SpineChillers Mysteries Series: Pizza With Extra Creeps

By Fred Katz

When Max Walker hear a ghostly moaning coming from the room next to his and sees eyes peering at him from behind the curtains, he begins to believe the rumors that his new house is haunted. Could all the pizza he's been eating cause him to see and hear strange things?

Max is sure it's more than Pizza With Extra Creeps!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Aug 14, 1999
• ISBN: 9781418560232

Book preview

Pizza with Extra Creeps

Look for these SpineChillers™ Mysteries

#1 Dr. Shivers’ Carnival

#2 Attack of the Killer House

#3 The Venom Versus Me

#4 Pizza with Extra Creeps

#5 The Phantom of Phys Ed

#6 Not a Creature Was Stirring?

#7 Birthday Cake and I Scream

#8 Stay Away from the Swamp

#9 Tuck Me In, Mummy

#10 Stay Tuned for Terror

#11 Hospitals Make Me Sick

#12 A Haunted Mine Is a Terrible Thing to Waste

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Pizza with Extra Creeps

Fred E. Katz

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Copyright © 1996, 1997 by Tommy Nelson™.

All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson™, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. SpineChillers™ Mysteries is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Scripture quoted from the International Children’s Bible, New Century Version, copyright © 1983, 1986, 1988 by Word Publishing, Dallas, Texas. Used by permission.

Storyline: Tim Ayers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Katz, Fred E.

     Pizza with extra creeps / Fred E. Katz.

      p. cm. — (SpineChillers Mysteries ; 4)

     Summary: Mysterious, scary events plague twelve-year-old Max after he and his family move into an old house that is supposed to be haunted.

     ISBN 0–8499–4059–1

     [1. Horror stories. 2. Christian life—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series:

     Katz, Fred E. Spinechillers mysteries ; 4.

     PZ7.K1573Pi 1997

     [Fic]—dc21

97–11115

CIP

AC

Printed in the United States of America.

97 98 99 00 01 02 QKP 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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1

It was another new house and another new town. I was getting used to having a new bedroom and attending a new school and a new church every year or two.

Dad worked for a big company with offices nationwide. He did well there. His boss valued him and transferred Dad to wherever the company was having trouble. This time it was Riverdale.

I liked the new house. My room here was bigger than my rooms in any of our other houses. The room next to mine was my brother Tommy’s nursery. Dad and Mom’s room was down a long hallway.

Dad had already put my sign on my bedroom door. It told everyone this was MAX’S ROOM. I was named after my dad. He is Maxwell Walker and so am I. Mom calls him Maxie. She didn’t like the name Junior or Little Maxie, though. She decided to call me Max. Dad calls me Buddy. I like that. It makes me feel very close to him.

It was Saturday and I was busy unpacking boxes. I took my baseball card collection from one of the boxes and placed it on the bookshelf in my bedroom. I have some great cards. Dad had been collecting for years, and he gave me his collection. I was the only kid I knew with a Mickey Mantle and a Hank Aaron. Dad was great about helping me find the best cards.

Next I grabbed the box with my books in it. My favorite set was The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis. Mom read them to me when I was young, and I read them myself when I was a little older. They were really interesting and full of adventure. As I stacked my books on the bed, our dog, Snowball, padded into the room.

Snowball is a white puff of fur. When we talked about getting a dog I had wanted a big dog. But Mom said because we moved so much and might not always have a fenced backyard, we should get a small dog that we could keep in the house. So we got Snowball, a Bichon Fise. He’s small, and he’s my best friend.

Just like Dad calls me Buddy, I call Snowball Buddy. It makes him sound tougher. But one look at him and people know that he isn’t tough at all.

Snowball jumped on the bed and knocked over the stack of books. They went all over the floor.

Buddy, get of f the bed. I’m working here, I scolded.

He just looked at me and tilted his head from side to side, listening to me. I sometimes think he understands what I say to him. This time, though, he didn’t care that I needed to put away my books. He wanted to play. To be honest, I wanted to play too.

I placed my forearms on the bed. I once saw a TV show that said this position was the international dog sign that meant play. Snowball imitated me then jumped off the bed and ran down the stairs. I followed in hot pursuit.

Snowball led me into the family room where Mom and Dad were busy emptying boxes.

Dad glanced up at me. How’s your unpacking coming, Buddy?

It was going pretty good. That is, until Snowball decided to help me. He scattered my books all over the place.

Mom laughed. She called Snowball over to her and rubbed him behind his ears. Poor Snowball. None of us have paid much attention to him today with all this unpacking.

Snowball wagged his tail as Mom scratched him under his chin.

Max, will you please take that box to the attic for me? Mom pointed to some boxes in the corner of the room. The one marked Christmas decorations. I don’t think we have room for it in any of the closets down here.

Sure thing, Mom. I picked up the box. Come on, Buddy. You can go with me.

Snowball scampered behind me as I carried the box to the attic steps.

The stairs to the attic were dark and creaky. Each one I climbed seemed to complain: Get off. I’m old. I hurt when you walk on me.

Of course, that was just my imagination. My parents thought I had an overactive imagination. When I was a little kid, I thought there were monsters in my bedroom. Before going to sleep at night I always asked Mom and Dad to look under my bed and in my closet. They always assured me there were no monsters hiding in my room.

I had the feeling that my new house would have plenty of things in it that would keep my imagination busy. After all, it was a big house with lots of rooms to explore.

As I climbed the attic stairs, I heard a noise. I stopped and listened. That was not my imagination.

I moved up another stair and held my breath to listen. I heard it again. A rush of fear prickled my skin. Something was in the attic.

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I thought of going down to get Dad, but he might think I was imagining things again. Dad thought it was something