Goosebumps: The Blob That Ate Everyone Read Online Free PDF

basement.” He
disappeared down the hall.
    “What do you want to do now?” Alex asked. Her face looked orange in the
candlelight. Her eyes glowed like cat eyes.
    I turned back to the typewriter. “It would be cool to write by candlelight,”
I said. “Scary stories should always be written by candlelight. I’ll bet
that’s how all the famous horror writers write their stories.”
    “Cool,” Alex replied. “Go ahead.”
    I slid the candlesticks closer. The yellow light flickered over the
typewriter keys.
    I leaned forward and read over the first sentence of my story:
    IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
    Then I hit the space bar and typed the next sentence:
    THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
    I hit the space bar again. And raised my fingers to type the next sentence.
    But a rattling noise made me jump.
    “What is that ?” I gasped.
    “The window.” Alex pointed.
    Outside, the wind blew hard, rattling the windowpane.
    Over the steady roar of the rain, I heard another sound. A strange howl.
    I gripped the arms of my desk chair. “Do you hear that?” I asked Alex.
    She nodded. Her eyes squinted out the window.
    “It’s just the wind,” she said softly. “It’s howling through the trees.”
    Outside, the howling grew louder as the wind swirled around my house. The
window rattled and shook.
    The howling grew high and shrill, almost like a human voice, a human wail.
    I felt a chill run down my back.
    Gripping the chair arms tightly, I struggled to keep my fear down.
    It’s just a storm, I told myself. Just a rainstorm. Just a lot of rain and
wind.
    I glanced at the words I had typed. In the flickering, orange light, the
black type jumped out at me:
    THE WIND BEGAN TO HOWL.
    I listened to the shrill howl outside. It seemed to
surround me, surround the house. “How strange,” I muttered. And then, things got
a lot stranger.

 
 
15
     
     
    “You’re not getting very far with the story,” Alex said.
    “Well, the storm—” I started.
    She put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re shaking!” she exclaimed.
    “No, I’m not!” I lied.
    “Yes, you are. You’re shaking,” she insisted.
    “No way. I’m okay. Really,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady.
“I’m not that afraid, Alex.”
    “Maybe if you work on the story, you won’t think about the storm so much,”
she suggested.
    “Right. The story,” I agreed.
    An explosion of thunder shook the house.
    I let out a sharp cry. “Why does it seem so close?” I exclaimed. “The
lightning and thunder—it sounds as if it’s all right in the backyard!”
    Alex grabbed my shoulders and turned me to the typewriter. “Type,” she
ordered. “Pretend there is no storm. Just type.”
    I obediently raised my hands to the keys of the old typewriter. The candles
had burned down a little, and the page was shadowy and dark.
    I typed the next sentence:
    ALEX AND ZACKIE WERE ALONE IN THE DARK HOUSE, LISTENING TO THE STORM.
    Rain pounded hard against the window. In a white flash of lightning, I could
see the trees in the backyard, bending and trembling in the howling wind.
    “The story is about us ?” Alex asked, leaning over my shoulder to read
what I had typed.
    “Of course,” I replied. “You know that I always write about us and the other
kids at school. It makes it easier to describe everyone.”
    “Well, don’t let the Blob Monster eat me!” she instructed. “I want to be the
hero. Not the dinner!”
    I laughed.
    A crash of thunder made me jump.
    I turned back to the typewriter. I squinted to read over the sentences I had
typed.
    “The candles aren’t giving enough light,” I complained. “How did writers do it in the old days? They must have all gone blind!”
    “Let’s go and get more candles,” Alex suggested.
    “Good idea,” I agreed.
    We each picked up a candlestick. Holding them in front of us, we made our way
down the hall.
    The candles bent and flickered. Our footsteps were drowned out by the steady roar of rain on the