Curse of the Broomstaff

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Of course I did,” answered Spencer. “Aryl, too. They warned me about this. They said you’d try to Pan me like you did the Dark Aurans.”

  “That’s what you are, Spencer,” said V. “We have to keep you under control.”

  It was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard. “I’m not a Dark Auran! I don’t even have any special powers.”

  “It was only a matter of time before you discovered the full range of your abilities,” V said. “Then you would become just like them. You’d try to stop us from doing what the Founding Witches would want.”

  “How can you say that?” Spencer yelled. “Haven’t you seen what the BEM is doing? I’m trying to stop them!”

  V took a deep breath. “And I have to stop you before you become a threat to us.” She turned back to the Auran girls. “Come on!” she barked. “Let’s get this kid Panned!”

  Spencer was too sick with despair and regret to mount any kind of defense. He was weaponless, his janitorial belt slung over Rho’s shoulder. He let the girls move him along, his mind numb from the sudden turn of events.

  It grew warmer and smellier as they approached the lagoon of raw Glop. By the time they reached the bank, the smell was almost unbearable. Spencer watched the lazy bubbles rise and splatter, releasing concentric rings of glowing energy.

  V came to a halt and swung the Spade over her shoulder. “Shall we set sail?”

  It was fully dark now, and only the grayish glow from the Glop lagoon made it so Spencer could see what she was talking about. A fleet of six blue recycle bins floated and bobbed in the Glop like small boats. They were tethered to the bank by a few rough ropes.

  The Aurans were jumping into boats by the pair, and V took Spencer firmly by the arm. “You’re coming with me.”

  V pushed him to the edge of the lagoon. For a frightful second, Spencer thought he might fall into the Glop. The blue recycle bin bumped against the bank, and Spencer stepped into it, not liking the way it wobbled under his weight.

  V lowered herself down, got situated, and pushed off from the bank. The boat drifted aimlessly in the Glop for a moment while V rummaged around in the bottom of the floating recycle bin.

  “Here it is,” she said, lifting a toilet brush into view. The plastic handle was about a foot and a half long, with a brush of white bristles at the end.

  “What’s that for?” Spencer asked, defenseless since the Aurans had taken his janitorial belt. If V wanted to attack him, couldn’t she at least use a more sanitary weapon?

  “I don’t want to be floating out here all night.” She leaned over the back of the boat and dunked the white bristles into the Glop. Instantly, the brush began to spin, propelling them forward like some kind of motorboat. V held on to the handle of the toilet brush, steering them toward the bare island and the Broomstaff.

  Spencer felt the wind in his face, steamy and rotten smelling. The rain was relentless as the dark clouds let down their load.

  “I love a storm like this,” V said. “Glad to see it still works after all these years.”

  “What still works?” Spencer said.

  “It has to storm, or the Pan won’t work,” V said. “The Broomstaff is designed to create bad weather whenever we get close.”

  A bright flash of lightning overhead momentarily silhouetted the crooked Broomstaff. Thunder cracked and the clouds seemed to drop more torrent. Sheets of rain came down, the water hissing and evaporating as it landed in the steaming Glop lagoon. It was wild to see so much raw Glop in one location. He couldn’t believe this wasn’t the source.

  “You really expect me to believe that you don’t know where the Glop source is?” Spencer said.

  “I don’t care if you believe me,” V said. “It’s the truth. Do you think I’d still be here if I knew where to find the source? The Broomstaff is all we know. It’s a disposal site for all this Glop. See that pump house over there?” V pointed across the lagoon to a decrepit-looking brick building. “When the lagoon gets full, one of us has to come down here and turn that thing on.”

  “That’s how you destroy it?”

  “Glop can’t be destroyed,” V said. “Only the Founding Witches had that kind of power.”

  “What?” Spencer didn’t understand. “Then what happens to all this?” He pointed at the gurgling lagoon around him.

  “We pump the Glop down into the earth so it can resurface at the natural source. We don’t destroy the Glop, Spencer. We recycle it.”

  Spencer stared at V, her veins of betrayal running even deeper. “You don’t destroy it? But . . . but the Toxites are born from Glop!” He pointed to the lagoon. “If you recycle this, then you’re just creating more Toxites.”

  “It’s all we can do,” V spat. “You’ve seen the effects the Glop has on the land around here. We have to get rid of it somehow, or the result would be catastrophic.”

  The blue recycle-bin boat butted up against the island. V lifted the toilet brush from the Glop and dropped it back in the bottom of the boat. Then she stepped up onto the muddy bank, dragging Spencer along.

  Visibility was so poor in the rain. Spencer barely noticed that the other Aurans had already arrived and were waiting for him at the base of the Broomstaff. The wooden handle of the giant broom rose above them, rough and wide as the trunk of a large tree.

  “This is it!” V shouted above the storm. “Hand me the Pan and strap him to the Broomstaff!”

  Gia seized Spencer by the front of his shirt and pushed him against the Broomstaff. Rho stepped up, pulling out long strips of Glopified duct tape and circling the Broomstaff, pinning Spencer securely in place. He saw her rain-streaked face glowing faintly in the shimmer of the Glop lagoon, but she wouldn’t make eye contact.

  V approached through the downpour, a shiny bronze dustpan in her hands. She reached around Spencer and slid the Pan behind his shoulders. He tried to wriggle free, but his lashing to the Broomstaff was too tight, and the dustpan was pinned.

  “What now?” Spencer screamed. Was it finished? The Pan hadn’t wrapped around him yet.

  “Now we turn on the pump,” V said. “The Pan only works when the Glop is draining from the lagoon, pumping back into the earth’s core. Then lightning strikes the Broomstaff and voila! You’re free to roam the landfill.”

  V picked up the slender Spade and leapt off the bank into one of the blue recycle boats. The other Aurans followed her, some of them giving Spencer a solemn backward glance, others refusing to look at the doomed boy. Through the blustery wind and slanted rain, Spencer watched them motor away from the Broomstaff island.

  Chapter 47

  “And I’m supposed to like this plan?”

  Spencer’s thoughts turned to his terrible predicament, duct taped to the Broomstaff. Once the Pan was in place, he would be forever cursed to wander the landfill, friendless and alone.

  “Spencer!”

  His heart pounded. Had someone just called his name? “Spencer!” He recognized that voice. And through the angled rain, he saw a figure climbing out of a boat onto his small island.

  It was Rho!

  “I wasn’t completely honest with you yesterday,” she said. Why had she come back to the island?

  “Yesterday, I told you that everything I did at New Forest Academy was just pretend,” Rho continued. “But I wasn’t pretending when I said that you’re different than other boys. Good different. I’ve met a lot of people in the last three hundred years, and I think you’re the bravest, most honest boy I’ve ever known.”

  Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but rainwater filled it.

  “And I’m not going to let you get Panned.” Rho’s hands tore at the strips of duct tape as she began to rip it away.

  Suddenly, the Glop in the lagoon began to roil and froth more violently than before. It swirled around the small Broomstaff island, ripples and waves that sloshed against the shore.

  Spencer glanced toward the pump house. He couldn’t see it through the rain, but he knew that the pump
had been activated. The Glop was draining downward, returning to its unknown source. Returning to create more Toxites in this never-ending chain.

  Lightning crackled overhead, brewing ever closer to strike the giant Broomstaff.

  “Hurry!” Spencer couldn’t help but say it. Rho tore away the final strip of tape just as a jagged bolt of lightning blasted into the top of the Broomstaff.

  Electricity shot down the gnarled trunk, infusing heat and power into the bronze dustpan. Rho pulled Spencer away just as the Pan curled, welding itself around the space where Spencer’s neck had been only seconds ago. Then it fell to the mud with a clunk.

  Rho pushed her wet hair back as the storm seemed to suddenly fizzle out. She bent down and picked up the Pan. Without hesitation, she hurled it into the churning Glop lagoon.

  Spencer stared at Rho in grateful disbelief. “Thanks.”

  “You have to get going,” Rho said. “Your friends are trapped in that soda can. Mud caved in around them, but they’re digging themselves out.”

  “That’s good, right?” Why did she look upset?

  Rho shook her head. “Leslie Sharmelle is waiting for your dad. She’s set a trap, and I’m afraid she’s going to get him this time.”

  Spencer started toward the edge of the island, where he presumed Rho’s blue recycle boat was tethered. Rho grabbed his arm, her head shaking.

  “We can’t take the boat back,” she said. “Too dangerous while the pump is turned on.”

  “Then how do we get across?” he asked, desperate to save his dad. “Brooms?”

  “The broom won’t carry you far enough.” She paused. “Unless . . .” Rho pulled a pushbroom from her janitorial belt. “I’m going to hit you as hard as I can.”

  “And I’m supposed to like this plan?”

  “The pushbroom should launch you about halfway across the lagoon,” Rho said. “You can use your regular broom to take the rest of the way.” She unclipped the janitorial belt she was wearing and handed it to him.

  “I’ll be in midair,” Spencer said. “What do I tap the broom against?”

  “Your foot, your knee,” said Rho. “Anything to activate the magic.” She leveled the pushbroom toward Spencer. “Ready?”

  He had barely finished cinching the janitorial belt around his waist when Rho slammed her pushbroom into his back as hard as she could. It knocked the wind out of him, and Spencer found himself gasping for breath as he soared out over the Glop lagoon. Just as Rho had predicted, he was about halfway across when his flight began to descend.

  His fingers clutched at a broom handle and he pulled it from his janitorial belt. Angling the bristles, he tapped it against his foot. The magic activated and pulled him back upward, arching quickly toward the shore.

  He sailed over the white heads of the Aurans, who waited at the edge of the lagoon in somber formation. Spencer couldn’t tell if they’d spotted him in flight, and he didn’t care to wait and find out.

  Spencer touched down running, his shoes sloshing through the thick mud. With only a mist in the air, Spencer could see much better than before. Straight ahead was a mound of mud, the corner of the oversized soda can jutting out.

  There was a flicker of lightning, an afterthought for the breaking storm. But in the flash, Spencer saw a glint of metal. It was the armored Filth, Leslie Sharmelle astride its prickly back. Rho was right about the trap. The creature was already in position to kill Alan Zumbro, crouched above the soda can’s opening like a cat waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

  Spencer was sprinting, his breath coming in desperate gasps. He knew he was probably too far away, but he refused to give up. In his anxiety, Spencer tripped and went down, sliding painfully in the mud. His broom tapped the ground and shot off in the wrong direction.

  Spencer pushed himself up. A dark opening formed in the mud, and Alan was the first to slide out of the giant 7-Up can. Spencer’s dad stood up, scanning the dark landscape.

  Spencer had just opened his mouth to shout when the Extension Filth pounced, Leslie Sharmelle twisting in the saddle to hurl a Palm Blast of vacuum dust at Alan. Spencer’s dad went down, helplessly pinned by the suction.

  Leslie reached down and turned the dial on her battery pack, letting the angry Filth feed its hunger at last. Slavering jaws stretched wide as the Filth’s spiky tail whipped around, as fast as a striking snake.

  But then, out of the darkness, a lone figure appeared. There was a glint of metal and a resounding clang, knocking the Filth’s bludgeoning tail away from Alan. The beast toppled, pulling Leslie under its bulk and pinning her with a grunt.

  The Extension Filth snarled and righted itself. Leslie’s orange prison jumpsuit was caked in dark mud, her hair disheveled and as wild as the look in her eye. A razorblade flashed in her hand, and she urged the hungry Filth after Alan.

  The mysterious figure acted fast. Mop strings whipped out from his hand, entangling the Filth’s armored legs. For the second time, the creature went down. This time Leslie was thrown from the saddle, still linked to her beast by the extension cord at her waist.

  The stranger leapt forward, a razorblade gleaming in the damp night, and sliced through Leslie Sharmelle’s extension cord. There was a shower of sparks, and then the beast was free.

  The Filth’s giant head perked up, nostrils flaring. Leslie was no longer in charge, no longer restraining its desire to feed on Alan Zumbro. The beast roared like a bear. It ducked into a quivering hunch and then released a shower of quills, blocking the Rebels from exiting the soda can.

  Alan and the stranger threw themselves down as the sharp projectiles sank deep into the mud around them. Then the Filth charged, its body looking strange and frightening with the absence of its quills. Already, new spikes were rising through its mottled fur, pressing through the flesh and glinting sharply in the moonlight.

  “Here!” the stranger cried as the beast came for Alan. The figure closed the razorblade and hurled the handle at Spencer’s dad. Alan dove for it just as the monster pounced, tackling him into the mud.

  There was a sound of ringing metal as Alan’s thumb slid along the handle of the razorblade. The sword extended, deadly blade piercing through the Filth’s flesh and fur. The Filth grunted and rolled aside, its soft underbelly beginning to disintegrate.

  Alan rose to his feet, jerking the blade out of the creature’s gut. With its remaining strength, the Filth snapped at him, buckteeth closing just short of Alan’s legs. Then the razorblade came down once more, severing head from body. Instantly, the Filth was gone, turned to dust and caught up on the wind.

  Spencer pushed himself up from the mud, barely believing that his dad had just defeated the Filth that had tried so many times to eat him. In the still of the moment, Spencer had all but forgotten about Leslie Sharmelle.

  Then he saw her, climbing atop the soda can to the place where she had first lain in wait to spring on Alan. This time she had no Toxite, but with her razorblade drawn, she was every bit as much of a threat.

  Before Spencer could shout another warning, Leslie Sharmelle leapt from the top of the can, razorblade clutched in both hands above her head, ready to bring it down on her victim.

  It was the stranger who reacted, swift and accurate. A blue spray bottle of Windex streamed from his hand, catching Leslie midflight in a cloud of mist.

  The woman shimmered with an azure glow, a final scream escaping her lips. In less than a second, Leslie Sharmelle had turned to glass. Then, with a terrible sound, she hit the ground, shattering into countless pieces.

  It was utterly silent. Only the drip-drip of the rainstorm dared make a sound. Then Bernard and Daisy stepped out of the can.

  “What happened?” Bernard said. “Did we miss the fun?”

  Daisy bent down and picked up a shard of glass that looked strangely like a finger. “Looks like something broke.”

  Chapter 48

  “It doesn’t matter, Spence.”

  Spencer pulled himself up in the mud, scrambling the
final distance to meet his friends. “Dad!” Spencer threw both arms around the man. Daisy touched his back, as if reminding him that she was also there, even though Spencer hadn’t said anything to her yet.

  The quiet moment didn’t last long, as soft radio static filled the air. Spencer looked down, surprised to see that Leslie Sharmelle’s Glopified walkie-talkie had survived the Windex. It lay in the mud, half buried and forgotten as the voice of Mr. Clean drifted out.

  “Leslie. Leslie, do you hear me?”

  The stranger who had rescued Alan stooped down and retrieved the walkie-talkie. He took a step forward, pulling a baseball hat off his head to expose a shock of white hair.

  “Who . . . ?” Walter started, but Spencer knew exactly who it was.

  Spencer pushed past his dad and came face-to-face with the boy stranger. “You’re the third one,” he said. “You’re a Dark Auran.”

  In response, the boy pulled down his collar to show Spencer the Pan. It meant more to Spencer now that he’d been within a second of wearing one of his own.

  “Name’s Sach,” the boy said. “I heard you might be in a spot of trouble. Thought I’d stop by to help.” He glanced at the muddy walkie-talkie in his hand as Mr. Clean’s voice came through again.

  “Leslie Sharmelle! Leslie, do you copy?”

  Sach held the radio out to Alan. “I think it’s for you.”

  Alan accepted the walkie-talkie. Pressing the button, he lifted it to his lips. “Hello, Mr. Clean.”

  It was silent for a moment, and then the BEM warlock spoke.

  “Alan.”

  “Leslie’s dead, Clean. But I’m still here. Just goes to prove that if you want a job done right, you should do it yourself.”

  “You can’t escape my wrath, Zumbro!”

  “I’m not trying to,” Alan said with a smirk. “Come on, Mr. Clean. No more henchmen. No more bodyguards. No more hiding. Why don’t you come out and meet me faceto-face?”

  The radio was silent for a moment. Then Mr. Clean’s answer was low and slow. “You should hope it never comes to that.”