Goosebumps Most Wanted - 02 - Son of Slappy (6 page)

“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 around. 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.

Mr. Tallen, the art teacher, had dance music bombing from a big old boombox on his desk. Mr. Tallen says artists work better to music.

The pounding dance beat of the music kept the energy up. Everyone was bobbing their heads, bouncing along, working hard and having a good time.

“
Dance … dance … dance to the music …
”

I still felt cheerful. I love the smell of paint. And I was happy that everyone in my class was pitching in to help the YC. Maybe if we all worked really hard, the YC could stay open for another year.

I thought about Froggy and Nikki and all the kids. How happy they’d be to keep playing there after school.

I had a good idea for a funny skit. It would be about a bunch of kids trying to take care of two canaries. And, of course, they’d mess everything up.

And I kept thinking up jokes I could do at the show with Slappy. I really wanted to help Mrs. Pearson and everyone at the YC. I knew they were counting on me.

I leaned over my poster. I was painting a bright yellow sun and a smiling kid beneath it. And I planned to paint the words:
Keep the Kids Smiling
.

Suddenly, the music cut off. “Let’s take a ten-minute break,” Mr. Tallen said. “You can all go outside and relax for a few minutes. I’ll join you.”

There was a clatter of chairs, paintbrushes being set down, paint jars closing. Everyone was shouting and laughing. The room emptied out very quickly.

I glanced around. I was the only one who didn’t leave. I just wanted to finish filling in the sun on my poster.

I slapped yellow paint on the posterboard. I smoothed my brush over it. I could hear the kids from my class outside the art room window.

Suddenly, I heard another sound. A
chirp
. A loud
chirp
. Then another.

My head — it suddenly felt so strange. The room started to tilt one way, then the other. I shut my eyes, but the dizziness wouldn’t go away.

Then I heard a different noise. It was the
sound of Slappy’s shrill cackle. Why did I hear that? Why did it feel like it was inside my head?

I held up my paintbrush. I didn’t think about it. I just picked it up and dipped it into a jar of black paint.

So dizzy … my head … feels so HEAVY.

I raised the paintbrush and smeared thick lines of black paint all over my poster. More paint. More paint. I worked frantically until my poster was covered in black.

Then I dipped the brush again and painted black smears all over the poster next to mine. I reached across the table and ruined another poster, brushing thick black streaks over it … more … more.

This is AWESOME!

Did I really think that? Was that
me
thinking that?

Yessss! Awesome!

I picked up a jar of dark blue paint. I tilted it upside down and poured the paint all over the art table. Then I stood up, reached down, and painted the seat of my chair blue. I painted a few more chairs, slapping paint all over them. Faster … more paint …

Awesome! This is so totally AWESOME!

I took a jar of red paint and let it dribble onto the floor. Then I took another paint jar — purple — and splashed the paint against the wall.

Awesome!

I tossed back my head and let out a long laugh.

Oh, wow. My laugh was high and shrill — and as nasty as Slappy’s.

I laughed and laughed. I laughed till my throat hurt. I couldn’t stop.

But, wait.

I heard voices in the hall. The kids were all returning to the art room.

I stood and stared at the door.

Think fast, Jackson. Think fast.

How could I explain this mess?

The footsteps were right outside the door.

I took a paint jar and spilled red paint down the front of my T-shirt. Then I smeared some paint on my face.

Kids cried out in shock as they stepped into the room. Mr. Tallen went pale. He kept blinking fast and swallowing.

It took him a while to focus on me.

I went running toward him, my face twisted in alarm. “It was three dogs!” I cried. “Three huge dogs. They … they jumped in through the window!” I pointed to the open window.

I made a choking noise. I made my chest heave up and down.

“Calm down, Jackson,” Mr. Tallon said. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath. Are you okay?”

“L-look what they did!” I stammered. “They jumped all over the tables and spilled paint
everywhere. I — I tried to stop them. But there were
three
of them!”

“Funny. I didn’t hear any barking.” Mr. Tallon’s eyes swept over the horrible mess on the table, the floor, the wall.

I took a few gasping breaths. The other kids stared at me. No one spoke or moved.

“They … just went nuts,” I said in a trembling voice. “When I tried to grab them, they growled at me and snapped. It … it was pretty scary. I finally chased them back out the window.”

Mr. Tallon walked to the window and peered out. “I don’t see them now.”

“I … I’m so sorry!” I cried. “Really. So … sorry …”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mr. Tallon said. “I’m sure you did your best in a scary situation.” He started toward the hall. “I’m going to alert the principal. Perhaps she’ll want to call the town police.”

I made my shoulders shake up and down. I tried to look as upset as I could.

Mr. Tallon turned at the door. “Jackson, do you have another T-shirt in your gym locker? You could change without having to go home.”

“Okay,” I said softly.

The teacher studied me. “The dogs didn’t bite you — did they?”

I shook my head. “No. But they tried.”

I followed him out the art room door. Then I turned and went down the stairs to the gym locker room.

Of course he believed my story,
I thought.
He knows that Jackson Stander would never lie. I’m the most trusted kid in school.

You bet.

I pulled open the door to the locker room. The aroma of sweat and dirty gym socks greeted me. The air was hot and damp.

Suddenly, I felt normal again.

I sucked in a deep breath. “What did I do?” I said out loud. My voice echoed down the empty rows of lockers. “Why did I do that?”

The answer came to me in a flash.

It was too horrible. Too frightening. Too impossible. But I knew it was true.

Slappy. Slappy got inside my head. Slappy made me destroy the posters and splash paint over the art room.

A chill made my whole body shudder. I hugged myself. I didn’t want to believe it.

I was
possessed
!

He invaded my brain. It wasn’t a dream. He was alive — and I was the Son of Slappy.

“Nooo.” A moan escaped my throat.

I don’t want to be Slappy’s son. His slave. I don’t want to be evil.

My hands were shaking hard as I changed into
my clean T-shirt. I tossed the paint-smeared shirt into a trash can.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to stand up to Slappy. I wanted to tell him, “Stop it! STOP it — right now!”

I wanted to shout, “Leave me ALONE! Stay out of my HEAD!”

No. Better than that. I decided to get rid of the dummy. Send him back to Grandpa Whitman? No. I wouldn’t do something that horrible to my grandfather.

Edgar was right. He tried to warn me. If only I had listened.

Okay. I would take care of it. I would dump the dummy in a trash can somewhere far from my house.

That thought made me feel better. Only three more hours of school. Then I’d go home and say good-bye forever to Slappy.

I shut my gym locker and checked my watch. Art class was over. I headed back to my regular classroom. Miss Hathaway, my teacher, wasn’t at her desk.

I glanced around the room. The kids were all reading from the science textbook. No one looked up when I stepped into the room. Not even Stick and Miles.

Miles had his face covered by his book. Sometimes he takes short naps, and Miss Hathaway never guesses.

“Oh.” I muttered a startled cry.

I heard the
chirp
sound again. Just a quiet
chirp
, not loud enough to make any of the kids glance up from their reading.

I glanced around the room again. I wanted to find what made that sound.

But no time. I felt a tingle in my head. Like a buzzing. The room went cloudy for a moment, then bright again.

I started to walk past Miss Hathaway’s desk. I saw her red-framed eyeglasses on top of her assignment book. Her brown canvas pocketbook. A blue-and-white scarf thrown over the back of her chair.

Then something caught my eye on the corner of her desk.

What was that? I squinted hard. The History test for tomorrow?

Just sitting there. Out where anyone could take it.

I chuckled to myself. I made sure no one was watching. Then I grabbed the test, rolled it into a tube, and carried it to my seat near the back of the room.

I stuffed it into my backpack. Two seconds later, Miss Hathaway walked into the room.

She is very tall and very thin and very pretty. She has wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a great smile. She wears dark sweaters and short
skirts over black tights. Everyone thinks she’s the coolest teacher in school.

“Everybody is reading quietly,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

She sat down at her desk. She moved her glasses and set her canvas bag on the floor.

Then she turned and gazed down at her desk. She shifted in her chair. And then she turned to me.

“Jackson?” she called.

My breath caught in my throat.

Oh, no. Caught.