“I must have scarified it,” she said.
The half-eaten briefcase twitched on the ground. Something inside its battered, brown-leather shell rustled and scratched. The fur on Lucky’s fuzzy white back stiffened.
Milton cautiously approached the case.
“What could possibly be in a wolf’s briefcase?” he said as he knelt in front of it.
Marlo shrugged. “Lunch, maybe? Three little pigs in a blanket?”
Milton shook his head as he carefully opened the gash in the leather case.
“It seemed pretty hungry for something packing a—”
Something white and fuzzy darted out of the briefcase.
“Lucky?”
A pink-eyed ferret scrambled onto the shredded-paper ground. It sniffed the air with a twitch of its wet nose. Lucky—identical to the strange new animal in every way—crept toward the other ferret cautiously and took deep snoutfuls of the intruder’s musk. The two ferrets hissed heartily at each other before attacking in a flurry of gnashing teeth and scrabbling claws.
Milton and Marlo pried the furious animals apart, their forearms paying the price in the form of countless oozing ferret scratches. Milton studied the squirming ferret in Marlo’s arms.
“This will sound crazy—”
“As most sentences beginning with ‘this will sound crazy’ generally do …”
“—but I think both of them are Lucky.”
“What? But how?”
Milton shook his head as he knelt down and felt around inside the torn leather briefcase.
“I don’t know,” Milton muttered. “Maybe something in here will help explain.…”
He pulled out a torn three-by-five-inch index card. Milton puzzled over the gibberish written upon it.
“Hewhay?” Marlo asked, looking over her brother’s shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“No clue,” he said with a shrug. Milton tucked the torn card into his pants pocket.
Milton turned to face the gates of Wise Acres (a circle that, before—in another version of the afterlife—had been called Lipptor). Gnarled white-yellow sticks and rough gray stones were lashed against the rusted rails with what looked like used typewriter ribbon. The sticks—which resembled broken bones—formed hundreds of Xs along the warped, weather-beaten wrought-iron fence encircling the top of the hill, with the knobbly rocks filling in the gaps.
Milton wiped the smears off his glasses with his thumb. He squinted at the gate. The iron rails were actually old typewriter parts welded together into motley lumps: cylinders pockmarked with thousands of hammered characters, type bars twisted into braids, and carriage-return levers forced into little bows. Miles of worn typewriter ribbon were woven around the iron bars so that they looked like dreary, neglected Maypoles.
“How do you think we get in?” Marlo asked. “There’s so much junk here, I can’t even find the—”
The two Luckys hissed in unison. The Fausters could hear frantic scratching, followed by a quick meow and a pungent blast of manure.
Twenty feet away was a patch of pink grit. A gray-striped tabby cat with a leather pouch grinned a wide, vaguely guilty smirk and scampered away through the bars. Milton and Marlo bounded after it. Something was written on the pink, tongue-shaped plot of gravel.
UNWELCOM TOO WIZE AKERZ, read the message, spelled out in fresh cat poo.
Marlo tried to wave the acrid stench away. “Ugh … that’s one smart cat, but his spelling stinks.” She scanned the tangle of bars. “How do you think we get— Wait, what’s this? A doorbell?”
Marlo jabbed a raspberry-colored button inset in one of the wrought-iron rails. A long black tongue, protruding from two black lips, waggled back at Marlo, spraying her with spit.
PPPTHHPTHPFFTHPPPT!!!
Marlo scowled and wiped the slobber from her face. “I can already tell I’m going to hate this place.…”
The wind kicked up. It blew a spray of black ink droplets from behind the gates while sending the Sassafras grove into another bout of rustling jeers.
Milton gulped. “Whatever we do, we should try to get inside,” he said, casting a wary glance at the darkening sky. “Before we meet any more wolves.”
Milton noticed a pair of metal hands welded above the black lips that had given his sister a wet Bronx cheer. They were attached to a pair of cast-iron faces that thumbed their noses at the Fausters. Milton grabbed one of the hands.
“Pull,” he said, gesturing to the other hand with his head.
Marlo wrapped her pale Goth fingers around the large, black metal hand and heaved herself backward. After a couple of full-body tugs, Milton and Marlo jerked open the heavy iron gate and wedged themselves through the gap.
Concealed inside the contorted fence of sticks, stones, and corroded iron bars were large, rounded stone plates—twenty-six of them—each with a letter of the alphabet carved into the smooth rock. Rushing rivers of ink gushed around the stone circles, sloshing against them with sporadic explosions of pitch-black spray.
The lettered plates were arranged like the keys of a massive typewriter in three rows—Z to M, A to L, and Q to Ρ—leading up to a crescent-shaped trench filled with long iron sledgehammers. Perched atop the hill’s peak was a massive black drum, its sleek head facing the Fausters as they crept inside the enclosure. The gate squealed closed behind them, shutting with a thunderous clang. Directly in front of them was a large, heavy-duty turnstile, like the kind one might find at an amusement park, only the last thing the Fausters were presently feeling was amused.
Sprouting from opposite sides of the compound were huge hand-shaped trees. Their thick “thumb” limbs were tucked into deep shafts in the sides of the hill where the rivers of ink issued forth. The trees made it seem as if the hill itself were a giant, obnoxious kid, mocking all who entered. Their pale gray leaves twitched nervously.
“The leaves are weird,” Milton murmured as he strained to bring them into sharper focus through his cracked lenses.
“Those aren’t leaves,” Marlo said as she tentatively stepped toward them for a better look. “They’re—”
Marlo had inadvertently passed through the turnstile. It clicked forebodingly behind her. The hill trembled beneath their feet and a piercing whistle rent the air. The trees’ “leaves” began to screech.
“—birds,” Marlo said.
The pale gray birds flew from the branches in great feathery clouds, leaving the trees suddenly, almost embarrassingly, denuded. They came at the Fausters like a squadron of jet fighters.
“They’re coming right for us!” Marlo squealed.
“They’re coming right for us!” the birds screeched back in mocking unison.
“Mockingbirds,” Milton said as the flocks descended.
A ferocious squawking storm of beaks and claws tore at their clothes. Marlo screamed as she tried to bat them away. The birds mimicked her cry as they swept into the sky, circling, building momentum for another attack. Milton pressed himself against the turnstile, yet it wouldn’t budge.
“What do we do?” Marlo yelped.
“What do we do?!”
“The stones,” Milton said. “I think I know what we have to do.”
The dark, screeching clots of mockingbirds rushed back down toward the Fausters. Marlo, her cheeks scratched and bleeding, gazed fearfully at the sky.
“What? Throw them? You know, like killing two birds with one stone?”
“No … I think we have to spell our names,” Milton replied. “The turnstile only allows one kid at a time, so maybe we have to type our names using the steps to somehow get inside.”
The mockingbirds spilled down from the sky like feathered bombs.
“Cover your eyes!” Milton yelled.
“Cover your eyes!” the birds screeched as they attacked the Fausters.
Milton and Marlo dove to the ground, covering their heads as the birds pecked and tore at their backs. The flock of angry birds flew past, pooling together into a dark gray cloud.
Marlo rose shakily to her feet.
“Okay, Brainiac, this better work, or else there’s gonna be an all-night noogie dance party busting moves on your head,” she said, brandishing a row of pointy knuckles.
The mockingbirds swarmed together in swooshing, swirling eddies, gathering deadly speed before darting down from the sky in cruel formation.
“Hurry!” Milton yelled.
“Hurry!” the birds jeered.
Marlo tore across the shredded-paper ground.
She hopped onto the circular stone marked “M.” One of the iron sledgehammers nestled in the trench slammed into the side of the huge black drum.
“M!” the drum boomed, leaving a large “M” imprinted in its quivering skin.
The mockingbirds rushed past the Fausters in a vicious, pecking surge. Marlo clouted herself in the head as a bird, trapped in her unruly blue hair, jabbed at her scalp with its pointy beak.
“Run to the ‘A’!” Milton yelled, pointing to the stone step.
“Run to the ‘A’!” the birds screeched.
Marlo hopped down from the stone circle as the birds streaked up to the sky. She sprinted along the next row of steps, sloshing along in the shallow gush of ink. Marlo dove onto the last stone. It clicked, sending another sledgehammer pounding into the drum.
“A!” boomed the drum on top of the hill.
Marlo bounded off the step and, with a few skips up the slope, hurled herself against the next stone.
“R!”
The mockingbirds coiled together like a great plumed serpent about to strike.
Marlo wiped away the sweat dripping down into her stinging eyes. She stared down the row of large stone typewriter keys. The next letter was at the very end of the second row. She hopped down from the step and ran for all she was worth.
“Here I am,” she panted to herself. “Just a girl … darned for all eternity … going straight to—”
“L!” the drum thundered as Marlo rolled across the round “L” step.
She lay there, gasping for breath, the cool stone slab leeching away the sting from the wounds on her back.
“Hurry!” Milton yelled from behind the turnstile. “Just one more!”
“Just one more!” mocked the birds as they dive-bombed Marlo, plunging down—beaks-first—from the sky.
Marlo screamed and spun in tight circles, frantically waving her arms in the air as she sloshed across the coursing stream of ink and flopped down, face-first on the final stone letter.
“O!”
The enormous drum rattled, with the name MARLO fading away to nothing into its vibrating skin. It rotated until it faced the dark pink-purple sky. The mockingbirds alighted upon the large hand-shaped trees, resuming their original perches along the finger branches.
The drumhead popped open, revealing a spiral metal staircase that led deep down into the hill. Marlo rolled off the “O” stone and clambered toward the drum opening. She eyed the mockingbirds carefully as she approached.
Marlo stepped inside the stairwell.
“Catch you on the flip side, Diet Squirt.”
Milton nodded as the drumhead closed over Marlo. The enormous black drum rotated back to its original position. Milton took a deep breath and pushed hard against the turnstile. This time, it opened.
The hill quivered and shook. The piercing whistle sounded and the mockingbirds exploded into sudden, furious flight.
Milton ran for the nearby “M” stone and quickly scrambled on top of it. A sledgehammer pounded the drum.
“M!” it boomed, leaving behind a dripping black “M,” barely visible against the drum’s taut black skin.
The mockingbirds whipped themselves into a squawking cyclone above. Milton bounded across the slope, sloshing through the cascading rivers of ink, and spelled his name as quickly as his legs would allow.
Just as the birds rained down upon him like feathered death, Milton slid onto the “N” step.
“N!” the drum boomed.
The name MILTON disappeared into the skin of the black drum as it rotated atop the hill. The drumhead popped open, granting access to the secret stairwell.
“Thanks, Marlo,” Milton mumbled sarcastically. “No, really, you go on ahead … don’t wait up. I’ll be fine.…”
Milton lay on the cool stone slab.
Another circle, full of bitter teachers and miserable kids. Why bother? Marlo and I did something huge. We somehow undid something in the logical framework of Heck, a realm ruled by rules. But what use was it all? We’re still here. Heck is still in business.…
A pulsing whistle screamed in the distance. Milton sighed and rose wearily to his feet.
No rest for the unjustly-accused-of-being-wicked …
He staggered toward the drum and cautiously stepped inside.
The drumhead sealed shut over Milton’s head as he stumbled down the turret staircase in the dark. The air was heavy with a stale tang that tickled Milton’s sinuses. There was also a sharp undercurrent of … burning.
Wise Acres, Milton thought with trepidation. Where the sassy kids go. He forced his stiff lips into a confident smirk.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” he mumbled just before tripping on a step. “Right?!”
3 · LIVING IN A
TAUNTED HOUSE
“HAVE A NICE trip, Li’l Bro Pipsqueak?” Marlo said as Milton, crumpled on the ground, rose slowly to his feet.
Marlo was loitering by a post at the end of the spiral stairs where a demonized parrot roosted.
“Brock! Li’l Bro Pipsqueak!” squawked the mangy, sparsely feathered parrot, its evil eyes gleaming cold green fire. Marlo swatted the creature away.
“Hey, only I get to say stuff like that to my lame nerdy brother!” she yelled.
“Thanks?” Milton said as the parrot’s black-and-blue feathers fluttered to the floor like plumed confetti in an irritating-bird parade.
Milton squinted out past an arched Gothic doorway that led into Wise Acres. It was a dirty, poorly lit dump, from what Milton could make out. Ragged halls branched out from beyond the stairwell. The halls resembled rambling tunnels twisting through a mountain of compressed paper, with stray pages flapping in the stale breeze.
Both Luckys suddenly reared back—cradled in the arms of a Fauster—and hissed matching blasts of anchovy breath.
Two roly-poly demons with long snouts and perky, pointy ears waddled toward them. It was as if some mad scientist had surgically installed a hyphen between a pig and a kangaroo, making a “pig-aroo.” The creatures were so cute that Marlo’s knees turned instantly to tapioca pudding. She squatted to the ground.
“Awwww,” she cooed, holding her arms out for an embrace. “Just look at you two adorable—”
Long snakelike tongues shot out of the demons’ mouths and coiled around Milton’s and Marlo’s ankles.
“Aaaaaaaarrrrrdvaaaarrrrksssss!” Milton screamed as he and his sister were dragged by their ankles. The demons’ sticky tongues coiled tightly as the demons toddled backward along the corridor.
Wise Acres—as best as Milton could see as he skidded across layers of dust and crumbling debris—was a meandering, subterranean burrow. With all of the trash and broken bric-a-brac, it looked like hordes of hoarders had hoarded their hoards here.
Pages from torn-up old library books that people had written in (something that irritated Milton to no end) and old instruction manuals for outdated technology (VCRs for Dummies … How to Install Your Dial-Up Modem …) were strewn along the corridor. Milton reached out for the wall. A piece of it tore off in his hand.
It’s like someone dug out shafts in a book mine, Milton thought as he bounced up and down on his back.
An electronic news ticker was installed along the peeling, pale-yellow walls. It displayed a gush of intensely uninteresting “news” streaming past in a blur of bright green digital characters.
Just got home. Totally BORED!! Going to
microwave some broccoli. Yummm! … Hey! Hey! What’s up? Nothing much. How bout u? Same here … An idea for a blog occurred to me about how I write my blogs. So I decided to blog about It … u comin 2nite?! lol yeah b/c u r drivin me—thx!!!!! :) …
The aardvark demons untied their tongues and sent the Fausters tumbling down into a tumbledown tearoom. Milton and Marlo lay on the cracked, mold-green linoleum floor—filthy and panting—surrounded by gawking, sneering children sitting stiffly on mismatched lawn furniture.
Milton scanned the diverse group of faces. Though vastly different, the faces themselves were all arranged in the same way: in cold, carefully crafted formations of contempt.
Marlo trembled beside her brother. For some reason, none of the other circles of Heck had struck her in quite this way. There, most of the kids were too busy being persecuted by Principal Bubb, power-hungry vice principals, and assorted other demonic entities to actually turn on one another. But not here—Marlo could instantly tell. In Wise Acres, it was clearly every kid for him- or herself.
The long moment crested like a wave. A malicious glimmer ignited the cold glares of the children, passing from one to the other like a match, until suddenly …
“MWUAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”
The room detonated with mocking jeers. The walls shoved the laughter back and forth, like a bunch of bullies throwing around a foreign-exchange student. The laughter was sharp and cruel, the children’s mouths smiling but their eyes glittering like frozen beetles.
Milton rose off the filthy floor, ignoring the hoots, hollers, and finger-pointing. He helped Marlo to her feet.
“This doesn’t bother you, does it?” Marlo said to her brother. “All of the laughing.”
Milton shrugged. “I’m used to it,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “When you’re in the Chess Club, Knowledge Bowl, Science Olympiad, and the Junior United Nations, you develop a pretty thick skin to ridicule.”
Marlo gazed at her brother with, while not quite awe, at least something in awe’s overflow parking lot.
“Not me,” Marlo replied, smoothing out her shabby, hopelessly wrinkled dress. “I’m not used to being on this side of Laugh-at-You Avenue. But just you wait: I’m about to give them all a piece of my—”
Wise Acres Page 2