by J. A. White
“This one’s a little different,” Natacha said.
She reached into her pocket and produced a glass vial filled with blue liquid that swirled like a miniature storm.
“What’s that?” Alex asked.
“Hey, storyteller,” Natacha said. She poured the vial into the hole at the top of the diffuser. “Do you know what happens to children who ask too many questions?”
Alex shook his head.
“Me either,” Natacha said. “Because no one ever hears from them again!”
She threw her head back and cackled loudly. It was terrifying—the gooseflesh rising from Alex’s skin was evidence enough of that—but also a bit affected, as though Natacha had watched The Wizard of Oz one time too many and practiced her cackle in the mirror.
Suddenly, he felt an iron grip around his wrist.
“I have a bone to pick with you, storyteller,” Natacha said, her fingers digging into his flesh. “I thought I had been perfectly hospitable. Yet you tried to escape the first chance you got. That’s not very polite, is it?”
Alex’s stomach clenched. Here it comes, he thought, closing his eyes. Some kind of horrific spell.
Natacha released his wrist.
“I’ll let it pass this time,” she said, “on the understanding that you’ve gotten such nonsense out of your system. There’ll be consequences if it happens again. You understand? Say, ‘Yes, Natacha.’”
Alex hesitated as long as he dared.
“Yes, Natacha,” he said, his cheeks flushed with anger.
“Good,” she said.
Natacha pressed the bottom button on the oil diffuser and the machine hummed to life. At first Alex thought that nothing had happened, but then he saw the way that the air shimmered in front of him and reached out a hand.
His fingers touched a solid, invisible wall.
“Four walls,” Natacha said. She pointed up. “And a ceiling, of course. My misting room.” She pressed the top button on the oil diffuser and blue mist issued from the tiny hole, taking the shape of the invisible room. Alex thought of a fish tank filled with blue-tinged air instead of water.
Natacha inhaled deeply.
What is that stuff? Alex wondered.
“I see you’ve got a rebellious streak to you,” she said, the walls of the misting room muffling her words the slightest bit. “Yasmin here did as well, but now she and I have come to an understanding. She knows better than to even think about crossing me. Isn’t that right, Yasmin?”
“Yes, Natacha,” the girl said without hesitation.
Natacha turned to him and smiled. Alex thought it was how a cobra might smile if equipped with lips and two full rows of teeth.
“You’ll feel the same, in time,” she said. “Though I have to confess that I am a little disappointed. I thought you might like it here from the start. After all, haven’t I given you exactly what you most desire?”
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked.
Natacha laughed at his confused expression.
“Come now, storyteller,” she said. “You can lie to me, but don’t lie to yourself. I watched you carefully while you were reading your story last night. You loved having an appreciative audience. I could see it on your face. You didn’t look like a boy who had lost his freedom. You looked like a boy who had found it.”
“All I want to do is go home,” Alex said.
“I’m sure you do,” Natacha said. “And yet . . . I bet there’s a part of you that’s been looking forward to telling me a story all day. You probably already picked one out, didn’t you?”
Alex wanted to deny it, but he could tell from Natacha’s smug smile that the truth was written on his face.
“So what?” he asked. “I wanted to make sure you liked it.”
“Because you enjoy the attention, like I said. My guess is that you never share these wonderful nightmares you’ve set to paper. Are you afraid of what people might think? A young boy with such a hideous imagination?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said, his face burning.
“Then teach me,” Natacha said. “Let’s start with something simple. Why did you sneak out in the middle of the night to destroy your nightbooks?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Alex said.
The witch nodded—what you want doesn’t really matter—and waited for him to answer. She drummed her long-nailed fingers on the arm of the chair.
“It’s not important,” he said.
Clickclick, clickclick.
“Why do you even care?”
Clickclick, clickclick.
Alex could see that Natacha was starting to lose patience. He didn’t want to tell her everything, but staying completely silent was not an option. There would be consequences.
Tell her the truth, he thought. Just not the whole truth.
“I wanted to be normal,” he said. “I didn’t want to be Alex Mosher anymore, that fat geeky kid who knows how to make fake blood and can name all the actors who played Michael Myers in the Halloween movies. I wanted to fit in, be like other kids, and I thought that destroying my nightbooks would be a step in the right direction. I spent so much time on those stories. I love them with all my heart. I didn’t want to destroy them. I needed to. That was the only way I could prove to myself that I was serious about changing.”
Alex glanced in Yasmin’s direction and saw her staring at him with a thoughtful expression. As soon as their eyes met she looked away.
“Alex, Alex, Alex,” Natacha said. “Destroying a few notebooks isn’t going to change what you are. You have darkness running through your veins, just like me.” She settled back in her seat and took a deep breath of the blue mist. “Now spin me a tale,” she said. “And this time, make it scary.”
Mr. Boots
Mr. Boots was a white teddy bear with little red boots. Tom brought him everywhere. He pushed Mr. Boots on the swing in his backyard. He held Mr. Boots close during the scary parts of his TV shows. At night when he was supposed to be sleeping, Tom whispered in Mr. Boots’s ear. Sometimes Mr. Boots whispered back.
Years passed. Tom got older, and Mr. Boots moved from his bed to his bookshelf. There were new things to play with. A basketball. An iPad. A 3DS. Then bad things started to happen. Tom went to use the iPad one day and saw that the screen was cracked. He woke up and found his 3DS drowned in a sink full of water.
Each time a toy broke, Tom would find Mr. Boots on his bed instead of the bookshelf. It was like the teddy bear hoped that Tom would remember him again, now that his new toy was gone. Tom started to grow suspicious. Except a teddy bear couldn’t break an iPad. It couldn’t fill a bathroom sink with water.
That was crazy.
Then one day, Tom heard his new basketball hissing air and found a gash made with something sharp. When Mr. Boots appeared in Tom’s bed the next morning, his tiny red boots were splattered with mud, as though he had been outside in the backyard. Where the basketball was.
Tom decided enough was enough.
He threw the teddy bear in the garbage.
The next morning Mr. Boots was back in Tom’s bed again. He smelled like banana peels and coffee grounds.
Now Tom was scared. He knew he couldn’t tell his parents what was going on. They would never believe him. And so he waited until their family vacation. It was a sunny place so far away that they needed to take a plane to get there. Tom brought Mr. Boots. And on the last day of vacation, he buried him in the sand.
This time, Mr. Boots didn’t come back.
After a while, Tom forgot all about the stuffed animal. He figured it had just been his imagination. Eventually he moved away from home and went to college. There he met a girl. They got married and had a son named Oliver.
One snowy night, Tom woke up because he thought he heard whispering from Oliver’s room. Giggles. Tom didn’t think much of it. Oliver was an imaginative child, just as he had been. Tom went back to sleep.
The next morning, Oliver was gone.<
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Tom and his wife searched the house, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, they went outside. In the freshly fallen snow, they could see their son’s footprints leading into the nearby woods. Next to them were a set of far smaller footprints, the kind made with little red boots.
They never saw Oliver again.
They sat in silence until the blue mist came to a sputtering stop. Natacha breathed in the last of it. The walls of the misting room vanished on their own, leaving behind the strangely sweet smell of gingerbread cookies.
“I like the ending of that one,” Natacha said. “It’s so hopeless.”
“Umm . . . thanks.”
“You write that whole thing today?”
Alex started to nod—he wanted Natacha to think that he was working hard—but then stopped himself. He had thought of an idea.
If I phrase this just right, maybe I can get the library all to myself. . . .
“Actually, I wrote that story last year,” Alex said. “I meant to read you a new one tonight—something really special—but I couldn’t write a single word all day.”
Natacha straightened in her seat.
“Why not?” she asked. “Isn’t my library good enough for you?”
“It’s beautiful. A perfect place to write.” Alex hesitated, as though reluctant to tattle on a friend. “It’s just . . . You know what, it doesn’t matter.”
“Out with it!” Natacha exclaimed. “What’s the problem?”
Alex blew out a breath, as though Natacha had convinced him to share something that he was planning to keep to himself.
“It’s really hard to concentrate with someone staring at me,” he said. “I can’t write anything at all.”
Natacha leaned forward in her seat and pointed a single finger at Yasmin. The girl shook her head, too terrified to speak.
“I told you specifically to show the boy the library and then get out of his way!”
“Not Yasmin!” Alex exclaimed. “She’s been very helpful. Seriously—there’s no reason to get mad at her. I was talking about Lenore.”
Natacha lowered her finger. Yasmin relaxed and glanced at Alex with the slightest hint of gratitude.
“Ah!” said Natacha, chuckling. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Get over here, you mangy beast!”
Lenore appeared at the witch’s feet. She was already cringing, as though some kind of punishment was a foregone conclusion.
“It’s really okay,” Alex said, suddenly afraid for the orange cat. “Honestly, I hardly know she’s there at—”
The witch raised her hand and Lenore rocketed into the air, her long tail extended straight toward the ceiling as though it were being yanked by an invisible hand. The cat thrashed wildly, hissing in pain.
“Why were you disturbing our storyteller?” Natacha asked when the cat had risen to eye level. “It’s very important that he write those stories. Very important. You understand me?”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Alex said. “Stop hurting her!”
Natacha snapped her fingers and Lenore plummeted to the ground. She managed to land on all four paws and ran out of the room.
“That old beast won’t bother you anymore,” Natacha said. “Now you can write until your hand falls off.” She held his gaze and smiled without warmth. “No more excuses, storyteller.”
7
The Girl Who Followed a Unicorn
Alex woke up early the next morning. He found some clean clothes about his own size hanging in the closet and knocked on Yasmin’s door. No one answered. Alex figured that she had already passed through the coat closet door and started her work for the day.
What is Natacha making her do? Alex wondered, remembering the scratches along Yasmin’s arms, her dirt-stained face. Something messy, for sure. Digging holes? Burying the bodies of Natacha’s victims? The girl was so confusing. She seemed set on disliking him, but if she hadn’t helped Alex that first night, he’d probably be dead.
She’s not bad, like Natacha, Alex thought. She’s just scared. Like me.
He went into the kitchen to grab some breakfast and saw Lenore lying on the counter. She looked away, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
“Sorry about yesterday,” Alex said. “I just wanted the library to myself. If I had known that Natacha was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
Lenore didn’t open her eyes. Does she even understand what I’m saying? He knew that Lenore could somehow communicate with Natacha, but maybe that was a witch thing. Just because she can turn herself invisible doesn’t mean she understands English. Still, he wanted to make it up to her somehow, and since a verbal apology wasn’t doing the trick, he grabbed a handful of Froot Loops and spread them on the counter next to her.
“Here,” he said. “Maybe this will make you feel—”
Lenore opened her eyes and hissed. Alex saw claws beginning to extend from her paw and jerked his hand backward, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough; an orange streak blurred in his direction. Instead of the expected pain, however, Alex felt only a weak patter against his chest. He looked down in confusion and saw Froot Loops falling to the floor.
Lenore had thrown them.
Alex examined her paw more carefully and saw that what he had at first mistaken for claws were actually four tiny fingers and a thumb, covered by a thin layer of black fur. As he watched, these fingers quickly retracted into her paw.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Alex asked, stunned.
Lenore gave a long, toothy yawn and turned her back to him completely.
Alex retrieved his newest nightbook—the only one with any blank pages left—then used the bonekey that Yasmin had left on the dining room table to enter the library. He spread the nightbook across the desk and laid a pencil next to it.
“There,” he said, taking stock, “that looks convincing.”
Alex had no intention of actually trying to write a story, but now if Natacha entered the library unannounced he could at least look like he had been working. For the time being, he would just claim that his old stories were actually new ones.
I haven’t written many in this nightbook yet, Alex thought, but there has to be over fifty stories between the two older ones. If all I’m doing is reading one story a night, I have plenty of time. Right now it’s more important to learn as much about the apartment as possible so I can figure out a way to escape.
Alex had always relied on books to be his teachers. Hoping that things would be no different here, he set out to explore the library. Yasmin said these were all story collections, he thought, but what if she was wrong? What if there’s something here that I can use? He scanned the titles. The Black Horseshoe and Other Tales of Equine Horror. Stories Scratched Beneath a Coffin Lid. 13 Dead Ends. Alex would have loved to read them all, but other than entertainment value he didn’t think they would be of much use. Then again, what exactly was he looking for? A spell book could be helpful, he thought. Or, even better, one of those fake books that unlocks a secret passageway leading out of this place.
Alex didn’t see anything like that. All he saw were storybooks.
As he made his way up the winding staircase, the books grew older, the dust jackets giving way to leather bindings cracked with age. English faded from the spines, gradually replaced by what Alex thought was German. “Der Dunkle Wald,” he read hesitantly, tripping over the foreign words. “Das Buch der Verlorenen Kinder.” With no other way to tell what kind of books these were, Alex flipped through one at random, his gaze lingering on several woodcuts: a beautiful woman sleeping in a casket made of glass; a grotesque imp dancing in delight around a campfire; an old crone leading a boy and girl into a house made of candy.
Fairy tales, Alex thought, closing the book. The original scary stories.
By the time he finally reached the top of the tower, Alex was panting from exertion. He stretched his hand into the air and grazed the stone ceiling with the tips of his fingers. It was as solid as expected. A
lex hadn’t really believed that there would be an exit at the top of the staircase, but he was disappointed nevertheless.
“Now what?” he asked.
The titles were clearly a dead end. Yet Alex, who felt that libraries possessed their own sort of magic, still believed that there was something important to be learned here. I need to search the books themselves, he thought. At the very least, I can see what type of story Natacha likes. That could be helpful, if I ever do have to write some new ones.
Alex quickly retraced his path—a little bit easier than going up, but not by much—and grabbed the first five books off the lowest shelf. There were other titles that seemed more interesting, but Alex figured the best way to perform a thorough search was to start at the beginning and methodically work his way upward. He sat down at his writing desk and tucked four of the books beneath his chair, where they would remain hidden if he had any unexpected visitors.
Stay focused, he warned himself, knowing that once he started reading, he might get distracted and forget the main purpose of his search.
Alex opened the first book.
It was a volume dedicated to ghost stories. Alex tried to skim, he really did, but every so often a turn of phrase would bait his eye and he would forget himself for several pages before breaking through the surface again and remembering his task. The next book, a collection of poorly written urban legends, wasn’t nearly as interesting. Alex was able to give it a cursory examination in less than ten minutes. He set it at the bottom of the pile and placed the third book on the table, a quartet of creepy novellas titled Handprints on the Window.
It was long. Really long.
Alex braced himself with a single elbow and flipped through the pages, for the first time feeling the enormity of his task.
Am I wasting my time with this? he wondered. Maybe I should pull each book off the shelf and check to see if there’s something behind them. . . .
Lost in his doubts, it took Alex an extra beat to realize that there was something different about this book. When he finally saw it, he had to flip back a couple of pages to where the change first began.