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Informationen zum Autor A lifelong night owl, P.J. Night often works furiously into the wee hours of the morning, writing down spooky tales and dreaming up new stories of the supernatural and otherworldly. Although P.J.'s whereabouts are unknown at this time, we suspect the author lives in a drafty, old mansion where the floorboards creak when no one is there and the flickering candlelight creates shadows that creep along the walls. We truly wish we could tell you more, but we've been sworn to keep P.J.'s identity a secret...and it's a secret we will take to our graves! Klappentext Jasmine Porter has always let her fear of the dark get the better of her, but her imagination kicks into overdrive after her dad brings home a mask that looks like the face of the boogeyman haunting Jasmine's dreams. She won't rest until the mask is gone. However, Jasmine discovers the mask won't go away so easily.The Terror Behind the Mask CHAPTER 1 Jasmine Porter always read before she went to sleep. It felt great to slip into bed, turn on the reading light clipped to her headboard, and open a book. It was like entering another world. And she usually fell asleep while reading. Tonight Jasmine would start a book her dad had bought her on one of their father-daughter book-buying sprees before he went off on his latest trip. They always went to the same neighborhood bookstore, Bookworm, and her dad always said the same thing: “Pick out what you want, Jazzy-Jas.” And he really meant it. Jasmine could choose twenty books, and her dad wouldn’t even blink in surprise. He’d just smile, take them from her, and plop them down at the register. “Really?” she’d sometimes say when she’d gone on a particularly large binge. “I can have all of them?” And her dad would always say the same thing: “You can’t put a price on the pleasure that reading gives.” It was true: they both loved to read. Sometimes they would sit on the couch for hours, both immersed in their own books, and not say a word to each other. The only sound in the room would be of pages turning. That’s what it was like as Jasmine lay in bed reading. It was just her breathing and the sound of pages turning. The bulb of her reading lamp was so bright, she could actually feel its heat. After a few chapters, Jasmine’s eyes grew heavy, her grip on the book started to loosen, and she knew she should close it, turn off the reading light, put the book on the night table, and face the truth: she would finally have to give in to sleep. Jasmine reached up and turned off the reading light, but instead of going dark, the room was still bright. Jasmine looked up and noticed that the overhead light was on. She got out of bed and walked, bleary-eyed, toward the light switch next to the door, and flicked the switch. But as the room went dark, Jasmine quickly realized that she should have turned the reading light back on first, because now it was pitch-black, unless you counted the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, which didn’t exactly provide any real light (though they were pretty). Where was the little night-light that was plugged into the outlet? It usually gave off a soft glow and made Jasmine feel so much better. As much as she hated to admit it, Jasmine was afraid of the dark. And she really liked that night-light. It was made of orange and yellow glass and shaped like a baby owl, and she’d had it since she herself was a baby. The bulb must’ve burned out, she thought. The last few times that had happened, she’d called out to her dad, who had come in and changed the bulb. But her dad was still away on his trip, and Jasmine was alone in the house with her grandmother, who Jasmine knew would already be asleep. Jasmine sig...
