Free The Secret Bedroom by R.L. Stine, Bill Schmidt Page B

safety of the attic.
    â€œPlease don’t go,” the girl pleaded in her tiny voice.
    â€œYou’re a ghost,” Lea mumbled, taking another step back, gripped with fear, heavy fear that weighted her legs, that made every step a struggle.

    â€œI’m so lonely,” the girl said, forming her small lips into a child’s pout. “Can I touch you? Can I touch your hair?”
    â€œNo!” Lea screamed again, her terror making her voice high and hoarse. “No—please!”
    â€œI won’t hurt you,” the girl said, her arms still outstretched, her face glowing in the dim candlelight, her eyes sparkling like pale jewels.
    â€œNo!”
    Lea slammed the door shut and, struggling to control her trembling hand, turned the key in the lock.
    Then she stood staring at the smooth wood of the door, licking her lips, swallowing hard, her mouth dry, her throat choked with fear, trying to catch her breath.
    I never should have pulled off the boards, she thought. I never should have opened that door.
    â€œPlease don’t go away,” the tiny voice called from the other side of the locked door, “I’m so lonely. I just want to touch your hair.”
    â€œThis can’t be real,” Lea said aloud. She turned and ran to the ladder.
    She was awakened the next morning by the wind rattling her twin bedroom windows. The noise startled her awake. She sat straight up in bed. The room felt cold. The morning sky outside the windows was gray and threatening.
    Her covers were heaped at the foot of her bed, and Lea realized she must have kicked them off in the night.

    While I was having that dream, she thought.
    It
was
a dream—wasn’t it?
    Lea had no memory of leaving the attic after seeing the ghost. She didn’t remember turning off the attic light, or climbing back down the metal ladder, replacing the trapdoor, returning to her room, or getting into bed.
    It had to have been a dream, she told herself. A very vivid and frightening nightmare.
    So real. So many details.
    But a dream nevertheless.
    At breakfast she decided not to trouble her parents with it. Her dad had already been to the lumber yard, which opened early on Sunday mornings for people like him, and he and her mother were heatedly discussing their project for the day—the renovation of the screened-in porch on the side of the house.
    They’re so wrapped up in their plans, they don’t even know I’m here, Lea thought. She felt amused by their childlike enthusiasm, but also a little hurt, a little left out.
    As Lea was finishing her pancakes, sopping up the last drop of dark syrup from her plate, the phone rang. It was Deena, asking if Lea’d like to go to the indoor tennis club Deena belonged to and hit a few balls.
    Lea dressed quickly, pleased by the invitation. Watching the sky grow more threatening outside her bedroom windows, she pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. Then she searched her dresser drawers for a more appropriate tennis outfit to change into at the club.

    It’ll feel good to get some exercise, she thought. And I’ll be able to tell Deena about the weird dream I had last night.
    Deena picked Lea up in her parents’ station wagon. Driving through the gray streets, a light, wet snow beginning to fall, she talked about Luke, her new boyfriend, telling Lea about the concert he took her to the night before, not leaving out a single detail, as far as Lea could tell.
    It was warm and bright inside the domed tennis club, and most of the courts were taken even though it was Sunday morning. As they began to volley, Lea could tell right away that Deena was the better player.
    They volleyed for a while, then played a game. “I really need a new racket,” Lea apologized after missing two of Deena’s serves in a row.
    It’s funny how people stare at their rackets after missing a ball or messing up, Lea thought. As if the racket were at