Meredith and the Magic Library

by Becket

  New Orleans is a magical town. It is one of the oldest cities in the United States, and the oldest part of the city is called the French Quarter, where musicians play wonderful music in its old cobblestone streets, where people are always dancing, and where you can have the best food in the world, like gumbo and jambalaya and fried alligator tail. It is a city that celebrates all the time.

  The Garden District is New Orleans’s loveliest neighborhood. You can hear the streetcars rolling by every day, dinging their bright brass bells. You can have delicious meals in neighborhood restaurants, like in Europe. You can stroll through Audubon Park, where friends and families are walking dogs, sunning, jogging, barbequing, or catching butterflies in the spring or fireflies on summer evenings. And days before Mardi Gras, you can go out to see the Krewe of the Orpheus Parade throwing brilliantly colored beads. The sun never shines too hot on the Garden District because the old oak trees with their thick, leafy branches make a cool canopy over St. Charles Avenue.

  Yet the Garden District is also the most haunted place in the world. There are many old and creaky houses. And in most of those old creaky houses there are ghosts moving from room to room, looking through old photo albums and trying to remember things they forgot. Many ghosts are very nice. But some are very hungry. So beware.

  The Button family lived in one of those spooky old houses on St. Charles Avenue. They were not afraid of the strange creaking, cracking, moaning, groaning, growling noises in the dark. They were used to it. Those kinds of noises had been going on ever since the Button children could remember.

  But the Buttons never could keep a nanny for long.

  All the nannies they ever had were utterly terrified of the noises in the nighttime. At the slightest knock they leaped out of their shoes. At the tiniest squeak they screamed like banshees.

  “Oh, don’t be so afraid,” Mr. Button grumbled at them dismissively.

  “It’s probably just old pipes,” Mrs. Button asserted.

  Mr. and Mrs. Button had an explanation for everything. They called themselves very sensible people. In fact they often said that if common sense were common cents, they would be the wealthiest family in the world.

  But one night, the moaning sounds coming out from under the beds got really loud. Their latest nanny had not had a good night’s sleep in months. She nearly lost her mind when she saw a black hand reach out from under her bed and snatch her foot. Her screams woke the whole neighborhood. And soon after that she quit her job, once again leaving the Buttons without a nanny.

  “Nothing frightens me more than taking care of children,” Mrs. Button said to Mr. Button.

  “And cleaning,” Mr. Button replied.

  “And cooking,” Mrs. Button added.

  “Tell me,” Mr. Button said, “do our children eat dry food or wet food, like cats?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mrs. Button answered, biting her nails nervously. “Perhaps we should take them to a vet and find out. How many times a day should they be walked?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Cursed Kitchen

  The two parents were up all night worrying about what to do. The next morning they were much more tired and confused than usual.

  Mr. Button looped his necktie around his head and Mrs. Button was wearing two left shoes. They walked into the kitchen, and neither of them had any idea how to make breakfast.

  “Do we put butter in the toaster first?” Mr. Button asked. “I do like buttery toast, you know.”

  “I know, I know,” Mrs. Button answered, “but I’m more worried about all these small doors overhead.”

  “I think they’re called cabinets,” he answered.

  “Cabinets,” she said in awe. “What a funny word. It sounds like something cabdrivers wear over their hair. Do little people live in them?”

  “In hairnets?”

  “No, in the cabinets.”

  “I think plates and glasses are in them.”

  “Eyeglasses?”

  “It could be drinking glasses. But I could be mistaken. Maybe we should open them and find out, though I confess the thought of doing so gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  It was a good thing the three Button children came into the kitchen at that time. Bernard Button, Beatrice Button, and Berkeley Button found their parents trying to shove a whole turkey into the microwave.

  The seven-year-old, Beatrice, stepped forward.

  “The nanny showed us how to make pancakes and coffee. Shall we make some for you?”

  Mr. Button looked at his right wrist.

  “Egad! My watch is gone. That nanny must have stolen it.”

  “Father,” the nine-year-old, Bernard said, “you put your watch on the wrong hand.”

  “Ah! So I have,” Mr. Button said, looking more confused.

  The toddler, Berkeley, used the power of his mind to make his father’s watch float to his other hand.

  “Look at the time!” exclaimed Mr. Button. “I’ll be late for work.”

  Mrs. Button shook her head worriedly.

  “What ever shall we do about a new nanny? I’ll be late too to my EGGs—you know, the Elite Gossip Gals. We’ll be gathering soon, and the hot topic for today is Mrs. Crankle’s new wig.”

  “Mommy,” Beatrice spoke up, “we could call an agency.”

  “A gossip agency?” her mother asked eagerly.

  “No,” Bernard said, “the nanny agency.”

  “We have called them,” Mr. Button growled. “We’ve called them lots of things—like late, lazy, loony, snoopy, loopy, lumpy, clunky, monkey, and funky. But they have not yet responded, except with something called a summons.”

  “That was the nineteenth nanny we’ve had,” cried Mrs. Button. “They won’t send anymore.”

  The Buttons stood in the kitchen, wondering what to do. Mr. Button and Mrs. Button were talking about launching their kids to school out of a really big cannon. Bernard and Beatrice were trying to tell their parents that they were old enough to walk to school by themselves. And the toddler Berkeley was on the floor, using the power of his mind to make cookies float into his mouth for breakfast.

  Suddenly they all heard a knock at the front door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Puck Postal Service

  The knock on the front door came again.

  “Oh, I do hope that’s the agency!” yipped Mrs. Button in a hopeful tone, even though no one had contacted it. She dashed out of the kitchen, follow by Mr. Button who was adjusting the tie around his forehead.

  Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley Button followed next. They were not too surprised to find Mrs. Button trying to figure out how to open the front door.

  “Jiggling doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Try kicking it,” suggested Mr. Button.

  The three Button children opened the door. They expected to see a salesman or a neighbor wanting to borrow sugar. But they saw no one. It was as if a ghost had knocked.

  Beatrice was just starting to say, “Who knocked on the—” when they all heard a gruff little voice speaking far below.

  The three Button children looked down and saw a very tiny person standing on the welcome mat. Person? No, he was not quite a person. He was about the size of a dragonfly, and he had long dragonfly wings too. He also wore a top hat, tall boots, and a long coat. And on his coat was a patch with shimmering letters.

  PUCK POSTAL SERVICE

  The well-dressed little man with dragonfly wings was none other than a puck postman. He took a letter out of his coat pocket, cleared his throat, and began reading it to them.

  “It has come to the attention of the Society of Mystical Creatures that your domicile possesses an occurrence that has been hereby deemed an odd and odious kerfuffle. Therefore, an agent of SPOOK has been dispatched to your services and will be here forthwith.”

  The puck postman put the letter back inside his coat pocket and started to fly away.

  Mr. and Mrs. Button came to the door and gazed at the little postman. They w
ere more confused about what he said than what he looked like.

  “I have no idea with any of those words mean,” Mrs. Button declared.

  “Read it again,” Mr. Button demanded.

  “And be sure to sprinkle in lots of context clues,” Mrs. Button added.

  But the puck postman held up his tiny hand.

  “I am sorry, but this is a no-reply postal delivery. If you would like to send a reply, you will have to go through the proper SPOOK channels, preferably through scuttlecom, though I would avoid using the telemonium unless you want your living room bursting into flames.”

  Mrs. Button’s mouth hung open. “I understood less that time,” she murmured.

  The puck postman flapped his wings and flew a little ways into the air, but Bernard reached out and caught him.

  “Unhand me, you villain!” the puck shouted. “This is completely unlawful. You’ll be hearing from my leprechaun lawyer.”

  “Forgive me,” Bernard said. “I don’t mean to frighten you, and I will let you go, just answer me one question first.”

  “Unhand me now and I’ll think about it,” the puck postman huffed.

  Bernard let him go.

  The puck hovered in the air, brushing his coat with great indignation.

  “It took me all morning to iron out the wrinkles. Now look at it,” he grumbled, eyeing Bernard with intense dislike. “Well, go on then, ask your question.”

  But before Bernard could ask, Beatrice stepped before him and interjected, “You said an agent of SPOOK is coming. What is SPOOK?”

  “It is the Subcommittee Preventing Oddly Odious Kerfuffles,” the puck answered.

  “More baffling words!” shouted Mr. Button, who had torn out the little patch of hair he had left.

  “What’s a kur-fiffle?” Mrs. Button asked.

  “Mommy,” said Beatrice, who never forgot a word, “a kerfuffle is what happens when an argument becomes a fuss.”

  The puck turned and flew away.

  “You’ve got the answer to your question,” he said as he left, “and I’ve got my rounds of posts to deliver.”

  “Wait,” Bernard said. “I have not asked my question yet. You said something is happening in our house. Do you know what it is?”

  But the puck postman did not hear him. He had already flown away up into the thick oak trees, and was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mr. Fuddlebee the Elderly Ghost

  Mr. and Mrs. Button went back to the kitchen and made a breakfast of frozen waffles and ketchup.

  Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley stayed in the living room, kneeling on the sofa, watching through the large front window that looked out onto St. Charles Avenue. They expected the SPOOK agent to come any moment, even though they still did not quite understand what SPOOK was, or what an agent might look like. The three Button children were turning their heads left and right, looking up and down St. Charles Avenue for another Mystical Creature. It could be a puck, or maybe this time it might be a fairy, or perhaps a brownie, or an ogre, or perhaps a dwarf or an elf or something fay and fantastic!

  “It could be anything,” Bernard said excitedly. He would not let himself blink. He did not want to miss a thing.

  “Wait!” exclaimed Beatrice. She pointed up into the trees. “What is that?”

  The three Button children looked up at the canopy of green leaves. Sunlight was shining through in bright beams. And as if by magic, an old man appeared in the light. He was floating through the air, coming down to the street. He was wearing fancy shoes, a pinstriped suit, and a bowler hat with goggles around the rim. There was a dandelion pinned to his lapel. He had a kind face too, with dark rectangular spectacles over his eyes, and a mustache and goatee covering his mouth. But there was something stranger than this old man floating down from the treetops. His whole body was completely see-through and he glowed as green as a bottle.

  Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley had never seen a ghost before. They had never believed in them, even though they lived in a city that had the highest population of ghosts, specters, wraiths, spirits, and phantoms. But the Button children knew almost immediately that this elderly man had to be a ghost, since all of him was, well, quite ghostly.

  The only part of him that was not ghostly was the umbrella he carried in one hand. It was bright red with a black handle.

  The three Button children hid their faces beneath the windowsill, not knowing if he was a friendly ghost. Yet ever so cautiously, they brought their eyes up just enough to peek out. They wondered which house he might go to. They never suspected he would come to theirs.

  The elderly ghost floated over the sidewalk with the tips of his shoes just brushing the tops of the grass growing between the cracks. He happened to see Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley watching him, and he saluted them with his umbrella.

  “Hello, dear children,” he said in a gravelly old voice. “My Mist Map suddenly ran out of mist. I believe Miss Broomble might have used it all up last night searching for a new pub in the French Quarter called the Guzzling Goblet. I fear I am a bit lost; it happens from time to time. Could you please tell me where I might find the Button residence?”

  Beatrice, who was much less timid around strangers, immediately stood up and said, “This is the Button home. I’m Beatrice.”

  The elderly ghost tipped his hat to her and gave her a polite smile.

  “How do you do. My name is Mr. Fuddlebee.”

  He turned to Bernard who was bravely standing up from his hiding spot beneath the windowsill. The ghost pointed his umbrella at the boy. A little light shone from the tip and it made strange buzzing noises. Then he brought the handle close to his ghostly spectacles where he studied important readouts.

  “You must be Bernard,” he said.

  “How do you know my name?” Bernard asked.

  “The real question is why don’t you know yours,” replied Mr. Fuddlebee. “I have found that it is always polite to introduce one’s self, so that the other person won’t have to make guesses, or scans with suspicious onbrellas. Do you not know the old saying? Guesses make messes.”

  “Onbrella?” Beatrice said. “You mean umbrella, don’t you?”

  “That is a very good guess,” the ghost replied, holding up what appeared to be his red and black umbrella. “This might look like an umbrella. This might act like an umbrella. But that is just its disguise. This is in fact an onbrella. You see? Guesses do indeed make messes.”

  “I’ve never heard that saying before,” she argued. “And I’ve read many books.”

  “Oh, it is a popular saying in the Necropolis,” the elderly ghost replied, “especially with the necromancers. Do you know they once tried to guess the best way to make a zombie. Unfortunately they guessed wrong and turned themselves into zombies instead. What an odd and odious kerfuffle that was! You cannot imagine how hard it is to tell a zombie necromancer to stop eating his heart out. They’re like kittens; they never listen.”

  “I would have introduced myself if you were a person,” Bernard protested. He always thought of himself as a stickler for rules and he was upset because he did not know this one. “But you’re not a person. You’re a ghost. And I’ve never spoken to a ghost before. So I do not know the proper way of doing so.”

  “That is very understandable, my boy,” Mr. Fuddlebee said. “The custom of most mortals when they see a ghost is to run away. But you appear to have lots of mettle.”

  “If you mean my armor, it’s upstairs in my room,” Bernard said, thinking of his helmet and sword.

  “Oh no, not that kind of metal,” the elderly ghost said with a chuckle. “I mean mettle. You have lots of bravery.”

  Right at that moment, strange noises started coming from the Button house. There was creaking in the corners. There was booming in the basement. There was slithering in the ceiling, and rattling in the rafters, and clinking in the cupboards.

  Even if you had never believed in haunted houses before, you would have probably started right the
n. It was a horribly frightening sound.

  Look for more in

  THE GHOST, THE BUTTONS, AND THE MAGIC OF HALLOWEEN

  Coming…

  October 6 2015

  You can read more in the

  STEAMPUNK SORCERY SERIES

  by visiting

  www.becket.me

  Credits

  Cover design by Becket

  www.becket.me

  Illustrations by Raven Quinn

  www.facebook.com/officialravenquinn

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR & ILLUSTRATOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BECKET

  Becket is the assistant to New York Times bestselling author Anne Rice. He is also the author of eight other books, including a book of poetry, and two other books about Key the Steampunk Vampire Girl.

  He also is a music composer and has an instrumental music album.

  Becket’s music and books is here

  www.becket.me

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  RAVEN QUINN

  Raven Quinn is a Los Angeles based singer/songwriter, recording artist and illustrator. Although Raven is primarily recognized for her work in music, she has also revealed herself to be a passionate visual artist with a unique and whimsical style that is all her own. Her artistic tools of choice are usually simple: a BIC pen, watercolor pencils, and her expansive imagination. Drawing has always been a creative outlet for Raven, but it was only in 2012 that she began making her original artwork available to the public through online auctions. Due to increasing demand, she eventually began taking commission requests as her schedule allowed in 2013. Raven's artistic contribution to Key the Steampunk Vampire Girl marks her debut as an illustrator for a children's book, and is the realization of a life-long dream to help visually bring to life fantastical worlds and characters for young readers. When she is not writing or in the studio recording new music, Raven can inevitably be found working on her latest illustration.