Free The Sitter by R.L. Stine Page B

house. An inflated inner tube and a silver-blue Frisbee lay near the rhododendrons.
    I trudged up a steep dune, my flip-flops slipping, the sand already hot, burning my toes. At the top of the dune, a row of slanting pine trees. They stood in a perfect straight line, I noticed, as if deliberately placed to hide the guest house behind them.
    I ducked into the shade of the trees and gazed at the little house. A dark cyclone of buzzing insects rose up at the side of the house. The tiny gnats—or whatever they were—spun furiously, millions of them, sending up a loud droning whine, such an unpleasant sound.
    Though it was two stories tall, the house was nearly as small as a gardening shed. Its gray shingle siding was dark and weathered with age. The small windows at the back were frosted with dust. A thick carpet of dried pine needles stretched the length of the house, piling up like a snowdrift against the back wall.
    As I drew nearer, a strong stench of mold and decay invaded my nostrils. I held my breath. Was it just normal house smell? Or was something rotting inside?
    I let out my breath in a whoosh as Mrs. Bricker’s warning flashed back into my mind. What had that crazy old woman said?
    It’s in the guest house. Stay away. It’s in the guest house.
    What could she have been babbling about?
    And why the hell did I have such a talent for attracting crazy people?
    I turned and made my way past the whirling insects and to the front of the house, which faced the ocean. The front door had been white at one time, but the paint had peeled and faded, revealing the dark wood beneath. The tiny octagonal window in the door had cracked in two.
    A dark stain rose on the shingles beside the door like a shadowy ghost. A faded gray curtain covered the front window, which was also frosted with dust. Slates from the roof littered the ground.
    This must have been a cute little house when it was built. Did someone live here once? Why was the place abandoned?
    It’s in the guest house. Stay away. It’s in the guest house.
    The old woman’s velvety voice lingered in my mind.
    What was in the guest house?
    I had to check it out.
    I held my breath again as I stepped up to the front door. To my surprise, the air suddenly grew chilly. As if the house gave off waves of cold.
    “Huh?”
    Through the broken window, I thought I saw something move inside.
    I jumped back.
    No. Wait. No.
    It had to be my shadow on the glass—right? Or maybe my reflection.
    Ellie, don’t scare yourself. It’s an abandoned old house. That’s all. Are you really going to let that crazy old woman terrify you?
    I stepped back up to the front door, and again I felt a wet chill seep from the house. I squinted through the tiny window in the door, but couldn’t see anything.
    I’m going in, I decided.
    I grabbed the doorknob. The metal was cold. Cold despite the hot sunshine beaming down on it.
    I squeezed the knob. Started to turn it.
    And a voice shouted,
“Get away!”

16
    A t first, I thought the cry had come from inside the house. But then I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.
    I spun around.
    The glare of sunlight hid the person approaching, a figure in white, all white. And again, I thought of ghosts. I squinted hard, struggling to focus.
    And then he stepped out of the glare, a grin on his tanned face. He wore a white polo shirt, damp from sweat, white tennis shorts, white sneakers, and he carried a tennis racquet in its case.
    “Chip? Oh. Hi.”
    “Ellie, I didn’t scare you—did I?”
    “Uh . . . no,” I said. Why did he shout like that? Did he deliberately try to make me jump?
    “You should be careful. Stay away from here,” he said.
    He stepped closer, and I could see his broad forehead was beaded with sweat. “Dangerous,” he said, a little out of breath. He grinned at me. “You’re looking fresh and alive this morning.”
    “Well . . . thank you.”
    He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and mopped his forehead.