“He never wanted to run the House of Seven Terrors,” she said. “He only saw it as a temporary thing, a place where we could hide out with you when the time came.” There was no anger in her words, but I winced all the same. “But he’s been talking about selling it. I bet he even canceled the tours tonight without telling me. All I wanted was to show him that we could turn a good profit—that we didn’t have to sell the house.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
She sucked in a deep breath through her nose. Her posture straightened as slivers of electricity crackled over her curly hair. When she looked at me again, her eyes were glowing—not literally, though. Just with determination.
“You can stay here,” she said. “And not leave the house. I’m going to talk to Uncle B, even if it means interrupting one of his precious historical lectures.”
“I don’t know if that’s”—the front door slammed behind her—“a good idea.”
Why does the witchling cry? Alastor asked, sounding flabbergasted.
“It’s a human thing,” I said as I started the climb up to the attic. “You wouldn’t get it.”
No, Maggot, I ask: Why does the little witch cry when you could easily set it to rights?
The attic looked perfect to me. Clean. Fit for human habitation. But if Nell had been here, I knew all she would have seen was what was missing: the plants, the pots, the cobwebs.
“Me? What in the past forty-eight hours has got you convinced I could put the house back together that quickly? And why would I, if Uncle Barnabas is so against it?”
But I already had three reasons: Because it was important to Nell. Because Nell had saved my life more than once. Because Nell, like me, wasn’t one of life’s lucky ones.
Okay, four: Because it would make her happy.
How often did I really make people happy in my own life, never mind proud? My parents said I did, but what else were they supposed to do, lock me in the dungeon whenever I fell asleep in class or was overheard by an undercover reporter suggesting my grandmother was a lizard alien wearing human skin?
My stomach rumbled, so I wandered over to the refrigerator. There were still a few bottles in it, but not much else. Ketchup, maple syrup, soy sauce. I grabbed a half-empty bag of chips from the top of the microwave and sat down on my couch-bed, sick to my stomach.
As bad as things were for me now, I never had to worry about stuff like this. About empty refrigerators or jobs or losing the things I cared about. At least not before the malefactor.
“You’ve been pretty quiet, Alastor,” I said around a mouthful of chip crumbs. “Did you have something to do with this?”
Even as I asked, I knew it was stupid—impossible. Where I went, he went. That was part of the whole deal. Also, the stupid parasite had no limbs. Well, except mine. But I think I would have remembered him taking over.
You insult me. Alastor’s voice was thin. I would never lower myself to such a baseless act as cleaning human filth. I would, however, consider helping you put things to rights.
“In exchange for a contract,” I said. “Yeah, no.”
Not for a contract, simply a favor, and the promise that you will do nothing to endanger us before I am able to ascend out of the prison of your puny body.
“What kind of favor is this?” I asked. “If it involves my death, destruction, or mayhem, that’s an even harder no from me.”
I would like for you to ask the witchling what news she and the coven of this town have heard about the state of Downstairs—in particular, the fiend on the throne there.
“Isn’t that your dad? Are you worried they’ve redecorated your palace in your absence?” I asked. “Gave away some of your human heads mounted on spikes?”
Consider this carefully, Prosperity Redding: I am confounded by your inclination to help the witch and her dimwit, snaggletoothed father. I can only assume you feel a debt, or this is a passing disorder of the mind.
“Or, you know, compassion, but go on,” I said.
I have the strength, the speed, and the resilience you need to work quickly. I have memories to show you of my breathtaking home of terrors Downstairs, of which this is a mere shadow. You seem to possess some…
“Come on, pal, you can do it,” I said. “It’s just one compliment. Just one. I seem to possess…?”
Some… He nearly choked on the words. Artistic ability. If they desire this decrepit hut to be a fountain of wealth, then I will show you what I know of such things, teach you how to present it, and it shall be so.
“And, in exchange, I ask Nell your question,” I finished. “What’s the catch here? How do I know I’m not accidentally agreeing to a contract?”
Because, Maggot, he said, when we form our contract, it will be because you’ve asked for it yourself.
I began to suspect that Nell was right about Uncle B being behind the housecleaning when I found the bulk of the materials and props piled in the overflowing garbage can in the side yard. Whatever couldn’t fit inside the canister had been piled up neatly beside it, waiting for trash day.
“All right,” I said, after I’d dragged it all back inside to assess the situation. “You ready, Al?”
Who is this “Al” you address? Surely not myself, a noble, malicious prince of the Third Realm—
“Sure, Al pal,” I said, feeling the first trickle of hot needles rushing through my good arm and legs. Something sparked at the center of my chest, spreading its heat out through my blood. When I closed my eyes, the glimpses I’d had of each room in the house slid into place. I began to sort all the supplies by the rooms they belonged to, lifting enormous, hulking piles of fake tombstones and trees as easily as if they were rolls of old parchment. My hands were blurs as they jammed everything back into its right place, strung up the blackout curtains, stretched and draped what had to be miles of cobwebbing. I found a shovel leaning against the side of the house and began to dig up fresh dirt and grass to pile onto the floor of the graveyard on the second story, using the empty trash can to haul it all up the stairs.
No, Maggot, she had it arranged like so….Al used my hand to tilt one of the crumbling headstones back up. By the realms, your brain is the size of a mouse’s. I can see it quiver with effort.
The only other part of the room that was missing was the blood shower. I glanced up at the ceiling, trying to find the sprinkler system they must have used, only to see a pale, translucent face staring back at me.
I jumped over the nearest gravestone, tripping over my feet until I backed straight into the wall.
The ghostly woman—the ghost, I realized—leaned down farther through the ceiling, examining my work. With a long, delicate arm, she pointed at the fake bats I’d pinned to the ceiling, and then pointed a short distance to the left of them.
A shade, Alastor confirmed. Likely bound to the house, by choice or by magic.
“Oh, right,” I managed to say. “Um, thanks?”
With the room finally back in order, the woman drifted down through the air, her old-fashioned white dress fluttering as though it had been cut from fabric, not moonlight and mist.
The shade reached out her arms. “My sweet boy—”
“Okay, bye!” I shut the door firmly behind me, leaning back against it. Something rotten wafted up to my nose, and I didn’t need to lift my arm to know that it was me. Upstairs, whatever creature was behind the locked door on the right began to pound against the door and yowl.
Funny. Whatever it was, it almost sounded like my furry friend Toad.
Wait.
“Toad?” I’d been so distracted by Nell and the house itself that I hadn’t realized the changeling hadn’t made an appearance since leaving that morning. My feet pounded out a steady, quick clip against the old wood, until I gripped the banister just a bit too tight to keep my balance and splintered the wood.
“Whoa,” I muttered. “Settle down, Hulk.”
The chains on the door were gone, but someone had wedged a door
stop under it to keep it firmly shut. I kicked it away and threw the door open. “Are you—?”
With a ferocious, hair-raising screech, Toad flew out of the room, his tiny paws raised like a boxer’s gloves. I ducked, narrowly missing a claw to the eye as he took an indignant swipe.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Toad ignored me, his wings slapping at the air as he darted past, inspecting the rooms before zooming downstairs. All the while, he sniffed and sniffed and sniffed, like he was trying to track or find something—or someone. “Do you know who did this? Was it Uncle Barnabas?”
Do not trouble yourself, Maggot. The changelings have brains smaller than even your own.
But the CatBat shook his head. He let out a low, mournful noise as he looked around the half-finished zombie-hospital floor, finally landing in the middle of the room with a dejected thump. The edges of his fur began to shimmer and I let out a yelp as the creature dissolved, splashing against the floor as nothing more than a puddle with big, green eyes.
“Holy crap!” I dropped to my knees beside him, trying to scoop him back together. “I’m working as fast as I can, but I need your help, okay? We won’t finish setting up in time for the run-through without whatever spells Nell’s mom used. Can you go find her and bring her back?”
With a loud pop! the changeling shifted again, this time into a large, green-eyed raven. Caw-caw!
He agreed, Maggot, said Alastor, who, apparently, also spoke evil bird.
Toad flew to the door, his wings beating against the wood until I opened it for him. Leaving a window open for his eventual return, I set to work finishing the first floor, ignoring Al’s suggestion I use my own blood to splatter the walls. Instead, I used a mixture of what was left in the ketchup bottle in the refrigerator, flour, and water, smearing the fake blood on the plaster and scratching a message into it with my own hands.
I didn’t know what to do with the ghost room upstairs. I turned the house and backyard inside out looking for whatever machine they had used to chill the room so brutally and make it feel as though you were standing over a crack in the earth that sank as deep as the underworld.
A witch would never dare to open the realm of shades, for fear of unleashing the unhappy dead.
So it must have been an illusion, then.
I have another thought about this room.
I saw the thought as clearly as if I had slipped inside a memory. The hazy film that seemed to cover my vision lifted, revealing a dark, damp stone room. A drip, drip, drip set my hair tingling against my skin. Layered just beneath that sound was a faint clicking and clattering—no, a scrabbling. Almost like…
A thousand insect legs. The walls crawled with spiders, some as small as my pinky, others bigger than my head. I tried to lurch back, only to bump into something heavy, something sticky. Whirling around, I came face-to-face with a long, shimmering white cocoon and whatever poor creature was wrapped inside it. When I took a step back, two glowing red dots appeared through the webbing. Eyes.
The spiders swarmed my feet, crawling up my legs, into my hair. “Get me out of here!”
I slammed back into the reality of the empty room, still breathing hard. “What was that place? Where you hide the bodies of your enemies?”
No, you tickle-brained canker blossom, Al said. That was a malefactor nursery. My own!
“Eesh. That explains a lot.” I shivered, patting at my hair to make sure it had all been an illusion. “Wait. I thought you ate spiders? You mean they raise you, and then you eat them?”
Only the small ones. That is beside the point.
Downstairs lie witch dolls and other beings, Al continued, as well as an obscene amount of useless spider-webbing.
“All right,” I said, turning around, trying to picture it. “I can see it. It’d be easy enough for someone to hide in here and make the spider noises. I just need to find some paint—”
There was a cabinet full of black and white paint downstairs, hidden behind where the cleaner had tried to fold and store the zombie victim’s gurney. A few brushes too, which was more than I’d hoped for. I hesitated, wondering if it would really be okay to paint the spiders and stones on the wall, and then just went for it.
Al was mostly silent as I worked, occasionally weighing in on the design with his usual bluntness, but mostly I just felt the hum of power and happiness buzzing through my veins as I painted and painted and painted. Leaving my work to dry, I went down to wrap the stuffed witches and one of the skeletons in the webbing.
I flipped the first witch over and fell back onto my bottom with an embarrassingly loud gasp. Her plastic face, from her black eyes to her wart-covered chin, had been mauled. It looked like a claw had torn through it.
“What the…?”
Fiends and witches are enemies. Nell had said that, right? Whoever—or whatever—attacked the witch mannequins clearly hated them. It looked like they would have set them on fire, if they’d had matches. Something heavy settled in my stomach.
“You do know who did this,” I said out loud. “Don’t you?”
Alastor said nothing, but I felt the slightest tremor of fear ripple through my heart.
When the front door finally opened, I shot up to my feet. “Nell, I’m in—”
But it wasn’t Nell. It was Missy.
She was wearing a long black overcoat with a high collar, her braided hair falling down her back like the knobs of a spine. Toad, back in CatBat form, was perched happily on her shoulder, chewing on a loose strand of her hair. Under one arm was a heavy, leather-bound book.
I stared at the changeling in confusion. “You get lost, little buddy?”
“He knows to come straight to me if there is trouble.” Missy glanced around quickly, her lips pressed in a tight line. “Nell isn’t here, is she?”
I shook my head, unsure of what to say. Alastor only hissed at her sudden appearance, making Toad’s ears stand straight up.
“I’ll work quickly, then,” Missy said, opening the book and flipping through its coarse, yellowed pages. “Nell’s father won’t like it that I’ve come. I encourage you not to say anything, if you value your short, doomed life.”
That was a new one. I didn’t know Missy well enough to know if she was making a joke or a prophecy. “Nell already threatened to rearrange my body parts, so, believe me, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good,” she said, then, finally, looked up at me. “This looks different—did something happen to the house?”
I quickly explained.
“And you did all of this yourself?”
“Yes,” I said.
Ahem.
“Er, mostly. Nell went off to find Uncle Barnabas, so I tried to restore the house the best I could. The tour groups are coming tonight to do a walk-through and I knew it was important to her, so I just—”
“You did all of this for Nell?”
“Well, yeah. And Uncle Barnabas. There were a few things I couldn’t replicate because of, you know…” Magic.
“Yes, I know,” she said absently, violet eyes fixed on the pages as she turned them. “I helped Tabitha—Nell’s mother—and Nell enchant them. Oh, here we are—she did write it all down.”
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning forward to get a better look.
Missy jerked the book away. “Do not touch it—not even for a moment. It’s enchanted to destroy itself before falling into a fiend’s hands.”
Just like Goody Prufrock’s book had. “Is that Nell’s grimoire—her book of spells and notes?”
“Her mother’s,” Missy said. “All right, Prosperity Redding. I’ll finish what you’ve begun, but I’ll need your help, if you’re willing?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Right,” Missy said. “Then your first task, young man, is to go up to the attic, open every window on your way, and take a nice, long shower.”
“That bad?” I asked.
The woman gave me a pitying smile. “Worse.”
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “If you have time…”
Earlier, Al had made a good point about the House of Seven Terrors being a business, and one that needed to be taken seriously. Whether Nell wanted to actually use it, I thought it would be a good thing to have a real logo for the business. Something she could put on a sign outside or in flyers.
I brought Missy up to the attic, where I’d pulled one of the white curtains off the window. Missy’s face went pinched as she looked around, the whites of her eyes going pink at the edges.
I had already painted a black version of the tree out in the yard, along with the many little roofs on each level of the house. All I needed was to write the words House of Seven Terrors.
“Missy,” I said. Then I said it again, louder.
She turned toward me, startled. “What is it?”
“Is there any way to…Do you remember what Nell’s mom’s handwriting looked like? I wanted to try to copy it for the sign.”
Her eyes widened. “There’s a spell for that. Here, may I have the paintbrush?”
I dipped it into what was left of the black paint before handing it over to her. She flipped the grimoire open to a page and began to whisper to herself, moving her fingers along the handwriting on the page. The words began to swirl, then flowed toward the paintbrush, being absorbed into it. When she brought the tip of it to the curtain, the brush seemed to move on its own, the words she’d lifted from the book spilling out onto the fabric.
After we hung the sign up over the porch, I walked Missy to the back door. Toad took it upon himself to climb her ropelike braid to lick her cheek.
“I know, old friend, I miss you too,” she told him, scratching him beneath the chin. “Come see me when you can, but only when Nell is safe at school and under Eleanor’s watch. Remember your promise to Tabitha to protect her.”
The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding Page 16