40 - Night of the Living Dummy III

The stairs up to my attic are narrow and steep. The fifth step is loose and
wobbles when you stand on it. All the other stairs creak and groan.

My whole house creaks and groans. It’s a big, old house. And it’s kind of
falling apart. Mom and Dad don’t really have the money to repair it.

“Trina—hurry!” my brother, Dan, whispered. His words echoed in the steep
attic stairwell. Dan is ten, and he is always in a hurry.

He’s short and very skinny. I think he looks like a mouse. He has short brown
hair, dark eyes, and a pointy little chin. And he’s always scurrying around like
a mouse searching for a place to hide.

Sometimes I call him Mouse. You know. Like a nickname. Dan hates it. So I
only call him Mouse when I want to make him mad.

Dan and I don’t look at all like brother and sister. I’m tall and I have
curly red hair and green eyes. I’m a little chubby, but Mom says not to worry about it. I’ll probably slim down by the time I’m thirteen, next
August.

Anyway, no one would ever call me Mouse! For one thing, I’m a lot braver than
Dan.

You have to be brave to go up to our attic. Not because of the creaking
stairs. Or the way the wind whistles through the attic windows and makes the
panes rattle. Not because of the dim light up there. Or the shadows. Or the low
ceiling covered with cracks.

You have to be brave because of the eyes.

The dozens of eyes that stare at you through the darkness.

The eyes that never blink. The eyes that stare with such eerie, heavy
silence.

Dan reached the attic ahead of me. I heard him take a few steps over the
squeaking, wooden floorboards. Then I heard him stop.

I knew why he stopped. He was staring back at the eyes, at the grinning
faces.

I crept up behind him, moving on tiptoe. I leaned my face close to his ear.
And I shouted, “BOO!”

He didn’t jump.

“Trina, you’re about as funny as a wet sponge,” he said. He shoved me away.

“I think wet sponges are funny,” I replied. I admit it. I like to annoy him.

“Give me a break,” Dan muttered.

I grabbed his arm. “Okay.” I pretended to break it in two.

I know it’s dumb. But that’s the way my brother and I kid around all the
time.

Dad says we didn’t get our sense of humor from him. But I think we probably
did.

Dad owns a little camera store now. But before that he was a ventriloquist.
You know. He did a comedy act with a dummy.

Danny O’Dell and Wilbur.

That was the name of the act. Wilbur was the dummy, in case you didn’t guess
it.

Danny O’Dell is my dad. My brother is Dan, Jr. But he hates the word junior,
so no one ever calls him that.

Except me. When I want to make him
really
mad!

“Someone left the attic light on,” Dan said, pointing to the ceiling light.
The only light in the whole attic.

Our attic is one big room. There are windows at both ends. But they are both
caked with dust, so not much light gets through.

Dan and I made our way across the room. The dummies all stared at us, their
eyes big and blank. Most of them had wide grins on their wooden faces. Some of
their mouths hung open. Some of their heads tilted down so we couldn’t see their
faces.

Wilbur—Dad’s first dummy, the original Wilbur—was perched on an old
armchair. His hands were draped over the chair arms. His head tilted against the
chair back.

Dan laughed. “Wilbur looks just like Dad taking a nap!”

I laughed, too. With his short brown hair, his black eyeglasses, and his
goofy grin, Wilbur looked
a lot
like Dad!

The old dummy’s black-and-yellow checked sports jacket was worn and frayed.
But Wilbur’s face was freshly painted. His black leather shoes were shiny.

One wooden hand had part of the thumb chipped out. But Wilbur looked great
for such an old dummy.

Dad keeps all of the dummies in good shape. He calls the attic his Dummy
Museum. Spread around the room are a dozen old ventriloquist’s dummies that he
has collected.

He spends all of his spare time fixing them up. Painting them. Giving them
fresh wigs. Making new suits and pants for them. Working on their insides,
making sure their eyes and mouths move correctly.

These days, Dad doesn’t get to use his ventriloquist skills very often.
Sometimes he’ll take one of the dummies to a kid’s birthday party and put on a
show. Sometimes people in town will invite him to perform at a party to raise money for a school or library.

But most of the time the dummies just sit up here, staring at each other.

Some of them are propped against the attic wall. Some are sprawled out on the
couch. Some of them sit in folding chairs, hands crossed in their laps. Wilbur
is the only one lucky enough to have his own armchair.

When Dan and I were little, we were afraid to come up to the attic. I didn’t
like the way the dummies stared at me. I thought their grins were evil.

Dan liked to stick his hand into their backs and move their mouths. He made
the dummies say frightening things.

“I’m going to get you, Trina!”
he would make Rocky growl. Rocky is the
mean-faced dummy that sneers instead of smiles. He’s dressed like a tough guy in
a red-and-white striped T-shirt and black jeans. He’s really evil-looking,
“I’m
coming to your room tonight, Trina. And I’m going to GET you!”

“Stop it, Dan! Stop it!” I would scream. Then I would go running downstairs
and tell Mom that Dan was scaring me.

I was only eight or nine.

I’m a lot older now. And braver. But I still feel a little creeped out when I
come up here.

I know it’s dumb. But sometimes I imagine the dummies sitting around up here,
talking to each other, giggling and laughing.

Sometimes late at night when I’m lying in bed, the ceiling creaks over my
head. Footsteps! I picture the dummies walking around in the attic, their heavy
black shoes clonking over the floorboards.

I picture them wrestling around on the old couch. Or playing a wild game of
catch, their wooden hands snapping as they catch the ball.

Dumb? Of course it’s dumb.

But I can’t help it.

They’re supposed to be funny little guys. But they scare me.

I hate the way they stare at me without blinking. And I hate the red-lipped
grins frozen on their faces.

Dan and I come up to the attic because Dan likes to play with them. And
because I like to see how Dad fixes them up.

But I really don’t like to come up to the attic alone.

Dan picked up Miss Lucy. That’s the only girl dummy in the group. She has
curly blond hair and bright blue eyes.

My brother stuck his hand into the dummy’s back and perched her on his knee.
“Hi, Trina,” he made the dummy say in a high, shrill voice.

Dan started to make her say something else.

But he stopped suddenly. His mouth dropped open—like a dummy’s—and he
pointed across the room.

“Trina—l-look!” Dan stammered. “Over there!”

I turned quickly. And I saw Rocky, the mean-looking dummy, blink his eyes.

I gasped as the dummy leaned forward and sneered.
“Trina, I’m going to GET
you!”
he growled.

I uttered a startled cry and jumped back.

I swung around, ready to run to the attic steps—and I saw Dan laughing.

“Hey—!” I cried out angrily. “What’s going on here?”

I turned back to see Dad climb to his feet behind Rocky’s chair. He carried
Rocky in one arm. Dad’s grin was as wide as a dummy’s!

“Gotcha!” he cried in Rocky’s voice.

I turned angrily on my brother. “Did you know Dad was back there? Did you
know Dad was here the whole time?”

Dan nodded. “Of course.”

“You two are both dummies!” I cried. I flung my red hair back with both hands
and let out an exasperated sigh. “That was so stupid!”

“You fell for it,” Dan shot back, grinning at Dad.

“Who’s the dummy here?” Dad made Rocky say. “Hey—who’s pulling
your
string? I’m not a dummy—knock on wood!”

Dan laughed, but I just shook my head.

Dad refused to give up. “Hey—come over here!” he made Rocky say. “Scratch
my back. I think I’ve got termites!”

I gave in and laughed. I’d heard that joke a million times. But I knew Dad
wouldn’t stop trying until I laughed.

He’s a really good ventriloquist. You can never see his lips move. But his
jokes are totally lame.

I guess that’s why he had to give up the act and open a camera store. I don’t
know for sure. It all happened before I was born.

Dad set Rocky back on his chair. The dummy sneered up at us. Such a bad-news
dummy. Why couldn’t he smile like the others?

Dad pushed his eyeglasses up on his nose. “Come over here,” he said. “I want
to show you something.”

He put one hand on my shoulder and one hand on Dan’s shoulder and led us to
the other end of the big attic room. This is where Dad has his workshop—his
worktable and all his tools and supplies for fixing up the dummies.

Dad reached under the worktable and pulled up a large brown-paper shopping
bag. I could tell by the smile on his face what he had in the bag. But I didn’t
say anything to ruin his surprise.

Slowly, carefully, Dad reached into the shopping bag. His smile grew wider as
he lifted out a dummy. “Hey, guys—check this out!” Dad exclaimed.

The dummy had been folded up inside the bag. Dad set it down flat on the
worktable and carefully unfolded the arms and legs. He looked like a surgeon
starting an operation.

“I found this one in a trash can,” he told us. “Do you believe someone just
threw it away?”

He tilted the dummy up so we could see it. I followed Dan up to the worktable
to get a better look.

“The head was split in two,” Dad said, placing one hand at the back of the
dummy’s neck. “But it took two seconds to repair it. Just a little glue.”

I leaned close to check out Dad’s new treasure. It had wavy brown hair
painted on top of its head. The face was kind of strange. Kind of intense.

The eyes were bright blue. They shimmered. Sort of like real eyes. The dummy
had bright red painted lips, curved up into a smile.

An ugly smile, I thought. Kind of gross and nasty.

His lower lip had a chip on one side so that it didn’t quite match the other
lip.

The dummy 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—very scuffed up—dangled from his skinny gray pants legs.

“Can you believe someone just tossed him into the trash?” Dad repeated.
“Isn’t he great?”

“Yeah. Great,” I murmured. I didn’t like the new dummy at all. I didn’t like
his face, the way his blue eyes gleamed, the crooked smile.

Dan must have felt the same way. “He’s kind of tough-looking,” he said. He
picked up one of the dummy’s wooden hands. It had deep scratches all over it.
The knuckles appeared cut and bruised. As if the dummy had been in a fight.

“Not as tough-looking as Rocky over there,” Dad replied. “But he does have a
strange smile.” He picked at the small chip in the dummy’s lip. “I can fill that
in with some liquid wood filler. Then I’ll give the whole face a fresh paint
job.”

“What’s the dummy’s name?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe we’ll call him Smiley.”

“Smiley?” I made a disgusted face.

Dad started to reply. But the phone rang downstairs. One ring. Two. Three.

“I guess your mom is still at that school meeting,” Dad said. He ran to the
stairs. “I’d better answer it. Don’t touch Smiley till I get back.” He vanished
down the stairs.

I picked up the dummy’s head carefully in both hands. “Dad did a great gluing
job,” I said.

“He should do
your
head next!” Dan shot back.

Typical.

“I don’t think Smiley is a good name for him,” Dan said, slapping the dummy’s
hands together.

“How about Dan Junior?” I suggested. “Or Dan the Third?”

He ignored me. “How many dummies does Dad have now?” He turned back toward
the others across the attic and quickly counted them.

I counted faster. “This new one makes thirteen,” I said.

Dan’s eyes went wide. “Whoa. That’s an unlucky number.”

“Well, if we count you, it’s fourteen!” I said.

Gotcha, Danny Boy!

Dan stuck out his tongue at me. He set the dummy’s hands down on its chest.
“Hey—what’s that?” He reached into the pocket of the gray suit jacket and
pulled out a folded-up slip of paper.

“Maybe that has the dummy’s name on it,” I said. I grabbed the paper out of
Dan’s hands and raised it to my face. I unfolded it and started to read.