The 12 Screams of Christmas by R. L. Stine

Author:R. L. Stine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2014-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

I shot my hands out — and grabbed nothing but air.

As I fell, my legs scraped over the stone wall. Then my shoes caught on the edge.

With a breathless cry, I swung out my arms again and grabbed the side of the well. Then I flipped myself up, hoisted myself out, and somehow landed on my feet.

Not my best landing.

But how lucky that I’d been a gymnast. It saved my life.

I stood there for a long time, feeling shaky, trying to catch my breath. I kept picturing the stone walls stretching down … down … to nothing but darkness. A black pit.

Carol Ann came running over. Courtney stood watching from the side of the little guesthouse.

“Kate? Are you okay?” Carol Ann cried. “I … I saw you fall and —”

“Yeah. I’m just a little shaken,” I said. “I mean, I can’t stop shaking. I almost —”

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” Carol Ann said. She rushed forward and hugged me. “I really thought you fell down the well.”

I gazed back at the well. The top was all ragged because of the stones that had crumbled off. I shuddered again.

“Why did you lean over like that?” Carol Ann demanded.

I blinked. “I … don’t know,” I said. “Something weird happened. The well seemed to pull me …”

“Let’s go inside now.” Mr. P suddenly appeared. He was dressed in black sweats. He had taken off the Santa cap.

Had he seen me fall?

“I forgot to warn everyone to stay away from the old well,” he said, leading the way back to the house. “It’s dangerous.”

Tell me about it.

We started to the house. Courtney was waiting by the garden shed. “See anything down in that well?” she asked.

“Too dark,” I said. “It’s really deep. I couldn’t see the bottom.”

She nodded and turned away.

Mr. P ushered everyone into the front room. The fire in the fireplace crackled and danced. We all perched on the old couches and chairs and drank hot mulled cider from mugs.

Mr. P stood in front of the fireplace, waiting for us to get quiet. “I’ll tell you the story of this house,” he said, setting down his mug of cider. “It’s a sad story. And you will soon see that it is the inspiration for my Christmas play.”

His eyeglasses reflected the orange and yellow flames from the fire behind him. He pulled up a low wooden stool and settled down to tell his story.

“There are tales and rumors that this house is haunted,” he started. “That’s the reason no one has lived here in a long, long time. Over a hundred years ago, a family moved in. A mother, father, two twin boys named Ned and Abe, and a little girl named Flora.”

He picked up the cider mug and took a sip. “The family had just moved in,” he said. “It was Christmastime — and tragedy struck. The story goes that Flora, the eight-year-old girl, fell into the well. The twins saw her fall. They heard her screams as she tried to stay afloat at the bottom.

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