by Jason Segel
Charlie used his free hand to pluck the wallet out of the man’s pocket and pass it to his friend. “Thanks, Dr. Bluenthal. Now see if you can find some ID while I search the rest of him.”
Alfie riffled through the man’s bulging wallet and pulled out a blue-and-yellow card. “This guy really needs to organize his stuff. What the heck is Blockbuster Video?” After a few more attempts, he finally located a driver’s license. “Says here the guy’s name is Winston Lindsay. He’s forty-four. An organ donor. Lives at twenty-seven Newcomb Street in Orville Falls.”
“Orville Falls?” Charlie repeated incredulously. Orville Falls was a cute little town nestled in the mountains. It was about half an hour’s drive from Cypress Creek, though Charlie rarely visited. “He came all the way here to buy paint? Don’t they have a hardware store in Orville Falls?”
“Actually, they have two,” Alfie said.
Charlie looked at Alfie. Sometimes Charlie wondered if the kid really did know everything.
Alfie sighed. “Remember the summer my parents sent me to that horrible camp in Orville Falls? The counselors locked me up and forced me to do crafts. I had to sneak out just to borrow books from the library.”
“How could I forget,” Charlie said, grinning at the memory of the gifts Alfie had presented to his friends at the end of the ordeal. “I still have that macramé owl you made for me.”
They heard the wail of a siren in the distance. Within seconds, it had grown to a deafening pitch as an ambulance screeched to a stop on Main Street and two EMTs in crisp blue uniforms leaped from the back.
“Afternoon,” said one in a booming voice fit for a superhero. “You the two kids who called this in?”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Alfie. For a moment, it seemed like all he could do was stare up at the EMT in awe. Then Charlie nudged him, and the science spilled out. “The subject is unconscious, but his pupillary reflex indicates—”
A second EMT pushed past Alfie and squatted beside Winston Lindsay. “Nice work stopping the bleeding,” she praised Charlie as she examined the man’s wound. “You boys in the Scouts or something?”
“No, ma’am,” said Charlie. He rarely used the word ma’am, but this was one of the few adults who actually seemed to warrant it.
Charlie saw Alfie’s spine stiffen. “I’m not a Boy Scout, but I do consider myself something of an amateur doctor,” Alfie said proudly. “I’ve studied all the major texts, and—”
“That’s great, little buddy,” the first EMT interrupted. Then he began to unload the stretcher while his partner examined the patient.
“Pupillary reflex appears to be fine,” the partner announced. “But looks like this dude’s going to be out for a while. We need to get him in ASAP.”
Alfie turned to Charlie and rolled his eyes. Charlie could imagine how annoyed his friend felt. It was hard enough being twelve years old; most adults barely listened to a word you said. Being a twelve-year-old genius had to be particularly frustrating.
The EMTs hoisted Winston Lindsay onto the stretcher, strapped him down, and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. Charlie and Alfie began to climb in after him.
“ ’Fraid not, little men,” said one of the EMTs, pushing them away. “Only family members get to ride in the back.”
“But we found the guy!” Alfie protested. “We probably saved his life!” He didn’t bother to add that they were also the ones who’d endangered it by making him run into a lamppost.
Charlie wanted to shout with frustration, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “Sir, we need to know what’s wrong with this man,” he said. “The situation could be way more serious than you think.”
The EMT tapped his badge, which bore the logo of Westbridge Hospital. “Visiting hours are nine to noon.” Then he slammed the doors, and the ambulance sped off.
—
Charlie and Alfie raced back across the street to the ice cream parlor and hopped onto their bikes. Charlie couldn’t let the man get away. But the ambulance was already out of sight when he and Alfie finally hit the road, and the sound of its siren was growing fainter and fainter. Charlie began to pump his pedals as fast as he could. Miraculously, the siren began to grow louder again. Charlie looked down at his feet in wonder, and saw Alfie do the same thing. Somehow they seemed to be catching up.
The boys rounded a curve and hit their brakes. In front of them, the ambulance was stopped at a streetlight. The back doors of the vehicle had been thrown open, and the two EMTs were standing next to it, peering into a thicket of trees that lined one side of the road. Both of them wore stunned expressions, and one was sporting what looked like the start of an impressive black eye.
Charlie glanced down. A thin trail of IV fluid led from the back of the ambulance, across the road, and into the trees.
“What happened?” Alfie asked the EMTs.
“Weirdest thing I ever saw,” one of them responded as if in a daze. Then he looked at his partner. “We better report it.”
The second EMT took out a walkie-talkie. “Dispatch, this is Ambulance Three. Come in.”
A voice cut through the static. “Come in, Ambulance Three.”
“You’re not going to believe this one. You know that guy we just picked up on Main Street, the one with the head injury?”
“What about him?”
“He just busted out of the ambulance.”
Charlie and Alfie swapped a worried look.
“He what? The guy you reported was unconscious with a probable concussion….”
“And I stand by that. He was out cold when we got him. But we had to stop for a red light. The dude broke out of the straps, ripped out his IV, and forced his way out the back. Gave my partner a pretty sweet shiner in the process. Then he ran off into the woods.”
“But how’s that even poss—” began the skeptical voice on the other end.
“Hold up for a sec, ’cause I haven’t even gotten to the strange part yet,” the EMT interrupted. “The whole time he was fighting us, the guy barely opened his eyes. I’m not even sure he was awake.”
“What do you mean, he wasn’t awake?”
Charlie saw the EMT pause as if struggling to find the right words. Then she hit the button and put the walkie-talkie back up to her mouth. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think he might have been sleepwalking.”
The portal was shut—that much was for sure. While Alfie had stayed behind to talk to the EMTs, Charlie had hightailed it to the purple mansion. When he’d gotten there, he’d dumped his bike in the driveway and scrambled up the stairs two at a time until he’d reached the room at the top of the tower. He’d checked the portal; then he’d checked it again. And again—until he’d been perfectly satisfied that the door to the Netherworld was closed.
But Charlie couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling that something was horribly wrong. Winston Lindsay might not have been a zombie, but he hadn’t really seemed human either. There were millions of creatures in the Netherworld, and no two were the same. They were each as unique as a person’s fears. Some slithered, some flew—and some of them shuffled. Even though the portal appeared to be sealed, Charlie had to prove to himself that Winston Lindsay wasn’t a Nightmare creature.
Charlie charged back down the stairs and out the mansion’s front door. He needed to consult his stepmother straightaway. Not only was Charlotte DeChant a medical professional, but she was the only adult in town who would recognize a Nightmare if she saw one.
—
As Charlie approached Hazel’s Herbarium, he tried to catch sight of his stepmother inside. But there were so many plants fighting for sunlight in the shop’s window that it was impossible to see into the store. The feverfew was in flower, and the burdock was covered in large purple burrs. Charlie couldn’t help noticing that the skunkweed was looking parched. And the belladonna needed a teensy bit of the special fertilizer he collected from the cow fields on the outskirts of town. Charlie’s summer job was tending the plants in his stepmother’s shop, and
though it was stinky and exhausting—and sometimes downright dangerous—he’d loved it from the start.
The bell chimed as Charlie crossed the threshold of Hazel’s Herbarium. “Charlie, is that you?” Charlotte called from the examination room at the back of the shop.
“Yep!” he shouted.
“Fantastic! Can you bring me that hoary mugwort ointment I made this morning?”
“Sure thing.” Charlie grabbed the ointment off a shelf and went to deliver it to Charlotte. He’d barely set foot in the examination room, though, when he hopped right back out again.
“Holy mackerel!” Charlie yelped. “What the heck is it?” He’d seen some terrifying things in his day, but few compared to the hideous creature that was lying spread-eagled on Charlotte’s exam table in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities. Its skin was bright red and blotchy, and it was frantically scratching itself with both of its hands. And yet, for some reason, the thing seemed to be laughing at him.
“It?” said a very annoyed woman who was dressed head to toe in white. Charlie hadn’t noticed her sitting primly in the chair in a corner of the tiny room. “It is my little boy.” She turned her glare on Charlotte. “Aren’t you going to reprimand your assistant, Ms. Laird? I’ve never encountered such rudeness!”
Charlie saw Charlotte bite her lip for a second like she always did when she was trying hard to hold her tongue. “My apologies, Mrs. Tobias, but you must admit that your son doesn’t look quite human at the moment. This is the worst case of poison ivy I’ve ever encountered. And Oliver’s been to see me three times this summer. Where on earth does he keep getting into the stuff?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Mrs. Tobias said, backing down a bit.
“Wait a second, is that Ollie Tobias?” Charlie asked, stepping forward for a closer look at the creature.
“Hey, Charlie.” The boy giggled. Even when he was covered in a rash and stripped down to his underwear, Ollie Tobias could find the humor in any situation. “I was wondering if you were going to recognize me.”
“You know my son?” Mrs. Tobias sniffed.
“We go to school together,” Charlie answered. He was on friendly terms with most of the kids who attended Cypress Creek Elementary. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d helped them escape from their nightmares.
But that wasn’t why he knew Ollie. Everyone at school knew Ollie Tobias, because Ollie was gifted. He didn’t play any musical instruments or excel at any sports. But you could lock the kid in an empty room with nothing but a paper clip and a box of lime Jell-O, and he’d still find a way to get himself into serious trouble.
Ollie’s mother was equally notorious. Kids said she was a genius at inventing cruel and unusual punishments for her exceptionally naughty son. Legend had it that she’d once made Ollie stand on a corner in town wearing a large sign that said I EAT OTHER PEOPLE’S CRAYONS. (Though Ollie had quickly turned the situation to his own advantage by adding SO I POOP RAINBOWS on the other side of the sign.)
On another occasion, Mrs. Tobias supposedly forced her son to wash every car in the school parking lot after he’d been caught writing the words BOOTY BREEZE with a bar of soap on his homeroom teacher’s car.
Charlie had always figured that most stories about Ollie and his mom were a little exaggerated. Then, the first day of summer break, he’d happened to ride past Ollie’s house. Four women in white dresses had been playing croquet in the front yard, and Charlie had seen one of the women knock her ball under the hedges that bordered the property.
“Ollie!” she’d screeched, and the boy had come running. He’d been dressed like some sort of old-fashioned doll—short pants, a striped shirt with suspenders, and a straw hat to top it all off. Bounding behind him had been what had looked like a large, hairless rat.
Charlie had watched Ollie reach the shrubbery, then hesitate. Ollie looked back at the ladies.
“Come on, Mom. Do I have to get it?” he’d pleaded. “There’s really nasty stuff growing under those hedges.”
His mother swung her croquet mallet like a deadly weapon. She was the kind of woman who could give a kid nightmares. “If you don’t like being our ball boy, consider that the next time you decide to shave the dog.”
Ollie had simply let out a sigh, dropped to his hands and knees, and fished out the lost ball.
Now, seeing the shape Ollie was in, Charlie was pretty sure he knew exactly what was under those hedges. “Have you been playing a lot of croquet this summer, Mrs. Tobias?” he asked innocently.
Ollie sat bolt upright on the exam table as if he’d had an epiphany. He pointed a bumpy red finger at his mother. “The hedges! I told you there’s weird stuff under the hedges, and you make me crawl under them anyway!”
Mrs. Tobias had gone sheet white. “I—I—I…,” she stammered. Her eyes narrowed as she turned to Charlie. “How would you…”
“I ride by your house on my bike sometimes. I’ve seen you and your friends—”
Mrs. Tobias looked like she was about to explode, and Charlotte finally jumped in. “Hey, Charlie,” she said, taking him by the arm and gently guiding him to the door. “Would you mind manning the front counter while I finish treating Oliver?”
“Sure.” Charlie sighed as he left the room. He was dying to give Charlotte the scoop on the man from Orville Falls, but it would have to wait. There was no telling how long it might take his stepmom to rub enough mugwort onto Ollie Tobias. Charlie would have to start with a little monster research of his own.
He pulled a large black binder out of the bottom drawer of Charlotte’s desk and took his place behind the counter. He ran his finger across the title Charlotte had painted in gold on the cover. Then he began to carefully thumb through the pages of the book. As he perused the chapter on zombies, he marveled at the illustrations Charlotte had drawn. Her zombies looked exactly like the creatures he’d encountered during his visit to the Netherworld: Hollow eyes. Purple flesh. Missing limbs. What Charlotte’s illustrations didn’t resemble was the man from Orville Falls. Charlie searched the entire book from cover to cover. There wasn’t a Nightmare in it that looked anything like Winston Lindsay.
Charlie turned to the computer beside the cash register. He opened a new window and typed in clumsy, shuffling, drooling, grunting. He had no idea what to expect when he finally clicked Search.
The first result was a team photo of the 1996 New York Jets. The second was from the website of a hospital so famous that even Charlie had heard of it. He almost gasped when he saw the headline at the top of the page: SLEEPWALKING: SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS. That was what the EMT had said—the man had appeared to be sleepwalking.
Then the bell above the shop door tinkled, and Charlie made sure a smile was on his face when he looked up from the computer. A confused woman was standing in the doorway, her head oscillating like an old-fashioned fan. “Do you have any lilies today?” she inquired.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re not a florist,” Charlie told her.
“Oh, fine, then,” the woman said with a sigh. She pointed to a vase filled with flowers from the Lairds’ front yard. “I suppose those daisies will just have to do.”
Charlie didn’t bother to tell her that the daisies were nothing but decoration. He wrapped up the flowers, charged the woman five dollars, and tucked the lonely bill into the till.
It was happening more and more often these days. Once, Hazel’s Herbarium had attracted customers from all over the state. They’d come for Charlotte’s nail fungus remover, teeth whitener, hair straightener, and dog breath freshener. The bestseller had been Charlotte’s special tincture of valerian root, a sleeping draught so effective that just a few drops could send an agitated elephant to snoozeville. But these days, the shelves were lined with dozens of bottles of valerian root, all gathering dust. And the people who came through the door of Hazel’s Herbarium were usually there by mistake.
Charlotte had done everything she could think of to bring customers back to the herbarium. She offer
ed sales and specials—even advertised a Brew Your Own Love Potion night. But no one came. Charlie had never paid much attention to family finances before. Then one night, during a midnight trip to the bathroom, he’d heard his parents speaking in hushed voices. His dad’s teaching salary could no longer cover all the bills. The Lairds needed money if Hazel’s Herbarium was going to stay in business. It seemed to Charlie that the only chance they had of making that money was the book he held in his hands.
Charlotte had worked on the book for years, and for the last few months, Charlie had helped. The pages contained everything they knew about the Netherworld. Charlotte had passed through the portal in the purple mansion’s tower when she’d been Charlie’s age, and the first half of the book told of her adventure. The second half offered tips and advice for anyone who found themselves stuck in the Netherworld—whether in the flesh or in their dreams.
Charlie had read Charlotte’s masterpiece at least ten times, and every time he opened the book, it still blew his mind. There was an entire page devoted to “How to Deal with Goblins” and a whole section that covered “How to Have Fun with Your Figments!” He’d never come across another book that was as educational, or as exciting. And Charlotte’s remarkable drawings were the best part. The pictures of monsters and ghouls and everything else that goes bump in the night were so lifelike that they looked like they might walk right off the page. Charlie could sit and thumb through the pages for hours. As far as he was concerned, the book was sheer genius. Unfortunately, the publishing community wasn’t convinced.
Charlotte had sent copies of the book to a dozen publishers around the country. Only two had bothered to write back. They were both in New York, and they wanted to meet her, so Charlotte was flying to the city at the start of next week. Charlie hoped one of them would bite.