Angela was looking out the window.
“What?” said Emily. “What is it?”
“I think,” said Angela, “I might have a suggestion.”
Emily and Gorgo crowded next to her at the window to see what she was looking at: Mr. Petersen’s garden, with its mounds of fresh black dirt.
“But he’ll see us,” said Emily.
“Leave that part to me,” said Angela.
A few minutes later Mr. Petersen’s doorbell rang. When he opened the front door, a girl he vaguely recognized was standing there.
“Hello, Mr. Petersen,” said the girl. “My name is Angela Rodriguez, and I’d like to interview you for the Clearview school newspaper.”
“Oh. Um . . . does it have to be now?”
“Yep,” said Angela, flipping open her memo pad and readying her pen, “it sure does.”
“I need more mud,” said Emily urgently. “No, point the hose at the dirt, not at me!”
“Sorry,” said Gorgo, and redirected the stream of water onto the dirt.
As Angela was conducting her interview with Mr. Petersen, Emily was working as quickly as she could, sculpting two life-size but very rough human figures with mud from Mr. Petersen’s backyard garden. One of the figures was her height. The other was Dougie’s.
The garden was next to a small shed toward the rear portion of the yard. Emily figured—well, hoped, really—that the shed, and the trees and fence ringing the yard, would block the other neighbors’ view of what she was doing. But if Mr. Petersen happened to look out his back window, they were sunk. Which was why Angela was at his front door, doing her best to keep him busy.
The mud was staying together surprisingly well, as if the apth was already affecting it, but now Emily was running out of sculpting materials.
“You better hurry,” said Gorgo.
“I know, I know!” said Emily. “Make more mud!”
In the front, Mr. Petersen was warming to the whole interview process, answering question after question. Angela asked him about his career path, favorite book, favorite food, favorite song . . .
“What about your advice to kids who want to become teachers?” she said. “Could you share some of your wisdom and insights?” She was trying to look as eager and attentive as possible while also being desperate to know what was going on out back. But the distraction was working, she thought. It was working!
“I’m glad you asked. First off, being a teacher is a calling, a sacred calling.”
“Mm-hmm. Let me write that down. ‘Sacred . . . calling.’”
“Exactly. A person should ask themselves—hold on a moment. I believe that’s my house phone ringing.”
“I don’t think it is,” said Angela.
“No, I’m pretty certain that’s the phone.”
“Well, they’ll leave a message, won’t they?”
“I should answer it—I’m waiting for the insurance company to contact me about my car.”
“But—”
“Excuse me for a moment.”
“Wait! I’m not done with the interview! Mr. Petersen! Come back!”
Chapter
Thirteen
Emily had two completed figures standing side by side. On the head of the smaller statue, she stuck one of Dougie’s hairs that she had found on his pillow, then plucked one of her own hairs and placed it on the larger statue.
“What do you do next?” asked Gorgo.
“This,” she said, and gently blew on each of them.
“Now, that is impressive,” said Gorgo.
Emily stared at herself. And at her brother. They stared back at her. iEmily was dressed exactly like the real Emily. iDougie was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing when he disappeared.
“This is amazing,” she said.
“And really, really creepy,” said Gorgo.
“Can you speak?” said Emily to herself and iDougie.
“Yes,” they both said at the same time.
“What is your name?” she said to iEmily.
“My name is Emily Edelman,” iEmily responded. Her delivery was a bit flat and wooden, but her voice sounded exactly like the real Emily’s.
“This is perfect,” said Emily.
“You guys!” It was Angela, running to them from the side of the house. “Mr. Petersen went back inside! He—eeek!” she said, as iDougie and iEmily turned to look at her. “This is so freaky.”
“Yes. I find it unnatural and disturbing,” said Gorgo.
“Have you ever looked in a mirror?” said Emily.
“I’ve tried, but they generally crack,” said Gorgo.
“I think you’d better hurry,” said Angela. “Mr. Petersen got a phone call. He went back inside. He could be watching us right now!”
Mr. Petersen was talking on the phone with an insurance adjuster named Truly Wilshire.
“What a lovely name!” he said.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, and laughed warmly.
Mr. Petersen was standing at the rear of his house. Luckily his back was to the window, because clearly visible behind him was his garden, and clearly visible in his garden were Angela, Dougie, Emily, another Emily, and a very large demonlike creature.
Mr. Petersen was having an absolutely delightful conversation with Ms. Wilshire. They started by talking about the strange occurrence with his car but soon wandered to other topics. “What?” he said. “You grew up in Minneapolis? Me too!”
As they talked and laughed and laughed and talked, a warm glow filled Mr. Petersen. He was, he realized, developing a crush on Ms. Wilshire. What a wonderful thing after all the strange events of the past few days! He pivoted around on his feet until he was facing the window and the backyard. Then his smile faded.
“Hello?” said Truly after she’d been talking for a bit with no response. “Hello? Evan? Mr. Petersen? Are you there?”
Mr. Petersen had forgotten about the phone. He had forgotten about Truly Wilshire. Instead he was gaping slack-jawed at what was happening in his backyard.
Emily was talking to Dougie and Angela. Also, Emily apparently had a twin, which Mr. Petersen hadn’t known. But strangest of all was the man in a giant monster suit.
No, hold on, wait: the strangest part was the massive doors that suddenly materialized out of nowhere. They looked like the twin doors of an elevator, but they were carved from rough stone. The doors parted, also like elevator doors, revealing an ornate interior lit with sconces. One of the Emilys exchanged a few words and a hug with Angela, and then she and the man in the monster suit went into the elevator—that’s the only way Mr. Petersen could think of the strange doors—and then the doors shut. And then the doors vanished. Then Angela led Dougie and Emily Number Two out of the yard.
“Evan? Are you there? Hello?”
“I have to . . . go,” said Mr. Petersen, and hung up. Then he went upstairs and had a lie-down.
Dougie was having the time of his life. This was the best game ever! He was seated on a wooden throne on the ramparts of a castle with a grand view of the battlefield before him. This was more like it! As soon as he had realized where he was, a throng of little warriors had surrounded him, hopping up and down with excitement.
“You king! You command!”
They came up to only his hips. They were mostly helmet, with little arms and legs sticking out. They were armed with clubs.
“You strategy! You command!”
All he had to do, he realized, was point and say, “Ten archers! There!” or “Catapult! There!” or “Foot soldiers! Attack!” and his orders were instantly obeyed. Wait till he told his friends about this awesome game!
Emily wasn’t sure what traveling between dimensions would be like. She certainly hadn’t been expecting the stone doors to appear before her right there in the garden. When they did, a pleasant female voice said, “Destination?”
She glanced at Gorgo. He cleared his throat—then kept clearing his throat, a rumbling, gargling, hacking growl. Finally, he st
opped.
“You through? Are you going to say the name of the destination?” said Emily.
“That was the name of the destination.”
There was a faint bong sound, and the doors opened.
“Please step in and stand clear of the closing doors,” said the voice.
Emily turned to Angela. Before Emily could say anything, Angela said, “Don’t worry. I’m on it. Go!”
“Thank you,” said Emily, and then impulsively gave her a hug. Then she and Gorgo stepped in and the doors slid shut.
They were in what looked like an elevator draped in ancient tapestries. Sconces burned without smoke. There were low wooden benches along both side walls and wooden railings to hold on to. Gentle music played, the sort Emily associated with educational documentaries about medieval times.
“It’s like a magical elevator,” said Emily.
“Funny you should say that,” said Gorgo, “because—”
“Wait. You’re going to say it’s called a Spellevator.”
“Yes! How did you know!”
“Next stop, ARRGHAMAHAHHRRRRRCCCHAARRAGHACHHHH,” said the Spellevator’s female voice, repeating the disturbing phlegmy exclamation Gorgo had emitted earlier.
“I just want to tell you again,” said Gorgo. “Where we’re going . . . I don’t think you’ll find it exactly pleasant.”
“Okay.”
Emily had no sensation of movement, but there was another soft bong and the doors slid open again.
“Whoa,” she said, her eyes wide.
“I warned you,” said Gorgo.
Chapter
Fourteen
“Well, Dougie, your table manners are certainly excellent tonight,” said Mr. Edelman.
“Thank you,” said iDougie, who carefully cut himself another piece of his meatloaf and used his fork, not his hand, to transport that piece to his mouth. Then he chewed with his mouth shut and didn’t speak while doing so.
Mr. Edelman and Mrs. Edelman exchanged looks of pleasant surprise. Hilary, however, who barely ever paid attention to anyone in her family, was watching iDougie with undisguised wonder.
“Anyway, ha ha, as I was saying, we have a wonderful unit in science class about invertebrates and we’ve been collecting pond water and looking at various paramecia under the microscope and it’s really fascinating, don’t you think, Emily?” said Angela. She was speaking very quickly and very nervously, and had been for most of the dinner.
“Yes, I think it’s fascinating,” said iEmily in an agreeable if not exactly expressive fashion.
Right before Gorgo and the real Emily had boarded the Spellevator, Angela and Emily had had a rushed conversation: further instructions on how to manage iDougie and iEmily, some directives for iEmily, and exchanges of good luck. And then Emily had thought of something else: she did a quick spell with an apth and handed Angela a stone from the garden.
“Here—it’s sort of like a deputy Stone, for communication only. I should be able to call you on it and give you an update.”
“Got it.”
After they left, Angela had led iEmily and iDougie back to their home, the two of them following her obediently. Hilary didn’t even look up from her screen when the three of them came in through the back door of the house.
Angela wasn’t sure what to do—could she just leave the imitation Emily and Dougie and go home? They seemed so passive. They looked and sounded exactly like the real thing, and they would answer her questions when she spoke to them, but they were still somehow . . . off. They reminded Angela of cows—content to sort of stand there, just existing, looking at nothing. Surely Emily’s parents would notice something, wouldn’t they?
Which is when Mrs. Edelman came home. She seemed so overjoyed that Emily had made a friend—“So nice to meet you!”—that Angela was worried that she was going to plant a kiss on her forehead. Then Mrs. Edelman had insisted Angela stay for dinner—“You just have to!”—and Angela realized maybe she had better do that. So she called her mom and told her about the invitation, and her mother seemed equally excited that Angela had a friend, and so Angela stayed for dinner.
At first everything was fine. Mostly Mrs. Edelman peppered Angela with questions—where do you live, how long have you lived here, do you like the school, and so on—and Angela was happy to keep talking. Both parents seemed entertained with their chatty, intelligent dinner guest and mostly unaware that their two younger children were acting a bit strange—which made sense to Angela, because she knew that most parents did a great job of pretending to pay attention to their kids without actually doing so.
The problem was Hilary. After they sat down to eat, Angela noticed that Hilary was glancing more and more often at iEmily and iDougie, her expression growing increasingly suspicious with each passing minute, and so Angela had started speaking faster and faster for longer and longer periods of time. Now, though, she had to take a breath, and as she did so, Hilary jumped in.
“Dougie, are you sick or something?” she asked.
“No,” said iDougie. “Could you please pass the milk?”
Both parents gaped. Dougie had said “please”!
“Of course!” said Mr. Edelman, happily. Another glance at his wife—Isn’t this a wonderful development?
“Dad,” said Hilary, “there’s something wrong with him!”
Angela began to sweat.
“Hilary!” said Mrs. Edelman. “Just because he’s behaving like a grownup at the table—we are so proud of you, Dougie!—doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with him!”
“He’s acting totally weird!” insisted Hilary. “And so are you!” she said to iEmily. “What is wrong with you? Why are you acting all uppity and brand-new?”
“I am brand-new,” said iEmily. “I was just created an hour ago from—”
“Anyway,” Angela jumped in with her desperately cheerful tone, “Emily and I are really enjoying history class because we’re studying the Tudor period in England, right, Emily? Right? Right? Right?”
“Right,” said iEmily.
“I’m telling you, this is weird,” said Hilary to her parents. “You don’t think this is weird?”
“It’s ‘weird’ that Dougie is behaving so nicely—so nicely, Dougie—and that Emily is enjoying her schoolwork?” said Mrs. Edelman.
“She really is,” said Angela. “Like math class! What fun! Right, Emily?”
“Yes, lots of fun,” said iEmily.
“You hate math!” said Hilary.
“It’s so fun,” said Angela.
“Fun,” echoed iEmily.
“Okay, I think something really strange is—”
“Is everyone finished eating?” said Angela. “Maybe Dougie and iEmily—I mean, I and Emily—can all clear the table and wash the dishes!” She leaped up. iEmily and iDougie rose and started to help her. The parents beamed.
“This is extraordinary!” said Mr. Edelman.
Hilary had the stunned expression of someone watching an elephant break dance.
“Mom, Dad,” she said, “don’t you think that—”
“Don’t just sit there, Hilary,” said Mrs. Edelman. “Help them!”
So Hilary, her expression still incredulous, helped them clear the table.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at iEmily.
“I am now preparing to rinse this plate and put it in the—”
“Yes, yes, I get that, but what are you doing?”
“I am now rinsing the plate as I stated I would.”
Angela took the opportunity to lean close to iDougie and whisper, “You should go get ready for bed and then go to sleep,” and iDougie placidly announced that he was going to do just that.
Mr. Edelman and Mrs. Edelman followed him with their gazes as he left the room.
“He’s like a changed person!” said Mr. Edelman.
“It’s incredible!”
“It’s bizarre!” said Hilary to them. “Wha
t are you up to?” she whispered at iEmily. “Are you and Dougie trying to make me look bad?”
“Your makeup is making you look bad,” said iEmily. “You’re wearing too much of it.”
“Mom!”
“Okaaay!” said Angela. “Emily and I are going upstairs so she can help me with my homework because I need help with it and she’s really smart and can help me with my homework, which I need help with. The homework. Right, Emily?”
“Right,” said iEmily, and the two of them went upstairs.
“There is something definitely wrong with Dougie and Emily,” said Hilary. “And that Angela girl is really weird!”
“Oh, Hilary,” said Mrs. Edelman. “You should be happy that Dougie is behaving better and that Emily has a friend. And don’t you have homework of your own to do?”
So Hilary went to do her homework, muttering the whole time. Something weird is going on, she thought, and I’m going to figure out what it is.
The heat was overwhelming. And the noise, an endless wailing and keening and moaning. And the sights—Emily had seen such things in horrifying paintings made by crazy artists in the Middle Ages. She tried to distract herself by identifying the stony landscape. Volcanic, she guessed.
“It’s kind of nice to be home. Oh, look, there’s Schmahoitchimet!” said Gorgo cheerfully, waving. “And Zzaxtzl! And look, the old ice cream shop!” He glanced at Emily, and his expression changed. “Your skin is not supposed to be green, right?” he said.
“No,” said Emily in a queasy voice.
“Why don’t you close your eyes. I’ll lead you.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
She kept her eyes clamped tightly shut as Gorgo led her along by the hand. The horrific noises never ceased. Somehow hearing them without seeing what created them was almost worse.
Underneath her, the ground was rocky and uneven and it was difficult to walk without stumbling. They seemed to be heading gradually downhill, the heat growing even more intense as they did.
“Is this place . . . is it . . . you know,” said Emily.
“Ah,” said Gorgo. “Is it h-e-double-toothpicks? No, not in the way that your people might think of it. That said, as far as a human might be concerned, for all intents and purposes, it . . .”
Emily and the Spellstone Page 11
