by R. L. Stine
I’m up to level twelve. I just love the game. It’s one reason I’m never bored. I can play Chirping Chickens for hours.
After a while, Rachel lowered her phone to her lap. She turned to me and bumped my arm. I almost dropped my game-player.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She raised her dark eyes to mine. “Grandpa Whitman’s house is scary. Something bad is going to happen,” she whispered. “I just know it.”
Rachel’s frightened expression gave me a chill. But I forced a laugh. “Stop being Miss Gloom and Doom. Can’t you lighten up?”
“Can’t you shut up?” She shoved me.
I started to elbow her in the ribs. But I stopped myself just in time. What was the point? She was determined to have a bad time.
As the bus bounced along, I thought about Grandpa Whitman. His house was over two hundred years old. He said he needed a huge old house with lots of rooms because he’d always been a collector.
He started collecting baseball cards when he was our age. Then he collected comic books. Then he moved on to puppets and weird dolls.
His collections got stranger and stranger. Last time Rachel and I visited, he showed us a closet filled with shrunken heads. Shrunken human heads.
Seeing those shriveled, pruney heads made Rachel a little sick. She actually turned a pale shade of green. I think she’s hated Grandpa Whitman’s house ever since. I know she had some bad nightmares after we got home last time.
The bus turned onto the narrow road that led to Grandpa Whitman’s house. We drove under tall trees in deep woods. They tilted over the road, making it almost as dark as night.
“You’ll be okay,” I told her. “Just don’t open any closet doors.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t open any doors,” Rachel said.
“I can’t wait to see his new crocodile pond,” I said.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Joking,” I said.
“Maybe I’ll just stay in my room.”
“That’s dumb,” I told her. “You know Mom is probably right. Grandpa Whitman must be lonely all the way out here. We have to cheer him up. Be good company. And maybe we can help him around the house. You know. Do some chores that he can’t do.”
“Goodie-goodie,” Rachel murmured. She stared at her phone and groaned. “No bars. Do you believe it? How can people live with no cell phones?”
Before I could answer, the bus squealed to a stop. I glanced out the window. I saw the long gravel driveway that led up to Grandpa Whitman’s house. “Here goes,” I murmured.
We climbed down from the bus. The driver helped us with our suitcases. I watched the bus rumble away. Then I turned and led the way up the driveway.
Our shoes crunched on the gravel. We brushed past tall grass that had grown over the sides of the drive. The wild grass and weeds stretched up the sloping hill toward the house.
The big house soon came into view. Giant oak trees guarded the front. They cast a shadow over the house, turning it an eerie shade of blue. Cawing crows flew low over the roof, circling the two tall chimneys on each side.
“It … it’s like a horror movie,” Rachel stammered. “Like a haunted house in a horror movie.”
“Stop scaring yourself,” I said. “So there are crows flying around. What’s the big deal? At least they’re not bats.”
“The bats don’t come out till night,” Rachel said.
My suitcase started to feel heavy. I shifted it to my other hand.
I gazed up at the house. The windows were all dark. The screen door on the front porch tilted off its hinges. Lots of gray shingles were missing on the front wall.
We walked closer. I could see a small vegetable garden at the side of the house. The high weeds in front gave way to a carefully mowed lawn. Tall pink birds — dozens of them — covered the lawn. They didn’t move. They were made of plastic and metal.
Grandpa Whitman’s collection of lawn flamingos.
He bragged that he had more flamingos than any zoo.
Rachel laughed. “Those birds are so ridiculous. Why on earth does he have so many of them?”
“Because he’s a collector,” I said.
I started to say something else — but I stopped.
Was that a boy sitting on the edge of the front porch? He sat stiffly. His skinny legs were crossed. He was dressed in red and wore red shoes. His black hair gleamed in the sunlight.
He didn’t move as we walked toward him. He just stared at us with a big grin on his face.
“Who is that?” Rachel asked.
We took a few steps closer. I laughed. It wasn’t a boy. It was some kind of big doll.
We stepped up to the front porch. “It’s a ventriloquist dummy,” I said.
“Weird,” Rachel murmured, staring down at its grinning face. “Why is it sitting here on the porch?”
“Beats me.” I made a fist and tapped the top of its wooden head. “Hey, dummy.”
“Owww!” it cried. “Don’t do that!”
Rachel let out a scream. She grabbed my arm. We both staggered back a step.
“What’s your problem?” the dummy rasped in a tinny, high voice. Its lips moved up and down when it spoke. Its eyes slid from side to side.
“It’s … alive,” Rachel whispered. “Jackson, it … it’s moving by itself.”
“No way,” I replied.
“Who’s the dummy around here?” it demanded.
And then I heard someone laughing. From the house.
I raised my eyes and saw Grandpa Whitman behind the screen door. He stepped out onto the porch, shaking his head. He waved some kind of black box in his hand.
“Hey, I think I fooled you,” he called. “Did I? Did I give you a little scare?” He held up the black box. “A remote control. Moves the dummy’s mouth and eyes, and makes him speak.”
“You didn’t fool us,” Rachel said. “No way.”
He laughed. “Don’t lie. I saw the looks on your faces.” He patted the dummy’s head. “This is Morty. Cute, isn’t he?”
“Don’t touch me!” he made the dummy say.
We all laughed. Then he wrapped Rachel and me in a big bear hug. “It’s so good to see you two.” He has a deep voice that booms. He never whispers.
Grandpa Whitman is a tall, heavy man with broad shoulders and a big belly. He has a full head of wavy white hair and bright blue eyes. He always wears denim bib overalls a few sizes too big with a red T-shirt underneath.
Rachel backed out of the hug. She motioned to the dummy on the step. “Do you have more surprises like that waiting for us?”
Grandpa Whitman’s blue eyes flashed. Before he could answer, another man came out the front door. He was dressed all in black, as usual — a black suit over a black shirt. His pale, bald head caught the fading sunlight. It appeared to glow like a lightbulb.
“Edgar! There you are,” Grandpa Whitman said. He turned to us. “You haven’t forgotten Edgar, have you?”
“No way,” I said. “Hey, Edgar.”
He nodded solemnly. His dark eyes studied Rachel and me coldly. “Hello again,” he whispered.
Edgar seldom speaks. When he does, it’s only in a whisper.
He takes care of the house and Grandpa Whitman. Grandpa told us: “Edgar is a strange man. But once you get to know him … he’s even stranger!”
One of Grandpa Whitman’s jokes. I think Mom got her wacky sense of humor from him.
Edgar carried our suitcases into the house. The sunlight faded. A cool breeze shook the trees.
“I want to show you my newest purchase,” Grandpa Whitman said. He motioned us toward the wide garage behind the house. The garage is big enough for at least four cars. But Grandpa Whitman has it filled up with cartons and cartons of his collections.
He disappeared into the garage. Rachel turned to me. “That dummy gave me the creeps,” she whispered. “I hate those things. Uh-oh. What’s he bringing out?”
It looked like a coiled-up rope. But as he str
ode closer, I saw the knotted loop at one end.
“It’s a noose!” I cried. “Grandpa — what are you going to do with that?”
His eyes narrowed. His expression suddenly turned hard and angry. “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Rachel took a step back. Her eyes were on the thick knot of the rope loop.
Grandpa Whitman laughed. “Just kidding you.” He waved the rope in his hand. “Actually, this is a valuable noose. That’s why I bought it for my noose collection.”
“A noose collection?” Rachel shook her head in disbelief.
I reached out and squeezed the rope. “Why is it valuable?” I asked.
Grandpa Whitman ran his hands around the loop. “This is the noose that was used to hang Big Barney Brandywine, the outlaw, in Laramie in 1836,” he explained. “I’ve been trying to buy this noose for years.”
“Why bother?” Rachel said. “It’s gross.”
I squeezed it again. “Wow. Can you imagine?” I said. “Someone was actually hanged by this rope.”
“Yuck.” Rachel made a disgusted face. “That’s horrible. Someone swinging from this rope? I don’t want to think about it. Take it away.”
Grandpa Whitman patted my shoulder. “Jackson gets the idea. This isn’t just a piece of rope. It’s a piece of American history.”
Grandpa Whitman turned and carried the noose back to the garage.
Rachel gave me a hard poke in the ribs. “Jackson gets the idea … Jackson gets the idea …” She mimicked Grandpa Whitman. “Jackson is perfect. Jackson gets the idea.”
She tried to poke me again, but I danced away. “Stop it, Rachel.”
“That rope was disgusting. But you had to act like you were so interested in it.”
“I was interested,” I insisted.
Grandpa Whitman came bouncing back across the grass. “What are you two talking about?”
“The noose,” I said.
He swept a hand through his white hair. “If you think that noose is scary, come with me,” he said. He started walking toward the house. “I’m going to show you the most terrifying creature in the whole house.”
He pulled open the front door and waved us inside. The front hall was almost as big as our whole house. The walls were covered in big paintings of old-fashioned-looking people. An enormous glass chandelier hung on a thick chain from the high ceiling.
I sniffed. “I smell chocolate.”
“I think Edgar is baking a cake,” Grandpa Whitman said. “To welcome you.”
I peeked into the dark living room. Small purple creatures floated up and down in a tall glass tank.
“Those are my jellyfish,” Grandpa Whitman said. “You can check them out later.”
“Are they poisonous?” Rachel asked.
“Probably,” Grandpa Whitman answered. “Follow me.”
He walked to the wide wooden staircase at the side of the room. The carpet on the stairway was tattered and worn. The stairs creaked and groaned as Grandpa Whitman led us up to the second floor.
We followed him down the long, dimly lit hall. We passed a room filled with old radios. Another room had trains set up in a miniature town.
We stopped at the end of the hall. Grandpa Whitman pushed open a door. “Go ahead. Take a look,” he said.
Rachel and I stepped into the doorway and peered into the room.
Grandpa Whitman flashed on the light — and we both gasped.
Dozens of ugly, grinning faces stared back at us.
“Oh, wow,” I murmured. “I can’t believe this. So many dummies!”
The room was jammed with ventriloquist dummies.
I glanced around at half a dozen old-fashioned couches and chairs. Two low coffee tables sat side by side. And there were grinning dummies sprawled over every piece of furniture.
Some sat in little chairs. Several were on the floor with their backs against the wall. I saw a pile of dummies near the window, just heaped on top of one another.
Rachel shook her head. “I hate the way they’re all grinning.” She turned to Grandpa Whitman. “They’re so ugly and creepy. Why do you like them?”
He walked into the room. He smiled at the crowd of dummies. “These are my children.”
Rachel rolled her eyes.
“I think I have every famous dummy in history,” Grandpa said. “Look. That’s Mr. Tipply over there.” He pointed to a dummy wearing a black tuxedo and a tall black top hat. “He was in a dozen movies.”
He stepped into the middle of the wooden dolls. “That’s Charlie Harley and Foo-Foo. And the one with the goofy face and all the freckles? That’s Ronnie Rascal.”
“Thrills,” Rachel whispered.
“They’re awesome!” I said. “They are totally cool. They’re all different, and they’re all so funny looking.”
“These are all TV and movie stars,” Grandpa Whitman said. “They’re all famous.”
“Know what?” I told him. “I’d love to have a ventriloquist dummy to entertain the kids at the YC. I could put on great shows. You know. Do a comedy act.”
Grandpa scratched the back of his head. “Your mother always wanted to be a comedian. Beats me how she ever became a banker. What a mystery.”
I gazed from dummy to dummy. “The kids at the YC would love a funny ventriloquist act,” I said.
“They’d love it like a toothache,” Rachel muttered.
Grandpa Whitman laughed. “Rachel, you’re funny.”
“I was serious,” Rachel insisted.
A dummy in a gray suit and shiny black shoes caught my eye. It was perched in an armchair against the wall, away from the others. Something about this dummy sent a shiver down my back.
Its big head had an evil, red-lipped grin. And it appeared to be smiling right at me. The dummy’s dark, painted eyes locked on my face.
“What’s that one called?” I asked, pointing.
“That dummy is named Slappy,” Grandpa Whitman answered. “Let me tell you about that guy. He’s an interesting story.”
But before he could begin, Edgar slid into the room. He stepped in front of Rachel and me. His dark eyes were circles of fright.
“Stay away from Slappy,” Edgar rasped. “Stay away from that one. I’m WARNING you!”
Grandpa Whitman’s face turned red. “Edgar, don’t scare them,” he said. “You’ve got to calm down. You’re acting like a frightened child. This dummy has a bad history. But he’s totally safe.”
Edgar backed away. But his worried expression didn’t change. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “Stay away from that one.”
Grandpa Whitman bumped past him and lifted the dummy from its armchair. “Say hi, Slappy.” He made the dummy wave its wooden hand.
“Gross,” Rachel muttered.
Grandpa Whitman carried the dummy over to us. “I’ll tell you the old legend about him. The legend that has Edgar so worked up.”
“It isn’t a legend,” Edgar insisted. “It’s the truth.”
Grandpa Whitman laughed. He winked at Rachel and me. “You can believe it if you want to. The story goes that an evil sorcerer carved Slappy out of coffin wood. And he put a curse on the dummy.”
I stared at the dummy’s frozen, red-lipped grin. “A curse?”
Grandpa Whitman nodded. “If a bunch of strange words are said aloud, the dummy will come to life. It will turn its owner into a slave. And it will work to spread its evil everywhere.”
He made Slappy’s mouth open and close. Then Grandpa tilted the head back and made a shrill laughing sound through his teeth. “Anyone who owns Slappy will face a horrifying fate,” he said.
“It’s true. It’s true,” Edgar whispered. He had backed up to the wall. I saw beads of sweat on his bald head.
Rachel squeezed the dummy’s black shoe. Then she raised her eyes to Grandpa Whitman. “What if it is true? Why did you buy this dummy? Why did you buy something that could come to life and do horrible things?”
Grandpa shifted the dummy in his a
rms. “Because this isn’t Slappy,” he said softly.
“Not Slappy? What do you mean?” I asked.
“The original Slappy was destroyed a long time ago,” he answered. “He was destroyed so that his evil would die with him. This is only a copy. I call him Son of Slappy. This dummy is perfectly harmless.”
Rachel frowned at the dummy. “Are you sure?”
Grandpa Whitman nodded. “Only a copy.”
“Can I hold him?” I asked.
He settled the dummy into my arms. It was heavier than I thought. The wooden head must have weighed ten pounds!
I made the dummy sit up straight. I reached my hand into its back and fumbled for the controls to make the mouth move up and down.
And suddenly, the dummy screamed in a high, shrill voice: “Let GO of me! Let GO or I’ll punch your teeth out!”
Rachel opened her mouth in a cry of surprise. “Grandpa — you made the dummy say that, right?”
He shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t, Rachel.” He raised his right hand. “I swear.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I made the dummy say that,” I told them. “I guess I’m a pretty good ventriloquist. I totally fooled you both.”
Edgar had been silent the whole while. Suddenly, he stepped forward and took the Slappy dummy from my arms.
“This dummy is evil,” he said in his throaty whisper. He waved his pale hand around the room. “They’re all evil. Stay away. Stay out of this room.”
Edgar was breathing noisily by the time he finished his warning. Under his black suit jacket, his chest heaved up and down.
Grandpa patted his shoulder, trying to calm him down. “Edgar has some strange ideas,” Grandpa Whitman said. “He frightens easily.” He turned his gaze on Rachel and me. “But you don’t — do you?”
The days went quickly for me, slowly for Rachel. She wasn’t even trying to have a good time. And she kept getting in my face for being so cheerful.
“Don’t you miss talking to your friends?” she demanded. She shook her phone. “It’s useless here. Totally useless. My friends have probably all forgotten me by now.”
