by R. L. Stine
Mr. Tallen, the art teacher, had dance music bombing from a big old boombox on his desk. Mr. Tallen says artists work better to music.
The pounding dance beat of the music kept the energy up. Everyone was bobbing their heads, bouncing along, working hard and having a good time.
“Dance … dance … dance to the music …”
I still felt cheerful. I love the smell of paint. And I was happy that everyone in my class was pitching in to help the YC. Maybe if we all worked really hard, the YC could stay open for another year.
I thought about Froggy and Nikki and all the kids. How happy they’d be to keep playing there after school.
I had a good idea for a funny skit. It would be about a bunch of kids trying to take care of two canaries. And, of course, they’d mess everything up.
And I kept thinking up jokes I could do at the show with Slappy. I really wanted to help Mrs. Pearson and everyone at the YC. I knew they were counting on me.
I leaned over my poster. I was painting a bright yellow sun and a smiling kid beneath it. And I planned to paint the words: Keep the Kids Smiling.
Suddenly, the music cut off. “Let’s take a ten-minute break,” Mr. Tallen said. “You can all go outside and relax for a few minutes. I’ll join you.”
There was a clatter of chairs, paintbrushes being set down, paint jars closing. Everyone was shouting and laughing. The room emptied out very quickly.
I glanced around. I was the only one who didn’t leave. I just wanted to finish filling in the sun on my poster.
I slapped yellow paint on the posterboard. I smoothed my brush over it. I could hear the kids from my class outside the art room window.
Suddenly, I heard another sound. A chirp. A loud chirp. Then another.
My head — it suddenly felt so strange. The room started to tilt one way, then the other. I shut my eyes, but the dizziness wouldn’t go away.
Then I heard a different noise. It was the sound of Slappy’s shrill cackle. Why did I hear that? Why did it feel like it was inside my head?
I held up my paintbrush. I didn’t think about it. I just picked it up and dipped it into a jar of black paint.
So dizzy … my head … feels so HEAVY.
I raised the paintbrush and smeared thick lines of black paint all over my poster. More paint. More paint. I worked frantically until my poster was covered in black.
Then I dipped the brush again and painted black smears all over the poster next to mine. I reached across the table and ruined another poster, brushing thick black streaks over it … more … more.
This is AWESOME!
Did I really think that? Was that me thinking that?
Yessss! Awesome!
I picked up a jar of dark blue paint. I tilted it upside down and poured the paint all over the art table. Then I stood up, reached down, and painted the seat of my chair blue. I painted a few more chairs, slapping paint all over them. Faster … more paint …
Awesome! This is so totally AWESOME!
I took a jar of red paint and let it dribble onto the floor. Then I took another paint jar — purple — and splashed the paint against the wall.
Awesome!
I tossed back my head and let out a long laugh.
Oh, wow. My laugh was high and shrill — and as nasty as Slappy’s.
I laughed and laughed. I laughed till my throat hurt. I couldn’t stop.
But, wait.
I heard voices in the hall. The kids were all returning to the art room.
I stood and stared at the door.
Think fast, Jackson. Think fast.
How could I explain this mess?
The footsteps were right outside the door.
I took a paint jar and spilled red paint down the front of my T-shirt. Then I smeared some paint on my face.
Kids cried out in shock as they stepped into the room. Mr. Tallen went pale. He kept blinking fast and swallowing.
It took him a while to focus on me.
I went running toward him, my face twisted in alarm. “It was three dogs!” I cried. “Three huge dogs. They … they jumped in through the window!” I pointed to the open window.
I made a choking noise. I made my chest heave up and down.
“Calm down, Jackson,” Mr. Tallon said. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath. Are you okay?”
“L-look what they did!” I stammered. “They jumped all over the tables and spilled paint everywhere. I — I tried to stop them. But there were three of them!”
“Funny. I didn’t hear any barking.” Mr. Tallon’s eyes swept over the horrible mess on the table, the floor, the wall.
I took a few gasping breaths. The other kids stared at me. No one spoke or moved.
“They … just went nuts,” I said in a trembling voice. “When I tried to grab them, they growled at me and snapped. It … it was pretty scary. I finally chased them back out the window.”
Mr. Tallon walked to the window and peered out. “I don’t see them now.”
“I … I’m so sorry!” I cried. “Really. So … sorry …”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Mr. Tallon said. “I’m sure you did your best in a scary situation.” He started toward the hall. “I’m going to alert the principal. Perhaps she’ll want to call the town police.”
I made my shoulders shake up and down. I tried to look as upset as I could.
Mr. Tallon turned at the door. “Jackson, do you have another T-shirt in your gym locker? You could change without having to go home.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
The teacher studied me. “The dogs didn’t bite you — did they?”
I shook my head. “No. But they tried.”
I followed him out the art room door. Then I turned and went down the stairs to the gym locker room.
Of course he believed my story, I thought. He knows that Jackson Stander would never lie. I’m the most trusted kid in school.
You bet.
I pulled open the door to the locker room. The aroma of sweat and dirty gym socks greeted me. The air was hot and damp.
Suddenly, I felt normal again.
I sucked in a deep breath. “What did I do?” I said out loud. My voice echoed down the empty rows of lockers. “Why did I do that?”
The answer came to me in a flash.
It was too horrible. Too frightening. Too impossible. But I knew it was true.
Slappy. Slappy got inside my head. Slappy made me destroy the posters and splash paint over the art room.
A chill made my whole body shudder. I hugged myself. I didn’t want to believe it.
I was possessed!
He invaded my brain. It wasn’t a dream. He was alive — and I was the Son of Slappy.
“Nooo.” A moan escaped my throat.
I don’t want to be Slappy’s son. His slave. I don’t want to be evil.
My hands were shaking hard as I changed into my clean T-shirt. I tossed the paint-smeared shirt into a trash can.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to stand up to Slappy. I wanted to tell him, “Stop it! STOP it — right now!”
I wanted to shout, “Leave me ALONE! Stay out of my HEAD!”
No. Better than that. I decided to get rid of the dummy. Send him back to Grandpa Whitman? No. I wouldn’t do something that horrible to my grandfather.
Edgar was right. He tried to warn me. If only I had listened.
Okay. I would take care of it. I would dump the dummy in a trash can somewhere far from my house.
That thought made me feel better. Only three more hours of school. Then I’d go home and say good-bye forever to Slappy.
I shut my gym locker and checked my watch. Art class was over. I headed back to my regular classroom. Miss Hathaway, my teacher, wasn’t at her desk.
I glanced around the room. The kids were all reading from the science textbook. No one looked up when I stepped into the room. Not even Stick and Miles.
Miles had his face covered by his book. Sometimes he takes sh
ort naps, and Miss Hathaway never guesses.
“Oh.” I muttered a startled cry.
I heard the chirp sound again. Just a quiet chirp, not loud enough to make any of the kids glance up from their reading.
I glanced around the room again. I wanted to find what made that sound.
But no time. I felt a tingle in my head. Like a buzzing. The room went cloudy for a moment, then bright again.
I started to walk past Miss Hathaway’s desk. I saw her red-framed eyeglasses on top of her assignment book. Her brown canvas pocketbook. A blue-and-white scarf thrown over the back of her chair.
Then something caught my eye on the corner of her desk.
What was that? I squinted hard. The History test for tomorrow?
Just sitting there. Out where anyone could take it.
I chuckled to myself. I made sure no one was watching. Then I grabbed the test, rolled it into a tube, and carried it to my seat near the back of the room.
I stuffed it into my backpack. Two seconds later, Miss Hathaway walked into the room.
She is very tall and very thin and very pretty. She has wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a great smile. She wears dark sweaters and short skirts over black tights. Everyone thinks she’s the coolest teacher in school.
“Everybody is reading quietly,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
She sat down at her desk. She moved her glasses and set her canvas bag on the floor.
Then she turned and gazed down at her desk. She shifted in her chair. And then she turned to me.
“Jackson?” she called.
My breath caught in my throat.
Oh, no. Caught.
“Jackson?” she repeated.
I lowered my eyes to my backpack. Maybe I can tell her I picked up the test by accident.
“Jackson, I understand you had a very scary experience in the art room,” Miss Hathaway said.
“Uh … yeah,” I murmured.
“Are you feeling okay? If you’d like to go take a short rest in the nurse’s office …”
I let out a long breath. She didn’t see me take the test.
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little shaky. But I’m okay.”
Everyone was looking at me now. “I’ll probably have nightmares about dogs tonight,” I said. “Dogs with big paintbrushes.”
It was a lame joke, but a few kids laughed.
Miss Hathaway smiled — but her expression suddenly changed. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open. She was staring at the spot where the History test had rested.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Uh-oh.” She jumped to her feet. Her face turned bright red. She drummed the desk with her fingers.
“The History test for tomorrow seems to be missing,” she said through clenched teeth. I could see she was trying to stay calm. But she was angry and upset and couldn’t hide it.
Her eyes swept the room. She was going from face to face.
“I’m sure someone picked it up by accident,” she said. “If you’d like to return it now, I won’t say another word about it.”
Kids mumbled and whispered.
Across the room, I saw Stick give Miles a shove. “Go ahead, Miles. Give it back,” he said.
Everyone turned to them. Stick tossed his hands up. “Joking!” he said. “Just joking.”
Miles punched Stick in the ribs. “How funny was that?”
“That was a lame joke, Mickey,” Miss Hathaway scolded him. “This is a serious matter. Stealing a test from a teacher’s desk is serious. It’s a school crime. You can be suspended for doing this.”
The room grew silent again.
My head buzzed. I felt as if I were gazing through clouds.
Miss Hathaway pressed both hands on her desk. “I’m going to ask one more time,” she said. “If you took the test, bring it up here and no questions will be asked.”
No one moved.
She drummed her fingernails on the desk. She turned to Clay Dobbs. Clay is like my sister, Rachel — always in trouble. There’s one in every class.
“Clay?” Miss Hathaway said, giving him the evil eye. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
Clay let out a bleating sound. Like a sheep caught in a fence. “No way!” he cried. “Why are you looking at me?”
Miss Hathaway raised her eyes to Stick and Miles. “You boys were joking, right? You didn’t really take the test, did you, Miles?”
Miles shook his head. “I get A’s in history,” he said. “No way I need to cheat.”
“Then who took it? Come on. Somebody confess.” Miss Hathaway’s eyes moved slowly from face to face.
She didn’t even glance at me. She knew Jackson Stander would never steal a test. She knew what a good, honest dude I am.
As I watched her, I had to laugh. Ha-ha. Too bad for you losers. I’ll get an easy A tomorrow. I’ll get every single answer right.
Whoa. Wait. I suddenly realized the kids were all staring at me. Miss Hathaway, too.
Oh, no. They were staring at me because I was cackling at the top of my lungs.
I hurried home after school. Stick and Miles wanted to hang out. But I told them I had too much homework.
My brain felt normal. I wanted to take care of my Slappy problem while I still felt like myself.
I heard voices in the den, but I didn’t stop to say hi. I ran up the stairs and into my room. I closed the door behind me.
Slappy sat on my bed, just where I’d left him that morning. He opened his eyes wide when I walked in and tilted his big head toward me.
“How’s it going, Son?” he called in his high, tinny voice.
“Don’t call me that!” I screamed. “Don’t ever call me son!”
“Tell me, Son, did you get my signal?”
I scowled at him. “I got your signal. I heard your stupid chirp. You made me wreck all the YC posters and the art room. And you made me steal a test.”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “That’s a start, Son.”
“No — not a start!” I cried. “That’s the end. I mean it, Slappy. Stay out of my head. You can’t do that to me again!”
I tried to sound tough, but my voice trembled and cracked.
His eyes shut, then quickly opened. “The fun hasn’t started, Son. Today was just practice.”
“Noooo!” I let out a cry and dove toward him. I had the sudden urge to pick him up and tear him to pieces.
But before I reached the bed, I heard that sound again. A loud chirp.
I staggered to a stop. I suddenly felt too dizzy to walk. The ceiling and floor appeared to be closing in on each other.
I shook my head hard, trying to shake the weird feeling away.
And then I heard my mom’s voice shouting up from downstairs. “Jackson? Are you home? Come down and say hi. Aunt Ada, Uncle Josh, and your cousin Noah are here.”
I groaned. Cousin Noah? He was eight and he acted like he was two. I hated to eat dinner with him. He always had food stuck to his teeth. And he whined all the time, whined like a baby.
But I had no choice. I turned away from Slappy and started out of my room. I was heading down the hall when I heard his raspy shout:
“Have a great dinner, Son.”
I hurried downstairs. Everyone was already sitting at the dining room table.
I hugged Aunt Ada and shook hands with Uncle Josh. Noah stuck his tongue out at me and made a spitting sound.
“Noah, is that the way you say hi to your cousin?” Aunt Ada scolded him.
He laughed. “Yes.” Then he spit again.
Uncle Josh just shook his head. He and Aunt Ada are like opposites. She’s skinny and talks all the time. He’s pretty fat and almost never says a word. I always think they’re like salt and pepper. In fact, she has black hair, and his hair is white.
Noah has a round baby face, short brown hair like fuzz on an egg, and two front teeth that stick out and make him look like Bugs Bunny. He always wears a baggy T-shirt and cargo shorts. He doesn’t l
ike long pants.
I took my seat next to Rachel. She was tapping her spoon on her bowl, waiting for the soup to be poured. Rachel gets very impatient at mealtime.
Mom served the soup. Then she said, “Jackson, tell Aunt Ada how much you like the sweater she bought you.”
I opened my mouth to speak — but my head felt heavy. I felt very strange.
“It’s a terrific sweater,” I told my aunt. “I don’t wear it. I use it as a snot rag.”
“As a what?” Aunt Ada’s mouth dropped open.
“Yeah, I blow my nose in it,” I said.
Noah was the only one who laughed. Dad dropped his soup spoon. Rachel stared at me as if I was some kind of weird animal species.
Mom squinted at me. “Jackson? Was that a joke?”
“Your soup is a joke,” I said. “I’ve puked up better food than this!”
Mom gasped and nearly fell off her chair. Noah started to choke on his soup. Aunt Ada slapped his back.
I’m saying these horrible things, and I can’t help myself.
Slappy is in my head. He is totally controlling me. These are his horrible jokes, and he’s forcing me to say them.
I couldn’t stop myself. I held up a spoonful of the pea soup. “I’ve seen better looking scabs,” I said.
I turned to Uncle Josh. “Are you really that fat?” I said. “Or does someone inflate you in the morning? Didn’t I see you in the Thanksgiving parade?”
He scowled at me. He gazed at my mother. I could see he was confused.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “You’re not fat. You’re TOO BIG to be fat. Where do you shop for clothes? Piggly Wiggly?”
Aunt Ada jumped to her feet. She bumped her soup bowl, and soup splashed onto the tablecloth.
“Jackson — this isn’t like you at all,” she cried. “I can’t believe you’re so rude.”
“I can’t believe you’re so ugly,” I said. “Do you have to take lessons to be that ugly?”
“That’s enough!” Mom screamed. She jumped to her feet and rushed over to me. She put a hand on my forehead. “This isn’t like you at all. There’s something very wrong. Are you sick?”
I brushed her hand away. “Get used to it,” I said. “Like I had to get used to your chimpanzee face. Did you always look like that? Or were you in a bad car accident?”
