Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  Please.

  Chucky leaned forward, and Andy felt the plastic lips, and then the teeth, moving against his neck. He heard the whirring of the electric blade. He looked up.

  His arms were out in front of him, he saw. If I can move just a bit, I might be able to grab the knife.

  Andy wriggled forward. The blade was just there.

  But then Chucky’s hand covered his, reaching out for the blade, stretching. Andy saw red spots in the dark cellar.

  He’s going to reach it, Andy thought.

  He’ll take my soul.

  And then he’ll kill me.

  21

  Andy watched Chucky stretch out, just a bit more, trying to beat Andy’s hand to the knife. The doll’s weight suddenly shifted off him, and Andy rolled to the side, sending Chucky flying off.

  As fast as he could, Andy turned around on his belly and crawled to the whirring knife.

  He grabbed it.

  “Got it!” he said.

  But Chucky wrapped himself around Andy’s ankles and started yanking him backward.

  “Why fight it, Andy? You and me were meant for each other, kiddo. We’re going to be very close.” He gave Andy a tug that made the boy’s cheek scrape the gritty ground. “In fact, we’re going to be inseparable.”

  Andy grunted and twisted as he was hauled back toward Chucky. He yelled, screamed at Chucky, trying to kick his legs free. He jabbed at Chucky with the knife. But Chucky dodged the blade. Andy felt it hit something, a bit of cloth around the doll’s sleeve, but right after the slice, Chucky’s hand shot out—so fast!

  He grabbed the blade, and as if taking the toy from him, Chucky yanked the knife away from Andy. “Thanks, pal. This is going to come in handy!”

  Andy screamed. In the darkness of the cellar, Andy could see only a slight glow, a bit of reflection from Chucky’s grinning cheeks.

  Chucky laughed and then raised the knife over Andy, muttering something.

  I can’t move, Andy thought. He tried wriggling left and right, but he couldn’t move at all.

  Chucky kept muttering. Strange words, words that scared Andy.

  Then a light came on . . .

  The light from the top of the stairs.

  Chucky froze. The glow was behind him. And some of the light shone on his hair, bright red.

  “Shit,” he hissed.

  “Andy!”

  It was Phil!

  “Andy, what the hell is going on down there?”

  Chucky let the knife fall to the ground, right next to Andy’s head, and then he jumped off him.

  He’s going to get Phil, Andy thought. He’s going to get Phil.

  Andy sat up and heard the stairs creak.

  No, he wanted to say. But he was breathing too hard, just trying to get air.

  Another step, another creak. And then, finally, “Chucky’s here!” Andy yelled. “Don’t come down!”

  Another step, another creak. Andy saw Phil’s legs, an then the man’s hand holding onto the railing. “What the—Andy, get up here. Now. Don’t make me come down and get you.”

  Andy ran to the stairs. I can get up, he thought. With Phil. I’ll get up, and get away with Phil. We’ll lock the door and . . .

  As he got near the bottom of the stairs he saw Chucky. Just below the stairs. Moving around, hiding something.

  A broom. Chucky was doing something to the end of the broom, breaking something off.

  “No!” Andy yelled.

  “Andy! What the hell are you doing? Get up here.”

  Phil took another step down. And then, in the cracks of light falling through the steps, Chucky was there, holding the broom. It had no bristles. It just had a jagged edge. Like a spear, Andy thought. It’s just like a spear.

  Phil took another step. “Young man, now you are really going to get it.”

  Chucky jabbed up with the broom while Andy watched.

  “No!” Andy screamed.

  “What the . . . ,” Phil started to say.

  The broom shot up, between the steps, right between Phil’s legs. Phil screamed.

  Chucky laughed. “Good shot, huh, sport?”

  Phil collapsed. He fell, like a balloon losing air. He just tumbled forward and to the side, grabbing at the railing. Andy saw his head hit a step. He heard a loud crack.

  “Great shot!” Chucky screamed.

  Phil then fell off to the side, down toward the cement floor. Andy backed up. One of Phil’s feet was caught between the steps, and he hung from the side, upside down.

  Chucky’s going to get him, Andy thought. Chucky will get him unless I do something.

  Chucky stepped out into the light, right in front of Phil. Andy turned and looked at the blade, whirring away, even quieter now.

  Chucky stepped right up to Phil’s upside-down face. A line of blood traveled down Phil’s leg, onto his chest, down his neck, across his face, his lips.

  “How’s it hanging, Phil?” Chucky said.

  Andy looked at the knife.

  Phil started to say something.

  He believes me now, Andy thought.

  Phil’s foot came loose, and he fell—head-first—to the ground.

  “Phil . . . Andy . . . ?” Andy looked up to the top of the stairs. He saw Joanne and then Kyle hurrying down.

  Chucky looked at Andy. He grinned and then darted into the shadows of the basement.

  Joanne hurried down and saw Phil.

  “God, no!” she said. “Oh, sweet Jesus, no.” She stopped, while Kyle grabbed her.

  Then Joanne pulled away and ran to Phil. Andy backed off. Kyle looked at him, then back to Joanne.

  “Don’t touch him!” Kyle said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  Andy stood there. They think I did it, he realized. They think I did that to Phil. And Chucky could leap out at them right now, because they’re not looking for him.

  “Oh, God, Phil,” Joanne said. Andy stepped closer. I have to tell her, he thought. I have to tell her what happened. “Phil, honey.”

  Andy saw Phil open his mouth. A red glob was there. He said something. The glob bubbled. The red goo got all foamy. His eyes were open.

  And then they closed.

  “Get away!” Joanne yelled, seeing Andy next to her. “Get away from me!”

  Andy looked in the shadows, near the piles of boxes filled with old clothes. Looking for Chucky.

  But there was no Chucky there.

  Just Joanne holding Phil’s lifeless head, crying . . . and then the sirens, the terrible sirens that had always seemed to hurry past his apartment, never stopping.

  Until that day Aunt Maggie went out the window.

  And now . . .

  And now the sirens are here.

  Too late again.

  Kyle stepped out of Joanne’s way.

  Joanne roughly pulled open the bottom drawer of Andy’s dresser. She scooped out the clothes and stuffed them into the boy’s suitcase.

  She kept crying the entire time, wiping at her eyes, her cheeks.

  “Joanne,” Kyle tried to say. And she thought, I’m not so good at this comforting business. Still she felt that she had to try.

  Kyle reached out to touch Joanne’s arm. But Joanne shrugged away, and then she grabbed the suitcase’s zipper and yanked it shut. It caught, jamming halfway closed. She cursed and then pulled harder, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Joanne,” Kyle said.

  It was scary watching the woman like this. Filled with grief. But Kyle knew she was also filled with hate for Andy.

  Joanne stopped, rubbing at her red eyes with two hands. “I . . . I should have listened to Phil. He knew there was something very wrong with that boy.” Joanne looked right at Kyle. “He’d be alive now if I had listened to him.”

  It felt awkward . . . but Kyle put her arm around the woman, and then Joanne just sobbed against her. Kyle tried her best to comfort her. “Shhh. It isn’t your fault.”

  Joanne kept heaving. Kyle stroked her hair, feeling very weird. I’m no
t the comforting type, she thought. But who else was there? They had carted Phil off in a body bag. And now Andy was downstairs . . . waiting . . .

  Kyle went to the suitcase. She grabbed the zipper. “I’ll take care of this,” she said.

  She finally worked the zipper closed and then picked up the bag. She patted Joanne’s shoulder and walked out of the room. I doubt she’ll be getting many more little boys for a while, Kyle guessed.

  Joanne followed Kyle out of the room and down the stairs. When they got to the foyer, Andy was standing there beside Grace Poole of the Children’s Crisis Center.

  He’s shaking, Kyle saw. Standing there, shivering. The crazy little kid is scared out of his mind. She plopped the suitcase down.

  Grace Poole nodded to Kyle and then turned—a bit uneasily, Kyle thought—to Andy. “Andy, you’ll be fine. You’ll spend a few days with us at the center, just until we find you another family.”

  I can’t imagine there will be a long line for that offer, Kyle thought. This kid’s got one bad track record. And whatever you do, don’t let him see one of those dolls.

  Grace Poole looked back to Kyle. “We’ve placed Kyle with a number of families. And things always seem to work out, don’t they, Kyle?”

  She saw Andy look up at her. The kid looked like a mess. Despite everything, she felt sorry for him. There’s got to be some pretty strange stuff going on in his head, she thought.

  Kyle picked up the suitcase. “Sure.” She handed the suitcase to Andy. “Here’s your stuff.”

  Andy’s hand, shaking, reached out for the suitcase. He kept looking at her. Waiting for me to say something, she thought. Nice knowing you. Keep your chin up. Watch out for Chucky. Jee-zus!

  “Come on, Andy,” Grace said. “We have to go.”

  She gave Kyle one more smile and then led Andy out the front door.

  The police car was waiting for them. What a way to get escorted back to the children’s center. Officer Ginko and his man-eating shepherd were on escort duty.

  Just in case the kid goes boingo again.

  Kyle saw two more police cars in the driveway. Indecipherable electronic chatter could be heard through their open windows.

  Grace and Andy walked to the car, and the boy turned around and looked at Kyle. She made herself smile.

  Good luck, kid, she thought.

  Grace gently guided him into the car.

  Kyle went down to the cellar. It was all lit up now, and the cops were walking back and forth, moving boxes, taking measurements, muttering to each other.

  It was still creepy down here, Kyle thought, but better than going back upstairs and facing Joanne again.

  One of the cops—young, kind of good-looking—turned to her. “We’ll be out of your way in a minute here.” He had a big leather notebook open. “Did anyone else see the accident? Anyone besides the boy?”

  Accident? Well, that’s one way to describe it, guessed Kyle. She shook her head. “No, No one.”

  She was facing the stairs. And underneath the stairs, where it was still dark, she saw something.

  Near the back wall. Just sticking out a bit into the light.

  A pair of red sneakers.

  The goddamn doll, she thought. She took a breath. And then she repeated, “No, no one but Andy.”

  The cop nodded. “Okay.” He looked up at her and gave her a consoling smile. “We’re all done then.” He turned to the other cop. “Let’s go.”

  The other cop shut off their big light, and the cellar returned to its normal murky gloom.

  Kyle started to lead them up the stairs to the kitchen. But she stopped. She ran underneath the stairs and grabbed the doll.

  We’ve had enough of this in the house, she thought.

  And she dragged it upstairs.

  22

  She walked out the side door. The cops were getting into their cars while half the neighbors stood outside watching the show, probably busting their guts to know what was going on.

  Kyle shook her head and walked to the metal trash can.

  The wind blew, sending her hair flying backward. The air smelled good after the dankness of the cellar. She picked up the trash can lid and threw the doll into the can. Then she slammed the lid down flush.

  The cops got into their patrol cars, probably dreaming of coffee and free doughnuts.

  Kyle reached into her back pocket and took out a pack of Marlboros. She dug out a slightly bent cigarette and stuck it in her mouth. The cars pulled away. She lit her cigarette.

  She thought, I’ll kind of miss Phil getting on my case about smoking. At least he cared enough to say something.

  She sucked in the smoke and walked over to the swing. The neighbors were still watching, still chattering to themselves. Of course, they’ll read all about it in the local paper, Kyle thought: “Man has bad fall in basement.”

  She sat down on the swing. Her feet dragged against the ground. I’m too big for swings, she thought. Still she pushed against the ground and swung back and forth, just a bit, while she smoked . . . and thought.

  The swing creaked as she moved.

  But she still heard a sound from the house. She turned around. It came from Joanne’s bedroom. A whirring noise. Then she saw Joanne at the window, at her sewing machine.

  God . . . Well, guess she’s got to do something. Kyle looked away. Guess you’ve got to do something. She gave a push with her foot.

  And she felt something on the ground. Something hard.

  She stopped and leaned forward to look down at the ground.

  It was a red sneaker. A small red sneaker.

  She leaned down some more, still on the seat but close enough so that she could touch the sneaker, pull at it. Her fingers closed around the tip of it. She tugged at it.

  But it didn’t budge. It was connected to something buried in the ground, something that held it. She came off her seat and crouched on the ground. She grabbed the shoe with her two hands and pulled, grunting.

  Until it popped out. Flew out of the ground.

  She recognized the body, even covered with dirt. It was another one of those Good Guy dolls. But this one, this one . . .

  Its head was all smashed in. And inside the skull she saw the dirt moving, then glistening bodies, writhing inside, disturbed.

  She screamed and let the Good Guy doll fall to the ground.

  She stood up, rubbing her hands on her jeans. What’s going on here, she thought. What in the world is going—

  She turned slowly.

  Very slowly.

  To look at the trash can. The lid was still on.

  But it was slightly ajar.

  She got up and walked to it, ever so slowly. Telling herself, No. This isn’t happening. I’m just getting freaked out. It’s been a bad night and I . . .

  She reached the can. She grabbed the lid. She lifted it. And the trash can was empty.

  She moaned.

  And then—over the wind and the rustle of the branches—Kyle heard a loud thwap, and then again.

  Thwap.

  The screen door to the kitchen slapped against its frame, as if the breeze was rattling it. Or . . .

  She looked up at Joanne, sitting at the window. Sewing. Rocking back and forth, working on her grief.

  Kyle felt cold. I should just get out of here, she thought. This isn’t my problem. I’m just passing through, that’s all. She saw Joanne by the window, still rocking.

  Kyle yelled up to her, “Joanne . . . ,” then louder, “Joanne!”

  When she realized that Joanne couldn’t hear her, Kyle knew that she would have to go inside the house.

  Through the back door. Thinking, I don’t want to do this. It’s not my damn problem.

  The kitchen was quiet. She heard Joanne at the sewing machine. She’s okay, thought Kyle. Everything’s fine. Chucky—I can’t believe I’m thinking about him as if he were real.

  It’s because he is real, she told herself. As real as you and I.

  And that means Andy isn�
��t crazy.

  Out of the kitchen now, and down the hall. It was dark. Did Joanne shut all the lights off? The only light came from upstairs.

  She was going to call Joanne’s name again. Except the sound of it, here, would be too terrifying. And worse. If he was in here, if the little bastard was in the house, he’d know she was here too.

  Kyle wasn’t ready for that. She stopped by the hall closet. She opened it, always keeping her eyes looking forward, into the darkness of the foyer and the living room. The door opened.

  For a minute she held her breath. He could be in here, she thought.

  But it was still, quiet. She reached up, pushing aside an old tackle box and then digging under a backpack. She dug to the very corner of the closet shelf. Where she found her knife.

  She pulled it down and pressed the latch. The blade slid open—almost too noisily. It gleamed, catching whatever light there was in the hall.

  She had taken that knife everywhere.

  Some of her foster parents had not been too nice. Some of the dads didn’t just want to play softball.

  The knife made her feel better.

  Now she started walking again. She held the knife in front of her, a beacon. She turned and went up the stairs. The sewing machine whirred on, clearer, constant.

  And she thought, There’s something odd about that.

  The knife went up the steps first, leading her.

  Halfway up, some light from Joanne’s room spilled onto the blue carpet. He’s not here, Kyle told herself. The doll—Chucky—has left.

  Probably gone for Andy.

  We’ll have to get help, get someone to go the center and—

  Something rolled toward her. Ta-dump, ta-dump, down the stairs. Small, round.

  It hit her feet. A spool of thread. That’s strange, she thought. A spool of thread.

  She kept moving up the stairs, past her room, past Andy’s old room, right to Joanne’s room.

  “Joanne,” she said.

  Kyle saw her, hunched over her machine, rocking back and forth with the pedal, back and forth, sewing, sewing.

  Kyle took a step into the room. Something scratched at the window. A branch from a big sycamore, the one with the swing.

  “Joanne!” she said again.