I Live in Your Basement by R. L. Stine Page B

“But you didn’t listen to
me. And now you’ve cracked your head open like an eggshell.”
    “Huh?” I gasped. “Cracked it open? Mom, will I be okay?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Will I?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth. What did the doctor say, Mom? Will
I be okay?”

 
 
3
     
     
    “Of course,” she replied. Her face floated over me for a second, then slid
out of view.
    I didn’t like the way she said it. It sounded false. Too cheerful.
    “Tell me the truth,” I insisted. “Am I really going to be okay?”
    No answer.
    I lifted my head. Sharp pain shot down the back of my neck.
    Mom had vanished from the room. I could hear her putting plates away in the
kitchen.
    I tried calling her. But my voice came out in a hoarse whisper.
    I lowered my head slowly to the couch cushion and shut my eyes.
    I guess I drifted off to sleep. The ringing phone woke me up.
    I blinked up at the blue ceiling light, forcing it to come into focus. The
phone rang and rang. I waited for Mom to pick it up. But she didn’t answer it.
    Did she go out and leave me all alone? I wondered. She wouldn’t do that.
Where is she?
    Groaning, I rolled onto my side and grabbed the phone off the coffee table. I
raised it to my ear.
    “Owww!”
    I banged it too hard against the bandage over my head. The side of my head
throbbed with pain.
    “Hello?” I croaked.
    I heard breathing on the other end. And then a voice I didn’t recognize said,
“I hope you’re okay, Marco.”
    “Who—who is this?” I stammered. I shut my eyes tight, trying to push away
the pain of my throbbing head.
    “I hope you’re okay,” the voice repeated. A boy’s voice. “I don’t want
anything bad to happen to you.”
    “Huh? You don’t?” I murmured. “Uh… thanks.” I kept my eyes shut. The pain
pulsed at my temples. It was hard to hold the phone over the heavy bandage.
    “Who is this?” I demanded again.
    “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” the boy said again. “Because
you’re going to take care of me from now on.”
    “Excuse me?” I choked out. “I don’t understand.”
    Silence at the other end.
    I took a deep breath. I decided to ask the question one more time. “Who is
this?”
    “It’s me,” the voice replied. “Keith.”
    “Keith?”
    “Yes. Keith.”
    “I—I don’t know you,” I stammered.
    “You should,” the boy replied softly. “You should know me, Marco. I live in
your basement.”

 
 
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    Did I hang up? Or did Keith hang up?
    I’m not sure. I felt very confused, very upset.
    Keith hadn’t called to be friendly. I knew he was trying to scare me.
    But, why?
    Was it actually a friend of mine? Someone from school playing a joke? It
wasn’t a very funny joke.
    I stared at the ceiling, feeling groggy and weak. I don’t know how much time
passed.
    I kept picturing Gwynnie standing on the pitcher’s mound. I saw her swinging
two bats. Then one. I saw the bat whirling toward my head.
    “Ohhh.” I uttered a low moan and forced the picture from my mind.
    “How are you doing, Marco?” a voice whispered.
    I gazed up at Mom. She had brushed her hair and put on lipstick. She had
changed into a bright green T-shirt and a dark skirt.
    “Feeling better?” she asked. “I brought you a bowl of cereal. You should try eating something. If you don’t eat, acid will
burn a hole in your stomach.”
    “Mom—the phone,” I started groggily. “It rang and—”
    “Yes, I know,” she interrupted. “It was Jeremy. He wanted to know if he could
come over to see you.”
    “Huh? Jeremy?”
    She nodded. “I told him you weren’t quite ready for visitors. I said he could
probably come tomorrow.”
    “I didn’t mean that call,” I said. I pulled myself up onto my elbows. My head
didn’t throb as badly. The room didn’t spin and tilt.
    I was starting to feel a little stronger.
    “I got another call,” I told her. “You didn’t pick up, so I answered it.”
    “But, Marco—” Mom