Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  “It kind of hurts,” Yasmin said. “You know, even though you’re a total jerk and I’m going to hate you forever, you did give me an idea. That story was scary because it was so normal. Everyone knows what a subway station is like at night. I could picture it in my head. So maybe you should write about something in your life. It doesn’t even need to be anything scary at first. You can just dress it up that way.”

  “Take something real and make it creepy,” Alex said, nodding his head. “A lot of famous horror authors do that.”

  “Exactly,” Yasmin said. “Like, imagine you were going to write a story about someone you know. Who would you write about?”

  “My brother,” Alex said without hesitation.

  “Really?” Yasmin asked in surprise. “From what you said, I didn’t think you guys were close.”

  “We’re not,” said Alex. “That’s the point. Every story needs conflict. And every moment with John? Conflict.”

  “Maybe start with him, then.”

  “Brothers who don’t get along,” Alex said, rolling it over in his head. “And then add some of my other ideas. See what works best together.”

  “Like cooking,” Yasmin replied, smiling. “Maybe we’re not so different after all. Except you’re still a jerk and I’m really nice. That’s why Lenore likes me better.”

  “Lenore does not like you better.”

  “Enough yapping,” she said, shoving him playfully toward the exit. “You need to get to work.”

  By the end of the day, Alex had started four different stories about brothers who couldn’t get along. None of them were right. He began to wonder if the whole thing was a dead end.

  What am I going to do?

  As if they didn’t have enough problems, Natacha seemed to be onto them. She barely said a word all evening, except to ask Alex for his nightbook. She examined it with surprising thoroughness, even pausing to read a page here and there, and then handed it back to him with a knowing look, as though a suspicion had been confirmed.

  As Alex read his story, about a girl who gets a strange pet for her birthday, he felt her eyes watching him the entire time.

  She knows!

  But later, as he lay in bed, too worried to sleep, Alex changed his mind.

  If Natacha knew what we were up to, why didn’t she do something about it right there and then? I’m just seeing shapes in the shadows, that’s all.

  That made him feel a little better, but it didn’t help him with his other problem.

  The story.

  What if I can’t think of anything? he thought, heart racing. Will Natacha have time to turn me into one of her porcelain figurines before the sleeping oil kicks in?

  He stared at the mattress above him, cycling through ideas like channels on a TV.

  Eyeglasses that let you see invisible monsters. A gravestone that tells you when you die. A comic-book shop that—

  And then it hit him.

  “There you are!” he exclaimed.

  Alex burst into laughter. He couldn’t help it. The perfect idea had been in front of him the entire time.

  There was no sense trying to go back to sleep. His mind was awake and eager to work. Alex practically skipped to the library and hopped into his chair. The words came easily, as he knew they would.

  By late afternoon, he had finished his story.

  17

  Problems and Solutions

  Yasmin somehow found the time to make another incredible meal that night: fried fish with sweet potato fries and homemade coleslaw. Alex pinched his fingers together, intending to steal just one tiny fry. Yasmin slapped his hand away.

  “Fine,” Alex whispered. “But the moment she falls asleep, I’m eating these. Where did you learn to cook like this, anyway?”

  “My sito,” Yasmin said.

  “Oh,” Alex said. He remembered Yasmin’s story, the cruel way that the apartment had captured her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” Yasmin said. Alex was surprised to see that she was smiling. “I don’t know why, but it doesn’t hurt as much, thinking about her now. Sito and I used to spend hours in the kitchen together. She was the only one who supported my dream.” Yasmin’s cheeks grew red. “I want to open my own restaurant when I grow up,” she added shyly.

  “Cool!” Alex said. “What kind?”

  Yasmin’s face lit up.

  “Vegetarian,” she said. “Mixed menu—American and Middle Eastern. And there’s going to be a baseball theme. All the waiters and waitresses will wear uniforms, and—this is my favorite part—customers get a pennant that they can stick in the middle of their table, like a flag. Whatever their favorite team is.”

  “Even Yankees fans?”

  “I suppose,” Yasmin said, rolling her eyes.

  “That sounds amazing.”

  There was an awkward pause. Both of them knew that they were killing time, nervously putting off the next step in their plan. After that, there would be no turning back.

  They stared at Natacha’s glass, filled to the brim with lemonade.

  “You should do the honors,” Alex said.

  Yasmin withdrew a tiny vial from her pocket.

  “It’s still a little warm.”

  “The lemonade’s cold,” Alex said, reaching for a spoon. “We’ll mix it up. She’ll never know.”

  “Okay,” Yasmin said, slowly tilting the vial over the rim of the glass. “Here goes nothing.”

  A drop of clear oil fell into the lemonade. Alex waited for it to sink into the liquid and disperse, but instead the oil spread across the surface, leaving a greasy scrim that stretched from one edge of the glass to the other.

  Alex stirred the lemonade. All that did was spread the oil around and make it even more obvious.

  “Why isn’t this working?” Alex asked. The spoon clinked against the glass, faster and faster, in tune to his growing frustration. “Is it because it’s magic?”

  Yasmin clapped a palm to her forehead.

  “It’s not a magic thing,” she said. “It’s a chemistry thing. Oil doesn’t mix with water. I’m such an idiot!”

  Alex stopped stirring. The oil settled to the surface. There was no way to miss it.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I didn’t think of it either.”

  “Maybe she won’t notice,” suggested Yasmin.

  Alex shook his head and poured the ruined lemonade into the sink.

  “We’re going to have to think of something else,” he said. “We can’t give this to Natacha.”

  “Can’t give what to Natacha?”

  While they were talking, the witch had entered the kitchen behind them. Alex had no idea how long she had been there, what she had overheard. From the corner of his eye he saw that Yasmin still had the vial of sleeping oil in her hand. She kept her back to Natacha, shielding the vial from view.

  “Well?” Natacha asked, stepping forward. “What can’t you give me?”

  “Your sweet potato fries,” Yasmin said, smiling over her shoulder. “Not without paprika!”

  Yasmin was not a neat cook, and the kitchen counter was a mess: carving board, garlic peels, bread crumbs, knives, spatulas, eggshells, and half a dozen spice jars. In one smooth movement, she picked up the paprika and hid the vial behind a large container of oregano. It wasn’t a great hiding spot by any means, but right now it was the best they could do.

  Yasmin sprinkled the fries with paprika.

  “That’s better,” she said. “All set now!”

  She carried Natacha’s dinner into the dining room while Alex poured a fresh glass of lemonade. He thought about trying to add another drop of oil—maybe it will be less noticeable if I don’t stir it this time—but Natacha was still standing in the doorway, watching him.

  “Let’s go, storyteller,” she said. “You and I have something important to discuss tonight, and I’m itching to begin.”

  There was a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Alex felt his body grow cold.

 
“Coming,” he said.

  Without giving the vial another look, he walked past Natacha and into the dining room. Yasmin was standing in the corner, hands folded behind her back. She looked like she was doing her best not to cry. Alex knew how she felt.

  Their plan was ruined.

  “Sit,” Natacha said, indicating the chair next to hers.

  Alex hesitated, unsure if he had heard her correctly. He had never sat at the dining room table before.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Natacha flicked her fingers and the chair jerked backward, scraping against the floor. Invisible hands shoved Alex into the seat.

  “You don’t have to understand,” Natacha said. “That’s the joy of being a child. You just have to do as you’re told.”

  She sat at the head of the table and tossed a fry in her mouth.

  “Paprika,” she said, nodding with approval. “Nice touch.”

  Natacha seemed to be in a good mood. Alex didn’t like that. At least when she was angry he knew what to expect.

  “Have you been enjoying your stay here?” Natacha asked him, as though she was a concierge inquiring about his resort experience.

  “Not really,” said Alex.

  “I disagree,” replied Natacha. “I know you love sharing your stories—there’s no use denying it. And lately, I can’t help but notice that you’ve developed a friendship with that one over there.” She nodded her head in Yasmin’s direction. “You’ve tried to hide it from me. That was smart. But unlike the witch in that awful story you read me the other night, I’m not so easily fooled.”

  Natacha took a large gulp of her lemonade and wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s better that the two of you have become friends. That will make tonight’s lesson even more effective.” She leaned forward. “Which brings me to my next question: Is there something you’d like to tell me, storyteller?”

  Natacha studied his face. What do I say? Alex wondered, shifting in his seat. If she knew that they were planning to escape, things might go easier if he came clean now. But if she didn’t know, and this was only a bluff . . .

  He glanced over the witch’s shoulder at Yasmin, hoping for some guidance.

  “Don’t look at her,” Natacha snapped. “She’s not part of this conversation. This is between me and you, witch and storyteller. I’ll ask you again. What have you been doing every day?”

  “Writing,” Alex said.

  “Liar!” Natacha screamed. “If that had been the case, you would have finished dozens of stories by now. But you haven’t. You’ve been reading me your old stories instead.”

  Alex stared at her, slack-jawed.

  Is that what she’s so mad about? he thought, with something approaching relief. Maybe this isn’t about our escape plan after all.

  “How did you know?” he asked, happy to keep the conversation on this track.

  “All your old stories are in pen,” Natacha said. “Every single one. What little you’ve written since you’ve gotten here is in pencil. There aren’t any pens in the library.”

  Alex winced, mad at himself for not using the pen in his bag to keep his writing consistent. It was as careless an error as not capitalizing the first letter of a sentence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant to write more, but I haven’t been able to concentrate. I miss my family. But I’m getting better. I’ve written two stories in the last few days.”

  “Not good enough,” Natacha said. She rose from her seat and opened the door of the china cabinet. “If you keep at this pace, you’re going to run out of stories in no time flat, and that won’t do. A little inspiration is in order. Something to help you understand the consequences if you don’t take your writing duties more seriously.” As Natacha talked, she carefully slid one figurine to the right, another to the left. Are they still alive? Alex wondered, his stomach churning. Can they feel her fingers wrapped around their bodies? “What you need,” the witch said, “is an example to set you on the straight and narrow.”

  Natacha stood back from the cabinet and grinned with malicious delight. She had made just enough room for one more figurine.

  That’s where Yasmin will go, Alex realized with a rush of horror. Natacha’s glad we’ve become friends because she knows how much more it will hurt me when I lose her.

  He could see from Yasmin’s terrified expression that she had come to the same conclusion.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Alex said. “Loud and clear. I’ll write a story a day. Two stories! You don’t have to hurt her.”

  Natacha slammed her fist against the table. The glass of lemonade overturned, spilling its contents across the table.

  “I’m not finished!” she exclaimed with barely restrained rage. “Maybe an example would do the trick, like I said. But there’s a second possibility. Maybe it’s you, Alex Mosher. You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you’ve gotten here. There are other storybooks constantly being written, ones that aren’t in my library. You can be replaced. It’s convenient growing my own stories—like owning a vegetable garden—but all you really do is save me a trip to the bookstore.”

  She gazed back and forth between the two children while making a clicking noise with her tongue.

  “The truth of the matter is I haven’t decided which one of you to get rid of yet,” Natacha said. “I’ll make my decision while you read your story.” She started to close the cabinet door and then stopped. “I guess I’ll just leave this open for now.”

  Natacha sat back down and took a bite of her fish, chewing it with a displeased look. She nodded toward her overturned glass.

  “Get me more lemonade! This fish is dry.”

  Alex took the glass with trembling hands and entered the kitchen, his thoughts swirling. She’s going to turn one of us into a statue! What do I do? He had to figure out a plan now, while he was alone. How can I stop her?

  He looked down at the empty glass in his hands.

  I have to risk it.

  If Alex didn’t do anything, he—or Yasmin—would be sitting on a shelf by bedtime. But if he put another drop of oil in the lemonade, there was the slightest chance that Natacha might take a sip without noticing it.

  Maybe the oil works superfast, he thought. It might put her to sleep the moment it touches her lips.

  It wasn’t much, but a slight chance was better than no chance at all.

  He started to fill the glass with lemonade and then stopped. Maybe it will mix together better if I put the oil in the glass first, he thought. It’s worth a shot, at least.

  Alex reached for the vial behind the oregano container.

  It wasn’t there.

  No, he thought. That’s impossible. He frantically searched the entire counter, knocking over a jar of basil and spilling dried mint from a loosely capped bottle onto the floor.

  The sleeping oil was gone.

  After dinner, Alex lumbered into the living room, too stunned to speak. Natacha took the oil, he thought, taking his seat. It’s the only explanation. She hadn’t left the dining room at any point, but so what? Making a single vial disappear would be child’s play for a witch. He watched Natacha ease into her chair and start up the oil diffuser. Her true age remained a mystery, but surely after being alive for so long she needed to find new ways to relieve her boredom.

  She’s probably known about our plan from the beginning, Alex thought, taking his seat. Toying with us is her idea of fun.

  He turned to Yasmin, wondering if she had any brilliant ideas, but she looked despondent. She had seen the vial was missing while clearing the table. They hadn’t been able to talk about it, but Alex figured that she had come to the same conclusion as him.

  Natacha took a huge breath of blue mist and gazed at Alex expectantly.

  “Make this fast, storyteller,” she said. “We have a busy night in front of us.”

  He opened his nightbook.

  We were so close to
escaping, he thought.

  Alex had written, on more than one occasion, about monsters who tore their victims’ still-beating hearts from their chests. Now he knew what it felt like.

  With a trembling voice, he started to read.

  The Top Bunk

  When Keith learned that they were getting a new bunk bed, there was no doubt in his mind that he would be the one sleeping on top. After all, Keith was in the fifth grade, and his brother, Scott, was in kindergarten.

  A normal little brother would have seen the logic in that.

  Scott was not normal.

  “Why should you get the top bunk and not me?” he asked. “It’s not fair!”

  Keith didn’t bother to explain. He knew that it would make no difference. To Scott, things that happened the way he wanted them to, such as getting every single present on his Christmas list, were “fair.” Disappointing events, such as losing a round of Super Smash Bros., were “not fair.”

  “You can have the top bunk in a few years,” Keith said. “After that I’ll move to my own room and—”

  “Not fair!” Scott exclaimed. “I want the top bunk now!”

  Keith smiled patiently, though inside he wanted to scream at the little brat, something that he wished his parents would do more often. If he lost his temper now, however, Scott would only burst into tears and run to Mom.

  Is that his plan? Keith wondered. Is he trying to get me in trouble?

  No one else would believe that a five-year-old could be so manipulative. Then again, no one else understood Scott as well as Keith did.

  “Please,” Scott begged. His upper lip quivered in that maddening way that adults found irresistible. “Could I please, please, please have the upper bunk?”

  Keith looked into his brother’s big blue eyes, shiny with tears.

  “No,” Keith said. “It’s mine.”

  Scott’s eyes hardened. The tears stopped. He gave him the wicked smile that he reserved only for his brother. Keith thought of it as his real-Scott smile.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said.

  In the days leading up to the bed’s delivery, Scott was a perfect little angel. He ate all his vegetables. He begged for stories and kisses instead of video games. He left tiny, heart-shaped cards on his parents’ pillows each night.