The Boy Who Ate Fear Street Read Free Page B

tomorrow,” I told Kevin and Lissa when it was time to leave.
    â€œGreat!” Kevin walked me to the front door. “Aunt Sylvie has some more awesome things you’ve got to see!”
    â€œAnd maybe she’ll let us play with Shirley!” Lissa called from the den.
    I didn’t think I wanted to see any more of Aunt Sylvie’s things—or play with Shirley. I knew for sure that I didn’t want to eat any more of her cooking.
    When I reached home, my stomach was still upset so I went right up to bed. I snuggled under my blanket, tucked it under my chin, and fell asleep instantly.
    I don’t know how much later it was when I woke up. But all the lights were out, and Mom and Dad were in bed.
    I made my way down the dark hall, down the steps, and into the kitchen. My stomach felt muchbetter—back to normal. Now I was hungry. I knew just what I wanted—my favorite sandwich, mayonnaise on white bread.
    A full moon hung in the sky. It lit the kitchen with a warm glow. I’d better not put the light on, I thought as I searched the kitchen counter for the bread. I don’t want to wake Mom or Dad.
    After I found the bread I hunted for a new jar of mayonnaise in the pantry—I finished the old jar at lunch. I eat a lot of mayonnaise, about a jar a week. I can’t help it. I really love the stuff!
    I stifled a yawn, then, half asleep, I made my sandwich. When it was ready, I sunk my teeth in for a really big bite.
    Delicious.
    Plain old white food—without a single one of Aunt Sylvie’s spices from around the world.
    I took another bite. And another. And another.
    I needed something to drink.
    I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Sprite.
    The light from the refrigerator fell on the kitchen counter.
    On my half-eaten sandwich.
    I stared at the sandwich.
    Something was wrong with it. Very wrong.
    I rubbed my eyes and focused. I stared at it again, harder this time. Something still didn’t seem right.
    I lowered my face to the counter.
    I squinted closely at the sandwich.
    And screamed.

6

    S ponges! Not bread!
    I made a sandwich with two moldy green sponges. And I ate it. And it tasted good.
    How could I have made a sponge sandwich? How could I have eaten it? HOW?
    The room began to spin. I grabbed hold of the kitchen counter to steady myself.
    That’s when I saw the yellow ooze seeping out from my sponge sandwich.
    Oh, no, I moaned. What did I spread inside those slices?
    I didn’t want to look, but I had to.
    I lifted the top sponge. My hand shook.
    The yellow ooze ran off the sponge and dripped along the counter, and my stomach lurched
    I dipped my finger into it. Sniffed it.
    It smelled lemony. Soapy.
    Lemon-Fresh Dish Detergent.
    I just ate a soap and sponge sandwich. And I liked it.
    What is wrong with me? How could I have eaten that?
    I quickly tossed the sponges into the trash and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I dove under the covers and stared out my bedroom window at the dark, cloudless sky.
    I asked myself over and over again, How could I have eaten that? How? How? How?
    And then the answer came to me.
    I was sleepwalking. That had to be it. I dreamed that I was hungry, and I sleepwalked into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich.
    The light from the refrigerator woke me up—and that’s when I realized what I was doing.
    It really did make sense. Mom says Dad walks in his sleep all the time.
    I felt better.
    I leaned back against my pillow, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
    *   *   *
    â€œSam! Time to get up!” Mom called up the stairs. “Time for breakfast!”
    I pulled on my favorite navy blue T-shirt and my favorite jeans, the ones with the rip in the knee. I slipped on my sneakers and ran downstairs without tying the laces. Mom always yells at me for that. She says one day I’m going to trip and break my neck. Mothers say that kind of stuff to their kids.
    I sat down at the kitchen table and took a