Second Star to the Fright (Disney Chills 3)

And they were very real.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

There was that sound again—coming from under the bed, like something was scratching at the floorboards. It’s just another nightmare, he thought groggily. None of this is real. His head was thick with sleep. He had a serious sugar hangover. Hadn’t he read somewhere that too much sugar could act almost like a drug? It could probably make you hallucinate if you had too much of it. Maybe the third helping of ice cream wasn’t the wisest choice.

I’ll just have two next time, he promised himself.

As if hearing his thoughts, the noise stopped abruptly. Slowly, Barrie leaned over to peer under the bed. He gazed into the thick darkness but saw nothing. Just blackness.

“Hello…is someone there?” he whispered.

He held his breath and stared, squinting in the dark.

The last thing he saw was a flash of silver aimed right at his face.

Barrie jumped back and flipped on the lights.

There was nothing. No sword. Nothing.

He gasped for breath, scanning his room for any sign of something out of place. For someone who could have been wielding the sword that he’d been sure was there just seconds ago. But he was alone. Relief washed over him; it was just a nightmare. He slumped back on his bed, trying to slow his racing heart.

And that’s when he saw it—the slash marks in the ceiling.

His heart jumped into his throat. The gouges were still there. So…not a dream, then. He stood up and reached for the slash marks again, hoping that he was seeing things.

But the gouges were rough beneath his fingertips. They really were real.

Cautiously, Barrie checked under his bed once more. Deep slashes had been gouged into the wooden floorboards there, too. Splinters and specks of wood stuck out of the gashes. He studied them, unable to believe his eyes.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered.

The slashes looked exactly like the ones he’d discovered on the pirate ship in the captain’s cabin. Those marks had led him to the secret compartment where he had discovered the hook and the letter.

Oh no, the hook!

Barrie scrambled over to his backpack: a gash had been slashed into its side. The rough fabric—which he had thought of as indestructible—gaped open.

It was almost like someone—or something—had been searching his room for the hook. He reached inside, certain that the hook had been taken. But it was still nestled in there, along with the parchment letter. His heart rate slowed, but only slightly.

Why didn’t they take it?

Barrie must have woken up and surprised them. That was the only explanation. That’s why they hid under his bed. He pulled the hook out and stroked it, remembering how amazing yesterday had been. He never wanted it to end. He never wanted to grow up.

He had to keep this hook at all costs.

He studied the slashes over his bed and the gash in his backpack. Had someone really been in his room, looking for the hook? He could think of only one person who would want it back—one person who could make those marks on the ceiling and floor.

Captain Hook.

Barrie felt the cold metal of the rusty hook, running his finger to the sharp tip.

“But I need this,” he whispered. “You can’t have it back. I can’t grow up.”

* * *

“No, you’re not allowed to go to the concert tonight,” Mom said, downing her usual supersized mug of morning coffee.

“Wait, what? What do you mean?” Barrie demanded.