"Mom, he's all alone," Nicholas says. "Probably crumpled up in a box. I doubt he's seen the daylight for years and I bet he smells like mothballs." "Can't you pick another one? A strawberry scented one? One not so creepy?" I ask, knowing the answer would be no but hoping I could somehow change his mind. "Don't you think that house looks like a dungeon? I'm sure he's miserable," Nicholas continues, pointing to the bright and oh so decorative living room of the unsuspecting Mortonson's of Maine. There, in the blue and white themed glory sitting jauntily on the mantel, is Slappy. Slappy, brought straight to our kitchen and the attention of my son thanks to the ever so helpful and current bane of my existence, Ebay. "He looks almost cheerful! In a creepy way, of course." I hedge. "He's practically family!!" Nicholas exclaims. "And he's all alone." And alone he could stay. He was as close to my family as any ventriloquist dummy would ever be as far as I was concerned. Safe in the living room of the Mortonson's of Maine. Everyday thereafter, Nicholas watches the auction. Checking it before school and after, updating me on the status. "No bids yet, Mom. Poor Slappy. You promised to get me one, Mom. He's only $40 dollars, Mom. Please, Mom?" I wilt, of course and Slappy arrives a few days after. A demonic version of PeeWee Herman with his sinister and decidely unHowdy Doody-like dummy smile that reminds me of that clown doll on Poltergeist. (That movie traumatized me for life along with Firestarter, Deadzone, Halloween 1-957, Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Carrie and Nightmare on Elm Street. He stares menacingly up at me from the box and it's all I can do to resist the urge to shake him to see if he stirs. "Slappy!!!" Nicholas cries, reaching in to grab him and saving him from my evil plots. He isn't so bad, during the day. I even chuckle at the George Bush joke involving blank dummy stares. But in the dead of night, it's different. I imaginee his stiff dummy shoes tapping their way into my room. Big butcher knife poised in small, cold hands a'la Chuckie, as I drift off to sleep. Georgie wakes me later, crawling into my bed, claiming a bad dream. Waiting for me to drift off again, only to nudge me awake as soon as my breathing deepens. "Mama, is that Slappy?" Slappy, who I am quite certain I have placed at the top of Nick's closet, before bed, with admonations to the children that he's to remain there until morning. I sit straight up, the covers falling and pooling around my thighs and squint in the darkness. It's him alright, with his white dummy skin and red lips hanging open in a wide, toothy grin. My breath catches in my throat and I emit a squeak of air before falling back against the pillows and pulling the covers tight over my face. There are giggles from the hall and beside me and then belly laughs. Small warm hands tugging the covers from my face. "It's just a dummy, Mama." Georgie says. While I really do know this, I find I don't care much, he still creeps me out. | 
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