by R. L. Stine
I had plenty of time to think up jokes while I was grounded the past week. And I had a lot of time to practice throwing my voice. Sure, I was a little nervous. But I was also eager to get onstage and make people laugh.
The crowd grew quiet as I sat down on a tall wooden stool at the front of the stage. I perched the dummy on my lap. I stuffed my hand into his back and found the controls for his eyes and mouth.
“Hello, everyone,” I said. “I want you to meet my friend Slappy.”
Then I changed to my high Slappy voice: “Get your hand out of my back, Jackson,” I made him say. “That hand is cold!”
“But I have to work your head,” I said.
I made Slappy’s eyes go wide. “Oh, yeah? Well, who’s working your head?”
That got a big laugh. I started to feel less nervous. The act was going well.
“No one has to work my head,” I said. “My head isn’t made out of wood!”
“It isn’t?” I made Slappy cry. “Then why do you have termites? Or is that just very big dandruff?”
“Stop it, Slappy,” I said. “Why do you have to be so rude?”
“Because someone is putting words in my mouth!”
That got a big laugh. I could see everyone was enjoying my act. At the side of the stage, all the kids were laughing, too.
“Jackson, do you know the difference between a turkey sandwich and a pile of smelly garbage?”
“No, I don’t, Slappy,” I said.
“Well, remind me not to send you out to get my lunch!”
More big laughs. This was going much better than I expected. I wished Mom and Dad and Rachel were here to see it.
But, of course, that was impossible. My parents thought I was quietly tucked into my room.
“Slappy, let’s do a knock knock joke,” I said. I made a fist and tapped his head. “Knock knock.”
“Owww,” I made him say. “Knock knock who?”
“Wood,” I said.
“Wood who?”
“Wood you like to hear another one?”
“Would you like me to knock on your head?”
The audience laughed again. This was so much fun. I was having the best time ever.
And then …
And then …
I heard a loud chirp.
My breath caught in my throat. I uttered a strangled gasp.
Chirp.
I heard it again.
It came from behind me. To my left. I turned — and I saw what made the sound.
The canaries in the birdcage.
Chirp. Again.
And I began to feel strange. The spotlight dimmed. The whole auditorium darkened to black. The stage felt as if it was tilting beneath me, about to spill me into the audience.
My head suddenly felt heavy.
I knew what was happening. Yes, of course I knew. But there was no way to stop it.
The birds had given the signal. There was no way to stop Slappy from taking over once again.
“This is a great looking audience,” he cried. “Great looking if you like a good horror show! You all inspire me! You inspire me to throw up!”
The audience groaned.
“I didn’t say that, everyone,” I protested.
The dummy was talking on his own. But who would believe that?
“You know what you all look like?” he shouted. “You look like some warts I had removed! Actually, the warts were nicer looking!”
More groans.
I saw Mrs. Lawson backstage shaking her head and frowning.
“I don’t want to insult you people,” Slappy said, “but I’ve pulled better looking snot from my nose!”
Silence. I could see the shocked look on some faces. I heard a few boos from the back of the auditorium.
I knew I had to get out of there. I had to stand up and hurry offstage before the dummy caused real trouble.
I tried to jump off the tall stool. But I couldn’t move. Slappy was inside my head. He was forcing me to stay there.
“I need help,” I called out. “I’m not making him say these things.”
People stared at me in silence. No way they believed me.
Slappy leaned toward a man in the front row. “Is that your shirt or did you get sick on yourself?”
I struggled to get down. But he held me in place.
I watched helplessly as the dummy brought a volunteer up from the audience. It was a little boy with wavy brown hair and serious, dark eyes.
“Don’t stand so close,” Slappy told the kid. “Your breath smells like dog poop.”
The poor boy didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He just stood there gaping at Slappy. I saw that he was trembling a little.
“Don’t be afraid,” Slappy told him. “I don’t bite.”
And then Slappy leaned closer to the boy. “Oh, yes, I DO!” he cried.
The poor kid let out a scream as Slappy clamped his wooden jaw onto the boy’s wrist. I saw Slappy bite down hard — but I couldn’t do anything to stop him.
“Owwwwww! You’re hurting me!” the kid screamed.
People in the audience started to boo and shout. I saw a few people stomp angrily out of the auditorium. Some people jumped to their feet.
Slappy clamped down harder. The boy screamed.
“Stop! It hurts! It hurts! Make him stop!”
I turned and saw Mrs. Lawson striding angrily across the stage toward me. I gave her a helpless shrug.
“Jackson, stop it!” she shouted. “Stop it! Get your dummy off him — this instant!”
I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t in control. I couldn’t stop.
I leaned forward — and bit down hard on Mrs. Lawson’s wrist.
She let out a shocked scream. She jerked her arm hard and tried to pull free.
But I clamped my teeth over her wrist.
“Let go of me! Let go! Have you lost your mind?”
She struggled and squirmed. But my teeth were strong. She couldn’t get free.
Slappy held on, too. The boy was crying now.
I heard angry voices. Shouts and screams. People were rushing toward the stage.
I knew I was doomed. I would be blamed for everything. No one would ever forgive me for this. And no one would believe the evil dummy caused all the trouble.
What could I do? What?
Suddenly, I knew. At least, I had an idea.
Maybe I could put Slappy back to sleep. Maybe …
Maybe if I read those strange words again, they would knock him out.
“Let go of me! I’m warning you, Jackson!” Mrs. Lawson screamed. “You are really hurting me!”
Using all my strength, I forced my jaw open.
Mrs. Lawson staggered back as her wrist came free.
I swung away from her. I grabbed Slappy around the waist. His wooden jaw was still clamped tightly on the crying boy’s wrist.
I slid my hand up to Slappy’s jacket pocket.
Please let that sheet of paper with the secret words be inside the pocket. PLEASE let it still be in there!
I reached into the pocket.
Yes!
The folded-up sheet of paper. It was there! My fingers fumbled around it.
I gave a tug and pulled the paper from the pocket.
Good-bye, Slappy, I thought. Good-bye and good riddance!
My hand trembled as I unfolded the paper. I nearly dropped it. But I gripped it tightly and brought it close to my face.
And let out a horrified scream.
The paper was blank.
I turned to the other side. Blank. Turned back to the first side. Blank. No words. No secret words. No words at all.
The paper fluttered from my shaking hand.
Slappy finally let go of the kid’s wrist. He tossed back his head and opened his mouth in a high, tinny victory laugh.
And what could I do? As everyone stared in shock and horror, I tossed back my head and laughed with him.
That was a few weeks ago. My life has been a mess
ever since. I know it will never return to normal.
People stare at me wherever I go. And I hear them whispering about me.
I know what they’re saying. They’re saying I’m the boy who went nuts and ruined the YC show for everyone.
I’m not allowed to go to the YC anymore. I can understand why. That little boy and Mrs. Lawson had to have their wrists bandaged.
I feel so bad about that. But I can’t explain to anyone what really happened that night.
Mom and Dad have been so worried about me. Of course, I had to be punished for sneaking out of the house. And punished for everything else that happened.
No allowance for the rest of the year. And I’m grounded except for a few school events. No friends allowed to come over. Mom won’t even bake my favorite chocolate cake.
I told my parents to throw Slappy out. But they refused. They said he belonged to Grandpa Whitman. “We’ll return the dummy next time we visit,” Mom said.
So I folded him up and stuffed him into an old suitcase. I carefully latched the suitcase shut. Then I hid it down in the basement behind a pile of cartons.
I felt a lot safer with that evil thing locked away.
But not for long.
One night, I heard voices across the hall in Rachel’s room.
I could tell she wasn’t on the phone. Who was she talking to?
I crept across the hall. Her door was open just a crack. I couldn’t see anything. But I could hear the conversation.
“He was such a good boy,” I heard Rachel say. “So totally perfect. Every day, he made me look bad.”
Oh, wow. Is she talking about me?
“I understand,” another voice said. A voice that sent a shiver down my whole body.
Slappy! She was talking to Slappy!
I pressed my ear to the door.
“I had to show him, didn’t I?” Rachel continued. “I had to show him he wasn’t so perfect in every way, right?”
“Right,” Slappy agreed. And then he giggled.
“So I read those words and brought you to life,” Rachel said. “And you know the rest.”
They both giggled.
“You’ve been a good daughter,” Slappy told her. “Daughter of Slappy.”
My chest hurt. I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time.
My brain was spinning in my head. Rachel. It was all Rachel’s fault. Rachel had been working with Slappy the whole time. She only pretended she didn’t know what was going on.
“And you hid those words away?” Slappy asked her.
“Yes. He’ll never find them. Don’t worry. I hid the secret words and put a blank paper in your pocket.”
“Thanks, Daughter.”
They both giggled again. Then there was a long silence.
Then Rachel said, “Jackson, we know you’re out there in the hall. And we know you’re listening.”
I swallowed hard. My heart skipped a beat.
“And guess what? We know how to deal with eavesdroppers,” Slappy rasped.
And then I heard a loud chirp.
Have you ever felt so frightened, you couldn’t breathe? Like your whole body just locked in fear, and you couldn’t even blink your eyes?
That’s how I feel right now. I can’t move and I can’t think straight.
My name is Noah Bienstock and I’m twelve. Everyone calls me Bean, even my parents.
I’m underwater. Deep underwater. And it’s cold down here. It feels like icicles brushing against my skin. Each ripple of the soupy green water makes me shiver.
I know I have to move. Because something is coming after me. Something dark and big.
I see only a billowing black shadow in the water. Like an ink blot. Moving fast, in a straight line. It starts to take shape. It’s some sort of creature.
Ohh. I’ve seen it before. It’s the monster.
I pull my arms forward and try to swim. My muscles don’t want to work. The water suddenly feels heavy, as if its pushing down on me, trying to sink me.
The shadow rolls over me, covering me in its darkness, making the water even colder.
I shudder. My whole body prickles from the cold. I want to scream. Scream for help. But I’m deep underwater.
No one can scream underwater. Even in a dream.
Yes, I know I’m dreaming. I’ve had this dream before.
I know it’s a dream but I can’t stop my terror. Each time, the dream seems as real as my life. Each time, the monster behind the inky black shadow comes closer … closer to swallowing me up.
I ignore my pounding heartbeats and force myself to swim. I kick hard. My hands churn the water. Faster. Harder. But I can’t pull myself out of the cold shadow. It reaches over me with tentacles like some kind of octopus.
I can’t escape. It’s too fast, too big. The shadow spreads over me, making me shudder again as I frantically churn the water. I know the monster is close behind it.
I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming about the monster again. But I can’t wake up. I can’t raise myself from the green-black ocean depths.
The water bubbles and swirls. Long weeds slap at my face and wrap around my arms. Let me go. Let me go.
My chest is bursting. I need to breathe. I need to scream.
And then I hear a growled whisper, carried by a strong underwater wave. A terrifying low voice, calling to me: “I’ll find you. You can’t hide. I promise I’ll find you.”
My terror makes my arms stronger. I slap at the water. Push through the long, sharp weeds. Swim up. Yes. My thudding heartbeats are like an engine. I kick and thrash my arms and reach the surface.
Yes!
My head shoots up over the water. I struggle to suck in a deep breath.
But I feel the monster beneath me. I feel it wrap its powerful arms around my legs. And pull me hard … pull me down.
I can’t kick free. I can’t swim. I can’t breathe. I can’t escape.
Down … Down …
Wake up! Why can’t I WAKE UP?
“I had the dream again,” I said.
Mom poured a pile of Wheaties into my bowl. She shook her head and tsk-tsked. “Again?” She tilted the milk carton over the cereal.
“I can pour my own milk,” I said. “I’m not a baby.”
“I like to pour it,” she said. “Makes me feel like a real mom, you know. Like in the TV commercials.”
Mom and Dad aren’t like TV parents. Mom is a rocket scientist. Really. She’s always flying off to some desert to work on a new kind of space rocket. Dad manages a pet shop at the mall. He’s always bringing strange birds home to show off to me.
“Why do I have to have nonfat milk?” I grumbled. “It tastes like water. Why can’t I have real milk?”
She squinted at me. “Because you’re a chub?”
“I’m not a chub.” I slammed my spoon on the tabletop. “I’m not even the biggest kid in my class. Not even close. Why do you always have to say I’m a chub?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Look. Don’t take it out on me. Okay? You’re upset because of the dream.”
“Yeah. Why do I have so many horrible nightmares about being chased by monsters? You’re a scientist. Tell me, why do I keep having this underwater dream?”
Mom dropped into the chair across the table and took a long sip of coffee. “Because you’re nervous.”
“Huh? Nervous about drowning?”
“No, Bean. You’re nervous about the swim team tryouts. You’re not sure you’re good enough to make the team. So you keep having nightmares about swimming.”
I stared hard at her. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m a scientist.”
“But … why do the dreams seem so real?”
She took another sip of coffee. It must have been really hot. The heat made her glasses steam up. “Because you have a really powerful imagination, I guess.”
I liked that answer. I do have a good imagination. I think it’s because I spend a lot of time by myself thin
king up things.
I don’t have a ton of friends. I don’t talk a lot in school, and it’s hard for me to hang out with other kids. I can never think of anything to say.
I think it’s because I’m kind of shy. And that makes life a little tough. And a little lonely.
My best friend is Lissa Gardener. She’s in my class, and she lives upstairs from me at Sternom House, our apartment building.
Lissa and I look like we come from different planets. I’m short and a little chubby. I have curly black hair and dark eyes and wear glasses like my mom and dad. Lissa is tall and thin, with straight blond hair and blue eyes.
She is trying out for the girls’ swim team. But she doesn’t have nightmares about it because she knows she’s really good at sports. She has other friends, too. But since we live in the same apartment building, we end up spending a lot of time together.
I went to my room and got dressed for school. I expected to find puddles of water on my floor. You know. From my dream.
Bright sunlight filled my bedroom window. But I still saw that terrifying shadow, the shadow of the monster rolling over me deep under the water.
I shivered. I couldn’t shake the dream from my mind.
I knew Mom was right. I was just stressed about the swim team tryouts.
I didn’t really want to try out. But Lissa said I had to get into some activities at school. She said it would help me make more friends.
I shouted good-bye to Mom. Then I swung my backpack onto my shoulders and headed out the door.
We live on the fourth floor. I never take the elevator. I always go down the stairs. My sneakers clanged on the metal steps as I ran down, my hand sliding down the narrow railing.
I pushed open the door and stepped outside. It was a sunny spring day with puffy white clouds high overhead. The air was warm and smelled of flowers.
I stopped when I saw a red-and-white moving van parked at the curb. A family was watching as movers started to unload their furniture and cartons from the back of the big truck.
A new family moving into the building.
I saw three kids. Two of them were little. But one could be about my age. He turned as I started to walk past. He had brown hair down over his forehead to his eyes. He didn’t smile. He turned back to the truck before I could say hi or anything.