Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  “Mr. Calkins is a gum chewer,” Alex said, back in the office now, reliving every moment. “He pops one in his mouth and offers me a piece. I take it but just hold it in my hand. He asks me if I have bad thoughts. Nightmares. Do I play first-person shooters? Watch violent movies? Do I imagine the gruesome things I write about happening to real people? My family? Kids at school? I shake my head. I tell him that the stories don’t mean anything. They’re just make-believe. Mr. Calkins nods and makes a note in my file. He thinks I’m lying. I can tell. He thinks there’s something wrong with me. And who am I to argue? He has degrees on his wall. He wears a tie. He’s an expert.” Alex cleared his parched throat; it felt like it was coated with sand. “I decided right there and then to destroy my nightbooks and never write another scary story again. I was terrified that if I didn’t stop, I would end up being the boy that Mr. Calkins already imagined me to be.”

  Natacha’s applause echoed through the silent room.

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed. “The pain in your voice—the fear! Bravo! She is going to sleep like a baby!”

  “I’m not done,” Alex said.

  Natacha froze, unsure what to make of this unexpected development. Alex didn’t give her a chance to think too long. He jumped right into the next part of his story.

  “Instead of destroying my nightbooks,” he said, “I was captured by a witch. She said there was darkness in my heart. I wondered if she was right, especially after what happened with Mr. Calkins. Maybe this was meant to be. But I quickly discovered that real darkness isn’t fun, like in stories. People die. You can’t click the backspace key and bring them back to life again. I hated it. It’s not who I am at all.”

  The room started to rumble again. It’s working, Alex thought with relief. Until this point he hadn’t been sure if his theory was correct.

  “What are you doing?” Natacha asked, a warning tone in her voice.

  Alex ignored her.

  “And now I realize—so what if I write scary stories? I might hurt someone with nouns and adjectives, but I would never hurt someone for real. In fact, I think I might be kind of brave! I wouldn’t go as far as heroic—that would be pushing it—but the next time John calls me a scaredy-cat, I’m going to tell him about the time I squashed a dangler beneath my foot or escaped a forest of scary unicorns. He won’t believe how tough his little brother was! He’ll be proud of me!”

  Inside the coffin, Aunt Gris shifted.

  If scary stories are the sweet dreams that lull her to sleep, Alex thought, backing toward the other side of the room, then courage, friendship, compassion—those are the nightmares that will wake her up.

  Alex just hoped he had enough time to finish the job. Natacha was onto him. She strode across the floor, her hands outstretched in a threatening manner, but the room trembled—a solid eight on the Richter scale this time around—and the witch fell backward.

  A chunk of the ceiling crashed to the floor and obliterated the oil diffuser. Red mist leaked from the hole in the bottom of the coffin.

  “No!” Natacha screamed, forgetting about Alex for a moment. She scrambled to the coffin, intent on finding a way to plug the leak.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have been so brave if I was alone,” Alex continued, smiling at Yasmin, “but I met an extraordinary girl who’s smart and loyal and brave, and a cat willing to risk her life for her friends. They gave me courage. And the stories I was so worried about? They saved my life! Why did I want to destroy them? It seems so ridiculous now! There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not bad. I’m not weird. I’m just a kid who likes monsters!”

  He checked on Natacha. She had given up trying to chase him. Instead, she was pulling strands of crimson light from several invisible pockets in the air and tying them into a complicated knot. The expression on her face had moved beyond anger into an all-encompassing rage.

  “So no matter what happens,” Alex said, knowing that he had only seconds to spare, “I’m glad I was sent to Mr. Calkins’s office that day. I’m grateful for my time in apartment 4E. If I had never come here, I would still be the same old Alex Mosher, too scared and embarrassed to be who I am. My story might have started out on a sour note, but it has a happy ending!”

  The light between Natacha’s hands, a blinding sun now, promised a fate far worse than being turned into a porcelain figurine. She raised it above her head.

  “Good-bye, storyteller,” she said.

  With an ear-shattering whoosh, the coffin lid rocketed from its perch and landed on the other side of the room. It shattered into a million pieces. Shards of rock candy stung Alex’s face like a hailstorm.

  He hardly noticed. He was too intent on the center of the room.

  From inside the coffin, a hand rose into the air.

  Its fingers were candy canes ending in chiseled nails that looked very, very sharp. They twisted and cracked, testing their newfound freedom. A second hand, much like the first, gripped the side of the coffin.

  Aunt Gris pushed herself up.

  You could tell that she had been human at one point. Her ears and nose were in the expected places, but her face drooped like melted taffy, and her eyes were gold-foiled chocolate coins pressed deeply into malleable flesh.

  Alex didn’t scream. He tried to, but there was suddenly no air left in his lungs. He felt like someone had hit him in the stomach with a baseball bat.

  What have I done?

  Aunt Gris fixed her eyes on Natacha. The witch dropped the ball of light in her hands like a child caught with a forbidden treat. It vanished.

  “You’re awake!” Natacha said, pasting an unconvincing smile on her face. “At last! I’ve been trying to undo the terrible curse on you for ages!”

  The thing that used to be Aunt Gris gave no acknowledgment that she heard—or understood—the words. She stared at her candy-cane fingers in astonishment, as though seeing them for the first time. Her fingers crackled as she opened and closed her hands.

  “The house used its magic to keep you alive,” Natacha said. “There were some . . . unfortunate side effects.”

  Aunt Gris lifted herself out of the coffin and stepped onto the floor, tottering unsteadily before rising to her full height. She was wearing a flowing burgundy dress with lots of ruffles. Her body was grotesquely tall and thin, as though it had been stretched along with her face.

  “Alex,” Yasmin whispered. “The keys are hanging from the wall! Let us out.”

  It was as good a time as any. Both witches were distracted: Aunt Gris trying to figure out how to maneuver her new body, Natacha playing the role of dutiful servant. “Good, good,” she said, holding Aunt Gris’s elongated fingers as though she were a child learning how to skate. “Just like that. Left, right. Left, right.”

  Alex retrieved the keys and opened the cell door as quietly as possible. The children crept toward the exit to the chamber, Lenore just behind them.

  “Don’t worry,” Natacha said. “You’ll be right as rain in no time at all. You need sustenance—life force to replace all that you’ve lost.” She moved to the side, allowing Aunt Gris a clear view of Alex and Yasmin. “That’s why I brought these two! I know you prefer them cooked, but I think in this case you can make an exception.”

  Aunt Gris, upon seeing the children, shuddered with anticipation. Her gold-foiled eyes jumped between Alex and Yasmin, like a starving diner trying to choose between two equally delicious desserts. She took a single step forward . . . and then stopped.

  Aunt Gris pointed a candy-caned finger in Natacha’s direction.

  “I remember now,” she said in a guttural voice that seemed to claw its way out of her throat. “You’re the one who put me to sleep! You’re the one who changed me into this thing.”

  For a moment, Natacha looked ready to deny it, to tell any lie in order to save her life. Then her face hardened into a defiant expression.

  “Yes,” she snapped. “It was me. What are you going to do about it? I’m not a weak little girl anymore. I’m a witch!”


  She raised her right hand and a spear of black ice shot from her palm. Aunt Gris swatted it away like a bothersome fly. Natacha snarled with frustration and unleashed a barrage of spells, one after the other: choking mist, nooses made of flame, twin skeletons brandishing iron swords. Alex knew they should run, but he couldn’t turn away. It was an awe-inspiring display of magic.

  Aunt Gris was not as impressed. She turned each spell away without any effort.

  Finally, Natacha raised her hands and nothing happened at all. She fell to her knees.

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Gris said. “It looks like you’ve run out of magic.” She smiled, revealing peppermint-bark fangs and a forked tongue of braided licorice. “Fortunately, I don’t have that problem. I’m a real witch. But you? You’re nothing but a little thief!”

  Natacha tried to run. She didn’t get far. Aunt Gris leaped across the room and landed on her back. Yasmin and Alex didn’t wait to see what happened next. They ran. Behind them, they heard a short scream of pain followed by horrible crunching sounds—and then nothing at all.

  21

  Unexpected Magic

  They burst out of the house and into the dark forest. Yasmin was a lot faster than Alex, her arms pumping like the pistons of a steam engine. Nevertheless, Alex was able to keep up. Every time he fell behind, he just imagined what would happen if Aunt Gris caught him. It was a powerful motivator.

  “What are we . . . going to do?” Alex asked between deep gasps of air. “Even if . . . we make it . . . back to the apartment, we’re . . . still trapped!”

  “Lenore and I have it covered,” Yasmin said. “Save your breath for running.”

  They reached the bottom of the hill. The unicorns paced them on either side, jabbing their horns at the children. Alex tried to stay on the path, but it was hard to do while running. He felt a horn scratch his shoulder, his calf. Yasmin slapped a hand to her side and screamed in pain.

  Why are the unicorns still here? Alex thought. Natacha said that when a witch dies, all her magic is undone. But then he realized that it hadn’t truly been Natacha who created the unicorns. She had stolen the magic from Aunt Gris.

  Behind them, they heard a voice that echoed magically throughout the entire forest.

  “Children?” Aunt Gris said. “Are you hiding from me? How delightful!”

  Alex ran faster, regretting, for the first time, his lifelong hatred of exercise. His heart felt like it was going to explode. The air in his lungs thinned to a trickle.

  He ignored it all.

  RUN!

  Finally, they reached the door to the apartment.

  There was no longer any need for the bonekeys. The door had been blown from the frame. Charred splinters crunched beneath Alex’s shoes.

  Natacha blasted it off with magic, he thought. Guess she didn’t have an extra set of keys after all.

  The children ran down the hallway and into the living room. Alex’s heart fell. The wall that blocked their passage to the outside world seemed more impassable than ever.

  “Okay, Lenore,” Yasmin said. “Do your thing.”

  “What thing?” Alex asked. The beating of his heart sounded like a metronome turned to its highest setting. He leaned on a table, afraid he was going to collapse, and saw his nightbook sitting there. An idea stirred.

  If only we can get out of here . . .

  “Lenore got a full dose of the sleeping oil,” Yasmin said. “But that wasn’t all. She breathed in the mist that gave Natacha her magic, too. So I figure . . . she’s got a few spells in her.”

  “She’s a cat.”

  Lenore puffed out her chest: Exactly. She raised a single paw into the air and closed her eyes in concentration. Nothing happened.

  “Give her a chance,” Yasmin said with a nervous smile. “We tried it out in the cell. She made a spoon float in the air.”

  This is a little different, Alex thought, but he didn’t want to be discouraging. He looked down the hallway and into the forest. It remained empty.

  For now.

  “You almost had it!” Yasmin exclaimed with encouragement. “I definitely saw something flicker there for a moment! Keep trying, Lenore!” She turned to Alex. “Any sign of Aunt Gris?”

  “Not yet,” he said, glancing in her direction. Lenore was floating slightly off the ground, both paws raised now. “I’ll let you know the moment—”

  Aunt Gris appeared in the doorway.

  “I recognize that voice,” she said, entering the apartment. “The storyteller. I owe you my gratitude for the pleasant dreams you’ve given me these past few weeks.”

  “So you won’t eat me?”

  “On the contrary,” Aunt Gris said, “it just makes me more curious what you might taste like.”

  She took a large bite of her index finger and crunched it between her teeth. It instantly grew back again.

  “Alex!” Yasmin screamed.

  The front door had not only appeared—it was open. Beyond it, Alex could see the fourth-floor hallway, drab and ugly and fantastically real.

  He grabbed his nightbook and ran, gritting his teeth as he leaped across the threshold, certain that some kind of magic would hold him back. Then he heard the muffled sound of the frayed hallway rug beneath his sneakers and knew that he was free.

  He grinned at Yasmin, who was running right beside him. We’re out of the apartment! he thought triumphantly. For real this time!

  That didn’t mean they were safe, though. Alex glanced over his shoulder to see if Natacha was following them, and saw that Lenore had stopped outside the apartment door. She raised her paws in the air, casting another spell. What’s she doing? Alex wondered, and then he saw Aunt Gris try to leap into the hallway—and crash into an invisible barrier instead.

  She hissed in frustration and glared down at Lenore.

  “I see Natacha is not the only one who’s been stealing my magic,” the witch said. “I’m disappointed, Lenore. After all those centuries we spent together, I expected more loyalty from you.”

  That’s why Natacha never liked Lenore, Alex thought, still moving toward the elevator at the end of the hall. She wasn’t even her cat.

  Lenore looked up at Aunt Gris and meowed pleadingly.

  “You’ve grown soft in your old age, my friend,” Aunt Gris said. “I’m afraid the children really do have to die. And then I’ll come back and deal with you.”

  The witch ran a single nail along the invisible barrier. A long scratch began to appear. Lenore turned to Alex. Her use of magic had taken its toll. She looked like she was about to collapse from exhaustion.

  That’s all I can do, she seemed to say. I’m sorry.

  She vanished.

  The children ran to the elevator at the end of the hall. Yasmin punched the panel. For once, the doors opened right away. Alex hurried inside and pressed the B button while Yasmin repeatedly jabbed the button to close the doors. Finally, they slid shut.

  The elevator’s gears squeaked to life. They started to descend.

  “You have a plan?” Yasmin asked.

  Alex raised the nightbook in his hands.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “More of an idea. First thing we have to do is get to the basement. After that—”

  The lights went off, plunging them into darkness. Footsteps skittered across the roof of the elevator.

  “She’s here,” Yasmin whispered.

  Alex nodded, afraid to move. The elevator rocked back and forth like a ship at sea. Above them, the witch stomped her feet and giggled.

  The car fell.

  Alex loved thrill rides as much as the next twelve-year-old, but this wasn’t like Freefall or Tower of Terror. This was horrifying. The children screamed as they plummeted to earth, the car banging against the walls of the shaft like a runaway train. Alex closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable crash.

  They jerked to a sudden halt.

  Yasmin and Alex fell together in a tangle of arms and legs. They quickly got to their feet, bruised but okay.
>
  The elevator doors opened. Yasmin peeked out.

  “It’s the basement, just like you wanted,” she said. “Yay?”

  They stepped onto the concrete floor and the elevator doors instantly closed behind them. Alex heard a sizzling sound and saw the handle to the stairwell melt away.

  No way to escape, he thought.

  Aunt Gris cackled. It seemed everywhere at once.

  “Come on,” Alex whispered.

  They wove between towering stacks of boxes and into an open area where larger items were stored: a rotted crib overflowing with doll parts, moldy sofas with springs busting through the cushions, and an old pinball machine with a cracked display. Alex could hear the rush of flames as Old Smokey, the ancient boiler, worked hard to keep its charges nice and toasty. He walked faster.

  “Okay,” Yasmin said. “What’s this plan of yours?”

  “We’re doing it.”

  “Walking?”

  “No,” he whispered. “We’re leading the witch toward the—”

  Yasmin screamed as she flew backward. Alex spun around and saw his friend in Aunt Gris’s outstretched hands. The witch leaned forward and opened her jaws far wider than should have been possible. She seemed determined to fit Yasmin’s entire head into her mouth.

  Alex opened his nightbook.

  “Jason couldn’t decide which was stranger,” he read, “the fact that his sister died every Tuesday at eleven fifteen, or that she always came back to life twenty-two minutes later.”

  Aunt Gris shook her head like a student caught not paying attention in class.

  “What was that?” she asked. “What did you say?”

  Alex read the next line.

  “Zachary didn’t think his day could get any worse—until he looked out his car window and saw the monsters.”

  This time, Alex had truly caught the witch’s attention. She really does love scary stories, he thought. Perhaps the sentences would have had less power if she had heard them already, but these were from failed stories that he never finished or simply threw away. He had liked their openings, however, and written them down on a single page.