by R. L. Stine
“No thanks,” Molly said quickly. She pulled her dad away.
Ethan looked disappointed. He held Mr. Badboy up and showed him the snake heads.
A long, skinny animal skull with two rows of pointed teeth grinned at me from the next case. I hurried past it — and the next case, too. It contained two little blue dolls with long blond hair. Their faces were all twisted as if they were crying.
In the next case — a pile of black fur. I looked closer. No. A stuffed animal. With a tiny mouse caught between its curled fangs.
Molly says the attic gives her bad dreams. I don’t know how she can fall asleep downstairs knowing that all these horrible creatures are right above her head!
“Over here, guys!” Mr. Molloy called. “Here’s the new one you’ve got to check out.”
The three of us stepped around the case and gazed down through the glass.
“Ohh, sick,” I moaned. I felt my stomach lurch.
“Totally sick,” Molly murmured.
“Is that a real shrunken head?” Ethan asked.
Mr. Molloy nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my travels,” he said. “Its body is carved of wood, and it has an actual human head attached to the shoulders.”
I took a deep breath and gazed down at it. It was about twelve inches tall. The face was shriveled like an old prune and was a vomit-green color. There were tiny slits where the eyes had once been. Thin wisps of black hair stood straight up from its scalp.
“Awesome!” Ethan said. “Can I hold it?”
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Molloy replied. “When I tell you the story of this doll, I don’t think you’ll want to come anywhere near it.” He chuckled as if he’d just told a good joke.
“Dad, this is really gross,” Molly said, shaking her head. She turned her back to the case. “You’re not going to keep it here — are you?”
“Let me tell you the story,” Mr. Molloy said. “The doll is called a Mind Stealer. The legend goes that if you touch it, you are doomed. Its eyes will open and glow. You will hear a loud, painful buzz. And it will steal your mind right out of your head.”
My mouth suddenly felt dry. I wanted to stop staring at the ugly thing, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“They say the doll has already claimed twenty minds,” Mr. Molloy said. “Twenty poor victims who were left brainless, empty blanks.”
I felt a chill run down the back of my neck.
Ethan giggled, but I could tell he was frightened, too.
Molly kept her back to the display case. She tossed her coppery hair back over her shoulder. “Can we go now?” she asked.
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned down to get a closer look at the doll.
I stared at the tiny, shriveled head. It was a little smaller than a softball. But it had once been alive. It had once been a live human being.
Was it a man or a woman?
I lowered my face to the glass. And let out a cry as the doll whispered, “How about a kiss, babe?”
Startled, I stumbled back and nearly knocked Molly over.
Mr. Molloy laughed. “Good one, Ethan!” he said.
Ethan grinned at me. “I’m a pretty good ventriloquist,” he said. “I gotcha, Britney.” He did a fast tap dance and ended it by stomping hard on my foot.
“Ethan, you’re so not funny!” I cried. I could feel my face turning hot. I knew I was blushing. How embarrassing to fall for that trick!
Molly turned to her dad. “Do you really believe that mind-stealing stuff?” she asked.
He scratched his head. “I take all these legends seriously,” he said. “The legends tell a lot about people and their beliefs.”
“Yes or no?” Molly asked. “Do you think it can steal minds or not?”
Her dad was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Yes, I guess I do believe it.”
Molly’s mouth dropped open. “Dad, if you believe this awful doll is so dangerous, how can you keep it in our house?”
“It’s under triple-thick glass,” Mr. Molloy replied. “That should make it safe.”
“But, Dad —”
“I’m still studying it,” he told her. “I’ve got a call in to some experts. There are people who know a lot more about the doll than I do. I’m waiting to hear from them. In the meantime, I believe the triple-thick glass will make sure that —”
Before he could finish, that brat Ethan cried, “Britney, you’re blocking my view!” And he bumped me hard from behind — into the doll case!
As my forehead hit the glass, I saw the doll bounce.
Then I heard a loud BUZZ.
I gasped. “Oh, no! My mind!”
Whoa. Wait. I heard the buzz again.
My brain whirred. It took me so long to realize the doll wasn’t buzzing. The sound came from my cell phone.
I let out a sigh of relief. It was only my wild imagination going berserk again.
I pulled the phone from my pocket and flipped it open. A text message. From my mom. DINNER ALMOST READY. COME HOME SOON.
I told Molly and Mr. Molloy we had to leave. Ethan started whining that he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay and check out the other weird dolls and objects. But I was happy to get out of there.
The Mind Stealer doll was too creepy to think about. And Mr. Molloy admitted he didn’t even know if it was safe to keep it in the house! I knew I’d have nightmares about it.
When we got home, Mom was going crazy in the kitchen, with two pots steaming on the stove and a chicken roasting in the oven. She blew a strand of hair off her forehead and smiled at Ethan.
“I’m making my famous roast chicken in honor of your arrival tonight,” she said. “Not quite ready.”
She turned to me. “Why don’t you go up to Ethan’s room and bring down the rest of your junk?”
Ethan gave me a hard tug that almost knocked me over. “Come upstairs, Fat Face. I want to show you my comedy act with Mr. Badboy.”
“Fat Face?” I cried. “Don’t call me Fat Face, Butt Breath!”
He giggled.
“Stop it,” Mom said. She lifted a pot lid and ducked back as steam poured up. “Name-calling isn’t funny.”
“Yeah. Right. Don’t call names, you moron!” Ethan said to me. He tried to jam his elbow into my ribs, but I dodged away.
“Please — go upstairs,” Mom said. “Let Ethan show you his comedy act.”
“Mom, give me a break,” I moaned. “That dummy is so totally lame.”
Mom dropped the lid back on the pot and pulled me to the kitchen door. “Go up there with him, Brit. He wants to share something with you. That’s a good thing.”
“But, Mom —”
“And don’t make fun of the dummy,” she whispered. “Poor Ethan obviously needs a friend to talk to. So he made one up. Go up to his room and be nice to him.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. But then I forced a smile to my face. “Okay, Ethan,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
He let out a cheer and went running up the attic stairs. The dummy’s wooden head clonked on each stair as Ethan dragged it by the arm.
I glanced around the attic. My old room. I missed it already.
The room was long and narrow with bright yellow walls. Some of my posters were still hanging up. My desk stood in front of the window between two twin beds, where Molly and I had spent many sleepovers.
No room for sleepovers now, I thought, in my tiny sewing room. And then I scolded myself: Don’t be bitter, Brit. You’ll get your room back when he leaves.
Ethan pulled out the desk chair and sat down on it. He set Mr. Badboy on his lap. I dropped to the floor, settled onto the white shag carpet, and leaned my back against the wall.
“Don’t laugh too hard,” Ethan said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“No problem,” I said.
“If you need me to explain any of the jokes, just let me know,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Just do your act — okay?”
Mr. Badboy grinn
ed at me. His eyes opened wide. He had such an ugly smile. Totally evil.
“Britney, is that your face, or did you forget to take out the garbage?” the dummy said. His voice was a shrill rasp.
“Be nice,” Ethan scolded the dummy. “That’s my cousin.”
The dummy leaned toward me. “Britney, something just reminded me of the banana I had for breakfast. Oh, yeah. Your nose!”
The dummy tossed back its head and let out a long donkey laugh. “I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!”
“Is this your act?” I asked Ethan.
He shook his head. “Sometimes Mr. Badboy doesn’t cooperate.”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered.
“Be good,” Ethan scolded the dummy.
“I like your long hair,” Mr. Badboy said to me. “Too bad it’s all growing on your back!”
I burst out laughing. The joke was terrible. But Ethan was a really good ventriloquist. I couldn’t see his lips move at all.
“Mr. Badboy, please —” Ethan pleaded. “Be nice to Britney.”
The dummy’s eyes stared into mine. “I know we’ve just met,” he said in his harsh, raspy voice. “But I’m a very romantic dude. And I have three little words I’m dying to say to you.”
“Three little words?” I asked.
Mr. Badboy nodded. “Yeah. Take a bath!”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed again. I have to admit — I love rude jokes. I guess maybe it’s because I’m always so nice.
“Is that your face?” Mr. Badboy asked. “Or are you standing on your head?”
I groaned.
“Don’t blame me for these jokes,” Ethan replied. “Blame Mr. Badboy.”
He turned to the dummy. “You’re not very nice,” he told it.
“Then stop putting words in my mouth!” Mr. Badboy said.
That made me laugh, too.
“I’m a BAAAAAAD boy!” Mr. Badboy exclaimed.
“You’re an awesome ventriloquist,” I told Ethan. “How did you learn to do that?”
Ethan set Mr. Badboy down on the bed and walked over to me. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just practice, I guess.”
I slapped Ethan a high five. “Well, good work, dude. I really think you’re talented.”
And then I gasped. Because across the room, Mr. Badboy turned his head to me — and opened his mouth in an ugly laugh.
“How did you do that?” I cried.
Ethan’s smile faded. “I didn’t do it,” he said. He took his hand out of his pocket and pointed to Mr. Badboy. “He did.”
I frowned at him. “Can’t you ever be serious?”
“I am serious,” he insisted.
I was trying to be nice to Ethan, but he always had to act like a jerk. I decided to give it one more try.
“You know, everyone in my school has to do one hour of public service,” I said.
“That bites,” Ethan said.
“Listen to me,” I snapped. “I’ve got a good idea for you. I’m going to give a painting lesson at my great-aunt’s retirement home. Maybe you could come too and do a funny act with Mr. Badboy. I bet they’d love it.”
“Cool!” Ethan replied. “Yeah. Thanks. Maybe I’ll practice some new jokes with him.”
“Good. Your jokes are funny, but you need some that aren’t so nasty,” I said.
I heard a rustling sound from the bed. Over Ethan’s shoulder, I saw the dummy raise its head again. It opened its mouth and let out a long burp.
I laughed. “That’s pretty good, Ethan,” I said. “Come on. For real. How do you do that?”
“I’m telling the truth,” Ethan said in a whisper. “I didn’t do it.” He grabbed my arm. “Please — believe me, Britney. Sometimes it’s like … he comes to life or something.”
I pulled my arm away. “Yeah, right. And monkeys can fly to the moon!”
But then I saw that the kid was trembling.
On the other side of the bedroom, Mr. Badboy laughed again, a high donkey bray.
I almost fell for it. But then I remembered all the dumb tricks Ethan played on me the last time he visited. He was a total trickster. He just loved making me look dumb.
“No way I believe you,” I said. “So stop it. Give me a break. I’m trying hard to be your friend, Ethan. I want to make you feel at home here.”
“Big WHOOP!” the dummy chimed in from the bed.
I grabbed Ethan by the shoulders. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “How are you doing that?”
He lowered his head. His shoulders shook. I thought he might have tears in his eyes.
“I am telling the truth,” he whispered. “This time, you … you’ve got to believe me, Britney.”
Before I could answer, I saw the dummy raise its head. The mouth worked up and down. I could hear the click of the wooden lips.
And then the dummy screamed: “I’M ALIVE! Don’t you GET it, Britney? I’M ALIVE!”
Ethan grabbed my arm and held on tight. “Help me — please!” he cried. “I … I don’t know what to do!”
I laughed.
I remembered Ethan pretending to break his leg during his last visit. I totally panicked and called 911. After that, he made fun of me for days.
No way I was falling for this cheap joke.
“Nice try,” I said. “Good acting job, Ethan. But do you really think I’m a total sucker?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stamped down as hard as he could on my foot.
I let out a cry and hopped backward till I hit the wall.
“You jerk! That’s not funny!” I screamed. “And that stupid dummy doesn’t scare me.”
I waited for Mr. Badboy to laugh again or say something rude. But he didn’t move. He was just a dumb puppet.
I turned away from my bratty cousin. I still had some things to carry down to my new bedroom.
I gazed at my framed Skullboy poster. It showed them rocking onstage at Radio City Music Hall in New York. And it was autographed by every member of the band.
Buzzy is my favorite band member. And he looks awesome in this poster with his shirt off and both fists pumping the air and all his tattoos showing.
I grabbed the edges of the frame and carefully started to lift it off the wall.
“Uh … Britney,” Ethan said. “I think you’d better leave that poster up here in my room.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Skullboy is Mr. Badboy’s favorite band,” Ethan said.
“Sorry. He loses,” I said. “It’s my favorite band, too. And I’m hanging this in my room.”
Ethan tried to pull my hand off the poster frame. “Please, Britney,” he said in a tiny voice.
“What is your problem?” I snapped.
“I … I want to keep Mr. Badboy happy,” Ethan replied. “If I do something he doesn’t like, he … he might hurt me.”
Ethan had this terrified look on his face. He really was a good actor.
“Tough cheese,” I said. “Tell you what. Sit Mr. Badboy down at the laptop. Let him go online and order his own poster.”
That time I made Ethan laugh.
“Come on, you two,” Mom called from downstairs. “Dinner is on the table.”
“One minute!” I shouted.
I lifted the poster off the wall and carried it down to my new room. I didn’t have much wall space, but the poster fit on the wall above my desk.
I carefully nailed in a picture hook and hung it next to my favorite picture — an oil painting I did of Phoebe, our old dog who died last year.
I missed Phoebe. The painting made me sad. But it was definitely my best painting — a nice way to remember her.
I made sure the Skullboy poster hung straight. Then I hurried down to dinner.
Mom had dropped a plastic jug of apple cider. She was on her knees on the kitchen floor, mopping up the spill. “I can’t believe I dropped that,” she muttered.
I grabbed some paper towels and helped her dry the floor. She handed me the half-empty cider
jug. “You’d better carry it to the table,” she said. “I’d drop my head if it wasn’t glued on.”
“I don’t believe it!” I said. “We’re eating in the dining room? We never eat in the dining room unless company is coming.”
“I thought we’d make it a special celebration, because of Ethan,” Mom said.
Dad was already at the table, spreading his napkin over his lap.
Dad looks like he comes from another family. He’s very tall and skinny as a scarecrow. And he has short, white-blond hair and furry, white-blond eyebrows that move up and down over his blue eyes like caterpillars.
Mom calls him her Blond Freak. Dad thinks that’s hilarious.
In front of him sat Mom’s famous roast chicken on a blue platter, waiting to be carved. And next to it a big bowl of mashed potatoes and bowls of applesauce and string beans. A feast.
“How are you and your cousin getting along?” Dad asked.
“Peachy,” I said.
Before I could say more, Ethan stepped into the room with Mr. Badboy slung over his shoulder.
Mom pointed to the chair at the end of the table. “Why don’t you sit there, Ethan? Next to me,” she said. She smiled at him. “Let’s all sit down and get to know one another.”
Ethan hesitated. He looked quickly around the table. “But you didn’t set a place for Mr. Badboy,” he said.
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. Dad shrugged.
“We can set a place for him across from you,” Mom told Ethan. “Next to Britney.”
She pulled out a place mat and napkin and set them on the table. Then she hurried into the kitchen to get silverware.
Ethan placed the dummy in its chair, then walked around the table and sat down.
Dad chuckled. “Do we have to serve him dinner?”
Suddenly, Mr. Badboy’s eyes popped open wide. And he rasped, “I’d rather eat roadkill.”
I burst out laughing.
Let’s face it. Ethan really cracks me up.
Dad glared at me. “Don’t laugh at that, Brit. Your mom worked hard on this dinner.”
“Huh? Me?” I cried. “I didn’t say it. He did!” I gave the dummy a shove.
