When I was a kid, I stayed at my dad’s place every second weekend and we’d go op-shopping. He’d hunt for antiques, rusted tools, records and movies – and I’d hunt for copies of Goosebumps. I’d rush to the kids’ books section and as soon as I spotted the familiar pastel spine, the dripping ‘Goosebumps’ font and the hacky title of a scary story I hadn’t yet read, I knew I was in for a great night. I’d often find a Goosebumps or two, but sometimes, I’d hit the mother lode and come home with 10.

As soon as I was back in the car, I’d pick the book with the scariest cover and start devouring it. I’d stop reading just long enough for us to swing by the bakery and grab some chocolate milk and a Cheesymite Scroll. We’d arrive home, but I’d stay in the warm car with the doors cracked open, engrossed in the lives of American kids battling everything from haunted masks to giant praying mantises (praying manti?).

Each chapter ends with a perfectly crafted cliffhanger, so I would not stop reading until I’d finished the whole book. It didn’t matter how nervous I was about an upcoming school presentation, or how much my little sister was annoying me – until I closed the book, the only thing I had to worry about was whether or not Carly Beth would ever free herself from the haunted mask that had latched itself onto her beautiful face. I’d sit in the car until dinnertime (when dad would call me in to eat his latest take on baked beans).

Sometimes, when Mum was busy, Dad would pick me up from school on his motorbike and take me to his place. As soon as we were home, I’d rush to my bedroom, because I knew there’d be a Goosebumps book waiting for me on my bed (often accompanied by a second-hand Beatles t-shirt). I’d lie about having no homework, sit on the couch with a tub of apricot frozen yoghurt and read.

This routine was disrupted when my mum, sister and I moved to Holland for six months. I didn’t know much about the world, but I was fairly certain Dutch op-shops would be full of bicycles and clogs and not my favourite literature. I took as many Goosebumps books as I could fit in my suitcase, but I soon ran out.

Thankfully, my dad was still keeping his eye out whenever he went op-shopping or hit up the Mt Gravatt Markets. After weeks of re-reading the same books over and over again, I came home from little Dutch school to find a parcel from Dad on the end of my bed. I tore hungrily at the package. I was an addict, and I needed my fix. Euphoria washed over me when I saw the title of the book inside: Goosebumps: The Curse of Camp Cold Lake. I’d been searching for this book for years! My ecstasy only grew when I saw that my stepmum, who worked at a music store, had included Shakira’s latest CD. The Curse of Camp Cold Lake ended up being the most chilling Goosebumps book I ever read. To this day (almost two decades later), my hair still stands on end when I hear Shakira’s “Underneath Your Clothes”, which I listened to on repeat while I read that terrifying tale.

I’m 29 years old now, and I still collect Goosebumps books. I’ve got about 150 and counting, although it pains me to say that they aren’t my childhood originals – I gave those away in a particularly destructive stage of my early teens. It’s getting harder and harder to add to my collection, though, because Goosebumps books are becoming increasingly rare. I often come home from my op-shop expeditions empty-handed. When I do spot the familiar pastel-coloured spine, the dripping Goosebumps font, and the hacky title of a story I’ve definitely read at least three times, I get a familiar pang of excitement. And a craving for a Cheesymite Scroll.

This Goosebumps collection comes straight from the pages of issue 115. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.