by R. L. Stine
“Jed, you just woke me up,” I replied. “So how could I call you?”
He scratched his hair. He yawned again. “You mean I dreamed it?”
I studied his face. “Jed—did you sneak into my room to play some kind of prank?” I demanded sternly.
He wrinkled his face up, tried to appear innocent.
“Did you?” I demanded. “Were you going into the closet to do something with Slappy?”
“No way!” he protested. He started to back out of the room. “I’m telling the truth, Amy. I thought you called me. That’s all.”
I squinted hard at him, trying to decide if he was telling the truth. I let my eyes wander around the room. Everything seemed okay. Dennis lay in the armchair, his head in his lap.
The closet door remained closed.
“It was a dream, that’s all,” Jed repeated. “Good night, Amy.”
I said good night. “Sorry I got upset, Jed. It’s been a bad day.”
I listened to him pad back to his room.
The cat poked his head into my room, his eyes gleaming like gold. “Go to sleep, George,” I whispered. “You go to sleep, too, okay?” He obediently turned and disappeared.
I clicked off the bed table lamp and settled back into bed.
Jed was telling the truth, I decided. He seemed as confused as I was.
My eyes suddenly felt heavy. As if there were hundred-pound weights over them. I let out a loud yawn.
I felt so sleepy. And the pillow felt so soft and warm.
But I couldn’t let myself fall back to sleep.
I had to stay awake. Had to wait for Slappy to make his move.
Did I drift back to sleep? I’m not sure.
A loud click made my eyes shoot open wide.
I raised my head in time to see the closet door start to open.
The room lay in darkness. No light washed in from the window. The door was a black shadow, sliding slowly, slowly.
My heart began to pound. My mouth suddenly felt dry as cotton.
The closet door slid slowly, silently.
A low creak.
And then a shadow stepped out from behind the dark door.
I squinted hard at it. Not moving a muscle.
Another creak of the door.
The figure took another silent step. Out of the closet. Another step. Another. Making its way past my bed, to the bedroom door.
Slappy.
Yes!
Even in the night blackness I could see his large, rounded head. I watched his skinny arms dangle at his sides, the wooden hands bobbing as he moved.
The heavy leather shoes slid over my carpet. The thin, boneless legs nearly collapsed with each shuffling step.
Like a scarecrow, I thought, gripped with horror.
He walks like a scarecrow. Because he has no bones. No bones at all.
Up and down, his whole body bobbed as he crept away.
I waited until he slithered and scraped out the door and into the hall. Then I jumped to my feet.
I took a deep breath and held it.
Then I tiptoed through the darkness after him.
Here we go! I told myself. Here we go!
17
I stopped at the bedroom door and poked my head into the hall. Mom keeps a small night-light on all night just outside her bedroom door. It cast dim yellow light over the other end of the hall.
Peering into the light, I watched Slappy pull himself silently toward Sara’s room. The big shoes shuffled along the carpet. Slappy’s body bobbed and bent. The big, wooden hands nearly dragged along the floor.
When my chest started to ache, I realized I hadn’t taken a breath. As silently as I could, I let out a long whoosh of air. Then I took another deep breath and started to follow Slappy down the hall.
I had a sudden impulse to shout: “Mom! Dad!”
They would burst out of their room and see Slappy standing there in the middle of the hall.
But, no.
I didn’t want to shout for them now. I wanted to see where Slappy was heading. I wanted to see what he planned to do.
I took a step. The floorboard creaked under my bare foot.
Did he hear me?
I pressed my back against the wall, tried to squeeze myself flat in the deep shadows.
I peered through the dim yellow light at him. He kept bobbing silently along. His shoulders rode up and down with each shuffling step.
He was just outside Sara’s room when he turned around.
My heart stopped.
I ducked low. Dropped back into the bathroom.
Had he seen me?
Had he turned around because he knew I was there?
I shut my eyes. Waited. Listened.
Listened for him to come scraping back. Listened for him to turn around and come back to get me.
Silence.
I swallowed hard. My mouth felt so dry. My legs were trembling. I grabbed the tile wall to steady myself.
Still silent out there.
I gathered up my courage and slowly, slowly poked my head out into the hall.
Empty.
I squinted toward Sara’s room in the yellow light.
No one there.
He’s in Sara’s room, I told myself. He’s doing something terrible in Sara’s room. Something I’ll be blamed for.
Not this time, Slappy! I silently vowed.
This time you’re going to be caught.
Pressing against the wall, I crept down the hall.
I stopped in Sara’s doorway.
The night-light was plugged in across from Sara’s room. The light was brighter here.
I squinted into her bedroom. I could see the mural she had started to paint. A beach scene. The ocean. A broad, yellow beach. Kites flying over the beach. Kids building a sand castle in one corner. The mural was tacked up, nearly covering the entire wall.
Where was Slappy?
I took a step into the room—and saw him.
Standing at her paint table.
I saw his big wooden hand fumble over the table of supplies. Then he grabbed a paintbrush in one hand.
He raised and lowered the brush, as if pretending to paint the air.
Then I saw him dip the paintbrush in a jar of paint.
Slappy took a step toward the mural. Then another step.
He stood for a moment, admiring the mural.
He raised the paintbrush high.
That’s when I burst into the room.
I dove toward the dummy just as he raised the paintbrush to the mural.
I grabbed the paintbrush with one hand. Wrapped my other hand around his waist. And tugged him back.
The dummy kicked both legs and tried to punch me with his fists.
“Hey—!” a startled voice shouted.
The light clicked on.
Slappy went limp on my arm. His head dropped. His arms and legs dangled to the floor.
Sitting up in bed, Sara gaped at me in horror.
I saw her eyes stop at the paintbrush in my hand.
“Amy—what are you doing?” she cried.
And, then, without waiting for an answer, Sara began to shout: “Mom! Dad! Hurry! She’s in here again!”
18
Dad came rumbling in first, adjusting his pajama pants. “What’s going on? What’s the problem?”
Mom followed right behind him, blinking and yawning.
“I—I took this from Slappy,” I stammered, holding up the paintbrush. “He—he was going to ruin the mural.”
They stared at the paintbrush in my hand.
“I heard Slappy sneak out of the closet,” I explained breathlessly. “I followed him into Sara’s room. I grabbed him just before—before he did something terrible.”
I turned to Sara. “You saw Slappy—right? You saw him?”
“Yeah,” Sara said, still in bed, her arms crossed over her chest. “I see Slappy. You’re carrying him on your arm.”
The dummy hung over my arm, its head nearly hitt
ing the floor.
“No!” I cried to Sara. “You saw him sneak into your room—right? That’s why you turned on the light?”
Sara rolled her eyes. “I saw you come into my room,” she replied. “You’re carrying the dummy, Amy. You’re holding the dummy—and the brush.”
“But—but—but—” I sputtered.
My eyes darted from face to face. They all stared back at me as if I had just landed on Earth in a flying saucer.
No one in my family was going to believe me. No one.
The next morning, Mom hung up the phone as I came down for breakfast. “You’re wearing shorts to school?” she asked, eyeing my outfit—olive-green shorts and a red, sleeveless T-shirt.
“The radio said it’s going to be hot,” I replied.
Jed and Sara were already at the table. They glanced up from their cereal bowls, but didn’t say anything.
I poured myself a glass of grape juice. I’m the only one in my family who doesn’t like orange juice. I guess I am totally weird.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked Mom. I took a long drink.
“Uh… Dr. Palmer’s secretary,” she replied hesitantly. “You have purple above your lip,” she told me, pointing.
I wiped the grape juice off with a napkin. “Dr. Palmer? Isn’t she a shrink?” I asked.
Mom nodded. “I tried to get an appointment for today. But she can’t see you until Wednesday.”
“But, Mom—!” I protested.
Mom placed a finger over her mouth. “Sssshhh. No discussion.”
“But, Mom—!” I repeated.
“Ssshhh. Just talk to her once, Amy. You might enjoy it. You might think it’s helpful.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I muttered.
I turned to Sara and Jed. They stared down at their cereal bowls.
I sighed and set the juice glass down in the sink.
I knew what this meant. It meant that I had until Wednesday to prove to my family that I wasn’t a total wack job.
In the lunchroom at school, Margo begged me to tell her what was going on with me. “Why were you locked up in your room all day yesterday?” she demanded. “Come on, Amy—spill.”
“It’s no big deal,” I lied.
No way I was going to tell her.
I didn’t need the story going around school that Amy Kramer believes her ventriloquist dummy is alive.
I didn’t need everyone whispering about me and staring at me the way everyone in my family did.
“Dad wants to know if you’ll change your mind about the birthday party,” Margo said. “If you want to perform with Slappy, you can—”
“No. Forget it!” I interrupted. “I put Slappy in the closet, and he’s staying there. Forever.”
Margo’s eyes went wide. “Okay. Okay. Wow. You don’t have to bite my head off.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m a little stressed out these days. Here. Want this?” I handed her the brownie Mom had packed.
“Thanks,” Margo replied, surprised.
“Later,” I said. I crinkled up my lunch bag, tossed it in the trash, and hurried away.
In my room that night, I couldn’t concentrate on my homework. I kept staring at the calendar.
Monday night. I had only two nights to prove that I wasn’t crazy, that Slappy really was doing these horrible things.
I slammed my history book shut. No way I could read about the firing on Fort Sumter tonight.
I paced back and forth for a while. Thinking. Thinking hard. But getting nowhere.
What could I do?
What?
After a while, my head felt about to split open. I reached up both hands and tugged at my hair.
“Aaaaagh!” I let out a furious cry. Of anger. Of frustration.
Maybe I’ll just get rid of Slappy, I decided.
Maybe I’ll take him outside and toss him in the trash.
And that will end the whole problem.
The idea made me feel a little better.
I turned and took two steps toward the closet.
But I stopped with a gasp when I saw the doorknob slowly turn.
As I stared in shock, the closet door swung open.
Slappy stepped out.
He slumped forward and stopped a few feet in front of me.
His blue eyes glared up at me. His grin grew wider.
“Amy,” he rasped, “it’s time you and I had a little talk.”
19
“Amy, now you are my slave,” Slappy said. His threat came out in a harsh, cold rasp. The eerie voice made me shiver.
I stared back at him. I couldn’t reply.
I gaped into those glassy blue eyes, that red-lipped smirk.
“You read the ancient words that bring me to life,” the dummy whispered. “And now you will serve me. You will do everything I ask.”
“No!” I finally managed to choke out. “No! Please—!”
“Yes!” he cried. The grinning wooden head bobbed up and down, nodding. “Yes, Amy! You are my slave now! My slave forever!”
“I w-won’t!” I stammered. “You can’t make me—” My voice caught in my throat. My legs wobbled like rubber. My knees buckled, and I nearly fell.
Slappy raised one hand and grabbed my wrist. I felt the cold, wooden fingers tighten around me.
“You will do as I tell you—from now on,” the dummy whispered. “Or else…”
“Let go of me!” I cried. I struggled to tug my arm free. But his grasp was too tight. “Or else what?” I cried.
“Or else I will destroy your sister’s mural,” Slappy replied. His painted grin grew wider. The cold eyes glared into mine.
“Big deal,” I muttered. “Do you really think I’ll be your slave because you wreck her painting? You’ve already wrecked Sara’s room—haven’t you? That doesn’t mean I’ll be your slave!”
“I’ll keep on destroying things,” Slappy replied, tightening his grip on my wrist, tugging me down toward him. “Maybe I’ll start wrecking your brother’s things, too. And you will be blamed, Amy. You will be blamed for it all.”
“Stop—” I cried, trying to twist free.
“Your parents are already worried about you—aren’t they, Amy?” the dummy rasped in that harsh, cold whispery voice. “Your parents already think you’re crazy!”
“Stop! Please—!” I pleaded.
“What do you think they’ll do when you start wrecking everything in the house?” Slappy demanded. “What do you think they’ll do to you, Amy?”
“Listen to me!” I shrieked. “You can’t—”
He jerked my arm hard. “They’ll send you away!” he rasped, his eyes flashing wildly. “That’s what your parents will do. They’ll send you away. And you’ll never see them again—except on visiting days!”
He tilted back his wooden head and uttered a shrill laugh.
A low moan escaped my throat. My entire body shuddered with terror.
Slappy tugged me closer. “You will be an excellent slave,” he whispered in my ear. “You and I will have many good years together. You will devote your life to me.”
“No!” I cried. “No, I won’t!”
I sucked in a deep breath. Then I swung my arm hard, as hard as I could.
I caught the dummy by surprise.
Before he could let go of my wrist, I pulled him off balance.
He let out a startled grunt as I lifted him off the floor.
He’s just a dummy, I told myself. Just a dummy. I can handle him. I can beat him.
His hand fell off my wrist.
I ducked low. Grabbed his boneless arm with both hands. Swung my shoulder. Flipped him over my back.
He landed hard on his stomach. His head made a loud clonk as it hit the floor.
Breathing hard, my heart thudding wildly, I dove.
I can handle him. I can beat him.
I tried to pin him to the floor with my knees.
But he spun away and scrambled up, faster than I could believe.
I cried out as he swung his wooden fist.
I tried to dodge away. But he was too fast.
The heavy fist hit me square in the forehead.
My face felt as if it had exploded. Pain shot down my body.
Everything went bright red.
And, holding both sides of my head, I crumpled to the floor.
20
I can handle him. I can beat him.
The words repeated in my mind.
I blinked my eyes. Raised my head.
I refused to give up.
Through the haze of red, I reached up with both hands.
I grabbed Slappy by the waist and pulled him down.
Ignoring my throbbing forehead, I wrestled him to the ground. He kicked both feet and thrashed his arms wildly. He swung at me, trying to land another blow.
But I dug my knee into his middle. Then I wrapped my hands around his thrashing arms and pinned them to the floor.
“Let go, slave!” he squealed. “I command you—let go!” He struggled and squirmed.
But I held tight.
His eyes darted frantically from side to side.
His wooden jaw clicked open and shut, open and shut, as he strained to squirm free.
“I command you to let go, slave! You have no choice! You must obey me!”
I ignored his shrill cries and swung his arms behind his back. Holding them tightly in place, I climbed to my feet.
He tried to kick me with both shoes. But I let go of the arms and grabbed his legs.
I swung him upside down. Once again, his head hit the floor with a clonk.
It didn’t seem to hurt him a bit.
“Let go! Let go, slave! You will pay! You will pay dearly for this!” He screamed and protested, squirming and swinging his arms.
Breathing hard, I dragged him across the rug—and swung him into the open closet.
He dove quickly, trying to escape.
But I slammed the door in his face. And turned the lock.
With a sigh, I leaned my back against the closet door and struggled to catch my breath.
“Let me out! You can’t keep me in here!” Slappy raged.
He began pounding on the door. Then he kicked the door.
“I’ll break it down! I really will!” he threatened. He pounded even harder. The big wooden hands thudded against the wooden door.