31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (6 page)

“I don’t understand!” Alicia’s mother cried. She began frantically tugging my
arm. “What are you doing? Let her go! Let her go!”

“Owwwww!” Alicia uttered a high, heartbreaking wail. “Make him stop! It
hurts! It hurts!”

And then Slappy suddenly tilted his head back. His eyes opened wide, and his
mouth opened in a long, evil laugh.

I burst into the house and let the screen door slam behind me. I had taken
the city bus to Logan Street. Then I had run the six blocks to my house with
Slappy hanging over my shoulder.

“Amy, how did it go?” Mom called from the kitchen. “Did you get a ride? I
thought we were supposed to come pick you up.”

I didn’t answer her. I was sobbing too hard. I ran down the hall to my room
and slammed the door.

I hoisted Slappy off my shoulder and tossed him into the closet. I never
wanted to see him again. Never.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My cheeks were swollen
and puffy from crying. My eyes were red. My hair was wet and tangled, and matted
to my forehead.

I took several deep breaths and tried to stop crying.

I kept hearing that poor little girl’s screams in my ears. Slappy finally let go of her after he uttered his ugly laugh.

But Alicia couldn’t stop crying. She was so frightened! And her little hand
was red and swollen.

The other kids were all screaming and crying, too.

Alicia’s mother was furious. She called Margo’s dad out from the kitchen. She
was shaking and sputtering with anger. She said she was going to sue The Party
House.

Margo’s dad quietly asked me to leave. He led me to the front door. He said
it wasn’t my fault. But he said the kids were too frightened of Slappy now.
There was no way I could do my show.

I saw Margo hurrying over to me. But I turned and ran out the door.

I had never been so upset. I didn’t know what to do. A light rain had started
to come down. I watched rainwater flow down the curb and into the sewer drain. I
wanted to flow away with it.

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 cried. 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—”