Here Comes Mr. Trouble tfc-1

by Brett Battles

  In that fateful year, I sailed on one of my ships to the colonies, but my intent was only to conduct some business in Boston then return as soon as possible to London.

  The trip was not an easy one. We encountered storm after storm, and I worried at times that we might never make it. Mostly, my ships carried items to sell in the colonies but, as usual, there were also a few passengers onboard.

  One gentleman, an older man of perhaps fifty who was traveling alone, took an interest in me. He would often look for me so that we could pass the time in conversation. When we were only halfway across the ocean, I realized that he had an illness that would eventually take his life, and it was apparent the storms were not helping his condition.

  One night, several days before we reached Boston, he knocked on my door. It being late, I did not want to let him in, but he insisted he needed to talk to me so I relented. We sat at my small private dining table, and when I asked him what he wanted, he said, “Mr. Leatherwood, we did not meet by chance on this voyage. I have been sent to you.”

  I am not exaggerating when I say he seemed to get weaker and weaker as he spoke. Many times, he was stopped by a coughing attack or by the need for a moment or two of rest. When he did talk, what he said was unbelievable and troubling.

  He told me that he had undertaken the voyage to pass a tremendous responsibility on to me. When I asked what this responsibility was, he said, “One that you cannot avoid.”

  He said our family had been chosen to make up for crimes we had committed. When I told him I knew of no crimes and that our family was well respected, he laughed. Then, in some detail, he spoke of smuggling and bribes and price increases after deals had already been agreed on. This all happened when my father and his father before him had run the business. All things I knew about but had thus far avoided committing myself.

  “But your biggest crime was one of inaction.” Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “The Noretta.”

  There was no need for him to add anything more. I knew the story.

  Fifty years earlier, The Noretta, owned by a rival trading company, had smashed into a tiny rock island during a storm. One of our ships was nearby and witnessed the accident. The tale, as it was passed down to me, was that my grandfather had been captaining our vessel and refused to look for survivors so as to keep on schedule. No one from The Noretta was ever seen again.

  My grandfather never felt any shame from this, nor had my father. “Business is business,” he’d said to me. “You will understand when you are in charge one day.”

  But I had always felt shame. And when the old man mentioned The Noretta, I could not keep that shame from my face.

  “Yes,” he said. “I see you are aware of this stain on your family. But I also know, Thomas, that you are a good man. Unfortunately for you, just being good is not enough to atone for these crimes. The responsibility I am giving you will give your family the chance to do just that.”

  “Understand, this is not just some idle task, or even a request. This is a curse. A true and powerful curse. You can either wear it as a heavy chain around your neck, or embrace it and let it transform your family’s destiny.”

  He told me there was an evil power that walked the earth, destroying lives and claiming those who weren’t theirs. It would be my job to fight this force and stop it wherever I could.

  “They are not people like you and me, but you will see them as people. You must not let that fool you. You must stop them, for to stop them is to keep them from growing in power.”

  Finally, he told me I was to sell my business and make a home in the colonies, never to return to England again.

  While I had listened carefully to all he said, I was now beginning to think him mad, perhaps even an escaped lunatic. Stay in the colonies and not return to England? I had no intention of doing that. But to keep him from knowing what I really thought, I told him, “I will consider your words but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, it would be unwise for me to say more at this point.”

  I stood up, thinking doing so would encourage him to leave. But he continued to sit.

  “My friend,” I said, “it is late. Perhaps we can talk more in the morning.”

  I thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep. He did look so terribly ill and weak. But then he laughed, and stood very, very slowly.

  “I know you do not believe me,” he said. “But what you do not understand is that you have no choice. Hear me. You do not have to do anything. Those needing your help will come to you. Children, for the most part, who need you to save them from these forces of trouble. That is your true responsibility, to keep this evil from taking the children. That’s the only way the evil can expand, but you’ll learn that in time.”

  “Children, of course,” I said. “I’m always happy to help children.”

  It was at this point that he grabbed my hand in his, gripping me tighter than I would have thought possible given his condition. His other hand he placed on my shoulder with a force that almost made me fall to the floor.

  “Very soon you will see. So know this also. This responsibility does not end with you. Upon your death the curse will pass on to your oldest son, and upon his death to his oldest son. Your burden will not be released until these makers of trouble are no more.”

  Then he uttered a series of words in a language I have never heard before or since. Nonsense words, I first thought, but as he spoke, his hands began to glow. Light filled my cabin until I was almost blind, like a thousand candles all burning at once directly in front of my eyes. And as the glow grew, heat rushed into my hand from his and filled my body with fire.

  I wanted to yell out for help. I wanted to run and throw myself into the ocean. But my feet would not move and my lips would not part.

  “I pass to you the power you need to fight them,” his voice thundered in my ears. “But be aware, it will never make you invincible.”

  If at all possible, the glow grew even more intense. I don’t know how long it lasted but when it finally died, leaving only the flicker of a single candle on my table, the man was gone.

  I tried to pretend that nothing had happen, that I had somehow had a dream. But the next morning, my crew could find the man nowhere. Even his things were gone. The only thing left was a letter addressed to me. I have included it in this envelope to you. As you will see, it was enough to convince me what had happened was not a dream.

  Still, when we reached Boston, I had no intentions of staying. I wanted to finish my business and return home as quickly as possible. But I had only been there a day when the first child showed up. Then a week later, another, and ten days after him, a third.

  I wondered how they found me, and when I asked each this, their stories were as wild as the one the old man had told me. They had received instruction on how they could locate me in ways that I found fantastic and impossible. But, at that point, I had already started to believe and could not deny that their stories might be true. Over the years, as you know, we have learned this curse we have been given — this responsibility — is the thing that guides these children to us.

  The old man was right. I have never gone back. And now, my son, you must bear the responsibility that began with me. I only hope that someday these creatures of evil disappear from our world, and our family can be released from this heavy burden.

  Thomas Leatherwood

  18

  Eric twisted and turned in his sleep, his dreams nearly as active as the day he’d just lived through. In his mind he saw ships, and storms, and glows that filled rooms, and airplanes, and car chases, and helmet scanners. And though he had never seen one, he saw Makers. What his mind decided they looked like, anyway. They were hideous, with troll-like heads, and bodies as thin as a piece of rope. They smiled at him, they laughed at him, they waved for him to join them. But he wouldn’t give in.

  Relax, Eric. It was the sing-songy voice from that afternoon. Don’t worry about anything. It’ll all be fine. It’ll all be fine. It’l
l all be—

  “No!” he yelled, jerking himself awake.

  Where am I? This wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t his room.

  His body seemed to be moving in slow motion as he struggled to push his blanket down to his waist. He could feel sleep waiting to drag him back under, but for some reason he knew he couldn’t let it.

  Wake up! he told himself. Wake up!

  He forced his eyelids all the way open, then swung his legs off the cushions and planted his feet on the floor.

  The slumber party. I’m…I’m at Maggie’s.

  “Wake up,” he said, the words actually coming out of his mouth this time.

  Sleep began to fade, and he no longer had to fight with himself to move anything.

  Those had been some powerful dreams. They were the kind of dreams that made you feel even more tired after having them than if you had just stayed awake.

  He caught sight of the digital clock on the receiver by the TV. Twelve forty-nine a.m. He groaned.

  Maybe a glass of water will settle my brain down.

  Just enough moonlight seeped in through the windows for him to make his way into the kitchen without turning on any lights. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it from the automatic water dispenser in the refrigerator door. It let out a low whisssssh as the water streamed out.

  Once his glass was full, he raised it to his lips and started to drink. But as the first gulp passed into his mouth, he realized the whissssshing hadn’t stopped.

  He looked back at the dispenser, expecting to see water pouring onto the floor, but there was nothing coming out of the spout. He cocked his head. The noise wasn’t coming from the refrigerator. It was coming from…

  …outside.

  As he took a step toward the kitchen window, the sound stopped. He stood there for a moment, waiting, but all remained quiet. Must have been a bug.

  He was just about to raise the glass again when the whisssssh returned. It lasted for five seconds, stopped for a few, then started again. Only it wasn’t as much of a whissssh as it was a hnnnnnff.

  He tiptoed to the counter and quietly set down his glass. Leaning forward, he pulled the edge of the curtain back just enough so he could peek outside.

  Moonlight bathed the backyard, allowing him to see everything from the swing set Maggie didn’t use anymore to the big tree in the center of the yard. He could even see Mr. Ortega’s tool shed in the far back corner. Other than that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  The noise started up again. Only now, Eric could hear that it really wasn’t so much a hnnnnnf as a snnnnniffffff.

  He dropped the curtain, and froze.

  Outside, directly below the window, he had seen the top of a head. And though the moonlight wasn’t strong enough to tell the color of the person’s hair, the greasy mess couldn’t have belonged to anyone other than Peter Garr.

  Slowly a shadow in the shape of Peter’s head appeared on the curtain.

  Snnnnniffffff.

  The head turned to the right.

  Snnnnniffffff.

  And to the left.

  Snnnnniffffff.

  It tilted down and hovered right by the crack at the bottom.

  Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

  Eric took a silent step backwards.

  Outside, the sniffing paused, and then: snnnnniffffff, snnnnniffffff.

  Eric raced out of the kitchen and into the hallway that bypassed the dining room. At one end was the front door and potential escape, while at the other was the intersecting hallway that led back to the bedrooms. The Trouble sisters were back there and now, more than ever, he needed their help. So that was the way he went.

  There were three doors off the hallway: a bathroom, Maggie’s parents’ room, and Maggie’s room. Like her parents’ door, Maggie’s was shut, but Eric didn’t even hesitate. He opened her door and rushed inside.

  Since her room was located at the front of the house, and not in the direct path of the moonlight, it was much darker than the living room had been. For half a second he thought about flipping on the light, but he didn’t. If Peter came around to the front, he would be sure to see it.

  Maggie’s bed was against the wall opposite her window. The blanket-covered lump lying in the middle of it had to be her. The mood she’d been in, no way would she have let Fiona or Keira use it. They would be somewhere on the floor, in the darkest part of the room.

  He bent at the waist. “Fiona,” he whispered.

  No one stirred.

  “Fiona,” he repeated, a little louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  He took a frustrated breath, then said, “Fiona,” in a voice loud enough to wake all three of them. No one stirred. Apparently, girls were heavy sleepers.

  He lowered himself to his knees and crawled toward the center of the room. After a moment, he could just make out two shapes similar to the one on Maggie’s bed. Which was Fiona and which was Keira, he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter.

  He grabbed what he guessed was a foot on the lump closest to him and gave it a shake. “Hey.”

  Nothing.

  He shook it again, harder this time. “Hey, wake up.”

  When that didn’t work, he switched to the other lump and repeated what he’d just done.

  Not even a twitch.

  What would they do if there was a fire? Just sleep through it? Come to think of it, this is a fire!

  No longer concerned about being selective, he said, “Hey, you guys. Come on. I need you to wake up! One of those Maker robots…” he paused, searching for the right word, “…surrogates is outside right now. We’ve got do something. Hey, come on! Are you guys even listening to me?”

  Apparently they weren’t. And apparently neither were Maggie’s parents, because Eric was pretty sure he’d been loud enough to wake them, too.

  The annoyance he’d been feeling quickly changed to fear.

  He crawled over to the bed.

  “Hey, Maggie,” he said, pushing on her leg.

  Same non-response.

  He turned back to Fiona and Keira. They were breathing slowly and steadily, like they were in a deep sleep.

  “Come on. Wake up!” He tugged Fiona’s shoulder, rolling her onto her back. It should have been more than enough to wake her, but her eyelids didn’t even flutter.

  He was about to try the same with Keira when he heard the sniffing sound again. Peter was indeed coming around to the front yard.

  Maybe he’s leaving.

  Eric stepped gingerly over the girls and to the window. Carefully, he lifted the shade a couple of inches and looked out. Peter was standing on the front lawn fifteen feet away.

  Not only was he not leaving, he wasn’t alone.

  19

  It took a moment before Eric recognized the man at Peter’s side. It was one of the gardeners from school who’d been helping Peter and the others try to kidnap Eric.

  The two of them were facing the street, neither of them saying a word. Then, without warning, Peter’s head tilted back, his nose jutting into the air.

  Snnnnniffffff.

  Eric let go of the shade, just as Peter started to turn toward the house, and scrambled over to Fiona. “Please,” he said, rocking both of her shoulders. “Wake up.”

  But waking up was definitely not happening.

  He sat back. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he wished he had that stupid unicorn necklace. He could have signaled Mr. Trouble with it if it wasn’t still sitting in his room at home.

  As he dropped his hand to the ground, feeling completely helpless, it knocked into Fiona’s book bag. He growled at it then grabbed it by the handles, intending to throw it across the room in frustration. But he stopped himself at the last second.

  Maybe…

  He set the bag in his lap and started feeling around inside. He found what he was looking for near the bottom. Fiona’s phone. She would have Mr. Trouble’s phone number.

  He pushed one of the buttons and the displa
y lit up. Only the screen that appeared wasn’t what he expected. There were five empty squares running across the center, and above the boxes were the words: Enter Security Code.

  No!

  Her phone was locked.

  “Think, think,” he whispered. “What would she use for a code?”

  The only things he could come up with were numerical versions of her brother’s, her sister’s, or her own name. They were each five characters long so they would fit. He tried Ronan first: 76626. Wrong Code. Fiona next: 34662. Wrong Code. Even as he was inputting Keira—53472—he knew he’d get the same response. But not only did he get Wrong Code, he also got Please Wait Three Minutes Before Trying Again.

  Groaning, he dropped his chin to his chest.

  Awesome. Just…awesome.

  Then he glanced over at Keira. He’d never seen her use a cell phone, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

  He found her bag and searched through it. He found her phone in a side pocket. It was the same model as her sister’s, the only difference being Keira’s was bright red and Fiona’s was purple.

  This time he wasn’t surprised when the screen that came up read: Enter Security Code.

  He tried the numerical version of Ronan again, with the same result. He then input Keira, and was quickly informed of his wrong choice. He started to input Fiona, but hesitated before entering the last digit. No way either sister would use each other’s name as their pass code.

  But if not Fiona, then what?

  How was he supposed to know? He’d only met Keira a day and a half earlier. The only thing he knew about her was that she really liked Noriko’s Revenge.

  There’s no way I’m going to be able to figure out—

  He paused.

  Noriko’s Revenge.

  He erased Fiona’s name from the Enter Security Code screen. He typed in 62642 and hit enter. The security-code screen disappeared. And instead of being replaced by the Wrong Code message, he was greeted with a normal, active cell-phone screen.