31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (7 page)

“No,” I repeated firmly. “I changed my mind, Margo. I’m sorry. Tell your dad
I’m sorry. I—I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

I swallowed hard. And added: “
If
I ever see you.”

“You sound terrible,” Margo replied softly. “Should I come over to your
house? I think I could get my dad to drop me off.”

“I’m totally grounded,” I said unhappily. “No visitors.”

I heard footsteps in the hall. Probably Mom or Dad checking up on me. I
wasn’t allowed to be on the phone, either.

“Got to go. Bye, Margo,” I whispered. I hung up the phone.

Mom knocked on my bedroom door. I recognized her knock. “Amy, want to talk?” she called in.

“Not really,” I replied glumly.

“As soon as you tell the truth, you can come out,” Mom said.

“I know,” I muttered.

“Why don’t you just tell the truth now? It’s such a beautiful day,” Mom
called in. “Don’t waste the whole day in your room.”

“I—I don’t feel like talking now,” I told her.

She didn’t say anything else. But I could hear her standing out there.
Finally I heard her footsteps padding back down the hall.

I grabbed my pillow and buried my face in it.

I wanted to shut out the world. And think.

Think. Think. Think.

I wasn’t going to confess to a crime I didn’t do. No way.

I was going to find a way to prove to them that Slappy was the culprit. And I
was going to prove to them that I wasn’t crazy.

I had to show them that Slappy wasn’t an ordinary dummy.

He was alive. And he was evil.

But how could I prove it?

I climbed to my feet and began pacing back and forth. I stopped at the window
and gazed out at the front yard.

It
was
a beautiful spring day. Bright yellow tulips bobbed in the flower patch in front of my window. The sky was a solid
blue. The twin maple trees in the center of the yard were starting to unfurl
fresh leaves.

I took a deep breath. The air smelled so fresh and sweet.

I saw Jed and a couple of his friends. They were Rollerblading down the
sidewalk. Laughing. Having a good time.

And I was a prisoner. A prisoner in my room.

All because of Slappy.

I spun away from the window and stared at the closet door. I had shoved
Slappy into the back of the closet and shut the door tightly.

I’m going to catch you in the act, Slappy, I decided.

That’s how I’m going to prove I’m not crazy.

I’m going to stay up all night. I’m going to stay up
every
night. And
the first time you creep out of that closet, I’ll be awake. And I’ll follow you.

And I’ll make sure that everyone sees what you are doing.

I’ll make sure that everyone sees that
you
are the evil one in this
house.

I felt so upset. I knew I wasn’t really thinking clearly.

But having a plan made me feel a little better.

Taking one last glance at the closet door, I crossed the room to my desk and
started to do my homework.

* * *

Mom and Dad let me come out for dinner.

Dad had grilled hamburgers in the backyard, the first barbecue of spring. I
loved grilled hamburgers, especially when they’re charred real black. But I
could barely taste my food.

I guess I felt too excited and nervous about trapping Slappy.

No one talked much.

Mom kept chattering to Dad about the vegetable garden and what she wanted to
plant. Sara talked a little about the mural she had started to paint in her
room. Jed kept complaining about how he wrecked his knee Rollerblading.

No one
spoke to me. They kept glancing over the table at me. Studying me
like I was some kind of zoo animal.

I asked to be excused before dessert.

I usually stay up till ten. But a little after nine, I decided to go to bed.

I was wide awake. Eager to trap Slappy.

I turned out the light and tucked myself in. Then I lay staring up at the
shifting shadows on the bedroom ceiling, waiting, waiting…

Waiting for Slappy to come creeping out of the closet.

I must have fallen asleep.

I tried not to. But I must have drifted off anyway.

I was startled awake by sounds in the room.

I raised my head, instantly alert. And listened.

The scrape of feet on my carpet. A soft rustling.

A shiver of fear ran down my back. I felt goose-bumps up and down my arms.

Another low sound. So near my bed.

I reached forward quickly. Clicked on the bed table lamp.

And cried out.

“Jed—what are you
doing
in here?” I shrieked.

He stood blinking at me in the center of the room. One leg of his blue pajama
pants had rolled up. His red hair was matted against one side of his head.

“What are you doing in my room?” I demanded breathlessly.

He squinted at me. “Huh? Why are you yelling at me? You
called
me,
Amy.”

“I—I
what?”
I sputtered.

“You called me. I heard you.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and yawned.
“I was asleep. You woke me up.”

I lowered my feet to the floor and stood up. My legs felt shaky and weak. Jed
had really scared me.

“I was asleep, too,” I told him. “I didn’t call you.”

“Yes, you did,” he insisted. “You told me to come to your room.” He bent to pull down the pajama leg.

“Jed, you just woke
me
up,” I replied. “So how could I call you?”

He scratched his hair. He yawned again. “You mean I dreamed it?”

I studied his face. “Jed—did you sneak into my room to play some kind of
prank?” I demanded sternly.

He wrinkled his face up, tried to appear innocent.

“
Did
you?” I demanded. “Were you going into the closet to do something
with Slappy?”

“No way!” he protested. He started to back out of the room. “I’m telling the
truth, Amy. I thought you called me. That’s all.”

I squinted hard at him, trying to decide if he was telling the truth. I let
my eyes wander around the room. Everything seemed okay. Dennis lay in the
armchair, his head in his lap.

The closet door remained closed.

“It was a dream, that’s all,” Jed repeated. “Good night, Amy.”

I said good night. “Sorry I got upset, Jed. It’s been a bad day.”

I listened to him pad back to his room.

The cat poked his head into my room, his eyes gleaming like gold. “Go to
sleep, George,” I whispered. “You go to sleep, too, okay?” He obediently turned
and disappeared.

I clicked off the bed table lamp and settled back into bed.

Jed was telling the truth, I decided. He seemed as confused as I was.

My eyes suddenly felt heavy. As if there were hundred-pound weights over
them. I let out a loud yawn.

I felt so sleepy. And the pillow felt so soft and warm.

But I couldn’t let myself fall back to sleep.

I had to stay awake. Had to wait for Slappy to make his move.

Did I drift back to sleep? I’m not sure.

A loud
click
made my eyes shoot open wide.

I raised my head in time to see the closet door start to open.

The room lay in darkness. No light washed in from the window. The door was a
black shadow, sliding slowly, slowly.

My heart began to pound. My mouth suddenly felt dry as cotton.

The closet door slid slowly, silently.

A low
creak.

And then a shadow stepped out from behind the dark door.

I squinted hard at it. Not moving a muscle.

Another
creak
of the door.

The figure took another silent step. Out of the closet. Another step.
Another. Making its way past my bed, to the bedroom door.

Slappy.

Yes!

Even in the night blackness I could see his large, rounded head. I watched
his skinny arms dangle at his sides, the wooden hands bobbing as he moved.

The heavy leather shoes slid over my carpet. The thin, boneless legs nearly
collapsed with each shuffling step.

Like a scarecrow, I thought, gripped with horror.

He walks like a scarecrow. Because he has no bones. No bones at all.

Up and down, his whole body bobbed as he crept away.

I waited until he slithered and scraped out the door and into the hall. Then
I jumped to my feet.

I took a deep breath and held it.

Then I tiptoed through the darkness after him.

Here we go! I told myself.
Here we go!

I stopped at the bedroom door and poked my head into the hall. Mom keeps a
small night-light on all night just outside her bedroom door. It cast dim yellow
light over the other end of the hall.

Peering into the light, I watched Slappy pull himself silently toward Sara’s
room. The big shoes shuffled along the carpet. Slappy’s body bobbed and bent.
The big, wooden hands nearly dragged along the floor.

When my chest started to ache, I realized I hadn’t taken a breath. As
silently as I could, I let out a long whoosh of air. Then I took another deep
breath and started to follow Slappy down the hall.

I had a sudden impulse to shout: “Mom! Dad!”

They would burst out of their room and see Slappy standing there in the
middle of the hall.

But, no.

I didn’t want to shout for them now. I wanted to see where Slappy was
heading. I wanted to see what he planned to do.

I took a step. The floorboard creaked under my bare foot.

Did he hear me?

I pressed my back against the wall, tried to squeeze myself flat in the deep
shadows.

I peered through the dim yellow light at him. He kept bobbing silently along.
His shoulders rode up and down with each shuffling step.

He was just outside Sara’s room when he turned around.

My heart stopped.

I ducked low. Dropped back into the bathroom.

Had he seen me?

Had he turned around because he knew I was there?

I shut my eyes. Waited. Listened.

Listened for him to come scraping back. Listened for him to turn around and
come back to get me.

Silence.

I swallowed hard. My mouth felt so dry. My legs were trembling. I grabbed the
tile wall to steady myself.

Still silent out there.

I gathered up my courage and slowly, slowly poked my head out into the hall.

Empty.

I squinted toward Sara’s room in the yellow light.

No one there.

He’s in Sara’s room, I told myself. He’s doing something terrible in Sara’s
room. Something I’ll be blamed for.

Not
this
time, Slappy! I silently vowed.

This time you’re going to be caught.

Pressing against the wall, I crept down the hall.

I stopped in Sara’s doorway.

The night-light was plugged in across from Sara’s room. The light was
brighter here.

I squinted into her bedroom. I could see the mural she had started to paint.
A beach scene. The ocean. A broad, yellow beach. Kites flying over the beach.
Kids building a sand castle in one corner. The mural was tacked up, nearly
covering the entire wall.

Where was Slappy?

I took a step into the room—and saw him.

Standing at her paint table.

I saw his big wooden hand fumble over the table of supplies. Then he grabbed
a paintbrush in one hand.

He raised and lowered the brush, as if pretending to paint the air.

Then I saw him dip the paintbrush in a jar of paint.

Slappy took a step toward the mural. Then another step.

He stood for a moment, admiring the mural.

He raised the paintbrush high.

That’s when I burst into the room.

I dove toward the dummy just as he raised the paintbrush to the mural.

I grabbed the paintbrush with one hand. Wrapped my other hand around his
waist. And tugged him back.

The dummy kicked both legs and tried to punch me with his fists.

“Hey—!” a startled voice shouted.

The light clicked on.

Slappy went limp on my arm. His head dropped. His arms and legs dangled to
the floor.

Sitting up in bed, Sara gaped at me in horror.

I saw her eyes stop at the paintbrush in my hand.

“Amy—what are you
doing?”
she cried.

And, then, without waiting for an answer, Sara began to shout: “Mom! Dad!
Hurry! She’s in here again!”

Dad came rumbling in first, adjusting his pajama pants. “What’s going on?
What’s the problem?”

Mom followed right behind him, blinking and yawning.

“I—I took this from Slappy,” I stammered, holding up the paintbrush. “He—he was going to ruin the mural.”

They stared at the paintbrush in my hand.

“I heard Slappy sneak out of the closet,” I explained breathlessly. “I
followed him into Sara’s room. I grabbed him just before—before he did
something terrible.”

I turned to Sara. “You saw Slappy—right? You saw him?”

“Yeah,” Sara said, still in bed, her arms crossed over her chest. “I see
Slappy. You’re carrying him on your arm.”

The dummy hung over my arm, its head nearly hitting the floor.

“No!” I cried to Sara. “You saw him sneak into your room—right? That’s why you turned on the light?”

Sara rolled her eyes. “I saw
you
come into my room,” she replied.
“You’re
carrying
the dummy, Amy. You’re holding the dummy—and the
brush.”

“But—but—but—” I sputtered.

My eyes darted from face to face. They all stared back at me as if I had just
landed on Earth in a flying saucer.

No one in my family was going to believe me. No one.

The next morning, Mom hung up the phone as I came down for breakfast. “You’re
wearing shorts to school?” she asked, eyeing my outfit—olive-green shorts and
a red, sleeveless T-shirt.