The Secret of Zoone

by Lee Edward Födi

  Dedication

  To M—We’ve passed through so many doors together.

  There are many more to come.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. A Door to Nowhere

  2. The Lady, the Hat, and the Mouse with Green Spots

  3. A Skyger on the Sofa

  4. Return to the Depths

  5. Captain Cho and the Thousand Doors

  6. Lady Zoone and the Map of the Multiverse

  7. The Mouse-Man of Zoone Station

  8. The Portal Porter

  9. Hullabaloo in the Hub

  10. Miss Mongo’s Special Suitcase

  11. The Girl with Inappropriately Purple Hair

  12. The Wizard with Wild Eyebrows

  13. The Spy and the Spell Book

  14. An Audience with Master Nymm

  15. The Curious Curse

  16. The Council of Wizardry Convenes

  17. A Glimpse at the Glibber King

  18. Salamanda Smink Makes a Mistake

  19. Things Get Creepy-Crawly

  20. A Warrior’s Steel

  21. The Skyger, a Shoe, and an Unconventional Sword

  22. The Magical Mix-Up

  23. A Ticket to the Magic-Makers’ Market

  24. The Twitch of a Tail

  25. A Wizard’s Wrath

  26. Salamanda’s Story

  27. A Clash of Magic

  28. The Glibber King’s Poison

  29. Ozzie’s Risk

  30. The Door to Somewhere

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  A Door to Nowhere

  Ozzie came to a screeching halt as soon as he flung open the door. Below him, twisting and turning into darkness, was the longest set of steps he had ever seen. Probably the longest set of steps in the history of architecture, he thought with no small amount of dread. He craned his neck and stared into the shadows.

  Unfortunately, some of them stared back.

  He was sure of it.

  Ozzie looked longingly over his shoulder, across the narrow hallway and through the open door of Apartment 2B, where Aunt Temperance was still hopping from foot to foot and yowling like some sort of jungle animal. All of this because the pipe beneath the kitchen sink had burst. That was no real surprise—the pipe, like everything else in the building, was ancient—but the resulting geyser of water had sent Aunt Temperance into hysterics. And now it was sending Ozzie to the bowels of the building to fetch Mr. Crudge, who, for whatever reason, wasn’t answering his phone.

  Mr. Crudge was the building caretaker, though Ozzie thought a better title might be “King of the Creeps.” He was a strange and solitary man who treated every request with a grumble, but he worked for little pay and—according to Aunt Temperance, at least—that was all it had taken for him to get the job. Well, that and the fact that he was willing to live in the basement apartment, down in what Aunt Temperance referred to as “The Depths.”

  Ozzie had never ventured into The Depths before, and for good reason. “There’s nothing down there except creepy-crawlies,” Aunt Temperance always told him, and that was enough to curb Ozzie’s curiosity—because even though boys weren’t supposed to be grossed out by creepy-crawlies, no one had bothered to tell his stomach. He hated things that wriggled, scuttled, and crept as much as Aunt Temperance hated disruption to the natural order of Apartment 2B.

  Which was exactly what she had on her hands—and up to her ankles—at this very moment. With a frown, Ozzie returned his attention to the long flight of stairs. He couldn’t even see the bottom.

  “Hello?” Ozzie called tentatively. “Mr. Crudge?”

  There was no answer. Only ten minutes ago, Ozzie had been sitting peacefully in Apartment 2B, reading manga. Sure, he had also been grumbling about being stuck there with nothing exciting to do on his Sunday afternoon—but he hadn’t exactly bargained on a trip to the core of planet Earth to break the monotony. He seriously considered retreating to tell Aunt Temperance that he couldn’t find Mr. Crudge. But Aunt Temperance was already on the verge of a meltdown. Reporting back without the caretaker in tow might be enough to send her to the hospital.

  Ozzie drew a deep breath. Time to get ninja. Don’t fear the shadows. Become the shadows.

  He took a step—and promptly tripped down the stairs.

  It was the wall at the first turn in the zigzag that stopped his tumble. He slammed into it and found himself sprawled awkwardly upside down, staring at the doorway he had just come through. The water from the kitchen had trickled all the way into the hallway and was now teasing the lip of the first step.

  Which meant it was time to hurry. Ozzie quickly retied his shoelaces and continued trekking downward, into the darkness, into the cold, and into the stench—which at least told him he was on the right track. That stench belonged to Mr. Crudge; the old man wore it like some people wear a favorite sweater, too often and with too long between washings. Aunt Temperance claimed that Mr. Crudge’s distinctive smell was a result of his homemade tonic, theorizing that its recipe must involve dirty tap water, rotten fruit, and quite possibly a wayward sock or two filched from the laundry room. Ozzie had his own suspicions about the concoction. He had seen the old man scuttling through the hallways with a grimy jar filled with what looked like fingernail clippings.

  “Maybe he fishes them from the drains in people’s apartments,” Ozzie had once postulated to Aunt Temperance. “That’s what he uses to make his potion.”

  “It’s Mr. Crudge’s job to clean people’s drains,” Aunt Temperance had scolded. “Don’t let your imagination run wild.”

  Which was a weird thing to say since that was exactly what she had been doing, too. But when Ozzie pointed this out, she had simply huffed and said, “You take things too far, Ozzie. It’s not a potion. It’s a tonic. Well, okay. We both know that’s just a code word he uses for whatever hooch he’s brewing down there. That’s what people like him do, Ozzie. He probably drinks because he’s lonely.”

  “I bet it’s for another reason” was Ozzie’s reply, but Aunt Temperance had not wanted to hear any more about it, so he was left to dwell on the matter without her. Just between him and himself, he was convinced Mr. Crudge’s brew was to keep him human. He barely looked like one to begin with. He was completely bald, without a wisp of hair on his head—he didn’t even have eyebrows. His skin had a waxy sheen and one eye was slightly larger than the other. Then there were his teeth, which were so discolored they could have easily taught mustard a thing or two about what it means to be yellow.

  “That’s what happens to people when they get old,” Aunt Temperance liked to chastise him. “Show some compassion.”

  Compassion—sure, Ozzie thought. It wasn’t exactly the number-one emotion stirring inside him as he descended into The Depths.

  By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Crudge’s odor had become a full-blown assault on his nostrils. Ozzie tried muffling the stench with his T-shirt, which was when he realized it was on backward and inside out.

  “You could have told me, Aunt T,” he grumbled. And she might have, on a weekday. But, according to her, weekends were different. They were “just-be-you” days.

  There was a long passageway at the bottom of the stairs. A modern apartment complex would have had a parking garage beneath it, but their building was practically ancient. Built long before the invention of the car, Ozzie griped to himself. And possibly the wheel. The floor was uneven, and the walls consisted of rough gray stones. In fact, the only sign that the basement wanted anything to do with the modern age was a line of bare light bulbs tha
t dangled from long wires. The lights flickered meekly, as if to shrug and say, “Look, we’re doing our best.”

  Which didn’t do much to improve Ozzie’s impression of the place. Still, he had come too far to turn back now. The passageway continued only a bit farther before ending in a T-junction. Ozzie instinctively turned right—and that’s when he found the door.

  No one could blame his imagination for running wild now, not even Aunt Temperance. Because there was definitely something special about this door, something that caused the creepy-crawly fear in his stomach to slink away.

  Has potential, Ozzie decided. It was something his teachers regularly wrote on his report cards; Ozzie’s dad never failed to point out that this was just another way of saying “not good enough,” but Aunt Temperance insisted it meant “secret, untapped energy.” Ozzie had never been sure who to believe . . . except, now, here was the door.

  It had an energy about it.

  The door wasn’t beautiful—though, Ozzie considered, it might have been, a long time ago. Its hinges were large and ornate but also rusted. It seemed as if it had once been painted a vibrant turquoise blue, but now most of the color had flaked away, leaving behind bare wooden slats. In the very center was a slot labeled LETTERS. It didn’t look like a normal mail slot—it was small and round, the size of a mousehole, with a metal cap.

  Strange, Ozzie thought.

  Above the letter hole, there was a tarnished door knocker and, farther up, what looked like a letter “N” dangling from a nail.

  “N” for what? Ozzie wondered. Probably not “ninja.” He decided on “new.” New opportunity. New adventure. New everything.

  Without a second thought, he reached for the large, dusty doorknob, only to hear someone from behind him bark: “Who’s there?!”

  Ozzie nearly jumped out of his shoes. Then he slowly turned around to find himself staring at a different door, standing open at the other end of the corridor. Even though Ozzie could see nothing beyond but darkness, he knew this was where the voice had come from.

  There was a click, and a light sputtered to life from beyond the doorway, revealing a lonesome figure hunched over in a tattered old armchair. It was Mr. Crudge, of course. In one hand, he was clenching a bottle of his tonic, while the other was gripping the armrest of the chair—so tightly that Ozzie could see bits of yellow stuffing squeezing out between his long fingers. Mr. Crudge himself was staring straight ahead with bulging, vacant eyes. Ozzie had this sense that he had been sitting there a long time, completely focused on the passageway . . . and the door of potential.

  Like he’s waiting for someone to come through it, Ozzie thought. Or maybe he’s guarding it. Which was a bit more comforting than admitting that the caretaker was just drunk and staring into space.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Crudge rasped, rousing from his stupor. “Who are you?”

  Ozzie gulped. He tried to remember that Mr. Crudge was just as Aunt Temperance said: a lonely and inebriated old man.

  “Come here, boy.”

  Ozzie hesitated, only to have Mr. Crudge beckon him with the curl of a long finger. He plodded through the open doorway and into the caretaker’s dwelling. It was a filthy, cluttered place, smaller even than Apartment 2B, with the kitchen, bedroom, and living room all in one space. A sagging bed brooded in one corner. The sink looked like it was disgorging dirty dishes and blackened pots. The table was an upturned wooden crate.

  Then Ozzie saw the fishbowl. It was sitting on a stool next to Mr. Crudge’s chair, and it was swirling with . . . creepy-crawlies. Technically, they were probably eels, but it was hard to tell because the bowl was far too small to fit so many of them. Whatever they were, they just circled around in a twisting black knot—which was exactly how Ozzie’s stomach felt as he stared at them. He had heard of people keeping strange pets, but nothing like this.

  Maybe they’re not pets, Ozzie fretted. Maybe they’re snacks. . . .

  “Who are you?” Mr. Crudge repeated, this time with irritation.

  “D-don’t you recognize me?” Ozzie managed. “Apartment 2B. M-most people call me Ozzie.”

  Mr. Crudge closed one eye and cocked his round head to the side, as if to better focus his glare. “That’s not exactly true. Is it?”

  Ozzie grimaced. It was a lie, just something he said in hopes that the name would stick. But no one called him Ozzie, unless you counted Aunt Temperance—which he didn’t because that was the sort of thing that got you beat up during lunch.

  “Yes, I know when people are lying,” Mr. Crudge assured him. “Don’t try those sorts of tricks on me, boy. Why are you down here, pestering me?”

  “Th-there’s a burst pipe,” Ozzie stammered. “We need you to fix it.”

  Mr. Crudge smiled, revealing those mustard teeth. Then, rising from his chair, he snatched up a battered tool kit and shuffled out the door, without even bothering to check if Ozzie was following.

  Which he wasn’t. First of all, he wasn’t about to hurry after creepy Mr. Crudge, but second, and more important, there was the door. Not the one to Crudge’s chamber of peculiar-squirmy-pets-or-possibly-snacks, but the other one, the one with the potential. It was time to finish what he had started; as soon as Mr. Crudge rounded the corner, Ozzie raced to the door, turned the handle, and pulled.

  He half expected it to be locked, but it swung open with a creaking groan. Down came a curtain of dust, causing Ozzie to cough and rub his eyes. It took a moment for his vision to clear, so that he could see what lay on the other side of the door. . . .

  Bricks.

  An entire wall of them.

  His dad’s words echoed in his mind: Not good enough.

  No, Ozzie decided, different than not good enough. Secret energy! I bet it just needs a special password. Like a spell. Or maybe—

  “You! Boy!” Mr. Crudge bellowed, suddenly reappearing around the corner. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Ozzie turned around with a start. “I thought . . .”

  “Oh, I know what you thought,” the caretaker sneered, slamming the door shut with such force that it caused the letter “N” to spin around and around on its nail. “You thought you’d find something special behind that door. Some secret passage or magical treasure. Well, here’s a secret for you: There’s no such thing as magic. Not down here. Not in this entire world.”

  An uneasy feeling began to churn in Ozzie’s stomach. He wanted to look away, to escape Mr. Crudge’s blistering glare—but, for some reason, he couldn’t.

  “Yes, I know your type, boy,” Mr. Crudge continued, wagging one of his long fingers. “I’ve seen you skulking about the building. Always daydreaming. Even though you’re too old for it. You tell yourself that you’re different, special somehow. But living in la-la land doesn’t make you special. All it makes you is different. Out of place.”

  Ozzie tried to take a step backward, only to find himself trapped against the wall. He could feel the cold, rough stones through his T-shirt.

  “That’s the truth, isn’t it?” Mr. Crudge said with a toothy grin. There was a taunting glint in his eyes—and in his tone, too. “You have no place. Not down here. Not up there, either. Nowhere in this entire world.”

  He was pacing now, back and forth in front of Ozzie. “Just look at you, boy. You have no friends, do you? Not real ones, anyway. And your parents are always gone, fobbing you off on your aunt while they traipse across the globe. You can hardly blame them—just look at you. Hair’s a mess. Shirt’s on wrong. You’re a screwup.”

  The glimmer of amusement had disappeared. Now there was a crazed look in Mr. Crudge’s eyes, a look of cruelty. The old man began to tremble. Ozzie wondered if he was having some sort of seizure.

  Then, just as quickly as it had begun, Mr. Crudge’s fit came to an end. With a clank, he dropped his toolbox to the floor and fell onto it as a makeshift seat. The saggy folds beneath his eyes were as dark as bruises, and Ozzie noticed long rivulets of sweat rolling down his cheeks. He looked pathetic
, and Ozzie almost felt sorry for him—almost.

  He might be a lonely old man, Ozzie thought, but he’s also really mean.

  “Need some more of my tonic,” the caretaker gasped, fishing through his pockets until he located his flask.

  He took a long swig, glowering at the door to nowhere and drawing heavy, labored breaths. Eventually, he looked up and narrowed his eyes at Ozzie again. “It’s like I told you, boy,” he muttered. “There’s nothing good about this world.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, he rose to his feet, picked up his toolbox, and staggered away to fix the pipe.

  Ozzie watched him go. It’s his job to fix things, he thought. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man was just as good at breaking them.

  2

  The Lady, the Hat, and the Mouse with Green Spots

  Ozzie looked back to the faded turquoise door. Only a moment ago, it had seemed to be something magical. But now? It was just an old door, its gray planks like a set of rotting teeth that had never been formally introduced to a toothbrush.

  That “N” doesn’t stand for “new,” Ozzie thought. It stands for “nowhere.”

  He turned away from the door and slogged back upstairs, a queasy feeling percolating in his stomach. All he wanted at that moment was to climb into bed, but he didn’t dare go back to Apartment 2B, not while Mr. Crudge was there tinkering with the pipe. Instead, he went outside, sat on the front steps of the building, and waited until Mr. Crudge strolled out.

  Probably off to the pub, Ozzie guessed as the old man brushed past him.

  He returned to Apartment 2B to find the pipe fixed, the floor mopped, and Aunt Temperance pacing. As soon as she saw Ozzie, she scurried over, locked the door behind him, then abruptly turned to stare at him through her thick-rimmed glasses.

  Ozzie instantly knew something was wrong. Maybe she was still calming down from the broken pipe. Maybe she had just come to the realization that she was out of her favorite tea. With Aunt Temperance, it could be anything. Ozzie sometimes felt like she was the one who needed looking after, not him. It wasn’t that she was old—in fact, she was younger than Ozzie’s mom. It was just that she was “prone to moods,” as Ozzie’s dad liked to put it.