Free Who Let the Ghosts Out? by R.L. Stine

spread over it, too. The webbing wrapped around my hand, then my arm. Thick strings of cobweb creeping up, reaching … reaching for my neck.
    I'm being sucked into it, I realized. It's going to cover me like a cocoon. I'm going to suffocate. …
    Then to my shock, it all fell away. The webbing let go, lost its stickiness.
    As I gazed in amazement, it fell to the floor— and shrank until nothing was left of it.
    I jumped to my feet. My skin tingled and itched. Sweat poured down my face and made my T-shirt cling to my back.
    Why had the cobweb given up? Why did it draw back just when it had me in its grip?
    I turned and saw the reason.
    Squinting into the darkness, I saw the ghost coming for me.
    My scream rang off the tunnel walls and echoed into the deep chamber.
    The ghost floated in the distance, a silent, gray figure against the blackness.
    Should I run?
    Before I could move, the ghost roared up to me like a tiny, dark tornado. It floated in front of me with its back turned.
    The frozen air swirled around me. I fell back against the tunnel wall. “Who are you?” My question came out in a trembling whisper. “What do you want?”
    Floating above the floor, it didn't turn around.
    Unable to stop my trembling, I stared hard at it. Stared hard …
    And then it turned around—and I couldn't keep my shock inside. My mouth shot open in a scream of horror.
    The ghost had
my
face!

20
    T HE GHOST STARED AT me blankly, ignoring my scream of horror.
    “Are you—?” I started. “Who … are you? Are you
me
?”
    The ghost gazed back wide-eyed and didn't reply.
    I stared at him, stared into my own face. He wore a long white T-shirt, loose-fitting, long as a dress. Beneath it he had on baggy white pants that came down over his shoes.
    His eyes were deep set and sad, dark in his pale bleached face. His cheeks were hard and white as cement. His lips were colorless. He studied me as I studied him.
    “Can you help me?” I asked. “Where am I? What are you doing here? Are you my ghost? Can you speak?” My questions came out high and frightened.
    He floated closer. “Trade places with me,” he whispered.
    “Excuse me?” I took a step back.
    “Trade places with me,” he repeated. And then his face began to change. And I was no longer staring at myself. I was staring at a white-haired old man.
    “Trade places with me,” he rasped.
    “No—!” I cried. I took another stumbling step back.
    And his face changed again—into that of a sunken-eyed young man. His nose was missing. I stared at the hole in his face. And when he opened his mouth, I saw that he had no teeth and his gums were ripped and jagged.
    “Trade places with me.”
    “No. Stop. I won't,” I said. Then I noticed that he had something half hidden in his hand. As I squinted at it, he held it up so that I could see it better.
    “I have what you're looking for,” he croaked.
    A shoe box. A cardboard shoe box. And on the side I could see words printed in black marker: N ROLAND.
    Nicky Roland. A shoe box belonging to Nicky.
    “Oh, wow.” I reached out for the shoe box.
    The ghost lowered the box to his side. “Trade places with me.”
    “No. I can't. I don't want to. I'm alive. I'm not a ghost,” I said.
    “Trade places with me,” he repeated. He changed again, into a beefy-faced man with apatch over one eye and ratty black hair flowing down to his shoulders.
    He floated higher off the floor. I saw him tighten his free hand into a fist.
“Trade places with me!”
he screamed. His single dark eye flamed, then glowed bright red.
    I tried to back away, but I was already pressed against the tunnel wall.
    With a furious cry, he shot his fist forward.
    I ducked under it. Then I reached up—and grabbed the shoe box from his other hand.
    He swiped at the box. Missed.
    I darted under him. Wrapping the box in my arms, I started to run. My sneakers slapped the hard floor. Protecting the box, I kept my head low and ran full speed back toward my room.
    I glanced