by Ryan Calejo
Aw, dang. That was pretty slick. “Damn that delicious bisque!” I gritted my teeth in frustration. How was this possible? How could I have spent all this time living with her and never once have had the slightest inkling that something was up? That something just wasn’t right about good ol’ Mrs. Wilson? All the signs had been right there. Her freaky doll collection. Her obsession with keeping an eye on me. The pair of witchy cauldrons I’d found under the sink. Even the boxes and boxes of little kids’ toys she was always trying to get rid of at the local flea market—the toys of kids she’d probably only recently kidnapped!
How could I have been so blind . . . ?
La Cuca tipped her head back in throaty laughter. “Oh, you are funny. . . . I have to admit that. And because you’ve never failed to entertain me, I’ll be sure to tell your parents that you died bravely—that is, before I kill them and everyone else you love.”
My parents. She knew where they were. I felt my hand tighten into a fist at my side. “What have you done with them?” I growled.
“What have I done with them?” she echoed mockingly. “Whatever do you mean? They’ve been right here with you the entire time . . . under the same roof, even!” She gestured at the pair of dolls sitting on the half shelf over the sink, and the sudden realization made my stomach twist: She’d turned my mom and dad into dolls! It seemed ridiculous, I know, but there was no denying it. The resemblance to my parents was unmistakable . . . even down to the tiny freckles on my dad’s nose and the way my mom twisted her hair into a knot over her shoulder.
“I kept them alive for leverage’s sake . . . in case you needed a little extra motivation. But their usefulness seems to have run its course.”
“Undo whatever you did to them!” I shouted. “¡Ahora mismo! Undo it right now!”
“Ugh, so demanding . . . so American.” She opened her mouth wide, and a column of purple fire erupted from between her teeth, sizzling through the air. It struck me in the center of my chest, lifting me off my feet and slamming me into the wall. My head cracked against the doorframe, and I crumpled to the floor with a muffled moan as picture frames rained down on me.
“Hope that wasn’t too hot,” La Cuca said. She stalked forward, her strides long and easy, wisps of black smoke curling up from the corners of her smiling lips. “I held back as much as I could, but perhaps my eagerness got the best of me. . . . I’ve been looking forward to this for quite a while now—decades, even.”
I groaned and rubbed my aching chest, which burned like I’d gotten tagged by a flaming boulder. The front of my shirt was in tatters, singed all the way through. The skin underneath, however, wasn’t too bad—definitely a little redder than usual, but not much worse than a sunburn. “What are you talking about?” I choked out.
She gave me a funny look. “You honestly never wondered why your abuela taught you all those tales? Why she insisted that you memorize all those old and forgotten myths?”
My abuela. How did La Cuca know about her?
“You thought it was all just to entertain you? Merely to teach you a life lesson or two?” La Cuca’s gaze sharpened on my face. “Allow me to tell you a little story about your beloved abuela. See, your grandmother, much like you, was a bit of a nuisance in her younger years. One day, during one of her many trips to South America, she happened upon a village that was under attack by a legendary bruja. Your grandmother, ever the meddler, decided to team up with a local chullachaqui in order to kill that wise and oh-so-beautiful witch.” She paused. “Can you believe it? Your sweet little abuelita, a cold-blooded killer? In any event, your beloved granny happened to fall in love with that foul creature, and she soon bore a child . . . your mother.
“Now, unbeknownst to your abuela, the witch she had killed was particularly difficult to keep dead for reasons we won’t get into right now, but suffice to say that when she returned from La Tierra de los Muertos and learned of all that had transpired since her most tragic death, she was beyond furious. However, once her anger subsided, she realized that your grandmother had actually done her a wonderful favor! Because now instead of having to travel the world killing chullachaquis to prevent the birth of the fifth Morphling, she could simply stalk a single family, wait for the Morphling to be born, and then kill it. So that’s what she did, eliminating your abuela only once she was able to confirm that the Morphling had indeed been born into her familia.”
“You’re lying,” I said. She had to be. “My abuela wasn’t killed by . . . by some witch. She died because she was old.”
“Ay, not so, pequeño. But hold on. . . . My story isn’t finished yet. See, there are only three things you must understand to follow my little tale. One, romantic relationships between humans and chullachaquis are extremely rare; that is to say, I could count how many there have been throughout human history on my fingers and toes. Two, the number of these unions that have resulted in offspring are even more rare; those I can count on just one hand. And three, of those unions that produced offspring, a Morphling has always—and yes, you heard me right, always—been born into that family. Not always the first generation, not always the second, but at some point—and always within five generations—a Morphling has indeed been born of those bloodlines.
“To make a long story short, Charlie, that was why your abuela taught you all those legends. She knew all this; she understood that one day a Morphling would be born into her family tree. Furthermore, she realized that once La Mano Peluda became aware of the child’s existence, they would undoubtedly send all manner of damned creatures to kill it. She told you the stories—like she told them to your mother before you—in order to prepare you. So that you’d be able to defend yourself. And if you happened not to be the Morphling, like in your mother’s case, she expected you to pass those same stories down to your children and so on.”
I was shaking my head. She could yap all day if she wanted to; it wasn’t going to make me believe her. I mean, why should I trust some evil witch? “Like I said, you’re lying. Plus, I don’t care what you say. . . . My abuela died of old age.”
“Because that’s what I wanted it to look like, idiota! I didn’t want to spook your parents and have to track you down all over again. But believe me when I tell you how your grandmother died, because I am that witch from my tale, and mine was the last face your precious abuelita ever saw before I snatched the life out of her!” A grin spread slowly across la bruja’s face—one as genuine as it was wicked—and the ground seemed to tilt beneath me.
I could feel the cold fingers of dread and disbelief tightening around my insides, and when I finally found my voice, it was barely more than a whisper. “You killed my abuela . . . ?”
“Sí, I did. You see, pequeño, our lives have been entwined long before you were even born. And fortunately for me—but not so fortunately for you—I now possess the very object I’ve been searching for, the object that will put an end to our decades-long game of cat and mouse.” Grinning, she strolled casually over to the counter and picked up the cursed hunk of crystal. Immediately, it grew into a crescent-shaped dagger in her hand. The curved reddish blade glowed darkly, as if the forging flames had been somehow trapped in the crystal, and the smoky tendrils I’d seen churning inside now swirled around its hilt like a swarm of angry wasps. The thing looked deadly. Wicked deadly.
La Cuca’s grin finally blossomed into a full-blown smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it . . . ?”
“Put that down,” I warned her.
“Ah, but I cannot comply. For it is this blade that makes it possible for me to cut the heart out of a Morphling in such a way that I can still absorb its powers. Your parents and abuela knew this, which is why they stole it from me and hid it all these years. But thanks to you and your little girlfriend, La Uña has finally found its way back to its rightful owner and will now fulfill its delightful purpose!” Her smile had turned vicious again. It made me think of a venomous snake preparing to strike. “Oh, and don’t worry, Charlie. I’ll dispose of your parents and
your little amiguita as humanely as possible once I’m through with you. However, in your case, I’m afraid it won’t be nearly as painless. I hear having one’s corazón cut out of one’s chest can be quite the excruciating experience.”
“You’re not going to hurt them,” I growled as I hauled myself painfully to my feet. “You’re not going to hurt any of us, you stupid witch!”
“Ay, Charlie, don’t take it so personally. It’s not like you will be the first Morphling I’ve ever killed . . . though you will certainly be the last.”
So she’s the witch from the legends of the Morphling, too, I thought. And hadn’t she already said as much?
“The age of La Mano Peluda is upon us,” La Cuca purred, satisfaction filling her voice. “And your death shall usher it in.” She knelt beside Violet, trailing a razor-sharp fingernail along the bottom of her neck. “Oh, and I lied, Charlie. . . . Your little friend isn’t fine. In fact, she’s dying. The compound she ingested is actually highly corrosive and highly poisonous. She’s so close to the other side now, you have no idea. . . . Shall I not thrust her over?”
“Get away from her!” I yelled. “¡ALÉJATE!” Suddenly a rage like I’d never known before ripped through me, angry and hot, like acid boiling in my veins. I cried out as feathers burst through the skin on my arms and shoulders, as a familiar tingle pulsed at my temples: the horns growing out of the sides of my head. And then, wings—huge white wings!—exploded through the back of my shirt.
“¡INCREÍBLE!” La Cuca marveled. “So much power contained in such a puny little vessel!”
I cried out again, and a blast wave of energy rushed out of me, blowing out the windows of the house and tearing huge chunks out of the walls. The freshly washed spoons in the sink jingled and jangled. Every single light bulb in the kitchen suddenly exploded in a glittery puff of glass.
“¡Sí!” La Cuca cried, her eyes growing wider, crazier. “Sí, keep going! Unleash the monster within!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My whole body was pulsing with energy. Vibrating with it. I could feel a flood of something like electricity surging through me, racing through my bloodstream, sizzling along the surface of my skin. Strength buzzed in every muscle of my body. My fingertips tingled. My bones burned like coals beneath my skin. I’d never felt so alive. It was as if I’d been plugged into a vast and limitless ocean of raw power, and now that power was flowing through me, the cells of my body conducting it like trillions of tiny copper wires.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the witch was still smiling, still watching me with that awful glowing gaze. Meeting it full on, I lowered myself into a semi-squat and said, “La Cuca, do me a favor. . . . Think of a smooth comeback and imagine me saying it in a cool superhero voice.”
Her forehead wrinkled in question. “Why in the worlds would you want me to do that?”
“Because that’s usually what happens right before the good guy hands the baddie his or her butt on a platter.” And I flung myself at her, ready to claw-punch her through the wall, ready to claw-punch her to the moon if that’s what it took.
Only I didn’t even make it five feet before the witch raised her free hand and some invisible force seized me, freezing me in midair.
“Going somewhere?” she asked mockingly.
With a yell of fury, I struggled wildly against the invisible hold, but it was useless. I couldn’t move—couldn’t even blink. I could only watch as that crazy witch stalked toward me, smirking evilly.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Charlie Hernández.” She held her free hand out lazily between us, and the tips of her fingers began to glow as if they’d been dipped in purple fire. Tiny licks of flame danced along her nails as she took aim at the pair of dolls on the shelf, at my parents, and my blood went cold. “Shall I make them pay for your behavior? Shall I make you watch them pay . . . ?”
“Stop it!” I screamed. “Please just stop . . . STOP! ” But there was nothing else I could do to save them. Nothing I could do to save Violet.
Nothing I could do to stop this psycho witch from killing everyone I loved.
La Cuca’s eyes, lit with triumph, found mine. She whispered, “Say adiós to them, Charlie. . . .”
But no sooner had the words left her mouth than there was a knock at the side door. I turned to see a couple of delivery people standing in the doorway—a rail-thin guy in an El Tri T-shirt, Marlins cap, and ratty jeans and a woman wearing black visor-style sunglasses; they were pushing a dolly loaded with a huge wooden coffin.
“Who are you people?” La Cuca hissed, looking between them. “¿Qué quieren?”
“We got a delivery for 437 Giralda Avenue,” the lady announced. They rolled the coffin inside and stood it up by the fridge. Neither one seemed to notice the blown-out windows, the ragged holes in the walls, or the fact that there was a kid hovering almost two feet off the ground in the middle of the kitchen. Guess they were too busy.
“Custom-made casket,” the guy said proudly. “Twelve foot by three with silver trim, silk lining, and our patented extra-triple-plush package.”
La Cuca turned to me, disbelief etched in her face. “You ordered a coffin to our final, epic showdown? Is this your pathetic idea of a joke?”
“Me? What? No.” I mean, it would’ve been sort of funny. But I hadn’t.
“Well, someone did,” the delivery guy said, “and we sure as heck aren’t taking it back. Thing’s crawling with tarantulas. . . .”
I felt my eyebrows screw up in a big question mark. Did he just say tarantulas?
The delivery dude grinned at me, a familiar ghoulish grin, then flipped open the lid of the coffin, and a swarm of huge black spiders poured out like a mini tidal wave of darkness, flowing across the cracked tile floor and slinging their silky webs at La Cuca. Clearly caught off guard, the witch fumbled back on her heels, slicing at the spiders with the cursed dagger. Then she shrieked and tripped, dropping out of view behind the island.
“Charlie!” the delivery guy called, yanking off his cap, and I instantly recognized him—it was the calaca from La Rosa!
Stunned—beyond stunned, really—I shouted, “What are you doing here?” as he and the lady scrambled over.
“She glimpsed your future earlier today,” the calaca said. “She saw you’d be in trouble. We got here as quickly as we could.”
I shook my head. “She? Who is she?” Then the lady took off her glasses, and I instantly recognized her, too—the teary eyes, the puffy red nose, the straight, jet-black hair. “¡La Llorona!” I yelped. I turned to run, but the calaca grabbed my arm and spun me back around.
“Charlie, she’s with me! It was her idea to come help you!”
Now that stunned me. “¿De verdad?”
“Yes, for real!” La Llorona cried, sniffing back tears. “You’re mi hijo! I couldn’t let some crazy bruja cut out your heart and feast on it!”
“But you do realize I’m not actually your son . . . ,” I couldn’t help pointing out.
“Biologically, no. But you do feel that special mother-son bond between us, don’t you?”
I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I went with: “Eh.”
“Good enough for me!” she said with a beaming smile. She had a nice smile, actually. A little toothy and watery, but still nice.
“Your little visita to the Crying Shack got us talking again,” the calaca admitted happily. “We’d been broken up for a few weeks, you see. Maria can be a bit gushy from time to time, if you know what I mean. . . .”
“I’m not gushy!” La Llorona shot back. “You’re just emotionally dead half the time!”
The calaca sighed. “I’m not emotionally dead. Though I should point out that all calacas, myself included, are physically dead; our emotions, however, are perfectly alive.”
“Then how come I’ve never seen you cry, huh? Not even once!”
“Because I don’t have tear ducts, woman!” He took a breath, trying to compose himself. “Look, now is not the time for this. My
eight-legged friends won’t keep La Cuca busy for long. Charlie, you have to stop her. You have to end this.”
“But I don’t think I—”
The calaca raised one huge fist between my eyes, and I shut up. On his pinky finger glinted an old brass ring. A familiar design had been carved into the metal: the horns and feathers. “I’ve always believed, Charlie. . . . Fear may have blinded me—even twisted my actions—but in my corazón, in my heart, I have always believed.”
“And so have I,” La Llorona said.
The calaca cupped my face, framing it between his bony hands. “Charlie, so many of us have been waiting for this day. Waiting for longer than we can remember. Now is the time of the Morphling. Now is your time. End this. Termínalo. Do you hear me? Stop La Mano Peluda! Put an end to their reign!”
“You’re the only one who can do it,” they both started to say, but suddenly their mouths stopped moving as their hands and faces began to glow. Dimly, at first, then building in intensity until their clothes caught fire and their eyes began to melt in their sockets. In a last desperate act, they threw their arms around each other an instant before disintegrating into fiery ash.
Half-frozen with fear and shock, I looked around. Saw La Cuca standing on the opposite side of the kitchen, grinning, one burning finger aimed in our direction.
She killed them. The thought went through me like ice water. That crazy witch killed them both!