Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  He opened the door with two keyholes and looked back and forth between the rooms, searching for the slightest difference. There wasn’t any. He could even see the door open on the other side of the second room, and then an endless series of identical rooms beyond this, like reflections in a maze of mirrors. Curious what would happen, Alex lifted his backpack and watched its twin rise into the air like a prop in a haunted house.

  It’s a magical prison, he thought. There’s no way to escape.

  Alex shut the door and took a seat on the edge of the bed. The wheels of his brain spun madly, trying to process the giant wrecking ball that had just tilted his world askew.

  Magic is real, he thought, his head in his hands.

  He stayed like this for a long time, until he was struck by a second idea. Rising to his feet, Alex screamed as loud as he could while jumping up and down and pounding his fists against the wall, trying to make as much noise as possible.

  “Help! I’ve been captured by a crazy woman! Call the police!”

  This place may be magic, but it’s still inside a New York City apartment building, he thought, not some house in the middle of the woods. Someone will hear me! Someone will—

  The walls began to shake.

  As a lifetime resident of the East Coast, Alex had never experienced an earthquake. What he was seeing and feeling right now, however—floor vibrating, walls shaking—was just as he had imagined an earthquake would be. Terror squeezed the air from his lungs. At any moment, Alex was certain that the floor would crack open and swallow him whole, or the ceiling would collapse, burying him beneath a mountain of rubble. . . .

  And then it was over.

  What was that? Alex thought. He fell to his knees and waited for his equilibrium to return. That couldn’t have been an earthquake, not in New York. But then what was it?

  Alex heard a scratching noise and saw the doorknob start to turn. He had just enough time to notice that a key had been inserted into the crescent keyhole, not the normal one, and then the witch entered the room.

  “Why were you screaming?” she asked. “This apartment is enchanted. There could be an entire orchestra playing in the living room right now, and no one beyond these walls would hear a single note.”

  She was wearing a flowing black dress with black boots and black lipstick. Her long black nails came to ten sharp points. Around her neck hung a beetle encased in amber. It was black.

  She sure looks like a witch, Alex thought. All she’s missing is a broom and a pointy hat.

  A dozen keys dangled from a ring in her hand. Some were the typical kind. Others were white and didn’t look metallic at all.

  “There was an earthquake or something,” Alex said.

  “That was just the apartment settling itself. It happens from time to time.”

  “Really?” Alex asked. “This felt pretty—”

  The woman vanished before his eyes.

  “Boo,” she whispered in his ear, now standing behind him.

  Alex screamed and stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance.

  “That was amazing, wasn’t it?” the woman asked, looking pleased with herself. “You want to see it again?”

  Alex shook his head, unable to speak.

  She’s a witch, he thought. A real, live, honest-to-goodness witch.

  “Please let me go,” he finally managed, the words little more than a whisper. “I won’t tell anyone about this, really.”

  “Alan, right?” she asked.

  “Alex.”

  “Not Alexander,” the woman said, remembering. “I’m Natacha. The thing of it is: I can’t let you leave. Not now, not ever.”

  “Why not?” Alex asked. And then, in a voice that sounded impossibly small, he added, “Are you going to do something bad to me?”

  “I’m a witch,” she said. “You’re a child. We’re not going to play checkers. Ever read any fairy tales?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Then you know how it is.” She sighed with exasperation. “I really don’t have time for this today. I’m already late for an important meeting.” Natacha looked him over, her eyes lingering on his stomach. She smirked. “You don’t look like much of a worker. A few too many ice cream sundaes, perhaps? But then, what should I do with you?”

  “You could let me go,” Alex suggested.

  “Oh,” Natacha said. “You’re funny. Unfortunately, that’s not the same as being useful. Whatever. If things don’t work out, I’ll just add you to my collection.” She brushed her hands together in a cleaning-up motion. “Problem solved.”

  “What does that—”

  Natacha checked her watch and let out a high-pitched scream.

  “Now you’ve made me even later than before! You’ve only been here a few hours and you’re already a problem. Not a good sign, Alan!”

  She slipped through the door and slammed it shut behind her. Alex heard the bolt click home.

  Without any windows by which to judge the passing of time, the hours smudged together, making it difficult for Alex to determine how long he had been trapped inside the room. Four hours? he wondered. Eight? There was no use trying to escape. He had been back and forth between the two rooms at least a dozen times.

  He didn’t bother screaming anymore. Alex believed Natacha when she said that no one could hear him. After all, he had seen her vanish before his eyes and magically teleport across the room. Being able to soundproof her apartment didn’t seem like much of a stretch.

  Alex cried for a while. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it.

  He felt cold and scared and alone—and a little disappointed. All his life he had loved scary stories, and now he was inside of one. It should have been fun. The problem was that the witches Alex had read about in books were story scary. This was real scary. It was a big difference.

  What is she going to do to me when she gets home tonight? Alex wondered.

  His imagination, as usual, leaped to the darkest conclusions. She might eat me. Or boil me in a cauldron. Or chop me up into ingredients for a spell. Gruesome images flashed through his mind, each worse than the last. Alex wanted to shut them off, but it wasn’t as easy as turning a valve or flicking a switch. All he could do was wait it out.

  Finally, he heard footsteps.

  At first Alex thought that Natacha had returned, and his heart began to drum in his chest. This is it, he thought. Only instead of unlocking the door, the mysterious visitor hesitated just outside the room. A long shadow stretched beneath the crack of the door.

  “Hello?” Alex asked. “Is somebody there?”

  He heard faint breathing behind the door.

  “Please!” he exclaimed. “She’s going to be back soon! You have to help me!”

  The silence stretched on and on. Alex was starting to wonder if his imagination was getting the best of him again when he heard a girl’s soft voice.

  “She likes stories.”

  Floorboards squeaked as the shadow beneath the door retreated. In moments, Alex was alone once again.

  3

  The Thing Inside the Backpack

  Alex knew he wasn’t brave. He was terrified of roller coasters and pretty girls and losing his parents in a crowd. When older kids bumped into him in the hallway, intentionally or not, he always mumbled “my bad” and kept walking. Even math tests made him sweat.

  Unfortunately, this was the type of situation where an unusual amount of bravery was required. Since Alex, by his own estimation, wasn’t up to snuff, he tried to imagine what his big brother would do. It wasn’t hard. John reacted to any sort of adversity with violence. They had a box full of broken video game controllers to prove it.

  He would have knocked her out the first chance he got, Alex thought.

  For the most part, Alex considered his older brother a walking meathead just a few IQ points north of a zombie, but a John-style approach seemed like his best bet. The moment that Natacha returned, he could shove her to the ground, grab her keys, dash out of the room, and
lock the door behind him.

  I’ll have to surprise her before she has a chance to cast any spells, Alex thought. That’s the only way this will work.

  He pressed his foot against the leg of the bed in a sprinter’s pose, his entire body angled toward the door. Every so often Alex stretched his muscles or cracked his neck, but other than that he remained still, imagining that he was a solider on sentry duty.

  Finally, the doorknob turned.

  Alex charged. Natacha entered the room, raised her eyebrows at the sight of his lumbering body, and waved her hand dismissively. Alex felt something clutch his ankles with an iron grip, and then his feet left the floor as he was yanked backward. After a painful landing, Alex looked behind him and saw the legs of the bed wrapped around his ankles like vines. As he watched, they withdrew and solidified into their previous shape.

  Natacha stared down at Alex with a look of resignation, like he was an errand that could no longer be put off: a dirty floor, an empty refrigerator.

  “My meeting went great!” she exclaimed, as though Alex had asked. “New customer. Placed a huge order, willing to pay double for it. Isn’t that spectacular?”

  Despite his predicament, Alex was curious. Story witches cursed newborns and spackled houses with sugary treats; they didn’t run businesses.

  “An order for what?” he asked.

  “What do you think? Magic-infused oils, of course! Huge market for it. A hex for that annoying neighbor, extra luck for a weekend getaway to Atlantic City. And love oils.” She rolled her eyes in disgust. “I am so sick of love oils. Then again, business is business.”

  Alex forced a smile. If he couldn’t escape, he figured that he should at least stay on her good side.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “That’s . . . really great.”

  “So sweet,” she said, patting him on the head. “Unfortunately, since everything here is running so well, I don’t want to throw any new cogs into the machine. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” She raised her hands into the air and they began to glow with blue light. “Just be a doll and stand still. And whatever you do, don’t close your eyes. Like a photograph.”

  Natacha lowered her hands toward Alex’s shoulders. He trembled with fear, knowing that there was nowhere to run, nothing he could do to stop her.

  I just want to go home, Alex thought. I just want to see my family again.

  Suddenly, he remembered what the girl had said. It was a long shot, but he had no other ideas.

  “Do you want to hear a story?” he asked.

  Natacha paused. Cocked her head to one side.

  “What kind of story?” she asked.

  “Scary.”

  Regarding Alex with skepticism, she flicked the blue light from her hands.

  “Interesting,” she said. “I wonder . . .” She shook her head. “Nah, you’re just a boy! What kind of scary story can you know? Something you read in a library book? Heard around a campfire? I have no use for the same old tales.”

  “You couldn’t have heard these,” Alex said. “I made them up.”

  “That’s even worse!” Natacha snapped. “I need real scary stories, not lame kiddie tales.”

  Alex flushed with anger.

  “My stories are scary!” he exclaimed. “Too scary! That’s why I was going to burn them all up last night!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “If your stories are as good as you claim, why would you destroy them?”

  Alex remained silent. His storytelling instincts told him that he should hold back on the details for now. Once Natacha knew everything, she wouldn’t be interested anymore. And if he wanted to survive, he needed to keep her interested.

  “Fine,” she said. Natacha clapped her hands together and a shadowy chair rose from the floor. She eased into it and stared at him expectantly. “Tell us a story. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Alex picked up his backpack with sweaty palms.

  “What are you doing?” Natacha asked.

  “My nightbooks are inside,” he said.

  “Nightbooks?”

  “The journals I write my stories in,” he said. “I have trouble sleeping. Bad dreams. The only way to get rid of them is to write them down.”

  “Nightbooks,” Natacha said. She smacked her lips together as though tasting the word. “I like that.”

  Bending down on one knee, Alex unzipped the front of the backpack and withdrew a marbled composition book with his name printed neatly on the front. Which story should I read? he thought. There were dozens of possibilities in this nightbook alone. Alex knew that if he picked a bad one he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  “Something short,” Natacha said, growing impatient. “An appetizer to see if I want to stay for the entire meal.”

  Alex spread the nightbook open, flipping through the pages with shaking hands. Finally, he settled on something that he thought might work.

  If she doesn’t like this, I’m a goner, he thought.

  He started to read.

  Lost Dog

  The first time that Greg saw the dog was at his friend Eric’s house. The two boys had been hanging out all day, and after finally getting bored of video games they went outside to throw the Frisbee around. The dog was sitting on the front porch. It was a medium-sized animal with mangy white fur, like an old undershirt that had been worn one time too many. Neither boy recognized the breed.

  “Hey there,” said Eric, bending down to scratch the dog’s neck.

  The dog didn’t wag its tail. It stared up at Eric with sad eyes.

  “Must be lost,” Greg said, keeping his distance. (His mother, who had been bitten when she was a girl, had always warned him to stay away from strange animals.) “Check the tag. Maybe he belongs to one of your neighbors.”

  Eric inspected the tag on the chain collar. It was a shiny black triangle without any name or address.

  “Weird,” said Eric, pinching the strange tag between his fingers. “Feel this. It’s as cold as ice.”

  “I’m good,” Greg said, backing away. The dog was looking at him with those sad eyes. Greg couldn’t say why, but he suddenly wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. “I’m heading home.”

  The next morning, his parents sat him down at the dining room table and gave him the tragic news: There had been an electrical fire while Eric and his family were sleeping. None of them had survived.

  A year passed. Greg was still sad when he thought about Eric, but not as sad as he used to be. One day he was walking home from school when he passed the Wilsons’ house. The lawn hadn’t been mowed in a while and mail was overflowing from the mailbox. No one held these things against them. Their daughter, Rennae, was sick. Not stay-home-from-school sick, but the bad kind that required overnight stays at the hospital.

  A white dog stared out at him from the Wilsons’ front window.

  Until that point, Greg had forgotten all about the lost dog that he had seen at Eric’s house the day of the fire. Now the memory came rushing back. It can’t be the same one, he thought. Can it? He crossed the lawn to get a closer look. The dog sat as still as a statue and stared back at him with sad eyes.

  A black triangle dangled from its collar.

  Greg ran home. The next morning, his mom got a phone call that made her break down into tears.

  Rennae Wilson had died in her sleep.

  After that, Greg started looking for the white dog everywhere he went. He never saw it. Eventually he became convinced that the dog had just been a figment of his imagination.

  One beautiful summer day, Greg went to an amusement park. They had just built a new roller coaster. It was one of the tallest in the world, and Greg had been waiting all year to ride it. At first his mom said no—there had been stories online about some safety concerns—but Greg finally talked her into it. He waited for hours to get the front seat. As he pulled the shoulder harness over his chest, he knew that it had been worth it.

  The car climbed the hill ever so
slowly, higher and higher and higher. Greg looked down and gasped at how small the people had gotten below him. He grinned.

  This is going to be great, he thought.

  There were tiny steps along the side of the track, just in case a worker needed to get up there and fix something. At the very top of the hill was a small platform just big enough for someone to stand on. The white dog was there, watching the coaster ascend. Its eyes looked sadder than ever. Sunlight glinted off its triangular collar.

  Greg knew that the dog’s presence could mean only one thing.

  “Stop the ride!” he shouted, struggling against his shoulder harness.

  It was too late. The roller coaster was already plunging down the first drop. All around Greg, people started to scream.

  Alex closed the nightbook. Natacha stared at him for a long time, eyes narrowed.

  She hated it, he thought. I’ve blown my only chance.

  “You really wrote that?” she finally asked.

  Alex nodded.

  “You sure?” Natacha asked. “Maybe you read a story that you liked in a book and you copied it down, told everyone that you were the real writer. . . .”

  “I would never do that!” Alex insisted—his anger, for now, overriding his fear. “It’s my story. I can even tell you where I got the idea. My friend found this dog one day and I got to wondering, What if the Grim Reaper had a pet?”

  Natacha raised her eyebrows in amusement.

  “Most kids would have just thrown the dog a ball and called it a day,” she said.

  “That’s other kids,” Alex said, twisting the nightbook in his hands. “They play with dogs. I play with what ifs. I wish I could be more like them, but it’s not something I can control.”

  “No,” Natacha said with a knowing smile. “I imagine not.”

  She continued to stare at him, absentmindedly tweezing a strand of shadows from the arm of the magic chair and spooling it around her index finger.

  “Did you . . . like it?” Alex finally asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice, his need to know. He rarely shared his writing, but when he did his hunger for immediate feedback bordered on desperate.