by R. L. Stine
I glanced at the clock on my wall. “Oh, wow. I’m late,” I said. “I promised I’d go to the YC and help out with the kids this morning. Got to go, guys.”
Miles jumped to his feet. Stick patted the dummy on its head. “Hey, Slappy,” he said. “Don’t scare Jackson too badly.”
Miles laughed. “Yeah. Jackson’s scared of dolls.”
I rolled my eyes. “You guys are a total riot. Remind me to laugh sometime.”
They both started to the door. “Later,” they said in unison.
“Later,” I repeated.
They disappeared down the stairs.
I changed my shirt and pulled on a pair of sneakers. I tucked my game-player into my jeans pocket. Sometimes the kids liked to play Chirping Chickens with me.
At the door, I turned back to Slappy.
Should I bring him and show him off to the kids?
No, I decided. I’ll wait till I have a totally awesome comedy act with him. Then I can show him off.
I clicked off the light and started to leave. And Slappy tumbled onto his stomach.
“Huh?” I gasped.
Did he move? Again?
No. No way. He just fell over. That’s all.
I closed the door behind me and headed down the stairs.
I found about a dozen kids in the playroom at the YC. A bunch of them were climbing around on the tires. Some were just chasing each other in a wild race around the room. My little friend Froggy sat in a corner looking at a picture book.
The canaries were chirping their yellow heads off. “I think they’re hungry,” I said. “Does anyone want to help me feed them?”
A bunch of kids came running. Froggy set down his book and came over, too.
I pulled the bag of birdseed from the supply closet and carried it over to the cage. I showed the kids how to slide the plastic bird feeder off the cage. I started to fill it when I heard a voice behind me.
I turned and saw Mrs. Pearson in the doorway. I was surprised to see her. Mrs. Pearson is the director of the YC. But she hardly ever comes in on Saturdays.
She’s a tall, thin woman with black hair streaked with gray. She’s older than my parents. But she always dresses in jeans and brightly colored T-shirts.
She is usually smiling but not today. She gazed around the roomful of kids, biting her bottom lip, a frown on her face.
She walked over to Mrs. Lawson’s desk and said a few words to her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mrs. Lawson kept shaking her head.
I filled the seed cup and let Froggy place it back in the cage. The two canaries dove for it. I guess they really were hungry.
I turned away from the cage when Mrs. Pearson called to me. “Jackson, can I speak to you for a minute?”
I followed her out into the hall. Am I in trouble? The thought flashed into my mind. Is she angry about the canary getting loose?
My heart started to pound a little faster.
The hall was empty. The bright yellow walls gleamed under the ceiling lights. A sign on the wall said: ONLY 2 DAYS TO SIGN UP FOR THE TENNIS TOUNAMENT.
Someone left the r out of tournament. I’m a very good speller. I always catch mistakes like that. One of the things Rachel hates about me. She can’t spell her own name! Ha-ha.
We stopped in front of Mrs. Pearson’s office door. I leaned a shoulder against the wall. She flashed me a quick smile, but her eyes didn’t look happy.
“Jackson, it’s so nice of you to come in and help out on Saturdays,” she said.
“Uh … thank you,” I replied. “I … like it.”
“Well, most boys wouldn’t want to give up their Saturdays to help a bunch of little kids. But you’re so good with them. You’re so kind and patient. And the kids really like you.”
I could feel my face growing hot. Why do I always blush when someone compliments me?
“Thank you,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” she said. She bit her bottom lip again. “The YC is in real trouble. We are running out of money. And the town has no money to give us. I’m afraid we may have to shut down.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. I heard kids laughing down the hall in the playroom. “That’s so sad. Those kids love it here.”
She nodded. “We are going to try to keep it going. To raise some money. We are planning a huge bake sale and a stage show in the auditorium. If we work hard, we can raise enough money to keep the YC going for another year.”
I stared at her. Down the hall, the kids burst into laughter again.
“Jackson, I hope you will help us with our bake sale and stage show,” Mrs. Pearson said. “Perhaps you could write a skit for the kids to perform?”
“No problem,” I said. “That would be fun.”
“And maybe you could do some kind of act yourself,” she said. “Do you have any ideas?”
I laughed. “I just got a ventriloquist dummy,” I told her. “I was planning to work up a comedy act with it. You know. For the kids.”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Pearson gushed. “The audience will love that, Jackson.”
Her expression turned serious. She put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m counting on you,” she said. “I know we can save the YC — with your help.”
“Yes,” I said. “No problem.”
Three words. Three little words.
How could I know that those three words would lead to unbelievable horror?
How could I know that those three words would lead to the worst day of my life?
“Nice throw, ace!” Stick shouted.
The Nerf football bounced over the hedge into the neighbor’s yard. “Guess I don’t know my own strength,” I said.
I took a running start and tumblesaulted over the hedge. Wolfie, Stick’s big German shepherd, started to bark ferociously. “He’s just jealous,” I said, “because he can’t do that.”
I grabbed the blue rubber football and tossed it back to Stick. Then I pushed myself through the hedge back into his yard.
I saw Miles trotting up the asphalt driveway. His open red shirt was flapping in the wind as he ran. His white sneakers reminded me of big marshmallows, padding on the drive. “Hey, what’s up?” he called.
Stick heaved him the football. It sailed through Miles’s hands and bounced off the garage wall. “Nice catch!” Stick yelled.
Miles picked the ball up and heaved it with all his strength at Stick’s stomach. Stick let out a cry and spun away, and the ball bounced off his shoulder.
A typical ball game for the three of us. It always starts out like a nice game of toss and catch. And then all of a sudden, we’re pounding each other black-and-blue with the ball.
It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. It had rained the night before, and the grass sparkled from the raindrops. Not a cloud in the sky. I kept raising my face to the sun. The sunlight felt so warm and soft.
The three of us were meeting in Stick’s backyard to talk about the YC bake sale. All the schools in Borderville were competing to bake the best dessert — and raise the most money for the YC.
I tossed the football to Miles. “What should we make?” I asked. “It has to be something awesome. You know. Something that will crush the other schools.”
Miles sent the ball sailing over Stick’s head. Stick chased after it, but Wolfie got there first. The big dog snapped the ball up in his teeth and ran off with it. We watched him gallop away around the side of the house.
“Hey — what’s up with that?” Miles said.
“Wolfie’s not a team player,” Stick said.
“We’ve got to concentrate,” I said. “What can we bake?”
“How about apple pie?” Miles said. “Everyone loves apple pie.”
“What’s special about that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well … we could pile on a gallon or two of ice cream.”
“That’s not special,” Stick said. He bumped Miles hard with his shoulder. The two of them began wres
tling on the grass.
I crossed my arms in front of me and waited for them to stop. But they kept rolling around, elbowing each other, grunting and growling. They stopped when they smashed into Wolfie’s enormous bathtub.
“Ow!” Miles cried out as he banged his head on the big metal tub.
Stick laughed. “Did your head dent the tub?”
Miles climbed to his feet, groaning and rubbing his head.
“You just gave me an idea,” I said. I crossed the yard and picked up the big, round tub in both hands.
“You want to give my dog a bath?” Stick said.
“Shut up,” I said. “Listen to me. This is genius.”
“And he’s so modest,” Miles said. He helped pull Stick up off the grass.
“We use this tub,” I said. “We fill it with cake batter.”
“Genius!” Stick cried. He slapped me on the back.
“Let me finish,” I said. “We fill the tub with chocolate cake batter. And we make the biggest chocolate cupcake ever made. Tell the truth. Genius?”
They stared at the tub. I could see they were thinking hard about it.
“We’ll need a lot of icing,” Miles said.
Stick nodded. “How much cake batter will we need?” He took the tub from me and studied the outside of it. “It says here it’s a ten-gallon tub.”
“So we’ll need ten gallons of cake batter?” Miles said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
“We could get our cupcake in the Guinness Book of Records,” Stick said. “I was reading that book. It’s got the biggest pizza in the world and the person with the longest beard. Stuff like that. We could be in it with the biggest cupcake ever.”
“Let’s ask your mom if she has any cake batter recipes,” I said. “Maybe she can help us figure out how much batter we need to put in the tub.”
We tromped into the house and found Mrs. Haggerty reading a book in the den. She’s very tall and pretty, and has blond hair piled high on her head. Stick doesn’t look anything like her. She always says she found him under a tree.
Mrs. Haggerty isn’t a stand-up comic like my mom was. But she’s really funny.
“Hey, guys,” she said. “Are you two staying for dinner? Stick’s dad is bringing home a couple of pizzas.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I told my mom I’d be home. But … we wanted to ask you a question.”
She closed her book. “What’s up?”
“We want to use Wolfie’s dog tub and make the world’s biggest cupcake,” Stick said. “You know. For the YC bake sale.”
“It’s a big contest,” Miles added. “Every school in town is competing.”
“But the world’s biggest cupcake would definitely win,” Stick said.
“Definitely,” his mom said. “And how can I help you?”
“We need to know how much cake batter to make to go in the tub,” Stick said.
Mrs. Haggerty blinked. Then she started to laugh.
The three of us just stared at her. We waited for her to stop.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m sorry, but it’s funny. There’s one thing you boys didn’t think of.”
“What?” Stick demanded.
“After you fill the tub with cake batter, how will you bake it? It won’t fit in any oven.”
My mouth dropped open. Stick shut his eyes. Miles let out a groan. He slapped his forehead. “Stupid, stupid.”
“It seemed like a good idea,” I said.
“It was a stupid idea,” Miles said.
“Sometimes stupid ideas are good,” Mrs. Haggerty said. “Stupid ideas can spark your imagination and lead to good ideas.”
“My imagination isn’t sparked,” Stick said. “I could just picture that giant cupcake.”
I glanced at the clock on the bookshelf. I was late for Sunday dinner. “Let’s keep thinking,” I said. “I’m sure we can think up a lot more stupid ideas.”
I meant it as a joke, but no one laughed. I said good-bye and trotted the two blocks to my house.
My problems didn’t start until after dinner.
As I climbed the stairs to my room, I was still thinking about the huge cupcake. There must be some way to bake ten gallons of cake batter.
I stepped into my room and clicked on the light. The first thing I saw was the Slappy dummy sitting up straight on my bed, his back against the wall.
Weird, I thought. Didn’t I leave him on the floor?
I guessed Rachel had been playing with him.
I sat down on the bed and reached for him.
And to my horror, he reached for ME!
His arms shot up. I uttered a gasp as his wooden hands grabbed me by the throat.
“You — you —” I choked out. “You’re really ALIVE!”
The wooden fingers tightened around my neck. I struggled to breathe. My heart pounded so hard, my chest ached.
This can’t be happening.
I tried to jerk free. But I couldn’t break away. Pain rocketed up and down my body.
The dummy lowered his big head toward me. His mouth clicked up and down. “Please thank Rachel for bringing me to life.”
His voice was high and shrill. I thought of chalk squeaking on a chalkboard.
His glassy eyes bulged wide. “Now the fun begins!” he shouted in my ear.
“L-let go,” I stammered. The hard wooden fingers gripped my throat, squeezing tight.
He tossed back his head and cackled, an ugly, frightening laugh. “I won’t let go! You can’t make me!”
“But … but …” I sputtered. “You’re a copy. You’re not the real Slappy.”
He cackled again. “Who would believe that lie? Only a dumb sap like your grandfather!”
I grabbed his wrists and struggled to pull his hands off me. As we wrestled, the truth repeated in my head. This was the real Slappy, in all his evil. And my sister had shouted out the words to bring him to life.
“Ahhh!” With a hoarse cry, I tugged his hands off my throat. I slapped them down and leaped to my feet. My whole body trembled as I spun around to face him.
“You’re Slappy. You’re the original Slappy,” I said.
The wooden face grinned up at me with its painted red lips. The mouth clicked as it talked.
“Yes, that’s me, Jackson, my friend. I’m the one and only. But don’t feel bad. Your grandfather didn’t lie. There is a Son of Slappy.”
I gazed down at this horrible-looking thing, this wooden puppet, who could speak and move and grinned with such evil.
“Jackson,” it rasped, “don’t you want to know who the Son of Slappy is? Aren’t you curious?”
His round black eyes locked on mine. And I suddenly felt strange. Suddenly weak. My mind … I couldn’t think of words. I couldn’t speak.
I could feel the dummy invading my mind. It was like he was hypnotizing me. Seeping into my brain … my thoughts.
And I couldn’t do anything to keep him out.
I felt as if I was swimming underwater. I suddenly felt as if I was sinking … sinking into a deep darkness.
I struggled to speak. Finally, I shouted: “Who? Tell me. Who is the Son of Slappy?”
“YOU!” the dummy shrieked. It bounced up and down with excitement.
“Huh?”
“Congratulations, Jackson. It’s you, you lucky boy. YOU are now the Son of Slappy!”
I heard a sound. A loud chirp.
Suddenly, I felt dizzy. The room began to spin. My head felt heavy.
Once again, the dummy tossed back its head and opened its mouth wide in an ugly, shrill laugh.
And to my horror, I couldn’t stop myself.
My head tilted back — just like his — and I laughed right along with him.
The next thing I knew, I was under the covers in my bed. I blinked myself awake. The morning sun was pouring through the window.
Asleep. I’d been asleep.
I stretched my arms over my head and glanced aro
und. My eyes stopped on the dummy. It sat slumped on the floor by my closet with its arms dangling to the rug and legs straight out. The glassy eyes stared down at his shoes.
“Slappy?” My voice was clogged from sleep.
The dummy didn’t move.
“Whoa. What a dream!” I said out loud.
That whole thing with Slappy talking and telling me I’m now the Son of Slappy — it must have been a bad dream.
A chill ran down my back. It was such a strong, real dream.
I climbed out of bed and crossed the room. I hesitated for a moment. Then I kicked the dummy in the chest with my bare foot.
It bounced, then fell back in a heap. Lifeless.
The dummy wasn’t alive. What a frightening, weird nightmare.
At breakfast, Mom and Dad both asked me why I was so cheerful today. “I’ve never seen anyone so cheerful in the morning. Maybe we should take you to the doctor,” Mom joked.
I wanted to say, “I’m cheerful because the dummy isn’t alive.” But, of course, it wouldn’t make any sense to them. So I just said I had a good sleep.
Rachel scowled across the breakfast table at me. “I still don’t understand why Jack got a sweater, and I didn’t get anything,” she whined.
“Rachel, stop complaining,” Dad said. “We told you. Aunt Ada is sending your present later.”
“She never sends me anything good,” Rachel said. “Last year, she sent me bright green socks. Why would anyone send green socks? I stuffed them in my bottom drawer so I wouldn’t have to look at them.”
“Rachel, forget the socks. Did you do your math assignment last night?” Mom demanded.
Rachel sighed. “Some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“Well, Alyssa texted me and then we started talking and …”
Mom tsk-tsked. “Rachel, you promised. You promised you’d get your homework done.”
Rachel grinned. “I had my fingers crossed when I promised.”
I told you. She’s a problem child.
Later, in art class, we were all working hard, painting posters for the YC bake sale and talent show. We sat at the long tables in the art room with our brushes and big jars of paint in front of us, sketching and painting.