by Randall Pine
When the glass stopped falling, he peeked through his arms. The lights had blown out, too, both the overhead lights and the neon lights. The water still sprayed from the fire sprinklers overhead, but they sprayed down into darkness now. The only light in the room came from the emergency lights near the exits, and from the glow of the overhead lights in the parking lot outside streaming through the windows. In the dimness, Simon looked up and saw Virgil, his eyes closed, his back pressed against the Pop-A-Shot cabinet. He stood there on trembling legs, not daring to open his eyes, and not daring to move.
But the hands on either side of his shoulders were gone. The arms that connected those hands to Abby’s shoulders were gone.
Abby had disappeared.
Simon stood up carefully, turning his head, wiping the water out of his eyes, and scanning the restaurant for signs of life. But he and Virgil were alone.
“Virg? You okay?” Simon brushed some tiny flakes of glass off his shoulder and stepped toward the Pop-A-Shot. “Virg?”
Virgil slowly, carefully, opened his eyes. He exhaled with relief when he saw that Abby— and her unnaturally long arms—had disappeared. “Simon. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said, crossing the room, “but…”
He stopped short in his sentence. He looked down at the floor, just past the tips of his shoes.
Abby hadn’t disappeared after all. She had just unraveled into a big heap of string.
Simon stooped down and stared, open-mouthed, and the pile of threads near his feet. Most of the threads were the pale-tan color of Abby’s skin, and some were the stonewashed blue color of her denim jacket and jeans. A handful had been her purple hair, and a few wisps of brown had been her eyebrows, he guessed. He reached down and plunged his hands into the threads and lifted them up in front of his eyes.
They were just string. Cold, wet, lifeless string.
Simon held them up to Virgil. “Look,” he said. His brain didn’t seem capable of forming any words more complex than that.
Virgil tilted his head in confusion. He pushed himself off the Pop-A-Shot cabinet and walked over to where Simon was crouched on the floor. He peered down at the threads in Simon’s hands. “Is that…yarn?” he asked, confused.
Simon nodded, his whole body moving slowly with disbelief. “It’s Abby,” he said.
Virgil screwed up his face in confusion. “But, like…that’s not really Abby,” he said, sounding uncertain. “Right?”
Simon blinked. “What are you asking me right now?”
“I’m asking you, is that actually Abby? Is Abby actually yarn?!”
Simon tossed the threads down onto the floor and stood up. “No, Virgil, I don’t think Abby is actually yarn. I think this is a thing that was made of yarn that was made to look like Abby, and to act like Abby, sort of, though it wasn’t very good at it. I think this is a fake Abby, and that would explain why Llewyn was getting such a weird energy from her today. Or…from it.” He placed his hands on either side of his head, as if trying to keep his brain from escaping his skull. “I think someone has kidnapped Abby, and they tried to replace her with a doll.”
Virgil’s face flushed white. “Who would even have the ability to do that?” he asked.
Simon snorted. “Gee, Virgil, I don’t know. In the last week, we’ve basically met two people who have the power to pull that kind of thing off. One of them is Llewyn, but he seems pretty solidly on our side, so I don’t think it’s him.”
“He’s kind of grumpy,” Virgil pointed out.
“But he’s also one of the good guys,” Simon said, exasperated. “Besides, Abby introduced us to him, she trusts him. And we were with him all day today. It wasn’t him. So who’s the only other person we know with the kind of power to animate an Abby doll that’s so lifelike, it fools everyone for almost an entire day?”
“Should I assume that you’re not referring to the barista at the coffee shop this morning?”
Simon exhaled. “No. I am not.”
“Right, I thought not. So. Asag, then.”
Simon nodded. “Asag.”
They both stared down at the mess of threads on the floor. “You think he has her?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Virgil rubbed his face with his hands. The sprinklers stopped spraying water, and he and Simon took a few breaths of the dry, silent air. “When would he have gotten her, though? It doesn’t seem like he leaves the basement. I mean, best as I can tell. And Abby went home last night when we did, and I doubt she was back out at the house this morning before work.”
Simon inhaled sharply. His spine stiffened. “She probably didn’t go back this morning,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But we don’t know that she left when we did, either.”
Virgil furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, she walked us to my car, she said she was going home, we said goodnight…but we didn’t actually see her get in her truck. We didn’t see her drive away.”
Virgil’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “You think she stayed after we left?” He reached out and grabbed Simon’s arm. “Do you think she went into the basement?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Would you?”
Virgil’s heart sank. “No. She seemed super intent on going inside.”
“Exactly.” Simon closed his eyes, pinched his temples, and cursed. “We have to get her out of there.”
“Okay, it’s not that I disagree, ’cause I don’t, but I just want to say, you know that means facing the demon, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” Simon said, shrugging off his friend and pacing around the room. “I know that.”
“And again, not that I don’t want to save Abby, but Llewyn said—”
“Llewyn won’t leave his tent and use his extraordinary power to save the world!” Simon exploded. “I get it, I get that he can’t, I get that he’s focused on the thing that’s burrowing toward his heart, I get it, fine. But he can’t be out here, but we—we are out here, we are in it, and we have the power to do something, and we can’t just sit around, waiting for the next six months while we get trained on how to throw knives and block spells or whatever.”
“You think he’s going to teach us how to throw knives?” Virgil asked, genuinely interested.
“Not the point! Look! I know what Llewyn said, and I know we’re not ready, but I also know we surprised the demon last time with our protection spell, and that was before we knew anything about the magic that we’ve been practicing over the last two days, and shooting beams and throwing up shields and hiding Skee-Balls in psychic vaults, all that has to count for something! And Abby is down there, and she needs our help. I’m not going to just sit by while some old wizard draws out our training for the next eighty years, okay?”
Virgil frowned. His eyes looked pained. “You’re saying all this like I might disagree with you, but…of course I want to use magic to try to bring down a demon. Man, do you know me at all? Of course I want to do that. And also, Abby seems super cool. You know I’m in. I mean, Llewyn’s not going to like it. And we don’t have our manacles.”
Simon set his jaw. “It doesn’t matter. We have to go save Abby.”
Virgil grinned. “Those manacles feel more like bumper lanes anyway,” he said. “My power needs to roam free and unleashed.”
“Your power’s going to get us all killed,” Simon pointed out. “But maybe it’ll kill the demon in the process.”
“That’s the spirit!” Virgil clapped his hand happily on Simon’s back, and together, the pair of them crunched through the glass and the darkness toward the doors of the Squeezy Cheez.
“This is a stupid idea, isn’t it?” Simon asked as he pushed open the front door.
“Oh, definitely,” Virgil agreed. “But sometimes, being stupid is what it takes to be a hero of Templar.”
&
nbsp; Chapter 23
“Well. Here we are again.”
They sat out in the Pontiac, across the street from Mrs. Grunberg’s house. It was pretty much the same as they’d left it: dark windows above, pulsing red lights below. The flowers were still thick with inky shadows, and the splotch of it seemed to have reached the walkway that went around the side of the house, leading to the backyard. There were a couple of dim lights on in the upstairs windows—lamps, probably. But for the most part, the house was dark.
“Look,” Simon said, nudging Virgil and pointing down the street. They could just make out the shape of Abby’s truck.
It was in the same spot she’d parked it in the night before.
“Guess that answers that question,” Virgil said.
Simon nodded. “And it looks like someone’s home,” he said, nodding up at the light coming from the upstairs window.
“Yeah, but barely. Geez, do you think they know they can turn more lights on? Like, enough to actually see?”
“Sometimes old people go to bed early,” Simon shrugged.
“How early? It’s not even 9:00. And what about her grandson? Shouldn’t he be watching the CW or something in the living room?”
“Maybe he’s out,” Simon murmured. He opened the door and stepped out into the street. “And it doesn’t matter. We’re not going upstairs.” He stared at the red light coming through the basement windows, and he shivered. “Abby’s in the basement.”
Virgil got out of the car and joined his friend in the street. They crossed over to the Mrs. Grunberg’s yard. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No,” Simon said. “You?”
“Nope.”
“Great. Then I guess we’re doing it.”
“I guess we are.”
They crept along the edge of the property, trying to stay in the shadows. They passed the tree where they’d crouched with Abby the night before. Simon could still see the depressions they’d left in the soft dirt.
They made it as far as the walkway when they heard a voice from above them say, “Hey. What’re you doing?”
They both froze. Simon looked up at the front porch. Mrs. Grunberg’s grandson stood near the railing, looking down at them with a mixture of fear and confusion. He looked somehow worse than he had the night before. The dark circles under his eyes were darker and wider. His skin was so pale, they could practically see through it. His hair was mussed, and his clothes were baggy and disheveled.
“Oh. Uh…” Virgil began.
“Yeah, we’re just…” Simon tried. But neither of them had come prepared with a lie.
The redheaded boy motioned them over. “Come inside.” Then he turned around and went in through the front door.
“Geez, that kid gives me the creeps,” Virgil shuddered. “What do we do?”
Simon sighed. “We can’t exactly break into the basement if he knows we’re here. So I guess we go up.”
They circled back around and climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the front porch. They had never actually been inside Mrs. Grunberg’s house before. Simon went first, easing the door open gently and peeking his head in. It was dark inside, with the rooms lit only sparingly by low lamps and candles. The front door opened up into a stairwell that led to the second floor. There were two separate room areas flanking the staircase, a dining room and a parlor. The dining room looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades; the big wooden table was draped with a dusty white sheet, and the six chairs that were stationed around the table had been likewise covered with cloth. An antique buffet stood in the corner, but the glass panes set into its doors were so covered with dust and grime that Simon couldn’t see through them enough to even tell if there were dishes stacked inside.
The parlor on the right looked slightly more welcoming. The furniture was uncovered and looked well-used. The loveseat and the armchair were old, antique pieces, with wooden scrollwork at the feet and arms, and with torn upholstery, the colors of which had faded with time. A low coffee table between the couches was set with a short candelabra, and all five of the candles were lit.
The grandson moved quickly and silently through the parlor, disappearing into the next room like a ghost.
“Man, I knew her house would be haunted,” Virgil said, inspecting the dark rooms, “but this is ridiculous.”
“It’s not haunted...it’s just old,” Simon whispered. But he didn’t know if he was convinced of that himself.
The followed the grandson into a kitchen, which looked to be slightly updated compared to the rest of the house, but not by much. The Formica table and off-white appliances with their rusty knobs gave the room a distinct 1960s feel. An old coffee percolator sat atop the lit stove. The grandson pulled it off the flame. “Coffee?” he asked, pouring himself a cup.
“No, thank you,” Virgil said quickly.
“It’s a little late for coffee, isn’t it?” Simon asked.
“I don’t sleep much,” the boy answered quietly. He blew the steam away from his mug and stared into nothingness as he took a sip.
“Maybe you should stop drinking so much coffee,” Virgil suggested. Simon elbowed him. “Ow.”
But the grandson didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m Neil,” he said, by way of introduction, though he didn’t extend a hand to shake. He just sipped again from his coffee.
“Oh. Uh…I’m Simon. And this is Virgil. We’re friends of your grandma.”
Virgil cleared his throat. “We’re not friends of hers,” he clarified. “We know her, but we don’t, like, go bowling together or anything.”
“Grandma is in the sleeping room,” Neil said, holding the coffee cup under his chin.
Simon and Virgil exchanged uneasy looks. “We usually call that the bedroom,” Virgil said, trying to break the tension.
“Would you like to see her?” Neil asked, staring at the floor.
About a million different alarm bells were ringing in Simon’s head. “Uh, no. I think we’re good,” he said. He grabbed Virgil by the elbow and pulled him out of the kitchen, back into the parlor. “Geez, this kid is seriously gone,” he whispered.
“Oh, you think?” Virgil hissed back.
“He’s totally sleep-deprived. That can lead to some serious insanity.”
“I know, I’ve seen Insomnia.”
“That movie’s really good.”
“I know.”
“Anyway,” Simon continued, glancing over his shoulder to see if Neil was listening to them. He wasn’t. “The poor kid’s out of his mind. We have to get rid of the demon downstairs. Like, not just save Abby, but banish Asag, too.”
“Well, no kidding. What did you think we were going to do, go down and ask the demon to let Abby go, and then slip out the backdoor when he wasn’t looking?” Virgil shot back.
“I don’t know what I thought,” Simon answered honestly. “I’m making this up as I go along.”
“That must be why it’s going so well,” Virgil whispered, rolling his eyes.
“Let’s tell the kid we’re leaving, then circle around and get downstairs,” Simon suggested.
“Yeah,” Virgil said seriously, “if I’m gonna die tonight, I’d rather get it over with.”
They turned back toward the kitchen, and Neil was standing right next to them. They both screamed. “Holy Hamburg! Neil! You can’t just sneak up on people like that,” Virgil said.
“Do you want to see the sleeping room?” Neil asked. He covered his mouth as he let loose a yawn.
“No, we actually…sort of have to go,” Simon said. “We’ll take the tour next time.” He pushed Virgil back through the parlor, and they hurried to the front door. Simon reached down and turned the handle.
It was locked.
“Did you lock the door?” he asked, annoyed. He reached down to unlock it, but was surprised to see there w
as no lock to turn. There was only a keyhole.
“I didn’t lock it,” Virgil said.
Simon exhaled. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He ran his fingers over the keyhole. “No.” He turned back to Neil, who had followed them through the parlor. “He did.”
“What?” Virgil asked. “How…?”
Neil pulled a key from his pocket and held it tightly in one pale fist. “We have to see the sleeping room,” he said. Then he turned and moved up the stairs, slowly ascending to the second floor.
“This is bad,” Virgil said, watching the redheaded boy climb the stairs. “Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.”
“Asag is really doing a number on him,” Simon said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
“What do we do?”
Simon swallowed hard. “I guess we go up.”
“Simon, I don’t—”
“Don’t worry,” Simon said, working hard to sound confident. “I have a plan.” Then he added, “Sort of.” He began to climb the stairs.
“Oh, great. A sort-of plan.” Virgil sighed, but he followed them up the steps.
Neil was waiting for them on the landing. The upstairs hallway was lit only by a single sconce on the wall, and it threw long shadows down the dark passageway. Neil’s eyes were hidden by the shadow of his brow, and the dark circles beneath them served to give him the look of a man with black holes for eye sockets. “Are you ready to go to the sleeping room?” he asked.
“Uh, not quite,” Simon said. “Could we use the bathroom first?”
“We?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow.
Simon ignored him.
Neil frowned. “I have to ask,” he said slowly. Simon was about to inquire after who, exactly, Neil needed to ask, when the younger boy turned away and began whispering into his own hands. After a few seconds, he turned back and said, “You can use it.”
“Great,” Simon said. “Where is it?”
Neil raised a hand and pointed into the darkness of the hallway, toward the back of the house. “There,” was all he said.