Goosebumps Most Wanted - 02 - Son of Slappy Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Welcome. You Are Most Wanted.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Preview: Goosebumps Most Wanted #3: The list continues with book

  About the Author

  Also by R.L. Stine

  Copyright

  Come in. I’m R.L. Stine. Welcome to the Goosebumps office.

  Just step around that big hole in the floor. We call that hole The Bottomless Pit. Do you know why?

  Because it’s a bottomless pit! Ha-ha.

  We filled the pit with alligators once. But it didn’t work out. The alligators escaped and started swallowing people in the office.

  I hate when that happens — don’t you?

  Yes, that’s the laptop I use to write all the Goosebumps books. I know it looks strange. That’s because someone’s lap is still attached.

  Don’t touch it. I think it’s contagious.

  I see you are admiring the WANTED posters on the wall. Those posters show the creepiest, crawliest, grossest villains of all time. They are the MOST WANTED bad guys from the MOST WANTED Goosebumps books.

  I am telling their stories in the Goosebumps: MOST WANTED series.

  Yes, that face with the wide, evil grin and the glassy stare belongs to a ventriloquist dummy. His name is Slappy, and he may be the most ghoulish villain in Goosebumps history.

  A boy named Jackson Stander can tell you all about him.

  Jackson found himself living a double nightmare with Slappy — and the Son of Slappy. To his horror, he quickly learned that two Slappys are NOT better than one!

  Go ahead. Read Jackson’s story. Better read it with all the lights on and all the doors locked.

  You’ll quickly find out why Slappy is … MOST WANTED.

  My name is Jackson Stander. I’m twelve, and I know a secret.

  You don’t have to ask. I’m going to share my secret with you. When I tell you what it is, you might laugh at me.

  My sister, Rachel, laughs at me. She rolls her eyes and groans and calls me a goodie-goodie.

  But I don’t care. Rachel is in trouble all the time, and I’m not. And that’s because of my secret, which I’m going to share with you now:

  It’s a lot easier to be good than to be bad.

  That’s the whole thing. You’re probably shaking your head and saying, “What’s the big deal? What kind of crazy secret is that?”

  It’s simple. Let me explain. I try hard to do the right thing all the time. I try to be nice to everyone, and work hard in school, and be cheerful and kind, and help people when I can, and just be a good dude.

  This makes Rachel sick. She’s always poking her finger down her throat and making gagging sounds whenever I say or do something nice.

  Rachel is a real sarcastic kid and a troublemaker. She likes to argue with her teacher, and she gets into fights with kids in her class. She hates it when the teachers say, “Why can’t you be more like your brother, Jackson?”

  What does she call me? She calls me Robot. She says I’m some kind of goodie-goodie machine.

  You’ve probably guessed that Rachel and I don’t get along that well, even though she’s just a year younger than me.

  We both look a lot alike, too. We’re kind of average height. We have straight brown hair and brown eyes, and we both have freckles on our noses and dimples when we smile.

  Rachel hates her dimples and her freckles. She says she hates it that she looks more like Dad than like Mom. Of course, that doesn’t make Dad very happy. He calls Rachel “Problem Child.” Mom scolds him every time he says it.

  But she is a problem child. Mainly, she’s my problem because she’s always in my face. And she’s always testing me, teasing me. Trying to make me lose it, blow up, get steamed, start to shout, or fight.

  Rachel’s mission in life is to get me in trouble with Mom and Dad. She’s always trying to make me look bad. But she’s so lame. There’s no way she can win.

  A few weeks ago, she was doing an art project in her room and spilled red paint on her floor. She went running to Mom and said, “Jackson was messing around with my paint, and look what he did.”

  Of course, Mom didn’t believe her for a second. Why would I be messing around with her paint?

  Last night before dinner, Rachel was helping Mom carry the food to the table. She tripped over Sparky, our cat, and dropped a platter of chicken — and it went flying all over the floor.

  “Jackson tripped me!” Rachel told Mom.

  I was standing all the way across the room. How lame was that?

  But Rachel keeps trying.

  Now, please don’t get me wrong. I’m not perfect. If I told you I’m perfect, that would be obnoxious. Besides, no one is perfect.

  I just try to do my best. I really do believe it’s easier to be good than bad.

  It’s something I knew from the time I was a tiny kid.

  And then something happened.

  Something happened, and I turned bad. I turned very bad. No. Let’s tell the truth. I, Jackson Stander, became evil.

  And that’s what this story is all about.

  We have two canaries at the YC. I gave them their names — Pete and Repete. I can’t really tell which one is which, but I pretend.

  After school on Wednesday, I was showing a bunch of kids how to pick up the canaries in your hand when you want to clean their cage.

  YC stands for Youth Center. Actually, it’s called the Morton Applegate Jr. Borderville Youth Center. But no one remembers who Morton Applegate Jr. is. And everyone knows we live in the town of Borderville. So people just call it the YC.

  A lot of little kids go to the YC after school. They stay till their parents pick them up after work.

  The YC playroom is very bright and cheerful. The walls are shiny red and yellow with funny cows and sheep painted upside down all over them, as if it was raining cows and sheep. The room has shelves to the ceiling, crammed with games and books and art supplies and puzzles and all kinds of great toys for the little kids.

  There are stacks of car tires to bounce and climb on. A big flat screen for playing video games. A fish tank, a rabbit cage, and the canary cage. Plenty of cool stuff to keep the kids busy till their parents arrive.

  I like to go there after school when I don’t have my piano lessons or tennis practice. I go to help out with the little kids. It’s fun to play and read with them. The kids are funny, and they treat me like I’m a big deal.

  There’s a cute, chubby red-haired kid everyone calls Froggy because he’s got a funny, scratchy voice. Froggy is my favorite. He’s goofy and says the dumbest things to make everyone laugh. If I had a little brother, I’d like him to be Froggy.

  Froggy and another favorite of mine — a little blond-haired
girl named Nikki — were watching as I reached into the canary cage. Nikki is very shy and quiet, and speaks in a tiny mouse voice. She has a sad face most of the time. But I know how to make her laugh.

  “You have to move your hand in very slowly,” I told them. “If you move too fast, you’ll scare the canary, and he will start fluttering and flapping and cheeping like crazy.”

  Froggy, Nikki, and a few other kids watched silently as I tugged open the birdcage door. I slowly slid my open hand into the cage and moved it toward Pete.

  “Sshhhh,” I whispered. “You have to be very quiet and very careful.” The canary stared at me from his wooden perch. The other one, head tilted to one side, watched from the swing.

  “If you squeeze it too hard, will he explode?” Froggy asked in a raspy whisper. “I saw that in a cartoon.”

  “We don’t want him to explode,” I whispered. “We have to be very gentle.”

  I opened my hand and prepared to wrap it around the canary. The bird cheeped softly but didn’t move. I held my breath and reached forward.

  And someone right behind me screamed, “BOO!”

  The canary squawked, fluttered out of my grasp — and darted out the open cage door.

  My heart skipped a beat. I swung around. I saw my sister, Rachel, standing behind me, a grin on her face. Guess who shouted Boo?

  The canary flew up to the ceiling.

  Kids shouted in surprise. They chased after him.

  The frightened canary flew in wild circles, round and round the room. He darted low. “Catch him!” I cried. “Somebody —”

  Hands grabbed at the tiny yellow bird. He swooped high again. And then headed toward the far wall. Kids shrieked and ran after him.

  “Nooo!” A scream burst from my throat. I could see where he was flying. “Close the window!” I shouted. “Hurry! Close the window!”

  “Noooooo!” I cried out again as the frightened little bird darted right to the open window.

  Mrs. Lawson, the head YC counselor, made a frantic dash to the window. But she didn’t get there in time.

  The canary made a soft clunnnnk as it flew into the glass pane above the opening. The bird fell back. He caught his balance in midair. Dropped a few feet. And tried a second dive.

  But this time, Mrs. Lawson was there. She slid the window shut just as the canary reached it. Once again, the little bird bounced off the glass.

  I raised both hands like a catcher’s mitt. And caught him on the first bounce. Gently, I wrapped my hands around him.

  His heart was beating so hard, the canary buzzed like a bumblebee. He made weak cheeping cries as it struggled to catch his breath.

  I carefully set him down on his perch and latched the birdcage shut. I could see the worried faces all around the room. “Pete is okay,” I told everyone.

  I narrowed my eyes at my sister. Rachel hadn’t moved. She stood there like a statue watching the whole chase. As if it wasn’t all her fault.

  Kids were still running around in circles. Some of them were cheeping and flapping their arms and pretending to be birds.

  “Excitement is over,” Mrs. Lawson shouted. She tried to wave the kids back to their seats.

  I turned to Rachel. “Why did you do that? Why did you yell boo?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me. Just a joke, I guess.”

  “Ha-ha. Funny,” I said.

  She snickered. “You looked so stupid chasing that dumb canary.”

  “Rachel, the kids would be really upset if the canary flew away,” I told her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Sor-ry.”

  I picked up my backpack from against the wall and started to walk her toward the playroom door. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I came to pick you up. Didn’t you see Mom’s text?”

  I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket. I saw a message from Mom on the screen:

  COME HOME. I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU.

  “What kind of news?” I said.

  Rachel shrugged again. “How should I know?”

  I waved good-bye to Mrs. Lawson. I led the way out of the YC building. It was a warm spring afternoon. A big orange sun was lowering itself behind the tall trees in the yard across the street.

  The YC is three blocks from our house. We started to walk. Rachel kept deliberately bumping me with her backpack. Once, she swung it so hard, she knocked me off the sidewalk. That made her giggle.

  “Are you just coming from school?” I asked. “Why are you so late?”

  “They kept me after. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “It’s never your fault,” I said.

  She swung her backpack. I dodged away. “Want to make a big deal about it, Robot? Mr. Perfect Robot?” she snapped. “So I got in trouble. Big whoop.”

  “I wonder what Mom’s news is,” I murmured.

  “Your Martian parents have come to take you home with them,” Rachel said.

  I laughed. Sometimes she’s pretty funny.

  “Jackson, can you help me with my math homework tonight?” she asked.

  We waited for two kids on bikes to zoom past. Then we crossed the street. A warm breeze made the evergreen trees on the corner quiver and shake.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m going over to Stick’s after dinner. Help him with a project.”

  “How can you go to Stick’s?” she demanded. “You think Mom and Dad will let you go out on a school night? When are you going to do your homework?”

  “I already did it,” I said. “I did it all in school before I left.”

  “AAAAGGGGH.” Rachel let out an angry animal growl. She wrapped both hands around my neck and started to strangle me.

  “Let go! Hey — let go!”

  Laughing, I had to pry her hands off my throat.

  She twisted her face angrily. “You’re just so totally perfect, aren’t you?” She swept her hand over my head and messed up my hair. “Ha. Now you’re not so perfect.”

  A few minutes later, we stepped into the house through the kitchen door. Mom was sitting at the table. She looked up from her recipe notebook. “Why are you so late?”

  “Jackson got in trouble in school,” Rachel said. “And he had to stay after.”

  Mom shook her head. “I know you’re lying, Rachel. Jackson doesn’t get in trouble.”

  Rachel tossed her backpack against the wall. “I wasn’t lying. I was joking.”

  “Mom, I saw your text,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I’ve got big news for you,” she replied. “I’m getting rid of you both.”

  Rachel and I laughed. Mom was joking, of course. We know her sense of humor. She’s always trying to catch us off guard.

  Mom wanted to be a stand-up comedian after college. She did an act in comedy clubs and nightclubs. It’s a mystery to us how she got to be a bank manager. Dad says she’s the funniest bank manager in the U.S.

  “Don’t laugh. I’m serious,” Mom said. “I’m getting rid of you both. For spring break. You’ve been invited to stay with Grandpa Whitman.”

  Rachel groaned. “Oh, nooo. He’s totally creepy. And I hate that scary old house filled with dolls and toys and all his weirdo collections.”

  “Give him a break,” Mom said. “He probably thinks you’re weird, too.”

  “Not funny,” Rachel said, frowning. “Everything in that house is scary. Did you know he collects poisonous spiders?”

  “Only for snacks,” Mom joked.

  “And what about that frightening caretaker of his — Edgar?” Rachel said. “He creeps around the house in his black suit and hardly ever talks. He looks like he belongs in a horror movie.”

  Mom snickered. “Have you seen yourself before you brush your hair in the morning? Pretty scary.”

  “Not funny, Mom,” Rachel snapped. “I’m serious. I hate that house. Every room has something scary in it.” She shuddered.

  “I think Grandpa’s house is awesome,” I said. “I love all the weird stuff he collects. Rachel, remember that who
le shelf of man-eating plants?”

  She shuddered again. “Grandpa wanted me to stick my hand into that plant and see what it would do. How sick is that?”

  “He was teasing you,” I said.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Rachel insisted.

  Mom shook her head. “Rachel, why don’t you have a good attitude like your brother?”

  “Because I’m a human — not a robot,” Rachel replied.

  “He’s your grandfather, and he loves you two,” Mom said. “And I think he’s a little lonely in that big, old house with just the caretaker, Edgar, to talk to. You’ll have a good time with him. And it’s only a week.”

  “I’m there!” I said. “I’ll bet he has some cool new collections.”

  “A whole week?” Rachel cried. “Mom, he has no Wi-Fi. He has no cell phone reception. I’ll be cut off from everybody. I’ll be cut off from the whole world. How will I talk to my friends?”

  “Smoke signals?” Mom said. “Tell you what. I’ll ask your dad to buy you a carrier pigeon. It’ll carry notes back and forth. It’s like an old-fashioned Internet. You’ll love it.”

  “How funny are you?” Rachel said. “Not.”

  But she could see that we had no choice. Mom had already told Grandpa Whitman that we would be happy to visit him.

  And a few days later, Rachel and I were on the bus, taking the long ride to Grandpa Whitman’s house way out in the country.

  Rachel tapped away on her phone, sending messages to her friends. I had my portable game-player to keep me busy. I carry it wherever I go.

  I love to play Chirping Chickens. To tell you the truth, I’m obsessed with that game. I love making the chickens fly at the giant warthogs. I love the chirping sound they make and the sick splaaat when they hit.