خیابان های پارک وحشت فصل 19

Streets of Panic Park - Chapter 19

Dr. Maniac didn’t answer me. He stood there waving his paintbrush in the air. “Would anyone else like me to do their portrait?” he cried. He was staring right at me.

The room grew silent.

Maniac dropped the brush to the floor. He walked to the lunch counter. He bent over and pulled something out from behind it.

A Fear Meter.

My breath caught in my throat. The red line had risen to 75.

Maniac gazed at the screen. “Very good,” he muttered. “Good work, guys.”

He turned to us. “Lots of fear here in my little diner. I guess I’ve done my job well. Bye-bye, everyone!” He tossed his cape behind him and hurried out the door.

“Robby? Are you still here?” I tried again.

“Can’t you see me?” Robby’s voice sounded tinny, far away. “I’m here. Can’t you see me?” Then he let out a moan of horror. “Ohhhhhh. My hands. I can’t see my hands. I …” We stared in silence at the spot where the voice came from.

Robby wailed at the top of his voice. “What did he DO to me? I can’t see myself! What did he DO to me?” “We can hear you,” I told Robby. “You’re still here. But you’re invisible. We’ll get you back. I know we will.” Carly Beth and Billy floated around the spot where Robby stood. Their shadowy faces couldn’t hide their fear.

“Look at us!” Matt cried. He waved his arm around the room. “Look what The Menace has done to us!” I followed Matt’s gaze. Robby was invisible. Carly Beth and Billy were shades. Julie and Abby hugged themselves, unable to stop trembling.

Boone shook his head. “I know we’re all trying to be brave and tough it out,” he said. “But … maybe we WON’T survive. Maybe we’re not going to make it.” “We have to survive,” I said. “The Menace needs to keep us alive — right?” “She’s right,” Sabrina agreed. “The Menace wants us to hit one hundred on the Fear Meter. So he has to keep us alive. As long as we haven’t reached one hundred yet, he has no choice. He has to keep us alive.” “Some of us,” Robby muttered.

“Robby, stop talking like that. We can’t give up,” Carly Beth said. “Our only chance is to get out of Panic Park.” Matt helped Abby and Julie to their feet. They could barely stand, their legs were wobbling so hard. Their teeth chattered. Hugging themselves, they took a few shaky steps.

We made our way out of the Shake Shack. In the park, the sky was solid gray as always. The shadow people had disappeared. I didn’t see anyone around.

We started walking, keeping close together. We passed more empty shops … all dark and silent … a game room … a small park with withered, bare trees.

Michael led the way. He stopped and pointed. “Another white building,” he said. He turned to Britney and Molly. “Could that be the one you escaped from?” The girls shook their heads. “Maybe.”

We walked closer. The building had a stained glass window, all shades of gray and black. The door was shaped like an arch.

“It looks like a church or something,” Luke said. “But that can’t be right.” A sign on the wall beside the door read: WHAT A SHAME.

We stared at it, shaking our heads. What could that mean?

Only one way to find out.

We stepped through the arch into the open doorway. We were in another long, narrow room. Rows of wooden seats filled the center. Candles along both sides provided the only light.

I heard solemn organ music from the far wall. It sounded like funeral music. The deep notes made the walls vibrate.

“It is some kind of chapel,” I whispered to Luke. “Weird.”

We stepped in farther to examine the walls. They were covered with photographs. The photos were all of kids about our age.

Row after row of small framed photographs. Under each photo, a little tag had the kid’s name.

I read the names as I moved deeper into the chapel. April Smith … Travis Newton … Carlos Garcia … And under each name, I saw the letters FTD.

“Wow,” Luke muttered from beside me. “None of these kids look too happy.”

“Why are their pictures on the wall?” I asked. “And what does FTD stand for?” Suddenly, Sabrina gasped. The sound echoed through the narrow chapel.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She was staring at a silver plaque on the wall next to a row of kids’ photos.

“Sabrina — what’s wrong?”

She pressed a hand to her mouth as she read the plaque. Then she turned to us.

“I … I see what FTD stands for,” she stammered. “It isn’t good.”