Slappy Beware! (Goosebumps Special Edition) Read online

  To Jane Stine, Joan Waricha, and Susan Lurie,

  the brains behind the screams

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  INTRODUCTION

  PART ONE: 200 YEARS AGO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  PART TWO: TAMPA, FLORIDA

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  PART THREE: THE NEXT DAY

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  PART FOUR: LATER THAT NIGHT

  39

  40

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  R.L. STINE HERE, EVERYONE.

  Readers, beware—you’re in for some special scares!

  I don’t usually get to introduce my books and say hi to you. But, as you can probably tell, this book is a little different.

  Yes, it’s a hardcover book. And you will find illustrations inside, for the first time ever.

  That’s because this is a special collectors’ edition. This book marks the 30th Anniversary of Goosebumps.

  THIRTY YEARS of ghosts and ghouls, screams and howls, twists and surprises. There are more than 150 Goosebumps books so far. How many have you read?

  Of course, we couldn’t have this Celebration of Scares without one character—Slappy, the evil dummy.

  How did Slappy come to be alive? I’ll tell that story in this book.

  Why is Slappy so evil? I’ll explain that, too.

  And I’ll also tell you about the worst day in the evil dummy’s life. Yes, the day that could be Slappy’s last day alive on earth!

  The end of Slappy forever? Can you stand it?

  I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Let’s start the story …

  Where did Slappy come from? What brought him to life?

  There are many stories and legends about Slappy’s origin.

  Some say that an evil magician carved him out of wood from a haunted coffin. One story goes that he escaped from a puppet factory in Cincinnati. Another legend says that the ghost of a ten-year-old boy lives inside Slappy’s head.

  I’m not sure about those stories. I think the story I’m about to tell you is the true one.

  Slappy’s story starts two hundred years ago in a tiny village in Europe. So let’s head there—to a cottage at the edge of the deep woods. That’s where you will meet Darkwell the puppet-maker. He is also a sorcerer.

  Darkwell is going to cast a secret spell. A spell that will change many lives as it travels through the centuries.

  What is this mysterious spell, you might ask?

  What is this curse that’s been kept secret for two hundred years?

  Be patient, readers. Let me tell you the story …

  Flames crackled in the fireplace. They sent shadows leaping and dancing over the walls of the small cottage. Outside, the wind moaned, shaking the glass in the windows and whistling through the cracks in the thin walls.

  Feeling a chill, Ephraim Darkwell pulled his gray robe tighter around him. The old man’s hood fell over his forehead, covering his long white hair. He leaned over his workbench, his hand moving a knife quickly, smoothly.

  Darkwell’s deep gray eyes locked on the rounded piece of wood he was sculpting. A head. He rubbed his thumb over its scalp, brushing away a splinter. He worked the slender wooden eyelids up and down.

  The face was nearly completed. Darkwell knew he had little time to finish. He had heard the rumors. The talk in the village. He had explained to everyone that he was a simple doll maker, a builder of puppets.

  But the superstitious villagers didn’t believe him. They spied on him. From the woods behind the cottage, they watched him through the cottage’s windows. Somehow, they had learned the truth.

  Darkwell was no simple puppet-maker. He was a sorcerer who could magically bring his puppets to life. A master of the dark arts. But he had vowed never to use his power for evil.

  He came to the village to work in peace. To be left alone to build his creations and explore the magic he had learned. He meant the villagers no harm …

  Until yesterday … when Darius Koben, the chief constable, burst into the cottage, grim-faced and wheezing in anger. That moment, Darkwell knew his peace had ended.

  “You and your nephew must leave,” Koben boomed, banging his cane against the floor with each word. “You are not wanted here. Your evil magic has frightened everyone.”

  Darkwell bowed his head. “I am a simple doll maker,” he said.

  Koben smacked the cane hard against the wooden wall. His cheeks reddened above his gray beard.

  “Your lies cannot protect you, Darkwell!” he shouted. “You have been seen talking to your dolls—and they have been seen talking back. They move about your cottage as if they are alive. You cannot deny the truth. It is too late!”

  “I mean no harm,” Darkwell insisted.

  “I did not come to argue,” the constable said, waving his cane in the air. “I came to warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  “There is talk in the village,” Koben said, lowering his voice. “Talk of burning you out. The torches are already lit, Darkwell. Do you understand? The townspeople’s anger—it cannot be controlled.”

  Darkwell stared at the constable, allowing his words to sink in.

  “Get out!” Koben shouted. “Leave now! You and your nephew. Pack up and get out if you value your lives!”

  The constable spun on his cane and stomped from the cottage. The slender door banged in the swirling wind. Darkwell pulled the door closed, feeling the cold air on his face.

  He shivered, but not from the cold. He shivered in anger that his work would be interrupted. He was about to finish his most magical creation yet. He couldn’t allow the foolish, ignorant villagers to destroy his masterpiece.

  Darkwell leaned over the workbench all night, his hands working feverishly. And now he held the doll in front of him.

  “Those fools will be sorry,” he told the doll. “They have pushed me too far. Once you are finished, we will make them sorry they are alive.”

  The lifeless eyes gazed up at him. The wooden lips turned up in a grin. The head lay tilted to one side.

  “Almost complete, my little friend,” Darkwell said. But then he uttered a startled gasp as the cottage door swung open.

  A figure staggered in. His hair flew wildly about his face. His white shirt was stained, one sleeve nearly ripped off. A trickle of blood ran from his nose. His cheek was cut, dark blood forming a crooked line.

  “Isaac!” Darkwell cried, staring in horror at his twelve-year-old nephew. “Isaac! Isaac! What have they done to you?”

  “Th-they beat me, Uncle,” the boy stammered.

  Darkwell swept his arms around him and guided him to a wooden chair. He brought a wet cloth from the pot beside the hearth and dabbed at the blood on his nephew’s face.

  “Who did this, Isaac?” Darkwell demanded. “Tell me the whole story.”

  “I … I went to buy the supplies you
wanted,” the boy began slowly. He smoothed down the sides of his coppery hair with both hands. “But they stopped me outside the village store.”

  “Who?” Darkwell asked gently. “Who stopped you?”

  “They said you weren’t fit to raise me,” Isaac said, ignoring the question. “They said they could not leave me with someone so evil. They—they are going to take me, Uncle. Take me away from you.”

  Darkwell placed a hand on his nephew’s trembling shoulder. “I won’t let them,” he murmured in the boy’s ear. “You do not need to worry.”

  “I … I tried to tell them you were good. I said you were kind. I said you wouldn’t harm anyone. That’s when …”

  Isaac’s words caught in his throat.

  “That’s when they beat you?” Darkwell demanded.

  Isaac nodded. “I stuck up for you, and it made them angry. I tried to get away. But some boys grabbed me. They said their fathers were coming for us—with torches. Coming to burn us out.”

  “Don’t worry, my boy.” Darkwell patted his nephew’s head. “You do not have any reason to fear. I will make sure of it.”

  He helped Isaac to his feet and led him to his cot against the wall. “Lie down. Sleep now. Sleep, and dream of good things.”

  Isaac obediently lowered himself to the cot and curled onto his side. “Good night, Uncle.”

  Darkwell stood watch until his nephew fell asleep. Then, shaking his head, he strode back to the workbench. He lifted the doll he had been crafting and brushed some wood chips off its chest.

  “Your time has come,” he said. He reached for the clothing he had sewn for the doll. He pulled the trousers over the legs, then worked the arms into the shirt and then the jacket.

  “You will not disappoint me,” Darkwell told it. “I have completed you just in time. When the villagers arrive to destroy me, you will be ready.”

  The doll stared back at him with glassy eyes. Its grin was frozen on its face. It sat hunched over on the worktable.

  Darkwell propped it up so that its back leaned straight against the wall. He raised the head so that its eyes looked into his eyes.

  “Yes! Yes! My heart is pounding!” Darkwell declared. “I have learned much magic and accomplished many things. But it has all been leading up to you!”

  The sorcerer took a step back from the worktable. He cleared his throat loudly. His eyes on the doll, he took a deep breath—and shouted these words to the ceiling:

  “Karru Marri Odonna Loma Molonu Karrano!”

  Darkwell’s hands trembled as he gazed at the doll. He tucked them under his robe and held his breath. The words he had just spoken rang in his ears.

  The only sounds in the cottage were the crackling of the fire and the soft breathing of Isaac, asleep on his cot.

  Darkwell stood frozen in place, waiting. Waiting for the magic to take hold. And then it happened. The doll’s eyes blinked. They blinked once. Twice. The mouth closed slowly with a soft click.

  “Yes,” the sorcerer whispered. “Yes. It is working. You are alive.” The old man took a deep breath and forced his heart to stop racing in his chest.

  The doll blinked once more and turned its wooden head from side to side, as if testing it. The painted lips moved up and down, making a soft click each time.

  “Speak!” the sorcerer commanded. “Can you speak?”

  The doll raised a wooden hand and touched the side of its face. It blinked a few more times, moving its head up and down. And then a soft, harsh voice rattled from somewhere inside it: “Where am I?”

  Darkwell cried out. “Yes! Yes! You speak!”

  “Where am I?” the doll repeated. And then, in the same raspy voice, only stronger this time: “Who are you? Who am I?”

  The old sorcerer hugged himself as if to hold in his excitement. “We have no time for questions,” he told the doll. “They are coming to destroy me. But you are here now. You were created to carry out my evil when I am gone.”

  The doll blinked. Its mouth dropped open. “Evil? I’m evil? Tell me … why am I evil?”

  “You are my revenge,” Darkwell replied. “My revenge upon those fools who do not understand how brilliant I am … the fools who would destroy me. If they succeed, I am about to perish—”

  “Perish?” the doll repeated.

  “But my evil will live on through you,” Darkwell continued. “I have cast a powerful spell. I have spoken powerful words to bring you to life. Listen to me carefully. I won’t have time to explain it again.”

  The dummy lowered its hands to the workbench and leaned toward the sorcerer. “I am listening.”

  “From now on,” Darkwell said, “when the secret words are spoken, you will awaken and perform the evil you were created for.”

  “What does that mean?” the doll demanded. “What should I do?”

  “You will terrify people,” Darkwell replied. “You will scare them to death. You will make people scream in fright and cry. And you will make them your servants for life.”

  “For life,” the doll repeated.

  “I have given you a cute name,” the sorcerer said. “So that people will not suspect your true nature. Your name is Slappy. A name fit for a circus clown. But you are no clown. Instead of bringing laughter into the world, you will bring screams of horror.”

  “Hahahaha!” Slappy tilted back his head and uttered a shrill laugh. “Screams of horror. Father, that sounds like fun!”

  Darkwell started to speak, but stopped. He heard voices in the distance. Through the small front window, he saw yellow lights flickering against the black night sky.

  Torchlight? Were the villagers approaching?

  Darkwell fought back the feeling of panic in his chest. “There is more I need to tell you, Slappy,” he said, his eyes on the window. “I must give you a warning.”

  Slappy blinked. “A warning, Father?”

  The sorcerer nodded. “The spell I have cast gives you great mind control powers. But beware of its one weakness.”

  Behind Darkwell, Isaac stirred in his cot. Eyes still closed, he stretched his hands above his head. “Is it morning, Uncle?” he called.

  Darkwell ignored him. “Here is my warning, Slappy. You must do something evil every day that you are awake. If you are awake for a day and fail to terrify someone, the spell will end—and you will sleep forever!”

  “Hahaha!” The doll let out its cold laugh once again. “This sounds like interesting work,” he rasped. “I will obey you, Father. I will be evil every day that I am awake.”

  “You have no choice, Slappy,” Darkwell replied. “If you fail to scare someone every day, you will sleep forever. And no words will be able to wake you!”

  “Uncle?” Isaac sat up on his cot.

  At the same moment, a sharp thud at the cottage door made the boy cry out.

  Another hard thud. The sound of an axe chopping at the wood.

  Darkwell grabbed Slappy in both hands and pressed him against the front of his robe. “The villagers!” he exclaimed. “They have come for us!”

  Bright yellow torchlight flared outside the cottage window. Angry shouts nearly drowned out the thuds of the chopping axes.

  Isaac ran to Darkwell and tugged at the old sorcerer’s robe. “Help, Uncle! What shall we do? You promised—”

  “I promised you would not have to worry about them,” Darkwell said. He hugged Slappy to his chest, his dark eyes wide, fixed on the door. “I keep my promises, Isaac.”

  A deafening crash followed the crack of splintering wood. The door crumbled as it fell open. Heavy boots stomped over it as men in dark clothing and black hoods burst into the cottage.

  Torch flames licked at the low ceiling. The voices of the men were loud and angry.

  Darkwell slid Slappy to a corner of the workbench. Then he turned to face the intruders.

  Chief Constable Koben pushed his way to the front, swinging his cane to scatter the men from his path. His face burned red in the bright torchlight. He raised the cane and pointed
it at Darkwell. “You did not heed my warning, old man!” he boomed.

  Behind him, the hooded villagers shouted angry words and jabbed their torches menacingly toward the sorcerer and his nephew. Isaac clung to his uncle’s robe. Whimpers escaped his throat.

  “You have no reason to invade my home and threaten me,” Darkwell said, shouting over the murmurs of the men. He placed his hands on Isaac’s shoulders. “I am a simple doll maker.”

  “We did not come for a discussion,” Koben shouted. “We know what you are, and we will not have you in our village. We are decent people, and we obey the laws of nature—not the laws of darkness!”

  “Burn the house! Burn the house!” some men began to chant. “Burn it down! Burn it all!”

  Koben raised his cane to silence them. “Darkwell, we have come to put an end to your evil!” he boomed.

  “Burn it down! Burn it down!” The flames appeared to grow brighter as the men stabbed their torches toward the ceiling.

  Koben struck his cane against the floor. “Silence! We will burn it down—and this old sorcerer with it. But first we must deal with the boy.”

  “Noooo!” Isaac wailed. He held on tightly to the front of Darkwell’s robe.

  Koben took a few heavy steps across the room. “We want the boy,” he said. “Hand him over to us. Your days are over, Darkwell. Your doom comes today. But the boy will be saved. We are taking him from you.”

  “Uncle, please—” Isaac whined. “You promised!”

  Koben stretched out both hands. “Hand him over, Darkwell. Hand him over now!”

  A stillness fell as Darkwell stared back at the chief constable with his icy gray eyes. After a long moment, the old sorcerer broke the silence.

  “As you wish,” he said. “Here he is. You can take him.”

  “Nooooo!” Isaac wailed.

  Darkwell grabbed the boy’s wrists and pushed him toward the chief constable. “He is all yours,” Darkwell said.

  Koben blinked in surprise. He seized Isaac around the waist.

  Isaac cried out again—and struggled free. He dove back to Darkwell and clung to the front of the sorcerer’s robe. “Noooo! Please—! Noooo!”

  The hooded men looked on in stunned silence. Their low murmurs stopped. The torches in their hands locked in place.