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

chanting had stopped. Silence now. A deep silence that rang in my ears.
    It took all my strength to step into the stairwell and peer down to the basement. “Peter?”
    I knew he was down there.
    I knew I had to go down and bring him back upstairs.
    â€œPeter, this is your sister. Danielle,” I called down. “I know you don’t remember me. But this is Danielle. I’m coming down now. I’m coming to help you.”
    I listened hard. No reply.
    Then I heard a creaking sound. Very slow. A low grinding. Like a heavy door opening.
    â€œPeter? Did you hear me? This is your sister. I’m coming down to help you.”
    I took a deep, shuddering breath. I spotted the long metal flashlight on the top step. I picked it up. A good weapon. I hoped I wouldn’t need to use it.
    â€œPeter, here I come.”
    My legs were shaking so badly, I had to take the stairs one at a time. I stopped every few steps and listened. Wind rattled the windowpanes at ground level. The only sound except for my shallow breaths.
    Halfway down the stairs, I heard another creak. Then a soft, scraping sound. “Peter? Is that you? Can you hear me?”
    No reply.
    I forced myself down the rest of the way. Gripping the flashlight tightly in my right hand, I spun away from the stairs and gazed into the basement.
    In the darkening evening light from the narrow windows above, I could see the clutter of junk, old furniture, stacks of old newspapers.
    â€œOh.” My mouth dropped open as I turned to the far wall, the wall across from the enormous, time-blackened furnace, and saw the scrawled words.
    Words at least a foot tall, scrawled in red paint. Still wet, dripping over the jagged, cracked stones.
    DON’T FORGET ME.
    Still wet. Just painted. Dark red paint. Red as blood.
    DON’T FORGET ME.
    And before I got over the shock of seeing that—I saw Peter.
    I blinked once. Twice. Not quite believing.
    Yes. Peter. In a doorway to a smaller room beyond the furnace.
    Peter, bathed in a strange, silvery light. His back to me. His hair still on end. His shirt untucked over baggy jeans. Peter, not moving. Caught in the eerie light, standing so still in the tiny back room.
    I opened my mouth to call to him. But no sound came out.
    My cold, wet hand slid over the metal flashlight. I gripped it tighter. And took a trembling step toward him. And then another.
    Stepping around the clutter of junk in the center of the room. The painted words, the dripping, bloodred words still in view at my side.
    DON’T FORGET ME.
    â€œPeter? Can you hear me?”
    He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
    â€œI’m coming to help you. I am your sister. Danielle. Do you remember me? Do you?”
    I stopped just outside the low doorway to the back room. And realized that Peter was leaning down into another opening. A dark opening. At first, I thought it was some kind of hole in the basement wall.
    But as I blinked it into focus, I realized that Peter was standing in front of a tall trapdoor. A door that had raised up from the basement floor.
    A door that led—where?
    Leaning into the black opening, he took a step down.
    â€œNooooo!” I screeched. “Stop! Listen to me! Turn around! Peter, turn around!”
    He froze. He didn’t move.
    I screamed again. I begged him to turn around.
    And then, slowly … so slowly … he took a step back from the dark opening. He took a step back and then … slowly … bathed in the eerie light, turned to face me.
    And as he turned, I uttered a sick cry. My stomach heaved. My knees buckled.
    And I stared at him in horror.
    Stared at the thick layer of mucus over his face. The clear gelatin that covered his hair, his face, his eyes!
    His mouth!
    The thick layer of goo glistened wetly under the silvery light.
    And as I gaped in horror, unable to speak, unable to move, Peter opened his mouth. The gelatin bubbled over his mouth.
    And I heard his muffled word!
    â€œ