TwoSpells

by Mark Morrison

  “We should google it,” Jon suggested.

  “Google what? Don’t you remember?” Sarah asked, clapping the book closed. “Grandma said this was some ancient goblin language or something. You’re not going to find anything about it.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Besides, we don’t have time for that right now. We have to get out of here before Clyde finds out we broke in,” Sarah said, standing up with the book tucked under her arm.

  “But what about the broken jars?” Jon asked. “He’ll know we were here.”

  “We’ll just have to deny it,” she said. “We need to find out why Clyde is hiding this book from Grandma and Grandpa. They probably don’t even know it’s down here.”

  “Let’s at least clean up a little,” Jon said, picking around in the broken glass. He cried out suddenly, wincing in pain and holding up his middle finger. Blood dribbled down the tip and pattered onto the cellar floor.

  “Let me see that, you clumsy oaf,” Sarah said, taking hold of his hand. “Oh boy. That’s kinda nasty. Let’s get out of here. I’ll bandage it. We can come back to clean up later.”

  He pulled his new handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his wounded finger. “No. We have to finish now. Cover our tracks.”

  “Okay, but we need to hurry,” Sarah said, helping Jon brush most of the loose pieces of glass and food stuffs under the shelf with her foot. “There. Good enough.”

  “Now we gotta return the key or Clyde will know someone stole it,” Jon explained.

  “Are you kidding?” Sarah asked as she tiptoed up the slippery cellar stairs. “It’s too late for that now.”

  Jon followed her up, leaping over the second to last step completely. “Then I’ll do it alone.”

  He closed the doors behind him and re-fit the padlock, grabbed the pickles and dead flashlight and took the lead back to Clyde’s shack.

  “Are we really doing this?” Sarah whispered, straining to hold the huge book in her arms.

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “Ugh. Okay then, but this better work,” Sarah groaned, following close behind.

  Tornado whined as they approached, rolled over and pawed at the night air for another treat.

  “Tornado, you’re a big mooch,” Jon said. He popped another pickle into the dog’s mouth.

  Sarah carefully pressed an ear to Clyde’s door. “I hear snoring. I think it’s safe.”

  Jon pressed an ear to the door. “Okay, I’m going in. Watch for trouble.”

  As Jon tried turning the doorknob, a sinking look came over his face. He jiggled the knob. “What the—”

  “Come on, Jon. Open it,” Sarah said nervously.

  “I’d love to but it’s locked.”

  Sarah felt her stomach sink. She pushed Jon back and grabbed the doorknob herself. “Let me see!”

  “What!” Jon said. “Did you think it’d be any less locked?”

  “Well, we have to do something. Maybe put the key on the doormat. Just leave it here,” Sarah said. “Maybe he’ll think he dropped it or something.”

  There was a sudden crash from inside the room. Clyde was obviously awake and mumbling as he shuffled around inside.

  Jon panicked and threw down the key. “Forget it. You’re right. Let’s get out of here!”

  Sarah trembled as she stared down at the large leather bound book on the floor of her bedroom. She looked to Jon who was busy checking under his freshly bandaged finger to see if the bleeding had stopped.

  She flipped the latch and slowly opened the book again. Jon immediately pointed at a bit of text that swirled into view at the top of a page.

  “Jon!” Sarah slapped his hand away. He’d left a bloody fingerprint on the parchment. “Look what you’ve done!”

  “What?” he asked, holding up his middle finger boldly and smiling slyly.

  “Stop with the finger!” Sarah said, grinning.

  Suddenly, the page began to glow a soft blue and more text was revealed. This time the words were far more ominous looking, blood red and dripping down the page. A sketch appeared, an old etching of two creatures—half man, half something else entirely—standing around a large kettle over a fire.

  There was a tapping at Sarah’s door that caused her to jump up. Jon slammed the book shut and slid it under her bed.

  “Who is it?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s Grandpa,” came a gentle voice. “Ya’ best get ta’ bed soon. Ya’ got chores in the mornin’.”

  “Sorry, Grandpa. We’re going to bed in a second,” Sarah replied. “We’ll be up on time. I promise!”

  They heard Grandpa shuffle down the hallway toward his room mumbling something in response.

  Sarah looked to Jon. “Do you think he knows?”

  “Nah,” Jon replied. “But he might after Clyde finds out.”

  Sarah frowned as she prepared to go to bed. Jon made a few lame jokes on his way out. He was annoying sometimes, but tonight she wished he could stay. There was so much to think about. So many parts of their plan had gone wrong. She pulled her blanket up over her face and forced her eyes shut, hoping for sleep to come soon.

  CHAPTER 11

  SARAH FLOATED GRACEFULLY THROUGH A shimmering sea of auburn meadow grass, sprinkled with colorful and fragrant wildflowers. She giggled as it tickled her knees. The soft breeze flowed through the grass like a swimming sea creature. Butterflies flickered from flower to flower, hunting down the sweetest nectar. The cloudless sky was a deep rich blue. Sarah felt warm and safe as she frolicked through the grass alone.

  She crested a small hilltop and saw a peculiar set of doors in the distance. Her curiosity drew her closer. She stumbled, looked down and saw a baby blanket in the grass. It was a pink, velvety fabric embroidered with tiny green piglets. She pressed it to her face, inhaling. It smelled of baby powder and her mother’s hair—familiar and comforting. She held it tight.

  There was a sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes darted back and forth. Someone or something was watching. An ominous shadow washed over the meadow and a chill ran down her spine. The meadow grass stopped flowing, as if time were standing still.

  She quickened her pace toward a rocky outcrop a short distance away, the meadow grass pelting her bare legs. She breathed heavier. Her legs ached. The grass had become tiny, gnarled hands tipped with yellowed fingernails that slashed at her skin. She reached the rocky outcrop and clambered up onto the warm granite, pulling her bleeding legs up to safety. A frigid breeze washed over her and she gulped the cool air to catch her breath. She began to shiver and collapsed.

  She awoke in darkness, sprawled on her back across the hard stone. The sky sparkled with stars and planets as a dazzling light show of red meteors blazed across the heavens. She wrapped the blanket around her quaking body. A hissing sound caught her attention. She sat up and discovered that the grotesque hands had transformed into muscular vine-like serpents slithering up the stony face. She recoiled in horror. What kind of place was this?

  She searched for any means of escape, edging backward toward higher ground. The vines snaked closer. The stars and planets appeared to be growing larger. In the distance she saw a faint glow of light from the two doors, like a beacon of hope. She squinted and realized that the beacon was actually a porch light. She leapt from the granite precipice and darted between the tiny serpents that struck and nipped at her tender skin. One of them snagged the blanket and a tug of war started between them. She heaved until finally she won. Dozens of ear splitting screams echoed over the meadow as the serpent vines were torn from the ruptured earth. The blanket dragged behind her as she ran towards the light. She tried to scream but couldn’t.

  She reached the doors and realized that they were exactly like her own back home—ornate carved oak with a distinctive bronze doorknob crafted like a wolf’s head. Before entering, she looked toward the night sky. The stars weren’t really stars at all, but tiny bloodshot eyes staring down at her. They swarmed her face like angry hornets and s
he fumbled with the doorknob, twisting and pushing. A wave of warm salty air filled her nostrils as she made her way inside, slamming and locking the door. She leaned against it, sobbing and pleading for help.

  She suddenly started choking and gasping for air. Something was caught in her throat. She grasped at her neck until she stumbled to her hands and knees. One last hysterical coughing fit pushed the lodged object from her windpipe. A distorted eye fell out of her mouth, glaring upward. She squealed and got back to her feet, raising one foot and bringing it down hard on the eye, squishing it into a disgusting bloody pulp.

  She winced in revulsion, wiping her shoe on the sandy ground. She looked up and saw clear blue skies stretching to the horizon. A beautiful white sandy beach speckled with swaying coconut palms welcomed her. Dolphins frolicked and jumped in the clear green waters just off shore, cheerily whistling and clicking. Sea gulls hovered over the shoreline in search of food on the fringes of the rhythmic crashing waves. She was alone and felt safe again.

  Sarah felt the warm sugar sand between her toes and realized that she wasn’t wearing shoes any longer. The blood trails on her legs had dried to a deep ruby red, streaking her thin pale legs.

  In the distance was another door, but heat waves flowing across the sand distorted the image. She felt compelled to reach it. Someone or something was still watching as she quickened her pace. A peculiar clicking sound caught her ear. She glanced around, trying to find the source. The sound got louder, coming from somewhere below her. She looked down and saw thousands of small red crabs with raised claws snapping at her feet. They had beady eyes at the ends of long wiry tentacles. She gasped and started a slow trot across the hot sand towards the door as the crabs chased her. When she reached the door, she realized that it was exactly like the one on her grandparents’ farmhouse.

  A sharp agonizing pain shot up one leg. She had stepped on one of the hideous crabs. It clamped down hard on her toes and she screamed, reached down and painfully wrenched it free. Another pinched her other foot. She panicked and kicked her feet frantically, desperately trying to shake them loose. She managed to open the door and lunged inside, slamming the door shut on several of the attacking crabs. Shells and limbs crunched and cracked as gruesome innards splattered between the door and the wooden framework. She frantically reached across and slid the bolt lock on the door. Several of the creatures had gained entry and latched onto her toes. One by one she pried them loose, tossing them aside and watching them scamper under random furniture in what appeared to be her grandparents farmhouse. She clenched her fists and stood ready for another attack.

  “Mom! Grandma! Grandpa! Jon!” Sarah called. “Is anybody home?”

  No one answered. All she could hear was the nauseating scratching of the thousands of crabs still trying to enter the front door.

  A small fire was burning in the fireplace, accenting the smell of Grandma’s cinnamon tea biscuits. All the hanging portraits and family photos were askew or knocked over. A scuttling sound drew her eyes back toward the living room, just as a few more crabs scrambled for cover. As she turned her head back, a blur of brown fur leapt into her path. She shrieked and fell backward onto the wood floor, knocking her unconscious.

  A huge wet tongue woke her moments later. It smelled of pickles. She hugged and thanked Tornado for being there. A strange feeling came over her and she slowly turned her head to see a set of beady, hungry eyes watching her. Sharp claws clacked angrily under Grandma’s sofa. Tornado barked and growled viciously, keeping them at bay. Sarah moaned and clambered to her feet.

  “Where is everyone, Tornado?” Sarah asked, but not expecting an answer. “I’ll get you a pickle if you can find Jon.”

  Tornado leapt past her, nearly knocking her down as he lead them outside. Sarah looked around the farmyard, but everything appeared to be normal. The faint sound of someone singing echoed through the farmyard. It was coming from Clyde’s shack.

  “Me eyes fancy the lassie. If we don’t get her we'll take the laddie,” sang the strange voice over and over again, accompanied by the gasping squeezebox.

  Clyde's door began to shake and rattle as if someone were attempting to open it. Sarah turned and tried to run but her feet felt like cement as she struggled to get away. She stopped and saw that she was wearing high top sneakers now. She tried to untie them, but they suddenly had row after row of laces. Each time she untied one, another took its place. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Clyde's door slowly creaking open, the rusty hinges screaming in agony. She stood and began to run. Tornado was sitting obediently next to the root cellar doors, which hung wide open. The haunting tune got louder as she neared the cellar. Tornado ran inside just before she reached him. She stumbled in front of the open doors, tumbling awkwardly down the stone steps.

  She found herself face down at the bottom of the steps, every bone in her frail body aching. She rolled over with a terrible pain in her head. She reached up and felt an enormous wet knot had already formed. Tornado crept over and eagerly lapped at the warm trickle of blood, trying to help. She rolled over and got to her hands and knees. Bright golden sunlight streamed through the open cellar doors. The singing was closer now, just at the top of the steps. Sarah moaned as a sharp pain shot through her ankle when she tried to stand. She limped to the far corner of the root cellar with Tornado at her side, bumping several jars. She watched them crash to the floor in a slow motion avalanche, broken glass and food stuffs cascading across the floor. They huddled together in the shadows, focusing on the light streaming from the open doors. The smell of rotted fruit and vegetable matter filled her nostrils.

  Suddenly, a familiar silhouette obscured the doorway, casting an eerie shadow on the cellar’s filthy floor in front of her. It was Clyde with his artificial leg menacingly tapping the wooden threshold of the doorway. His raspy voice began a new song as he wheezed a tune with his bizarre squeezebox.

  “The lassie has trapped herself. No way out but through me self.”

  Sarah covered her ears as he sang it over and over, louder and louder.

  She pinched her eyes shut, but another voice cut through the singing, soft and gentle. “I’m here ta’ help ya’, Sarah.”

  Sarah looked among the cellar shadows. “Who are you?”

  Tornado perked up his ears, letting out a low whimper. He lay down on his stomach and covered his eyes with his paws.

  “He hungers for TwoSpells, Sarah. He wants it all to himself and for that, he needs you.”

  “What? Why?” Sarah asked the voice. She and Tornado stood ready in the shadows. Suddenly, the doors slammed shut, casting them into complete darkness. Out of nowhere, a pair of grisly hands seized her by the throat.

  Sarah lurched upright in bed and gasped violently, flailing her legs and arms. She looked around and realized that she’d escaped the nightmare. Her legs were tangled in the bed sheets. She tore them loose and scrambled to the furthest corner of her bed, pulling the blanket up under her chin.

  Am I awake? she thought.

  The loud crashing sound came again and she winced. This wasn’t part of the nightmare. This was real. Someone was banging violently on the front door. She heard voices from her grandparents’ room.

  “Hold on ta’ your bloody horses,” Grandpa shouted.

  A strange red glow was coming from under her bed. She bolted for the bedroom door. Her ankle gave way and she stumbled moaning in pain, crashing into the wall.

  Wasn’t it just a dream?

  She struggled to her feet and opened the door a crack. The hallway was empty, but Jon was peeking out from his room too. The angry knocking continued.

  Sarah was the first out into the hall and Jon followed. The house shook with a terrible crash. Dust and debris filled the air. Sarah coughed and covered her mouth as she entered the living room. Moonlight streamed in from a giant hole where the door had once stood.

  Two menacing silhouettes stepped through.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FRONT DOOR LAY FLATTENED,
hinges bent and twisted and the sliding bolt-lock contorted. The door jam was broken and splintered.

  “What is this?” Grandpa roared, waving his walking stick at the mountainous intruders. “Which one of ya’ is gonna pay for all this?”

  The dust settled and the two ominous figures stood just outside the doorway, the bright moon blazing behind them. Tattooed across their pale blue foreheads were the numbers thirty-seven and thirty-eight. Each was stuffed into a suit two sizes too small and busting at the seams, barely able to contain their hulking, muscular bodies. Black, wraparound sunglasses hid their eyes from view and Sarah could tell that something strange lay behind them. One muttered into a small microphone curled toward his lips and the other stared straight ahead.

  Grandpa rolled up behind them. “Collectors!”

  “Collectors?” Sarah whispered to Jon. He shrugged.

  “You know why here,” Thirty-seven grunted, flipping one side of his jacket open and exposing a peculiar gold badge attached to his belt. It was a cluster of mechanical gears embedded with astrological symbols and a mechanical winged dragon clinging to a peculiar orbs.

  “We do not!” Grandma shouted, leaning on her walker.

  “Overdue book,” the other one boomed, holding out a six fingered hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about ya’ thug,” Grandma said, rolling her walker closer. “Who’s gonna fix me door?”

  The Collectors muttered something in another language to one another.

  “We haven’t even been ta’ the bloody library in years,” Grandpa argued. “Ya’ have that written in your records?”

  Thirty-seven moved closer, his hand out again. “Special text overdue.”

  Sarah and Jon eased backward a little. The tone of its voice sounded threatening.