees felt about to
	collapse. 
	They know! 
	They know I’m an Intruder! 
	How did they find out? 
	A round-faced cop with a flat buzz cut and tiny, 
	round black eyes leaned his head out of the patrol
	car. “Where you headed, son?” His tiny eyes studied
	me up and down. 
	“H-home,” I choked out. 
	He frowned and kept his eyes locked on me. “You
	live around here? Or are you out sight-seeing?” 
	“No. I live down there.” I pointed. I told him the
	address. 
	“What’s your name, son?” The radio in the car
	squawked loudly. A low voice on the radio was calling out numbers. “Do you have any ID?” 
	“ID? N-no,” I stammered. I reached for my back
	pocket. “I left my wallet at home. But I’m Ross
	95
	Arthur. My Dad is Garrison Arthur. He’s with Mango
	Pictures.” 
	“We don’t need your family history,” the cop’s
	partner said from behind the wheel. “You shouldn’t
	be walking around at night, kid.” 
	He turned to the other cop. “Let’s go. We’ve got a
	308 on Sunset.” 
	They sped away without saying good-bye. 
	I stood there trembling, watching the patrol car
	whirl around the corner. I hugged myself to stop the
	shaking. Cold sweat clung to my forehead, my
	cheeks. 
	A close call, I knew. 
	I have to get out of here, I told myself. I won’t be
	safe for a second—until I get back to my own world. 
	I took off running. I didn’t stop until I got to Max’s
	house. 
	I was halfway up the front lawn when I saw the
	dog skeleton poking up from the grass near the hedge. 
	The pile of bones gleamed dully under the moonlight. The ugly sight made my stomach lurch. 
	Poor Flash. 
	I’ve got to get home before I harm anything else, 
	I told myself. 
	Max’s house was dark except for a porch light. 
	Still no one home. 
	I made my way along the side of the house to the
	back. A dim yellow light spilled out from one of the
	bedrooms. Otherwise, I moved through total darkness. 
	96
	I stepped onto the terrace in back. My heart
	started to pound with excitement. 
	I was so hot and drenched with sweat. I could use
	a cold swim. 
	Especially a swim that would bring me home. 
	I’ll jump into the shallow end and swim toward
	the deep water, I told myself. Just as I did that night
	at Max’s party. 
	I’ll swim to the deep end . . . slip through the portal . . . and be out of this frightening world forever. 
	My shoes scraped the stone terrace as I jogged to
	the pool. 
	I stepped eagerly to the edge. Peered down. 
	And stared at bare concrete. 
	“No! No! No!” I pounded my fists against my
	sides. 
	The pool had been drained. 
	97
	
	I had no choice. There was no water in the pool, 
	and I was out of ideas. I had to go back to my twin’s
	house. I had to talk to him. He was the only one who
	might be able to help me. 
	I sneaked in through the back door and crept
	upstairs to his room. He looked up from his computer as I walked in, and flashed me a disgusted
	scowl. “You’re back?” he sneered. 
	He stood up, walked to the window, and gazed
	out into the blackening night. 
	From far in the distance I heard the shrill call of a
	bird, a strange, trilling sound I’d never heard before. 
	A sound from a different world. 
	A different reality. 
	“You’ve got to help me,” I pleaded. “Tell me, how . . . 
	how do I get back to my world? What do I have to do?” 
	He turned slowly and stared at me for a long
	while. Finally he snickered coldly. “I don’t know. It’s
	your problem.” 
	“No!” I cried. I jumped up and crossed the room
	98
	to him. I grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt. “You
	have to know!” I screamed. “You have to know!” 
	He pulled free and stumbled away from me. “I—
	I don’t want to fight again,” he said. 
	“Then tell me!” I demanded. “You know all about
	this—right? You studied it in the fourth grade. You
	know about portals and parallel worlds. You know it
	all—don’t you?” 
	I backed him into a corner. 
	He tensed his body. Raised his hands, as if
	expecting another fight. 
	“Tell me!” I screamed. 
	“Okay, okay,” he replied, motioning with both
	hands for me to back off. “Just sit down, okay? I
	think I know how you can do it. But stop screaming.” 
	Breathing hard, I took a few steps back. “Tell me,” 
	I demanded again. 
	“Okay. Sit down,” he said. “You’ve been a liar
	your whole life, right?” 
	I glared at him. “Excuse me?” 
	“Just go with me on this,” he said. “You’ve been a
	liar your whole life.” 
	“Whatever,” I muttered. And then I snapped, 
	“How do you know?” 
	“I already told you. Because I’m you,” he replied. 
	“You slipped into my world because your whole
	world became a lie, okay? If you want to get back to
	your world, you have to reverse it.” 
	I scratched my head. “Huh? Reverse it?” 
	99
	He nodded. “Yeah. You have to tell the truth. You
	have to tell the truth to someone about what has
	happened to you.” 
	I swallowed. “You mean I have to explain to
	someone from your world that I’m an Intruder? That
	I came here from another world?” 
	“Yes. And you have to make them believe you.” 
	he said. 
	“But—everyone knows I’m a liar!” I cried. 
	“Everyone knows I make up stories all the time. Who
	would believe me? Who?” 
	He shrugged. “Beats me.” 
	And suddenly, I had an idea. 
	100
	
	“Where can I sleep tonight?” I asked. 
	My twin yawned. “I don’t care. Go sleep in a
	tree.” 
	“Can I sleep on the floor?” I asked. 
	He shrugged. “Do what you want. Just leave me
	alone.” 
	A short while later my twin clicked off the lights
	and climbed into bed. I struggled to get comfortable
	on the rug. 
	We live in different worlds, I thought. But our
	lives are a lot alike. 
	If his Mom was like mine, she would get up early. 
	And she would go into the kitchen to make coffee
	and call her friend Stella, who also gets up early. 
	And if I came downstairs while my twin was still
	asleep, I could talk to her. And I could quietly, calmly
	explain the whole thing. 
	Then I would bring her upstairs—and she’d see
	the proof. Two Rosses! 
	This is going to work. I’m practically home, I
	101
	thought as I drifted off to sleep. 
	When I woke up, gray morning light filled the
	window. I raised my head and squinted at the clockradio beside the bed. Six-ten. 
	I had overslept a little. But it was okay. 
	My twin was sound asleep on his stomach, covers pulled up to his head. 
	If he was like me, his alarm wouldn’t go off for
	another hour. 
	Yawning silently, I dragged myself to my feet. My
	back ached from lying on the hard floor. I’d slept in
	my underwear. I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt from
	yesterday. 
	I bent to tie my sneakers. Then I crept out of the
	room on tiptoes, and down the stairs to the kitchen. 
	The aroma of fresh coffee floated out to greet me. 
	The kitchen was dark, except for the pale gray light
	from the windows. 
	Mom sat with her back to me on a tall stool at the
	counter. She had a white mug of coffee steaming
	beside her. The telephone was pressed to her ear. 
	The same Mom, I thought. The same blue bathrobe. 
	Her hair unbrushed. One blue slipper on her foot, the
	other on the floor. 
	“I know, I know,” she was saying into the phone. 
	“Stella, tell me something I don’t already know. 
	Nothing changes. Really.” 
	I tapped her on the shoulder. 
	A mistake. 
	102
	She let out a startled squeal and dropped the
	phone. “Ross—what on earth!” 
	“Sorry, Mom,” I said softly. 
	“What are you doing up so early? You scared me
	to death!” Mom exclaimed. 
	She picked up the phone and returned it to her
	ear. “Sorry, Stella. It was Ross. What were you
	saying?” 
	“I want to tell you something,” I said. “Something
	kind of crazy.” 
	She shrugged and pointed to the telephone. I
	could hear Stella’s voice at the other end. She sounded like a quacking duck. 
	“Go make yourself some cereal,” Mom whispered, waving me away. 
	“Okay,” I said. “But I need to tell you something.” 
	“I know, I know,” she said into the phone. “You’re
	not the only one, Stella. It happens. It happens a
	lot.” 
	I went to the cabinet. I pulled down a bowl and a
	box of cornflakes. “I really have to talk to you,” I told
	Mom. 
	She lowered the phone from her ear. “Stella got
	another call. She put me on hold. What do you want
	to tell me?” 
	“Well . . .” I shoved the cereal box away. I didn’t
	really know where to begin. I knew I had to tell it
	right. I had to make her believe me. 
	“Are you in trouble, Ross?” Mom asked, her face
	wrinkling in concern. 
	103
	“Well . . . yes and no,” I said. “You see, Mom—a
	strange thing happened to me.” 
	“How strange?” She had the phone pressed to her
	ear, but she was studying me, her eyes locked on
	mine. 
	“Pretty strange,” I said. “You see, you’re not really my mom. I—” 
	“Oh, Ross! Not another one of your crazy stories!” she cried. “It’s too early! Go back to sleep, 
	okay? You’ve got another hour to sleep.” 
	“Just listen to me,” I said. “I know I’ve made up a
	lot of things in the past. But not today. Today I’m
	really serious, and I really need your help, okay?” 
	I took a deep breath. I stared at the cereal box. 
	For some reason, I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want
	to see her face in case she didn’t believe me. 
	“Just let me tell the whole thing, Mom. And
	please believe me,” I begged. “Please. I’m not making this up.” 
	I stared at the cereal box. “The portal was open, 
	and I slipped into a parallel world,” I continued. 
	“You probably know all about parallel worlds. 
	Ross—I mean, the other Ross, your Ross—said he
	studied them in school. Well, that’s what happened
	to me.” 
	I took a deep breath. “I’m Ross, but I’m not the
	same Ross you know. I belong in a different world. 
	I’m what you call an Intruder. And I need to get back
	there fast. I need you to believe me, Mom, so I can
	104
	get back there. If you come upstairs, I can prove it to
	you. The other Ross—your Ross—is still in bed. 
	Sleeping.” 
	Whew. I got it all out. 
	I took a deep breath and hesitantly raised my
	eyes from the cereal box to Mom. “Do you believe
	me?” I asked in a whisper. “Do you? Will you come
	upstairs?” 
	105
	
	I held my breath. “Mom?” 
	She hung up the phone. “What is it, Ross?” she
	snapped. 
	“Do you believe me?” I repeated. 
	“Believe what? I have to run over to Stella’s
	house. She’s very upset.” 
	She waved me away. She hadn’t heard a word I
	said. 
	“Just stop in my room before you get dressed,” I
	begged. “I have something to show you. It’s an emergency!” 
	“I’m not getting dressed, Ross. I’m only going
	next door.” Mom grabbed her raincoat from the coat
	closet and threw it over her bathrobe. “Stella has an
	emergency. A real emergency. She doesn’t make up
	stories.” 
	Mom stepped out the back door. I watched her
	hurry across the lawn to Stella’s house. 
	I sighed and slumped out of the room. Strike one. 
	I trudged back upstairs to my room. My twin was
	106
	
	still sound asleep. He had kicked all the covers onto
	the floor. I do that sometimes, too. 
	I suddenly felt so homesick. I wanted to be back
	safe and sound in my real room. I wondered what my
	real mom was doing. I wondered if the real Jake was
	awake yet. 
	I stood over the bed and stared at my twin for a
	long moment. It felt so weird to see myself, how I
	looked, how I slept. He was me in every way. 
	And this was his room. I didn’t belong here. And if
	I didn’t find someone to believe my story, I wouldn’t
	be here much longer. 
	“Wake up,” I whispered. I bent down and shook
	him by the shoulders. “Come on. Wake up.” 
	He blinked one eyelid open. “Huh? What’s your
	problem?” he asked, hoarse from sleep. “What time
	is it?” 
	“It’s early,” I said. “But I don’t have much time. I
	want to go to school with you.” 
	He opened his other eye. “Excuse me?” 
	“I have to find someone to believe my story. So I
	have to go to school with you. As soon as my
	friends—your friends—see the two of us, they’ll
	believe me. I know they will.” 
	He sat up sharply. “No way,” he said. 
	“Huh? You won’t let me go to school?” I cried. 
	“Of course I’ll let you go to school.” A slow smile
	spread across my twin’s face. “But I’m not going with
	you. You’re going to have to make someone believe
	107
	you all by yourself. No way I’m helping.” He let out
	a loud yawn. 
	“Fine. I’m going to school now,” I said. “I’m
	going to school—and I’m going to make someone
	believe me.” 
	I stepped out into a warm, smoggy day. The air
	already heavy and damp. Along the block, gardeners
	were unloading their trucks. A woman in a gray maid’s
	uniform was walking two white standard poodles along
	the curb. 
	It seems so much like home, I thought sadly. But
	I guess I’m as far away from home as a person can be. 
	I didn’t have much time to feel sorry for myself. I
	saw Cindy on the next block, and I ran to catch up
	with her. 
	“Hey, wait up! Cindy—wait up!” 
	She was riding her bike, pedaling hard, her black
	hair bobbing behind her. 
	“Hey, wait!” 
	She finally stopped and turned around. “Ross? 
	What’s up?” 
	I ran over to her. “I have to tell you something,” I
	said breathlessly. 
	She started pedaling again. “We’re late. What is
	it, Ross?” 
	“I’m not really Ross,” I said, struggling to keep
	up. “I’m Ross in a different world. And I have to 
	get back there.” 
	108
	“You have to get back to the insane asylum!” She
	laughed. “You and your crazy stories.” 
	“Cindy—please,” I begged. “I’m not kidding
	about this. I’m really, really, really serious.” 
	Her smile faded. “I don’t get it. What’s the joke?” 
	“It’s not a joke,” I said. “I don’t belong here. I
	can’t stay in this world. I have to get back to where I
	belong. If I don’t . . .” My voice cracked. 
	“All I need is for you to believe me,” I pleaded. 
	“To believe what I’m telling you.” 
	She rolled her eyes. “You want me to believe that
	you’re an alien from another planet?” 
	“No!” I cried. “I want you to believe that I’m Ross
	in a parallel universe. I—I’m an Intruder!” 
	As she stared at me, her eyes darted back and
	forth. I could see she was thinking hard, trying to
	decide. 
	I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Do you
	believe me, Cindy?” I asked. “Do you?” 
	“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. I believe you.” 
	109
	
	“Great!” I cried. “Thank you! Thank you!” 
	“I also believe that the moon is made of
	Limburger cheese,” Cindy said. “And I believe that I
	can flap my arms and fly to Mars anytime I want.” 
	She burst out laughing. 
	“Wait! I can prove it to you!” I said. 
	I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. But
	I could show Cindy that I was an Intruder! 
	“Watch this!” I said. I fell onto the grass, landing
	on my back. “Intruders destroy things. Right?” 
	Cindy just rolled her eyes. 
	“When I get up, the grass will burn and sizzle. 
	You’ll see.” 
	I pressed my back hard into the grass. I wanted to
	make sure the grass turned totally brown. 
	I stood up. “Okay. Look.” 
	We both stared down at the ground. 
	“Whoa.” Cindy’s eyes opened wide. “That’s unbelievable. Flat grass.” 
	Flat grass. That was it. The grass lay flat where I
	110
	
	had fallen. Still green. Not burned at all. 
	Why didn’t it work this time? I wondered, staring
	at the grass. My twin could probably tell me, but it
	really didn’t matter now. 
	The only thing that mattered was making Cindy
	believe me. 
	“Cindy—” I glanced up, but she was gone. I
	watched her pedal away, bumping over the curb, 
	onto the next block. “I’m not giving up,” I said out
	loud. “No way.” 
	But a sharp stab of pain made me grab my head. 
	I shut my eyes, trying to force the pain away. 
	“Ohhh,” I groaned as my stomach started to
	ache. I bent over as the pain increased, as if thousands of razors pierced my stomach. The pain was so
	intense, I couldn’t walk. 
	I hunched at the curb, doubled over in agony. My
	head. My stomach. It’s happening, I realized. Just as
	my twin predicted. The horrible pain . . . 
	I forced myself to walk to school. I knew I didn’t
	have much time. I had to find someone to believe my
	story. 
	I tried Max next. I found him at his locker across
	from Miss Douglas’s class. “Max, listen to me,” I
	said. “I’m an Intruder. I’m not really Ross.” 
	He laughed. “Whatever,” he said, and started
	toward class. 
	“Max—wait!” I called. “Please! If I told you a
	totally wild, totally insane story about me slipping
	111
	between parallel worlds . . . if I told you that I’m not
	really the Ross you know, and that I don’t belong
	here in your world . . . if I swore it was all true . . . 
	would you believe me? Is there any chance at all you
	would believe me?” 
	He opened his mouth to answer. “No way—” he
	started. 
	“Think about it,” I said. “Don’t answer right away. 
	Think about it, okay?” 
	He nodded. “I’ve thought about it.” 
	“And?” I asked. 
	“And I think you’re trying to get out of helping me
	wash my father’s car,” he said. “Nice try. But it won’t
	work. You promised. See you after school. And don’t
	forget to bring the car wax.” 
	“Max—why won’t you believe me?” I shouted. 
	“Everyone knows your crazy stories, Ross,” he
	said grinning. “Everyone.” 
	The bell rang. 
	Max shouted goodbye and hurried down the hall
	to class. I watched him for a moment, his words
	repeating in my mind. 
	Words of doom. 
	I could feel panic tighten my throat. My legs
	shook again as I slumped into Miss Douglas’s classroom. I saw her standing at the side of her desk, 
	straightening a pile of papers. 
	And suddenly I realized: She has to believe me. 
	She’s a teacher. She has to believe her students. 
	112
	If I beg her to believe me, she’ll see how desperate I am. She won’t be like my friends and think it’s
	all a big joke. 
	Because why would I joke with a teacher? And I
	bet she knows all about parallel worlds. 
	I began to feel hopeful again. Just a little hope. 
	But enough to make me think I might be able to
	return home after all. 
	“Miss Douglas!” I called. 
	Eyes turned as I tossed my backpack to the floor
	and took off running to the front of the room. 
	“Miss Douglas! Can I tell you something?” 
	113
	
	Miss Douglas didn’t believe me, either. 
	She thought I was trying to get out of taking a
	test. “But I have to admit this is one of your better
	stories, Ross,” she snickered, shaking her head. 
	“Go take your seat,” she said, waving me away. 
	“I’m sure you’ll have an even better story for me
	tomorrow.” 
	I trudged across the room to my desk. 
	There won’t be a tomorrow, I thought bitterly. 
	There won’t be a tomorrow for me because no one
	will believe me. 
	So what if I’m a liar? So what if I make up stories
	all the time? 
	Why can’t someone believe me when I do tell the
	truth? 
	After class I tried to stand up. But I felt weak. I
	could feel my strength draining away. 
	My backpack suddenly weighed a ton. It took real
	effort to raise my shoes from the floor and make my
	way to my next class. 
	114
	No one is going to believe me, I realized. Even my
	teacher thinks it’s a big joke. 
	But I knew I had to keep trying. 
	In line at the lunchroom I asked one of the lunch
	servers if she believed in parallel worlds. She stared
	at me and asked if I wanted pizza or macaroni. 
	I looked for Sharma. But some kids told me she
	and her family went away for a few days. 
	After school I told my story to the tennis team
	coach. Coach Melvin listened silently, squeezing a
	tennis ball in one hand. 
	When I finished, he thought for a moment. Then
	he said, “I once had a dream like that. You can skip
	practice today, Ross, if you’re upset about your
	dream.” 
	He hurried off to start practice. 
	With a sigh I tried to sling my tennis racket onto
	my shoulder. But I didn’t have the strength. I couldn’t
	raise it that high. 
	My backpack felt too heavy to carry. My legs felt
	so weak, I kept stumbling on the sidewalk. The wind
	blew me off the grass onto the curb. 
	Feeling lost and defeated, I headed for home. It’s
	as good a place to disappear as any, I thought sadly. 
	My twin greeted me at the front door. “You’re
	back?” 
	I nodded weakly, struggling to catch my breath. 
	Stomach cramps made it hard to breathe. My head
	throbbed with pain. 
	115
	My twin followed me outside. I slumped wearily
	against a tree. 
	“You failed, huh?” he said. He had a crooked
	smile on his face, as if he was enjoying my suffering. 
	“Sorry,” he said. “The sun is heading down. I don’t
	think you have much time.” 
	“I . . . know . . .” I whispered. 
	I stared hard at him. The sinking sun made his
	face glow. His gray eyes gleamed in the soft light. 
	I gazed at him, so healthy, so strong, so . . . alive. 
	And suddenly I had an idea. 
	Suddenly I knew how I could save myself. 
	116
	
	I pointed at the other Ross. “You!” I said. 
	He took a step back. And narrowed his eyes at
	me. “Me? What about me?” 
	“YOU believe me!” I cried. “YOU believe the
	story. So—I’m safe! You said I need only one person
	to believe my story—and it’s YOU!” 
	To my surprise, he burst out laughing. 
	“I’ve won!” I insisted. “I can go back to my world
	now.” 
	He shook his head and laughed again. 
	“What’s so funny?” I demanded. “This is serious. 
	I did exactly what you told me to do. I found someone to believe me. You! You! You! So now I’m safe.” 
	“No, you’re not,” he replied, still grinning. “I
	lied.” 
	“You what?” I cried. 
	“I’m you—remember?” he said. “I’m your exact
	double, Ross. You’re Ross—and I’m Ross. We’re the
	same, right? So . . . sometimes I make up stories.” 
	“You mean . . . you mean . . .” I swallowed hard. 
	117
	I suddenly felt weaker. I staggered back onto the
	front lawn. Smacked hard into the tree trunk. 
	A gust of wind pushed me away. I pressed my
	back into the trunk. 
	“You mean . . . that’s not the way to return to my
	world?” I whispered. 
	He raised a hand to his mouth. “Oops! Guess I
	made up a little story.” 
	“But—but—that’s so cold!” I gasped. 
	He shrugged. “Whatever. I’m you, remember? I’m
	you in every way. Except that I belong here, and you
	don’t.” 
	The wind lifted me off my feet. I grabbed the
	trunk to pull myself back to the ground. 
	“You’re fading away,” my twin said. “You’re practically gone.” 
	I glanced at my hands. I could see right through
	them. I could see through my arms. 
	The wind picked me up again. I dived for the tree
	trunk and flung my filmy arms around it. 
	I’m going to blow away, I realized. Like a dead
	leaf. 
	I felt so weak . . . weak and drained. 
	Holding tightly to the tree trunk, I turned to my
	twin. “Aren’t you going to help me?” I pleaded. “Are
	you just going to let me disappear?” 
	“I can’t help you,” he said. “It’s too late.” 
	118
	
	I clung to the tree, but my grip was slipping. In a
	few seconds I knew I would flutter away. “You’ve . . . 
	got to . . . help me,” I whispered. 
	My twin crossed his arms over his chest. “I just
	want you gone, Ross. If I tell you how to get back to
	your world, you’ll only tell more lies. And you’ll end
	up in my world again.” 
	“No!” I whispered. “No. Tell me how to get back. 
	Tell me! Please! I promise—no more lies. I swear! 
	Only the truth!” 
	“You’re lying!” he shouted. “I know you are!” 
	“No—please!” I begged. “Please—tell me what I
	can do.” 
	My twin shook his head. “No way.” 
	I lost my grip on the tree. A blast of wind lifted me
	off my feet. 
	“I’ll never tell another lie!” I swore. My voice
	came out so weak, I didn’t know if he heard me. 
	“Okay, okay,” he muttered. His expression softened. “Okay. I’ll give you a break. I can’t stand to see
	another Ross suffer.” 
	119
	“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” 
	He pointed. “See my garage? There’s a room
	above the garage.” 
	“Yes,” I said. “An empty room. I know it. I have
	the same garage.” 
	“Well, that room is a portal,” he continued. “It’s a
	passageway between our two worlds.” 
	“Wow,” I murmured. 
	“Climb up to the room and wait for a door to
	open,” my twin instructed. “Go through that door—
	and you will be home. You will be home and strong
	again.” 
	“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you and goodbye. I promise you’ll never see me again.” 
	“Better hurry,” he replied. “You’ve only got a few
	minutes.” He turned and started to jog back into the
	house. 
	I gazed at the garage. It stood at the edge of the
	lawn, only twenty or thirty steps away. But to me, it
	was a mile in the distance. 
	Could I walk that far? 
	Was I strong enough to make it to the garage and
	up to the top room? 
	If I let go of the tree, will I just blow away like a
	leaf? I wondered. 
	My whole body trembled. I knew I had no choice. 
	I had to try for it. It was my only hope. 
	My last hope. 
	Slowly, slowly I let my hands slide off the smooth
	120
	tree bark. I sank to my knees in the grass. 
	Should I crawl? 
	No. 
	I took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled myself
	to my feet. 
	A gust of wind blew against me. I gritted my teeth
	and leaned into it. 
	I took a step forward. Then another. 
	It felt as if the wind was trying to keep me from
	the garage. But I had to get there. 
	I lowered my head and pushed forward. I tried to
	think heavy thoughts. 
	I’m a ship’s anchor, I told myself. I’m an elephant. 
	Forward. Step by step. Pushing my light body
	against the steady, stiff breeze. 
	I’m nearly there, I realized. Just a few more steps. 
	I uttered a cry as a sharp gust lifted me off the
	grass. It sent me flying back. A few seconds later I
	dropped heavily onto the grass. 
	I’m not going to quit, I told myself. I’m going to
	get there. I’m going to get to the portal. 
	I leaned forward again, lowering my head and
	shoulders—and trudged ahead. One step. Another. 
	Another. 
	Breathing hard, my chest heaving from the effort, 
	I stepped into the cool darkness of the garage. 
	I hugged myself, trying to stop my trembling. And
	peered at the stairs, half-hidden in darkness at the
	back wall. 
	121
	The stairs to the portal between our worlds. 
	The portal . . . the portal . . . 
	“NO!” I let out a hoarse, angry scream. “NO! NO!” 
	I shouted in fury—in terror—because I suddenly
	knew this was wrong. 
	My twin had lied to me again. 
	122
	
	He lied. He lied. 
	The garage room can’t be the portal. 
	Because I’ve never been up in the garage room! 
	I couldn’t move from one world to the other from
	there—since I’d never been there! 
	“Get up there, Ross!” a voice barked, right behind
	me. 
	I turned and saw my twin. His expression was
	cold, angry. He gave me a hard shove. “Get up there,” 
	he repeated. “I don’t want anyone to hear your last
	screams.” 
	“N-no, please—” I begged weakly. 
	But he gave me another shove. “It will all be over
	in a few minutes.” 
	I stumbled forward. He moved to block my escape. 
	I felt so weak. Pain shot up and down my body. 
	I wanted to curl up . . . curl up into a tiny ball and
	disappear. 
	But I couldn’t give up. I couldn’t let him do this
	to me. I wouldn’t! 
	123
	It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. 
	“AAAAAAAGH!” With a cry of fury I spun
	around—and threw myself onto him. 
	Startled, he stumbled back. 
	I clung to him, my arms wrapped around his
	shoulders. I clung to him with all the strength I had
	left. 
	“Get off! Get off me!” he shrieked. He backed out
	of the garage, twisting, turning, trying to pry me off. 
	But I held on tight, wrestling with him. Struggling
	against the pain that pulsed over me. Feeling so
	light . . . so light . . . 
	He backed across the lawn. He grasped my arms
	and squeezed them. “Get off me!” 
	“No!” I whispered. “I won’t give up! I want to go
	home!” 
	We wrestled over the grass. I gasped for breath. I
	knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. 
	And suddenly we were at the edge of our swimming
	pool. Wrestling. Thrashing. Bending and twisting. 
	I gazed into the water, sparkling so blue under the
	afternoon sunlight. 
	And in the gently rippling water, I saw our reflections. Both of our faces, side by side in the shimmering
	water. 
	Just like the first time I saw him. 
	Exactly like the first time we met. 
	“Go!” my twin screamed, wrestling hard. “Go forever, Ross!” 
	I couldn’t hold on to him any longer. He flung me
	124
	off him. I fell into the pool like a sagging inner tube. 
	But I reached out—and grabbed his arm. 
	And pulled him in with me. 
	We both sank into the cold water. Down . . . 
	down . . . 
	So cold and clear . . . shimmering with a million
	dots of sunlight . . . so unreal . . . 
	We stared at each other underwater . . . stared
	face to face as we had that night . . . gazed with the
	same eyes at our identical faces . . . 
	Lower . . . lower into the cold, clear water. 
	And this time it was me who mouthed the words:
	Go away. 
	And as I said it, the water began to darken. As if
	someone had dimmed the lights. 
	My chest felt about to explode. 
	My twin faded away. Vanished in the blackening
	water. 
	All dark. All dark now. 
	I swam in blackness. My chest burning. My
	whole body throbbing. 
	The horror rose up . . . rose up around me. 
	For I knew that I had failed . . . failed. 
	I was fading into the blackness. 
	Fading away forever. 
	125
	
	Choking . . . 
	I’m choking, I realized. Can’t breathe. 
	I blinked my eyes open. Felt water slide down my
	cheeks. Stared through a film of water over my eyes. 
	Am I still underwater? 
	So dark. Dark as night. 
	I coughed up water. Choked and gagged. 
	Tried to blink the water from my eyes. 
	And stared up at Cindy and Sharma. Their faces
	tight with worry. Tears staining Sharma’s pale face. 
	“Hey—he opened his eyes!” 
	My ears rang. The cry sounded so far away. But I
	recognized Max’s voice. 
	Cindy leaned over me. “You’re okay, Ross,” she
	said in a trembling whisper. 
	“You’re going to be okay,” Sharma added. 
	I opened my eyes wide. I could see clearly now. 
	I was lying on my back. Staring up at a lot of
	faces. Beyond the two girls I saw Max and his father. 
	And other kids I knew, all in swimsuits, all huddled
	126
	together, worried and tense. 
	Above them the moon floated above a layer of
	clouds. Night. It was night. 
	And I was lying on my back on the terrace beside
	Max’s swimming pool. 
	“I’m so sorry,” Cindy said, leaning over me. 
	“We were just kidding around,” Sharma said, 
	holding my arm. “It was supposed to be a joke. We
	didn’t mean to hold you under so long.” 
	“But then you started to choke,” Cindy whispered. “It—it was so horrible! You weren’t breathing, 
	and—” Her words caught in her throat. She turned
	away. 
	“My dad saved your life,” Max said. 
	“It’s a good thing I took that CPR class,” Max’s
	father said. He leaned over me. “Do you feel okay, 
	Ross?” 
	“Yeah . . . I guess,” I said weakly. I sat up. I was
	lying in a puddle of cold water. 
	“We’re so sorry,” Cindy repeated. “Really, Ross. 
	We didn’t mean to hold you under so long. We were
	so stupid. Please—please forgive us.” 
	The two girls went on apologizing, but I wasn’t listening. 
	I was thinking about my parallel world adventure. 
	Was it all a crazy dream? 
	It had to be. 
	It all never happened. I was drowning and my
	mind hallucinated the whole thing. 
	127
	I breathed a long sigh of relief and jumped to my
	feet. 
	I felt so happy—so happy to be alive, to be back
	with my friends. I ran around and hugged everyone—even Max! 
	I’m in my world, I thought gleefully. I’m in the
	real world. And I’m going to stay here! 
	Everyone started talking and laughing at the
	same time. The music rang out again. The party was
	back underway. 
	I thanked Max’s father, said goodbye to Max, and
	started running through the backyards to my house. 
	I suddenly remembered about Jake. 
	I had left him all alone. I wasn’t supposed to go out. 
	Was I going to be in major trouble? 
	I didn’t care. I was so happy, so happy to be
	back! 
	I burst into the house and ran up to Jake’s room. 
	“Hey—” I called. “What’s up?” 
	Jake was sitting on the bed with his back to me. 
	He turned slowly. 
	And I opened my mouth in a scream of horror. 
	His face—his face was gone. 
	I gaped at his skull . . . his gray, rutted, worminfested skull . . . empty eye sockets staring blankly
	back at me . . . his jaw open in an evil toothless grin. 
	128
	
	My scream choked off in my throat. I staggered
	back as Jake’s laugh rang out from under the ugly
	skull. 
	He raised both hands and tugged the skull off. 
	“Gotcha!” he grinned at me. 
	A mask. 
	“You’re a wimp,” Jake said. “You scare like a little
	baby!” 
	I didn’t care about his dumb joke. I was so happy
	to see my brother, I hugged him, too. 
	“Get off me!” he cried. “What’s your problem, 
	Ross? Yuck!” 
	I backed off, laughing. 
	I’m here! I thought. Here in my normal world. 
	Normal. Everything normal! 
	I tossed back my head and let out a joyful shout. 
	My cry was cut short when I heard voices in the
	hall. 
	I turned—and gasped—as two more Jakes
	stepped into the room! 
	129
	“N-no—!” I stammered. “It—it isn’t possible!” 
	The three identical boys stared at me as if I was
	crazy. 
	Mom burst into the room. “Ross, you didn’t go
	out, did you?” she asked angrily. “I need you to stay
	home and take care of the triplets.” 
	My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t speak. 
	My eyes went from face to face to face. 
	I messed up, I told myself. I really messed up. 
	Somehow, I ended up in another parallel world. 
	How do I get out of here? 
	I can’t live with three Jakes. I can’t! I can’t! 
	“Well?” Mom demanded, hands on her waist. 
	“Are you going to stay home and watch your brothers?” 
	“Well . . .” I said. 
	Think fast. Think fast, Ross. 
	Think of a good story to get yourself out of this! 
	130
	Go Deeper Into This
	Nightmare
	Double Trouble
	What happened to Ross is extremely strange, but
	many people claim to have had similar experiences. 
	They say they have seen their exact double. The term
	that’s often used to describe these doubles is
	Doppelganger, which is a German word meaning
	"double walker." In most cases, a visit by a
	Doppelganger means big trouble. 
	Did you ever hear of the French writer Guy de
	Maupassant? He wrote lots of stories with twist endings, but his own life had a creepy twist of its own. 
	The first time de Maupassant saw his double, it was
	sitting in the writer’s favorite chair. But the double
	vanished as soon as de Maupassant called his servant. A few months later, the writer was working
	when he heard the door to his study open. He turned
	and there was the double looking at him sadly. The
	double walked around the desk and sat down and
	buried its face in its hands. Horrified, de Maupassant
	stood up and the double disappeared. De
	Maupassant believed that something terrible was
	going to happen to him. 
	He was right. A year later de Maupssant died in
	an insane asylum. Did seeing the double cause this
	horrible death? Was the double trying to warn him? 
	Or was seeing the double just a sign that the writer
	was already insane? Impossible to know. 
	Here’s a double story that has a little more
	"proof." A man named Bryan C. ran a small business
	in New Jersey with his nephew as a partner. One winter, Bryan was in the hospital, so his partner had to
	run the business alone. As Bryan was lying in bed, he
	saw his exact double come into the room to visit him. 
	The double warned Bryan that his partner was going
	to the bank to take out all the company’s money and
	run away with it. But the double added: "Don’t worry
	about it. I’ll take care of it." Then it disappeared. The
	next day the doctor came into Bryan’s room—and he
	was furious. " How could you leave the hospital and
	go downtown?" Bryan didn’t know what the doctor
	meant until he saw the newspaper—which had a
	headline that said BUSINESSMAN CATCHES
	PARTNER STEALING, MAKES CITIZEN’S ARREST. 
	A happy ending—but a story that definitely qualifies
	Bryan for membership in the Nightmare Room. 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
	R.L. STINE says he has a great job. “My job is to give
	kids the CREEPS!” With his scary books, R.L. has
	terrified kids all over the world. He has sold over 300
	million books, making him the best-selling children’s
	author in history. 
	These days, R.L. is dishing out new frights in his
	series THE NIGHTMARE ROOM. When he isn’t
	working, he likes to read old mysteries, watch
	SpongeBob Squarepants on TV, and take his dog, 
	Nadine, for long walks around New York City, where
	he lives with his wife, Jane, and son, Matthew. 
	“I love taking my readers to scary places,” R.L. 
	says. “Do you know the scariest place of all? It’s your
	MIND!” 
	Take a look at what’s ahead in
	THE NIGHTMARE ROOM #5
	Dear Diary, I’m Dead
	“You did what?” Shawn screamed. “Alex, are you
	totally whacked?” 
	“I’m going to win this one,” I said. 
	“But you never win a bet with Tessa,” Chip said. 
	“How could you bet a hundred dollars?” 
	We were in Chip’s garage after school, tuning up
	our guitars. The garage had only one electrical outlet, 
	so we could plug in only two amps. That meant that
	one of us had to play acoustic, even though we all
	had electric guitars. 
	“I won’t need a hundred dollars,” I said, “because
	I’m going to win.” 
	Sproinnnng. 
	I broke a string. I let out a groan. “I’ll just play
	without it,” I muttered. 
	Shawn shook his head. “You’re crazy, Alex. After
	what happened with McArthur and the flag . . . ” 
	“That was a sure thing!” I cried. “I should have
	won that bet!” 
	Just thinking about it made me angry. 
	A few weeks ago, I made a deal with Mr. 
	McArthur. He’s one of the janitors at school. Except
	he’s not called a janitor. He’s called a maintenance
	engineer. 
	McArthur is a nice guy. He and I kid around
	sometimes. So I made a deal with him. 
	He raises the flag every morning on the flagpole
	in front of our school. So I paid him five dollars to
	raise it upside down on Wednesday morning. 
	Then I dragged Tessa to school early and bet her
	ten dollars that he would raise the flag upside down. 
	“You’re crazy, Alex,” Tessa said, rolling her eyes. 
	“McArthur has never slipped up like that.” 
	He will this morning, I thought happily. I started
	planning how I’d spend Tessa’s ten bucks. 
	How was I to know that Mrs. Juarez, the principal, would arrive at school just when McArthur was
	raising the flag? 
	She came walking up the steps and saw
	McArthur. So she stopped in front of the pole, raised
	her hand to her heart, and waited to watch the flag
	go up. 
	Of course McArthur chickened out. He raised the
	flag right-side up. 
	I didn’t blame him. What could he do with her
	standing right there? 
	But I had to pay Tessa the ten bucks. And then
	McArthur said he’d pay me back my five dollars in a
	week or so. Not a good day. 
	“It’s my turn,” I told my two friends. “Tessa has
	won about three hundred bets in a row. So it’s definitely my turn!” 
	“But why did you bet her that your diary would
	be more exciting than hers?” Shawn asked. 
	“Because it will be,” I said. “Tessa is real smart
	and gets perfect grades. That’s because all she does
	is study. She spends all her time on homework and
	projects for extra credit. She’s so totally boring! So
	her diary can’t be exciting. No way!” 
	“Who’s going to decide whose diary is the best?” 
	Chip asked. 
	“We’re going to let Miss Gold decide,” I said. “But
	it won’t be a hard choice for her. This is one bet I’m
	not going to lose.” 
	“Want to bet?” Chip asked. 
	I squinted across the garage at him. “Excuse me?” 
	“Bet you five dollars Tessa wins this bet, too.” 
	“You’re on!” I said. I slapped him a high-five. 
	“Count me in,” Shawn said. “Five bucks on
	Tessa.” 
	“You guys are real losers,” I groaned. “Let’s play. 
	What’s the first song?” 
	“How about ‘Purple Haze’?” Chip suggested. “It’s
	our best song.” 
	“It’s our only song,” I muttered. 
	We counted off, tapping our feet, and started to
	play “Purple Haze.” We played for about ten seconds, 
	when we heard a loud, crackling pop. 
	The music stopped and the lights went out. 
	We’d blown the fuses again. 
	A short while later, I dragged my guitar case into
	the house. Mom greeted me at the door. “I’ve been
	waiting for you,” she said. “I have a surprise.” 
	I tossed my backpack onto the floor. Then I
	tossed my jacket on top of it. 
	“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” I said. “I’ll bet you
	five dollars it’s a puppy. You finally bought me that
	puppy I asked for when I was six?” 
	Mom shook her head. “No puppy. You know your
	dad is allergic.” 
	“He can breathe at work,” I said. “Why does he
	have to breathe at home?” 
	Mom laughed. She thinks I’m a riot. She laughs
	at just about everything I say. 
	“I’ll bet five dollars it’s . . . a DVD player!” I
	exclaimed. 
	Mom shook her head. “No way, Alex. And stop
	betting every second. That’s such a bad habit. Is that
	why you’re broke all the time?” 
	I didn’t answer that question. “What’s the surprise?” I asked. 
	“Come on. I’ll show you.” Mom pulled me
	upstairs to my bedroom. I could see she was excited. 
	She moved behind me and pushed me into the
	room. “Check it out, Alex!” 
	I stared at the big desk against the wall. It was
	made of dark wood and it had two rows of drawers
	on the sides. 
	I stepped up to it. The desktop had a million little
	scratches and cracks in it. 
	“It . . . it’s old!” I said. 
	“Yes, it’s an antique,” Mom replied. “Your dad
	and I found it at that little antiques store on
	Montrose near the library.” 
	I ran my hand over the old wood. Then I sniffed
	a couple of times. “It’s kind of smelly,” I murmured. 
	“It won’t be smelly after we polish it up,” Mom
	said. “It will be like new. It’s a beautiful old desk. So
	big and roomy. You’ll have space for your computer
	and your PlayStation, and all your homework supplies.” 
	“I guess,” I said. 
	Mom gave me a playful shove. “Just say ‘Thank
	you, Mom. It’s a nice surprise. I really needed a desk
	like this.’” 
	“Thank you, Mom,” I repeated. “It’s a nice surprise. I really needed a desk like this.” 
	She laughed. “Go ahead. Sit down. Try it out.” 
	She wheeled a new desk chair over to the desk. It
	was chrome and red leather. 
	“What an awesome chair!” I said. “Does it tilt
	back? Does it go up and down?” 
	“Yes, it does everything,” Mom said. “It’s a thrill
	ride!” 
	“Cool!” I dropped into the chair and wheeled it
	up to the old desk. 
	The phone rang downstairs. Mom hurried to
	answer it. 
	I tilted the chair back. Then I leaned forward, 
	smoothing my hands over the desk’s dark wood. I
	wonder who owned it before me, I thought. 
	I pulled open the top desk drawer. It jammed at
	first. I had to tug hard to slide it open. The drawer
	was empty. 
	I slid open the next drawer. The next. Both empty. 
	The air inside the drawers was kind of sour smelling. 
	I leaned down and pulled open the bottom drawer. 
	“Hey— what’s that?” 
	Something hidden at the back of the drawer. A
	small, square black book. 
	I reached in and lifted it from the drawer. 
	Then I blew the thick layer of dust off the cover
	and raised it close to see what it was. 
	A diary! 
	I stared at the dusty book, turning it over in my
	hands. What a strange coincidence! 
	I rubbed my hand over the black leather cover. 
	Then I opened the book and flipped quickly through
	the pages. 
	They were completely blank. 
	I’ll use this to write my diary for Miss Gold, I
	decided. I’ll write my first entry tonight. And I’ll write
	it in ink. Miss Gold will like that. 
	I set the diary down on the desk and thought
	about what I would write. 
	First, I’ll describe my friends, I decided. Miss
	Gold said I needed more description, more details. I
	stared at the old diary and planned what I would say. 
	I’ll start with me. How would I describe myself? 
	Well, I’m tall and kind of wiry. I have wild brown
	hair that I hate because it won’t stay down. My mom
	says I’m always fidgeting. I can’t sit still. My dad says
	I talk too fast and too much. 
	What else? Hmmm . . . I’m kind of smart. I like to
	hang out with my friends and make them laugh. I’m
	a pretty good guitar player. I’d like to make a lot of
	money and get really rich because I’m always broke, 
	and I hate it. 
	That’s enough about me. What about Chip? How
	would I describe Chip? 
	Well . . . He’s short. He’s chubby. He has really
	short brown hair and a round baby face. He looks
	about six, even though he’s twelve like me. 
	Chip wears baggy clothes. He likes to wrestle
	around and pretend to fight. He’s always in a good
	mood, always ready to laugh. He’s a terrible guitar
	player, but he thinks he’s Jimi Hendrix. 
	Shawn is very different from Chip. He’s very
	intense, very serious. He worries a lot. He’s not a
	wimp or anything. He just worries. 
	Shawn has brown eyes, orangy hair that’s almost
	carrot colored, and lots of freckles. He gets better
	grades in school than Chip and me because he works
	a lot harder. 
	Who else should I describe? Do I have to
	describe Tessa? Yes, I guess I should. She’ll probably
	pop up in the diary from time to time. 
	I guess Tessa is kind of cute. But she’s so stuckup, who cares? 
	She has straight blond hair, green eyes, a turnedup nose like an elf nose, and a little red heart-shaped
	mouth. She’s very preppy and perfect-looking. 
	Yes. That’s good. Tessa wants to be perfect all the
	time. And she hangs out only with girls who are just
	like her. 
	I flipped through the empty diary one more time. 
	I’m pretty good at description, I decided. I couldn’t
	wait to write this stuff down. 
	And what else should I write about? I’ll write
	about how my parents bought me a new desk, and
	how I found a blank diary in the bottom drawer just
	when I needed a diary. Very cool! 
	I leaned back in the new desk chair, very pleased
	with myself. I tilted the chair back a few times. Then
	I raised and lowered the seat, just to see how it
	worked. 
	I heard Dad come home. Then I heard Mom calling me to dinner. I tucked the diary into the top desk
	drawer and hurried down to the dining room. 
	“How’s the new desk?” Dad asked. 
	“Excellent,” I told him. “Thanks, Dad.” 
	He passed the bowl of spaghetti. “Did you have
	band practice this afternoon?” 
	“Yes, kind of,” I replied. “We blew the fuses again. 
	We really need a better place to rehearse.” 
	Mom chuckled. “Your band needs a lot of things. 
	Like a singer, for example. None of you guys can
	sing a note. And how about someone who doesn’t
	play guitar?” 
	I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the encouragement, 
	Mom.” 
	Dad laughed, too. “What do you call your band? 
	Strings and More Strings?” 
	“Ha-ha,” I said. Dad has such a lame sense of
	humor. He’s not even as funny as Shawn, who is never
	funny! 
	“Bet you ten dollars that we get good enough to
	win the junior high talent contest,” I said. 
	“Alex, no betting,” Mom said sternly. 
	They started talking to each other, and I concentrated on my spaghetti and turkey meatballs. We used
	to have real meatballs. But Mom became a health
	freak. And now all of our meat is made out of turkey! 
	After dinner, I practically flew upstairs to get started
	on my diary. I found a black marker pen to write with. 
	Then I sat down in the new desk chair and pulled the
	diary out of the drawer. 
	I’ll start with an introduction about how I found
	the diary, I decided. Then I’ll describe my friends
	and me. 
	I opened the diary to the first page. And let out a
	gasp. 
	The page had been completely blank when I
	found the book this afternoon. But now it was covered with writing. There was already a diary entry
	there! 
	At the top, a date was written: Tuesday, January 16. 
	“Huh?” I squinted hard at it. Today was Monday
	the fifteenth. 
	“This is too weird!” I said out loud. 
	A diary entry for tomorrow? 
	My eyes ran over the handwritten words. I couldn’t
	focus. I was too surprised and confused. 
	And then I uttered another gasp when I made
	another impossible discovery. 
	The diary entry was written in my handwriting! 
	A diary entry for tomorrow in my handwriting? 
	How can that be? I wondered. 
	My hands were shaking. So I set the open book
	down on the desktop. Then I leaned over it and
	eagerly started to read. 
	DEAR DIARY, 
	The diary war has started, and I know I’m going
	to win. I can’t wait to see the look on Tessa’s face
	when she has to hand over one hundred big ones to
	me. 
	I ran into Tessa in the hall at school, and I 
	started teasing her about our diaries. I said that she
	and I should share what we’re writing—just for fun. 
	I’ll read hers, and she could read mine. 
	Tessa said no way. She said she doesn’t want
	me stealing her ideas. I said, “Whatever.” I was
	just trying to give her a break and let her see how
	much better my diary is going to be than hers. 
	Then I went into geography class, and Mrs. 
	Hoff horrified everyone by giving a surprise test on

	chapter eight. No one had studied chapter eight. 
	And the test was really hard—two essay questions
	and twenty multiple choice. 
	Why does Mrs. Hoff think it’s so much fun to
	surprise us like that? 
	The diary entry ended there. I stared at the words
	until they became a blur. 
	My hands were still shaking. My forehead was
	chilled by a cold sweat. 
	My handwriting. And it sounded like the way I
	wrote. 
	But how could that be? How did an entry for
	tomorrow get in there? 
	I read it again. Then I flipped through the book, 
	turning the pages carefully, scanning each one. 
	Blank. All blank. The rest of the pages were
	blank. 
	I turned back to tomorrow’s entry and read it for
	a third time. 
	Was it true? It couldn’t be—could it? 
	What if it is? I asked myself. What if Mrs. Hoff
	does spring a surprise test on us? Then, I’d be the
	only one who knew about it. 
	I’d be the only one to pass the test. 
	I closed the diary and shoved it into the desk
	drawer. Then I found my geography textbook, 

	opened it to chapter eight, and studied it for the next
	two hours. 
	The next morning, I ran into Tessa in the hall outside Mrs. Hoff’s room. “Nice shirt, Alex,” she
	sneered, turning up her already-turned-up nose. 
	“Did you puke on it this morning, or is that just the
	color?” 
	“I borrowed it from you—remember?” I shot
	back. Pretty good reply, huh? 
	“How is your diary coming?” Tessa asked. “Or do
	you want to give up and just pay me the hundred
	dollars now?” She waved to two of her friends across
	the hall, two girls who look just like her. 
	“My diary is going to be awesome,” I said. “I
	wrote twelve pages in it last night.” 
	I know, I know. That was a lie. I just wanted to
	see Tessa react. 
	She sneered at me. “Twelve pages? You don’t
	know that many words!” She laughed at her own
	joke. 
	“I have an idea,” I said. “Why don’t we share
	each other’s diaries?” 
	She frowned at me. “Excuse me?” 
	“I’ll read your diary, and you can read mine,” I
	said. “You know. Just for fun.” 
	“Fun?” She made a disgusted face at me, puckering up that tiny heart-shaped mouth. “No way, Alex. 
	I’m not showing you my diary. I don’t want you stealing my ideas!” 
	Oh wow. 
	Oh wow! 
	That’s just what Tessa said in the diary entry. 
	Was the diary entry coming true? Was all that it
	said really going to happen? 
	I suddenly felt dizzy, weak. How could a book
	predict the future? 
	I shook my head hard, trying to shake the dizziness away. 
	“Alex? Are you okay?” Tessa asked. “You look so
	weird all of a sudden. What’s wrong with you?” 
	“Uh . . . nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.” 
	The bell was about to ring. I gazed into Mrs. 
	Hoff’s classroom. It was filling up with kids. 
	I turned back to Tessa. “Uh . . . you haven’t read

	chapter eight yet, have you?” I asked. 
	“No. Not yet,” Tessa replied. “Why?” 
	“No reason,” I said, trying to hide my grin. 
	I followed her into the room. I waved to Chip and
	Shawn. Then I dropped my backpack to the floor and
	slid into my seat at the back of the room. 
	Mrs. Hoff was leaning over her desk, shuffling
	through a pile of folders. She has straight black hair
	and flour-white skin, and she always wears black. 
	Some kids call her Hoff the Goth. But I don’t
	think that makes sense, and it doesn’t even rhyme. 
	I sat stiffly in my seat, watching her, tapping my
	fingers tensely on the desktop. My heart started to
	race. 
	Is she going to give the test? I wondered. 
	Is the rest of the diary entry going to come true? 
	Credits
	Cover illustration by John Jude Palencar
	Cover design by John Fontana
	About the Publisher
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	HarperCollins Children’s Books 
	A Division of HarperCollins Publishers
	1350 Avenue of the Americas 
	New York, NY 10019
	www.harperchildrens.com
	
	Nightmare Hour
	Ten New Stories by r.l. stine
	"These stories are my scariest ever," says R.L. Stine, 
	"because I wrote them at the Nightmare Hour." 
	When the lights fade, the world that we know as real slips
	into shadow—and the cold, moonlit world of evil dreams
	enters your mind and takes over. 
	These ten terrifying tales will make you shiver at any hour. 
	Illustrated by ten outstanding artists. 
	"I really enjoy your work…thank you for creating new
	nightmares for me." —Kenny, age 12, NY
	"They are horrifying stories—they even gave me the
	creeps." —Sofia, age 14, LA
	"My favorite book is Nightmare Hour." 
	—Jeffrie, age 9, WI
	Winner of Disney Adventures magazine’s first ever
	Kids’ Choice Award for Best Horror/Mystery Book
	0-06-028688-1 $9.95 Hardcover
	0-06-440842-6 $4.99 Paperback
	Available wherever books are sold. 
	Join R.L. Stine and all your friends in 
THE NIGHTMARE ROOM
	www.thenightmareroom.com

	
	
	Join R.L. Stine and all your friends in 
	THE
	ROOM
	Step inside 
	www.thenightmareroom.com
	and open the door to terror! 
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	Log on to 
	www.thenightmareroom.com
	where you will truly enter 
	THE NIGHTMARE ROOM
	You can share with R.L. Stine your most 
	terrifying dreams and experiences. If your 
	stories are terrifying enough for R.L. Stine, you
	could star in your own NIGHTMARE ROOM
	book. 
	Log on to THE NIGHTMARE ROOM now, 
	and read R.L. Stine’s brand-new spine-tingling
	story—a story so terrifying that it can’t be sold
	in bookstores! 
	www.thenightmareroom.com

	
	Who will you find next in
	THE
	ROOM? 
	From the master of horror, 
	R.L. STINE
	THE NIGHTMARE ROOM #5
	Dear Diary, I’m Dead
	0-06-440903-1
	That’s Alex Smith. He’s heading home
	to check out his journal. Alex’s journal 
	is very special. Every night, a new
	entry appears in the book that tells
	Alex what’s going to happen in the
	future. Alex thinks the diary entries are
	the key to popularity and great grades. 
	But what he doesn’t know is that they
	are the key to . . . THE NIGHTMARE ROOM. 
	IN THE NIGHTMARE ROOM 
	YOUR WORST NIGHTMARES COME TRUE! 
	$3.99 Paperback. Available wherever books are sold. 
	Join R.L. Stine and all your friends in 
THE NIGHTMARE ROOM
	www.thenightmareroom.com
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