Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  And then, the night before the bed arrived, he struck the final blow.

  “I’m so small,” Scott said at dinner while finishing the last of his brussels sprouts. “At school some of the other kids make fun of me.”

  “What kids?” Mom asked. “I’ll email the teacher and—”

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Scott said. “I just wish I was big, that’s all.”

  His upper lip began to do its thing, quivering in that whimpering half cry.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Mom asked, already lost.

  “I know I can’t be big,” Scott said between tears. “But maybe I could feel big. Like, if I slept in the upper bunk, like a big boy would do. I think that would make me feel just a little bit better.”

  Their parents exchanged a look of consideration. It was just long enough for Scott to glance in Keith’s direction. He smiled his real-Scott smile.

  The next morning, Keith steeled himself for bad news. He was used to Scott getting his own way, and he never argued when it happened. That was just the way things worked.

  It was the bed’s assembly directions that saved the day.

  They stated, in glorious red ink, that kids six and under should sleep on the bottom bunk. Scott whined and pleaded and argued, but while their parents routinely gave in to his demands when it came to playdates and screen time, they refused to budge on matters of safety.

  That night, Keith triumphantly claimed the top bunk, while Scott was forced to sleep a lame foot and a half off the ground.

  “It’s not fair,” Scott mumbled after the lights had been turned off.

  “It’s totally fair and you know it,” Keith said.

  “Can I sleep in the top bunk?” Scott asked. “Pleaasssee.”

  “No,” Keith said. And then, unable to resist, he added, “The top bunk is for big kids only.”

  “Not fair,” Scott said.

  “Whatever,” Keith said. “Go to sleep.”

  Keith figured that would be the end of it. He was wrong.

  “Can I sleep in the top bunk?” Scott asked the moment Keith’s head touched his pillow the following night. “It’s not fair. Let me sleep in the top bunk.”

  Keith said no, but that didn’t seem to matter to Scott. He asked again and again, long into the night. Keith hardly got any sleep at all.

  He told his parents the next morning.

  “Have a little patience,” their father said, the tone of his words implying that Keith was at fault. “In a couple of weeks the poor little guy will forget all about it.”

  Except Scott, of course, wouldn’t let it go. The talking was bad enough. But then, about a week later, Scott found an old broom handle and began poking the bottom of Keith’s thin mattress. It didn’t hurt. Scott didn’t have the strength to press that hard. But it made sleeping impossible.

  “Can I sleep in the top bunk?” Scott asked. “Just for one night. Pleeaassee.”

  Keith was tempted to say yes, just to get a good night’s rest, but he knew it would be a mistake. Once Scott slept in the top bunk, it would prove to their parents that it was perfectly safe.

  After that, Keith wouldn’t have a chance. Scott would win.

  The strange thing was, Keith didn’t even particularly like sleeping on the top bunk. It was hotter up there, and the ceiling felt like it was pressing down on him. If Scott had been a different sort of kid, Keith probably would have let him have it. But Scott was what he was, and Keith refused to give him his way.

  Then Scott died.

  It was a stupid way to die, running after a ball like that. It wasn’t even his favorite ball, just a moldy old thing that Scott had found under their stoop. He had been tossing it aimlessly against their garage door while Keith—on “Scott duty” as his parents put it—sat on their front steps. When the ball skipped into the street Keith instantly saw the speeding car, Scott’s headlong dash toward the road, their inevitable impact.

  “Scott!” he screamed, rising from the steps. “Stop!”

  A normal kid would have stopped.

  Scott was not a normal kid.

  The night after the funeral, Keith thought about his brother while lying in bed. The little guy hadn’t been all bad. Keith remembered a picture that Scott had drawn in preschool: stick figures of two brothers, one big and one small, standing beneath a shining sun.

  He fell asleep with tears in his eyes.

  Keith was awoken by the opening of the bedroom door. It was the squeakiest in the house. His dad always meant to oil the hinges but never got around to it.

  “Dad?” Keith mumbled, still groggy. “Mom?”

  They hadn’t spoken to him much since the accident. They had said all the right things, of course—it’s not your fault, there’s nothing you could have done, we love you—but what he really wanted was for them to take him in their arms like he was a little boy again. Only then would he truly believe that they didn’t blame him for Scott’s death.

  The door creaked open even wider. From Keith’s elevated vantage point, he would have been able to see his dad’s or mom’s head as they entered the room. He saw no one, leaving only two possibilities. Either the door had opened on its own, or whoever had opened it was a lot smaller than an adult.

  Footsteps scampered across the carpet. Blankets rustled as someone settled into the bottom bunk.

  Keith remained perfectly still. An invisible weight seemed to be pressing down on him. He wanted to shout for his mom or dad, but it suddenly required all his energy just to keep breathing.

  “Keith,” a quiet voice whispered beneath him. “Can I have the top bunk?”

  Keith tried to scream but all that came out was a soft whimper. He was too terrified to leave his bed. If he did, he would have to go past the bottom bunk.

  He would have to see.

  “Scott,” Keith whispered. “Is that you?”

  “Give me the top bunk.”

  It was his brother’s voice all right, only hoarser, as though Scott had been screaming.

  This isn’t happening, Keith thought. Scott’s dead. This is a nightmare. It’s only a—

  Something jabbed him in the back. Keith figured it was the broom handle, only Scott had never been able to push it this hard before.

  “It’s not fair,” Scott whispered, his voice closer now. He was standing on the lower mattress. “I want the top bunk.”

  “I’m sorry,” Keith said. A foul stench had suddenly filled the room. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  Something jabbed him again, harder this time. The mattress lifted into the air for a moment before crashing back down onto its frame.

  “Can I sleep on the top bunk?” Scott asked. “Pleeeaaase.”

  The force of this last word seemed to puncture something within Scott’s body. Air hissed like a leaking balloon.

  “Please,” Scott repeated.

  Keith could hear the desperation and fear in his brother’s voice.

  He’s all alone, Keith thought. He might not even understand what’s happening to him.

  “If I let you sleep in the top bunk,” Keith asked quietly. “Will you go?”

  There was a long pause. The lower bunk squeaked as Scott shifted his weight from foot to foot. Keith heard dirt and pebbles patter to the mattress.

  “You’ll never see me again,” Scott said. “Pinkie promise.”

  “All right,” Keith said. “You can have the top bunk. Tonight only.” He hesitated, not wanting to leave the false armor of his blankets, but he knew that there was no other way. “I’ll come down the ladder and go. I’m not going to turn around. I’m not going to look.”

  Scott didn’t say a word.

  Before Keith could lose his nerve, he threw off the covers and settled his left foot on the ladder, staring straight ahead at the bedroom wall as he descended the rungs.

  Second step.

  Third step.

  A hand grabbed his ankle.

  It was cold and small but strong enough to jerk
him off his feet. Keith crashed to the floor. He turned over. A familiar figure crouched over him in the darkness, perched on the edge of the bottom bunk like a gargoyle. It craned its head forward into a beam of moonlight shining through the window, and Keith saw a face crusted with dirt and mud that didn’t even look like his brother anymore.

  “It’s not fair,” he said in his raspy voice. “How come you get to live and I don’t?”

  Keith had no time to scream. His brother pounced from the bottom bunk and landed on top of him.

  Mrs. Bloch woke up early the next morning, anxious to set things right. They’d been so devastated by Scott’s death that they’d completely ignored their oldest son. Knowing Keith, he probably blames himself, Mrs. Bloch thought, her heart aching for their quiet, sensitive child. He’s mourning, too. I need to be there for him.

  When she entered the bedroom, Keith was still asleep in the top bunk. There was a peculiar smell in the room, like food that had gone bad. She would clean that up later. Right now, Mrs. Bloch just wanted to see her son.

  She stood on the bottom step of the ladder and stared down at him, sleeping peacefully. He had his arm wrapped around one of Scott’s stuffed dogs. He must miss him so much, Mrs. Bloch thought, stroking his curly blond hair.

  Keith’s eyes opened.

  Mrs. Bloch gasped in shock. Keith had his father’s eyes: a deep, solemn brown. But now they looked bright blue, like . . .

  Scott’s, she thought.

  Then Keith blinked and she saw that his eyes were the same brown that they had always been. Mrs. Bloch decided that the exhaustion was making her see things that weren’t really there.

  “I was so scared, Mommy,” Keith whispered, wrapping his arms around her. His voice seemed higher-pitched than before.

  Mrs. Bloch held him tight. It had been a long time since Keith had hugged her, and this uncharacteristic show of affection filled her with joy.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Bloch said, tears coming freely now. “We should have been there for you. But everything is going to be okay now.”

  They held each other for a long time. When they parted, Keith looked up at her with wide eyes. His upper lip quivered.

  “I like the top bunk,” he said.

  Alex closed the nightbook and looked over at Natacha. Despite everything, he was still curious if she had liked the story or not.

  Her eyes were closed.

  “Natacha?” Alex asked.

  No response. He put his ear next to the invisible wall and heard a gentle, rhythmic snoring.

  “What are you doing?” Yasmin asked, watching him with a befuddled expression. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see Natacha’s face.

  “She’s asleep,” Alex said.

  “No way,” replied Yasmin, springing from the love seat. She cupped her hands to her eyes and peered through the blue mist. “Natacha never fell asleep during one of your stories before. This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It has to be connected to the sleeping oil,” Alex agreed, hope rising. “But how?”

  “Natacha!” Yasmin exclaimed, banging on the walls of the misting room.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asked, grabbing her arm.

  “We need to see if this is a magic sleep or a regular sleep, before we do anything stupid,” replied Yasmin. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “WAKE UP!”

  Natacha didn’t stir. No question about it: This wasn’t a normal type of sleep.

  “The sleeping oil worked,” Yasmin said in astonishment. “But how? We never gave it to her.”

  “Maybe there was still a little of it left on her lemonade glass,” Alex suggested. “You said it was super concentrated.”

  “She’s totally out, though,” Yasmin said, examining Natacha from all angles. “Like, Sleeping Beauty out.”

  “Could she be faking it?”

  “What for? So she can jump out and yell ‘Gotcha!’?”

  “She might like that,” Alex said. “Get our hopes up and then destroy them completely.”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  The oil diffuser cycle was coming to an end now, blue mist puffing out in fits and starts. Finally, it stopped altogether.

  Alex reached out, feeling for the nearest wall. It was gone.

  “What now?” he whispered.

  “Grab her keys, just like we planned. But fast! Who knows how long she’ll be asleep?”

  Natacha was wearing a dark silk shirt and black pants. There was an odd-shaped lump in her left pocket, partially wedged between the chair and Natacha’s thigh. The bonekeys, Alex thought. Unfortunately, they weren’t within easy reach. It would require some digging to pull them out.

  “Me or you?” Alex asked.

  “Me,” Yasmin said.

  She didn’t explain why, and she didn’t need to. Yasmin was nimble. Alex was not. It made sense.

  “Be careful,” Alex said.

  Yasmin took a deep breath and stretched her fingers like a pianist before a recital. She crept forward and knelt on the floor, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, slid her index finger and thumb into Natacha’s pocket. As Yasmin dug deeper, Alex watched the witch’s face carefully for any sign that she was about to wake up. For now, at least, her snoring continued unabated.

  “I feel them,” Yasmin whispered. “Barely. With my fingertips.” She tried to get a good grip, changing positions several times. “Ugh! I can’t get ahold of them. The keys are squished against this stupid chair.”

  “Why don’t I move her a little bit?” Alex asked.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Nope.”

  Alex stepped forward and placed his hands just behind Natacha’s shoulders, locking his elbows to maintain as much distance from the witch as possible. Still, it was a lot closer than he had ever wanted to get. Her hair smelled of smoke and a sweet, fruity shampoo, like something a child might use. Looking away, Alex planted his feet and twisted his hips, aiming to turn Natacha’s body just enough for Yasmin to grab the keys. He forgot to support the witch’s head, however, and it fell to the side, striking the wooden frame of the chair with a loud thunk.

  She stopped snoring.

  Alex froze in horror. He wanted to let go of Natacha—get away, get away!—but he was afraid that the slightest movement might wake her. He remained still, watching her face, waiting for her eyes to open.

  A lifetime later, wet, ragged snores filled the living room. Alex thought it was the most beautiful sound that he had ever heard.

  Yasmin went back to work, and in one unexpected rush of movement, the keys slid free.

  “Score,” she said, raising them in triumph.

  Alex carefully released Natacha’s shoulders and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He knew he should be excited, but the mystery of how Natacha fell asleep was still nagging at him. It didn’t make any sense.

  Unless . . .

  Alex got down on his belly and reached beneath the footstool, finding nothing but empty space. He crawled forward, tapping the wooden floor around the chair.

  “Have you gone crazy?” Yasmin asked. “Let’s go! We have the bonekeys!”

  “One more second.”

  He checked behind the chair, and that’s where he found her: a warm, invisible body covered with soft fur.

  “It’s Lenore,” Alex said.

  Yasmin crawled over to join him, carefully lowering her hand until she felt the cat as well.

  “What’s she doing here?” Yasmin asked.

  “Lenore must have been in the kitchen with us,” Alex said. “She heard we were in trouble, so she took the vial of sleeping oil. Then she hid here, behind the chair. When Natacha turned the diffuser on, Lenore was behind the magic walls.”

  “And then she poured the sleeping oil in the machine while you were reading your story,” Yasmin said, nodding. “Natacha was distracted. She wouldn’t have noticed an invisible cat.”

  Alex felt Lenore’s chest, rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
“But of course Lenore inhaled the sleeping oil too,” he said. “She was as trapped as Natacha.”

  “That was so brave,” Yasmin said. “Our little hero.” She looked up at Alex. “We can’t leave her here.”

  “Of course not.”

  He slipped his hands beneath the cat and slowly got to his feet. It was harder than he wanted to admit. Lenore was heavy to begin with, and Alex’s subpar diet since becoming Natacha’s prisoner had sapped his strength.

  “You okay?” Yasmin asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said, keeping his eyes on Natacha. “But we have no idea how long this spell is going to last. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  “I just have to grab our stuff first.”

  “We have stuff?”

  Ignoring his question, Yasmin opened the closet door and dug out Alex’s backpack. She had patched the hole in the bottom with duct tape.

  “Food, water, coats,” she said, slinging the backpack over her shoulder. “You said you saw trees, Alex. That doesn’t sound like Flushing. The last thing we want to do is make it this far and then die in a giant forest.”

  “Good point,” he said.

  They ran down the hallway to Natacha’s bedroom door. Yasmin picked through the bonekeys on the ring. The one she settled on was yellow and brittle. It looked older than the others.

  It’s not going to work, Alex thought as she slid the key into the crescent-shaped hole. There’s going to be another spell at play, like the one that turns the front door into a wall, and we’ll find out that only Natacha can . . .

  The key turned.

  Yasmin released the breath she had been holding and opened the door.

  18

  The Other Side

  Alex stepped over the threshold and into a forest that stretched out in every direction. Tall pine trees seemed to touch the night sky. He instantly felt woozy. The amount of open space was overwhelming, like a burst of oxygen after holding your breath for a long time.

  “We’re outside,” he said in disbelief.

  Yasmin shuffled past him, gazing up at the sky in openmouthed wonder. Suddenly, she fell to her knees. There were tears flowing from her eyes.