Goosebumps Most Wanted - 02 - Son of Slappy

by R. L. Stine

  I turned to my dad. “You like horror movies. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  “Jackson, stop!” he screamed. “Did someone dare you to insult everyone?”

  “Did someone dare you to be so stupid?” I replied. “You’re thirty-six, right? But is that your age or your IQ?”

  I dipped my spoon into my pea soup and sent a glob of soup flying across the table into Noah’s face. Noah uttered a startled cry.

  Now, everyone was on their feet. Mom and Dad each took a shoulder and pushed me out of the dining room. “Have you gone crazy?” Dad demanded. “Have you?”

  “Should I call the doctor?” Mom asked in a trembling voice.

  “He’s bad. He’s gone bad!” Rachel cried. I could see the big smile on her face.

  Dad guided me to the stairs. “Just go to your room. Stay up there till you’re ready to come back and apologize.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I said.

  They watched me climb the stairs. They were all muttering and shaking their heads in shock.

  I slumped into my room. My head felt about to explode. All the horrible things I’d said kept repeating in my mind.

  I raised my eyes to Slappy, perched on my bed.

  He grinned at me. “How was dinner, Son?”

  I threw myself across the room and grabbed Slappy by the shoulders. I shook him, shook him hard.

  A giggle escaped his open mouth.

  I tossed him back against the wall. My chest was heaving. I could barely breathe. “Don’t call me son,” I said.

  He giggled again.

  How can this be happening? He’s just a doll. He’s made of wood and plastic.

  I could hear voices from downstairs. Everyone was talking at once.

  “Listen to them,” I said. “Listen to how upset they are. They want to take me to a doctor. They know I don’t act like that. They know I couldn’t mean those things,” I said.

  “Tough beans,” the dummy muttered.

  “Why?” I cried. “Why are you making me do these horrible things?”

  His eyes blinked. “Evil is its own reward,” he said. “Relax, Son. You’ll learn to love it!”

  “Noooo!” I shouted. “No, I won’t. You’ve got to stop. You’ve got to leave me alone!”

  “Calm down, Son,” the dummy said. “I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way. You were the best, nicest, sweetest kid in the world. And now you’re as sick and twisted as I am.” He chuckled. “That’s something to be proud of.”

  “No. No way —” I started to protest. “You can’t —”

  I heard a chirp. The room appeared to shake.

  Perched on the bed, Slappy tossed his head back. He opened his wooden mouth wide and began to laugh.

  And … and … I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t control myself.

  I tossed back my head — and I laughed with him.

  I laughed and laughed. Crazy, horrible laughter.

  I couldn’t stop even when I saw someone in the bedroom doorway.

  Rachel. Standing at the door. Squinting hard at me, hands on her waist, as I laughed along with the dummy.

  I didn’t stop until she cried out in alarm: “Jackson — what’s so funny?”

  I swallowed. My throat was dry from laughing.

  I forced myself away from the bed. I hurtled across the room. I grabbed my sister by the arm and pulled her into the hall.

  “This — this is all your fault!” I cried breathlessly.

  She tugged my hand off her arm. “Let go of me. Are you crazy? Mom wants to call Dr. Marx. Aunt Ada thinks you should go to the emergency room.”

  “All your fault,” I repeated, trying to clear my mind.

  “Jackson, what are you talking about?” Rachel demanded. “What did I do?”

  “You shouted out those words,” I said. “You brought the dummy to life.”

  She flattened her back against the wall. She blinked a few times, then stared at me. “You really have gone nuts….”

  “No. I’m serious. It’s true,” I insisted.

  I pointed toward my room. “Didn’t you see him in there? Didn’t you see him laughing his head off?”

  “I only saw you,” she said.

  “Well, he’s alive,” I said. “You brought him to life. He’s alive, and he’s evil, and —”

  Rachel backed away. “I think I’m scared of you, Jackson. Really.”

  “Listen to me,” I cried. “I swear I’m telling the truth. I’m not crazy, Rachel. That dummy —”

  “That dummy is a copy,” Rachel said. “It isn’t even the real Slappy. You heard what Grandpa Whitman said.”

  “Grandpa Whitman was wrong,” I told her. “This is the real Slappy. This is the totally evil dummy he told us about.”

  She stared at me and didn’t reply. I could see her thinking hard.

  “It — it’s making me do all those horrible things,” I stammered. “He says I’m his son now, and —”

  “His son?”

  I nodded. “He — he made me say all those horrible rude insults. He’s totally gross, and he’s making me totally gross. He’s using me as a dummy.”

  Rachel shook her head. “How?” she demanded. “How is he doing that?”

  “He’s inside my head,” I explained. “I hear a sound and then there he is. He’s in my brain!”

  “Really. You’re scaring me,” Rachel said. “Did you hit your head or something? Did you fall down and hit your head?”

  I let out a long sigh. “No, I didn’t hit my head. Rachel, you know me. I — I’m not crazy. I don’t insult people. Never. I don’t play practical jokes, right? And I always tell the truth.”

  She studied my face. Finally, she said, “Yeah. That’s true. You don’t make things up.”

  “So you believe me?”

  She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the bedroom door. “You’ve never lied to me before. Not once. So go ahead. Show me, Jackson. Prove it to me. Show me he’s alive.”

  “Okay,” I said. I led her up to the bed. “Okay. Okay. Here goes. Stand back and watch.”

  The dummy sat with its legs straight out across my bed. Its back was pressed against the wall. Its head slumped forward, and its arms dangled loosely, folded on the bedspread.

  “Slappy, sit up,” I said. “Explain to Rachel.”

  The dummy didn’t move.

  “Slappy, tell Rachel who the Son of Slappy is,” I demanded.

  The dummy remained hunched over, limp and lifeless.

  “Come on, Slappy. I know you’re awake,” I said. “Come on, move.”

  No. He didn’t budge.

  I picked him up and shook him. “Wake up, Slappy. Stop this. Wake up and talk to Rachel.”

  The legs flew about loosely as I shook him. The arms dangled limply. The head flopped forward.

  “Talk! Talk! Talk!” I screamed.

  I felt Rachel’s hand on my arm. “Put it down. Come on, Jackson. Put it down. Shaking it isn’t going to do anything.”

  With an angry cry, I tossed the dummy onto the bed. It landed on its back. Its head and hands bounced up once, then settled lifelessly on the bedspread.

  I was breathing hard. My heart pounded in my chest.

  Rachel stared down at the dummy. Then she raised her eyes to me. “Jackson … I … don’t understand.”

  I heard a loud chirp.

  Rachel became all fuzzy, like a photo out of focus. Then she slowly became sharp again.

  My head felt strange … heavy.

  “Of course you don’t understand,” I snapped. “You need a brain to understand.”

  “Jackson —”

  “Rachel, remember that test you took in school? It said you have the same IQ as a cantaloupe?”

  She slapped my shoulder. “Shut up. Why are you being so horrible?”

  “A cantaloupe is better looking,” I said. “The skin is so much nicer. If I had your face, I’d walk on my hands. Let people see my better end!”

  I t
ossed back my head and laughed a cold, cruel laugh.

  “Just shut up. You’re a jerk!”

  I pushed her back a few inches. “Could you step away? Your breath is curling the wallpaper. Ever hear of a thing called a toothbrush?”

  “Aaaaagh!” She let out an angry growl. “I hate you. I really do. I’m going to tell Mom and Dad how mean you were to me.” She shoved me aside and stormed to the stairs.

  “I was just telling the truth!” I shouted. Then I tossed back my head and laughed again.

  I was still laughing when Slappy suddenly jerked to life. He raised his head and straightened his back. His big wooden hand shot out quickly — and he grabbed my arm.

  “Owww.” I let out a howl of pain as the wooden fingers tightened around my arm. Tighter … tighter. Pain roared up my entire right side.

  “Ohhhh. Stop. Let go.”

  But the hard hand refused to loosen its grip.

  “You made a bad mistake, Son,” the dummy rasped in its ugly, shrill voice. “You should never tell others about me.”

  “But — but —”

  He brought his head close to mine and shouted in my ear. “That makes me very unhappy, Son. You don’t want to see me when I’m unhappy — do you?”

  The next morning, I didn’t want to go down to breakfast. I knew I’d have to explain to Mom and Dad why I went berserk at dinner.

  But could I tell them the truth?

  No way. If I explained about Slappy, they wouldn’t believe me. They would want to drag me to a doctor. And it would make Slappy angry at me again.

  He was right. I didn’t want to see him angry. Just thinking about it sent a cold shiver down my back.

  “Jackson?” I heard Mom calling from downstairs. “Come down to breakfast. You’re going to be late for school.”

  I had no choice. I made my way slowly down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Rachel sat at the table, a bowl of Frosted Flakes in front of her. She had an orange-juice mustache on her upper lip.

  Dad’s plate just had crumbs and a puddle of syrup. That meant he had already gone to work.

  Mom studied me as I entered. She was still in her pink bathrobe. She held a coffee mug in both hands. She tapped her foot nervously.

  “Jackson?”

  “I can explain,” I said. “You see, I had a bad headache last night, and —”

  I’m such a bad liar.

  I’m used to telling the truth all the time. I’m a real good dude, remember?

  Mom squinted at me. “A headache? I’m afraid that doesn’t explain your incredible rudeness.”

  I lowered my head. “I know,” I murmured. “But you see —”

  “Did you suddenly think that you were a comedian?” Mom said. “Did you think all those crude insults were funny?”

  I kept my eyes on the floor. “Not really.”

  “I can tell you about funny,” Mom said, growing more angry. “I know about funny. And making fun of people’s looks and hurting their feelings —”

  “I know,” I repeated. “I didn’t mean it. I can’t really explain it. I —”

  “That was just awful,” Mom said. Her hand trembled as she set her coffee mug down. Her eyes glistened. Did she have tears in them?

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  “Your aunt and uncle were just horrified,” she said. “They know what a good guy you are. The things you said to them were unforgivable, Jackson. Do you hear me? Unforgivable.”

  I glanced at Rachel at the table. She had a huge grin on her face. She was really enjoying this. Really loving seeing me be the bad guy for once.

  “You were so awful,” Mom continued in a tense, tight voice. “Your father and I don’t have a clue as to what your punishment should be. But you need to learn that you can’t talk to people that way.”

  “He was mean to me, too!” Rachel chimed in.

  Mom bit her lips. “Yes. And then you went upstairs and were mean to your sister. You didn’t quit. You had to be horrible to her, too.”

  I have to tell her the truth. I have no choice. I have to tell her about how Slappy is controlling me.

  Otherwise, she’ll think I’ve turned into some kind of a monster.

  I took a deep breath and started. “Mom, I have to explain something.”

  That’s as far as I got when I heard a sharp chirp.

  The room tilted. Shadows slid over the kitchen. Then it became bright again. My mind suddenly felt strange….

  Oh NO! What am I going to do now?

  I froze.

  Mom stared at me. “Jackson? What did you want to tell me?”

  “Uh …” I hesitated. Then the words came from somewhere deep in my brain. “I just wanted to say that your face looks like something I pulled out of the garbage disposal.”

  “Huh?” She gasped. I saw her hands tighten into fists.

  “But no one notices your face because you smell so bad,” I said.

  Mom’s eyes bulged. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out.

  “Jackson — shut up. What’s your problem?” Rachel cried.

  I spun around to face her. “Hey, I wrote a song for you,” I said. “It describes you perfectly.”

  I took a breath and started to grunt. “Oink oink oink oinnnk.” I grunted like a pig.

  “But cheer up,” I said. “You’re not a fat pig. You’re just an ugly, hairy pig.”

  I tossed back my head and laughed.

  “Jackson — stop!” Mom screamed. “Don’t say another word. I mean it. Not another word.”

  I nodded. I took my fingers and made a zipping motion over my lips.

  “That’s better,” Mom said. “We have to figure out what’s wrong with you. I’m not sure I can let you go to school like this.”

  “He’s crazy,” Rachel said. “Last night he told me that dummy was making him say the bad things.”

  Mom squinted at Rachel. “The dummy? That’s crazy. How could a dummy make Jackson say all those horrible things?”

  Rachel grinned. She was enjoying this too much. “He says the dummy is alive,” she told Mom. “I told you — he’s gone nutso.”

  Mom let out a long sigh. Her hands were still balled into tight fists. I could see how worried she was.

  But what could I do? I wasn’t in control.

  I walked to the breakfast table and picked up Rachel’s cereal bowl. Then I dumped it over her head.

  Rachel screamed.

  I watched the mushy clumps of cereal run down her hair and the sides of her face.

  Mom grabbed me by the shoulders. “That’s the last straw!” She pushed me toward the door. “Go up to your room — now. Stay in there. I’m going to call your father. He and I have to discuss what to do with you.”

  I started to the hall. But I turned back at the doorway and gazed at Rachel. “Oink oink oink,” I grunted.

  Mom hurried to the table to help pull the clumps of cereal from Rachel’s hair. She and Rachel weren’t watching, so I stopped at the pantry. I grabbed Rachel’s jar of honey and carried it upstairs with me.

  In my room, I found the new sweater Aunt Ada gave me. I spread it out on my bed. Then I opened the jar and poured the honey all over the sweater.

  What a mess.

  I set the jar down on the floor. Then I ran to the head of the stairs.

  “Mom!” I shouted. “Mom! I don’t believe it! Hurry. Come quick! Look what Rachel did to my new sweater!”

  Well, guess what? Mom didn’t believe for one second that Rachel poured the honey on my sweater.

  She gasped in horror when she saw it. She was so upset, I saw tears in her eyes. Rachel stood in the doorway, shaking her head. I think even she was upset about what I had done.

  Instead of yelling at me, Mom hugged me. “What is wrong, Jackson?” she said softly. “Can you tell me why you’re doing and saying these horrible things?”

  I glimpsed Slappy, perched on the bed with that red-lipped grin frozen on his face. I was desperate to tell Mom the truth.
Desperate to tell her that Slappy was alive and inside my head, making me do and say things I didn’t want to.

  But who would believe that story?

  I just shrugged and didn’t answer.

  The next few days were not pleasant. Mom and Dad took me to see our family doctor. They wanted Dr. Marx to give me pills to calm me down. The doctor talked to me for an hour and decided I should stay home for a few days and just relax.

  In other words, I was totally grounded. I couldn’t go to school. And I couldn’t go to the YC to help the kids work on their skit.

  I stayed in my room, playing games on my game-player until my thumbs were red and sore.

  Stick brought me my homework every afternoon so I wouldn’t get behind. Miss Hathaway even came to visit one afternoon to tell me about things that were going on at school.

  All week, my parents kept squinting at me day and night. Studying me like I was some kind of weird alien species. They were so totally tense, they watched my every move. Really. Once, I burped — and they both jumped.

  I guess they expected me to go berserk again. Me? I didn’t know what to expect.

  I carried Slappy to my clothes closet and sat him in a corner. Then I covered him in an old bedsheet. I made sure the closet door was shut tight.

  I knew he could get out if he wanted to. But he didn’t move at all while I was grounded. And he stayed out of my mind and didn’t make me say anything horrible.

  My parents were so happy that I seemed normal again, they let me go to the YC to help the kids with their skit.

  Yes, it was nearly time for the big YC bake sale and show. Everyone was counting on me. The skit was going well. And I had promised I’d do a comedy act with Slappy.

  But how could I bring that evil thing to the YC?

  I didn’t know. I didn’t want to think about it.

  But I kept wondering if maybe I could make a deal with Slappy. Promise him something in return for his being quiet at the YC show. Maybe promise I’d be a perfect son if he swore he wouldn’t ruin the whole night.

  Stick, Miles, and I still hadn’t decided what to bake for the big bake sale competition. We were going to have a big meeting at Stick’s house to decide.