Nightmare Hour by R. L. Stine Page B

name?” the clown asked in a very deep, croaky voice.
    â€œChristopher,” I said.
    Then the clown leaned really close to me, so close I couldsmell his sour breath. And he whispered, “ You could die, kid .”
    I remember it so clearly, even though I was only three. I gasped. “What?” I said.
    And the clown whispered, his lips brushing my ear, “ You could die, kid. You could die LAUGHING! ”
    I was terrified of clowns from that day on. If I saw one at the mall or in front of a car wash or a restaurant, I walked a mile out of my way to stay away from him.
    Nine years later I was twelve years old, and I still dreamed about that terrifying clown at Billy Waldman’s birthday party. I know it’s crazy. But clowns still freaked me out, still made my heart pound and my breath catch in my throat.
    At the middle school Fall Carnival I totally lost it. I didn’t want to go to the carnival in the first place. I mean, ring toss games? Win a goldfish? Pay money to bounce on a trampoline? Make earrings out of seashells and beads?
    Bor-ring.
    But some of my friends were going, and I didn’t have anything else to do. So I tagged along with them.
    I didn’t know a clown would be there.
    I saw him all the way across the gym. He was a big guy with enormous floppy yellow slippers, a bouncing pillow belly, and a booming laugh.
    He wore a red-and-white polka-dot clown suit with a bright-red ruffle around his neck. He had orange hair that stood straight up, a white face, a red bulb nose, a red-and-black grin painted from ear to ear.
    â€œChristopher, do you want your face painted?” a girl at a card table asked. “It’s only a dollar.”
    I didn’t answer her. I had my eye on the fat, ugly clown.
    He was squeezing a small plastic horn, honking it in kids’ faces, bumping his pillow belly against kids, bellowing out his booming laugh.
    I tried to keep away from him. But the aisle was very crowded and I got trapped.
    The grinning clown bounced up to me and messed up my hair with his gloved hand. Beneath the makeup he had watery brown eyes. Sick-looking eyes.
    He laughed at me and honked his horn in my ear. I tried to back away. But I was pinned against the wall of the dart-throwing booth.
    He laughed again and brought his grinning face close to mine. “ You could die, kid ,” he whispered. He honked his horn in my ear before I could say anything.
    â€œ You could die LAUGHING! ”
    And that’s when I totally freaked.
    I opened my mouth in a shrill, terrified scream. Then I ran, shoving kids out of my way, knocking things over, screaming…screaming.
    I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I could see their startled, confused expressions. I could hear all my friends calling my name.
    I burst out of the gym.
    â€œChristopher!”
    I turned to see my teacher, Miss Bienstock. She came running after me, her coppery hair bouncing, her eyes wide with worry. “Christopher! What happened in there?”
    â€œThe clown,” I choked out. “He threatened me! He--he’s going to kill me!”
    Miss Bienstock placed her hand on my shoulder. Shenarrowed her eyes at me and pursed her lips. “Christopher, you’re twelve. You know that isn’t true.”
    â€œYes, it is! He’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill me!” I shrieked.
    She called my parents. They were waiting for me, stern and solemn, when I got home.
    Mom kept biting her bottom lip. “We have to do something about this, Christopher,” she said. “Your father and I are very worried about you.”
    Dad placed his hands on my shoulders and lowered his face to mine. “Clowns are funny--not frightening,” he said, his eyes locking on mine. “I thought you got over your silly fear when you were four.”
    â€œIt isn’t silly,” I told him. “That clown…he said I could die laughing.”
    â€œThat’s because