Cuckoo Clock of Doom: From the New York Times–bestselling Goosebumps series, a tween boy accidentally turns back time on an antique clock and now every day he is year younger.
Tara the Terrible. That's what Michael Webster calls his bratty little sister. She loves getting Michael in trouble. Making his life miserable. Things couldn't get any worse.
Then his father brings home the antique cuckoo clock. It's old. It's expensive. And Dad won't let anyone touch it. Seems like the perfect opportunity to finally get his little sister in trouble for a change. But when Michael fiddles with the clock, hoping to make it look like Tara has damaged it, he unlocks a strange spell. A dangerous spell. A spell that causes Michael to get younger and younger and younger. . . .Poor Michael. He should have listened to his dad. Because if he doesn't figure out how to stop traveling back in time, he might have bigger problems than an annoying sister. . . .
"Michael, your shoe's untied."
My sister, Tara, sat on the front steps, grinning at me. Another one of her dumb jokes.
I'm not an idiot. I knew better than to look down at my shoe. If I did, she'd slap me under the chin or something.
"I'm not falling for that old trick," I told her.
Mom had just called me and the brat inside for dinner. An hour before she had made us go outside because she couldn't stand our fighting anymore.
It was impossible not to fight with Tara.
When it comes to stupid tricks, Tara never knows when to quit. "I'm not kidding," she insisted. "Your shoe's untied. You're going to trip."
"Knock it off, Tara," I said. I started up the front steps.
My left shoe seemed to cling to the cement. I pulled it up with a jerk.
"Yuck!" I'd stepped on something sticky.
I glanced at Tara. She's a skinny little squirt, with a wide red mouth like a clown's and stringy brown hair that she wears in two pigtails.
Everyone says she looks exactly like me. I hate it when they say that. My brown hair is not stringy, for one thing. It's short and thick. And my mouth is normal-sized. No one has ever said I look like a clown.
I'm a little short for my age, but not skinny.
I do not look like Tara.
She was watching me, giggling. "You'd better look down," she taunted in her singsong voice.
I glanced down at my shoe. It wasn't untied, of course. But I'd just stepped on a huge wad of gum. If I had looked down to check my shoelaces, I would have seen it.
But Tara knew I wouldn't look down. Not if she told me to.
Tricked by Tara the Terror again.
"You're going to get it, Tara," I grumbled. I tried to grab her, but she dodged out of reach and ran into the house.
I chased her into the kitchen. She screamed and hid behind my mother.
"Mom! Hide me! Michael's going to get me!" she shrieked.
As if she were afraid of me. Fat chance.