A/N: I meant just to write the final scene with Jillian and Stine, showing the aftermath of "Legacy of the Living Dummy," but I ended up adding to it.
"And I, Jackson Stander, linked arms with my sister, Rachel, the bane of my existence and the person I love with all my heart.
We left Slappy behind us in the haunted house and entered the sunshine. Then we went home. Free forever."
R.L. Stine spoke slowly as he typed, an old habit he had developed as a preteen writer to gauge the quality of his diction. Although no one outside his tiny family would ever read this sequel to Son of Slappy, his inner perfectionist refused to let him stitch a single misplaced locution in the tapestry of his work. Besides, Jackson Stander was family, and he deserved - and desperately needed - a happy ending with no unforeseen twists.
"The End," Stine finished and leaned back in the folding chair with a sigh. He removed his glasses and pinched his nose. As he closed his eyes, the sudden burn between his lids surprised him. He hadn't noticed how sleep deprived his body had become, despite metaphorically tethering himself to the Smith Corona since the morning twilight. And not to mention how he had spent most of the previous night escaping a ventriloquist's dummy with a vendetta against him. So, he had enjoyed no sleep since his accidental afternoon nap on the couch while watching T.V. with his daughter, Hannah, which had been rudely interrupted by two of his largest monsters crashing through the ceiling.
And he had just paid this month's rent on that house too.
As he rested, feeling the strain of both mental and physical exertion, his ears began to register the faint sounds, carrying up from the first floor. He sighed with some relief as he listened to the discordant rendition of "Heart and Soul" on his late grandfather's out-of-tune piano. Jackson had to be feeling better.
Stine pushed himself from the dusty desk, stretching his stiff limbs. After he put the final page inside the waiting manuscript, he flipped off the portable fan. Immediately, the summer heat outside seemed to fill the stillness, and Stine hurried downstairs to escape its oppression.
24 Ashley Lane, the crumbly wooden house of Victorian provenance, had been in his family for generations, and the deed had passed to him as the eldest of the three Stine siblings. Yet life had not led Robert Lawrence Stine to reside in the old place for more than a few days at a time, usually when he had to flee the destroyed towns before the lawsuits could pile up. Today found himself in that familiar situation, seeking refuge in the dilapidated domicile to undo a well-meant stab at reconciliation.
The piano still sat in the dusty vestibule, and the preteen boy perched on the uneven bench, staring hard at the yellow sheet music. On the floor of the family parlor, just a few feet behind him, Hannah lounged with a Jane Austen novel atop one of the emergency air mattresses which Stine kept in his car for situations like this.
Hannah looked up as her father descended the once elegant staircase. Her gray-blue eyes sparkled at the sight of the manuscript. She pushed herself to her knees, practically skipped to the piano, and tapped her nephew's back. Jackson ceased his practicing, and his brown eyes met Stine's questioningly.
Stine reached the floor and gave the boy a kind smile. "All done, son."
Jackson slumped with a sigh. "Oh, thank you… Thank you, Mr. Stine." He climbed to his feet, holding out his hand for the book.
Stine shook his head. "You'll be sucked in, remember?"
Jackson ran a hand through his brown hair. "Oh, duh." He shrugged. "I was just, well, curious about how I got free of Slappy."
"It should be part of your memories within the hour," said Stine, tapping his own head.
Jackson grimaced a little. "I don't think I'll ever get used to having all my memories affected by a typewriter," he mumbled.
Hannah patted the younger boy's arm. "Hey, your mom has had a pretty normal life - all things considered - and so can you."
Stine tucked the manuscript under his arm. "I think a little celebration is in order, my boy." He reached for his wallet. "You know, the Murphy Diner is still two blocks away. They make an excellent banana split, don't they, Hannah? Cherries, walnuts, even little chocolate chips and sprinkles." He pulled out a wrinkled $20. "My treat."
Hannah's sunny grin appeared, eager for the rare chance to go outdoors unsupervised, but Jackson looked uncertain.
Stine met his gaze; he had created Jackson, so he knew how the sweet-tempered youth felt after hardship, especially one involving the evil ventriloquist's dummy. But he also knew how a moment of genuine escape for Jackson could help make something less painful.
"Go on, son," he encouraged, giving the green bill a beckoning wave.
Jackson glanced at Hannah, who nodded, and he accepted the $20 politely. Then, to Stine's surprise, Jackson stepped closer and wrapped his arms around the older man's waist. "Thank you, Mr. Stine."
Awkwardly, Stine patted the soft brown hair, but at the same time, he smiled at Jackson. He was probably the closest thing to an actual grandson Stine would ever have. He had brought Jackson to life to rectify a devastating wrong he had done to Slappy and his bride, Jillian. Even so, Jackson seemed to have genuine affection for his creator, despite what kind of father Stine had allowed to claim him.
Stine broke the hug with a backwards step, and the two kids headed for the front door. Just as they were about to step onto the creaky porch, Stine remembered to call, "Jackson, where's your mom?"
"Jillian's in the backyard," replied the boy, and the door shut.
"Of course she is," Stine said to himself. He turned on his heel, and his heart swelled with sympathy.
From almost the time Stine had conceived the idea for her, Jillian rarely seemed to catch a break. His editor had wanted Stine to base a book on the trailer for Bride of Chucky, riding on the success even before the romantic horror film hit the theaters. Stine had filled out several pages of a notebook detailing his intended love interest for Slappy: an evil doll named Mary-Ellen, who would be his match in every way.
"See?" Stine said the day he showed Slappy the notes for the metaphorical Galatea, eager for the dummy's approval. "She enslaves the little twin sisters of the protagonist. After the kids bring you to life, you and her start working together, and the reader will think she's not alive. Mary-Ellen gaslights the protagonist a little so that while the girl thinks you're doing mean tricks, she's working behind the scenes, putting soap in the whip-cream pie for her clown act. When the protagonist locks you up, Mary-Ellen frees you. Then the twist can be that you get married, and then you two go on to try to conquer the world together."
Stine waited for Slappy's response. The dummy sat on his desk, and he kept reading the notes in silence. Finally, he said, "You're thinking of giving her violet eyes?"
"I didn't write anything done about her appearance yet. How did you know?"
Slappy snorted, although he possessed no nostrils in his wooden nose. "Oh, please. I'm so connected to you, Papa, I can look at your notes for one of my books, and I see the characters you've envisioned as if I were watching a film." He raised his blue eyes, and they weren't happy. "You want to saddle me with an ugly doll for my bride."
"A work in progress, friend!" Stine insisted. "Since you're ugl - since the protagonists usually think you're ugly (because they are practically brain dead), I thought the protagonist would think Mary-Ellen is ugly. Since she's so jealous of the attention her sisters give her."
Slappy smirked. "Nice save. Would've probably worked if I was a dummy." He flung the notebook at Stine.
His creator threw up his hands. "Alright! I have trouble writing romance when it comes to you!" he snapped. "It weirds me out to think of you getting infatuated with someone. Even when you puckered your lips and started making kissing sounds at Trina O'Dell, I saw it as you mocking her, not flirting."
"Trina was kinda cute - in the way a pig is kinda cute," Slappy snickered.
"See what I mean?"
"I did like her green eyes though," Slappy decided. "My bride should have green eyes. But not dark green like Amy Kramer's. And I don't want her tan like Amy either."
"I'll make a note of it," promised Stine, grabbing his notebook from where it landed on the floor. He started to write carefully in the margin. Green Eyes. He underlined it three times. Not tan.
"Hey, what's this?" the dummy suddenly asked, reaching for a yellow Wendy's napkin with Stine's scribbles. One corner had a streak of ketchup from when the writer had wiped his mouth.
"Oh, that's some ideas I had for the protagonist," Stine dismissed, flipping to a fresh page. "I'm thinking of calling her Jackie or Jillian. Something with a J."
"Let's see who I'll be tormenting in my new adventure," Slappy smirked, emitting a high-pitched laugh which contrasted with his coughy speaking voice. His blue eyes scanned the napkin.
Then he froze, staring at the messy words.
"So, anything else you want to do with Mary-Ellen's appearance?" Stine asked, pencil poised.
Slappy didn't reply. His eyes traveled the napkin, reading it again.
"You like blondes?" Stine asked. "Redheads? Voodoo dolls?"
Slappy only leaned forward, bringing the napkin closer to his face as if he were expecting it to turn into a Viewfinder.
Stine frowned, expecting some joke where Slappy would pretend to be serious only to start mocking his writing. "Hey, I'm trying to write your soul mate, puppet. If you don't give me feedback, I'll just have to assume you want to marry one of the Mud Monsters." He meant the joke to rile up Slappy, but the dummy didn't seem to hear him.
Slappy traced the notes with his fingertips. "Tell me about this girl," he rasped, almost choking the words out.
"Why? You already got ideas to hurt her?"
"Just tell me, Papa," he insisted, still clutching the paper product, still vacant.
No doubt dreaming up horrendous pranks, Stine thought.
The man leaned back in his revolving chair, and it bounced under his weight. "What's there to tell?" he shrugged. "She's the eldest daughter. Two bratty sisters, but they're only bratty because Mary-Ellen is forcing them to torment her under threat of pain. Maybe a pet lizard. I've had characters with pet dogs, cats, and hamsters, so I thought a reptile would be interesting. Maybe you and Mary-Ellen could do a prank with the lizard too."
"Go on," urged Slappy without breaking eye contact with the napkin.
Stine racked his brain. "I had the idea of making her a birthday clown," he added. "The Powell sisters and Amy were all aspiring ventriloquists, and Trina was the daughter of a ventriloquist. So, for your fourth book, I wanted to shake up the formula. You and Mary-Ellen ruin her dream though and get her in trouble with her clients. Oh, and she's constantly trying to find the 'perfect revenge' against her sisters, but she's a perfectionist and dismisses all her ideas. And probably loves her sisters too. I mean, since Mary-Ellen is abusing two six-year-olds, I think the sisters should all genuinely love each other. Not like Tara the Terrible."
"She's a tall girl," observed Slappy.
"Yeah."
"Black hair. Round green eyes," he murmured.
Stine slowly straightened in his chair. "I'll take that now, Slappy," he said, watching the toy's expression. "Let's get back to Mary-Ellen. Your bride."
Slappy moved the napkin out of reach. He fixed his eyes on Stine, serious and commanding - and more than a little excited. "I want this girl."
Stine paused. He chose his words carefully. "You mean, you would like me to recycle her character into a doll for you? I would be happy to do that. Do you want her to be evil too?"
Slappy shook his head. "No. I want her. As is. Human. Pretty. Birthday clown. The works. Give her to me, Papa."
"Slappy," Stine said, "she's a sixth grader. It'll make me look like a pedophile if I tell my editor you're going to marry a twelve-year-old."
Slappy squinted. "Why would he care if you like feet? More importantly, why should that keep me from my bride?" he demanded.
Stine pushed his rolling chair back, out of reach of the dummy's fist. Rather than explain some uncomfortable concepts to an anatomically incorrect doll, he tried a different route. "Slappy, writing is my livelihood. If I'm blacklisted for being the wrong kind of creepy, then I can't make money anymore. Then I'll have to get a job flipping burgers, and then I can't write more stories, and I swear I'll keep you locked in a book if you ruin this for me."
Slappy's face contorted. "And if you force me to be with Mary-Ellen and keep me from my true bride, you might not live long enough to put me back into a book."
Stine narrowed his eyes, setting his countenance into a scowl despite the fear which quickened his heartbeat. Adrenaline pulsed through him, and he might have been able to reach the bookshelf before Slappy attacked - but should Slappy ever escape, he would attempt revenge.
Finally, Stine cracked a smile. "Let's make a compromise."
Slappy didn't move an inch back. "I'm listening, Robert Stine."
Stine gestured as he spoke, trying to give off a disarming air. "I'll write it so that the reader thinks Mary-Ellen is your bride, but the twist is that you want the human girl, Jackie or Jillian - "
"I like the name Jillian for her," Slappy interrupted.
"Jillian then. But, to please my editor, you won't actually marry Jillian - in this book," he added, raising his hand to silence the dummy. "I'll write a private sequel where Jillian is older. Then you can try to woo her."
"Try to?" demanded Slappy.
"If she comes to life, she's going to have free will," replied Stine, improvising as best as he could. The pantser side of his writing skills came to him as he needed it. "You show her your best self, and she'll no doubt fall in love with you."
Slappy settled back at last, satisfied. "I am quite the catch," he vapored. "There's a reason why I have a larger fan base than the rest of our friends." Then he tucked the napkin into the inside left pocket of his double-breast suit, just below his red-carnation boutonnière.
The months that followed were strenuous. Stine did his best to write the book in the least disturbing way possible. He made Slappy unconscious in the story, only appearing for the bare minimum as awake. Mary-Ellen took over the bulk of the horror, moving Slappy's body to trick Jillian Zinman into believing the puppet was out to get her. The plot was now weaker without the doll duo harming the humans, and having Slappy breathing down Stine's neck didn't help.
Finally, Stine had to lock the lovesick Romeo in a book to get any peace. He secretly had to enlist some ghost writers to help with the Goosebumps Series 2000, but Scholastic spotted the variance in the writing style and used that as evidence for their court case against him and Parachute Press. On top of all that, the new series tanked. His contract expired with no hope of renewal, and Ghost in the Mirror ended the promised "new millennium of fear," the 25th book of an expected 40.
He wouldn't have survived it without his Hannah. Or his new charge, Jillian Zinman.
He allowed Jillian some measure of a childhood before aging her up, providing her with video games, inline skates, and any toy she admired. She could leave the house if she stayed close to Hannah, which made the stir-crazy sixteen-year-old girl happy. Jillian caught lizards in the backyard, climbed trees, learned to cook, absorbed late 90s cartoons, and read everything she could get her hands on at the local library. He didn't force her to acknowledge him as her father, rather giving her permission to call him by his old nickname, Bob, which only his still living relatives used. And she was his relative now. Which is why he did what he needed to for her protection.
He never intended to give her to Slappy, but Stine had a deadly game of chess to play. He couldn't outright deny Slappy his love interest, so he had to construct some clever subterfuge. Slappy only had a crush on her - Stine knew that - and crushes had to run their course. Once Slappy grew bored with Jillian, she would be free from him and maybe even find her own sweetheart. Stine just had to make the right moves to keep his entire family safe.
So, he constructed the first private sequel carefully. He aged Jillian to eighteen (and he promised her that if she wanted to be a kid again, he'd write another story where she took a potion). He wrote Jillian in a such a way that she would have surface-level interests which Slappy would admire, expanding upon her fondness for puns, slapstick and revenge. In between the lines, however, he hid values inside the would-be bride that would eventually cool Slappy's flame for her. Jillian was to be a demisexual, for starters. The only way to her heart would be through friendship, something the impatient Slappy would never try. Her compassion and empathy was subtly embellished, which Slappy would surely find irksome once he saw it for himself, and her sense of ethics was strengthened.
Slappy should have never had a chance.
But Stine forgot one thing: they both had free will.
Once allowed out of his book and given free reign to court his bride, Slappy soon saw that neither flattery or threats could make Jillian his mate. He then poured over an available copy of Bride of the Living Dummy, studying her interests and thought patterns with the fervor of a grad student. He applied what he had discovered into doing nice things for her, like suggesting they go to Dairy Queen or introducing Jillian to the better-natured reptiles in Stine's monster lineup.
Jillian had fully intended to make him bored with her, displaying those ethical qualities that would have made the Grool shrivel up and disintegrate. But the kinder she acted toward Slappy, the more civil he behaved toward her. Soon they were having actual conversations and doing activities together. And then they were friends.
And Jillian had been a goner.
Stine would never forget the day he had descended into the basement for the old Hanukkah decorations he had kept all these years and discovered the two in a secluded corner, experimenting with how well human lips could kiss wooden ones.
"Well, I enjoy it," said Slappy without a trace of shame as he leaned his head against his girlfriend's inflamed face, "but even so, you should use the typewriter to make it much more comfortable for my bride."
"It's nice how it is now," she mumbled, and she tightened her embrace on her puppet sweetheart.
Later that evening, Stine managed to get Jillian alone to address her escalating relationship with her former nightmare. "He didn't ask Clarissa to do a love spell, did he?"
"No," she replied, looking sheepishly at her pale hands. "All mutual, Bob."
Stine checked his surroundings for any tiny wooden ears eavesdropping and lowered his voice. "You're absolutely sure, sweetheart?" he asked seriously. "Because I designed you to find true love on your own after Slappy, well, gave up."
"I know," she whispered. "A year ago, I would've probably screamed my head off if I really had to be with Slappy, but now…" She tucked a strand of long black hair behind her ear, and a pretty pink blossomed across her cheeks. "It's different. We're both different. It's just dating right now, anyway."
But even as she said it, affection gave her green eyes a faraway look, much like how Slappy had stared at that Wendy's napkin with her concept notes.
Stine tossed and turned that night, his mind too busy going over where he had went wrong. Maybe he should have altered Jillian's story so that she'd already been of a marital age, and one of her little twin sisters could've been the protagonist who tried to save Jillian from Slappy - then Stine wouldn't have felt so conflicted over giving Slappy a human bride. Maybe he should have told his editor that basing a book off a trailer for Bride of Chucky was ill-conceived. (Chucky hadn't even married Tiffany in that movie anyway.) Maybe he should have offered to make Mary-Ellen look and act like Jillian when Slappy had raised his protests. Maybe he shouldn't have put the Wendy's napkin where Slappy could find it.
No matter how Stine turned it over in his mind, he felt as if he had failed Jillian. When he had scribbled those notes for a protagonist, he hadn't given much thought yet as to what kind of character he would write. The Smith Corona brought to life the characters Stine put effort into, and, yes, that was usually the monsters. Only a handful of protagonists caught Stine's imagination, like a certain kind-hearted little girl who had sprung from The Ghost Next Door, so the protagonist for Bride of the Living Dummy hadn't interested him as much as the intended bride for Slappy. How was he to know the evil puppet would demand an underdeveloped human character?
But Stine had to develop her to keep everyone safe. And in bringing her to life, letting her live with him as a preteen, then as an adult, he had grown to care for her. He had tried to be clever, tried to outfox a dummy who knew his writer's mind, tried to give Jillian a happy ending instead of preparing a lamb for the slaughter. Then against all his plans, Jillian had fallen for Slappy, and Slappy would be eager to claim his willing, affectionate bride soon.
From that point on, Stine had to oblige them with another sequel, The Marriage of Slappy. In it, the older Jillian met her hated foe, but a supernatural problem forced them to work together. They developed a friendship which blossomed into love. Stine expounded upon why the book version of Slappy wanted a human wife, tying it to a magical marriage covenant which would grant him more powers. In an exciting climax, the couple spoke the words which wedded them, and they defeated their mutual enemy. Stine used subtext where he could to avoid thinking too hard on things which disgusted him, like the thrill they felt kissing each other and which other aspects of hymeneal felicity they could magically enjoy.
"If that's what my bride needs in her marriage," was all Slappy would say on the subject, surprising Stine with how casually he could deliver the declaration.
With the broadest of strokes, Stine finished the epilogue, throwing in a sequel hook of them maybe having kids someday. He officiated their real-world wedding, and he helped pay for a little apartment. Once he made sure Slappy would be a decent husband and not cause any more (serious or property-damaging) mischief, Stine gave the newlyweds their privacy to enjoy their life together.
Then Jillian got pregnant.
Hannah pulled Jillian into a bear hug before the taller girl could even lay down her purse. The two sisters linked arms, chattering like they had in the 90s.
"So much to tell!" Hannah beamed, leading her into the house. "We had to move twice since the last time we saw you, but Dad let us have a vacation in Italy, and we got to see Carnival in Venice! The costumes were gorgeous, and, oh, Dad fell out of a gondola!" She laughed at the memory.
"Sounds enchanting," Jillian replied, and then her green eyes fell upon her creator, who stood at the bottom of the stairs with a welcoming smile. The light dimmed in her gaze, but she kept a civil smile and even accepted a hug.
Stine let her have a half hour to catch up with her sister before he called Jillian into his study. Jillian didn't sit right away, instead milling about the room, observing the things he had collected. She gave the Egyptian canopic jar with the jackal-headed god Duamutef a pat, glancing over her shoulder at his brother, the falcon-headed Qebehsenuef. "Ever going to replace Hapy and Imsety?"
"Haven't had much time in the last ten years," replied Stine quietly. The baboon-headed and human-headed sons of Horus had been destroyed by Slappy in a fit of grief. Stine cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you, sweetheart."
Jillian, at last, dragged a chair to sit in front of his desk. "Shoot."
"Well, I'm pleased to say that the HorrorLand series has been successful, as you no doubt guessed from your husband's share of the royalties I've been sending you."
Jillian quietly returned his gaze but said nothing.
"So successful," Stine continued, tugging the collar of his shirt, "that I can write a new series: Goosebumps Most Wanted."
Jillian closed her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, and after what had to be her counting to ten, she let it out slowly like a deflating balloon. Then she said, "Will Slappy try to decapitate more kids?"
"I can understand why this might give you some pause," he said, trying to use the fatherly warmth he had shown her when she was a preteen bringing in lizards from the yard. "But I think this might be my last Slappy book."
Jillian thinned her lips. "Does he get killed off?"
"No, but he has a reason to settle down and retire." Stine fidgeted and then folded his hands on the desk. "I had the idea for the title. Son of Slappy."
Jillian's eyes widened. Then she slowly stood and walked to the window. She kept her back to him, hiding her face, but her shoulders trembled as she drew in a shaky breath. She clenched her fists, and Stine watched her silently.
Then he ventured to say, "If you're not ready for this, I can write a different story."
She remained still for several moments, breathing hard. Then she turned again. She straightened her shoulders and gave a single sniff. "Let me see him."
"Of course," he replied, bracing himself for the moment he had been dreading all morning.
He went to his bookshelf and pulled out the manuscript carefully. He nodded at Jillian, steeled his nerves once again, and aimed the pages at his desk. A cyclone of blue light and ink exploded instantly, then steadily grew smaller until the wooden dummy sat beside Stine's paperweight.
"Well, ain't this a surprise, Stine," Slappy growled, staring with two blue eyes that simmered like kettles. "Is it my birthday already? I hope it's something pleasant because I know you wouldn't bring me out for yet another cash cow - " He stopped talking as his gaze fell upon his wife.
His hands immediately flew to his red bow tie to straighten it, and he gave the red carnation a swift pat. His raspy voice dropped its razor edge and took on courting tones. "Mrs. Slappy, you're looking well," he purred, seeming to have forgotten Stine's presence entirely.
"Same to you, Mr. Jillian," she replied, but there was a distinct lack of her usual playfulness.
If Slappy noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. "Papa, I'll take back almost everything I ever said about you if you leave us alone for an hour."
"That'll have to wait," said Stine, sidestepping toward his chair.
Slappy scoffed, looking over his shoulder. "Says you. Try living in a book for a few months and see how you feel when you encounter your gorgeous wife - if you had a gorgeous wife," he sneered.
"Slappy," said the wife in question, and a tremor shook her voice, "Bob has something important to tell us."
Slappy turned back to Jillian, cocking his head. He continued to study her even as he spoke to Stine. "I'm listening."
Stine moved his rolling chair away from the desk (and out of Slappy's range), and he related what he had already told Jillian. Then he expounded upon the idea.
"I think," he said, turning to the possible mother, "and if you don't like it, I'll change it - but I think that the Son of Slappy should be a human."
"How do you figure that?" Slappy smirked. "Will Jillian get to be in another book and have my child? What will your editor think?" He winked at his bride, who merely looked away.
"Adoption!" Stine retorted, then cleared his throat. Calmer, he said, "I was thinking that Slappy might try to force a good kid into being evil. Like with hypnosis. The only time I'll let Slappy use mind control on a child."
"Father of the Year," cracked Jillian.
"I know, right?" replied her husband.
"Anyway," Stine said, "Slappy, in the book, will force this good kid to be a child in his image. Then maybe at the end, the twist will be that the boy's jealous sister helped Slappy claim him, and she's voluntarily the Daughter of Slappy."
"Two for the price of one," said Slappy, and he finally looked at Stine again. Genuine excitement glowed in his otherwise cold eyes. "If you brought them to life at once, do they count as twins?"
"I'll do them one at a time to make it easy for Jillian," Stine replied, snuffing that idea at once. "I thought maybe having human kids could be better than puppets, since Jillian can enjoy the outdoors with them. Maybe catch some lizards," he grinned.
"Lizards don't live this far north," Jillian said softly.
Stine leaned forward, squeaking his chair. "I know this boy and girl can't replace - "
"Of course, they can't," snapped Slappy. "None of my children are ever going to be replacements for each other."
Stine held up his hand, trying to calm the dummy. "And if you don't want a child now," he continued, "I can always rework the title to Son of the Haunted Mask or something." He gestured between the heterogeneous spouses. "Take some time to talk it over. How ever long you need. Then come back to me with your decision."
Slappy turned his head toward his wife. "Shall we then, darling?" He held out his arms for her to lift him.
After a few seconds of silence which made Stine tense and start to reach for Slappy's book, Jillian at last obliged. The ghost of one of her old smiles appeared. "My place or yours?"
That afternoon Jillian took Slappy home to her apartment sixteen miles away. When Stine called her, her responses were terse, but she assured him Slappy was behaving himself. Still, Stine kept an ear on the news, waiting for a report of a ventriloquist's dummy destroying parts of her new town.
A week later, Jillian stood again in Stine's study, and now she comfortably held her husband in her arms. They were still far from the couple Stine had discovered necking in his basement, but traces of warmth flickered in their restored ease around each other.
"Send out the stork, Grandpa," Slappy smirked, running his fingers over Jillian's skin. "and Slappy Father's Day to me! We're having a boy!"
Jillian's smile widened a little. "Hope I can get my girlish figure back after the baby comes," she joked - actually joked.
Stine beamed at them both. "And you guys tell me when you want the sister, and I'll write a sequel to bring her to life."
"You bet your soft head you will!" agreed Slappy.
Stine pulled out a notebook, ready to get started. "Okay, let's start with the basics. Hair color, eye color, height. Oh, do you guys have a name for him?"
"Jackson," Slappy said at once.
Jillian nodded. "Jackson."
Stine scribbled away, understanding. "Jack and Jill," he said quietly. Slappy had been so proud of that joke before… Stine cleared his throat and forced a helpful grin for his two creations.
As Jillian placed her husband on the desk and went to get herself a chair, Stine felt that maybe, just maybe, he had finally done right by that girl. The bride who had been brought to life to please Slappy, who ended up legitimately falling for a husband that had to be locked in books because he rejected his promised reformation to pursue revenge, would at last enjoy a happy ending which her creator could orchestrate for her.
Then, while his wife was occupied dragging her chair over, Slappy turned to his writer, and something changed in his eyes. "Just because we lost his sibling, doesn't mean the name has to go to waste," he growled in a whisper.
Stine found Jillian in the backyard on her knees with garden shears, trimming the overgrown grass and weeds from around a flat, tiny tombstone. His heart twisted at her somber labor. He lingered on the back porch, debating on whether it would be better to leave her to it. However, the finished book in his hand would coax out some glimmer of light after the darkness they had survived.
He crossed the unkempt yard, moving at a respectful pace. Her head twitched toward him, saying that she heard his footsteps crunching on the unraked leaves of several autumns, yet she continued her work.
Stopping across from her at the edge of the grave, Stine's eyes trailed to the old tombstone. With all the frantic relocation of his family he had done over the years, both in and out of the country, his family home in Wardenclyffe, New York, remained as the only constant in his life. So, when their abnormal family needed to bury an empty coffin with no outsider making a fuss, the old backyard had seemed the logical place.
JACK ZINMAN STINE
2-13-2001
BRIEFLY YOU WERE HERE
FOREVER YOU ARE LOVED
Stine watched his eternally young creation, tenderly managing her first baby's grave as if she were making its bed. Because of Stine's vague word choice in The Marriage of Slappy, Jillian had been able to conceive her husband's child, yet tragedy had dashed their happy hopes. She hadn't even been allowed the comfort of a body to bury; the child she had borne disappeared as soon as it had been separated from her, unable to survive without their connection.
Slappy never forgave his creator for that oversight. Jillian rarely spoke of it.
Stine's throat tightened a little. He cleared it.
She vaguely raised her dark head.
"It's done, Jillian."
She jerked a nod. She rose to her feet and mutely accepted the manuscript. She flipped open the cover - Jackson was out of range for it to affect him - and she skimmed through the first few pages. Then she flipped to the final chapter, her green eyes narrowed in concentration. "No surprises this time, Bob?"
He heard the accusation in her voice. "No, Jillian." He didn't blame her. "Jackson is free from Slappy's hypnosis. Forever."
She raised her green eyes, which had once entranced the evil dummy more than a decade ago. "And Slappy?"
Stine sighed. "I think I'll keep him locked up for a while. Unless you want your husband back."
"I don't." She averted her gaze, staring up at the forenoon sky. Although Stine had written her to have a strong will, the tender side of her started to mist her eyes. She took a deep breath. "I really wanted it to work, you know. I thought we could have a fresh start with Jackson. He reformed before."
"I know, sweetheart."
Her jaw clenched. "I still love him. I'm so angry I could scream, but I still love him."
Stine nodded, letting her vent.
She flipped the pages with her thumb, glaring at the ink letters. "If he had just hurt me, I might take him back after he agreed to talk to a fictional therapist or something, but he hurt my son. I have to be Jackson's mother now, not Slappy's wife."
"You'd be stupid to do otherwise."
Jillian only nodded.
Stine gestured toward the road. "Jackson's with Hannah. Once they come back, Hannah and I will go back to the house to start packing." He gave a half-smile. "While I was fleeing for my life last night, I managed to find a few listings for houses in Delaware. After Hannah and I settle in, we'll be in touch. Maybe we could see each other for Thanksgiving."
"No." She spoke it in a small but firm voice.
Stine kept his smile through willpower. "Yes, if you don't want to travel with Jackson just now - "
"Bob," she said, staring him down, "no." She held up the manuscript. "I'm grateful that you wrote this. I am. I'm grateful that you don't try to destroy any of your creations when they're locked in books. I really am. But that means you will always have the Slappy books nearby."
"He's my responsibility," Stine said, his face now fallen.
"As long as one Slappy book exists, he's going to keep escaping somehow. Something will always happen to break him free." She gripped her son's manuscript, and her fingers grew white. "And I want you to keep him far away from your grandson, Bob. As long as he refuses to reform again, keep him away from Jackson."
"I will, but we can always visit - " Stine tried, taking her hands, but she pulled away from him.
"You know you can't leave the books in an empty house for too long," she said. "You have to guard them, always. From one parent to another, just stay away, Bob. Stay out of New York state. Never try to see us again.
"If that's what you really wish, sweetheart."
"As a parent, I do."
"And," Stine said, bowing his head even as his heart twisted, "as a parent, I will comply." Then he touched her shoulder. He didn't try to say more or kiss her forehead. He merely stepped away, leaving his second daughter as a sign of respect toward her wounded heart.
He stopped once to look back, and she had resumed her task on her first child's grave.
Then it struck him just how diminished his family had become.
THE END
Not as flashy as some of my other stuff, but I normally don't write sequels to my fics, so this counts as a learning experience. Please let me know if it's a good addition to the "Legacy" story and/or where I need to improve.
But not dark green like Amy Kramer's. And I don't want her tan like Amy either. - For the record, I like Amy. She's my 3rd favorite of the Slappy protagonists. But it would seem OOC for Slappy to compliment her at this point in his timeline, so, no, I'm not character bashing her.
Fun fact: Two types of writing styles which professional authors identify with are being "plotters" and "pantsers." Plotters wrote better with outlines for their books (which, I believe, uses that logical right side of the brain). Pantsers write by the "seat of their pants," i.e. work better when they make up their stories on the fly (which, I believe, uses that artistic left side of the brain). The real R.L. Stine starts with the ending of his books and then tries to figure out how to get there, so he seems closer to a plotter. Movie Stine's technique appears to be that of a pantser, both in how he writes the book in the first film and how in the second film he had started typing Haunted Halloween but left it unfinished as he didn't know how to end it.
The two skill sets can overlap, and it's even recommended to build up your abilities in both camps. I find myself closer to a plotter as the Dead Fics on my gallery were the result of pantsing, having only a vague idea of an ending, but I also need a measure of flexibility in my outlines too, so I need those pantsing abilities after all. What about you guys?