A door on the opposite side of the kitchen banged open and out popped an enormous, be-tentacled creature carrying a towering stack of pots and pans. The beast resembled a giant octopus, except that it had multiple eyes and wore a white chef’s hat upon its bulbous head. Worrin stumbled back in shock. Rupert had mentioned that Warren kept some kind of pet in the hotel, but he didn’t expect anything quite like this!
“Hey, Sketchy!” Petula said casually, and the beast chirped a cheerful reply.
Stay calm, Worrin thought, though his heart was racing.
“Hello, Sketchy,” he said in an effort to recover. Act natural, he told himself.
Sketchy froze. Then the beast blinked at Worrin with its many eyes. Then it set down the pots and pans with an angry clatter and rushed toward him, whistling like an angry teakettle. It took all of Worrin’s willpower not to flee in terror. The beast used one of its tentacles to yank the cookie from Worrin’s hand and slam it back in the canister.
“Sketchy, don’t be rude!” Petula said, laughing.
Chef Bunion chuckled. “Sketchy must be worried you’ll spoil your appetite!”
It doesn’t like me! Worrin thought in a panic. It can tell I’m not the real Warren!
Worrin tried his best to laugh. “No, no. Sketchy is absolutely right. I should save room for lunch.” He attempted to pat Sketchy’s tentacle, but the beast sprang away.
SKETCHY IS SUSPICIOUS
“Sketchy, what’s wrong?” Petula asked. “Why are you acting like that?”
In reply, the creature whistled a series of short, frantic bursts. Worrin studied Petula’s face and was flooded with relief; she clearly had no idea what it was trying to communicate. Still, Worrin knew that it wouldn’t take much for Petula to grow suspicious…
“Poor Sketchy,” Worrin said. “He must be, um, feeling poorly.”
Petula laughed. “He? Warren, you know very well that Sketchy isn’t a he!”
“Of course,” Worrin said, laughing nervously. “Of course she’s not a he!”
Petula stared at him even more closely. “But Sketchy isn’t a she, either. Sketchy is just…Sketchy!”
Sketchy narrowed its eyes and trilled.
Worrin felt certain he’d been exposed, but fortunately Chef Bunion was quick to intervene. “If Sketchy is sick, it shouldn’t be handling food. In fact, it shouldn’t be anywhere near the kitchen. The entire hotel could be contaminated!”
“That’s right,” Worrin said. “We need to consider the safety of our guests!”
Sketchy let out a high-pitched whistle: No, no, that’s not it—
“Sorry, friend,” Chef Bunion continued. “I’ll miss your help, but it’s for the best.”
“Chef is right,” Worrin said a little too excitedly. “Sketchy needs to rest. I’ll find a nice quiet room where it can be quarantined and everything will be fine.”
Petula asked. “But that sounds so severe!”
“It’s for the safety and well-being of everyone,” Worrin said, grabbing a tentacle and dragging Sketchy out of the kitchen. The beast sputtered a series of helpless chirps, but Petula knew there was no point in arguing. Nothing was more important to Warren than his hotel and its guests.
“Don’t worry, Sketchy,” Petula called after them. “When we reach the next town, we’ll find a doctor who can help you.”
Worrin wasted no time pulling the creature down a twisted and turning hallway that led to one of the basement’s darkest corners. He opened the door to a cramped and tiny space, apparently some kind of utility closet, whose walls were lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and paint cans.
“In you go!” Worrin said, pushing Sketchy inside. The beast collided with the shelves, sending buckets clattering to the floor. Worrin slammed the door and locked it as Sketchy whistled shrilly from the other side.
“Now behave,” Worrin warned, “or I won’t bring you any food or water!”
The whistling quieted, and Worrin rubbed his hands together. He felt quite pleased with himself! He had already managed to eliminate the one creature that could see through his disguise; as long as the beast was locked away, it wouldn’t be able to warn a soul.
Now for the next challenge: How to get the hotel to…
eanwhile, back at the Sundry Shoppe, Warren squirmed and stretched and struggled, but the strong leather straps wouldn’t budge, not even an inch. He was able, at least, to spit out the cotton. Then he realized, bleakly, that the only way he might escape his bonds was if he didn’t eat for days and lost a few pounds. But by then his hotel would be long gone, firmly in the clutches of the evil witches in the Black Caldera.
Warren closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm himself down. He had to think clearly.
After a few moments wracking his brain for methods of escape, Warren heard the distant sound of an engine. His eyes flicked open and he glanced out the window. Driving up to the shop was the colorful car he’d spotted earlier, the one that had ferried his guests to Pineycones.
Please stop, Warren thought desperately. Please, please, please—
As if hearing his prayers, the car pulled over to the side of the road. A moment later, Warren heard the jingle of the door leading into the Sundry Shoppe. “Hello, anybody here?” the man called out. “I just made a small fortune driving a bunch of tourists to Pineycones. I need to buy all the reptile food you can spare.”
“Help!” Warren yelled as loud as he could. “I’m in the back!”
A moment later the door opened, and the man poked his head inside. “Do you work in the store?”
“Do I look like I work in the store?” Warren asked. “I’m trapped! Can you please set me free?”
The man paused to consider the question. “Well, that depends,” he said. “What can you offer me in return?”
Warren was shocked. He never thought he’d have to bargain his way out of this predicament!
“You just made a fortune by stealing all of my hotel guests,” Warren said. “Wasn’t that enough?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man replied calmly.
“Well, I do have a little money,” Warren told him.
“How little?”
“Untie me and you can see for yourself.”
“Hmph,” the man said. “All right. But if you’re lying, I’ll put you right back in this chair!”
The man unbuckled the straps and Warren spilled out of the chair, grateful to be back on his feet. He rubbed the feeling back into his numb arms; after spending so much time tied up in the chair, they felt like spaghetti noodles.
“Thank you,” Warren said.
“Don’t thank me yet. Where’s the money?”
Warren dug into his pockets and handed over everything he had. He hoped it would be enough. The man squinted down at the wad of bills and sniffed. “Well, it ain’t much, but I suppose it’ll do.”
He turned abruptly and walked back into the shop, with Warren following close behind. The man grabbed a shopping basket and headed to a corner where mini cauldrons and candles were piled high, along with jars of questionable ingredients for spells, like toenail clippings and frogs’ spawn. He picked up a container of dried crickets and read the label. “Perfect,” he said, and then proceeded to fill his basket.
“Where are you headed?” Warren asked.
“Malwoods,” the man grunted. “What’s it to you?”
FREEDOM…AT A PRICE
“That’s where I’m headed, too!” Warren said. “Can I get a lift?”
“What do I look like, a taxi service?” the man said.
Warren reminded him that he had just driven many of the hotel guests to Pineycones in exchange for payment, which sounded an awful lot like a taxi service.
“I suppose that’s true,” the man said. “But you no longer have any money, so there’s no reason for me to help you.” He knelt down and picked up a jug of fuel. “Now where is that shopkeeper?”
“He’s gone,” Warren said. “And I don’t think he’s co
ming back anytime soon.”
“Excellent! Then I guess I’ll enjoy a special discount.”
Without further ado, the man left the store, the door jingling merrily in his wake. Warren looked longingly out the window as the man sped away in his strange jalopy. He realized that he would have to pursue the hotel on foot.
Fortunately, everything he could possibly need for a long walk through the wilderness was right there in the shop. Warren grabbed a knapsack off the shelf and then wandered through the aisles, gathering anything useful: a compass, a lantern, a canteen, a book of matches, and a small tin pot with a fork and knife clipped to the handle. Digging around, Warren even found a forgotten jar of sap tucked in the back of a shelf, hidden behind cans of baked beans and peas. He uncorked the bottle and sniffed. It smelled sweet and sugary, with a hint of vanilla, just like cake frosting. He decided he would give it to Chef Bunion. Surely a professional cook would know what to do with it.
Even with all the supplies, there was still plenty of room in the knapsack, so Warren went to the candy case and filled the rest of his bag with snacks and a couple bottles of Sappy Cola. Then he shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders, testing its weight. It was heavy, but as the hotel’s only bellhop he was used to ferrying stacks of suitcases up and down stairs, so he knew he could manage just fine.
On his way past the cash register, Warren paused beside a crate filled with rolls of yellow paper: maps! He sorted through until he found one showing the Malwoods. Spreading the map on the counter, Warren studied the landscape. Little green triangles covered the surface, which Warren knew represented trees. A bold wiggly line appeared to depict a wide river, and a dotted line was likely a road. It cut through the heart of the forest, winding this way and that before eventually reaching the farthest edge, where it met the sea. And there, at the limit of the Malwoods, was a crude circle etched with dark lines. Warren didn’t need to read the legend to know this was the dreaded Black Caldera. Somehow he would have to catch the hotel before it reached that spot. But how?
Obviously, the hotel walked much faster than Warren did—but he realized that, because of its size, it would be forced to follow the road. This gave Warren an advantage—if he cut through the forest in a straight line, he had a good chance of beating the hotel. Of course, venturing off the road was likely to be extremely dangerous.
A MAP OF THE MALWOODS
The map was also speckled with black pointed hats, representing witch villages. These had ominous names like “Wart Hollow” and “Wickedsville” and “Smoke Slither Swamp.” Warren certainly didn’t want to stumble upon a village of witches.
Warren gave the map one last look. That was when he noticed the most alarming detail of all: a small square in the top right corner. It featured a bizarre depiction of a furry man and was captioned with a dire warning: “Beware the Sap-squatches!” Warren had never heard of a “sap-squatch,” and after seeing the illustration, he was certain he didn’t want to see one, either.
Feeling as prepared as he could be, Warren rolled up the map, tucked it into his knapsack, and glanced at his pocket watch. It was getting late, with only a few hours of daylight left to guide his way. He wanted to cover as much ground as possible before night fell. So he hurried out of the shop and took a deep breath as he faced the darkening band of trees on the horizon. Then Warren plunged ahead, walking briskly through the tall grass in the direction of the dreaded
etula carried a tray of food to the viewing room on the eighth floor, where her mother liked to spend her free time. What was formerly a dank and stuffy parlor had been transformed by Warren with the addition of panoramic windows on the outer walls. Now light flooded in, making the room appear much airier and more spacious than it really was.
Most days the viewing room was the most popular destination in the hotel, full of guests watching the scenery sail by. So it was rather jarring for Petula to arrive and find the space nearly empty. Now that the guests had left, the only people present were Beatrice [playing a sad song on her violin] and Mr. Vanderbelly, who was seated by the fireplace and immersed in a book.
“I brought some lunch,” Petula said, setting the tray on a nearby table.
Her mother smiled gratefully. Mr. Vanderbelly sniffed loudly and said, “That smells delicious! Acorn squash and parsnip potpie, is it?”
Petula nodded, impressed by Mr. Vanderbelly’s olfactory senses. “Sketchy appears to be ill,” she told her mother. “Warren put it in quarantine.”
“Quarantine! How very dramatic!” Mr. Vanderbelly said, reaching into his pocket for a notebook and pen. Petula frowned at his back. She was tired of him always hanging about and listening to conversations that were none of his business.
“It’s really not a big deal,” she said. “It’s probably just a cold.”
Beatrice looked concerned and rapidly pulled out a series of picture cards: a question mark, a thermometer, a skull-and-crossbones, a querulous gorilla. Mr. Vanderbelly attempted to eavesdrop but couldn’t read the cards as fluently as Petula could.
“I suppose you’re right,” Petula said to her mother. “I’ll check tomorrow.”
Beatrice nodded, satisfied that her request would be fulfilled, and then sat down to dine with Mr. Vanderbelly.
Suddenly, the room seemed to flicker with shadows, and a dark blur shot past the windows. The trio hurried to the glass and peered outside. At first, they saw nothing but wide-open prairie and waves of golden grass. But then another shadow flitted by, and another, and another.
Beatrice’s face darkened, and with a fwip-fwip-fwip! she flashed a series of cards telling Petula, in no uncertain terms, to stay put. Then she vaulted out of the observation room and into the hallway.
“What did she say?” Mr. Vanderbelly asked worriedly. “Where is she going?”
Petula sprinted for the door. “She’s going to fight those witches and she wants us to stay here.”
“Then where are you going?” he cried.
“To help her!”
After all, Petula was a perfumier-in-training. Though her mother didn’t think she was ready for battle, Petula knew otherwise. Confident in her abilities, she patted the empty bottle in her pocket, knowing she had everything necessary to make her first capture. In the instant any witch tried to use magic, Petula would open the bottle, magically drawing the witch inside.
Petula raced into the hallway but paused at the hotel intercom. “Stop the hotel!” she shouted down to the control room. “We’re under attack!” She knew it would be easier to fight on the roof of a stationary hotel than a moving one.
By the time Petula reached the roof, her mother was already surrounded by five witches hovering on brooms. They swooped around her, cackling madly and throwing bolts of lightning and fire. Beatrice leapt and twirled like an acrobat, dodging each attack as the scent of sulfur bloomed in the air. Crouching low to avoid another blast, she uncorked a bottle, and with a whooosh the nearest witch was sucked inside, screaming.
“She got Kragga!” snarled one of the remaining witches. “Stop casting spells! That’s what allows them to catch us!” She landed on the roof and spun her broom like a stave; the other witches followed in formation. They pressed forward, swinging and stabbing with their wooden handles.
Beatrice fended them off, blocking each thrust with her arms and legs. She overpowered one witch with spiky blue hair and tossed her off the edge of the roof, but the witch used her broom to stop the fall and then swooped back into battle. Beatrice was vastly outnumbered.
“This is truly remarkable!” Mr. Vanderbelly exclaimed upon seeing Beatrice’s display of prowess. Somehow he had followed Petula onto the roof and was now furiously jotting notes in his notebook.
Petula pushed him away. “Get back!”
She reached for her empty perfume bottle, ready to uncork it the instant a witch cast a spell. Somehow she would have to trick them into using magic. “Hey, stink breath!” she yelled to the closest one, an old crone with spiky pink hair. “Come an
d get me!”
Upon hearing her daughter’s voice, Beatrice’s expression turned from determination to horror. She shook her head furiously, and Petula didn’t need a picture card to know that her mom was saying “NO!”
But it was too late. Petula had come ready to fight.
“Well, well, well! What have we here?” cackled the pink-haired witch. Her hands glowed neon blue as she prepared to shoot a spell.
Here’s my chance, thought Petula.
But just as the witch released a crackling bolt of lightning, Petula fumbled with her bottle and it slipped from her fingers. She glanced up in dismay as the bolt arced toward her with terrifying speed. But with a startling whoosh! the witch and her spell were vacuumed into one of Beatrice’s bottles.
Now three witches remained. Two rushed forward, seizing Petula. “Let me go!” Petula cried, kicking and fighting, but she was no match for their strength.
Beatrice rushed forward, rage flashing in her eyes, but hesitated when the blue-haired witch yelled, “Stop! Or the little girl gets it!” Then she hooked her broom handle around Beatrice’s neck, holding her in place. “Move one muscle, and your little girl’s a goner. Got it?”
Beatrice stood still as a stone.
“I’m sorry, Mom!” Petula cried. “I didn’t think they’d catch me!”
Before Petula and Beatrice could meet their doom, another figure burst out the door and onto the roof. It was Worrin, and he was running right into the middle of the action.
“What is this madness?” he cried. “Let them go!”
“Shut up, Toadface,” yelled one of the witches. “We’re bringing Beatrice to the queen and you can’t stop us.”
Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods Page 4