Warren wasn’t sure, but it looked like a large shadow was rising from behind the boiler. He stepped back until he was flat against the door. “It’s just the shadows,” he whispered. “A trick of the light.”
But this trick of the light was growing wider and taller, taking clearer shape against the wall! Warren watched as two long gray tentacles reached out toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if somehow that might make them disappear.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw not two but four tentacles groping blindly, their many suction cups quivering as they crept along the cold cement floor.
“Stop!” Warren cried as bravely as he could, but the word came out more like a croak than a command. At the sound of his voice, the monster fully emerged. Its head was large and bulbous, and it peered at Warren through a cluster of small beady eyes. More tentacles revealed themselves–now eight in all–and crept toward him with a dreadful determination. The strange beast whistled as it inched ever closer.
Warren sank to the floor and clamped his eyes shut. He held his sketchbook over his head–it was his only protection! He had nowhere to run, no weapons to defend himself. Nor did he have any idea what this creature was or where it came from, though he was certain he was doomed. He would be eaten, his body devoured. Rupert would never know what had happened to his nephew, and the Warren lineage would come to a tragic end.
Warren waited for the tentacles to encircle him, or for the creature’s mouth to close over his head, or for some other ghastly thing to occur. Instead, he felt his sketchbook pulled gently from his hands.
Warren opened one eye. To his astonishment, the monster was holding the book in front of its many eyes, using its tentacles to flip through the pages. Warren couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the monster was whistling its appreciation!
“D-do you … like my book?” Warren asked.
The creature whistled louder and thrust the sketchbook toward him, wiggling excitedly. It seemed to be … communicating! Warren shifted to set the book aside, but a tentacle touched his wrist. Another tapped the cover. Again came the melodic whistling.
Warren couldn’t imagine what it was trying to say.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “You want my book?”
The creature stopped whistling: No.
“You want a different book?”
That wasn’t right, either–still no whistling. Warren had one more guess, but it seemed outrageous.
“Do you want me to draw you?”
The creature chirped happily and clapped its tentacles. Then it cocked its head and assumed a fairly ridiculous pose, like the ladies on the covers of Annaconda’s fashion magazines. Warren tried not to smile as he pulled out his charcoal. “All right, then,” he said. “Turn toward me. Just like that, perfect. Now hold still.”
With quick thick strokes he outlined the monster and added shading and details. Just for fun, he gave the creature a top hat and a smoking pipe. When he finished, Warren signed the drawing with a small “XIII” and tore out the page. He wasn’t boastful by nature, but he had to admit the likeness turned out well. “Here you go.” The creature accepted the portrait and whistled in delight. Not only that, but it seemed to be doing a little dance! Warren grinned. The creature looked scary, but in fact it was harmless.
“My name is Warren the 13th,” he said. “Do you have a name?”
The creature whistled back and Warren realized that if it did have a name, it wasn’t able to say it.
“I’ll call you Sketchy,” Warren said. “Is that all right?”
The monster clapped and trilled in approval. Then it reached out and grabbed the book and the charcoal. Sketchy stared intently at Warren, its tentacles a blur as it scribbled onto a blank page. Warren realized it was returning the favor and he tried to sit still, smiling awkwardly.
Finally, Sketchy returned the book. Warren turned it this way and that, trying to make sense of the drawing. It seemed abstract–all wiggly lines and a series of scrawls.
“It looks just like me!” he said at last, and the creature warbled cheerfully. “Wow, this is so neat! Have you always lived here?”
Sketchy nodded, whistling in affirmation. Warren was astonished. He had always avoided the boiler room–he was terrified of it–but all this time the most extraordinary playmate had been waiting there for him!
“Does my aunt know about you?” Warren asked.
Sketchy shook his bulbous head: No way.
“Perfect!” Warren said, grinning mischievously. “When we get out, I’ll bring you upstairs and you can give her quite a scare! That’ll teach her!”
Sketchy let out a chirping whistle that sounded a little like laughter.
“Is there any chance you can open this door?” Warren asked.
The creature wound several of its tentacles around the handle, tugging hard and whistling with exertion. The door creaked in protest but refused to budge. Sketchy blew out a sad little whistle.
“It’s all right. You gave it a good shot,” Warren said, gently patting a tentacle. “It’s that stupid lock. Not to mention that the door is solid steel and probably six inches thick. We’ll just have to scare my aunt in the morning, okay?”
Sketchy let out a warbling whistle and Warren smiled at his new friend. It was late and he was tired; he realized he would have no trouble falling asleep, now that he was no longer so fearful.
“If you don’t mind,” Warren said, “I’m going to get some rest. It’s been a long day.” He lay down on the cement floor and thought about the poem, repeating the words in his head so he wouldn’t forget them.
Sketchy began whistling a gentle lullaby, and soon Warren drifted off. Just before his eyes closed and sleep overtook him, he was vaguely aware of Sketchy snuggling beside him, a tentacle sliding like a pillow under his head.
A GENTLE LULLABY
he next morning in the boiler room, Warren woke with a start. He was nestled in a coil of snakelike tentacles! But then he remembered the tentacles belonged to his new friend and he relaxed. Sketchy stirred, too, its many mini eyes plinking open one by one. Warren’s stomach growled. Unless he escaped, he wasn’t likely to eat breakfast anytime soon.
Fortunately, he still had Chef Bunion’s pudding cookie in his pocket. Warren was hungry enough to eat the whole thing but didn’t want to be rude, so he offered half to Sketchy. All the creature’s eyes widened in excitement. It gobbled its portion in a single bite, then licked its lips with a slobbery purple tongue to capture every crumb.
COOKIES FOR BREAKFAST
With breakfast complete, Warren stood and stretched, his joints popping as he loosened his limbs. Likewise, Sketchy underwent a series of calisthenic tentacle-stretches, though the creature seemed to lack bones in need of popping.
Then Warren walked over to the door and rattled the handle. Still locked.
he called, pressing his mouth to the crack of the doorframe. It was useless; he knew she couldn’t hear him or didn’t care. Warren had a sinking feeling. What if she never let him out? What if this was his ultimate punishment and she was leaving him there to rot away forever?
He sat down to think, his back against the door.
The minutes passed slowly.
Sketchy sat at Warren’s side, flipping through the sketchbook and admiring the art on its pages. Warren recited the riddle from the journal, keeping it fresh in his memory: “When the Heart of the Warren hears the tone played by the rightful hand, the All-Seeing Eye will appear, granting dominion across the land.”
What could it possibly mean?
What was the Heart of the Warren?
And where was the All-Seeing Eye?
Suddenly, Warren heard footsteps. He jumped up and pressed his ear against the door. He’d trained himself to recognize the menacing stomp of Annaconda–but these steps were faint.
“Hello?” he called.
From the other side of the door came a low scraping noise. The dead bolt was sliding! Sketchy let out a whistle of alarm,
but Warren understood that he was being set free. He tugged on the handle and used all his strength to pull the heavy door. When he peered into the hallway, he saw a familiar flash of white disappear around a corner.
The ghost-girl from the hedge maze!
“Wait!” Warren yelled.
He turned back to Sketchy, but the creature was gone. Confused, Warren wandered all around the tiny room; he even peered into the narrow space behind the boiler. But all he saw was a sooty brick wall.
“Sketchy?” he called out. “Where are you?”
But Warren had no time to ponder his friend’s strange disappearance–he needed to speak to the girl who’d set him free. He dashed out of the boiler room, rounded a corner, and spotted her at the end of the hall. “Wait!” Warren called again, but the girl slipped through another doorway. By the time Warren reached the passage, she was gone.
Just like Sketchy, she had vanished into thin air.
As Warren climbed the stairs to the first floor, he heard Rupert shuffling about, panic causing his voice to rise higher and higher. “Who’s there? I need help! Somebody, pleeease!”
Warren quickened his pace. When he reached the lobby, he noticed something strange about his uncle. His face was red and he was sweating like he’d just been exercising (Rupert never exercised). “Are you feeling okay?” Warren asked.
“My boy, where have you been? I’ve been in need of you all morning! I accidentally put on two left shoes and I’ve been walking in circles ever since!” Rupert let out a heavy sigh and plopped down onto the lobby’s worn couch. “I’m so dizzy!”
Warren shook his head. Uncle Rupert had always been lazy, but he’d never seemed quite so foolish. Not until he fell head over heels for Aunt Annaconda. Now he was the most addle-brained person Warren had ever met.
Still, he tried to be kind. “Here, let me help you,” Warren said, kneeling and prying the shoes off his uncle’s feet. He tried to ignore the terrible odor. They smelled like warm ham.
TWO LEFT SHOES
“Ahhh, that’s better,” Rupert said, ruffling his nephew’s hair as if he were a dog.
“Glad I could help,” Warren said, smoothing his curls.
“Say, we missed you at breakfast!” Rupert grinned and nudged Warren in the ribs. “Overslept, did you?”
Warren said. He knew from experience that whenever he tried to tell his uncle about his wife’s mistreatment, Rupert grew cross and never believed him. This time was serious, however, and Warren decided to tell the truth. He took a deep breath and said in a rush: “Aunt Annaconda locked me in the boiler room all night as punishment for this diary page I found that was written by Warren the 2nd and mentions the All-Seeing Eye that she’s searching for but if she finds it then the hotel will no longer stand!”
“What on earth are you babbling about?” Rupert said.
“We can’t let her find the other pages!” Warren cried. “She’ll ruin the hotel! It’s all spelled out in Warren the 2nd’s journal!”
“For heaven’s sake!” Rupert said, throwing up his hands in frustration.
TERRIBLE ACCUSATIONS
“Don’t say such horrible things about your delicate aunt! That lovely woman has a heart of gold! She’s been like a mother to you! And this is how you repay her? With these terrible accusations? I know you have an active imagination, Warren, but this is ridiculous!”
“I’m not lying!” Warren said.
“Well, then, you’re exaggerating.” Rupert was so agitated, his face fairly glowed. “The next time you see your aunt, I want you to apologize for thinking such mean thoughts!”
Warren sighed and shuffled out of the lobby. Uncle Rupert was never going to believe him. But Warren knew of one person who would.
TEA WITH MR. FRIGGS
nce in the library, Warren found his elderly teacher seated at an oak desk, surrounded by towering stacks of old notepads, binders, and leather-bound volumes. Over the years, Mr. Friggs had taken the liberty of decorating the library as though it were his own lodgings. Hanging on the walls were the many items he’d collected during his life as an adventurer: punch bowls made from giant coconut shells, macramé beaded wall art, and stone and wood carvings of animal deities. It made the room look much more festive than your average hotel library.
Warren loved asking Mr. Friggs about his long-ago adventures–like the time he went fishing with a seaside tribe on the tiny tropical island of Barrakas, or the time he hunted yetis in the snow-capped mountains of Frostbjorn. In antique daguerreotypes, Mr. Friggs looked hale and hearty, with a ruddy complexion, well-muscled legs, and a strapping mustache. Now, Mr. Friggs was old, pale, and frail; his once-impressive mustache was no more (though he did have a striking set of muttonchops) and his false teeth had a tendency to fall out at inopportune moments. But his agile mind was as sharp as ever.
“Hello, my dear boy! Have a seat! I wasn’t expecting you this early. Let me put on some tea.” Mr. Friggs used his cane to shuffle to a camp stove on a nearby table. Warren looked around, but there really wasn’t anyplace to sit amid all the clutter, so he leaned somewhat awkwardly on the side of a globe.
“I know I’m early for my lesson,” Warren said. “But I really need to talk. You know more about the hotel’s history than anyone, so I hope you can help.”
“Well, goodness knows I’ve been here a long time,” Mr. Friggs said with a chuckle, setting the kettle on the stovetop. “What do you need?”
“It’s about the All-Seeing Eye,” Warren said.
“Not that again!” said Mr. Friggs, giving Warren a critical look. “I told you yesterday that story is a myth. There’s no such thing, and your aunt, I’m sorry to say, is a raving lunatic.”
“That’s not true!” Warren said. “I mean, Aunt Annaconda is a raving lunatic, but the Eye isn’t a myth. It’s real. I found proof!”
Mr. Friggs turned to Warren and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”
So Warren described how he had discovered–and then lost–the journal in the hedge maze, explaining how Annaconda was now in possession of the page with the poem. By the time his story was told, Mr. Friggs’s dentures had fallen out in shock. He popped them back in and said, “Tell me the poem again. Slowly and clearly, so my old ears can hear it properly.”
Warren obliged:
“When the Heart of
the Warren hears
The tone played by the rightful hand,
The All -Seeing Eye will appear
Granting dominion across the land
——
And when the Heart
of the Warren sees
The words writ by the
rightful man:
The All-Seeing Eye commandeered,
The hotel shall no longer stand”
“The hotel shall no longer stand?” said Mr. Friggs. “I don’t like the sound of that! It seems like this Eye could topple the entire building!”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Warren said.
“Are you sure the journal was authentic?”
“It looked real. And it was old. In fact, it was dated the year the hotel was founded.”
“Well, I suppose that would make sense,” Mr. Friggs said. “Warren the 1st may have founded the hotel, but it was his son, Warren Jr., who built it. He was a gifted architect and inventor–far ahead of his time.”
Mr. Friggs began stroking his sideburns, a natural habit whenever he was engaged in serious thought. “I admit I’ve always had my doubts … but if anyone knew about a treasure hidden in the hotel, it would be Warren the 2nd. Particularly if he had a hand in hiding it.”
“So if Aunt Annaconda finds the All-Seeing Eye, she’ll get dominion across the land?” asked Warren. It was bad enough she already had dominion over Uncle Rupert and the whole hotel!
“I’m afraid it appears that way,” Mr. Friggs said. “My boy, you cannot allow your aunt to find the Eye. You must find it first and prevent her from taking control of it. The hotel’s fate rests on your shoulde
rs! I will aid you any way I can, but I’m an old man and my adventuring days are far behind me.”
Something stirred in Warren’s heart. Something that felt a lot like fear, except it was mixed with something else. Excitement. Determination!
“But how do I stop her?” Warren asked. “I’ve looked everywhere for the Eye. So has Annaconda. She’s turned the hotel inside out!”
“I wish I could tell you,” Mr. Friggs said. “Annaconda may have the journal page, but you were smart to memorize the poem. Study the words. Think about what clues they may hold. And I shall do the same.”
“Okay,” Warren said, clenching his fists. “I’ll do my best.”
“And be careful. I’ve never trusted Annaconda, and I have a distinct feeling she may be extremely dangerous.”
“You got that right!” Warren exclaimed. “Yesterday she nearly stabbed me with a giant fang!”
Mr. Friggs paled. “What kind of fang?”
“It was big and sharp, with a bunch of weird symbols carved on it. She said it was a tooth that would force me to talk.”
“It can’t be!” With sudden urgency, Mr. Friggs leapt from his chair. Like a dog digging for a bone, he began burrowing through piles of books. After a few moments of searching frantically, he stood holding a black leather-bound book titled A Compleat History of Witchcraft, Good and Ill. As he flipped through the pages, Warren stood on tiptoe to get a better look. Eventually, Mr. Friggs landed on an engraving of a tooth–a tooth that looked eerily similar to Aunt Annaconda’s.
“That’s it!” Warren cried.
“Then things are worse than I feared,” Mr. Friggs said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “This is a Malwoodian manticore scrimshaw tooth! The manticore went extinct thousands of years ago; their teeth are extremely rare. It’s said that only the most powerful witches possess them.”
Warren the 13th and the All-Seeing Eye Page 4
