Goosebumps Most Wanted - 02 - Son of Slappy (2 page)

“Noooooo!” I cried out again as the frightened little bird darted right to the open window.

Mrs. Lawson, the head YC counselor, made a frantic dash to the window. But she didn’t get there in time.

The canary made a soft
clunnnnk
as it flew into the glass pane above the opening. The bird fell back. He caught his balance in midair. Dropped a few feet. And tried a second dive.

But this time, Mrs. Lawson was there. She slid the window shut just as the canary reached it. Once again, the little bird bounced off the glass.

I raised both hands like a catcher’s mitt. And caught him on the first bounce. Gently, I wrapped my hands around him.

His heart was beating so hard, the canary buzzed like a bumblebee. He made weak cheeping cries as it struggled to catch his breath.

I carefully set him down on his perch and latched the birdcage shut. I could see the worried
faces all around the room. “Pete is okay,” I told everyone.

I narrowed my eyes at my sister. Rachel hadn’t moved. She stood there like a statue watching the whole chase. As if it wasn’t all her fault.

Kids were still running around in circles. Some of them were cheeping and flapping their arms and pretending to be birds.

“Excitement is over,” Mrs. Lawson shouted. She tried to wave the kids back to their seats.

I turned to Rachel. “Why did you do that? Why did you yell
boo
?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. Just a joke, I guess.”

“Ha-ha. Funny,” I said.

She snickered. “You looked so stupid chasing that dumb canary.”

“Rachel, the kids would be really upset if the canary flew away,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Sor-ry.”

I picked up my backpack from against the wall and started to walk her toward the playroom door. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I came to pick you up. Didn’t you see Mom’s text?”

I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket. I saw a message from Mom on the screen:

COME HOME. I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU.

“What kind of news?” I said.

Rachel shrugged again. “How should I know?”

I waved good-bye to Mrs. Lawson. I led the way out of the YC building. It was a warm spring afternoon. A big orange sun was lowering itself behind the tall trees in the yard across the street.

The YC is three blocks from our house. We started to walk. Rachel kept deliberately bumping me with her backpack. Once, she swung it so hard, she knocked me off the sidewalk. That made her giggle.

“Are you just coming from school?” I asked. “Why are you so late?”

“They kept me after. It wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s never your fault,” I said.

She swung her backpack. I dodged away. “Want to make a big deal about it, Robot? Mr. Perfect Robot?” she snapped. “So I got in trouble. Big whoop.”

“I wonder what Mom’s news is,” I murmured.

“Your Martian parents have come to take you home with them,” Rachel said.

I laughed. Sometimes she’s pretty funny.

“Jackson, can you help me with my math homework tonight?” she asked.

We waited for two kids on bikes to zoom past. Then we crossed the street. A warm breeze made the evergreen trees on the corner quiver and shake.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m going over to Stick’s after dinner. Help him with a project.”

“How can you go to Stick’s?” she demanded. “You think Mom and Dad will let you go out on a school night? When are you going to do your homework?”

“I already did it,” I said. “I did it all in school before I left.”

“AAAAGGGGH.” Rachel let out an angry animal growl. She wrapped both hands around my neck and started to strangle me.

“Let go! Hey — let go!”

Laughing, I had to pry her hands off my throat.

She twisted her face angrily. “You’re just so totally perfect, aren’t you?” She swept her hand over my head and messed up my hair. “Ha. Now you’re not so perfect.”

A few minutes later, we stepped into the house through the kitchen door. Mom was sitting at the table. She looked up from her recipe notebook. “Why are you so late?”

“Jackson got in trouble in school,” Rachel said. “And he had to stay after.”

Mom shook her head. “I know you’re lying, Rachel. Jackson doesn’t get in trouble.”

Rachel tossed her backpack against the wall. “I wasn’t lying. I was joking.”

“Mom, I saw your text,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve got big news for you,” she replied. “I’m getting rid of you both.”

Rachel and I laughed. Mom was joking, of course. We know her sense of humor. She’s always trying to catch us off guard.

Mom wanted to be a stand-up comedian after college. She did an act in comedy clubs and nightclubs. It’s a mystery to us how she got to be a bank manager. Dad says she’s the funniest bank manager in the U.S.

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious,” Mom said. “I’m getting rid of you both. For spring break. You’ve been invited to stay with Grandpa Whitman.”

Rachel groaned. “Oh, nooo. He’s totally creepy. And I hate that scary old house filled with dolls and toys and all his weirdo collections.”

“Give him a break,” Mom said. “He probably thinks
you’re
weird, too.”

“Not funny,” Rachel said, frowning. “Everything in that house is scary. Did you know he collects poisonous spiders?”

“Only for snacks,” Mom joked.

“And what about that frightening caretaker of his — Edgar?” Rachel said. “He creeps around the house in his black suit and hardly ever talks. He looks like he belongs in a horror movie.”

Mom snickered. “Have you seen
yourself
before you brush your hair in the morning? Pretty scary.”

“Not funny, Mom,” Rachel snapped. “I’m serious. I hate that house. Every room has something scary in it.” She shuddered.

“I think Grandpa’s house is
awesome
,” I said. “I love all the weird stuff he collects. Rachel, remember that whole shelf of man-eating plants?”

She shuddered again. “Grandpa wanted me to stick my hand into that plant and see what it would do. How sick is that?”

“He was teasing you,” I said.

“No, he wasn’t,” Rachel insisted.

Mom shook her head. “Rachel, why don’t you have a good attitude like your brother?”

“Because I’m a human — not a robot,” Rachel replied.

“He’s your grandfather, and he loves you two,” Mom said. “And I think he’s a little lonely in that big, old house with just the caretaker, Edgar, to talk to. You’ll have a good time with him. And it’s only a week.”

“I’m there!” I said. “I’ll bet he has some cool new collections.”

“A whole week?” Rachel cried. “Mom, he has no Wi-Fi. He has no cell phone reception. I’ll be cut off from everybody. I’ll be cut off from the whole world. How will I talk to my friends?”

“Smoke signals?” Mom said. “Tell you what. I’ll ask your dad to buy you a carrier pigeon. It’ll carry notes back and forth. It’s like an old-fashioned Internet. You’ll love it.”

“How funny are you?” Rachel said. “Not.”

But she could see that we had no choice. Mom had already told Grandpa Whitman that we would be happy to visit him.

And a few days later, Rachel and I were on the bus, taking the long ride to Grandpa Whitman’s house way out in the country.

Rachel tapped away on her phone, sending messages to her friends. I had my portable game-player to keep me busy. I carry it wherever I go.

I love to play
Chirping Chickens
. To tell you the truth, I’m
obsessed
with that game. I love making the chickens fly at the giant warthogs. I love the chirping sound they make and the sick
splaaat
when they hit.

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!”