Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  The witch opened her hand and a tiny fireball shot at Lenore. It seared the back of her fur, leaving a black streak against the orange.

  Lenore yowled in pain.

  “Stop hurting her!” Yasmin exclaimed. “She tried to help!”

  “Who gave you permission to speak?” Natacha asked, nostrils flaring.

  “Sorry.”

  “Never had much use for that word,” Natacha said. “It ain’t magic. It don’t undo what you’ve done. It’s just a word.” She closed her fists and stretched her fingers like a pianist preparing for a performance. “It’s too bad. You were a good little worker while it lasted. You make some mean mashed potatoes, too. Fluffy with just a bit of kick to it. I’ll miss those potatoes, I really will.” She shrugged. “Oh well. I’m sure your replacement will come knocking at my door any day now. Someone always does.”

  Natacha raised her hands into the air. When nothing happened, she grimaced and closed her eyes in deep concentration. A bead of sweat ran down her temple.

  “Come on,” she muttered, like a driver trying to start a car past its prime. “Come on!”

  Alex had never seen Natacha struggle to cast a spell before. It must be especially powerful. He turned toward Yasmin. Her eyes were terrified, but she showed no inclination to run. Where could she go? There was no escape from the apartment, no use trying to fight. Alex wished there was something he could do to help, but he knew it was pointless. He would only make things worse on himself.

  I’m safe, he thought. It’s like Yasmin said—for one reason or another, Natacha needs my stories. She won’t hurt me.

  He was ashamed by the relief this thought brought him. Coward, he thought. You’re only worried about yourself. He turned away, unable to look at Yasmin any longer. He felt like he had betrayed her. Maybe Natacha won’t be able to get the spell to work, Alex thought, but then there was a loud whoosh, like the flames finally coming to life in a stubborn old furnace, and the witch’s hand began to glow with an eerie blue light.

  “Finally,” Natacha said, smiling with satisfaction.

  She stretched her hands toward Yasmin. Lightning danced between her fingertips, the magic anxious to be unleashed. Yasmin’s eyes widened, and she muttered something that might have been a name. Alex felt her fear as though it were his own. They might not have been friends, but there was still a link between them, a shared experience that no one else could ever understand.

  I can’t let this happen, he thought.

  Alex scraped together as much bravery as he could and stepped in front of Yasmin.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” he said. His voice trembled. “It was mine.”

  “Move, storyteller,” Natacha snarled.

  “I couldn’t think of a new idea for a story,” Alex said, his mind assembling the details on the fly. “And so I begged Yasmin to take me down to the nursery. I thought, creepy plants, maybe I can think of something cool. She made me promise not to touch anything, only when she wasn’t looking I got curious and fed one of the vines. Guess I fed it the wrong thing, because the next thing I know it had all these sacs hanging from it.”

  Alex caught a glimpse of Yasmin’s flabbergasted expression. She couldn’t believe that he was taking the blame for her.

  “You did this?” Natacha asked, wincing as a fresh volley of lightning snapped between her fingers. Her hands had begun to shake violently. She balled them into fists, trying to keep the magic in check. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, storyteller.”

  Alex realized that he had made a horrible mistake. The fact that he wrote scary stories might have helped him if Natacha was thinking logically, but right now she was barely thinking at all. She just wanted to punish someone.

  The witch stretched her hands toward him. He closed his eyes.

  “No, no, no,” she commanded. “You have to open your eyes or you’ll ruin the final—”

  The apartment began to quake.

  “No!” Natacha exclaimed. “Not now!”

  The distraction caused the witch to lose her hold on the spell. Blue fire shot from her hands and struck the wall with an anticlimactic puff of smoke. The spell only works on people, Alex thought, wondering what it would have done to him.

  “Story!” Natacha exclaimed, grasping him by the shirt and drawing him close. “Now!”

  Alex did as he was told without hesitation; he had tested his luck enough for today. As the apartment continued to rumble, he ran to the library, snagged the nightbook on the desk, and hustled back. In his absence a large crack had appeared on the living room wall. A sickly sweet smell, like cotton candy left in the car on a hot summer’s day, filled the room.

  “What is that?” Alex asked, holding his nose.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Natacha said. “Just read your story. And for your sake, it better be a good one.”

  The Playground

  Foster Playground was where all the dead kids played. You could hear them at night, giggling and whispering. Even when there was no wind, swings arced high into the sky and the seesaw squeaked up and down.

  Todd knew to stay away. He had heard stories about the bad things that happened there. But when his best friend, Jenny, died, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to see her again.

  The night after her funeral, he snuck out of his house and went to the playground.

  It was a warm summer evening, but as soon as Todd stepped onto the wood chips he began to shiver. The air was different here. Not just colder, but with a metallic taste, like biting down on an old coin. It wasn’t air meant for living people.

  I don’t belong here, Todd thought.

  He almost left. But then he remembered Jenny, and how lonely she must feel, and willed his feet across the wood chips. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Soon Todd stood before the tall wooden tower at the center of the playground. Two enclosed slides coiled from its top. One was red and one was green, but they both looked the same in the dark.

  Suddenly there was a loud thump at the top of the tower, and the slide rattled and shook beneath the weight of a passenger. Seconds later, a boy about Todd’s age shot out of the hole in the bottom. His skin was pale, and he wore clothes that Todd had seen only in black-and-white movies.

  The pale boy examined Todd from head to toe. When he seemed satisfied, he placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. New faces peeked down at them from the top of the tower. Soon children were pouring from the slides. Girls and boys, toddlers and teenagers. Some wore old clothes, though none as old as the pale boy’s. Others wore clothes like Todd’s. Everyone seemed happy to see him. They jostled for position, trying to get as close to Todd as possible, as though he were a fire by which they could warm their hands.

  No one spoke. Their smiles were bright and wide.

  Todd asked if Jenny was there, but the children just laughed and ushered him from one piece of playground equipment to the next. They gave him no time to think. Giggles chased him to the top of the rock wall. Cold hands pushed him on the swings.

  They played for hours.

  From the top of the tower, the pale boy watched it all. At one point, Todd thought he saw a second figure up there as well, a girl. She kept trying to reach the slides, but the pale boy blocked her path.

  In time, Todd found himself laughing along with the other children. It was hard to remember why he had been so scared to come here. Foster Playground was a nice place. It was where he belonged. He only wished he were warmer. His body felt encased in ice, and it was becoming harder and harder to breathe. He looked up at the pale boy, wondering if he knew what was going on, but the boy wasn’t looking in his direction anymore. He was looking at the sky, where threads of morning sunlight were just beginning to appear.

  The boy’s face curled into a wicked smile. In a flash, Todd remembered the stories he had heard about this place. Finally, he understood.

  If I’m still here in the morning, I’ll be here forever.

  He
spun around, trying to escape, but the children grabbed him and pulled him back. They were no longer smiling. Todd tried to shout for help, but all that came out were plumes of cold air. The children dragged him backward, giggling, making a game of it now. Todd’s feet left shallow trails in the wood chips.

  Above him, he could see the sun starting to rise. Morning was just a few minutes away.

  He heard the sound of someone coming down the slide and watched the opening, expecting to see the pale boy, his mocking grin. Except it wasn’t the pale boy. It was Jenny. She shoved the children away and helped Todd to his feet.

  Go! she mouthed. Go! Go!

  Todd ran as fast as he could, racing the children to the edge of the playground. He felt tiny hands claw at the back of his shirt . . . and then he leaped onto the safety of grass.

  When he turned around, the children were already walking with slumped shoulders back toward the wooden tower. Only Jenny remained looking in his direction.

  “Thank you,” Todd said, tears filling his eyes. “And good-bye.”

  She smiled sadly and vanished in the morning light.

  As Alex reached the end of the story, the apartment gave one final shudder—knocking a jade talisman off its pedestal—and stopped rumbling completely. Yasmin sighed with relief. Alex’s feelings were more complicated. He was glad that the apartment hadn’t crumbled into dust, but unnerved by the power his stories held over such an evil place. Does that prove there’s something wrong with me? he wondered. Alex’s thoughts drifted to the story he refused to tell Natacha, the real reason he had decided to toss his nightbooks in the furnace. He had been in math when the phone rang. . . .

  Natacha grabbed his arm, breaking his train of thought.

  “Seriously?” she asked. “That’s the end of the story?”

  The murderous fury had left her eyes, but she didn’t exactly look happy, either.

  “Was it bad?” Alex asked, warmth spreading over his face.

  “No,” Natacha said. “That’s the point. It’s not bad at all. The boy gets away, safe and sound.”

  “Sometimes that happens.”

  “Not in my experience.”

  The story wasn’t dark enough for her, Alex thought. There were creepy dead kids, which was always good, but at its heart “The Playground” was more about friendship than ghosts. Alex had written it after his best friend moved to New Jersey.

  “How about this instead?” Natacha suggested. “The ghosts follow the boy home and kill him in his sleep. Much better.”

  “The ghosts can’t leave the playground.”

  “That isn’t even a thing!” the witch insisted. “Ghosts haunt houses and castles and hotels—maybe the occasional school. I’ve never heard of a ghost haunting a playground, and I’m a witch, which makes me an—”

  “Jenny helps Todd escape,” Alex said. His cheeks were still red, but now it was from stubbornness, not embarrassment. “That’s what happens. She’s a true friend even after her death.”

  “You mean it’s a . . . happy ending?” Natacha asked, mortified.

  Alex shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s not exactly happy,” he said. “Jenny is still dead, and she’s going to be trapped in that playground for eternity. Does that make you feel better?”

  “A little,” Natacha admitted. “But what I think isn’t important. Happy endings can be dangerous things. You soothed the apartment this time, but your story just as easily could have—”

  “I liked it,” Yasmin said.

  Natacha and Alex turned in surprise. It was the first time that Yasmin had spoken during their story sessions.

  “No one asked you,” snarled Natacha. She shook her head at the debris covering the living room floor. “Clean this place up, storyteller. Girl—attend to the nursery. Make sure you repot any plants that can still be saved. I have some new orders coming in, and I don’t want to be short on ingredients. When I wake up tomorrow, I expect this place to be spotless.”

  Alex and Yasmin exchanged a look of relief. Considering the alternative, staying up all night cleaning seemed like a small punishment indeed. They immediately set to work on their assigned tasks. Yasmin smiled at Alex and waved good-bye before entering the nursery. He waved back. Meanwhile, Natacha shuffled across the floor, her gait like that of an old woman, and paused before the wall with the big crack. She raised a hand, as though to cast some sort of spell, and then thought better of it and continued toward her bedroom at the end of the hall. Natacha’s body blocked his view of the keyhole, but the telltale scratching of a bonekey left little doubt that she was going into her secret room. Whenever Natacha had done this in the past, she always glanced over her shoulder first to make sure that no one was watching. If Yasmin or Alex happened to be in the nearby vicinity, she would send them away before opening the door.

  Tonight, however, Natacha’s exhaustion had gotten the better of her. Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she carelessly opened the door wide and stepped across the threshold. For just a moment, Alex was able to see past her.

  Night sky. Pine trees. Forest floor.

  Natacha closed the door.

  It’s not a room, Alex thought, his heart fluttering with excitement. It’s an exit! We can use it to escape!

  All they needed was the witch’s key.

  By the time Alex finally crawled beneath the blankets, his entire body ached. Still, he was in a good mood. There were some stains that would require a second scrubbing in the morning, but other than that the apartment had been restored to its predangler state.

  He closed his eyes and thought about Natacha’s keys. She never puts them down. Ever. So how do I get ahold of them? His mind cycled through possible ideas, looking for one that fit. It was like trying to figure out what should happen next when he was writing a story.

  Could I pickpocket her?

  Not without getting caught.

  What about when she sleeps?

  Natacha locked her bedroom door at night, so that wouldn’t work. He’d need a key to steal the key.

  Can I use any of the magical artifacts on the shelves?

  Alex didn’t think so. He had handled many of them while cleaning and felt nothing magical at all. If he were a warlock, then maybe—

  Why are you thinking so hard? he heard his older brother interject. Just hit her over the head with a frying pan and be done with it.

  Alex could see all sorts of problems with that plan, too. What if he missed? What if she didn’t lose consciousness? What if Lenore stopped him?

  It was too big of a risk.

  He wished he could brainstorm ideas with Yasmin. She understood Natacha and the apartment a lot better than him.

  But can I trust her?

  He didn’t know. It was clear that Yasmin had experienced some horrible things. He remembered what she’d said, about seeing the horror in her friends’ eyes. There must have been other prisoners before me, Alex thought. That’s why she’s scared of acting out against Natacha. She’s seen firsthand what happens when you don’t behave. If he told her what he was planning, Yasmin might immediately spill the beans rather than risk getting in trouble.

  Then again, he thought, I’m not sure I have a choice. I can’t do this on my own.

  He turned on his side, too tired to think about it any longer. Despite his exhaustion, sleep refused to come. He shivered in fear, wondering if Yasmin’s friend had once slept in the same bed as him—if not the bottom bunk, then maybe the top one. What about the mystery girl who wrote in the storybooks? Did she sleep here, too? What if she didn’t escape? What if one night—asleep in this very bed—Natacha crept into this room and dragged her out. . . .

  He heard a rustling sound.

  Alex sat up in bed, instantly awake.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  The noise continued. He crept out of bed, his bare feet icy cold on the wooden floor, and carefully scanned the room. The rustling was coming from the closet. Natacha must have missed one of the d
angler-born, he thought. Seeing no better weapon available, he picked up one of his sneakers (still sticky with bug guts) and padded across the floor.

  Alex gathered his courage and then opened the door quickly, intending to take his visitor by surprise.

  The sound stopped.

  The closet looked no different than usual. His backpack was tucked into one corner. Above it, clothes and empty hangers hung from a wooden rod.

  “What the heck?” Alex asked, mystified.

  He lifted his bag, wondering if something might be hiding behind it, and a dark shape scuttled out of a hole torn in the side. With a shriek of surprise, Alex dropped the backpack and kicked the closet door shut, catching the insect just as it was crossing the threshold. There was a crunching noise, like someone squeezing a fistful of potato chips, and the insect stopped moving.

  The shredder, Alex thought, recognizing the dozens of sharp, bristly legs. Must have been hiding in my backpack when Natacha cleaned out the apartment.

  He glanced at the bag, wondering what the shredder had been up to this entire time, and his heart froze. A trail of torn paper spilled from the hole. With trembling hands, Alex knelt down and unzipped the backpack.

  “No!” he exclaimed.

  He turned the entire bag over, hoping that there was some kind of mistake, that his two nightbooks would fall to the floor and all would be well. They didn’t. Instead, shredded paper rained down, collecting in a pile in front of him. He could make out the occasional word—phantom, bird, coffin—but mostly it was just incoherent letters.

  His stories had been destroyed.

  12

  Yasmin’s Story

  After discovering the fate of his nightbooks, Alex was too upset to sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the hours spent writing each story: the shock of discovery when a new character stepped out of the shadows, the frustration when a plot withered and died, the sheer bliss of unearthing a perfect word. The writing had been agonizing at times, but it had also been wonderful.

  And now I have nothing to show for it, he thought.

  More than anything else, Alex regretted not sharing the stories when he had a chance. He pictured a graveyard with the words They Died Unread etched into each tombstone and felt a mixture of guilt and loss. Unfortunately, resurrecting the stories wasn’t a possibility. Alex might remember some of the plots and characters, but piecing them back together again would be like reassembling a cracked eggshell. No matter how hard he tried, the stories would never be the same.