Night of the Living Dummy Read online

  “We’re kind of busy,” Kris shouted, shifting the dummy on her lap.

  “The Millers are here, and they’re dying to see your ventriloquist acts,” their father shouted up.

  Lindy and Kris both groaned. The Millers were the elderly couple who lived next door. They were very nice people, but very boring.

  The twins heard Mr. Powell’s footsteps on the stairs. A few seconds later, he poked his head into their room. “Come on, girls. Just put on a short show for the Millers. They came over for coffee, and we told them about your dummies.”

  “But I have to rehearse for tomorrow night,” Kris insisted.

  “Rehearse on them,” her father suggested. “Come on. Just do five minutes. They’ll get a real kick out of it.”

  Sighing loudly, the girls agreed. Carrying their dummies over their shoulders, they followed their father down to the living room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Miller were side by side on the couch, coffee mugs in front of them on the low coffee table. They smiled and called out cheerful greetings as the girls appeared.

  Kris was always struck by how much the Millers looked alike. They both had slender pink faces topped with spongy white hair. They both wore silver-framed bifocals, which slipped down on nearly identical pointy noses. They both had the same smile. Mr. Miller had a small gray mustache. Lindy always joked that he grew it so the Millers could tell each other apart.

  Is that what happens to you when you’ve been married a long time? Kris found herself thinking. You start to look exactly alike?

  The Millers were even dressed alike, in loose-fitting tan Bermuda shorts and white cotton sports shirts.

  “Lindy and Kris took up ventriloquism a few weeks ago,” Mrs. Powell was explaining, twisting herself forward to see the girls from the armchair. She motioned them to the center of the room. “And they both seem to have some talent for it.”

  “Have you girls ever heard of Bergen and McCarthy?” Mrs. Miller asked, smiling.

  “Who?” Lindy and Kris asked in unison.

  “Before your time,” Mr. Miller said, chuckling. “They were a ventriloquist act.”

  “Can you do something for us?” Mrs. Miller asked, picking up her coffee mug and setting it in her lap.

  Mr. Powell pulled a dining room chair into the center of the room. “Here. Lindy, why don’t you go first?” He turned to the Millers. “They’re very good. You’ll see,” he said.

  Lindy sat down and arranged Slappy on her lap. The Millers applauded. Mrs. Miller nearly spilled her coffee, but she caught the mug just in time.

  “Don’t applaud — just throw money!” Lindy made Slappy say. Everyone laughed as if they’d never heard that before.

  Kris watched from the stairway as Lindy did a short routine. Lindy was really good, she had to admit. Very smooth. The Millers were laughing so hard, their faces were bright red. An identical shade of red. Mrs. Miller kept squeezing her husband’s knee when she laughed.

  Lindy finished to big applause. The Millers gushed about how wonderful she was. Lindy told them about the TV show she might be on, and they promised they wouldn’t miss it. “We’ll tape it,” Mr. Miller said.

  Kris took her place on the chair and sat Mr. Wood in her lap. “This is Mr. Wood,” she told the Millers. “We’re going to be the hosts of the spring concert at school tomorrow night. So I’ll give you a preview of what we’re going to say.”

  “That’s a nice-looking dummy,” Mrs. Miller said quietly.

  “You’re a nice-looking dummy, too!” Mr. Wood declared in a harsh, raspy growl of a voice.

  Kris’s mother gasped. The Millers’ smiles faded.

  Mr. Wood leaned forward on Kris’s lap and stared at Mr. Miller. “Is that a mustache, or are you eating a rat?” he asked nastily.

  Mr. Miller glanced uncomfortably at his wife, then forced a laugh. They both laughed.

  “Don’t laugh so hard. You might drop your false teeth!” Mr. Wood shouted. “And how do you get your teeth that disgusting shade of yellow? Does your bad breath do that?”

  “Kris!” Mrs. Powell shouted. “That’s enough!”

  The Millers’ faces were bright red now, their expressions bewildered.

  “That’s not funny. Apologize to the Millers,” Mr. Powell insisted, crossing the room and standing over Kris.

  “I — I didn’t say any of it!” Kris stammered. “Really, I —”

  “Kris — apologize!” her father demanded angrily.

  Mr. Wood turned to the Millers. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m sorry you’re so ugly! I’m sorry you’re so old and stupid, too!”

  The Millers stared at each other unhappily. “I don’t get her humor,” Mrs. Miller said.

  “It’s just crude insults,” Mr. Miller replied quietly.

  “Kris — what is wrong with you?” Mrs. Powell demanded. She had crossed the room to stand beside her husband. “Apologize to the Millers right now! I don’t believe you!”

  “I — I —” Gripping Mr. Wood tightly around the waist, Kris rose to her feet. “I — I —” She tried to utter an apology, but no words would come out.

  “Sorry!” she finally managed to scream. Then, with an embarrassed cry, she turned and fled up the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

  17

  “You have to believe me!” Kris cried in a trembling voice. “I really didn’t say any of those things. Mr. Wood was talking by himself!”

  Lindy rolled her eyes. “Tell me another one,” she muttered sarcastically.

  Lindy had followed Kris upstairs. Down in the living room, her parents were still apologizing to the Millers. Now Kris sat on the edge of her bed, wiping tears off her cheeks. Lindy stood with her arms crossed in front of the dressing table.

  “I don’t make insulting jokes like that,” Kris said, glancing at Mr. Wood, who lay crumpled in the center of the floor where Kris had tossed him. “You know that isn’t my sense of humor.”

  “So why’d you do it?” Lindy demanded. “Why’d you want to make everyone mad?”

  “But I didn’t!” Kris shrieked, tugging at the sides of her hair. “Mr. Wood said those things! I didn’t!”

  “How can you be such a copycat?” Lindy asked disgustedly. “I already did that joke, Kris. Can’t you think of something original?”

  “It’s not a joke,” Kris insisted. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “No way,” Lindy replied, shaking her head, her arms still crossed in front of her chest. “No way I’m going to fall for the same gag.”

  “Lindy, please!” Kris pleaded. “I’m frightened. I’m really frightened.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Lindy said sarcastically. “I’m shaking all over, too. Wow. You really fooled me, Kris. Guess you showed me you can play funny tricks, too.”

  “Shut up!” Kris snapped. More tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  “Very good crying,” Lindy said. “But it doesn’t fool me, either. And it won’t fool Mom and Dad.” She turned and picked up Slappy. “Maybe Slappy and I should practice some jokes. After your performance tonight, Mom and Dad might not let you do the concert tomorrow night.”

  She slung Slappy over her shoulder and, stepping over the crumpled form of Mr. Wood, hurried from the room.

  It was hot and noisy backstage in the auditorium. Kris’s throat was dry, and she kept walking over to the water fountain and slurping mouthfuls of the warm water.

  The voices of the audience on the other side of the curtain seemed to echo off all four walls and the ceiling. The louder the noise became as the auditorium filled, the more nervous Kris felt.

  How am I ever going to do my act in front of all those people? she asked herself, pulling the edge of the curtain back a few inches and peering out. Her parents were off to the side, in the third row.

  Seeing them brought memories of the night before flooding back to Kris. Her parents had grounded her for two weeks as punishment for insulting the Millers. They almost hadn’t let her come to the concert.

&n
bsp; Kris stared at the kids and adults filing into the large auditorium, recognizing a lot of faces. She realized her hands were ice-cold. Her throat was dry again.

  Don’t think of it as an audience, she told herself. Think of it as a bunch of kids and parents, most of whom you know.

  Somehow that made it worse.

  She let go of the curtain, hurried to get one last drink from the fountain, then retrieved Mr. Wood from the table she had left him on.

  The room suddenly grew quiet on the other side of the curtain. The concert was about to begin.

  “Break a leg!” Lindy called across to her as she hurried to join the other chorus members.

  “Thanks,” Kris replied weakly. She pulled up Mr. Wood and straightened his shirt. “Your hands are clammy!” she made him say.

  “No insults tonight,” Kris told him sternly.

  To her shock, the dummy blinked.

  “Hey!” she cried. She hadn’t touched his eye controls.

  She had a stab of fear that went beyond stage fright. Maybe I shouldn’t go on with this, she thought, staring intently at Mr. Wood, watching for him to blink again.

  Maybe I should say I’m sick and not perform with him.

  “Are you nervous?” a voice whispered.

  “Huh?” At first, she thought it was Mr. Wood. But then she quickly realized that it was Mrs. Berman, the music teacher.

  “Yeah. A little,” Kris admitted, feeling her face grow hot.

  “You’ll be terrific,” Mrs. Berman gushed, squeezing Kris’s shoulder with a sweaty hand. She was a heavyset woman with several chins, a red lipsticked mouth, and flowing black hair. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting dress of red-and-blue flower patterns. “Here goes,” she said, giving Kris’s shoulder one more squeeze.

  Then she stepped onstage, blinking against the harsh white light of the spotlight, to introduce Kris and Mr. Wood.

  Am I really doing this? Kris asked herself.

  Can I do this?

  Her heart was pounding so hard, she couldn’t hear Mrs. Berman’s introduction. Then, suddenly, the audience was applauding, and Kris found herself walking across the stage to the microphone, carrying Mr. Wood in both hands.

  Mrs. Berman, her flowery dress flowing around her, was heading offstage. She smiled at Kris and gave her an encouraging wink as they passed each other.

  Squinting against the bright spotlight, Kris walked to the middle of the stage. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton. She wondered if she could make a sound.

  A folding chair had been set up for her. She sat down, arranging Mr. Wood on her lap, then realized that the microphone was much too high.

  This drew titters of soft laughter from the audience.

  Embarrassed, Kris stood up and, holding Mr. Wood under one arm, struggled to lower the microphone.

  “Are you having trouble?” Mrs. Berman called from the side of the stage. She hurried over to help Kris.

  But before the music teacher got halfway across the stage, Mr. Wood leaned into the microphone. “What time does the blimp go up?” he rasped nastily, staring at Mrs. Berman’s dress.

  “What?” She stopped in surprise.

  “Your face reminds me of a wart I had removed!” Mr. Wood growled at the startled woman.

  Her mouth dropped open in horror. “Kris!”

  “If we count your chins, will it tell us your age?”

  There was laughter floating up from the audience. But it was mixed with gasps of horror.

  “Kris — that’s enough!” Mrs. Berman cried, the microphone picking up her angry protest.

  “You’re more than enough! You’re enough for two!” Mr. Wood declared nastily. “If you got any bigger, you’d need your own zip code!”

  “Kris — really! I’m going to ask you to apologize,” Mrs. Berman said, her face bright red.

  “Mrs. Berman, I — I’m not doing it!” Kris stammered. “I’m not saying these things!”

  “Please apologize. To me and to the audience,” Mrs. Berman demanded.

  Mr. Wood leaned into the microphone. “Apologize for THIS!” he screamed.

  The dummy’s head tilted back. His jaw dropped. His mouth opened wide.

  And a thick green liquid came spewing out.

  “Yuck!” someone screamed.

  It looked like pea soup. It spurted up out of Mr. Wood’s open mouth like water rushing from a fire hose.

  Voices screamed and cried out their surprise as the thick green liquid showered over the people in the front rows.

  “Stop it!”

  “Help!”

  “Somebody — turn it off!”

  “It stinks!”

  Kris froze in horror, staring as more and more of the disgusting substance poured from her dummy’s gaping mouth.

  A putrid stench — the smell of sour milk, of rotten eggs, of burning rubber, of decayed meat — rose up from the liquid. It puddled over the stage and showered over the front seats.

  Blinded by the spotlight, Kris couldn’t see the audience in front of her. But she could hear the choking and the gagging, the frantic cries for help.

  “Clear the auditorium! Clear the auditorium!” Mrs. Berman was shouting.

  Kris heard the rumble and scrape of people shoving their way up the aisles and out the doors.

  “It stinks!”

  “I’m sick!”

  “Somebody — help!”

  Kris tried to clamp her hand over the dummy’s mouth. But the force of the putrid green liquid frothing and spewing out was too strong. It pushed her hand away.

  Suddenly, she realized she was being shoved from behind. Off the stage. Away from the shouting people fleeing the auditorium. Out of the glaring spotlight.

  She was backstage before she realized that it was Mrs. Berman who was pushing her.

  “I — I don’t know how you did that. Or why!” Mrs. Berman shouted angrily, frantically wiping splotches of the disgusting green liquid off the front of her dress with both hands. “But I’m going to see that you’re suspended from school, Kris! And if I have my way,” she sputtered, “you’ll be suspended for life!”

  18

  “That’s right. Close the door,” Mr. Powell said sternly, glaring with narrowed eyes at Kris.

  He stood a few inches behind her, arms crossed in front of him, making sure she followed his instructions. She had carefully folded Mr. Wood in half and shoved him to the back of her closet shelf. Now she closed the closet, making sure it was completely shut, as he ordered.

  Lindy watched silently from her bed, her expression troubled.

  “Does the closet door lock?” Mr. Powell asked.

  “No. Not really,” Kris told him, lowering her head.

  “Well, that will have to do,” he said. “On Monday, I’m taking him back to the pawnshop. Do not take him out until then.”

  “But, Dad —”

  He raised a hand to silence her.

  “We have to talk about this,” Kris pleaded. “You have to listen to me. What happened tonight — it wasn’t a practical joke. I —”

  Her father turned away from her, a scowl on his face. “Kris, I’m sorry. We’ll talk tomorrow. Your mother and I — we’re both too angry and too upset to talk now.”

  “But, Dad —”

  Ignoring her, he stormed out of the room. She listened to his footsteps, hard and hurried, down the stairs. Then Kris slowly turned to Lindy. “Now do you believe me?”

  “I — I don’t know what to believe,” Lindy replied. “It was just so … unbelievably gross.”

  “Lindy, I — I —”

  “Dad’s right. Let’s talk tomorrow,” Lindy said. “I’m sure everything will be clearer and calmer tomorrow.”

  But Kris couldn’t sleep. She shifted from side to side, uncomfortable, wide awake. She pulled the pillow over her face, held it there for a while, welcoming the soft darkness, then tossed it to the floor.

  I’m never going to sleep again, she thought.

  Every time she closed her eyes,
she saw the hideous scene in the auditorium once again. She heard the astonished cries of the audience, the kids and their parents. And she heard the cries of shock turn to groans of disgust as the putrid gunk poured out over everyone.

  Sickening. So totally sickening.

  And everyone blamed her.

  My life is ruined, Kris thought. I can never go back there again. I can never go to school. I can never show my face anywhere.

  Ruined. My whole life. Ruined by that stupid dummy.

  In the next bed, Lindy snored softly, in a slow, steady rhythm.

  Kris turned her eyes to the bedroom window. The curtains hung down over the window, filtering the pale moonlight from outside. Slappy sat in his usual place in the chair in front of the window, bent in two, his head between his knees.

  Stupid dummies, Kris thought bitterly. So stupid.

  And now my life is ruined

  She glanced at the clock. One-twenty. Outside the window, she heard a low, rumbling sound. A soft whistle of brakes. Probably a large truck going by.

  Kris yawned. She closed her eyes and saw the gross green gunk spewing out of Mr. Wood’s mouth.

  Will I see that every time I close my eyes? she wondered.

  What on earth was it? How could everyone blame me for something so … so …

  The rumbling of the truck faded into the distance.

  But then Kris heard another sound. A rustling sound.

  A soft footstep.

  Someone was moving.

  She sucked in her breath and held it, listening hard.

  Silence now. Silence so heavy, she could hear the loud thudding of her heart.

  Then another soft footstep.

  A shadow moved.

  The closet door swung open.

  Or was it just shadows shifting?

  No. Someone was moving. Moving from the open closet. Someone was creeping toward the bedroom door. Creeping so softly, so silently.

  Her heart pounding, Kris pulled herself up, trying not to make a sound. Realizing that she’d been holding her breath, she let it out slowly, silently. She took another breath, then sat up.

  The shadow moved slowly to the door.

  Kris lowered her feet to the floor, staring hard into the darkness, her eyes staying with the silent, moving figure.