The Boy Who Ate Fear Street by R.L. Stine Page A

his back.
    Lissa is eleven, a year younger than Kevin and me. But she’s a lot stronger than either of us. She has long brown hair, big brown eyes, and freckles that dot her nose. She hates her freckles as much as I hate my rosy cheeks.
    â€œHey! Where did you learn that move?” Kevin muttered, sitting up and rubbing his back.
    â€œFrom Aunt Sylvie.” Lissa grinned.
    â€œWho’s Aunt Sylvie?” I asked.
    â€œThanks a lot, Lissa.” Kevin grumbled. “Now you ruined the surprise.”
    â€œIt’s not my fault.” Lissa blew her long bangs out of her eyes. “You’re the one who asked about my new move.”
    â€œHey, guys. Who is Aunt Sylvie?” I asked again.
    â€œShe’s our great-aunt,” Kevin explained. “She’s staying with us for a few months. She was the surprise.”
    â€œYour great-aunt is the surprise?” I asked in disbelief. “What kind of surprise is that?”
    â€œOh, Aunt Sylvie is totally incredible,” Lissa boasted.
    â€œYou’ve never met anyone like her!” Kevin added. “The last time we saw her, we were babies. So we didn’t know how great Great-Aunt Sylvie was—till now!”
    â€œCome on.” Kevin jumped to his feet. “You have to meet her!” He led the way into the house.
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” I asked, sniffing the air as we walked toward the kitchen.
    â€œAunt Sylvie must be cooking up something special,” Kevin answered.
    Special might be one way to describe the smell of Aunt Sylvie’s cooking. Putrid would be another.
    â€œThere she is,” Lissa whispered as we stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
    When I saw Aunt Sylvie standing at the stove, I could tell right away that she was different from any other aunt I had met before.
    I mean, she looked like a grandmother—kind of old with white hair and wrinkled skin. But she was wearing bright pink leggings, a neon-orange sweatshirt, and black hightops. And she wore a blue baseball cap with the visor turned to the back, just the way I wear mine.
    She stood in front of a huge pot, stirring whatever was inside it with a long wooden spoon.
    Rows and rows of herbs, spices, and knobby hard things that looked like plant roots sat on the counter next to the stove. She reached for one of the roots and started to drop it into the pot. Then she stopped.
    â€œNo orrisroot?” she asked. “Oh! Of course not! You’re absolutely right! Orrisroot is for making perfume—not dinner!” Aunt Sylvie hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “How forgetful I am!”
    I craned my neck and glanced around the room. Except for Aunt Sylvie, no one was there.
    â€œWho is she talking to?” I whispered.
    â€œOh, Aunt Sylvie likes to talk to the dead,” Kevin answered. “She says they’re full of good advice.”
    â€œShe what?” I shouted.
    Aunt Sylvie whirled around. “Hi, kids! Dinner is almost ready!”
    â€œAunt Sylvie, this is our friend Sam,” Lissa introduced me. “He’s going to eat dinner with us tonight.”
    I backed away from the kitchen doorway. No way was I going to eat what was in that pot. NO WAY!
    Kevin grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. “Come on. You have to talk to Aunt Sylvie. She is awesome.”
    â€œWouldn’t she rather talk to my great-grandfather?” I whispered, trying to tug free. “He’s dead. I’ll introduce her to him. But I have to go home first—to find out his name.”
    â€œSam, don’t be shy.” Aunt Sylvie walked over to me. Then she slowly reached up to my face with her wrinkled fingers—and pinched my cheeks. “You are soooo cute!”
    Kevin and Lissa giggled.
    Aunt Sylvie chuckled too as she guided me to the stove. She picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring the pot again.
    â€œHow about a little taste?” she asked, smiling.
    â€œNO! I mean,