Slappy Beware! (Goosebumps Special Edition) Page 5

  “I know I’m being weird. But—”

  Poppy tugged Reggie to his feet. “Okay, okay. Don’t pull me. I’m coming.”

  He straightened his pajama bottoms and followed her out into the hall. A night-light near the floor cast a pale glow over the dark rug. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet. Their dad always talked about replacing them. But he hadn’t gotten around to it.

  Poppy stopped at the doorway to her bedroom and clicked on the ceiling light. Blinking in the sudden brightness, Reggie followed her into the room.

  They both stopped and stared at the same time.

  The closet door stood wide open.

  “No! It can’t be!” Poppy pressed her hands to her cheeks and stared wide eyed at the open closet door.

  Reggie hesitated for a moment. Then he darted across the room and peered into the closet. “Not here,” he said. “No dummy in here.”

  “I … I put him on the floor … against the back wall,” Poppy stammered. She stood back, watching her brother, afraid to approach the closet.

  Reggie turned and studied her. He could see that she wasn’t pulling a prank. She was trembling and pale, genuinely frightened.

  “He … got out,” Poppy said. “He’s somewhere in the house.”

  She finally worked up the courage to step over to the closet. Reggie backed away, and Poppy peered in. She turned on the closet light. Her shirts and jeans and dresses hadn’t been touched. A pile of dirty clothes was heaped on the floor behind her sneakers.

  No sign of Mister Wood.

  Poppy backed out of the closet and dropped onto the edge of her bed. Reggie shivered despite the warmth of the night. Hugging himself, he moved beside Poppy.

  “We’d better wake up Mom and Dad and tell them,” he said.

  Poppy shrugged. “What good would that do? No way they’d ever believe us.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Reggie said. “They sell hundreds of Mister Wood dummies. Dad said they had a big stack of them at Sackler’s. Someone would have told Sackler if they were alive. It’s impossible!”

  Poppy jumped to her feet. “We’ve got to find him. He has to be around here somewhere.”

  They both started for the door—then stopped.

  A floorboard creaked.

  A soft footstep thumped in the hall. A scrape. A quiet thud. Another squeak of a floorboard.

  “He … he’s out there,” Poppy whispered. “He’s coming …”

  They both stared at the doorway.

  Another creak. Closer. Another soft thud of a footstep.

  Why is he trying to sneak up on us? Reggie wondered. What is he going to do?

  The light in the hall turned to shadow. The figure stepped into the doorway.

  And both kids screamed.

  “Dad!” Poppy cried. She jumped to her feet. “We thought—”

  “Dad—it’s you!” Reggie said.

  “Who were you expecting?” Mr. Foreman demanded. “Frosty the Snowman?” He tied his bathrobe tighter around himself and stepped into the room. “What’s going on up here? Your mom and I could hear you from downstairs.”

  “It … it’s the dummy!” Poppy cried.

  Her father raised a hand. “No. Don’t start! I’m serious. I don’t want to hear anything about either of your dummies.” He peered around Poppy’s room. “Where is your dummy? I hope you put him away somewhere.”

  “That’s just it, Dad,” Poppy replied. “I did put him away. In the closet. And—”

  “It’s late and we’re all tired from Christmas and all the parties,” he said. “So why are you two still up? And why are you talking about those dummies?”

  Poppy balled her hands into fists at her sides. “If you’ll just let me explain—”

  “You’ve got to listen to her, Dad,” Reggie spoke up. “Something weird is going on.”

  “The only weird things around here are you two,” Mr. Foreman grumbled. He pressed his hands against his waist. “Go ahead. Tell me what you want to tell me.” He yawned. “This better be good.”

  “It … it isn’t good,” Poppy stammered. “I put Mister Wood away in my closet. I was kind of freaked out. So I closed him up in there. And look.” She pointed to the open closet door. “He got out.”

  Mr. Foreman rubbed his forehead. “He got out? A wooden dummy escaped from your closet? Am I really hearing this? Am I having a nightmare? Or is this some kind of joke the two of you dreamed up?”

  “No, Dad. Please—” Poppy pleaded. “Please believe me. Look in the closet. Go ahead. Look.”

  Mr. Foreman crossed to the closet and poked his head in. “Okay. No dummy in there. So what?”

  “He’s walking around somewhere in the house, Dad,” Poppy said. “I don’t know where. It … it’s not a joke. I’m really scared.”

  Their dad studied them both for a long moment. Then he chuckled.

  “Maybe the dummy is downstairs in the kitchen helping himself to leftover turkey. I hope so. I hate leftover turkey!”

  “But—Dad—”

  Reggie grabbed her arm. “Poppy, he’s not going to believe you,” he told his sister. “Better give it up.”

  “Good thinking,” Mr. Foreman said. “Here’s what I do believe. Any more dummy trouble of any kind, and Mister Wood goes back to the store.”

  He shook his head. “I thought it was a great gift, Poppy. You really wanted it, and I thought you could have a lot of fun with it. But that dummy has brought nothing but trouble to this family.”

  “But, Dad—”

  He turned and started to the door. “Good night, you two,” he said. “And if you happen to see Mister Wood walking by, tell him I said good night to him, too.”

  They listened to their dad thumping down the stairs. Poppy hugged herself and stared at the open closet door.

  “Told you so,” Reggie said. He yawned. “Why don’t parents ever believe their kids?”

  “I’m going to lock my door,” Poppy said. “But I’ll be up all night. I know I will.”

  “I’ll leave my door open,” he told her. “If you hear something weird, just shout and I’ll come running.”

  She shivered. “Thanks, Reggie.” She really is scared, Reggie thought as she followed him to the door. He knew she was watching him walk down the hall to his room. He turned and saw her standing there for a moment, listening.

  Silence.

  Then she closed the bedroom door and locked it with a sharp click.

  Reggie’s head was spinning as he made his way back to his room. He felt tired and confused. He wanted to believe Poppy’s story about the dummy escaping from the closet.

  But how was it possible? Could Poppy be making the whole thing up after all?

  But it definitely didn’t seem like an act.

  Reggie didn’t know what to think. Right now, he wanted to go to sleep and not worry about anything till tomorrow.

  He stepped into his room and saw at once that something was wrong.

  What was that round object on the floor in front of the bed? He blinked, waiting for it to come into focus. And then he let out a sharp cry.

  Junior’s head?

  He dropped to the rug and picked it up. Junior’s wooden head. And beside the bed? An arm. A torn shirt sleeve with a dummy arm in it.

  “Noooo!” Another cry escaped Reggie’s throat.

  The dummy’s shoes lay under Reggie’s desk chair. Next to them, a wooden hand.

  His heart pounding, Reggie held Junior’s head in his hands. He raised his gaze to the bed—and gasped. There was Mister Wood, sitting up straight, cross-legged, in the middle of Reggie’s bed, grinning … grinning at Reggie.

  And what was cupped in Mister Wood’s hand? Reggie stood up and squinted to see better.

  In Mister Wood’s hand … Junior’s eyeballs!

  “It’s lucky I saved the box,” Mr. Foreman said. He lifted the Mister Wood dummy by the head and lowered him into the box. Then he carefully shut the lid.

  Reggie, Poppy, and
their mother looked on. Mrs. Foreman frowned at Poppy. “Do you have any explanation before your father returns the dummy to the toy store? Anything you’d like to say?”

  Poppy shook her head. She kept her eyes down and muttered, “No. Not really.”

  “Do you want to apologize to your brother?” Mrs. Foreman demanded.

  Poppy shrugged. “For what? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re still insisting you didn’t wreck Reggie’s dummy?” her mom asked.

  Poppy kept her eyes down and didn’t answer.

  “Well, say good-bye to Mister Wood,” their dad said. He finished packing up the dummy. “It certainly has been an unhappy Christmastime around here.”

  “Good riddance,” Poppy muttered. “I never really wanted a dummy anyway.” She turned and hurried up to her room.

  “That dummy was bad news,” Reggie said.

  “Well, there will be a lot less bad news around here with that dummy out of the house,” his mother said.

  * * *

  Mr. Foreman drove across town to Sackler’s toy store. The store had just opened for the day, and a clerk was stacking video game boxes on a shelf behind the front counter.

  He set the box down on the counter and waited for the clerk to turn around. The clerk was a young man with short copper-colored hair and bright blue eyes. He had a silver hoop in one ear. And he wore a black-and-red T-shirt with the name Sackler’s House of Toys across the front.

  “This is a return,” Mr. Foreman said, patting the top of the box.

  “Seriously?” the clerk said. “These are usually a big hit. Mister Wood was one of our bestsellers this holiday. After all the games and tech stuff, of course.”

  “Well, I need to return it,” Mr. Foreman insisted. “Can I get a refund?”

  “Let me see,” the young man replied. He pried up the lid and pulled the dummy from the box. “Whoa.”

  He blinked a few times and studied the dummy up and down. Then he turned to Mr. Foreman. “Sir, where is the dummy that came in this box?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Foreman couldn’t hide his confusion.

  “This dummy didn’t come in this box,” the clerk explained. “This isn’t a Mister Wood.”

  “Of course it is,” Mr. Foreman replied. “I bought this here. This is the box. And this is the dummy that was in the box.”

  The clerk shook his head. “No way,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  He set the dummy down on the counter and disappeared into a back room. Mr. Foreman stared at the dummy, sprawled on its back on the glass counter.

  “You’ve got to be Mister Wood,” he said to it. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  The dummy stared back at him with his red-lipped grin.

  The clerk returned a minute later carrying another Mister Wood box. “Look,” he said. He set the box down and pulled open the lid. Then he lifted the dummy from the box.

  “Weird,” Mr. Foreman said, scratching his head. The Mister Wood from the box had red hair and freckles and wore black-framed eyeglasses. He was dressed in a checkered lumberjack shirt and bright red pants.

  “They don’t look anything alike!” Mr. Foreman exclaimed.

  “I told you so,” the clerk said. “Your dummy isn’t Mister Wood. Someone must have switched dummies. They put this one in the Mister Wood box.”

  “But … why would anyone do that?” Mr. Foreman asked.

  Both men uttered startled cries as the dummy on the counter suddenly sat up on his own. He tossed back his head, opened his mouth wide, and laughed.

  “Say hi to Slappy!” the dummy cried in a shrill voice. “I’m a baaaaad boy!”

  “N-no! No way!” the clerk stammered. “That didn’t just happen.” Eyes wide with fear, he raised both hands and backed away from the counter.

  “This is impossible!” Mr. Foreman cried. He gaped at the dummy. “You can’t talk!”

  “Neither can you!” Slappy shrieked. He waved his hands in the air and shouted out a string of strange words.

  Mr. Foreman’s mouth locked open. His eyes bulged wide.

  The dummy tossed back his head and uttered another cackling laugh. “What’s wrong, dude?” he cried. “Slappy got your tongue? Hahahaha!”

  Slappy lowered his legs over the counter and kicked the glass with his big shoes. “Hey, whaddaya say?” he shouted. “Let’s wish Mister Wood a happy holiday!”

  He waved his arms above his head again, and he chanted a stream of strange words …

  “Amapo Amapi Amapo Golrah Golreeh Amapo!”

  A rumbling sound floated through the store. On the floor across from the counter, a stack of Mister Wood cartons began to shake. Slappy repeated the words, waving his wooden hands high. One by one, the boxes popped open.

  A Mister Wood dummy rose up from each box. The dummies, with their dimpled smiles, red hair, and freckles, floated from the cartons and landed with their feet on the floor.

  Slappy waved his arms some more, and the dummies began to march. Their feet pounded the floor as they stomped their way to the clerk and Mr. Foreman.

  “I’m outta here!” the clerk screamed.

  He and Mr. Foreman dove for the door. But the army of dummies blocked their way. They raised their arms high and marched around the two men in a tight circle. Faster and faster, until their shoes pounded like thunder on the floor.

  “Stop! Let us go!” Mr. Foreman could speak again. He shouted above the din of the marching shoes.

  “Hope you guys enjoy your holidays!” Slappy cried. “Knock on wood! Hahaha!”

  He dropped to the floor and ran out the door.

  “Now let’s see what bad deeds I can do for New Year’s!”

  What do you think, readers?

  Slappy is full of Christmas surprises, isn’t he? But his surprises don’t make you want to say, “Ho ho ho!”

  If only Reggie and his family had realized that the dummy was alive when he arrived. He had probably been terrorizing another family somewhere nearby.

  Now he’s hiding out, planning some New Year’s evil. But let me tell you something Slappy doesn’t know …

  The next big surprise will be a bad one for him.

  And it’s all Darkwell’s fault—with the help of Bryce Carlton and his family, that is …

  Thanks to all of them, this Christmas might be Slappy’s last holiday.

  Look. Here come Bryce and his dad now, walking down an alley on their way home. Bryce and his family may have a message for Slappy:

  “Good-bye forever, Dummy!”

  When twelve-year-old Bryce Carlton walked anywhere with his dad, Duke Carlton, they looked like big and small versions of the same person. Both Bryce and his dad were built low to the ground and solid.

  They both had curly nests of black hair. Big brown raccoon eyes with dark circles around them that gave them a serious expression, even when they weren’t being serious.

  They were fast talkers and fast walkers. Bryce’s teachers were always telling him to slow down:

  “Don’t run in the halls.”

  “Take a breath between your sentences.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  Bryce and his dad were happiest when they were outdoors. They loved camping and hiking, and they loved to fish on Tampa Bay from their tiny boat. Bryce even did his homework on the patio behind their house. He hated being cooped up indoors.

  Jane Carlton, Bryce’s mom, seemed to be from a different family. Her favorite activity was to sit on the couch in their air-conditioned den and read a stack of old novels she brought home from her weekly trips to the library.

  She was a research doctor. When she wasn’t reading old novels, she spent hours with science and medical journals.

  Dr. Carlton was tall and pale and blond. She had a whispery voice and moved quietly. Her footsteps barely made a sound. She was always telling Bryce to use his indoor voice, even when he was using his indoor voice!

  While Bryce and his dad swam l
aps in their backyard pool, Bryce’s mom worked on her laptop, taking notes or reading new research studies.

  Her only outdoor activity was walking Grover, the family dog, around the block a few times a day. Grover had bouncy black curly hair like Bryce and his dad. He was part Lab and part six other dogs. Grover got a lot of Florida sunshine and fresh air because he spent much of his time on a long leash under the family’s only tree in the front yard.

  A few nights before New Year’s, Bryce and his dad were taking a shortcut home after tossing a football around in the park.

  It was the end of December, but the Florida air was very warm and humid, and Bryce kept mopping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. A pale half-moon floated low in the purple night sky.

  They walked down a dark alley that cut through the backs of houses, with kitchen windows sending out patches of orange light. Trash cans were lined up in front of the wooden fences on both sides of the alley.

  Two gray cats, their eyes glowing yellow in the dim light, watched the Carltons as they strode by. Somewhere in the distance a car door slammed. Music blared from an open window.

  Bryce kicked a stone and watched it bounce across the dirt. His father’s sneakers crunched over a long patch of gravel. As they walked, they shuttled the football back and forth to each other.

  Bryce stopped suddenly and pointed up ahead. “Dad, what’s that?”

  Bryce squinted. Sweat blurred his eyes. He mopped it away.

  “I think someone’s hanging over that garbage can!” Bryce cried.

  Yes. The figure slowly came into focus. Someone lay sprawled over the metal can, arms dangling over the sides. Head down, face hidden behind the can.

  “Dad—it … it’s a man!” Bryce stammered. “Is he okay?”

  “Hey, there—!” Mr. Carlton shouted. He took off running, his sneakers kicking up stones on the dusty alley floor.

  Frightened, Bryce held back for a moment. Then he trotted after his dad, eyes on the fallen figure.

  “Hey!” Mr. Carlton shouted again. He stopped at the metal can and grabbed for the man’s hand.

  Bryce stopped a few feet away, his heart pounding. He uttered a startled cry as his dad started to laugh.