Worlds Between

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “She hates kids. Boy, are you in for it. She runs people off her property with a pitchfork.”

  Angus stared down at the deck. “Just my luck.”

  Vanora smiled. “Don’t worry, you can hang out at my house. We live in England in the winter but spend our summers here. My father has loads of interesting stuff. He’s a cryptozoologist.”

  “A what?”

  “A cryptozoologist. He studies all kinds of weird and mysterious creatures. That’s why we come to Iona. The island is ancient, full of mystery, and the oldest burial site in Scotland.”

  “Maybe he ought to study my traveling companion.” Angus pointed at Fane, who stood at the bow of the ship, staring wistfully at the approaching island. “He’s pretty strange.”

  “I’ve never seen him before,” Vanora whispered. “You’re right though, he does look a little odd, especially with all that hair on his face.”

  “I know what you mean,” Angus said. The first time I saw him I didn’t know if he was wearing a beard or eating a muskrat.”

  Vanora giggled, grabbed her backpack, and stood. “I better help my father with the luggage. Look me up when you get settled.”

  “Thanks. If my aunt’s as bad as you say, I might need a place to hide out.”

  Fane came up behind him, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into Angus’ ear, “All ashore that’s going ashore.”

  Angus jumped, and wriggled his finger in his ear. “Do you have to yell?”

  “Sorry, bad habit. I’m not used to young people. Vampires are quite deaf, centuries old in fact. Most have sawdust in their ears. Keeps the bugs out.”

  Angus wrinkled his nose. “Yuk.”

  “I see the young lady from the plane is here.”

  Angus glanced at Vanora, standing by her father at the rail. “Yeah, it’s kind of weird bumping into her again.”

  Fane stroked his beard. “Not necessarily. Don’t you believe?”

  Angus shrugged. “In what?”

  “In destiny.”

  “I don’t know, I guess,” Angus said.

  Fane gripped his shoulder. “It’s good that you’ll have a friend here, especially in times of trouble.”

  “What trouble?”

  The old man ignored him and plucked a piece of garlic from around his neck. He popped it into his mouth and leaned inches from Angus’ face. “Care for a snack? I have plenty.”

  Angus stepped back. “No thanks, and can you breathe the other way? You’re bleaching my hair.”

  Fane popped another piece into his mouth. “All right, but don’t blame me if you get hungry later.”

  The ship’s engine geared down to a rumbling idle. An iron ramp lowered onto a concrete slab at the foot of the island. Passengers disembarked, careful to mind the puddles of ocean seeping between the ramp and the shore. To the right stood a metal rack filled with bicycles, some shiny and others rust-coated. There was even a unicycle propped to one side.

  A loud ticking jolted Angus’ attention from the island. Fane pulled a tiny typewriter from his vest pocket and set it in the palm of his hand. Paper flowed from the machine as it hammered out a long message.

  “What is that?”

  “Urgent Telegraph,” Fane said, tearing off a two-foot long section of paper. He put the gadget away, read the message to himself, and sighed. “Here’s where we part company, my dear boy. Vampire alert near Edinburgh. Hope you have a pleasant stay. At least as pleasant as possible in the company you’ll be forced to keep.” Fane tugged out his pocket watch, rubbed the face, and studied the time. “She’ll be along shortly.” He clucked in sympathy while shaking Angus’ hand. “Too bad for you, my boy.” He reached into his pocket and handed Angus a business card. “Pleasure meeting you and don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything.”

  Slipping the card into his front pocket, Angus watched Fane re-board the ferry. He gave Angus a low bow and yelled. “Take care of that dragon charm.”

  “I will. Thanks for the ride,” Angus yelled and waved good-bye. He patted his amulet to make sure it was still there.

  Vanora came up beside him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come over when you can. My last name is Pegenstecher. It’s on the door. We live at Shore Side Cottage, number five. She pointed down a narrow lane, where a dozen whitewashed buildings stood nestled by the waterfront. “I’ll show you my father’s collection of mysterious and powerful objects.” Her eyes danced. “He’s even got a fur coat from Bigfoot.”

  “Really? Cool! I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  Vanora and her father mounted their bikes, waved goodbye, and rode away. Angus waited for his ride, shivering as an ocean wind howled at his back. Storm clouds darkened the sky overhead and a light rain wept over his head, adding to his misery. Angus pulled up his collar as the water drizzled down his neck and into his shoes. An hour passed and still no one came to fetch him. In nearby windows, cozy fires glowed and tea kettles boiled. The rain turned into a downpour. A deep chill settled into his bones and his spirits sank. No one was coming to get him.

  There seemed to be only a few cottages, a post office, and a couple of other buildings, all made of stone. It couldn’t be that hard to find Vanora’s cottage. Angus slogged up the lane looking for number five. He veered to dodge a muddy pot hole when an insect buzzed at his head. He swatted it and the thing fell to the ground with a clunk. He picked it up. A giant wasp, just like the one he’d seen on the plane! He held the insect by the tip of its wing to examine it in the dusky light. The wasp shook violently and sputtered before he got a closer look, but he could have sworn he saw a tiny camera attached to its belly. Without warning, the insect sprouted thorns. Sharp metal slivers stabbed into his hand.

  “Ouch,” Angus yelled, dropping the thing to the ground. The angry wasp roared off into the sky. Angus examined the palm of his hand where blood seeped from three tiny puncture wounds. He searched in all directions. Was someone controlling those things? Hiding around a corner with a remote?

  Angus buried his head like a turtle in his jacket and forged up the lane, his cumbersome suitcase banging against his leg. It didn’t take long to see Vanora’s whitewashed stone cottage. He tapped on the door using a handsome brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

  The door swung open with a wonderful blast of warm air and Vanora’s father, Mr. Pegenstecher, pulled Angus inside. “Come in, son, before you catch your death of cold.”

  Angus shivered and removed his soaked jacket. He slipped off his shoes, feeling as if the whole ocean had seeped into them.

  Mr. Pegenstecher motioned him to a wooden bench in front of an energetic fire. Angus peeled off his wet socks, plopped them onto the stone hearth, and soaked in the soothing heat. A minute later Vanora handed him a cup of hot cocoa with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a chocolate stick on the side.

  “Thank you,” Angus said, taking the cup.

  Vanora looked puzzled. “I can’t believe no one came to get you.”

  Angus took a sip of the delicious drink. “I know, nice huh?”

  “Well, at least you’re safe and out of the rain. Relax and I’ll be right back.”

  Vanora returned to the kitchen, leaving Angus to himself. A dining table stood in the center of the cozy room near an antique hutch filled with crockery and silver tankards. Just beyond it, a glass case displayed ancient crosses, prehistoric artifacts, and plaster casts of giant footprints. Photographs hanging on the stone walls showed Mr. Pegenstecher at exotic locations with legendary creatures. One showed him on a pier with a giant squid. Another showed him holding the longest boa constrictor Angus had ever seen.

  A great boom caused the pictures to shake. Boom. Boom. Boom. Someone was pounding on the front door. Mr. Pegenstecher hurried to answer the insistent knock.

  A shriveled old man stood in the drizzling rain. A tattered brown overcoat draped to his ankles with a heavy canvas hood that partially concealed his wrinkled face. He carried a flickering glass lantern in one gnarled hand a
nd with the other, pointed to Angus.

  “Come, boy,” he grumbled. “Your aunt is waiting.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Cudweed,” Mr. Pegenstecher said, motioning for the man to come inside.

  The stranger grunted and stepped into the entryway. Angus swallowed hard and Vanora came to his side. “Be careful,” she whispered. “That’s Borage Cudweed. He works for your aunt. He’s a total weirdo. If you can get away, come over tomorrow and we’ll explore the island.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” Angus whispered before following the creepy man to the door. He turned to Vanora’s father. “Thanks for the hot chocolate and warm fire.”

  Mr. Pegenstecher gave Angus a worried look. “You know where to find us if you need to.”

  Angus nodded, then said to Cudweed, “How did you know I was here?”

  “A little bug told me,” the old man mumbled.

  “What?”

  Cudweed scowled and stepped outside. “Come, now.”

  Angus didn’t want to go with the nasty man. He looked more like a creature from one of his vampire books, or a crazed slasher, than someone’s gardener.

  Angus put on his wet socks and shoes and stepped out into the dark night. The man’s knee-high Wellington boots made loud splat, splat sounds as he shuffled away. Angus followed him to a rusty bicycle with a cart attached to the side.

  He shoved Angus forward. “Get in.”

  Angus shot him a dirty look and climbed inside. Rain poured down his back and a great puddle splattered underneath him as he sat on the wooden seat. For the first time, Angus noticed a series of neon blue lights shining outside each cottage down the lane. Bug lights?

  Cudweed hooked the lantern onto the front of the bicycle, climbed aboard, and pedaled into the dark. Angus held on with both hands as the bike jerked forward into the night. How could the old man see by just the faint lantern light? Angus couldn’t see a thing until they wound along a treacherous ocean cliff gleaming black with rain. The lantern light made the rocky outcropping look like a humped-back serpent. Angus closed his eyes and held on tighter.

  He opened them again hearing the crash of surf from the ocean below. Angus squinted, trying to see ahead, but there was just blackness marred only by a bit of moon peeking between the clouds. Cudweed steered the cycle downhill between two rocks. It seemed as though the man was about to drive them into the sea when he took an abrupt right turn past a patch of shrubs and into a dale. A large stone house stood at the bottom. A faint light glowed from the eight windows of the tall, narrow structure.

  The bike rattled up next to the front of the house. “Out,” Cudweed commanded, pointing to the front door.

  Stiff from the cold and jarring ride, Angus climbed from the cart. A burst of bitter wind howled at his back, freezing the rainwater that had by now seeped into his pants. He forged his way to the front door, suitcase in hand. He knocked, watching Cudweed push the bike to a shabby, thatched cottage next door where moments later, a light switched on inside. Through its sooty windows, Angus watched Cudweed putting a kettle on to boil. He looked out the window and scowled at Angus. Something wasn’t right about the way he shuffled when he walked, or the way he grunted. As if he was not quite human.

  Click here to learn more about Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings!

  By: Angela J. Townsend

  Clean Teen Publishing

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  To my family who taught me to go after my dreams

  To my sons, Grant and Levi who taught me that love is endless

  To Milton Datsopoulos and Diane Larsen who taught

  me the value of friendship

  And to

  Dale McGarvey

  Who taught me to never give up.

  “Let those curse it who curse the day, who are prepared to rouse Leviathan.”

  Job 3:8

  Summer 1937

  Sassy Smit was seven years old the afternoon she found Leroy Jebber dead. His pudgy body floated belly up in the slough, like a white blob of fat in a can of beans. A strangled scream rose in her throat. She knew it was Leroy—the big bloated thing in the water. His bib overalls, the ones with the blue and green patches at the knees, gave him away. Sassy’s mama mended Leroy’s clothes for free, so he didn’t mind the mismatched scraps. Sassy’s legs trembled. She should have never taken the shortcut, never stayed so late at Betsy Ray’s birthday party. She stared at Leroy, too horrified to look away.

  Something slithered in the shallows just beyond Leroy’s boot. Instinct took over terror, stabbing into Sassy’s brain, screaming for her to run. Sassy bolted. Her legs pumping through the goosegrass, she tripped and fell, snagging her new pink tights. Scrambling to her feet, she rounded the woodpile at the edge of her parent’s farm. Just a few more steps and she’d be home. She raced past the chicken coop and around a sharp bend in the worn footpath. The salty smell of fresh shelled lima beans greeted her at the front gate. She nearly tore it off its hinges.

  “Mama!”

  Sassy’s mama stood on the front porch, stirring a pot. Her black skin glowed in the evening light. “What’s chasin’ you, child?”

  “Mama, Leroy’s dead. He’s in the slough.”

  Mama’s eyes went round. She leaned in close, snatched Sassy by the shoulders with her boney fingers. “You stay away from that pond, you hear me?”

  “But Mama…”

  “You listen to what I’m sayin’. That pond is cursed. You hear me?”

  Sassy nodded.

  Mama lowered her voice. “Whatever went on there today ain’t none of our business. Now you get inside and don’t you ever go near that place again. Not unless you want to die, too.”

  “We can’t just leave him…”

  Mama wiped her hands on her gingham apron and narrowed her eyes up the weed choked path. Locusts hummed into the night. “Nothin’ we can do for him now, honey child.”

  Sassy never went near that slough again. Not for seventy years. Not even to tend the rusted wire fences near the property line, not even when the county warned her about the weeds. No, Sassy never went back, not until the new people came, and then—it was only to warn them.

  Terrebone Parish, Louisiana, 2013

  My mother aimed our Volkswagen bus down the overgrown driveway, steering through endless rows of cypress trees, ashen with massive fluted bases and branches bearded with Spanish moss. We passed acres of swamp water interlacing the land like veins. She’d dragged us all the way from the windy plains of Nebraska deep into the heart of the Louisiana bayous, to a countryside that seemed to congeal into a shapeless living thing, a strange combination of liquid and land.

  “Mom, look out!”

  She slammed on the brakes, barely missing a fallen log in the road. She turned and glared at me. “Dharma! You know I don’t like you calling me mom. I thought we agreed on this.”

  “Okay!” I snapped. In my panic, I had forgotten that my crazy, hippie mother wished to be called Echo, a name given to her by a shaman who informed her that her streak of bad luck with men would end if she united with nature and gave up her identity. I tried to convince her otherwise but she wouldn’t listen. Me, the voice of reason. The adult in the family. And the caretaker of my baby brother, Benny, whose dad could have been any one of an endless string of loser boyfriends.

  Mom steered around the log. A dreamcatcher dangling from the rearview mirror swung precariously as she dodged the ruts in the road, only to hit deeper ones. She fought past the potholes and brought the bus to an abrupt halt in front of a massive wrought iron gate with a giant metal rose in the center. Behind the gates loomed an immense plantation house. Ancient. Deserted. Unloved.

  “Groovy!” Mom said, eyeing the dilapidated mansion.

  “Creepy, you mean.”

  “No, it’s perfect.”

  “Right. Perfectly c
reepy.”

  “Come on, Dharma, show some respect! It's a historical landmark. Welcome to Whiskey Rose Plantation.”

  She pulled a Post-it off the dash, reading the history the same way she'd remember to pick up milk at the store. “It was built by General Cobb. He and his family died mysteriously in eighteen-twelve." Her eyes danced. "No one has been able to live in it for long. They've all been chased away by ghosts. And that's where I come in.” She wadded up the paper and tossed it on the floor.

  I sighed. “You know someday you’re gonna get caught.”

  “Caught doing what? I’m providing an honest service.” A scheming grin crossed her lips. “They need to sell this place, and they can’t do it if it’s haunted.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Remember who you’re talking to. I’m the one that helps you capture the dearly departed on film, waving mournfully on their journey to the other side. The one holding the trick ropes. The one who makes the spooky sounds. Why can’t you get a real job?”

  “Well, a real job wouldn’t give us a free place to live every month, would it? Now stop polluting me with your negative energy and get Benny. I’ll grab the keys.”

  I waited while she dug for her purse, buried under a pile of fast food sacks and scratched CDs. She pawed through the mess and pulled out the tattered bag decorated with beads and an orange peace sign on the front. She unhooked the antler bone clasp and started the excavation process.

  While she searched for an eternity, I glanced at the dark, foreboding house. Greek style pillars, strangled with vines, held the weathered roof up. Most of the windows were covered by rotten shutters and decrepit with moss. A lump rose in my throat. What had she gotten us into this time?

  “Shoot! I must have left the keys at the real estate office. Take Benny for a walk while I go get them. There’s supposed to be a scenic pond out back.”

  I glared at my mother. “You’re coming back—right?”