The Burning by R.L. Stine

Daniel replied. “My grandfather wrote a letter and asked to see me. So … here I am.”
    The old cabbie muttered something that Daniel couldn’t hear. Then he turned and, with a loud groan, hoisted himself up to the driver’s seat. Daniel watched McGuire take the reins, then climbed inside the small carriage, pulling the door closed beside him.
    Staring out the dusty window, Daniel watched the small town roll by. The town center with its offices and shops gave way to rows of small cottages, then farm fields, then tangled woods. The overcast sky made everything appear dark and unwelcoming.
    Suddenly Daniel heard McGuire shout for the horses to
whoa,
and the carriage bounced to an abrupt stop. Daniel peered out at a tall brass gate. The gate was tarnished.
    â€œHere we are, son,” McGuire called down. “The Fear mansion.”
    Daniel opened the carriage door and leaned out. “Can you not take me up the driveway?”
    His question was greeted by a long silence. Finally the old man called down gruffly, “This is as far as I go. Few people would wish to come as near as this to Simon Fear’s mansion.”
    Daniel climbed down and removed his bag. He handed up two coins to the driver, who stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the mansion. Then with a curt “Good luck, son,” McGuire whipped the horses, and the carriage sped away.
    Daniel pushed open the heavy gate and stepped onto the long dirt driveway that led up to the house. “Oh!” The sight of the enormous mansion looming against the charcoal gray sky made Daniel stop and cry out.
    Tall weeds choked the lawn. Shrubs and hedges had grown wild. A fallen tree limb lay across a barren, neglected flowerbed.
    The house, a ramshackle, dark fortress, stretched behind a thick veil of bent trees. All of the windows were shuttered. No welcoming light greeted Daniel as he trudged up the driveway. No light escaped from the house at all.
    So
this
is where Father grew up! he thought in amazement. What a dreary, frightening old place. No
wonder
Father never talks about his childhood.
    Dead, brown leaves rustled at Daniel’s feet as he stepped up to the double front door and lifted the heavy brass knocker. He could hear the bang of the knocker echoing inside the house.
    He waited, listening. He knocked again.
    Finally the heavy door creaked open.
    A stooped, white-haired old woman poked her head out and stared up at him suspiciously. She wore a stained white apron over a black dress. One of her eyes had glazed over. It was solid gray. The other eye squinted hard at him.
    Frowning, she muttered something that Daniel couldn’t hear.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” he asked, leaning closer.
    â€œStay away!”
the old woman rasped.
“Stay away from here!”

Chapter 23

    S tartled, Daniel stared back at the old woman. “I am Daniel Fear,” he said finally. “I believe my grandfather is expecting me.”
    The old woman sighed but didn’t reply. She squinted up at him for a long time with her one good eye. Then she beckoned him inside, gesturing with a bony, gnarled finger.
    â€œI am Mrs. MacKenzie, the housekeeper,” she told him, leaning on a white cane as she led him through a long, dark hallway. “I am housekeeper, maid, valet, and butler,” she added with some bitterness. “The only servant who stayed.”
    Daniel followed her in silence, carrying his bag. As they made their way through narrow, dark hallways, he tried to peer into the rooms theypassed. They all seemed to be dark and shuttered, the furniture covered with sheets.
    â€œMy father did not tell me the house was so large,” Daniel said, his voice echoing in the empty hall.
    â€œYour father got away …” Mrs. MacKenzie answered mysteriously.
    They continued through the dark, gloomy house in silence. The only sounds Daniel heard were the scraping of his boots on the threadbare carpet and