Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

by Tania del Rio

  But Sly was distracted. “I nearly forgot Stella!” he exclaimed, breaking open the final crate. Warren’s blood ran cold. Stella was a massive albino python. “She’s a heavy girl,” Sly said, grunting as he pulled the snake’s front half out of the box. The serpent hissed and coiled around his shoulders, its tongue flickering as its catlike eyes gleamed. “Hurry, grab the other end!”

  Quicksand was now pouring into the trunk, spilling onto the floor and oozing onto the front seats. Warren wrapped his arms around Stella’s body and struggled to lift. “I can’t do it!” he cried. “She’s as heavy as a log!”

  Wait, Warren thought. Log. Bridge. Stella was easily twenty feet long. If the other snakes hadn’t sunk, then maybe…

  “Never mind throwing Stella,” Warren said, pointing to the quicksand. “Just place her on the quicksand and get ready to hitch a ride!”

  “What?!” Sly cried.

  “Trust me!” Warren said.

  Warren and Sly eased Stella out of the car, and the snake slowly slithered across the quicksand, making her way toward dry land.

  “What about my medicines?” Sly said. He clutched his chest as mud oozed over the remaining boxes, jugs, and bags piled in the carriage. “My precious oils!”

  “We don’t have time!” Warren said. “Come on!”

  “Wait!” Sly said. “Just one thing—”

  As a thin layer of mud crept over the roof, Sly lunged backward, wrapped his fingers around the blue strap of a satchel, and yanked it out of harm’s way. Quicksand poured into the trunk, burying the bottles in its sticky, stinky mass. They had to go—now.

  “Hurry!” Warren yelled. Treading carefully, he stepped off the roof and onto the python’s back, yanking Sly after him. With a loud blurp, the rest of the jalopy disappeared.

  Sly gasped, clutching his satchel.

  “Don’t lose your balance!” Warren warned. “Use the snake as a bridge.”

  Weaving and wobbling, they crept along. Stella may have been as big as a log, but she moved quite a lot; once or twice her muscles twitched so hard that Warren nearly fell off. But by carefully placing one foot in front of the other, they both made it to her scaly head and, finally, reached dry land.

  Warren flopped to the ground in relief. He turned to the python, who looked balefully at him through pink eyes.

  “Sorry, Stella,” Warren said. “But thank you for your help. I’ll never think badly of snakes again!”

  Stella simply stuck out her forked tongue and said, “Phhhhhhhhhhbbbbt!” before slithering away into a dense thatch of trees.

  “Stella! Come back!” Sly called. He tried grabbing at the python’s tail but wasn’t fast enough; the snake disappeared into the trees and Sly was left holding his lone satchel in shaking hands.

  “She’s gone,” he said, his voice hollow. “My snakes are gone. My jalopy’s gone. Everything’s gone. I’m ruined! Ruined, I tell you!”

  “We still have our lives!” Warren said. “And all your snakes survived! You just have to start over.”

  “Start over?” Sly cried. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to get oil off a snake?

  This is all your fault! You owe me, kid!

  That didn’t seem fair to Warren, considering that he was the one who had saved Sly’s life. But all he said was, “I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to lose everything you’ve worked for.”

  “No, you don’t,” Sly said. “And nothing you can do will ever make up for this!” He curled his hands into fists and stood up, towering over Warren with menace in his eyes. “In fact, I oughtta—” But then he stopped midsentence, a look of horror on his face. “On second thought, never mind.” To Warren’s astonishment, Sly turned quickly and ran off into the woods.

  “Wait!” Warren called after him. “Where are you going?”

  Sly didn’t dare look back. Warren glanced around to consider his location, but all he saw was a slash of white fur before everything went black.

  etula and Sketchy crept out of the utility closet and sneaked up the stairway to the lobby. Petula tried her best to step lightly, but her shoes made a loud click-clack sound on the cement. Upon reaching the lobby, she and the creature tiptoed across the checkered title floor, heading toward the main stairwell.

  “Why are you two sneaking around?” boomed a loud voice.

  Sketchy let out a shrill whistle of alarm, wrapping its tentacles around Petula as Mr. Vanderbelly emerged from a side doorway. As usual, he was carrying his pencil and notepad.

  Petula sighed with relief. “None of your business,” she said.

  “But I am a journalist,” Vanderbelly said loftily. “Everything is my business!”

  “All I’m going to tell you,” Petula said, “is that you should go to your room and lock the door.”

  Mr. Vanderbelly looked at Sketchy and narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that creature supposed to be quarantined?”

  “It’s not sick,” Petula said impatiently. “It never was.”

  “A likely story. It looks to me as if you’ve broken Sketchy out of quarantine! And now you’re trying to move the beast to another secret location. What would Warren say if he knew about these shenanigans?”

  Of course this was the last thing that Petula wanted. She knew she would have to act quickly to keep the situation from getting out of hand.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Vanderbelly,” she said. “I’ve got an exclusive scoop for your newspaper. You can publish this information if you want, but you can’t tell anyone I told you.”

  Mr. Vanderbelly held his pen at the ready. “Go on,” he said.

  “Warren isn’t who you think he is. He’s an impostor! A phony in disguise! And he can’t be trusted! So stay out of his way, do you hear me?”

  Mr. Vanderbelly snorted in disgust. “You call that a ‘scoop’? That’s the most ridiculous, made-up story I’ve ever heard! I’m going to find Warren and tell him that you’re smearing his good name!”

  PETULA’S SCOOP

  With that, Mr. Vanderbelly spun on his heel and stomped down the stairs that led to the basement control room. Sketchy whistled menacingly.

  “I know what you mean, Sketchy,” Petula said, “but we can’t do anything to stop him. Let’s just hurry and find Mr. Friggs so we can warn him!”

  They raced up the stairs and Petula flung open the doors to the library. Mr. Friggs sat surrounded by piles of books with a troubled expression on his face. “I’m afraid I’m still no closer to an answer!” he said. “I’ve been poring through all my books on dark magic and I haven’t been able to pinpoint what has happened to Warren. It could be hypnotism, or perhaps possession by a ghost or maybe…”

  Petula said, finishing his sentence.

  Mr. Friggs slapped his forehead. “A mimic! But of course! How did you know?”

  “Sketchy told me,” Petula said. “There’s no time to explain. The important thing is, do you know how to stop one?”

  “Not off-hand, though I have a book somewhere. Let me see if I can find it.”

  Mr. Friggs stood up and began rooting through his shelves. “Is it this one? No, no…it was somewhere over here…”

  “We have to hurry,” Petula said.

  “But I still need to do research—crossreferencing! Study!”

  “Okay, then I’ll do my best to buy you some time. Maybe I can lead him on a wild goose chase,” Petula said. “Lock the door behind us and don’t let anyone inside. Sketchy, you stay here where it’s safe.”

  Sketchy let out a shrill whistle of protest. It was clear that it wasn’t going to allow Petula to face the mimic alone.

  “Oh, very well,” she said. “Come on, then.”

  They stepped back out into the hall, and Petula could hear the snick of the lock being turned behind them.

  “Good luck!” Mr. Friggs said through the door. “And be careful!”

  Petula and Sketchy cautiously crept down the stairs. Petula held her lone perfumier bottle in her palm, ready to use it if necessary. When they rea
ched the lobby, Petula noticed Worrin standing in the center of the checkered tile floor.

  “There you are,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “We?” Petula asked.

  “Mr. Vanderbelly had some very interesting things to tell us,” he continued.

  “Us?” Petula asked.

  “That’s right,” Worrin said. “Let me introduce my friends.”

  The light in the lobby dimmed, and the mimic’s form began to separate and multiply. Surely this was some kind of dark magic; Petula reached for her perfumier bottle, taking great pains not to drop it this time. But when she uncorked it, nothing happened. Within seconds, there were thirteen copies of Worrin, surrounding Petula and Sketchy in a circle.

  The Worrins laughed as if this was the funniest thing in the world. “You think that bottle will work on us?” they jeered in unison. “We’re not witches! We’re mimics, and our magic is immune to your perfumier weapons!”

  Petula gritted her teeth in frustration. Her perfumier skills would be useless against the mimic. The duplicates closed the circle, moving in closer to Petula and Sketchy, like a knot being pulled tight.

  “Stay back!” Petula warned, still holding out the useless bottle.

  “Or what?” the Worrins sneered. “You can’t do anything and you know it!”

  Petula whirled and cast the sparkling fire spell that she had used to melt the lock in the utility room. It zapped one of the Worrins and the mimic burst into shadowy smoke, but it wasn’t enough to stop the other twelve. They lunged forward, a mob of shadowy arms and hands. Sketchy whistled in anger, slapping the mimics with its tentacles.

  But it was no use—she and Sketchy were sorely outnumbered.

  “We’re sorry, but you have overextended your stay,” the Worrins droned.

  “Chef!” Petula screamed. “Mr. Vanderbelly!”

  “We’re afraid they can’t hear you,” the Worrins continued. “Mr. Vanderbelly is interviewing Chef for a feature article, and it’ll be some time before they realize you’re no longer on board!”

  The front doors crashed open and the Worrins pushed Petula and Sketchy out onto the porch. The road yawned before them, a good fifty feet below. The hotel’s legs were so tall that a drop from the first floor would almost certainly be fatal.

  Petula managed to zap another of the Worrins into smoke, but the situation was hopeless—there were too many to fend off. She let out a cry as the Worrins booted her and Sketchy out of the lobby doors and they tumbled down, down, down toward the road below. Petula closed her eyes, expecting the worst. She knew death was imminent, and in her last moments she wished her mother would find a way to escape from the witches, and somehow restore control of the hotel.

  Then, all of a sudden, Sketchy’s tentacles curled around Petula’s waist, wrapping her in what felt like a cocoon. An instant later, they hit the ground—and then bounced back up, just like a rubber ball.

  “Sketchy!” Petula cried. “Are you okay?”

  The creature trilled patiently as they bounced again and again, finally rolling to a stop at the side of the road. Only then did Sketchy release Petula, using one of its tentacles to tap the side of its head: Yes, I’m okay. Finally it shook itself all over, like a dog shedding water.

  As for the hotel, it was already walking away, but was still within range for them to reenter using one of Petula’s portals. She waved her casting arm and one appeared instantly.

  “Well, come on!” she said, tugging on one of Sketchy’s tentacles as she stepped into the swirling pool of magic. “This will take us directly to the library!” She felt resistance as Sketchy refused to budge. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “We have to hurry!”

  Sketchy whistled in distress and Petula realized the problem. He was too big to fit inside her portal! She gritted her teeth and tried her best to make it larger. She hopped out and dug her heels into the dirt as she pushed on Sketchy’s rubbery hide, trying to squeeze him through the opening. But it was no use: Sketchy’s bulbous head was simply too large to fit.

  “I can’t make it any larger,” Petula said. She already felt dizzy from the effort. Sketchy pointed at the hotel, which was rapidly receding in the distance. The creature chirped and whistled, nudging Petula toward the portal she had made.

  “You want me to go ahead and leave you here?” Petula asked, and Sketchy tapped its head. She glanced back at the hotel—if she didn’t move quickly, the hotel would be out of range and her portal wouldn’t work at all. But she couldn’t do it.

  “I’m not going to leave you alone in this horrible place,” she told Sketchy. “We’ll just have to find another way to catch up to the hotel.” Sketchy whistled and gave her a hug. Then it scooped Petula onto its back, and with surprising speed it hurried down the road after the hotel. With eight tentacles instead of two legs, Sketchy was able to gallop much like a horse. But despite this burst of speed, the hotel was still much faster, and within minutes it had faded out of sight.

  Petula felt a wave of despair. She wasn’t sure how they would ever catch up to a building that moved faster than an automobile, but she knew they had to try. We owe it to Warren to save his hotel, Petula thought to herself. I just hope he’s okay, wherever he is…

  PORTAL PROBLEMS

  tars danced before Warren’s eyes as he slowly regained consciousness. Through the fog of a throbbing headache, he could smell a warm, toasty fire that reminded him of Chef Bunion’s kitchens. It was the comforting smell of home.

  He tried to rub his sore head but realized his hands were bound. As his vision cleared, he saw that he was wrapped tightly in vines, and that the giant sap-squatch was standing just a few feet away. The monster was crouching over a large fire, tying branches into an elaborate construction that hung just above the flames. He appeared to be building a spit for roasting meats.

  A BARGAIN IS STRUCK

  “Is that…for me?” Warren asked.

  The sap-squatch ignored the question. He continued bending and twisting branches with his massive bear-like paws. Even though Warren was cocooned in vines, he found that he could rock back and forth. So he rocked and rocked and rocked until he built enough momentum to roll his body closer to the sap-squatch.

  “Hello?” he called. “Excuse me, Mr. Sap-Squatch?”

  The sap-squatch glanced up but didn’t reply.

  “I have an idea,” Warren said. “If you let me go, I’ll help you find a better meal.”

  The sap-squatch snorted. “That seems highly unlikely,” he said.

  To Warren’s astonishment, the creature spoke in a crisp English accent and with perfect diction.

  “In fact,” the sap-squatch continued, “the trees in this forest haven’t produced sap in years. All of the animals are poisonous, and I would never dare eat a witch.” He shrugged. “So that leaves you, I’m afraid. I regret that it’s come to this, but I haven’t had a bite in days and something about you smells quite delicious.”

  The sap-squatch lowered his nose to Warren’s jacket, sniffing furiously. Warren realized what he found so irresistible: the sap bottle in his pocket!

  “I know where we can find some sap,” Warren said. “If you set me free, I’ll get you an entire bottle of sap within minutes!”

  The sap-squatch’s eyes glowed with excitement. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

  “Mr. Sap-Squatch, I am the manager of a hotel. I would never lie to my guests, and I wouldn’t lie to you either. My father taught me to be honorable!”

  The sap-squatch scratched his chin with a long claw, pondering his decision. After a moment, he nodded his shaggy head and said, “Well…I suppose that’s as good an argument as any. Very well, I’ll set you free. But if you deceive me, I shall eat you raw!”

  With a single swipe of his claws, the sap-squatch severed the vines around Warren’s limbs. Warren let out a sigh of relief, then reached into his pocket and retrieved the bottle he’d taken from the Sundry Shoppe. “And here you are,” he said. “A prom
ise is a promise.”

  As soon as the sap-squatch took the bottle, his mood changed instantly.

  “Oh sap! Oh my sweet, sweet sap! How I’ve missed you!” he cried, hugging the bottle to his furry chest. He uncorked it and began guzzling the contents greedily with loud glug-glug-glug noises.

  “Maybe you should save some for later?” Warren suggested. “So you have something to look forward to.”

  The sap-squatch sighed and reluctantly recorked the bottle. “You’re right. It’s just so hard to resist! It’s been weeks and weeks since I’ve had a drop of sap and it’s driving me mad! I feel much better now.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad to hear that,” Warren said, laughing nervously. “Sometimes I get cranky when I’m hungry, too. My friend Chef Bunion calls it a case of the grumpy grumbles.”

  “That sounds accurate,” the sap-squatch concurred.

  “But I’m confused,” Warren said. “This whole forest is full of pine trees. Have they all run out of sap?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. I risked everything to escape the Black Caldera to try and bring sap back to my people.”

  “You’re from the Black Caldera?” Warren asked.

  “Not by choice. The queen has enslaved all the sap-squatches and feeds us sap in return for our labor, but it’s never quite enough. We’ve become so sickly…” He paused to wipe away a tear. “Once sap flowed from every tree, and sap-squatches roamed the forest freely, drinking as much as we needed. Now the trees are empty. I keep hoping to find even one that still has sap, but so far no luck.”

  “If all the trees have stopped giving sap, where does the queen get hers?” Warren asked.

  “I don’t know,” the sap-squatch said. “My greatest fear is that she’ll run out, too, and then my people truly will die.”