Revenge of the Living Dummy

by R. L. Stine

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  REVENGE OF THE LIVING DUMMY

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  ENTER HORRORLAND

  The Invitation

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  TEASER

  FEAR FILE #1

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  You may wonder why my best friend, Molly Molloy, and I were in the old graveyard late at night.

  I shivered as I thought about what we were doing. Wind howled through the trees, and pale streaks of lightning cracked the sky.

  “Hurry, Molly,” I whispered, hugging myself as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. “It’s going to storm.”

  “I am hurrying, Britney,” Molly said. “But the ground … it’s really hard.”

  We were digging a grave. We took turns. One of us shoveled while the other stood lookout.

  I felt cold raindrops on my forehead. I kept my eyes on the low picket fence near the street. Nothing moved. The only sounds were the scrape of the shovel in the dirt and a drumroll of thunder, deep but far away.

  Across from me, an old gravestone made a creaking sound as it tilted in the wind.

  I sucked in my breath. I suddenly pictured the old stone toppling over. And someone crawling out from the grave beneath it.

  Okay, okay. I have a wild imagination. Everyone knows that about me.

  My mom says I’ll either be a writer or a crazy person.

  She thinks that’s really funny.

  Sometimes having a strong imagination is a good thing. And sometimes it just makes things more scary.

  Like tonight.

  Molly stopped shoveling to push the hair out of her eyes. Raindrops pattered on the blanket of dead leaves on the ground. “Britney, does this look deep enough?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  I glanced at the glass coffin on the ground. “Keep digging. We have to totally cover it,” I said.

  I turned back to the street. It was late, and the neighborhood stood dark and still. But what if someone drove by and saw us?

  How could we ever explain the grave we were digging?

  How could we explain why we were there?

  Molly groaned and dug the shovel blade into the dirt.

  The dead leaves crackled. I held my breath and listened. Footsteps. Someone creeping quickly through the leaves toward us.

  “Molly —” I whispered.

  Then I saw them, huddled low, moving in a line. Raccoons. A pack of them, little eyes glowing. The black fur on their faces made the little creatures look like they were wearing masks.

  They froze when they saw us. And then stood up taller.

  Do raccoons ever attack?

  These raccoons looked really hungry. I imagined them stampeding Molly and me. Swarming over us, clawing and biting.

  A bright flash of lightning brought them into clear focus. They were staring at the little glass coffin. Did they think there was food inside?

  A clap of thunder — closer now — startled them. The leader turned and scuttled away over the leaves. The others followed.

  I shivered and wiped rain off my forehead.

  Molly handed me the shovel. “Your turn,” she said. “It’s almost finished.”

  The wooden handle scratched my hand. I kicked dirt off the blade and stepped up to the shallow hole. “No one will ever find it here,” I said. “Once we bury the evil thing, we’ll be safe from it.”

  Molly didn’t answer.

  I had the sudden feeling something was wrong.

  I turned and saw Molly staring with her mouth open. Staring at the tall gravestone next to us. She pointed. “Brit —”

  And then I heard the old stone creak. And saw the pale hand slowly reach out from the grave.

  No time to move. No time to scream.

  I stood frozen — and watched the hand wrap its cold, bony fingers around my ankle.

  And then I started to scream.

  Two weeks earlier, I had other things on my mind. I wasn’t thinking about the old graveyard down the street. I had other problems.

  Well, one big problem. And his name was Ethan.

  Ethan is my cousin, and it isn’t nice to hate your cousin. So let’s just say he isn’t one of my favorite people on this planet.

  I like to make lists. And if I made a list of My Top 5,000 Favorite People in the World, my cousin Ethan wouldn’t be on it.

  Get what I’m saying?

  It was almost dinnertime on a Friday night. And I was perched on the edge of the bed in my new bedroom.

  Why did I have a new bedroom?

  Because Mom and Dad kicked me out of my awesome room in the attic to make room for guess who — Ethan. So now I had to sleep in Mom’s sewing room. And the sewing machine was still against the wall. So how much room did I have? Try not much.

  I was talking on my cell to Molly. Molly is maybe the only person who understands what a pain Ethan is. Because she’s met him. And she had two bruised knees to prove it.

  Whoever told Ethan that kicking people is funny?

  Molly and I are like sisters. If you mention Molly Molloy, you have to mention me, Britney Crosby, too. We are both twelve, and we live on the same block, and we’ve always been in the same class since third grade.

  We both like to draw and paint. We both like to make lists of everything. We are always finishing each other’s sentences — like we have one brain!

  Molly is a little taller than me and more into sports. We both have coppery hair, although hers is lighter and curlier. And we both have brown eyes.

  I’m the funny one. It’s hard to make Molly laugh.

  I think she’s more serious than me because her parents split up, and she lives with her dad. He travels a lot, and he’s kind of a flake. So she feels like she has to be the grown-up in the house.

  Obviously, I’ve thought about it a lot.

  I once made a list of my good qualities and my bad qualities. And one of my good qualities is that I really try to understand my friends.

  “I can’t come over now,” I told Molly. “That brat Ethan will be here any minute. Dad went to the bus station to pick him up.”

  Molly groaned into the phone. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe he missed the bus. Why is he coming to stay with you anyway?”

  “His parents had to go away or something,” I said. “He’s even coming to our school. I think he’s in third grade.”

  “He’s such a sicko,” Molly said. “Maybe you should move over here till he leaves.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Like my mom would go for that.”

  “She knows you hate him,” Molly said.

  “I’m supposed to feel sorry for Ethan because he’s had such a tough life,” I said. “You know. His parents were both sick for a long time and didn’t pay any attention to him.”

  Molly shook her head. “Yeah. I remember.”

  I groaned. “So Mom and Dad say I have to take good care of him. Every ten minutes, they remind me I have to be nice to him.”

  “Hel-lo!” Molly said. “Do they know he kicks people when the grown-ups aren’t looking? Do they know how he kept trying to trip you and make you fall down the stairs? Did you tell them he tricked you into eating a s
andwich that had dead bugs in it?”

  “He’s totally bratty, but they don’t believe me,” I said. “Last time Ethan stayed here, he started messing with my computer — and he deleted my whole term paper. He said it was an accident. Then he burst out laughing.”

  Molly groaned again. “What a creep.”

  “Molly, what am I going to do?” I wailed. “He’s coming to live with us for weeks.”

  Molly was silent for a moment. Then she said softly, “Face it, Britney. Your life is over.”

  “OHHHH!” I let out a cry as I heard a deafening crash. From downstairs?

  I nearly dropped the phone.

  Was Ethan here already?

  I hurried into the kitchen — and saw Mom bent over, picking pieces of china off the floor.

  “I can’t believe I dropped that plate,” she said, shaking her head.

  Mom has short, dark brown hair with a streak of white in the front. She is small and skinny and totally high energy. And she’s kind of pretty, except her black-framed glasses make her look like a philosophy professor or something.

  She’s always in a hurry, and she always drops things. And then she says, “I can’t believe I dropped that.”

  “Maybe you’re nervous about Ethan,” I said, bending to pick up a jagged piece of china. “I know I am.”

  “Hey.” She pinched my cheek. I don’t think she meant to hurt me, but she pinched too hard. I’m the only person in the world she pinches. I don’t really get it.

  “Good attitude — remember?” she said. “Good attitude at all times. You promised.”

  “I had my fingers crossed,” I said.

  How could I have a good attitude?

  The last time Ethan visited, we got into an actual fistfight. Can you imagine? Quiet little Britney Crosby giving her cousin a bloody nose and making him cry in front of all her friends?

  That’s not like me at all. But he just makes me crazy!

  “Give Ethan a chance,” Mom said, brushing off the front of her jeans. She wears tight designer jeans, and she looks pretty good in them. She’s so small, we can almost share clothes. Weird.

  “He’s had a lot of problems,” Mom said. “And now his parents have left him for who knows how long. He’s not bad. He just acts out because he’s lonely.”

  Yeah. Right.

  I heard a car door slam. Then Dad’s voice in the garage.

  “They’re here,” Mom said. “Remember, Britney, you’ve got to be the grown-up in this situation. Get off to a good start with Ethan, and everything will be fine.”

  “I’m going to try. Really,” I said, and I meant it.

  The door from the garage swung open. Dad stepped into the kitchen, carrying Ethan’s two suitcases. “Our new family member has arrived,” he said.

  Ethan came bouncing in behind him, a big grin on his face. Ethan looks like a sweet little boy. He is short and pale and very blond. He has bright blue eyes and a cute, pointed little chin. He wore a gray hoodie over baggy jeans.

  And what was that thing slumped over his shoulder?

  I squinted at it. A grinning ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “Hi, Aunt Roz,” Ethan said.

  Mom shook a finger at the dummy. “Ethan — what is that?”

  He pulled the dummy off his shoulder and held it up. It had an ugly face with painted blue eyes, a chipped lower lip, and an awful grin.

  “This is Mr. Badboy,” Ethan said. “Mr. Badboy is my best friend.”

  Totally pitiful, I thought.

  But I put a smile on my face and said, “Hey, Ethan.”

  Ethan came running over to me, holding the dummy in front of him.

  “Mr. Badboy,” he said, “say hi to my cousin Britney.”

  I saw it coming, but I couldn’t move in time.

  The dummy’s wooden hand swung up fast — then came down hard. And — CLONNNNK — slammed me in the forehead.

  “Whooooa.” A sharp pain shot through my head. I pressed my hands against my throbbing temples, trying to push the pain away.

  “Be careful with that thing,” Dad scolded Ethan.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Ethan cried, backing away from me. “Mr. Badboy did it.”

  Here we go again, I thought.

  Ethan moved the dummy’s mouth up and down. “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!” the dummy said in a shrill baby voice.

  Mom turned and hurried to the fridge. “We’d better put some ice on it, Brit,” she said. “You’re gonna have a bump.”

  I glared at Ethan. Was it an accident?

  “Sometimes Mr. Badboy doesn’t know his own strength,” Ethan said.

  “Ethan, how about saying you’re sorry?” Dad said.

  “Mr. Badboy is very sorry,” Ethan said.

  I pushed past him and headed to the door. “Forget the ice,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I’m going over to Molly’s.”

  Mom hurried after me. She stopped me in the front hall. “Take Ethan with you,” she said in a whisper.

  “Mom, please — no,” I said.

  Mom put both hands on my shoulders and narrowed her eyes at me through her glasses. “Britney, he just got here. Don’t be rude. Remember what I said about getting off to a good start?”

  “He already gave me a bruise!” I cried.

  But I could see she meant business. I sighed. “Okay. Okay.”

  I saw Ethan near the kitchen door, and I called to him. “Want to come over to Molly’s?”

  “Excellent!” Ethan replied. “I’ll bring Mr. Badboy.”

  Thrills, I thought.

  We stepped out into a cool, windy evening. The sun had started to dip behind the trees, sending long shadows across the grass.

  Molly lives three houses down on the other side of the street. A short walk, but Ethan kept dancing around me, sticking his foot out, trying to trip me.

  “Give me a break,” I pleaded.

  He just giggled in reply. He has a phony hyena giggle that could drive anyone crazy.

  I rang the bell and a few seconds later, Molly came to the door. She was wearing faded jeans and a yellow T-shirt with the words MUMBA RULES! in red across the front.

  Her dad always brings her T-shirts from the weird places he visits. Don’t ask me where on earth Mumba is!

  She let out a groan when she saw Ethan.

  “Shake hands with Mr. Badboy,” Ethan told her. He stuck out the dummy’s wooden hand. “Mr. Badboy, this is Molly, Britney’s geeky friend.”

  Nice?

  Molly frowned at the dummy and said, “He’s almost as ugly as you are, Ethan.”

  Good one! I laughed and slapped her a high five.

  “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!” the dummy said.

  “Perfect,” Molly muttered. She led us down the hall to her room. “Dad just got back this morning from one of his crazy trips,” she said. “Mumba. It’s an island. He’s totally pumped. I guess he found some strange dolls there.”

  Professor Molloy is kind of famous. He works for museums. He says he’s a folklore expert. He travels all over the world and brings back ugly, evil-looking dolls, and ancient toys, and voodoo stuff, and skulls and things.

  He keeps some of it on display up in his attic. He calls it his Museum of the Weird. He always wants to show it off. But Molly and I don’t like to go up there. It totally creeps us out.

  Ethan put his mouth to my ear and burped really loudly.

  I jerked away from him. “Ethan, that’s not funny!”

  He giggled. “It’s a riot!”

  We turned the corner to Molly’s room — and bumped into Mr. Molloy.

  He’s big and tall, with a big belly that hangs over his pants. He always wears baggy khakis that are all wrinkled and stained, and sloppy white shirts.

  His dark brown hair is long and wild. He has a great smile, a big booming laugh that shakes his belly, and deep blue eyes that just stare — they don’t blink — when you talk to him.

  He likes to sing in a funny, deep voice. And he’s always trying to scare Moll
y and me with his weird stories.

  My dad calls him Wild Man Molloy.

  He said hi to me, then turned his gaze on Ethan. “I remember you,” he said. “Britney’s cousin. And what do we have here?”

  He lifted Mr. Badboy off Ethan’s shoulder and held the dummy up to study it. “Interesting … interesting …”

  Mr. Molloy examined the wooden head carefully. He ran his finger over the chipped bottom lip. Then he reached a hand beneath Mr. Badboy’s shirt and made the mouth snap up and down.

  “Interesting dummy,” he said. “Ethan, where did this guy come from?”

  Ethan shrugged. “My dad found him. I don’t know where. I named him Mr. Badboy. Because he’s a really bad dude.”

  Mr. Molloy chuckled. “Interesting.” He rubbed his hand over the dummy’s painted brown hair. “Why does it look so familiar? Hmmm … I could swear I’ve seen this dummy somewhere before.”

  He handed Mr. Badboy back to Ethan. “I have some books on ventriloquism. Maybe you’d like to borrow one.”

  “I don’t have to talk for him,” Ethan said. “Mr. Badboy talks for himself.”

  Molly and I looked at each other. We both rolled our eyes. “Yeah. Sure,” I muttered.

  “Come upstairs,” Mr. Molloy said. “I’ve got something very interesting to show you guys. Something I just brought back from Mumba.”

  “Maybe later, Dad,” Molly said. “We don’t really want —”

  Mr. Molloy tugged Molly toward the stairs. “Come on up to the attic. You won’t be sorry,” he said with a wide, devilish grin. “You want to stare into the face of pure evil — don’t you?”

  Ethan’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Cool!” he said.

  We followed Mr. Molloy up to his attic museum. The stairs were narrow and steep and creaked and groaned under our footsteps.

  Whenever I come up here, I feel as if I’m stepping into a haunted house. For one thing, it’s very dark and shadowy. Mr. Molloy says that bright light will damage some of his displays.

  He keeps everything in glass showcases. It’s all so creepy and weird. As you walk past the glass cases, dozens of eyes stare out at you.

  “Cool! Check this out!” Ethan cried. He pointed to a case. I squinted in the dim light. Six snake heads, their jaws wide open! Disgusting.

  Mr. Molloy stepped up beside Ethan. “Those snake heads were used for gambling,” he said. “Just like dice. You hold them between your hands and shake them, then toss them onto the floor. Want to try it?”