by R. L. Stine
Now I threw myself onto my bed.
I kept picturing little Alicia, screaming and crying, trying to twist out of Slappy’s grasp.
Mom knocked hard on my bedroom door. “Amy? Amy — what are you doing? What’s wrong?”
“Go away!” I wailed. “Just go away.”
But she opened the door and stepped into the room. Sara came in behind her, a confused expression on her face.
“Amy — the show didn’t go well?” Mom asked softly.
“Go away!” I sobbed. “Please!”
“Amy, you’ll do better next time,” Sara said, stepping up to the bed. She put a hand on my trembling shoulder.
“Shut up!” I cried. “Shut up, Miss Perfect!”
I didn’t mean to sound so angry. I was out of control.
Sara stepped back, hurt.
“Tell us what happened,” Mom insisted. “You’ll feel better if you tell us.”
I pulled myself up until I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I wiped my eyes and brushed my wet hair off my face.
And then, suddenly, the whole story burst out of me.
I told how Slappy grabbed Alicia’s hand and wouldn’t let go. And how all the kids were crying. And the parents were all screaming and making a fuss. And how I had to leave without doing my act.
And then I leaped to my feet, threw my arms around my mom, and started to sob again.
She petted my hair, the way she used to do when I was a little girl. She kept whispering, “Ssshh shhhh shhhh.”
Slowly, I began to calm down.
“This is so weird,” Sara murmured, shaking her head.
“I’m a little worried about you,” Mom said, holding my hands. “The little girl got her hand caught. That’s all. You don’t really believe that the dummy grabbed her hand — do you?”
Mom stared at me hard, studying me.
She thinks I’m crazy, I realized. She thinks I’m totally messed up.
She doesn’t believe me.
I decided I’d better not insist that my story was true. I shook my head. “Yeah. I guess her hand got caught,” I said, lowering my eyes to the floor.
“Maybe you should put Slappy away for a while,” Mom suggested, biting her bottom lip.
“Yeah. You’re right,” I agreed. I pointed. “I already put him in the closet.”
“Good idea,” Mom replied. “Leave him in there for a while. I think you’ve been spending too much time with that dummy.”
“Yeah. You need a new hobby,” Sara chimed in.
“It wasn’t a hobby!” I snapped.
“Well, leave him in the closet for a few days — okay, Amy?” Mom said.
I nodded. “I never want to see him again,” I muttered.
I thought I heard a sigh from inside the closet. But, of course, that was my imagination.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” Mom instructed. “Wash your face. Then come to the kitchen and I’ll make you a snack.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
Sara followed Mom out the door. “Weird,” I heard Sara mutter. “Amy is getting so weird.”
* * *
Margo called after dinner. She said she felt terrible about what had happened. She said her dad didn’t blame me. “He wants to give you another chance,” Margo told me. “Maybe with older kids.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “But I put Slappy away for a while. I don’t know if I want to be a ventriloquist anymore.”
“At the party today — what happened?” Margo asked. “What went wrong?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “I don’t really know.”
That night, I went to bed early. Before I turned out the light, I glanced at the closet door. It was closed tightly.
Having Slappy shut up in the closet made me feel safer.
I fell asleep quickly. I slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
Then I heard Sara’s angry screams down the hall.
“Mom! Dad! Mom! Hurry!” Sara was shouting. “Come see what Amy did now!”
I shut my eyes, listening to my sister’s screams.
What now? I thought with a shudder. What now?
“Ohh!” I let out a low cry when I saw that my closet door was open a crack.
My heart pounding, I climbed out of bed and began running down the hall to Sara’s room. Mom, Dad, and Jed were already on their way.
“Mom! Dad! Look what she did!” Sara screamed.
“Oh, no!” I heard Mom and Dad shriek.
I stopped in the doorway, peered in — and gasped.
Sara’s bedroom walls! They were smeared with red paint!
Someone had taken a thick paintbrush and had scrawled AMY AMY AMY AMY in huge red letters all over Sara’s walls.
“Noooo!” I moaned. I covered my mouth with both hands to stop the sound.
My eyes darted from wall to wall, reading my name over and over.
AMY AMY AMY AMY.
Why my name?
I suddenly felt sick. I swallowed hard, trying to force back my nausea.
I blinked several times, trying to blink the ugly red scrawls away.
AMY AMY AMY AMY.
“Why?” Sara asked me in a trembling voice. She adjusted her nightshirt and leaned against her dresser. “Why, Amy?”
I suddenly realized that everyone was staring at me.
“I — I — I —” I sputtered.
“Amy, this cannot continue,” Dad said solemnly. His expression wasn’t angry. It was sad.
“We’ll get you some help, dear,” Mom said. She had tears in her eyes. Her chin trembled.
Jed stood silently with his arms crossed in front of his pajama shirt.
“Why, Amy?” Sara demanded again.
“But — I didn’t!” I finally choked out.
“Amy — no stories,” Mom said softly.
“But, Mom — I didn’t do it!” I insisted shrilly.
“This is serious,” Dad murmured, rubbing his whiskery chin. “Amy, do you realize how serious this is?”
Jed reached out two fingers and rubbed them over one of the red paint scrawls. “Dry,” he reported.
“That means it was done early in the night,” Dad said, his eyes locked on me. “Do you realize how bad this is? This isn’t just mischief.”
I took a deep breath. My whole body was shaking. “Slappy did it!” I blurted out. “I’m not crazy, Dad! I’m not! You’ve got to believe me! Slappy did it!”
“Amy, please —” Mom said softly.
“Come with me!” I cried. “I’ll prove it. I’ll prove that Slappy did it. Come on!”
I didn’t wait for them to reply. I turned and bolted from the room.
I flew down the hall. They all followed silently behind me.
“Is Amy sick or something?” I heard Jed ask my parents.
I didn’t hear the answer.
I burst into my room. They hurried close behind.
I stepped up to the closet and pulled the door open.
“See?” I cried, pointing to Slappy. “See? That proves it! Slappy did it!”
I pointed triumphantly at Slappy. “See? See?”
The dummy sat crossed-legged on the closet floor. His head stood erect on his narrow shoulders. He appeared to grin up at us.
Slappy’s left hand rested on the closet floor. His right hand was in his lap.
And in his right hand he clutched a fat paintbrush.
The bristles on the brush were caked with red paint.
“I told you Slappy did it!” I cried, stepping back so the others could get a better view.
But everyone remained silent. Mom and Dad frowned and shook their heads.
Jed’s giggle broke the silence. “This is dumb,” he told Sara.
Sara lowered her eyes and didn’t reply.
“Oh, Amy,” Mom said, sighing. “Did you really think you could blame it on the dummy by putting the paintbrush in his hand?”
“Huh?” I c
ried. I didn’t understand what Mom was saying.
“Did you really expect us to believe this?” Dad asked softly. His eyes stared hard into mine.
“Did you think you could put the brush into Slappy’s hand, and make us think he painted your name on Sara’s walls?”
“But I didn’t!” I shrieked.
“When did he learn how to spell?” Jed chimed in.
“Be quiet, Jed,” Dad said sharply. “This is serious. It isn’t a joke.”
“Sara, take Jed out of here,” Mom instructed. “The two of you go to the kitchen and get breakfast started.”
Sara began to guide Jed to the door. But he pulled away. “I want to stay!” he cried. “I want to see how you punish Amy.”
“Get!” Mom cried, shooing him away with both hands.
Sara tugged him out of the room.
I was shaking all over. I narrowed my eyes at Slappy. Had his grin grown even wider?
I stared at the paintbrush in his hand. The red paint on the bristles blurred, blurred until I saw only red.
I blinked several times and turned back to my parents. “You really don’t believe me?” I asked softly, my voice trembling.
They shook their heads. “How can we believe you, dear?” Mom replied.
“We can’t believe that a wooden dummy has been doing these horrible things in Sara’s room,” Dad added. “Why don’t you tell us the truth, Amy?”
“But I am!” I protested.
How could I prove it to them? How?
I let out an angry cry and slammed the closet door shut.
“Let’s try to calm down,” Mom urged quietly. “Let’s all get dressed and have some breakfast. We can talk about this when we’re feeling better.”
“Good idea,” Dad replied, still squinting at me through his glasses. He was studying me as if he’d never seen me before.
He scratched his bald head. “Guess I’ll have to call a painter for Sara’s room. It’ll take at least two coats to cover up the red.”
They turned and made their way slowly from my room, talking about how much it was going to cost to have my sister’s room painted.
I stood in the center of the room and shut my eyes. Every time I closed them, I saw red. All over Sara’s wall:
AMY AMY AMY AMY.
“But I didn’t do it!” I cried out loud.
My heart pounding, I spun around. I grabbed the knob and jerked open the closet door.
I grabbed Slappy by the shoulders of his gray jacket and pulled him up from the floor.
The paintbrush fell from his hand. It landed with a thud beside my bare foot.
I shook the dummy angrily. Shook him so hard that his arms and legs swung back and forth, and his head snapped back.
Then I lifted him so that we were eye to eye.
“Admit it!” I screamed, glaring into his grinning face. “Go ahead! Admit that you did it! Tell me that you did it!”
The glassy blue eyes gazed up at me.
Lifelessly.
Blankly.
Neither of us moved.
And then, to my horror, the wooden lips parted. The red mouth slowly opened.
And Slappy let out a soft, evil, “Hee hee hee.”
“I can’t come over,” I told Margo glumly. I was sprawled on top of my bed, the phone pressed against my ear. “I’m not allowed out of my room all day.”
“Huh? Why?” Margo demanded.
I sighed. “If I told you, Margo, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me,” she replied.
I decided not to tell her. I mean, my whole family thought I was crazy. Why should my best friend think it, too?
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it when I see you,” I said.
Silence at the other end.
Then Margo uttered, “Wow.”
“Wow? What does wow mean?” I cried.
“Wow. It must be pretty bad if you can’t talk about it, Amy.”
“It — it’s just weird,” I stammered. “Can we change the subject?”
Another silence. “Daddy has a birthday party for six-year-olds coming up, Amy. And he wondered —”
“No. Sorry,” I broke in quickly. “I put Slappy away.”
“Excuse me?” Margo reacted with surprise.
“I put the dummy away,” I told her. “I’m finished with that. I’m not going to be a ventriloquist anymore.”
“But, Amy —” Margo protested. “You loved playing with those dummies. And you said you wanted to make some money, remember? So Daddy —”
“No,” I repeated firmly. “I changed my mind, Margo. I’m sorry. Tell your dad I’m sorry. I — I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
I swallowed hard. And added: “If I ever see you.”
“You sound terrible,” Margo replied softly. “Should I come over to your house? I think I could get my dad to drop me off.”
“I’m totally grounded,” I said unhappily. “No visitors.”
I heard footsteps in the hall. Probably Mom or Dad checking up on me. I wasn’t allowed to be on the phone, either.
“Got to go. Bye, Margo,” I whispered. I hung up the phone.
Mom knocked on my bedroom door. I recognized her knock. “Amy, want to talk?” she called in.
“Not really,” I replied glumly.
“As soon as you tell the truth, you can come out,” Mom said.
“I know,” I muttered.
“Why don’t you just tell the truth now? It’s such a beautiful day,” Mom called in. “Don’t waste the whole day in your room.”
“I — I don’t feel like talking now,” I told her.
She didn’t say anything else. But I could hear her standing out there. Finally I heard her footsteps padding back down the hall.
I grabbed my pillow and buried my face in it.
I wanted to shut out the world. And think.
Think. Think. Think.
I wasn’t going to confess to a crime I didn’t do. No way.
I was going to find a way to prove to them that Slappy was the culprit. And I was going to prove to them that I wasn’t crazy.
I had to show them that Slappy wasn’t an ordinary dummy.
He was alive. And he was evil.
But how could I prove it?
I climbed to my feet and began pacing back and forth. I stopped at the window and gazed out at the front yard.
It was a beautiful spring day. Bright yellow tulips bobbed in the flower patch in front of my window. The sky was a solid blue. The twin maple trees in the center of the yard were starting to unfurl fresh leaves.
I took a deep breath. The air smelled so fresh and sweet.
I saw Jed and a couple of his friends. They were skating down the sidewalk. Laughing. Having a good time.
And I was a prisoner. A prisoner in my room.
All because of Slappy.
I spun away from the window and stared at the closet door. I had shoved Slappy into the back of the closet and shut the door tightly.
I’m going to catch you in the act, Slappy, I decided.
That’s how I’m going to prove I’m not crazy.
I’m going to stay up all night. I’m going to stay up every night. And the first time you creep out of that closet, I’ll be awake. And I’ll follow you.
And I’ll make sure that everyone sees what you are doing.
I’ll make sure that everyone sees that you are the evil one in this house.
I felt so upset. I knew I wasn’t really thinking clearly.
But having a plan made me feel a little better.
Taking one last glance at the closet door, I crossed the room to my desk and started to do my homework.
* * *
Mom and Dad let me come out for dinner.
Dad had grilled hamburgers in the backyard, the first barbecue of spring. I loved grilled hamburgers, especially when they’re charred real black. But I could barely taste my food.
I guess I felt too excited and nervous about trapping Slappy.
No one talked much.
Mom kept chattering to Dad about the vegetable garden and what she wanted to plant. Sara talked a little about the mural she had started to paint in her room. Jed kept complaining about how he wrecked his knee skating.
No one spoke to me. They kept glancing over the table at me. Studying me like I was some kind of zoo animal.
I asked to be excused before dessert.
I usually stay up till ten. But a little after nine, I decided to go to bed.
I was wide awake. Eager to trap Slappy.
I turned out the light and tucked myself in. Then I lay staring up at the shifting shadows on the bedroom ceiling, waiting, waiting …
Waiting for Slappy to come creeping out of the closet.
I must have fallen asleep.
I tried not to. But I must have drifted off anyway.
I was startled awake by sounds in the room.
I raised my head, instantly alert. And listened.
The scrape of feet on my carpet. A soft rustling.
A shiver of fear ran down my back. I felt goosebumps up and down my arms.
Another low sound. So near my bed.
I reached forward quickly. Clicked on the bed table lamp.
And cried out.
“Jed — what are you doing in here?” I shrieked.
He stood blinking at me in the center of the room. One leg of his blue pajama pants had rolled up. His red hair was matted against one side of his head.
“What are you doing in my room?” I demanded breathlessly.
He squinted at me. “Huh? Why are you yelling at me? You called me, Amy.”
“I — I what?” I sputtered.
“You called me. I heard you.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and yawned. “I was asleep. You woke me up.”
I lowered my feet to the floor and stood up. My legs felt shaky and weak. Jed had really scared me.
“I was asleep, too,” I told him. “I didn’t call you.”
“Yes, you did,” he insisted. “You told me to come to your room.” He bent to pull down the pajama leg.
“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.