The Ghost of Slappy

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  TITLE PAGE

  SLAPPY HERE, EVERYONE.

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  SLAPPY HERE, EVERYONE.

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  SLAPPY HERE, EVERYONE.

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  EPILOGUE FROM SLAPPY

  SNEAK PEEK!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  Welcome to My World.

  Yes, it’s SlappyWorld—you’re only screaming in it! Hahaha.

  Don’t stare. I know you can’t take your eyes off me. Most people wear sunglasses when they visit so they won’t be blinded by my beauty! Hahaha!

  I wish I had a phone so I could call myself and tell me how awesome I am! Hahaha.

  I’m so cool, I give myself goosebumps. And then, guess what? I give my goosebumps goosebumps! Hahaha.

  Did you see me on the cover of DUMMY Magazine? Of course you didn’t! Don’t call me Dummy, dummy!

  I’m so smart, I can spell any word. I’m not kidding. I can spell any word. Want to see me do it? Okay. Here goes …

  a-n-y-w-o-r-d

  Hahahaha!

  Well, I have a story to tell you—and you’re lucky because it stars ME. Also, a kid named Shep Mooney. Shep is about to go on an overnight in the woods with his class.

  I don’t want to give anything away, but … it’s probably going to be the scariest night of Shep’s life. And guess who is going to make it scary? Hahahaha!

  I call this one The Ghost of Slappy. Aren’t you DYING to read it? Haha.

  It’s just one more terrifying tale from SlappyWorld.

  I stuffed a pair of woolly socks into my duffel bag and frowned at my sister, Patti, who plopped on the edge of my bed. “Why are you staring at me? Why are you watching me pack?”

  Her dark eyes flashed behind her glasses. “Because you’re a hoot, Shep.”

  “Huh? I’m a hoot? What is a hoot? What are you talking about?”

  She crawled over and began pawing through the bag. “Did you just pack a bar of soap?”

  I slapped her hands away. “Get your paws off my stuff, Patti.”

  She stuck her round face into mine. “Did you? Did you just pack a bar of soap?”

  “So what?” I said.

  “It’s an overnight in the woods, Shep. No one is going to take a shower.”

  I could feel my face grow a little hot. “Are you going to give me a break? I like to be prepared.”

  Truth is, I didn’t really know what to pack. I’d never been on an overnight in the woods. I hate the woods. I hate the outdoors. And I’m not too crazy about the dark.

  Why couldn’t our sixth-grade class go on an overnight during the day?

  Patti didn’t back away. She sat beside my duffel bag with her arms crossed in front of her. I knew she was waiting to give me a hard time about something else.

  Patti can be a pain. She is nine, three years younger than me. But she thinks she’s the sensible one. Can she be bossy? Three guesses.

  She has stringy black hair that she hates, a face as round as a pumpkin, and she has to wear glasses all the time. So do I. So do Mom and Dad.

  Mom says it makes us look smart. But I think we look like a family of owls.

  I tossed a flashlight into the bag. Patti pushed it deeper into the pile of stuff. “Could you go away?” I asked.

  “Where should I go?”

  “Brazil?” I continued to pack the duffel.

  “You’re a hoot, Shep,” she repeated. “What did you just put in the bag? Was that bug spray?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “It’s almost November!” she shouted. “It’s cold out. You’re not going to need bug spray.”

  I pulled the can of bug spray out and tossed it on the bed. Sometimes Patti can be right.

  Okay. So I was stressed. I wanted to bring all my blankets and my two soft pillows. I wanted to bring my sweaters and my sweatshirts in case it got really cold. But that seemed like too much.

  Actually, I didn’t want to bring anything. I didn’t want to go. I kept thinking about being there in the dark with the trees rattling and shaking, and the wind howling, and all the wild animals lurking around everywhere.

  And I knew I could not count on our teacher, Mr. Hanson, to help us feel safe. Hanson is a horror freak. Some kids call him Horrible Hanson because he loves everything that’s horrible.

  He tells us horror stories in class and talks about all the old movie monsters as if they were real. My friend Carlos Jackson and I know that he’s been saving up ghost stories to tell on the overnight. There’s nothing Horrible Hanson would like better than making us all scream our heads off in fright.

  Carlos likes ghost stories. But I have a good reason for hating them, a reason I can’t tell Carlos.

  I jammed two wool ski caps into the bag. It was getting very full.

  Patti laughed. “You’ve packed everything you own. Is Tootsie in there? You’d better let me look.” Tootsie is our cat.

  Patti jumped to her feet and searched through my stuff again.

  “If you’re so into it, why don’t you go in my place?” I said.

  She shook her head. “I can’t go on a sixth-grade trip. I can only go with the cool kids.”

  “Huh? Fourth-grade kids are cool? Are you kidding me? You only learned to tie your shoes last week!”

  She stuck her chin out. “We don’t tie our shoes. We’re too cool to tie our shoes.”

  I stopped and took a step back. I didn’t want this to turn into a fight. I needed Patti’s help.

  I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “What is it?”

  “My sleeping bag is in the basement. Could you bring it up for me?”

  She squinted at me. “No way.”

  “But, Patti—”

  “Shep, you have to get over this basement thing,” she said. “You have got to stop being afraid of the basement.”

  “I—I can’t,” I stammered. “I told you. That’s where I always run into Annalee.”

  She tossed back her head. “Annalee. How did you ever make up a name like Annalee?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I started to shout. “I didn’t make it up! It’s real. Her name is Annalee.”

  She gave me a shove. “Oh, please. Give it a rest. Like I’m really going to believe that stupid ghost story.” She raised her hands to shove me again, but I backed out of her reach.

  “Annalee—” I started.

  “There’s no Annalee,” Patti said. “There’s no ghost named Annalee haunting our house—and you know it. Why do you keep insisting?”

  “Because it’s true?” I said.

  Patti rolled her eyes. “You’re losing it.”

  “I don’t know why she’s haunting our house,” I said. “And I don’t know what she wants. B-but I know she’s real. I saw her the day we moved in. And I’ve seen her again and again. And I have nightmares all the time about her.”

  “You dreamed her in a nightmare,” Patti said. “She’s not real.”

  “YES, SHE IS!” I screamed.

  “Look at you. You’re shaking,” Patti said. She narrowed her eyes at me through her glasses. “You have seri
ously got to stop making up ghost stories. Ghosts do not exist, Shep. Everyone knows that ghosts don’t exist.”

  I swallowed. “So you won’t go down to the basement for me?”

  She laughed. “You’re a hoot.”

  I stopped at the top of the basement stairs. I peered down into the darkness. It smelled damp down there. It always smelled damp and kind of sour, like old newspapers or those dirty T-shirts that have been left on the floor in the back of my closet for a year or two.

  I turned toward the kitchen. “Mom? Dad? Are you here? Can anyone go down to the basement for me?”

  “Busy,” I heard Mom call.

  No answer from Dad.

  I took a deep breath and reached to my neck for my lucky silver charm. Everyone should have a lucky silver charm. It has helped protect me in a lot of tough times.

  It’s actually a small silver bear head on a slender chain. You know. Like a charm on a charm bracelet. My grandfather Simon put it around my neck.

  “Shepard, this is my lucky charm,” he said. He was the only person in the world to call me by my full name. “I am giving it to you because my days are short and yours are long.”

  The cool silver tickled my skin.

  “This lucky charm will never fail to bring you luck,” Grandpa Simon said. “It has never failed me. You only need to press it between your fingers. Hold it tight and its luck will flow from the silver bear head to you.”

  I thanked him and adjusted the silver charm over my chest. Grandpa Simon died two weeks later. I’ve worn the lucky silver charm every day. I’ve never taken it off.

  Now, I rubbed my fingers over it as I made my way down the basement steps. The stairs are wooden and steep, and they creak and groan like stairs in a horror movie.

  As I neared the bottom, the stale aroma grew stronger. I heard the loud hum of the furnace against the back wall. I fumbled for the light switch.

  Dim yellow light splashed over the basement. Two of the ceiling bulbs were out. But the one working bulb gave enough light to see the shelves against the far wall.

  I knew my sleeping bag was rolled up on one of the shelves, next to my parents’ skiing equipment and camping gear.

  Holding my breath, I started to cross the basement. My sneakers thudded on the concrete floor. Dad was always talking about finishing the basement. Making it look nice. Turning it into a game room.

  But somehow he never found the time to get it done. It still looked like a dark, damp, creep-out-time basement.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead. I could see my sleeping bag tucked into a middle shelf. I was only a few feet away when a flash of light caught my eye and made me stop.

  The light started out as a soft glimmer against the wall. Then it flickered like a tall candle flame and grew brighter. And as it did, I could see a figure forming in the center of the glow.

  “Nooo …” A moan escaped my throat. “Annalee!”

  She shimmered inside the flickering light. Just an outline of color. But then the outline filled in, and she stepped out of the white glow. A girl about my age. A girl in an old-fashioned, dark plaid skirt that brushed the floor. A high-collared white blouse with sleeves that billowed as if blown by the wind.

  Her copper-colored hair fell below her shoulders and caught the glow of the light. Her eyes were large and blue and locked on me. She didn’t blink. Her face … it was as pale as the light that surrounded her.

  Hands reaching out to me, she appeared to float over the floor. The hem of her skirt made no sound as it brushed against the concrete.

  As she loomed closer, I took a step back. And cleared my throat to shout: “Go away, Annalee!” My voice trembling and shrill, ringing off the low basement ceiling and the heavy walls.

  “Go away, Annalee! You don’t exist!”

  A strange smile spread over her pale face. Too sad to be a smile. Her red hair fluttered around her shoulders. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

  My hand fumbled for the silver bear charm under my shirt. I grabbed it and squeezed it. “G-go away!” I stammered.

  But she slid forward silently.

  “What do you want?” I didn’t recognize my shrill voice. “Annalee—what do you want?”

  Her lips moved. Her words were lost, just a whisper of air.

  She raised a pale, slender hand. Reached out—to grab me?

  “Noooo!” I uttered a frightened cry—and toppled backward. I fell over a low pile of cardboard boxes. The boxes crashed to the floor. I thrashed the air with both hands as if grabbing for the ceiling.

  But I fell hard. Thudded onto my back on top of a hard box.

  “OOOOF.” The air whooshed out of my chest. I struggled to catch my breath.

  Annalee floated over me. Her hair flew around her face. Her lips moved again. Again, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Her hands were curled into tight fists. She waved them at me.

  Threatening me?

  My heart pounded so hard, my chest ached. I couldn’t think straight.

  And then a voice from across the basement broke through my panic: “What was that? Shep? What fell?”

  My mom, shouting from upstairs.

  I squirmed and twisted, struggling to climb back onto my feet.

  Mom’s running footsteps thundered on the wooden basement stairs.

  And before I could stand up, she was there. Leaning over me. Hands pressed to her waist. Her expression startled and confused.

  “What on earth—”

  I forced myself to sit up. “I—I—I—” I sputtered.

  “Did you fall?” Mom asked.

  “It was the GHOST!” I cried.

  Where was she? I glanced around the basement, but I didn’t see her.

  “The ghost, Mom. Really. I—”

  Mom offered me a hand and helped pull me to my feet.

  “Annalee. She’s here, Mom,” I cried. “She’s here.”

  Mom’s mouth dropped open. She started to say something to me—but stopped. I realized she wasn’t looking at me. Mom was squinting into the darkness.

  “Oh, wow,” Mom murmured. “I see her.”

  I gasped.

  Mom took a few steps toward the center of the room. “There you are,” she said, pointing. “I see you. You do exist, after all, don’t you. Come into the light, Annalee. Do you want to come upstairs?”

  I’m not stupid. It didn’t take me long to realize that Mom was joking. That’s what my parents both do when I tell them our house is haunted. They both make jokes.

  I’m scared a lot of the time because of Annalee. I have nightmares. And I never want to be in the dark.

  And their way of dealing with it is to make jokes and to tell me to “get over yourself.”

  One night, I heard my parents saying it’s just a “phase” I’m going through—whatever that means. I guess they think I’ll outgrow the whole thing.

  Meanwhile, there’s a ghost in the house. And the ghost wants something. I don’t have a clue what it is. But she’s always coming after me … Always reaching for me … Always trying to frighten me.

  I grabbed my sleeping bag and followed Mom to the stairs. She rested a hand on my shoulder. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

  I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

  “You know, knocking over some cartons is no big deal,” she said. “You don’t have to make up a ghost story to explain it.”

  I stared hard at her. I wanted to scream that I didn’t make it up. I wanted to scream that she should believe me. But I held myself back.

  “Maybe someday you’ll see her too,” I muttered.

  Mom didn’t reply. We started up the stairs.

  Patti stuck her head into the stairwell. “Shep, hurry,” she shouted. “The bus is here.”

  “Huh?” I gasped. “I have more to pack. I need another sweater. I need my gloves.”

  Patti raised my duffel bag in front of her. “You packed your whole room. Mom, I think he packed his desk lamp.”

  “I di
d not!” I screamed.

  Mom and Patti laughed. Mom thinks Patti is a riot.

  I pulled my hoodie from the closet and tugged it on. Patti slapped the duffel bag into my chest. I grabbed it and the sleeping bag. Mom kissed my forehead and gave me a shove toward the front door. “Have fun!”

  I opened the front door. The yellow school bus was parked at the curb. I could see there were a lot of kids already on it. I started down the front lawn.

  “Look out! The ghost is following you!” Patti shouted.

  I spun around. “How funny are you?” I asked sarcastically.

  Patti laughed and pushed the front door shut.

  I carried my duffel and sleeping bag to the bus. The luggage compartment was open. I slid my stuff inside.

  Then I climbed the three steps onto the bus. I saw my best friend, Carlos, a few seats back. And I saw Mr. Hanson walking up the aisle. He waved to me.

  The bus door closed. I turned and noticed the driver.

  And jumped back with a cry.

  The driver was slouched in the low leather seat. Both hands were on the wheel. He faced straight ahead, a broad grin frozen on his face.

  The driver was some kind of big doll. A ventriloquist dummy!

  Mr. Hanson laughed.

  I turned and saw that he had his phone raised. Did he just snap my picture?

  “That was sweet,” he said. He tucked the phone into his jeans pocket. “You are the first one to actually jump, Shep. You almost fell off the bus!”

  He laughed again and so did a lot of the kids. I didn’t think it was that funny.

  Hanson lifted the dummy out of the driver’s seat. He waved to a white-haired woman in a blue uniform who was seated near the back of the bus. She came striding forward. I guessed she was the real driver.

  The dummy’s hard wooden head bumped me as Hanson carried it away. The dummy’s eyes were green and glassy, and its painted, red-lipped grin was crooked. Something about it gave me the creeps.

  “Take a seat,” Hanson instructed me. “We’ll see how Courtney Levitt reacts to our guest driver. Her house is next.”

  I dropped down next to Carlos. He had a bag of Twizzlers in his lap, and he offered me one. Before I could slide it from the bag, I felt a hard slap on the back of my head.

  “Owww!”

  I spun around—and stared at the grinning face of Trevor Pincus. My enemy.