by Jason Segel
“I don’t know,” Charlie replied, wishing the shop had a back entrance he could use as an escape route.
Charlotte unlocked the shop door and cheerfully ushered her visitor inside.
“Have you closed for the evening?” Ms. Abbot asked. “Am I too late?”
“Not at all! You’re always welcome here, Samantha. Come in. Your order is packed up and ready to go.”
Charlie and Jack glanced at each other in surprise. The science teacher wasn’t there to talk about school. She was obviously the person who’d ordered the poisonous plants on the floor. And judging by the tone of their voices, Charlotte and Samantha Abbot were more than just shopkeeper and customer—the two women seemed to be quite friendly.
“Ah, so these are the stepsons I’ve heard so much about.” Ms. Abbot was looking directly at them. “I believe I met them both in the school cafeteria today.”
Charlie waited for her to tell the rest of the story. Surely the teacher would mention Ollie’s nail polish mural or Rocco’s lunchtime showdown. But as the seconds ticked past, Charlie realized Ms. Abbot wasn’t going to say a word. It felt like she was trying to win him over with her silence, and that made Charlie uncomfortable. He wasn’t cute or cuddly like Jack anymore. When you reached twelve years old, most adults were only this nice when they wanted something from you.
“I hope the boys weren’t causing any trouble,” Charlotte joked as she gathered up the plant-filled bags from the corner.
“Oh, I don’t mind a little trouble,” Ms. Abbot assured her, still staring at Charlie. “Trouble keeps life interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”
Yes, Charlie thought. But it was a highly unusual philosophy for an elementary school teacher. Though most teachers didn’t dress all in black—or purchase dozens of deadly plants either.
“I’ve had enough trouble for one lifetime, I think,” Charlotte said with a chuckle. “I could stand to be bored for a while.” She gestured to the clear plastic bags she now held in her hands. “Would you like these in the backseat of your car or the trunk?”
“The trunk, please,” Ms. Abbot said. “By the way, Charlotte, didn’t you tell me that your older boy is a marvelous gardener?”
“Oh yes, he’s a natural,” Charlotte confirmed, sounding completely phony. She and the teacher seemed to be reciting lines they’d practiced in advance. If Charlie hadn’t been so unnerved by the performance, he would have rolled his eyes at the terrible acting. It was clear they’d made some sort of deal.
“His name is Charlie,” Jack threw in.
Ms. Abbot’s lips formed a sickle when she smiled. “Oh, I know exactly what your brother’s name is,” she said.
Charlie grumbled all the way home. He was still miffed when Charlotte’s ancient Range Rover pulled up in front of the purple mansion. She removed the keys from the ignition and then turned to face him.
“INK’s in town, and we have work to do,” she said. “There’s no time for arguing, Charlie.”
“And it’s not the time to be hanging out with some weird science teacher either,” Charlie replied.
“Since when do you have something against weird people?” Charlotte asked. “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re weird too? The weirdos of the world need to stick together!”
“Hrumph!” Charlie said. Charlotte had never sent him to work for anyone else before.
“Awkward,” Jack muttered in the backseat. “I’m out of here.” He opened the door and slid out of the car.
“I still can’t believe you farmed me out,” Charlie huffed. “And you didn’t even ask my permission!”
“I’m sorry! I really thought you’d be happy!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Samantha needs help planting her garden, and you’re super good at that sort of thing. And did I happen to mention you’re going to get paid?”
“Why should I be happy?” Charlie argued. “My bizarre new science teacher just bought a trunkload of the world’s most dangerous plants, and I’m supposed to help her get them into the ground, and you won’t even tell me why. Ms. Abbot—Samantha, if that’s even her real name—isn’t who she says she is, is she?”
Charlotte’s face gave nothing away. It was a shame she didn’t play more poker, Charlie thought. “I’m afraid it’s all confidential,” she said, making it perfectly clear that she wasn’t going to spill any beans.
“So it’s true! She is hiding something!” Charlie blurted out. “Of course she is! What kind of teacher wears black capes and lives in a shack in the middle of the woods? That sounds like a witch to me. And you know how I feel about witches, Charlotte. Don’t you remember that I used to have nightmares about that sort of thing?”
“And you beat those nightmares ages ago! Plus, it’s not a shack anymore,” Charlotte countered. “Samantha’s worked wonders on the old Livingston place!”
“Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Charlie mumbled. The old Livingston place was at the end of a dirt road that cut through the darkest part of the forest surrounding Cypress Creek. For most of Charlie’s life, the house had been a total ruin. Teenagers dared one another to spend a night inside. Legend had it that no one had ever lasted more than an hour. It was the kind of house you’d buy if you wanted to scare visitors away.
“I’ll tell you what I can’t believe,” Charlotte said. “I can’t believe that a boy who’s taken on a million Nightmares and a pair of evil twins could be so disturbed by a perfectly nice woman who teaches children for a living.”
Charlie turned to Charlotte. “You think she’s okay just because she’s a teacher?” he asked. “I guess you’re like all the other old people. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a kid.”
He jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
Charlotte rolled down the window and leaned outside. “I’m not old yet, you little fart!” she shouted at his back.
Charlie said nothing in return. He and Charlotte hadn’t had a fight in months. He couldn’t understand how everything had gone so wrong so quickly. Why was his stepmother pressuring him to do something he didn’t want to do?
Inside, he marched down the hall toward the kitchen at the back of the mansion. There, he found his father standing at the stove, stirring a pot of his famous spaghetti sauce—and sautéing a dozen intriguing little brown balls in a pan beside it.
Charlie’s stomach rumbled, and hunger briefly triumphed over anger. He dumped his backpack on the kitchen table and went to investigate. “I can’t believe it. Are those meatballs?” He hadn’t seen real meatballs since his father had married a vegetarian.
“Yep,” his father confirmed. “It’s my new recipe. Made with beans, lentils, and a little bit of banana to hold it all together.”
“Oh,” Charlie said, losing interest fast. “So they’re really bean balls. Banana bean balls. Great. They sound really…delicious.”
“Jack says you and Charlotte are having an argument?”
That was fast, Charlie thought bitterly. “Jack needs to mind his own business,” he grumbled.
“Yes, and that’s exactly what I told him,” Andrew Laird said. “But if there’s anything I can do—”
Charlie didn’t give his father a chance to finish the sentence. Suddenly the words were rushing out of him like seltzer from a shaken bottle. He told his dad about Ms. Abbot, her crazy garden, and the shack in the woods.
He’d only just finished when Charlotte appeared in the kitchen and gave Charlie’s father a kiss. “Charlie’s annoyed with me.”
Charlie crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his stepmother. She was using all the kissy-kissy stuff to win his father over to her side. She wasn’t playing fair.
“So I’ve gathered,” Charlie’s father said. “You know, honey, if Charlie really doesn’t want to work for this woman, maybe we shouldn’t make him.”
Charlie smirked, but Charlotte refused to give in. “But, Andy,” she pleaded, catching her husband’s eye, “Ms. Abbot’s the one I told you about.”
“Y
es, I know,” Andrew replied. “And I agree that it would be nice if Charlie offered to help her. But if forcing him to do it starts a family feud, I don’t think it’s worth it.”
Charlie hated it when his parents spoke in grown-up code. It was clear that his father and stepmother both knew something about Ms. Abbot that he didn’t. On another day it would have driven him crazy, but now Charlie could see that his father’s words were working their magic on Charlotte. She was on the verge of surrender.
“Oh, all right,” she finally sighed. “I’ll call Samantha in the morning and tell her the deal is off.”
Charlie exhaled and felt relief fill his body.
“Woo-hoo! Another problem solved by Andrew Laird!” his father announced, raising his greasy spatula in victory. “Now maybe one of you can help solve a little mystery for me. Where are the keys to the locks on the tower door?”
Just like that, Charlie’s argument with Charlotte seemed like a distant memory, and the relief he’d briefly enjoyed was long gone. The tomato sauce in the pot was popping loudly and launching droplets into the air. When they hit the stove top, the splatter looked like blood from a crime scene.
“What?” Andrew Laird asked when he caught sight of the expression on his wife’s face. “Did I just say something wrong?”
Charlie’s father had no idea what the locks were really for. The night Charlotte and Charlie barricaded the tower door, a powerful thunderstorm had swept through Cypress Creek. And the next morning, Charlotte had come downstairs with the perfect excuse. She claimed the storm had damaged the tower. She’d been forced to lock the door to keep everyone out until it could be properly fixed. Never once did she or Charlie mention that an evil creature in the guise of a twelve-year-old girl might be lurking on the other side.
Charlotte cleared her throat nervously. “Of course you didn’t say anything wrong! I’m trying to remember where I last saw the keys. Why do you ask?”
Andrew Laird turned back to his spaghetti sauce. “No big deal. I just thought I heard something up there when I got home this afternoon. I was going to check it out, but I couldn’t find the keys.”
“You heard noises?” Charlie asked, struggling to sound perfectly casual when his heart was about to burst through his chest. “What did they sound like?”
“A ghost,” Andrew replied bluntly.
Charlie gulped. There were no such things as ghosts in the Waking World. If his dad had heard noises in the tower, it meant that ICK had arrived. She’d come through the portal. She had been in their house.
“A ghost?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m kidding!” Andrew Laird exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “Actually, it sounded like an animal had gotten in up there. In my experience, squirrels are usually the culprits, but from the racket this one was making, I’d say it’s a bit bigger. A raccoon, most likely.”
If only it were a raccoon, Charlie thought. Even a rabid monster raccoon with a taste for human blood would have been better than ICK. “Do you think it’s still up there?” he asked.
The three of them looked at the ceiling and listened.
“Hard to tell. I haven’t heard any thumps in a while,” Andrew said after a few seconds had passed. “It might have gone out the same way it came in. I’ll take a look in a bit and make sure it isn’t building a nest and making itself at home. One minute they’re sleeping in our tower, the next they’re eating our bean balls. And nobody steals our banana bean balls.” He stopped and seemed to be waiting for the others to laugh. No one did.
Charlie caught his stepmother’s eye. He knew Charlotte was thinking the same thing he was: if ICK had been in the house, there was no telling what Andrew Laird might find if he paid a visit to the tower.
“You know what?” Charlotte said. “My grandmother’s desk is still in the tower, and she’d roll over in her grave if I let it get covered in raccoon poop. You just keep cooking, honey. I think I’ll go run and have a peek right now.”
Charlie’s dad frowned. “You sure you want to go up there alone? Raccoons can get pretty ferocious. Back when I was in grad school, I once saw one leap out of a trash can and attack a mailman. Poor guy had to get a million rabies shots. In his stomach.” Andrew Laird stabbed his belly with the handle of the spatula for emphasis.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go with her,” Charlie announced. “That way it’ll be two against one.”
The grin on his father’s face told Charlie he’d just said the right thing. “How about that?” Andrew said. “I guess there’s nothing like a furry little intruder to bring a family back together.”
—
“Thanks for coming with me,” Charlotte whispered on their way up the stairs.
“You’re welcome,” Charlie told her. “I may have been mad at you, but that doesn’t mean I’d let you die alone at the hands of some killer kid.”
“How gallant,” Charlotte drawled.
When they reached the tower door, Charlie put his ear to the wood. A minute passed—then another. He couldn’t hear a thing. “It’s quiet,” he informed Charlotte. “I think this one might have been a false alarm.”
Charlie stood back while Charlotte removed the locks one by one. Then she took a deep breath and opened the door. The staircase on the other side was empty.
“I’ll go first,” Charlotte said. “You stay right behind me.”
At the top of the stairs lay the little octagonal chamber that housed the mansion’s portal. The room had once served as Charlotte’s office, but they’d moved everything except her grandmother’s desk downstairs when they’d realized ICK could get through the portal. Charlotte stood in the doorway, blocking Charlie’s view. Her head swiveled from side to side as she scanned the space for intruders. Then she walked over to the giant oak desk and checked beneath it.
“I think you’re right—false alarm,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It doesn’t look like ICK’s been in here.”
Charlie stuck his head into the room and had a look for himself. All he saw was the desk and the piece of paper lying on top of it. The letter to ICK was right where they’d left it. And the portal was closed as well.
“But then what did Dad hear?” Charlie asked.
Charlotte shrugged. “Maybe there was a raccoon in here,” she said.
Charlie wasn’t convinced. He pointed at the windows, which they’d boarded up. “How did it get in? And how did it get back out?”
“Chimney?” Charlotte asked. There was a small fireplace along one wall of the room. They hadn’t bothered to block it. There was no way for a human—even a small one—to squeeze past the flue.
“There’s your answer right there,” said a male voice from behind them.
Charlie turned around so quickly that he nearly spun right out of his skin. Charlotte teetered on her heels for a moment with her hand pressed against her heart.
“Andy!” she gasped. “You scared me to death.”
Andrew Laird threw an arm around his wife and laughed. “Sorry ’bout that. I guess you didn’t hear me yelling from downstairs. Dinner’s ready.” Then he pointed to the corner of one of the tower’s two windows, where a board had shifted to reveal a gap about five inches wide. “That’s probably where the varmint got in. Looks like you guys didn’t nail down the end of that board very well.”
Charlie crossed the room and squatted in front of the window. The board had been pried loose from the wall. Behind it, the glass was open a crack, and he could see the purple mansion’s roof just below. There was no doubt that a raccoon could have gotten up to the roof and squeezed through the hole. But it couldn’t have opened the glass window—and Charlie was certain it had been closed and locked when they’d sealed off the room.
Andrew Laird bent down beside Charlie. “Ha!” he exclaimed, plucking something from one of the rough boards. “And here’s the proof. Our visitor left evidence behind.”
Charlie’s dad held his evidence up to the light. It was a single black hair—and Charlie could tell it wasn
’t human. More importantly, it wasn’t auburn.
The discovery should have made Charlie feel better. But it didn’t. He was no forensic scientist, but to him the hair looked a lot like wool.
A moon hung in the sky, casting a pale silver light over the Netherworld. Wherever he looked, Charlie saw sheep. Fat, stinky, beady-eyed sheep. There had to be hundreds of them—all chewing and bleating and pooping. One brushed past Charlie without so much as a glance. Another nibbled at the grass between his toes. Since it wasn’t Charlie’s nightmare, they treated him as if he weren’t even there.
Charlie figured he had to be inside some sort of sheep pen. What else would keep the animals from wandering off? But he’d been searching for what felt like hours and he still hadn’t found a fence or a gate. His legs were exhausted from forging through the muck. In the distance, he could see the lights of a building perched on the side of a hill. It looked eerily familiar, but even if it turned out to be Dracula’s lair, it had to be better than a field covered with sheep poop. Yet no matter how long Charlie walked toward the lights, he never seemed to get any closer.
At last he gave up. He searched for the cleanest patch of ground he could find and sat down with a thump. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to—and nothing to see besides sheep. After a while, Charlie began to worry that he might die of boredom. So he did the only thing he could think of to keep himself sane. He started to hum.
He’d barely made it past the third note of the lullaby when he was interrupted by a high-pitched screech. A glob of muck flew out of the darkness and splattered against the side of his face. Then a second slammed into the side of his head.
One of Charlie’s ears was filled with mud, but he could still hear something running toward him, and he knew from the way it was growling and panting that it certainly wasn’t a sheep.
“OUT!” it howled. “GET OUT!” The voice belonged to a girl.
—
Charlie sat straight up in bed, sweat dripping from his hair. The clock on his bedside table said 2:37 a.m. Charlie knew there would be no getting back to sleep that night. He lay awake with the sheets pulled up to his chin and the screech echoing in his head. He’d only heard two words, but the voice had clearly been young and female. A strange idea started to form in Charlie’s head.