Syd walked toward the cabinet. The PRIVATE: KEEP OUT sign was still in place, but the key was right there in the lock. Syd could turn it and just take a peek. She was only looking for her book—she wouldn’t go through anything else. She wasn’t snooping.
Syd reached for the key. She turned it, and heard a click. The heavy door swung open.
Syd gasped. She shoved the door shut as quickly as she could, and scrambled to lock it. She forgot about her book, and bolted from the room. She ran up the steps and out of the building, faster than she’d run in any race. Her heart pounded hard and her lungs gasped for breath. She didn’t slow down until she’d reached her dad’s minivan.
Dad and Gram peered out the window. “Find your book?” Gram asked.
Syd shook her head and bent over to catch her breath. “You look tired,” Dad said. “It’s been a big year. Let’s get you home and filled up with a snack.”
Syd straightened. Gram winked. “I hope you didn’t disturb Ms. Eternity. Teachers work hard! They deserve a peaceful summer.”
“Right,” Syd said. She blinked in the bright sunlight, and climbed into the minivan. She was tired. She did need a snack. She was probably a little delirious from the track meet and the last day’s excitement. It was making her mind play tricks on her.
When she’d opened the teacher’s cabinet, she could have sworn she saw something impossible: Ms. Eternity, tucked inside, with her arms across her chest, her eyes closed, and her body and face still. Except . . . she’d lifted one finger to her lips to say shhhhhh.
Or had she?
Sydney pushed the image from her brain. That couldn’t have happened. Teachers didn’t live at school. They certainly didn’t sleep inside cabinets lined with silk. Feeding off her students’ energy was just an expression.
Syd smiled at her own imagination.
She breathed in and felt the oxygen move through her bloodstream, just like Ms. Eternity had taught them.
Once upon a time, it was a dark and stormy night.
Trees rattled their branches like skeletons shake their bones.
Raindrops pounded the windows like they wanted to get inside.
The wind howled and moaned, as if someone had stepped on its toe.
Sophia ignored all this. She wasn’t listening to the storm outside. She was too busy reading her book.
The story in the book involved a room in a house a lot like Sophia’s. There was an armchair in a living room with a bookcase and a reading lamp, just like the room she was in. There was a large black cat curled up near the story’s fireplace—much like Whiskers, the cat on the rug at Sophia’s feet, who sometimes opened his eyes to slits and checked if she was still reading. There was a storm outside with lightning and thunder. But there wasn’t a girl in the story yet. There didn’t seem to be any humans in the book at all.
Sophia turned the page. The fire crackled beside her, and its shadows danced through the room. She wiggled her toes in her thick socks. She was interested in the story, but she wasn’t sure where it was going. Nothing much seemed to be happening yet. She hoped it would pick up soon.
Sophia’s father always said of his daughter, “That girl loves getting lost in a book. Sometimes she’s so wrapped up in the stories she’s reading, we almost can’t pull her out of them.”
He was exaggerating, of course, but she did love that feeling—when a book felt so real to her, she was practically living inside it. When the world of a story seemed more present and true than the world she was actually part of.
The best books often caused that feeling in Sophia. But this book wasn’t one of them, not so far. Its story seemed to have something missing.
Sophia started the next chapter. A door in the story creaked open, but before anyone stepped through it, a crash of thunder exploded in the room where Sophia was reading. It startled her so completely, she dropped the book on the floor. Whiskers’ eyes flew open and his fur stood on end. He ran from the room, leaving Sophia alone by the fire.
Sophia leaned over and picked up the book. She flipped through the pages, looking for the spot where she’d left off. Sophia had read a lot of books, so she knew—when a door in the story creaked open, something strange was about to happen. She wanted to find out what.
The next sentence was interrupted by an eerie, spooky sound—like a thousand ancient pages rustling and the secrets inside them crying out. It sounded far off, but it felt like it was right behind her.
Sophia looked up from the book. “What was that?” she whispered.
“It’s nothing,” the sound whispered back.
Sophia jumped to her feet. The hairs on her neck leaped up too.
She peeked behind the armchair.
No one was there.
“It’s not nothing!” she said to the empty room, feeling a chill despite the fire. She desperately wished her cat were still beside her.
“It’s nothing,” the sound repeated. Its voice was half whimper, half shriek. It reminded Sophia of nails on a chalkboard
and loneliness
and the wind.
Sophia’s heart thudded loudly, but she would not show her fear. She put her hands on her hips. “I know what I heard,” she said.
“Do you?” asked the sound. It seemed to be coming from all around her. It was outside, yet inside, her head.
“It’s nothing,” the sound said. “Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s happening.” As it spoke, the pages of the book she’d been reading rippled.
Sophia slammed it shut. She stomped her foot. “Enough!” she said, sounding tougher than she felt.
The book fell back open. The nothing became a laugh.
“The story needs you,” the sound whispered. “It needs more character. Come inside. Without you, nothing can happen. A book without a reader might as well not exist.”
Sophia wanted to scream. She wanted to hide. But she was frozen—unable to look away from the book. Its pages reached for her and pulled her in deeper, closer.
Something’s happening, she thought.
“Something’s happening,” the story whispered. It wrapped itself around her until she was lost in it completely.
The next morning, the storm had passed. Sunlight streamed into the empty room and warmed the cold ashes in the fireplace.
Sophia’s father entered and picked up the book lying open on his favorite armchair. He couldn’t remember having left it there—perhaps it had been the cat. Whiskers was acting so strangely today. He may well have knocked it off the shelf.
Sophia’s father glanced at an illustration at the bottom of the open page. There was a wide-eyed girl in a nightgown and knee socks. He supposed the story must be about her. She reminded him of someone he knew. But who was it?
He shook his head. He couldn’t remember. Maybe it was someone he’d only read about. You never knew who you’d meet in a book.
Sophia’s father looked around the room and wondered why he felt something was missing.
He closed the book, slid it onto the bookshelf, and turned out the reading light.
Am very good dog. Humans all say so.
My kid says “Good dog” while scritching under chin and between ears how likes it. My kid gives nice scritches. My kid is BEST.
Top job as dog is: protect kid!
Sleep next to kid’s bed. Patrol house and yard. Greet and approve visitors. Bark away mail. Chase off squirrels.
Watch! Notice! Smell! Listen!
Also: fetch balls, clean plates, and take naps in sunbeam.
Today during sunbeam, CAT appears. Cat inside! Kid is happy. Cat gone for days. Now cat back! I greet hello. But WAIT. ALERT!
Cat is WRONG.
Cat looks like right cat. Cat moves like right cat. Cat sounds like right cat. But cat NOT smell like right cat.
I sniff closer. Cat smells strange. Cat smells rotten. Bad cat is NOT approved.
I tell kid.
Kid says “Sit” and “Stay” and “Down” and “No barking.”
B
ut CAT!
Kid not listen.
Cat weaves through kid’s legs and gives dog LOOK. I whine.
Kid says “Shhh.”
Kid pets cat. Gives cat scritches! I growl.
Cat hisses. I arf! Am put outside.
No fair.
I wait next to door and sit to remind: Am good dog! Protects!
Time pass.
Kid lets dog in. Cat purrs. Dog not fooled. Cat is trouble. Cat tail twitches.
Doorbell rings! Friend here. I greet. Friend approved!
Kid turns on noise box. Kid and friend play game. Cat watches. I watch cat.
Time pass.
Gets dinner! Cat too. Kid eats. I sit by kid.
Kid gives scraps! Says am good dog. Wags to thank. Gets scritches! Feels happy. Licks kid’s face. Face delicious! Tastes like CHEESE. Feels happy. Remembers cat. Flattens ears.
Cat is watching.
Cat is planning.
Dog can smell it.
Cat no good.
Tells kid! Kid not listen.
Cat looks hungry. Cat just ate! Dog worries. Stays close to kid.
Friend gets square. Square for game! Game for kids. Kid says “Ouija!”
Cat looks glad. Dog not like it.
Square goes on floor. Thing goes on top. Kid touches thing. Friend touches thing. Friend asks question.
Nothing happen.
Kid giggles. Friend giggles. Cat narrows eyes. Thing moves.
DOG HAIRS UP.
Kid surprised. Friend surprised.
Cat not surprised.
Cat stays focused.
Whiskers twitch. Thing moves again. Cat is . . . moving thing? But with brain?
How does do that??? And why?
Thing keeps moving. Kid says letters. Thing spells WORDS. Friend excited. Cat looks pleased.
Dog says ARF! Is told quiet.
Friend asks questions. Thing spells WORDS.
Kid untouch thing. Repeats thing words. Friend shivers. Cat waits.
Friend says, “Should we?”
Kid not sure.
Cat goes closer.
Cat rubs friend. Cat rubs kid. Lets out purr. Points with tail.
Friend stands up.
Kid gets flashlight.
Dog barks “NO!”
Kid not listen.
Cat tail swishes.
Out we go.
Moon is round. Night is quiet. Dog not like it.
Cat leads way.
Cat smells eager. Friend smells nervous. Kid excited. Also scared.
Cat walks in shadows. Moves back out.
Dog not trust this. Cat has PLAN. Plan smells suspicious. Cat smells BAD.
Sniffs air harder. Sees air move! White like cloud. Smells like danger!
Dog whines. Kid says “Shush.” Cloud moves closer. Cloud smells BAD.
Kid grabs friend. Does see it too? Moves like cat tail. Moves like snake. Cat walks faster. Goes toward cloud!
Friend follows. Kid follows. Dog follows.
Does not like this.
Kid not see cloud. Cloud wraps kid ankle!
Must stop cloud! Must protect kid!
Says ARF!
Cloud retreats. Cat back arches. Cat shows fangs. ARFs again!
Cloud smell fades. Kid pulls leash. Dog not budge. Protects kid!
Cat looks mad.
Friend looks mad.
Kid looks mad.
Dog not care. Cat NOT win.
Kid turns around! Walks toward home! Dog comes too! Wig-wags tail! Leaves cloud behind! Does save the day! Is such good dog! Stops bad cat plan! Saves kid from danger!
Kid opens gate. Dog walks inside. Dog so happy! Cat so not.
Kid gives scritches. Says “Good dog.” Dog wags thank you. Kid shuts gate.
NO.
WAIT.
Kid is outside. Dog is inside. Dog is stuck! KID WALKS AWAY.
Dog says ARF! Kid not listen. Kid says “Stay.” Dog not believe this.
Kid goes with friend. Kid goes with cat. Kid goes toward cloud. Leaves dog behind!
Dog is trapped. Dog can’t go. Bad cat has kid. Oh no oh no.
Arfs.
Whines.
Paces.
Sits.
Time pass.
Time pass.
Time pass.
Time pass.
Kid gone.
Friend gone.
Cat gone.
Dog here.
Waits for kid. Sniffs for kid. Whines for kid. Wishes KID.
Time pass.
No kid.
Time pass.
No kid.
Time pass.
WANTS KID!
Dog waits.
Dog waits.
Dog waits.
In her dream, there are no monsters.
Her mother puts away the axe and forgets about revenge.
Her father’s smile reaches his eyes. There is no fear in them, no bitterness.
Her heart doesn’t flood with regret.
Her baby brother is there, and he is himself, not some thing. He’s not lost and replaced with a boy made of straw who drips pieces of himself where he toddles.
He blinks and laughs, and his eyes aren’t made of coal. No one asks her to sacrifice everything to save him. The impossible choice is unnecessary. He never disappeared in the first place.
In her dream, she did not climb those attic stairs. She doesn’t find the box she’s been told not to touch. It doesn’t call to her. It doesn’t whisper ancient verses only her ears can hear.
She doesn’t blow off the dust. She doesn’t want—no, need—to open it.
She won’t turn the key or lift the top and release the family curse. Of course not.
It does not terrify and excite her.
It doesn’t exist at all.
In the dream, she doesn’t hide what she’s done or confess it far too late. She will not utter the wish or blurt the promise that only make everything worse.
There is no need.
There are no monsters.
You couldn’t say the real monster is she.
She is safe in her bed, and it’s a beautiful new day. Songbirds sing to welcome it.
But then she wakes up.
The first thing she sees is darkness.
The second thing makes her close her eyes and scream.
The girl wasn’t sure why she didn’t trust the crow. The girl’s mother found him charming. The crow found himself charming too. But the girl found it best to avoid him.
For the most part, this wasn’t hard. She ignored the crow and the crow ignored her. Until one day he didn’t.
The girl was in the den, inventing a story about a witch, a fairy, and a troll. She was so wrapped up in her interesting thoughts, she didn’t notice the bird until he spoke.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She looked up and saw him perched on the mantelpiece. She resisted the urge to shoo him away.
“I’m making a story,” she said. “About—” She tried to catch the thread of what she’d been thinking, but the idea had flown off when the crow interrupted. The girl could not fly after it.
The crow wasn’t interested in her story anyway. “I’m bored,” he said. “Entertain me.”
“Um, okay,” the girl said. “Would you like to play a game?”
“Oh, yes,” the crow said. He tilted his head. “In fact, I’m already playing one.”
The girl frowned. “What’s the game?” she asked.
He danced in place. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. You’re a clever girl—more clever than you look. I’m sure you’ll catch on eventually.”
“Hey!” The girl crossed her arms. She didn’t like insults and riddles.
The crow ruffled his feathers. “It’s a compliment,” he said. “Don’t get in a huff. Usually, when one is complimented, one says thank you.”
The girl hesitated. This felt like a trap. But her mother hadn’t raised her to be rude. “Thank you?” she said.
The crow blinked. “You’re welcome.” He jumped from the mantelpiece to her shoulder. The girl froze.
The crow used his beak to rearrange the girl’s hair. He tucked her curls behind her ear. She pretended it wasn’t happening. She was still too stunned to move.
The crow grabbed a few hairs and, with a quick tug, yanked them out.
“Ow!” the girl cried. “That hurt!”
The crow shrugged and dropped the strands to the floor. “I need them. They’ll be perfect in my nest.”
“But they’re mine,” the girl said. “You can’t just take them.” She tried to nudge him off, but he ignored her.
He helped himself to more. The girl yelped.
“Don’t be selfish,” the crow said. “You’ve got plenty. Haven’t you been taught it’s nice to share?”
The girl’s scalp tingled with shame.
She glanced around for a way to distract him. He might leave her alone if she found a better offering.
Her gaze fell on her own wrist. She took off the bracelet she’d been given for her birthday. “Look,” she said. “Isn’t this pretty? Why don’t you take it for your nest instead?”
She dangled the loop of silver and gold. It glistened in the light. The bird considered it.
The girl held her breath.
“I don’t want that,” the crow said. “I’ll take this.” He pecked the girl’s cheek like it was an apple for him to devour.
Shocked tears stung her eyes, but the girl did not cry out. Maybe this would end if she acted like it didn’t matter.
He pecked again.
“Stop,” the girl whispered.
The crow cackled. He was having fun.
Of course he was. He’d invented this game.
He hopped to her other shoulder. “Your tears are so shiny. I love shiny things.”
Before the girl could react, he pecked out her eyes. Her fingers flew to the empty sockets.
“No!” she screamed. “Stop! Enough!”
The crow laughed again. She reached out and grabbed him. He didn’t struggle.
He didn’t take her seriously enough to struggle.
“Caw! Caw!” he said. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his glee.
The girl shuddered.
She wasn’t playing.
She twisted her hands and heard a quick snap. The mocking stopped. The crow’s body went limp.
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