Revenge of the Living Dummy Read online

  “But it’s after eleven,” I whispered. “If I get caught —”

  “Britney, this is life or death,” Molly said. “I’m not joking. I need you!”

  “I’ll get dressed,” I said. “I’ll sneak out the back door. Give me two minutes.”

  Two minutes later, I was running through backyards and across the street to Molly’s house. The grass was slippery and wet due to the weather. I lowered my head against the strong gusts of wind.

  Molly’s house was dark except for a light in the attic window. But she stood waiting for me at the back door. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen.

  She had already pulled on a yellow rain slicker and had the hood lowered over her head. “We have to hurry,” she whispered.

  “Molly, I — I don’t understand,” I said. “Tell me. What’s up with that doll?”

  She brushed back the rain hood. I could see the fear in her eyes. “The Mind Stealer. My dad — he was wrong. We have to bury it. In a graveyard.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re not joking? Where’s your dad?”

  “On an island somewhere,” she said. “Near Australia, I think. I tried to call him. I don’t think his cell is working.”

  “But … why do we have to bury that doll? That’s just crazy — isn’t it?”

  “A man called me,” Molly said. “A few minutes ago. From Mumba. He said my dad asked him for information about the Mind Stealer doll. And … and …”

  “Molly, what did he say?” I asked.

  “He said he did research for my dad. He talked to people in Mumba. The doll’s powers are deadly strong. It shouldn’t be kept in the house. My dad didn’t know. It has to be buried in … a graveyard.”

  I stared at her. “He was serious?”

  “Very serious,” Molly said. “He said to get the doll out of the house tonight. He said maybe it’s all just an old legend. But we shouldn’t take chances. It’s too dangerous.”

  She grabbed my hand. “You’ve got to help me, Brit. I’m really scared. I knew that doll was trouble. My dad — he — sometimes he just doesn’t take things seriously.”

  “What about Margie?” I asked. “Your housekeeper. Can she help us?”

  “She has the flu,” Molly replied. “I can’t ask her to come out.”

  Molly stared at the glass case in fear. “I’ll carry the doll case.” She shivered. “There’s a shovel in the garage. You can carry that.”

  And that’s how Molly and I ended up in the little graveyard three blocks away from our houses. Nearly midnight. The neighborhood dark. No cars in the street. No moon in the cloud-covered sky. Cold raindrops pattering down on us.

  There we were, taking turns shoveling up the hard dirt.

  Inside the glass case, the evil doll stared up at us with its empty eye sockets in its shriveled green head. The wind howled. The old gravestones creaked and groaned.

  Could we get the evil doll buried before it did something horrible to us?

  Could it get any scarier?

  Yes.

  The hole was at least two feet deep. Almost deep enough. I dug the shovel blade into the dirt.

  And that’s when the old gravestone across from me tilted forward. I saw crumbling dirt at the bottom of the stone.

  And then I saw the pale hand reach out from behind it.

  Too late. I saw it too late to escape its grip.

  It grabbed me around the ankle. Wrapped its cold fingers over my skin.

  And I let out a shrill scream.

  “Ethan —!” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “Made you scream!” he said. He let go of my ankle. Then he jumped out from behind the tombstone and did a little dance, laughing like a hyena.

  Molly gave him a hard shove, and he fell back against an old granite slab. “You brat!” she snapped. “You followed us here?”

  He grinned. “You’re burying that stupid doll? You’re both totally mental.”

  The rain came down harder, drumming the ground. I pretended to strangle Ethan. “I’d like to bury you!” I said.

  “I know what happens at midnight,” Ethan said. “You both turn into pumpkins!”

  “This isn’t a joke,” Molly said angrily. “Get away, Ethan.” She shoved him again. “Unless you want to help us. We have to bury this thing. It really does steal minds.”

  Ethan giggled. “You’re both out of your minds already!”

  A flash of lightning made the ugly Mind Stealer doll appear to move. I felt a chill roll down my back.

  I dug the shovel deep into the hole and scooped out another clump of dirt. “I … I think it’s deep enough,” I said.

  Ethan watched as Molly and I carefully … carefully … lifted the glass case. The disgusting little head rolled to one side. The doll’s wooden arms bounced against the glass.

  Into the hole. We lowered it slowly. The glass case felt slippery and wet from the rain. But we set it down in the hole. Then we both frantically shoveled and scooped dirt over it.

  Buried it.

  Buried it out of sight. Where its evil powers could do no damage.

  And then the three of us ran for home, battered by the wind and rain.

  Molly had a smile on her face now. At least she could feel safe again in her own house.

  But what about me? No way I could feel safe. Not with a living dummy turning my life into a horror show….

  “Mom, please don’t make me take Ethan,” I begged.

  Mom bit her bottom lip. “Britney, you have no choice,” she said. “You promised him, remember? You have to take him.”

  She straightened her hair in the front hall mirror and picked up the car keys. It was nearly four the next afternoon. She was ready to drive us to perform at Sunset House, my great-aunt’s retirement home.

  “Britney, do you have all your art supplies packed up? Put them in the trunk,” she said.

  She started to the door, but I grabbed her arm. “Mom, you’re not listening to me,” I said. “If we take Ethan, something terrible is going to happen.”

  “Stop it — right now,” she said. “Go call your cousin. He’s upstairs practicing his comedy act.”

  My throat felt tight and dry. “I know you don’t believe me,” I said, “but I’m not making this up. Mr. Badboy is alive, Mom. He’s alive — and he’s evil!”

  Mom slammed the car keys down on the hallway shelf. She glared at me angrily. “Enough,” she said. “Enough, enough, enough. You’re acting like a total baby, Britney.”

  “But, Mom. I can prove it,” I said.

  She raised a hand. “Enough. Enough. Not another word. I mean it. Not another word about that dummy.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I felt so hurt and angry. Mom always believed me before Ethan came to live with us. She always trusted me. She always talked about how grown-up I was. And now …

  She pointed to the stairs. “Go get Ethan. Great-aunt Ruth is waiting.”

  I let out a long sigh and started up the stairs. I knew if I brought Ethan and Mr. Badboy with me, something terrible would happen.

  But what could I do?

  * * *

  A short while later, Mom pulled the car up the long driveway to Sunset House. We passed by tall hedges and a rolling lawn with beds of red and yellow flowers. People sat in chairs around a bubbling fountain, talking and reading.

  The house was a tall brick building. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the many windows, making the whole house appear to glow.

  I pulled my art supplies from the trunk and waved to Mom as she drove away. Great-aunt Ruth was waiting for Ethan and me in the front hall.

  She is almost eighty-five, but she looks a lot younger. She has short, straight black hair, and she wears a lot of makeup and bright red lipstick. Today she wore faded jeans with embroidery on the pockets and a pale blue shirt that tied at the waist. After giving Ethan and me bone-crushing hugs, she began chattering a mile a minute, asking about everyone in the family.

 
A short, plump gray-haired woman wearing a gray pants suit stepped up with a smile. “Britney, this is so nice of you,” she said.

  “Hi, Mrs. Berman,” I said. She’s the director of the house. “This is my cousin Ethan. He’s going to perform with his dummy.”

  “How excellent,” she said. “Come this way. Your audience is waiting for you in the rec room.”

  We followed her down the hall and into the room. Folding chairs had been set up in three rows. About twenty people turned when we came in. Most of them were white-haired. Two were in wheelchairs, and I saw a lot of canes and walkers.

  I put down my paint case and started to set up my easel. Ethan took a seat in a corner and plopped Mr. Badboy on his lap.

  “This is Ruth’s niece, Britney Crosby,” Mrs. Berman announced. “She is going to give you all a painting lesson. And then Britney’s cousin Evan is going to put on a puppet show.”

  “It’s Ethan!” Mr. Badboy shouted.

  People began to murmur. A few people laughed.

  I opened my paint jars and turned to the audience. “I know a lot of you like to draw and paint,” I said. “So I thought —”

  “Louder, please!” a woman in the front row shouted.

  “So I thought today I’d —”

  “She’s deaf!” another woman called out. “She won’t hear you no matter how loud you shout.”

  A lot of people laughed. Great-aunt Ruth turned in her seat and shushed everyone.

  I took a deep breath and continued. “Since we’re in Sunset House, I thought I’d show you how to paint a beautiful sunset with just two colors — red and yellow.”

  I picked up the brush and began to mix colors.

  “Maybe she could paint my room!” a man in the back row said to the woman next to him.

  “Maybe she could paint my nails!” the woman said.

  They were both shouting. They must have been nearly deaf. I could feel my legs start to shake. Mom had warned me it would be a tough audience.

  I turned and saw Great-aunt Ruth smiling at me. I decided to keep my eyes on her for the rest of the demonstration.

  “What is she painting?”

  “I don’t get this modern art!”

  “Look. She dripped on the floor.”

  I should have worn earplugs! But I hummed to myself to drown them out. And I kept working my brush on the canvas. The sunset painting turned out really well, maybe the best sunset I’d ever done.

  And when I stepped away from it, everyone cheered and clapped, even the woman who wanted me to paint her nails. Great-aunt Ruth blew me a kiss. I could tell how proud she was.

  I felt really happy. But then I remembered what was coming next, and my stomach tightened in dread.

  “Here’s Ethan,” I announced to everyone, “with his good friend Mr. Badboy.” As Ethan passed me, I whispered, “Don’t mess up.”

  “I’ll try,” he whispered back.

  Why did he look so frightened?

  Ethan pulled his folding chair to the front of the room. He sat down and bounced the dummy on his lap.

  “Which one is Ethan?” a woman whispered loudly. A few people laughed.

  Ethan cleared his throat and turned to the grinning dummy. “You’re going to be a good boy today, aren’t you, Mr. Badboy?”

  Mr. Badboy shook his head no. “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy! Know how I can tell when someone is old?” he asked Ethan.

  “How?”

  “By the smell!” Mr. Badboy tossed back his head and cackled.

  “That’s not funny,” Ethan scolded him.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Badboy shot back. “That joke STINKS! And so do they!”

  A few people gasped. The room grew very quiet.

  Mr. Badboy’s jaws clicked up and down. “Ethan, do you know the difference between an old person and roadkill?”

  “No,” Ethan said.

  “Neither do I!” Mr. Badboy cried, and laughed his high-pitched laugh again.

  “That is not allowed!” Mrs. Berman shouted from the back of the room. “Ethan, your jokes are insulting people.”

  “Your FACE is insulting ME!” Mr. Badboy exclaimed. “I’ve seen PIMPLES that were prettier than you!”

  I shut my eyes. I just wanted to disappear. This couldn’t be happening!

  “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!” Mr. Badboy shouted.

  He turned his head to a woman with curly white hair and bright red lips. “Is that a new skirt?” the dummy asked her. “Or are you wearing your intestines on the outside?”

  Mrs. Berman stormed toward the front of the room, swinging tight fists at her sides. Her face was as red as my sunset painting. “Ethan, I have to ask you to stop,” she said.

  Ethan jumped up. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “Sometimes Mr. Badboy acts up. But I know he’ll be good now.”

  Mrs. Berman glared at him. “Your jokes are not acceptable!”

  “I promise he’ll behave,” Ethan said. He shot me a nervous glance. Then he turned back to the audience. “I need a volunteer. Could you come up and talk to Mr. Badboy, ma’am? I promise he’ll be good. Please — come up here.”

  I realized I was holding my breath. What did Ethan plan to do?

  Or more important — what did Mr. Badboy plan to do?

  Ethan kept pleading with her. So finally, a gray-haired woman in a flowery brown-and-yellow housedress stood up and slowly walked up beside the grinning dummy.

  She shook Mr. Badboy’s hand. “Are you going to be a good boy?” she asked, grinning at Ethan.

  Mr. Badboy’s eyes blinked up and down. “I like your dress,” he said. “Interesting colors. Or did you spit up your breakfast this morning?”

  I gasped. Now I knew for sure. I had no doubts at all. The dummy was alive — and out of control.

  The woman laughed. “You’re naughty,” she said. “Someone should spank you!”

  “I’d like to spank you, too,” Mr. Badboy replied. “But with that face, I can’t tell which end to spank!”

  I turned and saw Mrs. Berman shaking her head and frowning.

  “Which color do you like in Britney’s painting?” Mr. Badboy asked the woman. “The red or the yellow?”

  She studied my painting for a moment. “The red, I guess.”

  And then … it all happened so quickly, it was a total blur.

  I saw the jar of red paint swing up into the air. Was it in Mr. Badboy’s hand? Or did Ethan hold the jar?

  I couldn’t see. But I saw the jar swing high — and I saw the red paint come splashing out.

  It made a loud SPLAAATTTT as it burst over the woman’s face. It ran down her cheeks, down her skirt, and puddled on her shoes.

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. She staggered back, wiping paint from her eyes. But Mr. Badboy wasn’t finished.

  Now the yellow paint jar was in the air. And a tidal wave of thick yellow paint splashed over the woman’s hair.

  “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!” Mr. Badboy shouted.

  Mrs. Berman leaped forward and tried to pull the dummy from Ethan’s arms. And I rushed to the front of the room, my brain spinning. I knew I had to do something to help.

  But I tripped over my easel. The whole thing collapsed under me, and I fell facedown on my painting.

  “Ohhh.” I groaned and tried to pull myself to my feet. Smears of red and yellow paint stuck to the front of my sweater.

  I heard people stampeding from the room. Some were crying. Others were shouting angrily.

  A disaster, I thought. A total disaster.

  Raising my eyes, I glared at the ugly dummy. And as I stared, he tossed back his head and roared with laughter.

  “Molly, where is your dad? I have to talk to him.”

  That night, I was too upset to eat dinner. I rushed up to my room and slammed the door behind me. Then I dropped onto the edge of my bed and punched Molly’s number into my cell phone.

  “I told you,” Molly replied. “He’s on some island near Australia. I haven’t heard a word from him since he left.”
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  “Well, when is he coming back?” My voice cracked. “It’s a real emergency.”

  Molly was silent for a moment. “Brit, come over. You’ll feel better if you get out of the house.”

  “I can’t,” I moaned. “I’m grounded. Probably for life. Mrs. Berman at Sunset House? She reported the whole thing to school. I don’t believe it, but she blamed me for everything. She said I invited Ethan, so I had to know what kind of jokes he did. She said I had to know what Ethan planned to do.”

  “Oh, wow,” Molly muttered. “Bad news. That’s totally unfair.”

  “Tell me about it,” I groaned. “Then Mrs. Berman called my mom and told her about it. I’m so in trouble everywhere. I’m not allowed to leave my room at night. And … and meanwhile, get this. Dad had hockey tickets that he couldn’t return. So he took Ethan to the hockey game. It’s so not fair!”

  “Ethan is a total freak,” Molly said. “I can’t believe he’s your cousin.”

  “Ethan isn’t the problem,” I said. “It’s Mr. Badboy. He’s alive, Molly. He’s evil — and Ethan is too scared to do anything about it.”

  “But, Brit —”

  “Molly, I’m begging you to believe me,” I said. “No one else will. I’m not even allowed to mention the dummy to my mom or dad. But your dad … he’d believe me. He knows about this stuff — right?”

  “Well …” Molly said, “Dad has done research on ventriloquist’s dummies. I know he’s collected a lot of magazine articles and papers. Come over, Brit. Sneak out and come over. We can try to find his file.”

  I was totally desperate. So I sneaked out the back door and ran all the way to Molly’s house.

  She greeted me in a pale blue T-shirt and red-and-white boxers. She had just washed her hair and had a red bath towel wrapped around her head like a turban.

  We turned on as many lights in the attic as we could. But the room still gave me the creeps, with ugly stuffed creatures and strange dolls staring out at us from the glass cases.

  I stopped to gaze at the empty shelf that had held the Mind Stealer doll. A shiver rolled down my back as I pictured the graveyard in the rain.

  Molly pulled me into her dad’s library at the far end of the attic. One wall was lined with tall gray file cabinets. We began pawing through the file drawers, bulging with articles and magazines and photos and research papers about all the weird stuff Mr. Molloy was into.