Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  The pain had stopped, but his fingers throbbed. He wondered whether they were still there. They’re only plastic and metal, he thought. So it’s no big deal. Just a temporary problem. He could see the back of the man’s head. The asshole had picked up a phone. He was concentrating on driving and dialing.

  He’s not watching me, he thought. I can move now.

  He sent messages to his doll body. Move. Turn. It felt weird. Not as if it was his body. He had to think about it, picture it. The head turned. And he saw his crushed fingers. He saw the gloppy mess oozing out of the fingers.

  And Charles Lee Ray thought, I’m bleeding. I’m damn well bleeding! Dolls don’t damn well bleed!

  And that scared him. Not because he was hurt. Not because he was losing blood—from a doll!—but because of what it all meant.

  If I’m bleeding, he thought, I’m changing again. Time is running out for me. What did the old priest say? The gris-gris works quickly. The longer I’m in the body, the more it becomes me. Until I’ll never get the hell out—

  Unless I get the kid.

  And say the words. The prayer to Damballa, the chant, calling on his power.

  It had to be that kid, the first one he told his secret to.

  And I’ll be seven years old! Seven again.

  He thought of all the wonderful things he could do, the things a kid could get away with. The way he could plan for when he was older. He thought of the mistakes he wouldn’t make.

  Chucky looked at his mashed fingers, the pool of blood gathering on the toy guns, the slinkies, the other toys.

  I gotta get moving, he thought.

  He moved his head back to look at the guy driving. The plastic skin on his skull pulled, making little clicking noises. But the guy was talking on the phone . . .

  “Hi, honey,” Mattson sang. “Hey, what a night, huh?” Susan, his wife, sounded guarded. She knows what’s coming, Mattson thought. She’s been through the routine before.

  “Honey, don’t hold dinner, okay? Sullivan wants me working late again. There was a problem in the lab this morning.”

  She whined at him. He heard the kids playing in the background, whooping it up, making a lot of noise. He felt a smidgeon of guilt.

  Not enough, though. “Hey, Sue, I know I promised . . . but what can I tell you? They give me the big bucks and I have to be there.”

  She mumbled something that sounded like “Okay.”

  “That’s a girl. Give everyone a kiss and I’ll see you later.”

  Mattson smooched the phone and then pressed Disconnect—

  Just as some thunder roared near him.

  “Jesus!” he said.

  “Now for call number two,” he went on. And he felt a smile bloom on his face . . . and a warmth in his crotch that never failed to appear when he was going to see Lisa . . .

  Her phone rang four times—a small wave of anxiety—before she picked up. “Hello, Lisa,” he said. “I’m about ten minutes away, babe . . .”

  She told him she was ready, and that dinner—Steak Diane—was in the oven. She also told him what she was wearing. And what she wasn’t wearing.

  He took a breath. “Nice. So—”

  She reminded him about bringing champagne.

  “The champagne. Oh yeah . . . No, I didn’t forget it. Hey, it’s our two-week anniversary. I want to celebrate . . . I’m on my way. Ciao.”

  He pressed Disconnect. Shit. Champagne. Now I’ll have to stop in this deluge. It was like a hurricane outside. He didn’t even have an umbrella.

  Just then he entered the tunnel that took him toward Lakeshore Drive . . .

  Chucky saw the tunnel. The pale white lights, a smoky blue. He heard the man hang up his phone.

  And Chucky thought about sitting up. After all, this was a new body. It wasn’t his old doll’s body. It was new. What if it didn’t work?

  The car flew into the tunnel. The pounding of the rain stopped.

  And Chucky sat up. He could see the driver squinting, looking ahead. He’ll see me in the rearview mirror, Chucky thought.

  Chucky pushed with his new legs against the toy pile, moving himself closer to the back of the driver’s seat, while all the time crouching down . . . just below the driver’s headrest . . .

  The girl, Kyle, hadn’t been there for dinner. She had gone out. She worked, they said. So it was just the three of them. Andy liked that.

  The food was okay, too, a big plate of spaghetti that he could drown in sauce. He ate one meatball, and finding that it tasted okay, he tried another.

  Phil and Joanne smiled at him while he ate. They like me, Andy thought. That’s pretty good. They like me. This is a lot better than the center.

  After dinner, Joanne made him take a bath. That was okay. Andy liked playing with the G.I. Joe stuff in the tub. He made them jump off the cliff of the faucet into the mountains of bubbles. After his bath, he wore his pajamas, the new ones without feet. And Joanne read him a story by his bed.

  She didn’t read as good as his mom. But it still felt pretty good.

  She kissed him on his cheek and said, “Good night, Andy.”

  As she went to close the door he said, “Stop . . .” Too loudly, he knew.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I like to sleep with the door open. I like the door open when I sleep.”

  She nodded and said, “Sure. Can I close it halfway?”

  “Okay,” Andy said. I got to sound more chipper, he thought. Be a good trooper, like Mom always said I should be when I went to the doctor for shots. Got to be a good trooper. “Good night,” he said.

  Joanne answered him and then left.

  And only then did Andy think about the toy chest at the foot of the bed.

  He thought about the toy chest—but not about all the neat toys inside. He thought of the Good Guy doll, lying face down on top of them. As if standing guard.

  And it took him a long time to finally fall asleep . . .

  He was asleep.

  Of course he was. For a moment, in his dream, he was back at the apartment, waking up in the morning. Hearing his mom make the coffee grinder whine. Hearing the refrigerator door pop open and then slide shut. The clatter of cereal bowls. The tinkling sound of Captain Crunch—his favorite!—tumbling into the bowl. The smell of an English Muffin in the toaster.

  Except—even in his dream—he knew that he wasn’t in the apartment.

  Then—like all dreams—it vanished, and he was in this new house and—

  And it was dark.

  He had a thought then: This isn’t a dream. This is happening. It only seems like a dream. But this is real, real! And—

  He lay on the strange bed. With its too-clean sheets and its blanket that didn’t feel comfortable. Someone else’s blanket. A stranger’s blanket. He held it tight around his neck.

  Listening.

  There had been voices from downstairs, but now it was quiet. Very quiet.

  There weren’t even any sounds from outside, from the streets. No sirens like the ones he used to hear. No noisy cars growling on the road. There was nothing. Just his breathing and—

  There! He heard something. A tiny shuffling. Things moving. A tiny, muffled bell sound.

  A toy. A toy inside the toy chest. Something with a bell. Maybe a pull-toy. Maybe a yellow duck on a string that you pull and it quacks and there’s a bell. Quack. Ding. Quack. Ding.

  He had had one of those once. Then it lost a wheel.

  That was when his father left.

  Disappeared.

  He disappeared. That’s what happens when someone just is there one day and gone the next. His duck lost a wheel, and then it wouldn’t quack anymore.

  He clutched the blanket tighter, feeling where the satin-smooth edging gave way to a rough, scratchy cloth. He held it tight, almost pressing it against his neck.

  More sounds. Something shifting. Just there, just at the foot of the bed. Inside the toy chest.

  He looked at the door.


  It had been opened just a bit when he went to bed. Now it was closed tight. And—with no light on in the hall-invisible. It had been open. Now it was shut.

  And now he was convinced this wasn’t a dream.

  They shut the door, Andy thought. After I went to bed, they came and shut the door. I can’t even see the door. There might not even be a door—

  He heard a creak.

  Then louder, another creaking sound, growing louder and louder.

  The lid—the toy chest lid—was opening up.

  He brought the blanket up a bit more, right up to his chin now. He chewed his lip.

  But when he tugged the blanket, he felt his feet pop out. They popped out, uncovered, at the bottom of the bed. Right near the toy chest.

  He’s opening it, Andy thought.

  Tommy. The doll. He’s opening it. He’s a friend of Chucky’s. And he’s coming out to get me!

  Andy sat up in bed, still holding the blanket tightly. He tucked his feet under him, under the safety of the blanket.

  It was so dark in there. Almost black. He looked again for the door. But he couldn’t see it.

  I could run for it, he thought. I could get up and run where I think the door is. I could grab the handle and run outside and scream and get—

  He looked back.

  There was a tiny bit of light coming in from the window. Just the slightest bit of light. It’s not so black there, he thought. And he saw something catch that light. Catch it with a dull glow.

  It moved.

  The toy chest lid was open.

  Andy moaned. “No,” he said.

  He edged his legs closer to one side of the bed. I can run, he thought. I can run and beat it.

  Closer, until now his feet again snaked out from under the blanket, ready for his quick dash to the door.

  He kept watching the now-open lid. Something moved along the open lid, moved along the shiny parts, covering them. And Andy thought he saw stripes.

  Of course he’d see stripes. He had to see stripes.

  And then something big and dark, all in the shadow. Clicking sounds. Movement. “No!” Andy cried.

  And he felt, for the first time, the tears on his cheeks, tears he hadn’t even known he was crying. He moved his legs all the way to the side, throwing off the heavy blanket, knowing he had to run.

  Then a hand closed around his ankle.

  A tiny hand. A strong hand. And the voice came from down below, at the foot of the bed. “I like to be hugged!”

  Andy tumbled to the floor, his ankle still held. As the doll dragged him back inside the toy chest . . .

  7

  If anything, it was raining harder. And when Mattson finally got to Big Ray’s Liquors, there were no parking spots near the door.

  He hated leaving his precious BMW parked out of sight. Hated it almost as much as he hated getting wet.

  But then he thought of Lisa, and the champagne, and the candlelight . . . and the two of them rolling around on her cheap shag rug while a Duraflame log burned in her fireplace.

  Yes, I’ll be cozy and warm soon . . . he thought.

  He picked a spot two spaces removed from a beat-up pickup truck. Mattson always suspected low-life scum of getting a secret pleasure from smashing the doors of their pickups into luxury cars. The common jerk’s revenge . . . Park defensively, that was Mattson’s motto.

  He jumped out into the maelstrom. The lightning seemed to have eased, but the rain was still pouring down as if from a faucet. Mattson had to stop outside, water streaming down his face, and turn the key counterclockwise, setting the autotheft alarm. He barely heard the discreet beep that signaled the system was engaged.

  Then he ran into the store, his feet stepping into every invisible puddle . . .

  Chucky stood up on the pile of toys. And he leaned forward, reaching around to the passenger seat in the front.

  Let’s see if this is my lucky day, he thought.

  And one of his doll hands, stupid hands that he could barely close, flopped around the seat for a moment before he—aha!—felt the attaché case. He found the handle and then pulled the case back.

  Maybe the asshole locked it, he thought.

  But he found the latches and they popped open. And there, as he had suspected, was a file on his best pal. Someone who he was going to get to know very well. Intimately . . .

  He opened Andy Barclay’s folder. He saw a picture of the boy. Not a bad-looking kid. I should do all right with that face, he thought. Not bad at all. And with what I know, I should be a millionaire by the time I’m eighteen.

  Chucky grinned.

  He found a single, typewritten sheet. He saw Andy’s old address, the apartment building he lived in with his bitch-mother. (I’ll fix her some day, he thought. No question about it. She and I have a date with destiny!) But Andy wasn’t living there anymore.

  No, the paper said he was at someplace called the Glencoe Children’s Crisis Center.

  Chucky grinned at that. Damn right, he’s got a crisis.

  There was a phone number. He mumbled it to himself. “276-7783 . . .”

  Just then something plopped onto the paper, right on Andy’s name.

  It fell from his doll finger, Chucky saw. It was blood, from his finger.

  “No,” he groaned. Goddamn, I’m running out of time, he thought. I’m running out of time!

  He threw the papers aside and crawled between the bucket seats. His body nearly got stuck, but he grunted and squeezed through.

  Leaning on the dash, he could see the liquor store. He saw Mattson waiting on line, holding a bottle. There was still time, plenty of time. Chucky picked up the cellular phone.

  He dialed the number. But he heard nothing. Shit, he thought. How the hell does this thing work? What if I need the keys? Maybe it won’t work without the car engine running . . .

  Then he let his doll fingers search the surface of the phone, feeling the buttons while he held the phone up, trying to see if he was missing anything.

  He saw a switch on the side. He flicked it up and he heard a dial tone. Or something very much like a dial tone.

  He tried the number again. And it rang! He smiled. He felt his plastic cheeks move ever so slightly. (I gotta get out of this body!)

  And he thought, It’s time to reach out and touch someone.

  Grace Poole had Sammy sitting right next to her, right next to the copy machine. She had hoped to get caught up on some paperwork. But the thunder had scared Sammy and he insisted on seeing Grace. And then staying with her.

  The children clasp on to anyone they think they can trust, Grace thought. And they hold on.

  She looked over at him.

  “Sammy, I think you should get back to bed now, honey. The thunder’s all gone and—”

  He shook his head. He waved his floppy-eared rabbit as he talked. “I’m still scared,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Grace Poole nodded. She stuck another sheet into the copier. “But there’s nothing to be scared of, sweetie. Nothing at all. It’s just a storm and the worst is—”

  The phone rang. Sammy jumped.

  The noise startled Grace too. She quickly smiled at him. If she was going to get home tonight, she had to get Sammy calmed down and back inside the dorm.

  She ran over to the phone, catching it in midring.

  “Hello, Boys’ Dormitory, Glencoe . . .”

  She saw Sammy stand up, right beside the copy machine. The boy hit the recessed controls, and when her copies should have stopped, they started coming out twice as fast.

  The connection was weak. “Hello . . . ,” she started to say again.

  Then she heard the voice. A funny kind of voice. Almost an electronic voice, but rough and scratchy. It was someone looking for Andy Barclay.

  “I’m sorry, but Andy isn’t with us anymore. Er, who is this?”

  The connection faded a bit. She asked the man to repeat his words. It was a portable phone, she guessed, maybe one of those car phones. Then she heard h
im ask where he might find Andy.

  The copy machine was shooting out copies so fast they were tumbling to the floor. Sammy was giggling, waving his rabbit, watching her.

  Grace Poole told the man on the phone that Andy was with a foster family. The Simpsons. 2416 Bushill Street. She gave the phone number.

  The man thanked her. Grace quickly hung up and ran over to the out-of-control copy machine and the giggling Sammy, not worried at all about giving out Andy’s address. After all, it was one of the boy’s relatives . . .

  It was his Uncle Charles . . .

  The liquor store clerk took forever scratching off the tiny price sticker from the bottle of Dom Perignon.

  “It’s okay,” Mattson said finally. He kept trying to see out the window, to see that his car was okay. But it was black out there. Somebody could smash open the window and grab his cellular phone in thirty seconds, and he’d miss it all.

  I should have put the phone in the trunk, Mattson thought. That was SOP. Except he hadn’t wanted it getting wet in all this rain. And he was only going to be gone for a few minutes . . .

  If only this stupid cow-eyed clerk would hurry up.

  She was still working at the sticker with her special razor. “It’s okay!” Mattson said, forcefully pushing two twenties toward her.

  But she was dedicated and persistent, and she kept hacking at the label until the bottle was clear of even the tiniest smidgeon of gummy glue. Only then did she take his money. “Thirty-four ninety-five,” she said in a loud voice that the people on line—most of whom were bringing home their nightly allotment of Four Roses or Gallo vin ordinaire—could easily hear.

  Mattson looked out at his car. Still there. Nobody around it. Nobody he could see.

  The clerk gave him his change and then the bottle in a bag. “Thank you,” she sang to him, but he dashed out the door.

  While visions of Lisa danced in his head.

  Lisa . . . slowly undressing, letting him watch her slip out of her skirt, unbutton her blouse. Then smiling, licking her lips while she eased off one bra strap, then the other.

  Ta-da!