by A. G. Howard
“Are you . . . are you my guardian angel?” I’d heard of such creatures but had never believed they might be real. Yet in that moment, I was willing to believe anything if it would save me from my landlord or a broken neck.
My visitor flashed his teeth in a stunning smile that transformed his face to the devil’s playground—malice concealed within a veneer of lovely persuasion. “I’m the furthest thing from an angel, little ducky. But I am here to watch you dole out some righteous retribution upon a sinner most foul.” He placed the top hat on his head. A string of dead moths trembled at the brim in morbid tribute to the gusts fluttering my curtains. “Now, let’s have us a bit of fun with old Wally, aye?”
THE LONG LEG OF THE LAW
Wally the Walrus’s footsteps scuffled toward my door.
“You won’t let him in, right?” I asked the demon . . . angel . . . savior . . . whatever. He stood still as a statue, the gems on his face blinking through different shades of gold. You’re going to help me like last time?” My pulse pounded hard in my neck, and my vocal cords shuddered like a snare drum.
The creature’s wings spanned wide. “Oh, no, little ducky. You’re going to help yourself. After all, you’re the one with a direct line to the most ancient and heavily populated inhabitants on earth. They’re adept at more than conversation, Alison. They have skills. All you need do is ask for a hand.” He gestured toward a daddy longlegs creeping across the wall behind him, casting a spindly shadow on the white plaster. “Or eight feet. Whatever fits the bill.”
Before I could make sense of his riddle, my mystical guest vanished in a poof of sparkling blue dust, only to be replaced by a bird-size moth that dove back into the shadows.
The moth from my picture . . . from Mom’s sketch.
My gaze fell to the Polaroids that had spewed out from the opening of my tote bag. Before I could focus on them, the door crashed open, sweeping a pathway through the stolen memories.
My stomach turned as Wally stepped in. Glistening apricot pulp was tangled in his mustache. He used the back of his pudgy hand to swipe it off and almost tripped over my Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book.
He picked it up and snorted. “Alison’s adventures in Wonderland? What’s wrong with you, girl? Are you crazy, or just stupid?” The moth picture slipped out of the book as he shook it. He watched it drift to the floor. “Wait, I’ve seen that bug. I was tryin’ to get it out of the building earlier. It’s what led me to your door—” Wally stopped himself, as if he’d said too much. “Come away from that window. That ain’t no rabbit hole. You’re gonna trip and I’ll have to scrape your scrawny ass up off the pavement.”
I clenched my jaw, unmoving.
He tossed the book down. “Look, I can make you sigh, or I can make you cry. But either way this is gonna happen.”
My attention flickered from his leering gaze to the tiny space of wall over the door. Behind him and the parade of spiders skittering free from a hole in the doorframe covering the wall and ceiling. There had to be thirty daddy longlegs now, and still more were pushing through. Had the storm driven them out?
Ask for a hand, or eight feet . . .
Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I had finally teetered over the edge like my mom. But whatever was happening, I had to use it to my advantage. I couldn’t move, and I’d missed my chance to dive to my death.
“Help me,” I pleaded—not sure exactly what I meant or to whom I was talking.
“Oh, I’m gonna help you.” In a matter of seconds Wally had me pinned to the wall with his clammy palm at my neck. I gripped his wrist with both hands and dug my nails in hard. He laughed, his sour-fruit breath hot on my face. “Yeah, I’m gonna help you real good. See, I’m the white rabbit, and I’m takin’ you on an adventure you’ll never forget, Alice.”
He lifted me by my neck until only my toes touched the floor. The pressure constricted my throat, and black fuzz began swimming in my gaze’s periphery. I kicked at him, but he sidestepped my feet and, with his free hand, started to work at my belt buckle.
My abdominal muscles clenched in revulsion. The dark fuzz grew, but not from lack of oxygen. I turned my eyes and saw a sweep of daddy longlegs along the walls and ceiling—hundreds of them.
“Help me now,” I commanded this time. My only hope was to drive Wally out of this apartment and back down the stairs on an avalanche of arachnids.
Their response was instantaneous and violent. Wally yelped and dropped me to the floor as the swarm began to clamber over him, creeping up his shoes, then along his legs. I moved away from the window and gasped for air as the insects continued their march, overtaking his chest. His horrified screams were drowned out by the spiders’ angry whispers as he swatted at them. More arachnids came to replace the ones that fell. They found their way to Wally’s neck and face, then filled his gaping mouth, muffling his bloodcurdling cries. He clutched at his throat, his bare arms covered with sleeves of spindly legs and throbbing thoraxes.
His nose and eyes disappeared under the ever-growing infestation. He lost his footing, and tried to catch himself against the wall, but his aim was off. He fell through the opened window, choking on the way down.
Numb, I backed up to my bedroom door, gagging when I heard the sick, heavy splat of his body on the wet asphalt.
Sudden movement in the left corner of the room distracted me. The moth fluttered out from the shadows, then landed on the windowsill, observing the mess below. A rush of nausea burned my gut.
“It was an accident,” I whimpered to the insect, as if he was my confessor. “I—I didn’t mean for it to happen!”
“Oh, but I did.” That cockney accent stirred inside my head. The voice belonged to both the moth and the man. Somehow, they were one and the same, and somehow they were also tied to the Wonderland tales. My mom had figured that out. Which meant he’d been watching us for years. Not only that, he had led Wally to my apartment earlier. It was his fault the landlord found Mrs. Bunsby’s note before I did. This whole thing had been a setup.
I couldn’t speak, dragged into a vortex of confusion, shock, and regret.
“Do not concern yourself with that drowned rat, Alison,” the British voice scolded me in my mind. “There are countless young girls he damaged. It was up to you to set things to rights. Imbalance brings balance. Chaos is the great equalizer. But there will be repercussions. You’ll ne’er belong here now. It’s better that way. You are meant for so much more than this paltry world has to offer.” The moth flapped over to me, hovering in front of my face. “Take things into your own hands. Power is the only path to happiness, and I can help you acquire it. My name is Morpheus. Find a looking glass and call on me when you are ready to claim your destiny.”
With that, the huge bug turned and flew out the window.
“Wait!” I shouted. Tears scalding my lashes, I stumbled over to the sill and gazed down. Two teen boys on bicycles stared up at me from beside Wally’s corpse. Just moments ago the man had been overpowering me . . . now he looked like a broken doll whose arms and legs had been twisted in unnatural poses until they’d popped out of their sockets. The rain puddles beside him were tinged red with the blood seeping from the back of his skull.
Dogs barked and people screamed as more spectators emerged from our apartment building. Slowly, each one turned to my window. Several pointed at me; some shook their heads.
I wanted to run but couldn’t release my white-knuckled grip on the sill. The spiders were gone, having slipped within the thousands of hiding places accessible only to insects, leaving me to wish I was their size, so I could disappear and never have to face the accusations and questions about to come my way.
Morpheus was right. I didn’t belong anywhere after that. And I suspected that’s why he arranged for Wally to find that note and prey on me in the first place.
Child welfare services accused Mrs. Bunsby of negligence, stating someone with my “violent tendencies” shouldn’t have been left to my own devices while she ran er
rands. They also pointed out that I’d been skipping classes, which only made her look more inept. They took me out of her care that very evening.
While the police and my child care advocates interviewed Mrs. Bunsby in the living room, I packed up my sparse belongings, trying to avoid looking at the window. Mrs. Bunsby had left a brown grocery sack on the bed. Funny, how she thought she’d failed me. I could see it reflected in her teary hazel eyes when she came home to the mess I’d made. Too bad I couldn’t tell her the truth. That she wasn’t to blame for me being an accomplice to murder . . . that the responsibility fell on Wally himself, along with a mystical moth and a swarm of daddy longlegs.
Inside the grocery sack, she’d tucked her husband’s camera, film, and a book on picture developing. There was also a packet of peanut butter crackers, an apple, and a bottle of water. My heart twisted tight, because I knew I could’ve been happy with her, if only Morpheus hadn’t had other plans for me. But as much as my chest hurt, I refused to cry. I was done crying.
And I would never be a victim again.
As I left the apartment, Mrs. Bunsby promised to try to visit sometime. I knew better.
A month passed, filled with psych evaluations and doctor exams, to make sure I wasn’t traumatized. Hard as they tried, the doctors couldn’t pin any crazy on me, because I refused to give details about the event. All I said was that the landlord had tried to force himself on me, we wrestled, and he fell out the window. Simple as that.
When the psychiatrist held up the cards for the inkblot tests, I never confessed what each one really looked like. I didn’t tell them that I saw rabbit holes, hookah-smoking caterpillars, little girls in aprons with knives in their hands, winged men, sparrow-size moths, or armies of spiders. I also never let anyone catch me talking to the flowers and bugs that kept me company. I knew how to appear sane.
I did such a great job, I was released from any more evaluations after only six weeks. The problem was child care services wouldn’t be able to place me with a foster family considering all the baggage I carried. So the children’s home became my permanent residence.
Or so they thought. I didn’t intend to stay. I planned to go someplace where their laws and watchful eyes could never find me again. And I knew just who would aid me on my escape.
All those weeks in therapy, I’d procrastinated reaching out to Morpheus. I needed that time to think things through. And I’d come to three realizations. One, my family really was somehow tied to the Lewis Carroll tales, which meant Wonderland had to exist on some level. Two, Morpheus was also tied to Wonderland, and he needed me for something, because no one helps anyone without wanting a favor in return. And three, before I was going to help him, he was going to give me a couple of things: a way out of the children’s home, and answers to all my questions.
Solitude was hard to come by. The grayish brick building had multiple levels with bedrooms on each floor. They were like dorms, three to four girls per room . . . or boys, depending on the floor. The place was surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence to keep strangers out and to keep the occupants in. There was only one gate, and it remained locked.
The laundry house—a flat-roofed building with hopper windows located just beneath the eaves—was abandoned except on weekends when we took turns washing our clothes by dorm number. I decided it would be the best place for a Wednesday night meeting.
I snuck out of my room, flashlight in tow, about two hours after lights-out.
I’d found a handheld vanity mirror in one of my roommates’ drawers and carried it over in a pillowcase, along with my mom’s Lewis Carroll books, a spiral notebook, and a pen. I still wasn’t sure how a “looking glass” figured in, but Morpheus had insisted I use one to call for him. Since the laundry house was locked, I climbed a tree beside it, lowered myself onto the roof from the branches, opened a hopper window, and slid in feet first. A dryer met my boot soles, so I didn’t have far to drop.
I slashed the darkness with my flashlight, revealing a cement floor, dinged and dented washers and dryers, and four vinyl laundry baskets. A mix of dust and detergent made me sneeze. A few night crawlers offered hissed greetings before going about their business.
Moonlight seeped through the hopper windows and cloaked the room in a creamy, silver film. I scouted out a spot next to the door to set my things down. My body would be a barricade, in case anyone found out I wasn’t in bed and came looking for me. If I blocked the way in, it would buy me extra time to think up an excuse.
After spreading my jacket on the floor for a cushion, I propped the flashlight against the wall so it gave off a halo of light, then sat down and held up the mirror.
“Morpheus,” I whispered, and that was all it took.
TWENTY QUESTIONS
A blue flash skated across the glassy surface of the mirror and pulsed. But the pulse wasn’t just visual, it was tactile. I could feel it vibrate through the handle. Cautiously, I set the mirror on the floor. Alight with an icy cerulean glow, the now-familiar moth climbed out from the glass, as if it had been waiting inside the whole time.
It took flight and perched in a puddle of moonlight. Its wings folded over its thorax, then expanded to the span of an angel’s, swooping open to reveal flawless skin and masquerade-style patches lit with jewels beneath inky eyes. A mass of blue, shoulder-length hair, messy from the magical static emanating across his humanoid form and extravagant clothes, moved about his head.
Morpheus loomed tall over me—re-situating his hat on his head to a cocky slant.
“Alison,” he said simply, and the sweet scent of licorice drifted my direction. “Ready to strike a bargain?”
I held up my forefinger. The last time we were together, I was distracted by the danger around me and mesmerized by his magic. All of which led to the murder of a man. Tonight, I would take the lead.
“Have you ever played the game Twenty Questions?” I asked him.
He tilted his head and grinned, pulling one of his wing tips over his shoulder to preen it. “Let me see . . . is it anything like Riddle Me This?”
I squinted. “Huh?”
He stretched out his wings and took a seat in the middle of the floor, his complexion aglow with the soft blue light radiating from his hair and the gems under his eyes. “Riddle me this: I belong to no one, yet am used by everyone. To some, I am money, to others I can fly. I make up space, yet don’t take it up. To those who never change, I hold no sway. But to those who do, I carry the weight of desert sands. What am I?”
I bit my lip. It wasn’t easy to ignore the intense craving to compete—to prove to him I could figure out his puzzle. But I sensed that would be exactly what he wanted, and I needed to stay focused on my goals. “Ball’s in my court, Morpheus. Twenty questions. I ask them, and you respond. I’m not striking any bargains with you until my curiosity is satisfied. No chasing rabbits.”
He snorted. “Not even white ones?”
Frowning, I opened my bag and took out the pen and spiral notebook. “No getting off track. Straight answers. You want something from me. If you’re going to get it, I’m calling the shots from here on out.”
“My, my. So tyrannical for one so young. I like that in an accomplice.” Legs crossed and folded in front of him, he steepled his hands under his chin and narrowed his eyes. “By all means, little ducky. You have the floor.”
Blue lightning branched out from his shadow along the cement beneath us, racing across the room in all directions. The washers and dryers activated and began to rumble and swish.
I ground my teeth. “I’m not ducky. Do you see any feathers on me? I’m Alison. Nothing more, nothing less. Got it?”
The jewels under his eyes blinked a warm orange hue. “Oh, I got it. But you don’t. Because you’re so much more than just a name.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Everyone is more. We’re each formed of life forces, then blood, bones, and spirit. And your blood is more precious than most.”
I coul
dn’t think of a response, too distracted by the motorized disturbances echoing off the walls. “Stop the machines. I need to be able to hear if someone’s coming.”
“Afraid not. My mind works better with a stir of chaos in the background. And yours needs to learn to do the same. As for our privacy, I have that all taken care of. Sneak a peek in the looking glass, peaches.”
Gritting my teeth at the new nickname—which was ten times as annoying as the first one—I lifted the mirror. The dim reflection of my face blurred, shifting to a portal that showcased the grounds around the laundry building. Tiny dots of light floated and bounced through the trees and grass. Looking closer, I could make out the shapes of miniature women with glittering scales and dragonfly wings.
A strange prickle raised the hairs on my skin—an awareness of the magic all around us that I never knew I had. “What are they?”
“Sprites. Though they may be small, they can stop anyone in their tracks should they try to interrupt us. Just pay heed where you’re walking when you leave. Otherwise, you might trip over a body or two.”
I gasped and set the mirror down. “They’ll kill them?” I couldn’t let that happen. One dead person on my conscience was enough.
Morpheus chortled. “I should’ve clarified. Dozing bodies. They’ll be no worse for wear once they wake, other than being immensely satisfied and confused. Most importantly, they’ll be too preoccupied with their own thoughts to know you were here, or to care, for that matter. But, I’m speaking out of turn again. You had some questions to ask me, yes?”
I have so many more now.
I shook off the hunger to know everything at once, determined to stay on task. I dragged my mother’s books from the pillowcase and laid them out between us, preparing to write his answers in my spiral notebook.
He clapped. “Oh, goody. I like this game. Show me all your cards, and I’ll show you mine. Just wait until you see what I have up my sleeve.”
“Would you stop talking already?” I scowled. “So, you and those . . . sprites . . . you live in Wonderland?”