The Journal of Curious Letters

by James Dashner

  He crossed over the town square where, during the summer, a huge fountain usually sprayed. Now the square lay as a flat expanse of whiteness, countless footsteps in the snow crisscrossing it as people bustled around the town.

  The library was one of the oldest buildings around, a gray bundle of granite built decades ago. To get there, Tick always took a shortcut between the fire station and the drugstore, a thin alley the width of his shoulders. The stone walls that towered over him as he walked along the alley made him think of old medieval castles.

  He had almost reached the end of the alley when a quick breeze whipped past his left ear, followed by an eerie, haunting moan that rose up behind him like the last call of a lonely ghost before heading back to its grave. Tick spun around, stumbling backward when he saw what was there.

  A swirling, rippling cloud of gray smoke floated in the alley, surging and receding, billowing out then shrinking back again every two or three seconds. Like it was . . . breathing.

  And then the smoke turned into a face.

  The wispy smoke coalesced and hardened, forming into unmistakable facial features. Dark eyes under bushy gray eyebrows. A crooked nose with black, gaping holes for nostrils. Thin lips pulled back into a wicked grin, exposing an abyss of a mouth with no teeth. Wild, unkempt hair and beard.

  Tick willed himself to move, but he could only stare in amazement at the impossible thing floating in front of him.

  The moaning sound returned—a deep, low groan filled with grief and pain. It came from every direction, amplified by the narrow stone walls, growing louder and creepier. Tick felt goose bumps break out all over him, chills washing across his skin in waves.

  “What . . . who are you?” he asked, amazed that he had found the courage to speak.

  Instead of answering, the smoky face groaned louder, its eyes flaring wider.

  Then it lunged toward Tick, who turned and ran for his life.

  Chapter

  6

  ~

  The Lady in the Trees

  Tick shot out of the alley at a full run and slammed into a man walking past, both of them tumbling to the ground in a chaotic jumble of arms and legs.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tick yelled, helping the man to his feet as he looked back at the alley, expecting the smoky apparition to appear. But nothing came out and the creepy sound had stopped completely.

  “It’s okay,” the man replied as he brushed himself off. “What’s the rush?”

  Tick finally focused on the man he’d tackled and saw it was Mr. Wilkinson, the school custodian. “Oh, just going to the library. Sorry.” Tick took three hesitant steps so he could see clearly down the alley. It was empty, no sign of a spooky ghost-face anywhere. “Well, gotta run. Don’t want to waste any study time!”

  Not waiting for an answer, Tick took off for the old library building, wondering if somehow Mr. Wilkinson had saved him from a terrible fate.

  ~

  Five minutes later, Tick stood doubled over in the lobby of the library, hands on his knees, gasping like each breath might be his last. Even though the thing in the alley had disappeared and not chased him, Tick had run as hard as he could until he was safe inside the musty-smelling entryway of the old building.

  Maybe I am imagining things, he thought. There’s no way I just saw what I think I saw.

  The librarian behind the desk gave him an evil stare as Tick caught his breath. If he’d been in a better mood he would’ve laughed at how she fulfilled every clichŽ in the book: hair up in a bun; glasses perched on the tip of her nose with a linked chain drooped around her neck; beady eyes that told small children they’d never reach adulthood if they didn’t read thirty books a day. This librarian must be new; the rest of the staff knew him like a mother knew her own kids.

  He spotted Ms. Sears over by the non-fiction section and quickly walked toward the computers, trying to avoid her; the last thing he needed right now was some nice chitchat about the weather.

  She saw him anyway.

  “Hi there, Tick,” she called out to him, her beaming smile managing to calm his nerves a bit. Ms. Sears had

  gray, tightly curled hair that looked like a cleaning pad permanently glued atop her freckled head. “What are you up to today? Here to study up on your chess strategy? Or maybe look for a pen pal?”

  Tick shook his head, trying to dislodge the heavy feeling that clung to his bones like an oily sludge. “Nah, I just wanted to poke around on the Internet. Got a little boring over at my house.”

  “Your dad didn’t break out the karaoke set again, did he? If so, I hope all your windows were closed.” She gave him a wink.

  “No, I think he finally figured out he sounds like a wounded goat when he sings.” He knew his voice sounded tight and he hoped Ms. Sears didn’t notice. So many questions bounced around inside his head he felt like he’d need surgery to relieve the swelling.

  “Oh, Tick, you better hope I don’t tell your father you just said that,” she replied. “By the way, I hear you’re no match for him in that silly football video game.”

  Tick forced a laugh. “How in the world did you know that?”

  “Small town, kiddo. Small town.”

  “Yeah . . . guess so.” An awkward silence followed, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I better get to a computer.”

  “Have fun. Let me know if you need any help.” She turned and pushed her book cart down another aisle.

  Relieved, Tick jogged to the long row of computer desks and found an empty one, glad to sit down and rest. As he pulled out his library card, he nervously glanced around, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Getting a little paranoid, aren’t you? he chided himself. There has to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Something.

  He slid the card into the electronic reader, then typed his password when the prompt appeared on the screen. A few seconds later a window opened for him, connecting him to the Internet. Peeking around the library stacks like a top-level CIA agent searching for spies, Tick pulled out the two mystery letters and unfolded them, pressing them flat on the desk next to the keyboard.

  He read through them both again, even though he already knew the first thing he wanted to try on the Internet search engine. He hoped other people had received similar letters and were talking about them in blogs or message boards. Holding his breath, wishing like crazy he’d find something useful, Tick typed “M.G.” and clicked SEARCH. An instant later, the computer screen told him how many hits: 2,333,117.

  Great.

  Web sites about MG Cars, Madagascar, Magnesium, MG Financial Group were listed, but nothing that gave any kind of hint about who had sent the two letters. He tried other phrases: “frightening things”; “despicably deadly”; “forty-nine days plus five tomorrows.”

  Nothing useful popped up.

  Discouraged, he sat back and stared at the screen. He’d been afraid to admit how much he really wanted there to be others like him. He didn’t want to be alone in this crazy stuff. The first letter had been addressed to “Dear Master Atticus,” but the wording of the message made Tick think more than one letter had been sent out, a plea for help from anyone willing to give it.

  Well, maybe he’d have to be the first one to put some clues out there for other people to find.

  Rejuvenated by the thought, he typed in the address for the Pen Pal site, then logged into his own section and personal profile. He briefly described the situation, listed some of the key phrases from both letters, then asked if anyone out there had received something similar. He clicked SUBMIT and sat back in the chair again, folding his arms. Hopefully, if anyone else in the world searched for the same things as he’d just done, they would somehow get linked up with his Pen Pal information and e-mail him.

  It was a start.

  ~

  The snow had started up again, big fluffy flakes swirling in the wind. Tick pulled his red-and-black scarf up around his ears and mouth as he left the library and headed for home. He
walked in the opposite direction from where he’d come earlier, perfectly willing to take the long way around in order to avoid the haunted alleyway. He shivered, not sure if it was from the cold weather or the memory of the spooky smoke-ghost.

  He walked all the way around the downtown area, doing his best to stay in the most public of places. The sky had melted into a dull gray, flakes of white dancing around him like a shaken snow globe. Maybe that’s where I am, he thought. I’ve been sucked from the real world and placed in some alien’s giant coffee table knickknack.

  A shot of relief splashed through his nerves when he finally made it to the small section of forest that lined the road to his neighborhood. All he wanted was to go home and warm up, maybe play his dad in Football 3000 . . .

  From the corner of his eye, Tick saw something move in the trees just to the left of the road. Something huge, like a moose or a bear. He turned and looked more intently, curious. Though he lived in a small town, big animals rarely ventured into the woods this close to his neighborhood. Just a few feet away from him, a shadow loomed behind a thick tree frosted with snow, its owner obviously trying to hide from him. Animals don’t hide, Tick thought, warning alarms clanging in his mind as he readied himself to run.

  But then the thing stepped out from behind the tree and Tick’s feet froze to the ground.

  Despite its enormous size and odd appearance, it wasn’t an “it” at all.

  It was a person. A lady.

  And she was eight feet tall.

  Chapter

  7

  ~

  Mothball

  The sight of a giant, skinny woman coming out of the forest didn’t help Tick’s anxiety much after his experiences with the freaky thing in his bedroom and the ghost-face in the alley. He yelped and started to run down the street toward his home, only making it two steps before he tripped over a chunk of ice that had fallen off the back of someone’s tire well. His face slammed into the fresh snow, which was, to his relief, powdery and soft.

  By the time he scrambled up from the ground, the enormous woman was beside him, helping him to his feet instead of ripping out his throat. Her face fell into a frown, as though saddened to see him so afraid. Her expression somehow made Tick feel guilty for running away so quickly.

  “’Ello,” she said, her voice husky and thick with a strange accent. “Pardon me looks. Been a bit of tough journey, it has.” She stepped back, towering over Tick. Her eyes were anxious and hesitant and the way she fiddled with her huge hands made him think of Kayla when she was nervous. The gesture made the giant lady seem so . . . innocent, and Tick relaxed, feeling oddly at ease.

  She had thick black hair that cascaded across her shoulders like a shawl, her face square and homely with bright blue eyes. Her gray clothes were wet and worn, hanging on her impossibly thin body like droopy sheets on a wooden laundry rack. The poor woman looked miserable in the cold, and the slight hunch to her shoulders only added to the effect. But then she swept away that impression with a huge smile, revealing an enormous set of yellow teeth.

  Tick knew he was staring, but he couldn’t look away. “You’re . . . huge,” he said before he could stop himself.

  The woman flinched, her smile faltering just a bit. “I’m a bit lanky, I’ll admit it,” she said. “No reason for the little man to poke fun, now is it?”

  “No . . . I didn’t mean it that way,” he stammered. “It’s just . . . you’re so tall.”

  “Yeah, methinks we established that.”

  “And . . .”

  “Lanky. Come to an understanding now, have we?” She pointed down at him. “The little man is short and ugly. Mothball is tall and lanky.”

  Tick wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. “Mothball?”

  The woman shrugged her bony shoulders. “It’s me name. A bit unfortunate, I’ll admit it. Me dad didn’t have much time to think when I popped out me mum’s belly, what with all the nasty Buggaboo soldiers tryin’ to break in and all. Fared better than me twin sis, I did. Like to see you go through life with a name like Toejam.”

  Tick had the strangest urge to laugh. There was something incredibly likable about this giant of a person. “Bugga-what soldiers? Where are you from?”

  “Born in the Fifth, I was, but lived in the Eleventh for a season. Ruddy rotten time that turned out to be. Nothin’ but midgets stepping on me toes and punching me knees. Not fun, I can promise ya that. At least I met me friend Rutger there.”

  Every word that flew out of the woman’s mouth only confused Tick even more. As hard as it was to believe the sheer size of the lady standing in front of him, the conversation was just as bizarre.

  “The Fifth?” he asked. “What’s that, an address? Where is it? Where’s the Eleventh?”

  Mothball put her gigantic hands on her hips. “By my count, you’ve done asked me several questions in a row, little man, and none time to answer them. Me brain may be bigger than yers, but you’re workin’ it a bit much, don’t ya think?”

  “Okay, then,” Tick said. “Just answer one.”

  “Ain’t it in the Prime where they say ‘Patience is a virtue’? Looks like you missed out on that bit of clever advice.”

  Tick laughed despite the craziness of it all. “Mothball, I’m more confused every time you speak. How about you just tell me whatever you want, and I’ll shut up and listen.” He rubbed his neck, which hurt from looking up at her so much. His scarf was crusted in snow.

  “Now that’s more like it, though I must admit I don’t know what to say now.” Mothball folded her arms, her face scrunching up into a serious frown as she stared down at Tick. “No harm in tellin’ that you’re from the Prime, I reckon, and that I’m from the Fifth, and me friend Rutger’s from the Eleventh I told you about just now. Wee little gent, old Rutger—looks a little like a ball of bread dough, he does. The poor bloke is short as a field swine and twice as fat. You’ll be meetin’ him, too, ya know, right directly if he’s about his business.”

  “Wait,” Tick said, forgetting his promise to be quiet, at which Mothball rolled her eyes. “You sound like you know who I am. This is somehow related to the letters I got in the mail, isn’t it?”

  “What else, little man? Did ya ever see an eight-foot woman before you got the notes from the Master?”

  “Mast—” Tick paused, his mind churning like the snowflakes that swirled around his body. This giant woman had obviously come to talk to him specifically, for a purpose, and yet he’d learned nothing. “Look, Mothball, maybe you could explain everything, from the beginning?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Can’t do that, little man. Can’t do that at’all.”

  “Then why did you come here? Why did you step out of the woods to talk to me?”

  “To rub ya a little, give ya a bit of confidence, ya know. Me boss sent me. Sendin’ me all over the place, he is, just to help where I can.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Not sure to be quite frank. I know I can’t talk about the messages, and I can’t tell you anything about the Master or the Barrier Wand or the Realities or the Kyoopy or the Chi’karda or anythin’ else to do with ’em.” She held out a finger as she said each of the strange items as though she’d been given a list beforehand. “Other than that, feel free to ask your questions, since I have no idea anymore what to talk to ya about.”

  Tick rubbed his eyes, frustrated. He tried his best to memorize each of the odd words Mothball had said, burning them into his mind for later analysis. “Miss Mothball, it’s official. This is the craziest conversation I’ve ever had.”

  “Sorry, little man. Truly I am.” She kicked the snow at her feet, making a huge divot. “’Simportant you figure things out for yourself. It won’t work otherwise. But, er, maybe you’ve seen something, er, strange since you got those letters?”

  Tick’s interest perked up considerably. “Yeah, I have. Just a couple of hours ago I saw this smoky, wispy thing that formed into a face and made a freaky sound. Can you tell me
about that?”

  Mothball’s face lit up despite the scary subject matter of his question. “Ah! Tingle Wraiths! That’s what you’ve seen, I’d bet me left shoe. Scary fellas, them. Now that I can talk about.”

  “You know what they are? Where they come from?”

  “I ruddy well should! They almost killed me friend Rutger just last winter. ’Ere, did you get a little tingle down your spine when the Death Siren started? Ya know that’s where they get the name from.” She paused. “Ya know, tingle. Down your spine. Tingle Wraith. Get it?”

  “Yeah . . . I get it.” If she noticed his sarcasm, she didn’t show it. “But what are they?”

  “That awful sound you ’eard is the Death Siren and it only gets louder and louder, I’m afraid. They can’t move more than a few feet or so once their face is formed, but there’s no need as long as you can hear that terrible cry of theirs. Thirty seconds, once it starts—that’s all you’ve got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mothball’s brow furrowed as she wagged a finger at him. “If any man, woman, or child hears the Death Siren for thirty seconds straight, their brain turns right to mush. Nasty death, that. Seen it happen to an old bloke once. His body flopped around like a chicken with its ruddy noggin

  lopped off. The poor wife finally let ’im out of ’is misery. Bludgeoned him over the head with a teapot, she did.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Do I look like the kind of person who’d make funnies about an old woman knocking ’er own sweet husband over the head with a teapot?”

  “Well . . . no, I guess.”

  “Sad, it was.” She stared at an empty spot past Tick’s shoulder for a few seconds, then looked him in the eyes. “You’ll be all right. S’long as you can run, they’ll never catch you. Just avoid ’em if you can.”