Three Evil Wishes (10 page)

SPELL OF THE
SCREAMING JOKERS

W
hen Max finished dealing, we picked up our hands.

“Have fun, kids!” Mrs. Davidson said, and she left the room.

I studied my cards one at a time. Two of clubs. Six of hearts. Three of diamonds. Jack of clubs.

A horrible scream split the air!

I jumped.

Frankie dropped his cards to the floor.

“Frankie!” I exclaimed, startled. “What's wrong?”

Frankie's eyes stared, wide open.

His jaw dropped.

And he let out the most horrifying scream I'd ever heard.

“Frankie!” I cried out again. “What's wrong! Tell us—what's wrong!”

Frankie turned to me—and the screaming stopped. Stopped suddenly, as if a knife sliced it off mid-scream.

Mrs. Davidson ran into Max's room. “What happened?” she cried. “Is someone hurt?”

We shook our heads.

“Who screamed?” she asked.

“Frankie did,” Louisa told her.

“No, I didn't,” Frankie said.

“Yes, you did!” Louisa exclaimed. “Your mouth was wide open. We all heard you. Screaming like a maniac.”

“I wasn't screaming,” Frankie said flatly.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “You nearly burst my eardrums. You dropped your cards—then you started screaming.”

“I . . . wasn't . . . screaming,” Frankie said slowly. “I dropped my cards because of—because of the joker.”

Frankie glanced under the table. I followed his gaze.

There his cards lay—all facedown. All but one. All but the joker.

The joker—it was like no joker we had ever seen.

It had huge round eyes that bulged right out of their sockets. Hideous eyes! I felt as if they could
see
me!

Its bright red lips curved up in a crooked, evil smile.

It wore a floppy green cap with three silver bells on the top.

In its hand, the joker held a stick. On the top of the stick sat a skull. A skull with eyes that glowed like hot coals!

I started to turn away—when the joker's face began to move!

Its eyeballs darted left and right! First it peered at me. Then it glared at Louisa. Then Jeff.

The joker's eyeballs came to rest on Frankie. Its mouth twisted open—in a grin full of yellow, jagged teeth.

The joker flapped its big ears. It rattled its stick—and the skull's eyes flashed sparks!

I stared in horror. I couldn't speak.

“What's wrong?” Max's mom asked. “What are you looking at?”

At the sound of her voice, the joker's ugly face froze.

Had it really moved?

Or had I imagined it?

I glanced at my friends. Had they seen it move?

I couldn't tell. They were all staring at the door. At Max's mom as she entered the room.

Mrs. Davidson picked up the card. “What a horrible card!” she cried. She gathered up the other cards from the floor.

“Let me have all the cards, kids,” she said. “I'll check to make sure there aren't any more jokers. How in the world did this terrible-looking thing get into the deck in the first place?”

Max only shrugged as he handed his mom his cards. He didn't seem very upset about the joker. Maybe his doctor told him not to get too excited—about anything.

But I was plenty excited. My heart was racing!

Frankie's eyes met mine. His wide-open eyes—filled with fright now.

I turned to Jeff. It was hard to tell if he was scared or not. He still had on his sunglasses.

“That was horrible,” I said. I didn't know whether I had seen the joker move or not. “That wasn't a regular joker. No wonder you screamed.”

“I told you—I didn't scream,” Frankie said.

“Come on, Frankie,” I said. “Just admit it. We all heard you. I bet the whole neighborhood heard you.”

“I didn't scream.” Frankie glared at me. “So quit saying I did.”

“There. I've checked the deck. There aren't any more ugly jokers,” Mrs. Davidson interrupted our argument.

She handed the deck of cards to Max. “Remember, it's good card manners to let someone cut the cards, Max.”

Max began shuffling.

“Um . . . you really still want to play?” I asked.

Max shrugged. “Why not?”

“Yes, but . . .” I began. I stopped. With the jokers out of the deck, I guess it was okay to play.

We played hand after hand of Hearts. By the time the four of us left Max's house, I saw clubs and diamonds, hearts and spades swimming before my eyes.

And I still saw that ugly joker. Saw its evil grin. Saw it move.

How could a single card be so frightening?

How?

“I wish we'd left earlier,” Louisa grumbled as we walked along Fear Street in the dark. “I hate this street at night.”

“It seems like the streetlights are always broken here,” I complained. “I can't see a thing!”

“We could always cut through Mrs. Murder's yard again,” Frankie suggested.

“Fat chance,” I said. Then I heard something. “Hey, listen. What's that?”

I glanced in the direction of Mrs. Marder's house. But it was too dark to see anything.

“I hear something rattling,” Jeff whispered.

Rattling—that was the sound I heard. Rattling—like someone shaking a can full of pebbles.

“I hear it,” Louisa added. “Listen. It's getting louder.”

My eyes searched the shadows along Fear Street.

“Hey!” Frankie yelled suddenly. “Watch it, buddy!”

I whirled around.

I saw Frankie sprawled on the sidewalk.

A small figure bent over him. Probably the kid who knocked him down. Now he was saying something to Frankie.

“Frankie!” Louisa called. “Are you okay?”

Frankie didn't answer.

The figure straightened up. He wasn't very tall. He wore a green hat with a brim pulled down low over his forehead. I couldn't make out his face under the brim. The only thing I could see clearly was the stick he held in his hand.

I ran toward Frankie—and the shadowy figure rattled his stick fiercely. He let out a scream—and raced away into the darkness.

“Frankie, are you okay?” I asked. “Who was that?”

“I don't know, some little kid,” Frankie groaned. “Boy, for a little kid he sure slammed into me hard!” Frankie rubbed his arm.

The four of us walked close together as we made our way along Fear Street.

“He said something weird,” Frankie began as we headed home. “It sounded like, ‘We shake the skull . . .' No. That wasn't it.”

Frankie frowned, trying to remember. “I know. ‘We shake the skull with eyes that gleam.' ”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Jeff said.

Frankie shrugged. “That's what it sounded like.”

“That can't be what he said. Maybe he said something like, ‘sorry to shake you up,' ” Louisa suggested.

“No. That's not what he said.” Frankie sounded definite.

That didn't stop Louisa. “Maybe the skull part was about how he hoped you didn't crack
your
skull.”

Frankie groaned. “Louisa. Do me a favor. Stop guessing.”

We didn't talk the rest of the way to Frankie's house. I had to admit, Louisa's explanations were pretty lame.

“Thanks,” he said before going inside. “And—I'm sorry about getting you guys in trouble.”

By the porch light, I saw that Frankie was pretty scraped up.

The side of his face was raw where he'd hit the pavement. And there was a strange, dark bruise above his wrist. It looked almost as if it were in the shape of a flower . . . or something.

“Frankie, that bruise . . .” I pointed to his arm. “It's shaped like . . . a club,” I said, suddenly seeing it.

“A club?” Frankie studied the bruise. “What do you mean?”

“You know—the card suit,” I said. “Like clubs, spades, hearts.”

“Huh?” He grabbed the side of his arm and stared at the bruise.

Why does Frankie suddenly have a club on his arm? I wondered.

Something strange is going on here, I told myself. Something
very
strange.

R. L. Stine, the creator of
Ghosts of Fear Street,
has written almost 100 scary novels for kids. The
Ghosts of Fear Street
series, like the
Fear Street
series, takes place in Shadyside and centers on the scary events that happen to people on Fear Street.

When he isn't writing, R. L. Stine likes to play pinball on his very own pinball machine, and explore New York City with his wife, Jane, and son, Matt.

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Aladdin
An Imprint of Simon
& Schuster Children's Publishing
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1997 by Parachute Press, Inc.

THREE EVIL WISHES
WRITTEN BY CAROLYN CRIMI

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thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the
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ISBN 0-671-00189-2
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