Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  “You’re fine,” Joanne said to Andy. “You just had a scary old nightmare, that’s all.”

  Andy’s fingers stayed locked on the blanket. “I started dreaming about Chucky again. He tried to take my soul. He came back . . .”

  Oh, great, thought Kyle. I know who this kid is now. He’s that real nutcase. The kid who thought his doll came to life and killed people. While it’s more than likely he did it.

  Well, isn’t this pleasant, she thought.

  She turned to leave the room, while Phil knelt by the door to examine the damage she had done to the lock.

  He’s here, thought Chucky. Yes, the little brat is here. Why, that’s his room down at the end of the hall. And there were other voices.

  He edged closer, sticking to the wall, staying as low as possible. I can’t stay here, he thought, can’t stay upstairs. Got to figure out something to do.

  He was closer, almost at the pool of light that spilled through the doorway.

  He heard Andy say his name.

  “Chucky . . . coming to get me.”

  Well, you got that right on the money, kiddo.

  Andy saw Phil looking at the lock, shaking his head, and then looking over at him. Joanne sat with Andy, rubbing his brow, talking quietly to him. Her hand felt cool and nice.

  But Phil was shaking his head.

  “That lock,” he said, pointing to it as if Andy didn’t know which lock, “was worth fifty bucks.” He looked right at Andy. “That’s what it will cost me to replace it.” Phil stood up and walked back to the bed. The man scratched his head and looked down at Andy. “Andy, why did you lock the door?”

  He’s not going to want to hear this, Andy thought. He won’t like what I say. Andy looked at Joanne. She smoothed his hair.

  He took a breath. “S-so Chucky couldn’t get in.”

  He heard Kyle laugh.

  “But, honey,” Joanne said, “you know that was all in your imagination. Remember? It was just a nightmare.”

  Andy decided he shouldn’t say anything. He saw Phil shake his head. He was upset, and Andy knew that Joanne was the only one who wanted him to stay here.

  Phil cleared his throat. “From now on, you leave the doors unlocked. Deal?” Andy nodded. “Now, I’m going back to bed.”

  Andy was glad to watch Phil leave. He looked at Kyle. She shook her head as if agreeing with Phil, and then walked out as well.

  Andy grabbed Joanne’s hand hard. “Don’t leave me,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” she said gently. “I’ll stay here as long as you want me to.”

  The man—Mr. Straight-Arrow Suburbanite—walked out of the room and into another bedroom. Then a girl followed him, going into the next room, just up from Andy’s.

  Chucky watched her. Even in her blowsy nightgown, she looked good. Very tasty.

  Of course, he thought, it’s been a while and—heh, heh—I don’t have the apparatus I once had.

  And that made him think of other things he liked to do to women. Things that even Chucky could do with his little arms and little hands. Necks aren’t so big. Not so big at all.

  The mother was staying with Andy, calming him down. That’s too bad, Chucky thought. Too damn bad.

  He edged a few steps closer and then waited.

  Joanne smiled at Andy, thinking he was too beautiful a boy to be so scared.

  “I miss my mother,” Andy said. Joanne nodded, as she picked up the photo of Andy’s mother. She was pretty, and Joanne felt a terrible jab of envy.

  “I know you do,” Joanne said.

  “Will I ever see her again?”

  Joanne laughed, trying to make it sound as if that was an absurd question.

  “Of course you will, Andy.” As if to seal the answer, she gave him a great hug. “I promise.”

  For the first time since he woke up screaming, she saw Andy smile.

  I’ve just got to walk past the room, Chucky thought. I can’t stand out here. Someone might come out in the hall to go to the john or raid the fridge for twinkies. They’ll see me. I’ve just got to walk past the kid’s room . . . find somewhere to lay low. I gotta just keep moving so they won’t see me, he thought. I gotta stay in the shadows.

  He nodded to himself, getting ready. And then he moved, as fast as his little Good Guy sneakers would take him. He didn’t look in the room. If anyone had happened to look out, all they would have seen was a red-and-blue blur, topped with a bright red mop.

  I should dye this stupid hair, he thought. It’s like a frigging traffic light.

  He kept on going, back down the stairs now. He had to reach up and hold onto the bannister. It was like being five again.

  It was dark down there, nice and dark. So he could figure out his next move.

  At the bottom of the stairs he saw the living room to his left, and he kept on running. He turned around, checking the foyer, checking that no one was following him.

  He backed into a big easy chair.

  “Shit,” he hissed, startled. He spun around and was looking at a mirror image of himself.

  But not quite.

  This Good Guy doll was bone dry, and his hair sat squarely on his head. The doll’s eyes blinked. Then it spoke: “Hi! I’m Tommy and I’m your—”

  Chucky reached back and slugged the doll on its puffy cheeks, hissing to it, “Shut up, you idiot!”

  10

  “What was that?” Andy said, shooting up from his pillow. “I heard something . . . from downstairs.”

  He’s so scared, Joanne thought. Absolutely terrified. And for the first time she began to think that maybe Andy Barclay might be more than she could handle.

  “It’s nothing,” Joanne said. “There’s nobody here,” she cooed, “and nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  Andy looked at the door and then to her face, searching for reassurance.

  She gently pushed against his shoulders. “And now it’s time you went back to sleep, Andy.”

  Chucky had given the doll his best shot, a real good slug.

  Too good. It cartwheeled backward, over the arm of the chair. When its head hit the front of the brick fireplace, Chucky heard a sharp crack, and then a thud as it plopped forward onto the wooden floor.

  And then the doll started to talk.

  “I like to be hugged . . . I like to be hugged . . . I like to be hugged . . .”

  Over and over, those same stupid words, in that goddamn whining voice. Chucky turned and looked over his shoulder. Someone’s going to hear this, he thought. And then they’re all going to come storming down the stairs, wondering how the hell they ended up with two Good Guy Dolls. But, I’ll have to explain, one of us isn’t so good.

  “I like to be hugged . . . I like to be . . .”

  A car passed outside, turning onto the block, and milk-white light shot into the room.

  Chucky saw a stand with fireplace tools on the other side of the hearth. He ran over and pulled out the poker. He raised it in the air.

  “Hug this,” he said. He brought it smashing down on Tommy’s head. But the plastic head was hard, and though Chucky smashed the poker right on its forehead, he made only a small crack.

  He raised the poker into the air. Grunting, he brought it down again. And again, and again, until finally he didn’t hear Tommy’s voice. He brought the poker way back for one last blow, hard enough to smash that face into a thousand bits.

  But the curved hook of the poker caught the table near the chair. The table tilted, and Chucky heard something roll off it. He turned and saw a statue falling through the air. He watched it hit the floor and shatter into bits.

  Chucky froze. And again he listened for movement on the stairs.

  But it was still quiet upstairs, so he turned his attention back to Tommy. He wasn’t human, Chucky thought. It wasn’t the same as doing in a real live person. It lacked that special thrill . . . that je ne sais quoi.

  But he didn’t like leaving any job unfinished. He gave the doll one final smash to the head.

/>   I must be working out my hostilities, Chucky thought. I must have a lot of pent-up anger for Good Guy dolls. Can’t imagine why . . .

  He walked over to the doll and gave it a kick to the stomach. It rolled over, exposing its back. Chucky leaned over the doll and pulled up the T-shirt. He undid the latch to the battery compartment and took out the two batteries.

  Now, he thought, to dispose of the corpse. He stood there perfectly still, listening. He heard the rain still coming down, the ping of the drops against the windows. Goddamn, it’s still raining, he thought. It looks like I’ll have to go outside.

  He grabbed Tommy by the doll’s ankles and started dragging it out of the living room.

  He was nearly to the foyer when he heard footsteps.

  Someone was coming down!

  He stood there, holding the doll by its feet. He looked around the room as the footsteps grew louder, closer. Another car went down the street, sending an arc of light slicing through the room. He saw the couch and he gave Tommy a quick kick, sending the doll rolling under it.

  Just as someone came into the room.

  Chucky let himself go wide-eyed, doing his best to impersonate the deceased Tommy. But he could see who came in and turned on a light. It was Kyle.

  She walked over to the couch. Chucky wished he could turn and check that the doll was hidden completely under it. But Kyle stopped and, seeing Chucky in her path, reached down and grabbed the doll.

  She threw him into the air, and the room became a spinning blur, as Chucky turned over and over, until he landed, head-first, next to the TV. He tried to let his body slump into a position that would let him keep watching Kyle to see if she spotted Tommy.

  Then Chucky noticed something real bad.

  A bit of Tommy’s foot, a bit of his red sneaker, was sticking out from under the couch. And Kyle went and sat on the couch—just there!—right over the foot. She put a small bottle on the coffee table. Nail polish. And then she put her feet on the edge of the table. She picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

  He heard sounds, shrill voices from the speaker behind him. He couldn’t see the picture, not without moving, not without coming to life.

  And I can’t do that, he thought.

  People were jabbering at each other. It was a talk show, some stupid-ass talk show.

  He watched Kyle screw open the nail polish. She pulled out the small brush and wrinkled her toes. She was looking down. Damn, she’s going to see the sneaker and she’ll pull it out . . . and then she’ll see the smashed head.

  She’ll look at me. She’ll remember Andy’s crazy story. And maybe then she’ll scream. She’ll get up and run. And . . . and . . . I can’t let that happen.

  He looked around for something he could use on the girl, something that would be quick and effective. There was the poker. That might work. But there might be something better around. Maybe a letter opener, maybe something smaller, sharper.

  The girl started dabbing her toes. He watched her lick her lips, concentrating as each little piggy got a new sheen of pink. Tell you what I’d like to do to your little piggies, sister. Tell you what color I’d paint them. How about red?

  She put one foot down on the floor, the one she wasn’t working on. And Chucky saw it land right next to Tommy’s foot. Oh, she’s gotta see it now, he thought. There’s no way she’ll miss it now.

  He heard himself moan. It just escaped him. He watched her face to see if she had heard him. But she had this show—Arsenio Hall—turned up too loud.

  I have to just get her, he thought. I just got to move and . . .

  The poker was within his reach. It was only inches away, where he had dropped it after rearranging Tommy’s face. Only inches. He started leaning, ever so slowly, in that direction while he kept his eyes on Kyle, who seemed glued to her work. He moved his arm, extending the fingers.

  I should feel it now, he thought. He touched wood, air, but no poker.

  He risked moving his eyes, those noisy mechanical eyes, just a little bit. To see where his little hand was . . . and where the hell the poker was.

  He saw that he would have to lean to the left just a bit more. He moved his body, even though if Kyle looked up now, he knew she would spot him. No doubt about it. But then he felt the metal grip of the poker.

  And Chucky thought, Now we’re in business, sports fans!

  “Kyle!” It was Phil, calling from upstairs. Then, louder, “Kyle, shut off the TV and go to bed!”

  Chucky froze. He heard Kyle sigh. She put down her nail polish and screwed the brush-cap back into place. She zapped the TV and cut off Arsenio’s first guest, the virtuous Jessica Hahn.

  My kind of lady, Chucky thought, back when I was active.

  And then Kyle stood up.

  And Chucky—his hand still on the poker—watched her painted foot land right next to the small sneaker.

  She can feel it, he thought. She has to feel the sneaker. But Kyle just walked out of the room, shutting off the light on the way.

  Chucky released his grip on the poker.

  Just as Kyle was about to enter the foyer, she stopped. She shook her head. As if something confused her . . . something out of place.

  Maybe she noticed I’m not where she tossed me, thought Chucky. How good are her powers of observation . . . ?

  She came back into the dark living room, heading right for the coffee table.

  Chucky kept watching her.

  When she got to the table, she snatched up the nail polish she’d forgotten. And then she turned.

  She was looking right at him.

  He felt her eyes studying him.

  I’m not in the same position, he knew. I’m not where I landed when she tossed me. She can see that, even in this darkness.

  The poker is just there, he reminded himself. Just there. I just have to reach out, pick it up and—

  But then he saw her shake her head again, discounting the thought. She turned and walked out to the foyer and on up the stairs.

  And, thought Chucky, she’ll never know how lucky she was.

  Lucky, that is, this time.

  Because next time, as Jim Morrison said, no one gets out of here alive . . .

  He dragged the doll’s body out to the kitchen. Bits of its plastic skull flaked, leaving a trail tracing back to the living room.

  I can get that later, Chucky thought.

  Some exposed metal part of the head screeched against the linoleum, so Chucky moved more slowly as he got closer to the side door.

  When he got to the door, he undid the chain. Then he unhooked the bolt while holding Tommy with one hand. When he opened the door he was met with a blast of rain that dotted the floor. I’ll have to clean this up, too, he thought.

  He pulled the doll through the door, outside and then down the steps. He could see the backyard, the fence running around the outside of the property, a wooden swing hanging from a tree for all the brats that the Simpsons liked to take in.

  The grass was thick everywhere back here. Everywhere but under the swing. He dragged the body over and dropped it there. He looked around for something to dig with. He saw a small metal shed, the type that suburban types liked to store their leaf blowers and their power mowers in.

  And, he thought, if I’m lucky, a shovel.

  He ran over there, getting wet again, his sneakers soaked through.

  He had to tug the metal door of the shed open. It groaned, but the loud wrenching noise was swallowed by a distant rumble of thunder. The storm was receding.

  Right inside the door he found a shovel, a giant mother of a shovel. He grabbed it and ran back to the doll. It was splattered by mud. Big muddy drops were sent flying up by the rain.

  Chucky dug, grunting and muttering to himself. It won’t be long now, he thought. Not long at all.

  The dirt was hard, and he had to jab at it, cursing it, breaking up clumps. He hit rocks and saw a tiny spark erupt when his shovel blade met stone.

  But he kept at it until he though
t he had a hole big enough in which to bury Tommy. Just big enough.

  He threw the shovel to the side and grabbed the doll by its foot. The sneaker came off in his hand. “Shit!” he said. He grabbed at the ankle with the red-and-white striped sock. And he pulled the doll into the hole.

  It was shallow. The doll would be barely covered.

  But it would be good enough, he thought. After all, it doesn’t have to last for long. Just until I’m all done here.

  Maybe twenty-four hours.

  Tops.

  As he shoveled the loose dirt back on top of the doll, Chucky thought of the last time he had buried something this small. It had been raining that night, too.

  Can you believe it? he thought. Always burying things in the rain.

  He covered the smashed face first, filling in all of its cracks and craters with the mud.

  Of course, she had been a bit bigger than the doll. But not much. Not too much.

  He looked over his shoulder. He checked the Simpson house for any lights coming on. I’ve got to clean up, he thought. Take care of the mess. Make everything neat and tidy for Phil and Joanne.

  And Andy.

  Don’t want Andy suspecting . . .

  He started covering the body.

  Yeah, she had been a little bigger than this. And—shit—did anyone get the irony? Did anyone else besides himself see the irony of this whole thing?

  The doll was invisible now, covered with dirt. But Chucky went on shoveling, getting it good and covered.

  And he remembered: Yes, Mom had been a small woman . . . real small. Just under four feet tall. A midget.

  Not a dwarf, she corrected people, very sweetly, very nicely, as if she hadn’t been suffering from a lifetime of snickering people. I’m a midget.

  And Charles Lee Ray lived in dread that he’d grow up to be a midget, too. When that didn’t happen, he still had to deal with the questions from the kids on the South Side.

  “How come your mama’s so short? Charlie . . . what’s a matter, your dad only get his dick in halfway?”

  And they’d laugh and laugh. It was so funny to them. So damn funny . . .