Night of the Living Dummy 2 by R. L. Stine
I fell into a deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
A short while later, something woke me up. I’m not sure what.
Still half asleep, I blinked my eyes open and raised myself on my pillow. I struggled to see clearly.
The curtains flapped over the window.
I felt as if I were still asleep, dreaming.
But what I saw in the window snapped me awake.
The curtains billowed, then lifted away.
And in the silvery light, I saw a face.
An ugly, grinning face in my bedroom window. Staring through the darkness at me.
The curtains flapped again.
The face didn’t move.
“Who?” I choked out, squeezing the sheet up to my chin.
The eyes stared in at me. Cold, unblinking eyes.
Dummy eyes.
Dennis.
Dennis stared blankly at me, his white eye catching the glow of the moonlight.
I let out an angry roar, tossed off the sheet, and bolted out of bed. To the window.
I pushed away the billowing curtains and grabbed Dennis’s head off the window ledge. “Who put you there?” I demanded, holding the head between my hands. “Who did it, Dennis?”
I heard soft laughter behind me. From the hallway.
I flew across the room, the head still in my hands. I pulled open my bedroom door.
Jed held his hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. “Gotcha!” he whispered gleefully.
“Jed — you creep!” I cried. I let the dummy head drop to the floor. Then I grabbed Jed’s pajama pants with both hands and jerked them up as high as I could — nearly to his chin!
He let out a gasp of pain and stumbled back against the wall.
“Why did you do that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “Why did you put the dummy head on my window ledge?”
Jed tugged his pajama pants back into place. “To pay you back,” he muttered.
“Huh? Me?” I shrieked. “I didn’t do anything to you. What did I do?”
“You didn’t stick up for me,” he grumbled, scratching his red curly hair. His eyes narrowed at me. “You didn’t say anything to help me out. You know. About Sara’s painting.”
“Excuse me?” I cried. “How could I help you out? What could I say?”
“You could have said it was no big deal,” Jed replied.
“But it was a big deal!” I told him. “You know how seriously Sara takes her paintings.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Jed. But you deserve to be punished. You really do.”
He stared at me across the dim hallway, thinking about what I’d said. Then an evil smile spread slowly over his freckled face. “Hope I didn’t scare you too much, Amy.” He snickered. Then he picked Dennis’s head up off the carpet and tossed it at me.
I caught it in one hand. “Go to sleep, Jed,” I told him. “And don’t mess with Dennis again!”
I stepped back into my room and closed the door. I tossed Dennis’s head onto a pile of clothes on my desk chair. Then I climbed wearily back into bed.
So much trouble around here tonight, I thought, shutting my eyes, trying to relax.
So much trouble …
* * *
Two days later, Dad brought home a present for me.
A new ventriloquist’s dummy.
That’s when the real trouble began.
Margo came over the next afternoon. Margo is real tiny, sort of like a mini-person. She has a tiny face, and is very pretty, with bright blue eyes and delicate features.
Her blond hair is very light and very fine. She let it grow this year. It’s just about down to her tiny little waist.
She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, even though we both turned twelve in February. She’s very smart and very popular. But the boys like to make fun of her soft, whispery voice.
Today she was wearing a bright blue tank top tucked into white tennis shorts. “I bought the new Beatles collection,” she told me as she stepped into the house. She held up a CD box.
Margo loves the Beatles. She doesn’t listen to any of the new groups. She has all of the Beatles albums. And she has Beatles posters on the walls in her room.
We went to my room and put on the CD. Margo settled on the bed. I sprawled on the carpet across from her.
“My dad almost didn’t let me come over,” Margo told me, pushing her long hair behind her shoulder. “He thought he might need me to work at the restaurant.”
Margo’s dad owns a huge restaurant downtown called The Party House. It’s not really a restaurant. It’s a big, old house filled with enormous rooms where people can hold parties.
A lot of kids have birthday parties there. And there are bar mitzvahs and confirmations and wedding receptions there, too. Sometimes there are six parties going on at once!
One Beatles song ended. The next song, “Love Me Do,” started up.
“I love this song!” Margo exclaimed. She sang along with it for a while. I tried singing with her, but I’m totally tone deaf. As my dad says, I can’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t have to work today,” I told Margo.
“Me, too,” Margo sighed. “Dad always gives me the worst jobs. You know. Clearing tables. Or putting away dishes. Or wrapping up garbage bags. Yuck.”
She started singing again — and then stopped. She sat up on the bed. “Amy, I almost forgot. Dad may have a job for you.”
“Excuse me?” I replied. “Wrapping up garbage bags? I don’t think so, Margo.”
“No. No. Listen,” Margo pleaded excitedly in her mouselike voice. “It’s a good job. Dad has a bunch of birthday parties coming up. For teeny tiny kids. You know. Two-year-olds. Maybe three- or four-year-olds. And he thought you could entertain them.”
“Huh?” I stared at my friend. I still didn’t understand. “You mean, sing or something?”
“No. With Dennis,” Margo explained. She twisted a lock of hair around in her fingers and bobbed her head in time to the music as she talked. “Dad saw you with Dennis at the sixth-grade talent night. He was really impressed.”
“He was? I was terrible that night!” I replied.
“Well, Dad didn’t think so. He wonders if you’d like to come to the birthday parties and put on a show with Dennis. The little kids will love it. Dad said he’d even pay you.”
“Wow! That’s cool!” I replied. What an exciting idea.
Then I remembered something.
I jumped to my feet, crossed the room to the chair, and held up Dennis’s head. “One small problem,” I groaned.
Margo let go of her hair and made a sick face. “His head? Why did you take off his head?”
“I didn’t,” I replied. “It fell off. Every time I use Dennis, his head falls off.”
“Oh.” Margo uttered a disappointed sigh. “The head looks weird all by itself. I don’t think little kids would like it if it fell off.”
“I don’t think so,” I agreed.
“It might frighten them or something,” Margo said. “You know. Give them nightmares. Make them think their own head might fall off.”
“Dennis is totally wrecked. Dad promised me a new dummy. But he hasn’t been able to find one.”
“Too bad,” Margo replied. “You’d have fun performing for the kids.”
We listened to more Beatles music. Then Margo had to go home.
A few minutes after she left, I heard the front door slam.
“Hey, Amy! Amy — are you home?” I heard Dad call from the living room.
“Coming!” I called. I made my way to the front of the house. Dad stood in the entryway, a long carton under his arm, a smile on his face.
He handed the carton to me. “Happy Un-birthday!” he exclaimed.
“Dad! Is it?” I cried. I tore open the carton. “Yes!” A new dummy!
I lifted him carefully out of the carton.
The dummy had wavy brown hair painted on top of his wooden head. I studied his face. It w
As I pulled him from the box, the dummy appeared to stare into my eyes. The eyes sparkled. The grin grew wider.
I felt a sudden chill. Why does this dummy seem to be laughing at me? I wondered.
I held him up, examining him carefully. He wore a gray, double-breasted suit over a white shirt collar. The collar was stapled to his neck. He didn’t have a shirt. Instead, his wooden chest had been painted white.
Big, black leather shoes were attached to the ends of his thin, dangling legs.
“Dad — he’s great!” I exclaimed.
“I found him in a pawnshop,” Dad said, picking up the dummy’s hand and pretending to shake hands with it. “How do you do, Slappy?”
“Slappy? Is that his name?”
“That’s what the man in the store said,” Dad replied. He lifted Slappy’s arms, examining his suit. “I don’t know why he sold Slappy so cheaply. He practically gave the dummy away!”
I turned the dummy around and looked for the string in his back that made the mouth open and close. “He’s excellent, Dad,” I said. I kissed my dad on the cheek. “Thanks.”
“Do you really like him?” Dad asked.
Slappy grinned up at me. His blue eyes stared into mine. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, too.
“Yes. He’s awesome!” I said. “I like his serious eyes. They look so real.”
“The eyes move,” Dad said. “They’re not painted on like Dennis’s. They don’t blink, but they move from side to side.”
I reached my hand inside the dummy’s back. “How do you make his eyes move?” I asked.
“The man showed me,” Dad said. “It’s not hard. First you grab the string that works the mouth.”
“I’ve got that,” I told him.
“Then you move your hand up into the dummy’s head. There is a little lever up there. Do you feel it? Push on it. The eyes will move in the direction you push.”
“Okay. I’ll try,” I said.
Slowly I moved my hand up inside the dummy’s back. Through the neck. And into his head.
I stopped and let out a startled cry as my hand hit something soft.
Something soft and warm.
His brain!
“Ohhh.” I uttered a sick moan and jerked my hand out as fast as I could.
I could still feel the soft, warm mush on my fingers.
“Amy — what’s wrong?” Dad cried.
“His — his brains!” I choked out, feeling my stomach lurch.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Dad grabbed the dummy from my hands. He turned it over and reached into the back.
I covered my mouth with both hands and watched him reach into the head. His eyes widened in surprise.
He struggled with something. Then pulled his hand out.
“Yuck!” I groaned. “What’s that?”
Dad stared down at the mushy, green and purple and brown object in his hand. “Looks like someone left a sandwich in there!” he exclaimed.
Dad’s whole face twisted in disgust. “It’s all moldy and rotten. Must have been in there for months!”
“Yuck!” I repeated, holding my nose. “It really stinks! Why would someone leave a sandwich in a dummy’s head?”
“Beats me,” Dad replied, shaking his head. “And it looks like there are wormholes in it!”
“Yuuuuuck!” we both cried in unison.
Dad handed Slappy back to me. Then he hurried into the kitchen to get rid of the rotted, moldy sandwich.
I heard him run the garbage disposal. Then I heard water running as he washed his hands. A few seconds later, Dad returned to the living room, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Maybe we’d better examine Slappy closely,” he suggested. “We don’t want any more surprises — do we!”
I carried Slappy into the kitchen, and we stretched him out on the counter. Dad examined the dummy’s shoes carefully. They were attached to the legs and didn’t come off.
I put my finger on the dummy’s chin and moved the mouth up and down. Then I checked out his wooden hands.
I unbuttoned the gray suit jacket and studied the dummy’s painted shirt. Patches of the white paint had chipped and cracked. But it was okay.
“Everything looks fine, Dad,” I reported.
He nodded. Then he smelled his fingers. I guess he hadn’t washed away all of the stink from the rotted sandwich.
“We’d better spray the inside of his head with disinfectant or perfume or something,” Dad said.
Then, as I was buttoning up the jacket, something caught my eye.
Something yellow. A slip of paper poking up from the jacket pocket.
It’s probably a sales receipt, I thought.
But when I pulled out the small square of yellow paper, I found strange writing on it. Weird words in a language I’d never seen before.
I squinted hard at the paper and slowly read the words out loud:
“Karru marri odonna loma molonu karrano.”
I wonder what that means? I thought.
And then I glanced down at Slappy’s face.
And saw his red lips twitch.
And saw one eye slowly close in a wink.
“D-D-Dad!” I stuttered. “He — moved!”
“Huh?” Dad had gone back to the sink to wash his hands for a third time. “What’s wrong with the dummy?”
“He moved!” I cried. “He winked at me!”
Dad came over to the counter, wiping his hands. “I told you, Amy — he can’t blink. The eyes only move from side to side.”
“No!” I insisted. “He winked. His lips twitched, and he winked.”
Dad frowned and picked up the dummy head in both hands. He raised it to examine it. “Well … maybe the eyelids are loose,” he said. “I’ll see if I can tighten them up. Maybe if I take a screwdriver I can —”
Dad didn’t finish his sentence.
Because the dummy swung his wooden hand up and hit Dad on the side of the head.
“Ow!” Dad cried, dropping the dummy back onto the counter. Dad grabbed his cheek. “Hey — stop it, Amy! That hurt!”
“Me?” I shrieked. “I didn’t do it!”
Dad glared at me, rubbing his cheek. It had turned bright red.
“The dummy did it!” I insisted. “I didn’t touch him, Dad! I didn’t move his hand!”
“Not funny,” Dad muttered. “You know I don’t like practical jokes.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. I decided I’d better just shut up.
Of course Dad wouldn’t believe that the dummy had slapped him.
I didn’t believe it myself.
Dad must have pulled too hard when he was examining the head. Dad jerked the hand up without realizing it.
That’s how I explained it to myself.
What other explanation could there be?
* * *
I apologized to Dad. Then we washed Slappy’s face with a damp sponge. We cleaned him up and sprayed disinfectant inside his head.
He was starting to look pretty good.
I thanked Dad again and hurried to my room. I set Slappy down on the chair beside Dennis. Then I phoned Margo.
“I got a new dummy,” I told her excitedly. “I can perform for the kids’ birthday parties. At The Party House.”
“That’s great, Amy!” Margo exclaimed. “Now all you need is an act.”
She was right.
I needed jokes. A lot of jokes. If I was going to perform with Slappy in front of dozens of kids, I needed a long comedy act.
The next day after school, I hurried to the library. I took out every joke book I could find. I carried them home and studied them. I wrote down all the jokes I thought I could use with Slappy.
After dinner, I should have been doing my
I tried hard to speak clearly but not move my lips. And I tried hard to move Slappy’s mouth so that it really looked as if he were talking.
Working his mouth and moving his eyes at the same time was pretty hard. But after a while, it became easier.
I tried some knock-knock jokes with Slappy. I thought little kids might like those.
“Knock knock,” I made Slappy say.
“Who’s there?” I asked him, staring into his eyes as if I were really talking to him.
“Jane,” Slappy said.
“Jane who?”
“Jane jer clothes. You stink!”
I practiced each joke over and over, watching myself in the mirror. I wanted to be a really good ventriloquist. I wanted to be excellent. I wanted to be as good with Slappy as Sara is with her paints.
I practiced some more knock-knock jokes and some jokes about animals. Jokes I thought little kids would find funny.
I’ll try them out on Family Sharing Night, I decided. It will make Dad happy to see how hard I’m working with Slappy. At least I know Slappy’s head won’t fall off.
I glanced across the room at Dennis. He looked so sad and forlorn, crumpled in the chair, his head tilted nearly sideways on his shoulders.
Then I propped Slappy up and turned back to the mirror.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Wayne.”
“Wayne who?”
“Wayne wayne, go away! Come again another day!”
* * *
On Thursday night, I was actually eager to finish dinner so that Sharing Night could begin. I couldn’t wait to show my family my new act with Slappy.
We had spaghetti for dinner. I like spaghetti, but Jed always ruins it.
He’s so gross. He sat across the table from me, and he kept opening his mouth wide, showing me a mouth full of chewed-up spaghetti.
Then he’d laugh because he cracks himself up. And spaghetti sauce would run down his chin.
By the time dinner was over, Jed had spaghetti sauce smeared all over his face and all over the tablecloth around his plate.