Skycastle, the Demon, and Me: Book 1 in the Skycastle series

by Andy Mulberry

  Andy Mulberry

  If you owe Hell gold but you can't pay, you're about to have a bad day!

  WARNING...this book contains a scowling demon, bad decisions, a skeleton key, not foul but hellish language, an ordinary boy and an extraordinary castle. You’ve been warned.

  Copyright © 2014 Andy Mulberry

  Paw! Print Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781311429988

  CONTENTS

  Or

  Chapters! Chapters!

  Prologue

  Something under the Fridge

  A Chat with Hell

  Bad Dreams

  Tricksy Like a Demon

  Where No Door Should Be

  Haunting Gone Wrong

  Smelly Turn for the Worse

  Hellishly Bad News

  Where I Fail at Everything

  My World Starts Shaking

  Too Late, Too Late

  The Sky is the Limit

  For my son Lucas.

  Who will raise an eyebrow upon reading this and say, “Seriously?”

  “You could thank me, you know.”

  ~ Jack Harper

  “I could burn all the hair off your head, you know.”

  ~ Brinkloven Crowley the Third

  PROLOGUE

  Can you catch a demon with a trap?

  Of course not.

  You can’t catch a demon at all. They are made of coal and fire and smoke. Demons are wicked, sometimes scary and always slightly too hot. They are evil and usually up to no good. If you bump into one by accident, you feel hot anger and shivery fear all at once.

  Even if you manage to catch a demon, you really shouldn’t.

  So, let’s agree that you can’t catch a demon.

  But you can order one. You can order one straight from Hell. It will get you into trouble.

  In any case, it certainly got me into a lot of trouble.

  CHAPTER ONE

  OR

  SOMETHING UNDER THE FRIDGE

  Today was the day that would be known as ‘The-Day-I-Called-Hell.’

  The trouble began when I tripped over my own feet while exploring the dungeon. Every proper castle had a dungeon and Greencastle—my home—was no exception.

  “Ouch,” I groaned, falling on my knee after tripping over a loose stone in the floor. “Not again.” Yesterday, I slipped in a rain puddle.

  When it rained, water dripped through the roof and onto your head. Imagine running around all day with wet hair and water in your ears, because it was raining outside.

  If you were unlucky, you’d be doused by a sudden gush of water from a crack in the roof while inside.

  I’d started carrying an umbrella with me.

  Not my kind of excitement.

  I stood up, dusting my hands off on my jeans. Between us, and don’t quote me on this, but living in a castle wasn’t as cool as it sounds.

  Granted, the dungeons were fun. They were full of chains, spiky iron and dusty armor. It proved that, back in the day, living in my castle had once been interesting if painful for some.

  And the North Tower, which oddly enough was located in the southern most corner of the castle, wasn’t bad either. Once, I tiptoed up the winding staircase and, after reaching the top, I shouted, “Boooh!”

  It scared the owls out of their feathers.

  Not literally out of their feathers, but they were pretty upset.

  I paid for that day ever since.

  These days, when the owls spotted me in the grand hall, which had a hole in the wall leading to the top of the tower, they flew attacks on me.

  They had very sharp beaks.

  Don’t ever annoy owls.

  But with or without angry owls, dusty dungeons and leaky roofs, I loved my home.

  Greencastle wasn’t green though. It was stone gray and storm dark. But we were surrounded by green hills and meadows and bluish green lakes. It wasn’t the biggest castle you could imagine, but it was where I’d lived all my life.

  Greencastle was also a museum.

  Tourists came to visit us sometimes. It was a long drive from the nearest city. The visitors paid an entry fee, bought the guide book, took the castle tour and snapped pictures with their smartphones.

  Thrilling stuff. (Not really.)

  Nothing exciting ever happened at Greencastle.

  Well, not until today.

  My knee was still oozing blood from the fall. My wound from the day before had split open, and my skin was bloody and raw.

  When you slipped on the wet floor, your knees hit hundred-year-old stone floors. Carpets! I wished we had carpets over the stone floors to save me from constant, bleeding misery.

  Mom always wondered why I tripped so often.

  Maybe because I was busy looking at the ceiling anticipating an owl attack to bother what my feet were doing? Too bad my skin wasn’t more like Greencastle’s walls—strong and robust. It was more like the roof—leaking.

  But there was no point in whining about it. I just needed to patch myself up and move on.

  After a quick sprint through along the castle hallways, I reached the kitchen.

  I liked the dungeon, the North Tower and the gallery was okay too, but I loved the kitchen best.

  It smelled like bread and pot roast on occasion, but not often enough. The pantry was empty other than a few cans of baked beans and dried lentils. It smelled like the lemon cleaner my mom cleaned the counters with.

  The kitchen was always warm and dry and if you’re lucky, you could find bread and cheese, milk and cookies.

  I was pretty much always hungry.

  But it wasn’t for food that I entered the kitchen.

  I had left some ready cut band aid on the counter yesterday. You’d be prepared too if you fell as often as I did.

  At least my knee wasn’t dripping blood anymore, but it still throbbed with a dull ache. A band aid would make me feel better.

  But they were gone.

  I searched through all the drawers, on the table, the cupboards, inside my mom’s sewing basket. No band aid to be seen, not even under the bowl of apples.

  And then I spotted them.

  They lay scattered on the floor half-hidden beneath the fridge. The wind blew through the open window and must have scattered them.

  I got down on my good knee and began picking them up. When I reached for the ones beneath the fridge, I felt something else.

  Something made of rough wood. Maybe one of the wooden kitchen spoons had rolled off the counter? I lowered my cheek to the cold floor to take a peek.

  It was a mousetrap.

  A small rectangle of wood and a metal snap to trap the unfortunate mouse. There was neither cheese nor squished mouse to be seen, thankfully. I almost left it where it was, but the trap contained something more curious.

  There was a piece of folded paper where the cheese should be.

  “As if mice would go for paper.”

  I pulled the trap from beneath the fridge. Someone had run out of cheese for sure and had chosen a poor substitute.

  I gently removed the piece of paper from the trap. It felt thin and brittle. As if I could reduce it to dust if I would crush it in my fist. It was yellow and brown around the edges. Carefully, I spread the paper out on the table.

  Under my breath, I read:

  DEMONS (Free Delivery)

  Phone: +555-1-800 GET-A-DEMON

  Until Stock Lasts.

  CHAPTER TWO

  OR

  A CHAT WITH HELL

  Get a demon?

  That was a joke, wasn’t it?

  I
looked at our rotary phone mounted on the wall beside the pantry, and back at the old advertisement.

  Sure, the ad looked real and maybe it wasn’t a joke. What would happen if I picked up the phone and dialed the number?

  I bet no one would answer.

  But if anyone did answer, what should I say? It wasn’t like ordering a pizza: two large pepperoni with extra cheese and a demon on the side, please.

  My knee was all but forgotten.

  What good was a demon?

  What did a demon even look like? Wasn’t a demon all fire and darkness? You sure as hellfire couldn’t play hide-and-seek, watch TV or climb a tree with him.

  A demon wasn’t even real, right?

  Right?

  But if demons were real, maybe I could find a good use for one?

  Sometimes, I played tour guide for the visitors when my mom was too busy. People always asked me if Greencastle was haunted. They looked so disappointed when I said no.

  Perhaps a demon could scare the tourists who came to Greencastle.

  Scare them for fun, not to death.

  What if we had a castle demon? We could do haunted castle experiences. We could change our name from Greencastle to Hell-castle. People would pay lots of money to see a real demon.

  I knew I would.

  I remembered what Mom said to me last week: “Jack, I want to repair the roof too, but we have no money to do so.”

  Maybe she would buy carpets too. For my knees, you know. We could fix the roof, fix the floors and stock the kitchen pantry with more food than I could ever eat. Pot roast every day!

  Not a bad plan at all.

  On the downside, demons were hellishly wicked.

  Everyone knew that.

  What was the point of having a demon work for you if he was silently, demonically plotting to kill you? He could kill you with brimstone and fire. He could fiendishly curse you to death. He could do his demon thing and swallow you whole and your soul would be lost forever.

  Forever!

  I thought about that for a while.

  Sometimes in life, you had to take a risk for the greater good.

  I stepped to the phone, picked up and dialed the number.

  Then I hung up.

  I was such a coward. I took three deep breaths, and then picked up the phone again. My hand was so sweaty I almost dropped the phone.

  I dialed.

  My heart was racing during the beep…beep…beep.

  Someone picked up.

  “Thank you for calling customer service. My name is Torque. How may I assist you today?”

  “Hi?” I said, unsure how to proceed, but Torque had a pleasant, sing-songy voice that eased some of my nervousness.

  “Hello,” Torque said, sounding amused. “How’s it going, Mr. Harper?”

  “How do you know my last name?” I said, outraged.

  “I’m clever like that,” he said. “Or maybe it’s caller ID. What’s your first name?”

  I told him.

  “How may I be of assistance, Jack?”

  What had I gotten myself into?

  I gripped the phone firmly. “I would like to order a demon.”

  There, I’d said it.

  “Do you have enough room for one?”

  “I live in a castle. Is that big enough for a demon?” Wait a second. Exactly how big were demons? “How big are demons?”

  “They come in all sizes,” Torque said. “I’ll get you a castle demon.”

  “Are castle demons any different from regular demons?”

  “No,” he said. “But I’ll still charge you double for it anyway.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly fair,” I said crossly, wondering if he was pulling my leg.

  “Fair?” he repeated.

  “It’s bad customer service.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You can’t charge double just because I live in a castle. That’s not fair.”

  “You’re calling Hell. We’re not known to be reasonable.”

  I was talking to the Underworld?

  I swallowed hard.

  If possible, my hands were even sweatier than before, and my t-shirt clung to my shoulder blades.

  My throat was as dry as desert sand.

  Had it gotten hotter in the kitchen? I had a strong urge to drink a glass of iced water. Sweat was dripping from my forehead down to my nose. With a blob, a drop of sweat landed on the kitchen floor.

  Gross.

  “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,” I said slowly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called. I’m pretty sure I don’t want a demon anyhow.”

  “Depends,” Torque said. “Do you have previous demon know-how?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Have you owned a demon before?”

  “I had a dog once,” I said. “I fed him every day, but my dad was allergic to him so I couldn’t keep him. Does that count?”

  “Did you just compare a demon to a dog?” Torque gave a long sigh. “Very well, we have one demon left. We can send him up right away.”

  The last demon left?

  Was that like picking kids for your soccer team—the last kid was always the one with two left feet. Only with demons, you’d get the one wickeder than all the other demons.

  Would I get the most gruesome, vile, fiendish, ugly and foul demon of them all?

  “I didn’t say I wanted him,” I said quickly. “In fact, I’d rather—“

  “Thank you for placing an order,” interrupted Torque. “Your demon will arrive securely stored inside a crate. Complementary overnight shipping included. Please pay promptly.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t pay we’ll send the Collector.”

  “Who’s the collector?”

  “Trust me,” Torque said with a dry laugh, “you never want to find out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  OR

  BAD DREAMS

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Lying in bed, I thought about the call. Was it real? I tossed and turned, wondering if I should tell my parents. But where would I start without sounding completely ridiculous? Besides, how could Hell know where I lived? I hadn’t given them an address.

  Good luck finding the right castle, hah.

  There must be tons of Jack Harper’s living in castles all over the world.

  Or maybe not.

  Since I couldn’t sleep anyhow, I got up from bed, shoved my feet in my sneakers and sneaked out of my room for some milk and cookies. I made my way up to the kitchen. As expected, my parents were already asleep.

  The castle lay dark and quiet.

  I’d seen pictures of other castles in books. I’d seen documentaries on TV about them. Those castles were nothing like Greencastle. They had splendid runners and rugs and bear hides on their floors. They had grandiose furniture and tapestries in gold, silver and purple.

  I’d seen pictures of castles where everything was shiny and gleaming and majestic. Castles fit for kings and queens.

  Greencastle wasn’t like that.

  We had stone and iron and blunt weapons. We were serious about being a castle. We had no time for silly furniture and fancy curtains. Greencastle was impregnable and strong and trustworthy.

  If a dragon came to attack, breathing fire down upon us, it would leave with a sore throat. Greencastle would withstand any assault!

  Unless the dragon knew about the leaky roof…that would be bad.

  Good thing dragons didn’t exist.

  I passed the laundry room with ten of the largest washing machines you could ever imagine. You could wash a horse in those. More people used to live in our castle, servants and such, or so I had heard, and we had needed big washing machines. We used to have paying guests staying over the weekend, like in a hotel.

  These days, my mom only used one of the washing machines.

  I took the stairs leading up to the gallery, where large paintings of my ancestors sternly gazed down on me. They all had
dark hair, dark eyes and unsmiling faces. Some had beards. They all had dogs. Dogs you took with you when you hunted deer and elk and foxes.

  Thankfully, my ancestor’s trapped inside the pictures couldn’t talk. Otherwise they would say something like, “This young lad needs a good thumping.”

  These days, we didn’t do paintings of our family anymore. We also didn’t go hunting. We had neither horses nor dogs. My dad was a vegetarian and wrote books about history. He wouldn’t stand for a fox hunt. After all, these were modern times.

  We had smart phones.

  After the paintings in the gallery, after running along a long stretch of corridor with various axes and swords mounted against the walls, I made a sharp left turn and reached the kitchen.

  I grabbed a plate, piled a small mountain of shortbread cookies on it and poured myself a glass of cold milk from the fridge.

  While one milk-soaked cookie after the other disappeared into my mouth, I wondered how much a demon was worth anyway.

  People probably paid to get rid of demons, not the other way around.

  After a second glass of milk, I headed back to my room and went to bed.

  I didn’t toss and turn anymore. When I finally found sleep, it was only to have a nightmare.

  A big rattling black box with a huge mouth and iron fangs attacked me. It ran after me on weird little legs and it shouted, “Gold, gold, I want more gold. Pay up, or you will pay.”

  After that dream, it was back to tossing and turning before I fell asleep again.

  “BOOM, BOOM, BOOOOM.”

  Waking up, I almost fell out of the bed when I heard a loud, thundering sound.

  I definitely wasn’t dreaming anymore.

  “BOOOM.”

  There it was again!

  I raced to the window and looked outside. My heart missed a beat—in front of the castle on the graveled parkway was a banana-yellow delivery truck.