Free Fear: 13 Stories of Suspense and Horror by R.L. Stine

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    I heard the faint sound of someone calling my name.
    â€œWas that Maddie?” I asked.
    â€œI didn’t hear anything.” Jackson stared at the black-and-white images flickering across the television screens.
    â€œI’ll just go check on her.”
    I made my way upstairs then down a hallway decorated with a bizarre combination of technology, weaponry, and sentimental whimsy. Artifacts including swords and antique rifles were displayed alongside sappy oil paintings depicting lush flower gardens, waterfalls, and sun-sets. I found one object particularly disturbing—a large, Victorian-style wreath that appeared at first glance to be an intricate arrangement of dried flowers. When I took a closer look, I realized that the brown and gold petals and leaves were actually made entirely of human hair —hair of various shades that had been braided and twisted into detailed shapes. Was this evidence of some bizarre family hobby? And whose hair was it?
    Now opening a series of doors in search of Maddie’s bedroom, I had the disconcerting sense that it was entirely possible to lose track of a child in this house. Who knew how many hiding places there were—how many secret rooms?
    â€œMaddie!” I called.
    The only answer was a thin, wailing sound like the whistling of wind around a house or the plaintive meow of a cat. As I listened more closely, I became convinced that it was the sound of a baby crying.
    I hurried up another flight of stairs. The crying seemed to come from behind a closed door at the end of another long hallway.
    I caught my breath when I pulled open the door to reveal a baby’s nursery. My eyes fell on a small, empty bassinet adorned with a skirt of white lace. All around the bed were dolls dressed in clothing from various historical eras: hoop skirts made of colorful taffeta; wasp-waisted polka-dot dresses with crinoline petticoats; miniskirts and go-go boots. My interest in the elaborate and intricate costumes worn by these dolls turned to trepidation when I noticed a group of dolls that looked like ordinary, contemporary teenagers—dolls dressed in blue jeans, dolls carrying tiny backpacks and miniature cell phones. One even had braces painted on small, plastic teeth.
    I wanted to examine the dolls more closely, but the cries of the phantom baby were becoming evermore insistent. Strangely, the infant’s screaming now seemed to come from behind a full-length mirror that hung on the wall.
    Now I know where that old saying “curiosity killed the cat” comes from. It’s funny how you can feel simultaneously terrified and driven to discover the truth at all costs. Well, that’s how I felt as I slowly approached my own reflection in the mirror, bracing myself for the glimpse of some supernatural vision in the darkened glass.
    I reached out and touched my reflection and gasped with surprise when the mirror quietly swung open to reveal a tiny room.
    The mirror was actually a secret doorway . There, behind the mirror, was the source of the crying: a baby monitor with a video screen. I had used plenty of baby monitors, so I knew they were basically walkie-talkies that allowed you to hear and even see a baby from any room in the house. Now I knew for sure that there really was a baby—the same baby girl I had seen in the garden earlier that day. Wearing only a diaper, she sat alone in what looked like an animal cage. I watched the grainy image on the screen as she pulled herself up to a standing position and stood with one arm outstretched through the bars of her little prison.
    â€œMama!” she cried.
    My stomach churned when I perceived a tiny, gruesome detail—the shadowy image of a butcher knife lying on the floor near the baby.
    Someone wants me to see this, I thought. But why? I remembered Maddie kicking Jackson under the table, the sly smile on Jackson’s lips when I had asked about a baby.
    I was sure of one thing: I had to find that