Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  “Lenore?”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Yasmin asked, looking around. “Lenore! Stop messing around.”

  The orange cat suddenly appeared at Alex’s feet, startling him.

  “It can turn itself invisible?” Alex asked in disbelief.

  “It’s a she,” said Yasmin. “And yes—she can vanish at will. Lenore gives Natacha a full report on our activities each day. Just assume she’s in the room with you at all times. Even when you don’t think she’s watching, trust me . . . she’s watching.”

  Alex bent down and held his hand out, palm up, waiting for Lenore to approach him. She refused to acknowledge his presence.

  “What are you doing?” Yasmin asked.

  “Trying to make friends.”

  “Lenore doesn’t want to be your friend,” she said. “She’s a witch’s familiar. You know what that is?”

  “A magical servant,” Alex said. “I wrote a story once about a familiar that tried to steal its master’s spell book. Well, tried to write it. Couldn’t figure out a good ending.” He bent down again, trying to meet the cat’s eyes. “I like your name. Lenore. Like in ‘The Raven.’” He looked up at Yasmin. “Natacha must be an Edgar Allan Poe fan.”

  “He write creepy stories?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Then I’m sure she is,” Yasmin said. “Listen, this is fun and all, the bonding, but I have to get you set up so I can get back to real work.”

  “Set up doing what?”

  Yasmin rolled her eyes, like an older sister saddled with babysitting duty.

  “Just follow me.”

  She crossed past him back into the living room. Alex had to rush to keep up. Yasmin’s walk was practically a run.

  “The rules are pretty simple,” she said, not even looking over her shoulder to see if he was following her. “Don’t touch anything, especially the magical-looking stuff. Don’t try to escape. It won’t do any good, and if Natacha finds out . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Where is Natacha?” Alex asked.

  Yasmin shrugged. “Out and about, I guess, selling her oils. She usually comes back around dinner. I cook, by the way. You clean.”

  Yasmin stopped at the door to the linen closet and withdrew a small ring with three white keys. Like the ones Natacha had, Alex thought, getting a good look at them for the first time. They were far more complicated than normal keys. Each bit had been carved into an intricate pattern of notches and swirls.

  Alex reached over to touch the key pinched between Yasmin’s fingers. It was cool and perfectly smooth.

  “Are these carved from bone?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Yasmin said, yanking the key away. “And don’t ask me where the bones came from. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  She slipped the key into the crescent-shaped keyhole. It refused to turn.

  “Stuck again,” she muttered, shaking her head in frustration. It was clear that she wanted to get rid of Alex as quickly as possible, and this was just another roadblock.

  “Why do some doors have two keyholes?” Alex asked.

  “Well, Natacha can hardly keep the magical rooms out in the open,” Yasmin said, jiggling the key back and forth, “just in case the super or someone comes poking around. So she hides them. The regular keys lead to regular places. The bonekeys, on the other hand . . .”

  The key turned with a satisfying click. Yasmin pushed the door open.

  Alex gasped.

  He should have been looking at a tiny closet barely deep enough to hold an assortment of sheets, towels, and blankets. Instead, he stepped into a circular chamber that resembled the interior of a lighthouse. A narrow wooden staircase wound upward in tight spirals past hundreds of book-lined shelves, the ceiling a barely visible dot in the distance.

  “This . . . can’t,” Alex said.

  The room spun. Alex bent over and trained his eyes on the floor. The floor was real. The floor made sense.

  “It’s some sort of trick,” he murmured.

  “No trick,” Yasmin said. “Just magic.” When Alex didn’t reply, she spoke again with a hint of sympathy. “Give it a minute. It’s hard to get your mind around it at first, the idea that a room can be bigger than it ought to be. You’re used to walls and ceilings meaning something.”

  Alex grappled with this wild idea, trying to hold it still. For a reason not immediately clear to him, he flashed back to something he had learned in Language Arts last year. “Good stories,” Ms. Coral had said, “build their own worlds. Events that might seem crazy or unlikely in reality can make perfect sense within the right context. That’s called interior logic.”

  Alex remembered the feeling of excitement bubbling within him as he giddily copied the words in his notebook. INTERIOR LOGIC!!! It was like being given permission to imagine anything he wanted, as long as he built the right fence to contain it.

  Same thing here, he thought, finding a way that he could make sense of all this without losing his mind. Magic rooms are impossible in the real world. But inside a witch’s apartment that lures its victims with classic horror movies? Not so crazy.

  “Interior logic,” he whispered.

  Alex cautiously looked up again. The room was no longer spinning, but the floor still felt as if it was rocking beneath his feet. Taking deep breaths, Alex tried to anchor himself by picking out specific details that proved he was standing in a real place. Book spines of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Dust motes falling like snow. The musty smell of pages begging to be turned.

  Finally, the room settled into place. His disorientation changed to excitement.

  It’s a library!

  Grinning now, Alex walked over to the nearest shelf and read some of the titles: The Empty Classroom and Other Creepy Stories, Nightdreams and Daymares, Tales to Whisper in Little Ears.

  “They’re story collections,” Alex said.

  “Scary stories,” Yasmin said. “Every book here.”

  Alex whistled, craning his neck to take in the rows of books spiraling over his head. How many are there? he wondered. Five thousand? Ten thousand?

  “Natacha really does like stories,” Alex said. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “She makes me pick out a new book every night and read her a bedtime story,” Yasmin said with clear distaste. “Some of them are good, some not so much. Either way, Natacha always seems disappointed. I think she’s read all these books already, maybe more than once. She’s dying for something new.” Yasmin gave him a crooked smile. “And—ta-da!—here you come, the answer to her prayers. Her own personal story machine.”

  She nodded toward a simple wooden desk in the middle of the floor. It was empty except for a jar of pencils and a fresh pile of lined paper.

  “This is where you’ll be working,” Yasmin said. “Every day, from morning to night, writing as many stories as possible.”

  Lenore suddenly appeared on a stool in the corner, giving her a perfect vantage point of the desk. The meaning in her cold green eyes was clear: And I’ll be watching you to make sure you do what Natacha wants.

  “This is crazy,” Alex said.

  “Totally,” Yasmin said, “but do it anyway. Natacha’s serious about this, Alex. You don’t want to cross her. Besides, sitting in a nice comfy chair all day, making up stories—it could be worse.”

  Alex looked at Yasmin’s dirt-encrusted nails, the long scratches on her arms.

  “What does Natacha make you do?” he asked.

  Yasmin started to say something, then glanced over at Lenore, as though unsure how much she should share.

  “That doesn’t concern you,” Yasmin said.

  She turned, meaning to leave, but Alex blocked her path. He lowered his voice to a soft whisper so Lenore couldn’t hear him.

  “There has to be a way out,” he said. “If we work together—”

  Yasmin pushed him away.

  “Have I given you the impression that we’re friends?” she asked. �
��Because we’re not.” She eyed Lenore, who was watching the conversation carefully. “And we’re definitely not going to try and escape!”

  “But—”

  Yasmin jabbed her finger into his chest.

  “No but. No nothing. This is your life now. Forget your family. Forget your friends. Focus on making yourself useful to Natacha.” She met his eyes, warning him. “Write your stories, Alex. Entertain her. That’s the only way you’ll survive.”

  Alex didn’t love this idea. After all, his nightbooks were what had caused all this trouble in the first place. But right now he didn’t have any other plan.

  “How long did telling stories work for Scheherazade?” Alex asked.

  “One thousand and one nights,” Yasmin replied.

  “That’s a long time,” he said. “I think I’d go crazy before then.”

  Yasmin gave him a grim look.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I doubt you’ll last that long.”

  6

  The Misting Room

  Alex sat at the desk a long time, staring at a blank piece of paper. He figured it was safest to follow Natacha’s instructions for now, but unfortunately he couldn’t think of anything to write. It didn’t help that he could feel Lenore’s eyes on him, watching his every move. He was used to writing in the middle of the night without a single sound to disturb him.

  “Could you go somewhere else?” Alex finally asked, glaring at the cat. “I can’t concentrate with you staring at me like that.”

  Lenore vanished.

  “That doesn’t help!” Alex exclaimed. “I know you’re still there!”

  After a few moments, the cat reappeared on top of the desk. Alex nearly fell backward in surprise. Lenore sauntered back to her spot on the stool.

  “This is why people like dogs,” Alex muttered.

  He pulled out a pencil and started writing random sentences on the paper, just to look like he was working. To be honest, Lenore wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t concentrate. Unanswered questions pulled his mind in all directions:

  Can I trust Yasmin? Is there a way out of this apartment? What’s that sound behind the walls, and why was Natacha so interested in it?

  Am I ever going to see my family again?

  Then there were the books.

  Like all writers, Alex was, first and foremost, a reader, and it was impossible to focus on his own story when so many other ones lay within easy reach. His gaze strayed to the tantalizing volumes winding along the spiral staircase, a thousand worlds begging to be explored.

  I’ll pick a book at random and read a single story, Alex finally decided. Just to get it out of my system.

  The moment he approached the staircase, however, Lenore leaped off her stool and blocked his path. She didn’t hiss, but there was no mistaking the threat in her eyes.

  Stop wasting time, she seemed to say. Do your work.

  Alex thought about testing her—she was just a cat, after all—but then he remembered the long scratches on Yasmin’s arms and decided to return to his seat. No sense being reckless, he thought, not until I have a better idea what’s going on here. He was starting to get hungry again, but he figured he should at least get a few words down before eating, just in case Natacha came home and checked his progress. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and hunched over it, pencil in hand. What should I write about? he thought. Monsters? Ghosts? School?

  As hard as he tried, the ideas refused to come. After another fruitless hour the grumbling in his stomach proved impossible to ignore. Alex rose from his seat.

  Lenore looked up, annoyed by the disturbance.

  “I’m just getting something to eat,” Alex said. “That okay with you?”

  The cat stretched languorously in response, then dropped to the floor with surprising grace and waited for Alex to lead the way. He passed through the closet door (feeling a sense of relief upon returning to the apartment, like that first footstep on solid ground after a long boat ride) and entered the kitchen. As Yasmin had promised, there wasn’t much of a selection in the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, just bread, stale crackers, a few cans of tuna fish, and a jar of store-brand peanut butter. After digging behind some cleaning supplies, however, Alex discovered a half-filled box of Froot Loops only slightly past its expiration date.

  “Look at this!” he exclaimed, showing the box to the uninterested cat. “My favorite! If it was Cap’n Crunch or Grape Nuts, I might have given up all hope, but this makes me think that everything might end up okay!” He popped a handful of Froot Loops into his mouth; they were stale but delicious. “You want some?”

  Alex placed a few Froot Loops in his open palm and held his hand out to Lenore. She sniffed the multicolored rings cautiously.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You’ll like them. Everyone does.”

  Lenore bent forward, opening her mouth the slightest bit. Then she backed away, fixing Alex with a look of distrust.

  “Your loss,” Alex said, returning the Froot Loops to their hiding spot like buried treasure.

  He returned to his bedroom and pulled a nightbook from his backpack. “I’m not going to finish a new story by tonight,” he told Lenore, “so I might as well pick one that I’ve already written. That okay with you?” Lenore didn’t seem thrilled by this change of plans, but she didn’t do anything to stop him, either. As Alex settled into the antique love seat in the living room, she vanished as a mild form of protest.

  He held the nightbook in front of his face and pretended to search for a story. His true attention, however, was focused just above the book, on the wall directly across from him.

  It was the place where the front door should have been.

  Alex hadn’t exactly lied to Lenore; he really did want to pick out a good story. In fact, there was a part of him that was even looking forward to sharing his writing with Natacha tonight. But that wasn’t the main purpose of his plan. Mostly, he wanted to see what happened when Natacha reentered the apartment. Despite Yasmin’s warning, Alex was still set on escaping, and he needed a better understanding of how the only exit from the apartment worked.

  He watched. He waited.

  Finally, Natacha came home.

  The transformation was simple: one moment there was a wall and the next moment there was a door. Natacha opened it and stepped across the threshold. Her hair and clothes were soaking wet. Alex heard no rain or thunder through the windows of the apartment, but it must have been pouring outside.

  “Girl!” Natacha screamed. “Girl—get me some towels, now!” She shook her head and water flew everywhere. “Knew I should have brought an umbrella, but I hate lugging those things everywhere I go.”

  She sat down and tried to pull off a single boot. It made a big sucking sound, like a shoe embedded in mud, but refused to budge.

  “Girl!” she screamed, her face growing red. “Where are you?”

  Alex realized two things at the same time.

  One, Natacha hadn’t noticed that he was sitting there.

  Two, she had left the front door wide open.

  Alex heard his brother’s voice in his head—Move, freakazoid!—and barreled toward freedom. He caught a glimpse of Natacha digging one finger into her ear, looking remarkably unconcerned by his escape attempt, and then he leaped forward . . .

  . . . and slammed straight into a wall where the door had been.

  Natacha, now digging in her other ear, gave Alex a dismissive glance as he slid to the ground.

  “Girl!” she screamed. “Where are those towels?”

  Dinner—for Natacha, at least—was chicken medallions sautéed in garlic sauce, corn on the cob, and mounds of mashed potatoes with gravy. Alex’s stomach grumbled watching her eat it all, but he didn’t say a word, just stood in the corner and occasionally refilled her glass with fresh lemonade when beckoned. After his failed attempt to pass through the front door, Alex figured that he should take a wait-and-see approach before hatching any new escape plans.

  While Natach
a ate dessert—a homemade brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge—Alex cleared the table and washed the dishes. By the time he entered the living room, Natacha was waiting for him. She sat in a huge chair of luxurious black leather, its wooden frame spiraling upward into three tall spires. Alex thought it looked like the chair of an evil queen too poor to afford a proper throne.

  “It’s about time,” Natacha said. She gestured toward a far humbler chair to her right. “Sit.”

  Alex lowered himself onto the chair. Yasmin was sitting on the antique love seat directly across from him. She looked meekly down at her lap. In Natacha’s presence, she was a completely different girl from the one he had met earlier.

  Alex picked up the nightbook he had left on the side table and prepared to read.

  “Wait!” Natacha snapped. “Do I look ready to you? I haven’t even set up my misting room yet!”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Alex bit back a snarky response. No good can come of making her mad, he thought. Instead, he waited patiently while Natacha traced her finger through the air like someone scanning book spines for a specific title. What the heck is she doing? he wondered. After searching a bit longer, Natacha squeezed her thumb and index finger together and drew her hand down as though unzipping the very air itself. There was a tiny hissing noise like a leaking tire, and Natacha reached into what seemed to be an invisible pocket, her arm vanishing up to the elbow.

  She noticed Alex’s astonished expression and grinned with pleasure.

  “This is some kind of spell, ain’t it?” she asked. “You know any other witch that can do magic like this?”

  “I don’t know any other witches.”

  “Well, they can’t!” Natacha screeched, digging deeper into the invisible hole. “You should consider yourself very lucky.”

  She withdrew her arm. There was a red cylinder in her hand. It had a tiny hole at the top and two buttons on the side.

  “What’s that?” Alex asked.

  “An oil diffuser,” Natacha said, setting it on the stand next to her.

  “Oh,” Alex said, disappointed. He wondered why Natacha would bother to hide such a common machine. “My mom has one of those. She uses it to make our living room smell nice when we have visitors.”