Free The Second Horror by R. L. Stine

jeans and a shirt clung to the boy’s bones. The bones tumbled in a heap to the floor. Brandt turned away, fighting down his nausea. The room lay in silence now. The pitiful cries had stopped. Brandt stared at the hideous little skull with its patch of red hair. This boy was calling to me, Brandt knew. That was the tiny voice that I heard. But how? Abbie’s words echoed in his mind. The house is evil. The house is evil. Maybe, Brandt thought. Or maybe the house was haunted—by the ghost of James.
    Brandt’s parents returned home about an hour after Brandt discovered the skeleton. Mrs. McCloy gasped in horror at the sight. But Brandt’s father stared at the two skeletons, fascinated. “This could explain a lot of strange things about the house,” he told Brandt. “The noises you’ve been hearing, your sense that someone’s in the room with you—” He paused. “It’s not a classic case,” he mused. “But I think we’ve had a poltergeist.” “What are we going to do with these bones?” Mrs. McCloy moaned. “How can you be talking about poltergeists when we have the skeleton of a child on our floor?” “Poltergeists are often the ghosts of children,” Mr. McCloy continued, staring at the pile of bones. “They’re mischievous, but they rarely hurt anyone. No one has been hurt in this house, have they?” “What about Jinny?” Brandt demanded. “And what about poor Ezra?” “Hmmmm.” Mr. McCloy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Mischievous doesn’t describe what I’ve felt in this house,” Brandt said heatedly. “It’s more like—evil.” “That’s just because it scares you,” Mr. McCloy insisted. “Because you don’t know what causes it, it seems mysterious.” A heavy silence fell over the room as the three of them stared at the skeleton of James and the dog. Poor kid, Brandt thought. He sounded so frightened, so alone. How did he get trapped in the wall? And how could he be calling out to us more than a year after he died? Brandt’s head spun with questions. So many questions. Mr. McCloy broke the silence. “We’d better call the police. They will deal with the remains. And get in touch with the family.” As they made their way downstairs, Mr. McCloy put an arm around Brandt’s shoulder. “Maybe the house will settle down now,” he said. “Once this poor boy is buried and can rest in peace.” Brandt sighed. “I hope so, Dad. I really do.”
    Poor James, the ghost of Cally thought as she watched the grim-faced police officers carry away her brother’s bones. My poor brother James. You were such a cute little guy. So sweet. So beautiful. And look at you now.
    “Oh!” An officer uttered a cry as his hand slipped and the dog’s skull clattered to the floor. It rolled to a stop at Cally’s feet. She floated back. Goodbye, James, she thought. Goodbye. I hope you rest better than me. She realized she felt no sadness. Her anger was much too strong to allow any soft feelings in. Too late, James, she thought, feeling her bitterness surge. Too late for you. Too late for me. She floated close to Brandt, who stood watching the police officers go about their unpleasant job. Don’t get too cozy, Brandt, Cally told him silently. Because your problems aren’t over yet. It’s too late for James. Too late for me. And—it’s too late for you.

Chapter 19
    On Saturday morning Brandt stepped outside to get the newspaper. He opened the front door to find Abbie standing on the porch, ready to ring the bell. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Hey—Abbie!” Brandt cried in surprise. “You’re looking good!” She was cute in a pair of faded jeans, a white shirt, and a pale blue vest. Abbie smiled. “What’s up?” Brandt leaned down and picked up the folded newspaper. “Not much. Why don’t you come in?” He suddenly pictured the warning in the diary: Abbie is next. Should he warn her about it? No, he decided. The threat is all gone. The little boy’s bones had been removed nearly a