Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  She saw the wooden steps, barely visible in the spill of light from the kitchen. And she saw thin gossamer strands of cobwebs. And there, at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the floor as if it was waiting for them . . .

  Was the doll.

  Andy turned away, but Phil grabbed him and made the boy look back. “No, go ahead, Andy. Look down there. And tell me what you see.”

  Andy looked back, shaking his head. “It’s Chucky. But . . .”

  Joanne saw Phil squeeze Andy’s shoulders. “His name is Tommy. I bought him last year. And he’s been down there since last night. Hasn’t he?”

  Andy tried to shake free. He shook his head and he started crying again.

  “Phil, I don’t think . . .”

  “Hasn’t he?”

  Joanne touched Andy’s shoulder. She stared down at the cellar, at the desolate cellar.

  Andy kept shaking his head back and forth.

  Joanne sat on their bed and watched Phil pace.

  He was determined, she knew. And there was probably nothing she could say to stop him. Not this time.

  “We’re not keeping him,” he repeated. “His problems are way out of our league.” He looked right at her, his eyes glowing. “Way out.”

  “Phil, you’re overreacting. He’s just . . .”

  “Overreacting? Yesterday, maybe. But after today? I’m just exercising common sense.” He stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “That boy has major problems, Joyce. Serious problems. I want him out of here.”

  She looked at their shut door. Phil was talking loud. She imagined how Andy would feel if he heard this. “Keep your voice down,” she said. “He’ll hear you!”

  But her warning to her husband only seemed to make him angrier. “He needs professional help. Not this, not a normal home. We’re no good for him.”

  Now Joanne raised her voice. “Oh, stop pretending that you’re worried about him.” She stood up. “Stop pretending that you give a damn about the boy.” She stepped up to him. “You never wanted him here in the first place! This is just a convenient excuse for you.”

  “That’s not true!”

  She looked at her husband. He was about as determined as she had ever seen him. He usually rolled with the punches, indulged her, letting her bring these kids into their home. Anything if it made her happy.

  And now—damn!—he was probably right. But then why am I fighting so hard for the boy? she wondered.

  Now what is the answer to that?

  Andy heard them yelling, fighting about him, through the walls. He opened his door and heard even more. He shuffled back to the toy chest, to the trucks he had arranged in a line, ready for a race.

  He didn’t hear all the words. Just enough to know they were fighting about him.

  Andy remembered something from a long, long time ago, something that was just like this. People yelling and fighting. There was crying . . . and yelling. But that’s all he could remember.

  They don’t believe me, he told himself. And they’re going to send me back to the center.

  Maybe I’ll be safer in the center.

  Maybe it will be harder for Chucky to get me.

  The boy pulled one of the trucks out of the line, the big Hess oil tanker.

  No. It’s not hard for Chucky to get anywhere. He must be magic. He can appear and disappear.

  Magic.

  He pulled another truck alongside the tanker.

  Maybe . . . maybe I won’t even get back to the center. Maybe tonight . . .

  Someone was watching him, and he quickly looked up.

  It was Kyle, standing in the doorway looking at him. Her face was sad. She heard them too, Andy thought, heard them yelling, fighting about me.

  Kyle stepped into his room and closed the door.

  “They’re going to send me away,” he told her. He made the dump truck crash into the tanker, knocking it over.

  Kyle walked over to him and sat down on the floor next to him. “It’s not the end of the world, Andy. You’ll be okay.”

  Why is she being so nice to me? he wondered. Why is she . . .

  He turned to her and he—no!—was crying again. I’m crying all the time, and my mom is never here. To hug me close and tight, so I can smell her clothes and feel her warmth. And hear her voice whispering that everything is going to be okay. That everything is going to be just fine.

  “Wh-where will I go?” he cried.

  He looked at Kyle. And he knew why she was sitting next to him. It’s happened to her. We’re the same. I’m just like her. ’Cause I don’t have a mom now.

  No. I do have a mom.

  “Where will they send me?” he repeated.

  Kyle reached out and brushed his hair, and then she hopped closer to him. She gave him a squeeze. And it felt good.

  “I’ve lived with dozens of different families. Dozens! I always seem to be sent away just when I start feeling comfortable.” She smiled at him. “But then, I’m not so great at taking orders.”

  He smiled back, and she rewarded him with another squeeze.

  “But you know what?” she went on. “Every time it happens—every single time—it makes me stronger.” Her eyes seemed to glow. “It makes me stronger because it reminds me that the only one I can count on is myself. Just me. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he did understand.

  “You have to count on yourself, Andy. That’s all you’ll ever really have.” She leaned close and, with her hand, wiped away some of his tears. “And you have to learn that now, Andy.”

  He nodded.

  “I know it sounds rough,” she said. “Hey, it is rough. But believe me . . . you’ll get used to it.”

  He nodded again, but he thought, No, I’ll never get used to it. Never.

  Kyle started to get up, but Andy reached out and grabbed her hand. He held it tight.

  “But it doesn’t matter, Kyle.”

  She looked confused.

  And he spoke softly. “Nothing matters, because wherever I go, Chucky will find me.”

  Kyle shook her head and pulled him close. He hugged her back as hard as he could.

  He lay awake in his bed, listening to the sounds in the house as everyone went to sleep.

  Andy knew he wouldn’t fall asleep.

  Kyle was right, he thought. You have to rely on yourself. That’s all there is. There’s no one else. I have to learn that, he thought.

  He heard sounds from down the hall—Phil and Joanne going to the bathroom, then their bedroom TV. Music. People laughing. Still Andy lay in his bed, staring at the white ceiling.

  Thinking, I wish I didn’t have to do this. Thinking, Maybe . . . I can’t do this. But knowing, now, that he had to do this.

  Then the TV went silent, but Kyle was still up. He heard her padding around her room. Her radio went on for a few minutes and then off again.

  And he thought how much he liked her. How much he needed her. She’s the only one who tried to help me, he thought. And that’s because she’s just like me.

  Then it was quiet.

  He heard a car roar down the street, a loud car, the type a teenager would run around in. He imagined it to be a black car, with its rear end tilted way up in the air. Maybe loud music blasting away inside.

  He heard the wind rustle the trees outside.

  The wind was spooky. He never heard that where he lived with his mom. There weren’t any trees there.

  They whistled all spookylike, as if they were from some movie his mom wouldn’t ever let him see.

  It was time, he knew.

  I’ll get out of bed by the time I count to ten, he told himself.

  He counted to ten. Slowly.

  And then thought, I’ll count to twenty and then get out of bed.

  He stopped on nineteen.

  And waited. Then he spoke, slowly, to the walls in his room, to the whistling wind. “Twenty,” he whispered. He slid out of the warm bed and immediately felt the cold, around his
ankles, and then on his arms.

  He stood beside his bed and waited. He almost hoped someone would come and say, “Andy, whatever are you doing? Now get back into bed this minute.” And they’d tuck him in so hard he wouldn’t be able to move.

  Until morning.

  But he kept thinking of Kyle hugging him and saying, You have to count on yourself.

  He started walking. Taking care not to land too heavily, so the floor wouldn’t creak. He walked out of his room and turned left. There was no light coming from Kyle’s room. Good. She’s asleep. Everyone’s asleep.

  Except me.

  Me and . . .

  He walked down the stairs, the black stairs, holding onto the bannister as tightly as he could. It felt slippery in his hand. One step creaked, and he froze, turning around to see if anyone was waiting—just behind him!—ready to run down and stop him.

  But there was no one. He felt disappointment.

  He kept on going down. Until he got to the foyer and turned right, into the kitchen, to the cellar door.

  His feet hit the cold linoleum. The floor felt icy. Through the kitchen windows he saw the tree branches moving, rustling together. Like the trees from The Wizard of Oz, the trees that throw apples at Dorothy and the Scarecrow.

  He looked at the cellar door, shut tight.

  He turned away and walked over to the drawers filled with the forks and spoons and . . .

  Other things.

  He opened a drawer and found lots of knives. Most of them looked dull, like the kind used to slice butter. Then he found a long knife with a wavy edge. He touched that—just barely—and felt how sharp it was. But the long knife felt flimsy, as if it would break.

  I need something strong, he told himself. Something that won’t break—no matter how many times I have to use it.

  The wind whistled at him from outside.

  He looked up at the window and then down, just below it. He saw a knife sitting in some kind of rack.

  He reached out and touched the knife’s big handle.

  It’s an electric knife, Andy thought. I’ve never seen anything like that before. An electric knife. He fit his hand into the loop of the handle and pulled the knife up.

  It was heavy, but not too heavy. And his thumb seemed to fit right on top of a button. He pressed down on the button.

  The machine came to life. The handle vibrated. The blade sliced back and forth in the darkness, so fast Andy couldn’t even see it move. He quickly took his finger off the button. Before they hear, he thought. He lowered the blade, pointing it down.

  This is how we walk with sharp things, his mother always told him. Make the point face down, right by your side. That’s the safe way.

  He took a breath . . . and walked to the cellar door.

  20

  Chucky wasn’t there.

  Not that Andy had really expected him to be, just sitting on the floor pretending he hadn’t moved, pretending he had just landed there.

  But Andy sure wished he was.

  There was a thumping sound—Andy had heard it before. It’s the dryer, he knew. Joanne had put something in the dryer before she went to sleep, some of his clothes maybe, and they were tossing around in there.

  And there was the knife. Point down. Whirring in his hand.

  He reached behind him and dragged a kitchen chair close to the cellar door. But he kept looking down in the cellar. It would be a mistake not to keep looking at the cellar. He knew that.

  The chair got stuck on a metal strip that crossed the floor. Andy had to grunt and tug it over the strip.

  He pulled the chair close to his body. Then he risked a quick look up at the string.

  The light string dangled overhead.

  He turned back to look at the cellar.

  He didn’t see anything. He just heard the dryer.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  He stepped, backward, onto the chair. And when he was up, he reached overhead, his hand swinging back and forth, trying to find the string. And all the time looking down the stairs, always checking the stairs. I can’t forget that, he thought.

  But then he had to look up. To see the string.

  And when he did, he saw that he couldn’t reach it without going on his tiptoes. He took a breath and stood up.

  Just a bit more, he thought, stretching as much as he could. He tried to look down the stairs.

  The chair seemed to tip. Just a bit, back toward the kitchen. He made a small yelping sound. And his hands flew out so he could get his balance. The electric blade flew up, near his face, and then out, steadying him.

  The chair was steady.

  Again, he checked the stairs. His eyes looking all the way into the gloomy black. I’ll see you, he thought. I’ll see you if you try to come up and surprise me.

  He looked at the string one last time. There’s no way I’ll reach it—even on my tiptoes, he thought.

  He stepped down from the chair, carefully, the blade no longer pointing down. Andy held it in front of him.

  He walked to the first step leading down and stood there.

  He said, slowly, “Come out, Chucky.” He listened. The dryer made whomping noises. The blade whirred. Is it weaker, Andy thought. The electric knife didn’t sound as loud. Was it moving fast enough?

  “Come out, Chucky,” he said again. “It’s time to play.”

  He started down the stairs. One after the other. The handrail was slivering. It wobbled in his hand. He held the knife even higher, as if it could keep the darkness away. “Chucky,” he said.

  Another step, and he kept on going as he left the light of the kitchen behind. He could see shapes down here now. A big trunk. Boxes stacked twice as tall as he was. Now—just above the dryer—he heard wind again. It whistled differently down here.

  He reached the bottom, and a light shone in a window. It moved through the cellar, causing shadows to run across the room. He saw the dryer. White and friendly. There was a bird just to his right, a big bird that didn’t move.

  It’s just a stuffed bird, he told himself. A dead, stuffed bird. He moved past it. The cellar was dark.

  Chucky could be anywhere down here, he thought. Inside the trunk, behind the boxes. Anywhere.

  He thought of the kitchen behind him. Maybe I should run away. Hide upstairs. So that he can’t get me.

  But then he thought of Kyle. I have to do it myself, he thought.

  He moved the blade back and forth. He whispered the name: “Chucky . . .”

  He heard something. His steps! Yes, that sound had to be Chucky’s steps, running from there . . . to there. Or was he moving closer, hiding, ready to jump out?

  He turned a bit. He saw a tricycle—upside down. And its pedals were slowly turning.

  He’s just been here.

  Then more light filled the cellar. Andy looked up at the window. Up at the hole. Just big enough. Just big enough for Chucky.

  So that’s how he did it.

  And then he saw a shape, a small person . . . a shadow moving against the wall. Hiding behind the boxes.

  He started walking toward them. The blade sounded even weaker. Maybe I should turn it off and save the battery, Andy wondered. But no, Chucky would like me to do that. He’s waiting for that.

  Andy got to the corner of the pile of boxes. The shadow had gone behind the boxes. He stuck the knife out—and kept moving.

  Then he saw what the shadow was.

  It was a statue. Of someone in a cap . . . holding a lantern. A statue. It didn’t move. It was just the shadows.

  Thump! He heard a noise behind him and he turned around. It smells bad down here, Andy thought. All wet and ugly.

  He could see the light from the stairs, from the kitchen. It looked so far away.

  He heard the thump again, and he could tell that it came from the dryer. He walked over to it. He stood, looking at the machine, wondering if Chucky was behind it, thinking, Maybe he left. Through the hole. Maybe he isn’t here anymore.

  The wind blew aga
in and he heard a click. He turned and something landed at his feet.

  It was a clothespin. There was a clothesline just to the right. And something moved, with the wind from the hole. It fluttered.

  A loud buzz suddenly filled the cellar. Like an alarm.

  He turned back to the dryer. It was buzzing. Because it was done.

  Andy looked at the dryer.

  Could it be? he wondered. He held the knife tight.

  He reached out and opened the door. The buzzing stopped. He saw the dark jumble of clothes inside. He smelled them—so clean. They didn’t belong down here.

  He looked for something hidden in the clothes. He stuck the blade into them.

  If you’re in here, Chucky, I’m going to get you. He dug through the pile and then jabbed at it, again and again. ’Cause Chucky is fast. He can move quickly and—

  Something rustled behind him, almost in his ear.

  He spun around, chewing at his lip now.

  I’ve got to be brave. I can’t cry out. I have to do this.

  Or he’ll get my soul.

  A nightgown flapped in the wind.

  And—thinking that Chucky might be hiding behind it—Andy jabbed at it with the knife. Then he sliced at it. The blade was getting weaker. But the nightgown fell into big pieces, then shreds, like the long strips of construction paper at school.

  They fell to the ground.

  Chucky wasn’t behind the nightgown. Chucky wasn’t here.

  He’s gone, Andy knew. And then . . .

  There was a yell. That voice again! That sick Good Guy voice! Chucky landed on Andy’s back. Andy grunted as he was knocked to the ground. He tried to hold onto the knife. I’ve got to hold onto the knife . . . please . . . , he begged.

  But as soon as he hit the hard floor, the knife fell out of his hand and slid away. Still whirring.

  Chucky had him around the neck. Andy felt the small doll arm closing tightly around his neck. He tried to gulp at some air, but none would come in.

  Andy tried reaching behind him, to grab Chucky’s body and throw him off.

  But Chucky tightened his hold.

  Please . . . , Andy thought, . . . please don’t let him do this to me. He begged a God he wasn’t sure was there.