Free Don't Forget Me! by R.L. Stine

brother’s name. And suddenly I knew. I knew who they were.
    They were the forgotten ones.
    They were the victims of Forget-Me House .
    And now the forgotten kids were calling for Peter.
    I jumped to my feet and let out a shrill scream. “Nooooo!” And without even realizing it, I was running again. Out the door and down Addie’s front yard.
    I heard Addie calling to me. But I didn’t stop or look back.
    Once again I ran without seeing, my mind a blur. I ran the whole way home.
    What would I find there?
    Would my brother try to attack me again? Would he still be a wild, raging animal?
    I fought back my fear. I knew I had no choice. I had to be there. I had to save Peter. I had to be home when Mom and Dad returned. To warn them. To explain to them.
    As I turned the corner onto our block, I heard a sharp animal cry. A dog bark. Without slowing down, I turned and saw our neighbor’s large gray German shepherd racing after me.
    â€œNo, boy! Go home! Go home!” I pleaded. Why was he acting like this?
    And what was his name?
    Why couldn’t I remember his name?
    Running hard, the big dog barked a warning, its tail wagging furiously. It caught up to me easily. And then it jumped in front of me.
    I stumbled over it.
    It leaped up, panting hard, pushing its paws against my waist.
    I screamed at him, “Go home! Please—down! Get down!”
    Then I realized the dog only wanted to play.
    â€œNot now. Please—not now.” I grabbed its front paws and lowered them to the pavement. I petted the dog’s head.
    Why couldn’t I remember its name?
    â€œNot now, boy. Go home!”
    I started running again, the dog yapping at my heels. I had the sudden hope that my parents’ car would be in the driveway. Please, I thought, be there. Be home to help me. Maybe the three of us working together can do something to help Peter.
    But … no car. The driveway stood empty. The front door to the house was wide-open, just as I’d left it when I ran from Peter.
    My heart pounding, I started up the front lawn. And realized the dog was no longer at my feet. I turned and saw it at the curb. It gazed up at the house, uttering low, whimpering sounds. Its ears were down, tail between its legs, its whole body hunched, trembling.
    It’s terrified, I realized. The dog won’t come up here. It’s terrified.
    Finally the dog lowered its gaze. It shook itself hard, and still whimpering, slinked away.
    I had the sudden impulse to follow it. To run away. To find a place that was safe, a place that didn’t make dogs tremble and cry.
    But my brother was inside the house. And he was in trouble.
    I had no choice.
    I took a deep breath and went inside.
    And as soon as I entered, I saw the basement door. Wide-open.
    And I heard the whispered voices, harsh and raspy. The voices rising up from the basement.
    But this time they weren’t chanting my brother’s name.
    This time they were chanting my name, over and over.
    â€œ Danielle … Danielle … Danielle … ”
    I pressed my hands against my cheeks—and cried out in horror.
    My face—it felt wet. Wet and sticky.
    Frantically I clawed at the goo, tearing at it, pulling it, rubbing it off my face.
    And all the while, the voices droned on: “ Danielle … Danielle … Danielle … ”

 

    â€œNoooo!” A cry of terror escaped my throat as I pulled the last of the slime away. “You’re not going to get me. You’re not going to get Peter.”
    Somehow I had to save Peter—if I wasn’t already too late!
    â€œPeter?” I choked out. My voice sounded tiny and hollow. I grabbed the banister and called up the front stairs. “Peter? Are you in your room?”
    No reply.
    I ran upstairs. Checked his room. Then mine. No sign of him.
    â€œPeter?”
    I hurried downstairs. I had no choice. A wave of cold dread swept over me as I approached the basement door.
    The