by David Lubar
I screamed and banged. I rammed the lid. It held. I fell to my side. I felt another bite near my knee, and then one on my hip.
I batted at the doll, but I was weak. The bites moved closer to my face. I screamed louder, hoping to mask the pain with my shouts. It didn’t work. I felt every bite on my face, my shoulders, and my neck. And then, I felt nothing.
M.U.B.
“Pssssttt…”
“Who’s that?”
“You know who it is.”
“No, I don’t. Go away.”
“Sorry. I can’t do that.”
“This is my room. Get out!”
“Technically, it’s my room, too.”
“You’re not real. Go away.”
“If I’m not real, who are you talking to?”
“My imagination.”
“Can your imagination shake the bed?”
“Stop that!”
“It makes me sad to be told I’m not real. Sad and angry.”
“All right! You’re real. Stop shaking the bed.”
“You sure shout a lot.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“That’s my job.”
“Why?”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You can’t like everything that’s good for you.”
“You’re not good for me. You’re a monster.”
“I can’t be both?”
“How can you be good for me?”
“Remember last week when your friends wanted you to climb that cliff and dive into the river?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you do it?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“Liar.”
“Shut up.”
“Why didn’t you do it?”
“I was afraid I’d get hurt real badly.”
“Have you ever been hurt real badly?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you afraid of that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Grrrrrr!”
“Hey! Stop snarling. You’re scaring me.”
“What makes you afraid?”
“You do.”
“So, if it weren’t for me, you might have dived into that river and gotten badly hurt.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“No way.”
“Grrrrrr!”
“Okay. Maybe.”
“Thanks. It’s nice to be appreciated.”
“You’re really here for my own good?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“So I don’t have to worry if I let my hand dangle over the side. You won’t bite my fingers off?”
“I never said that. I like fingers. They’re crunchy and chewy.”
“Stop it. You’re scaring me again.”
“That’s my job. Just go to sleep.”
“How can I sleep when I’m scared?”
“That’s another thing you’ll learn.”
“Just be quiet.”
“Okay.”
“Can I dangle my foot?”
“Not a good idea.”
“You’d eat it?”
“Ick, no. Do you have any idea what sort of things you stepped in today?”
“So why can’t I dangle it?”
“I’d grab it and drag you under. I can’t help myself. Just keep everything up there where it belongs.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Good night. Sweet dreams.”
SYMPATHY PAINS
I know you’re supposed to like, or even love, your blood relatives. But my cousin Chelsea is hard to like and impossible to love. That didn’t used to be a problem, back when she lived halfway across the country, in Louisiana. Those days, I’d see her maybe once a year.
Last month, she and her folks came to live with us. Her dad got a new job up here, and they wanted to make sure it would last before they rented an apartment. So they’re going to be at our place for at least another month or two. Chelsea’s angry about it. She’s angry about everything. I don’t know why. She’s really pretty, with dark hair that’s just a bit curly at the ends, and big brown eyes with great lashes. She could be a model or something.
She has no reason to be angry. I’m the one who has to share my bedroom. I’m the one who has to spend the day in school with her. We’re the same age, so she’s in my grade. At least she’s not in all my classes. That’s part of the problem. Chelsea might not like the food or the weather in Vermont, and she might not like her classmates, and she might not like being away from all her friends, but all of that is nothing compared to how she feels about her reading teacher.
“She hates me,” Chelsea said after her very first day in school, as we were walking home.
“Who hates you?” I asked.
“Mrs. Bancroft,” she said. “That stupid reading teacher.”
I don’t think they let you teach reading if you’re stupid. I didn’t bother telling her what I was thinking. I’d learned that the best way to deal with Chelsea was to sound sympathetic. “That’s too bad.”
My sympathy didn’t turn off Chelsea’s ranting. She complained all the way home. “So what if I make mistakes? So what if I don’t do good when I read out loud. I read just fine. I think she hates me ’cause I’m not from around here.”
“That’s really too bad,” I said. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I’d had Mrs. Bancroft last year. She wasn’t my favorite teacher. She was pretty strict. But she was strict with everyone. I never got the feeling she hated any of her students.
Things got worse. Every single day, on the way home, Chelsea complained about how mean and evil her teacher was. She tried to change classes, but they wouldn’t let her. She even tried to get sent to a different school. That didn’t work, either. Finally, last week, she said, “I’m going to take care of this myself. She’s going to be sorry she ever treated me bad.”
I felt a chill, and thought about those stories I’d seen on the news where kids did something violent in school. If she was planning something like that, I’d have to stop her. “What are you talking about?”
“My friend Crystal, back home. Her mama knows dark secrets. She can hurt people. Hurt them bad. I asked Crystal to send me instructions.”
“Instructions?” This was sounding worse and worse.
“For a spell,” Chelsea said.
Most of the stress drained from my body. Spells didn’t worry me. I believed in science and math, not spells and magic. Maybe casting some silly spells would make Chelsea feel better. That would be fine with me.
Three days later, she got a package in the mail, wrapped in brown paper. It was small. About the size of a shoe box for little-kid shoes. She hurried off with it to the attic.
I waited a couple minutes, then went up there. When I pushed open the trapdoor, Chelsea looked over her shoulder and said, “Go away.”
“I’m just curious,” I said. That was true.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she said.
“I won’t.” I stepped through the opening. “What’s in the box?”
She held up a doll. No, it was more like a tiny mannequin. It looked like it was made of dirty wax. “Is that a voodoo doll?” I asked.
“They don’t call it that,” she said.
“What do you do with it?” I asked.
She put down the doll and picked up a sheet of paper covered with cramped lines of tiny handwriting. “I have instructions. I have to—” She frowned, looked at the paper for a moment, then said, “—affix it. That’s what she wrote. I have to affix it to the—” She paused again to read, “—to the identity of the victim.”
“Victim?” I asked.
“Victim,” Chelsea said, as if the word were the sweetest ever spoken, coated with honey and cinnamon. “She’ll be sorry.”
I looked over Chelsea’s shoulder and saw several long, thick needles in the box. I flinched at the thought of getting stuck with one of them. Chelsea went back to reading the instructions, frowning and moving her lips.
Against my better judgment, I asked, “Want me to read it to you?”
“No!” she shouted at me. “I can read just fine.” She held up the wax figure. “Don’t make me get another one of these.”
“Good grief! I was just trying to help. Don’t threaten me.” I left Chelsea alone in the attic with her madness.
That evening, she almost seemed happy. She hummed as we cleared the table after dinner, and smiled as she did her homework.
The next day, I noticed Mrs. Bancroft limping in the hallway. “Are you all right?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little twinge of arthritis. It hurt quite a bit last night, but it’s getting better pretty quickly. Thank you for asking.”
At the end of the day, I saw her again, and she was barely limping.
“It’s not strong enough,” Chelsea said as we headed home.
“What?”
“The connection. I hurt her. But not bad. I want to make her suffer as much as she made me suffer. Then we’ll be even.”
She went right to the attic when we got home. I followed her. When she lifted the lid of the box, I saw a pin jabbed into the right knee of the doll. I thought back to the hallway, and pictured Mrs. Bancroft limping. Yeah, it was the right knee. I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence.
Chelsea took a pencil from her purse and placed it next to the doll. “This is hers,” she said. “It will strengthen the connection.”
“Are you sure she hasn’t suffered enough?” I asked.
“What? Not even close!” She grabbed another of the pins and jabbed it into the doll’s left shoulder.
I backed away and left the attic.
The next day, I didn’t see Mrs. Bancroft in the hall, so I walked to her room. When I reached the doorway, I leaned in and asked, “How’s your knee?”
“Much better.” Then she rubbed her left shoulder. “I guess small pains are a part of life when you reach my age.”
“Your shoulder hurts?” I asked.
She started to shrug, then flinched. “A little. But I’ve felt worse.”
I knew who was going to feel even worse. Sure enough, on the way home, Chelsea couldn’t control her anger. “That’s it. I’m doing every step this time. I’m totally … What’s that word?”
I thought back to the other day. “Associating?”
“Yeah. That’s it. This was just a test. I know it works. Now I’m going to make her suffer big-time.”
I wasn’t sure what to do. I could tell on her, but who would believe me? I could hide the doll, but she’d get another one. I thought about it when we got home. I even went online to see if I could find out anything real about all this stuff. As I searched, I could hear her over my head, shuffling around in the attic. Twice she came downstairs for something. After a while, and after visiting dozens of weird, strange, and disturbing Web sites, I realized I was wasting my time. Anyone who really knew about this stuff wouldn’t be talking about it online.
In the end, I came up with only one idea. If there were more instructions, maybe she’d have trouble with them. I could offer to help, and tell her the wrong stuff to do. I couldn’t let her hurt Mrs. Bancroft anymore.
I went up to the attic.
“You’re just in time,” Chelsea said.
“For what?” The doll was dressed in a black skirt and blue blouse now. It was the sort of thing Mrs. Bancroft would wear. There were three tiny bracelets on her left wrist. It looked like they’d been made of scraps of wire.
“For Mrs. Bancroft to feel a whole lot of pain.” Chelsea raised the needle over the doll. It looked like she was aiming right for the heart.
I had to stop her.
Maybe I could distract her by asking questions. If I got her talking, she might calm down. I pointed to the doll’s head. “Is that her hair? How’d you get it?” From the little tiny bit I’d learned—or, at least, from the one thing nearly all the Web sites mentioned—spells like this worked best when you had some hair or fingernail clippings from the victim.
“It doesn’t have to be hers,” Chelsea said.
I looked at the hair on the doll again. It was just a bit curly. Like Chelsea’s. Exactly like Chelsea’s. I noticed a scissors on the floor next to the box. She must have misread the instructions and thought any hair would do. “Wait! Stop!” I reached for her wrist.
“No!” Chelsea slammed the needle into the heart of the doll.
I screamed. So did she. She stood and clutched her chest. I yanked out the needle, but it was too late. Chelsea collapsed, hitting the floor with a thud. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t seeing anything. I ran for help, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Chelsea was gone. Hate and ignorance had killed her.
ROUGH ROAD
There was a troll under the bridge. I could see part of his huge back and one flopped-out arm, the limp fingers looking like large sausages that had been left outside to rot. Even if he’d been fully hidden, the smell would have revealed his presence. You could scrub a troll all day and all night with harsh soap, and he’d still smell like a dead animal that had been soaked in swamp water for a week and then coated with vomit.
I studied the slow rise and fall of his back. At least he was asleep. I placed one foot onto the first plank of the bridge and eased my weight down, listening for the slightest creak. Trolls were fairly sound sleepers. Their hearing isn’t great. Their ears tend to be clogged with scabs, wax, and dead insects. But I didn’t want to take any chances. If I woke him, I’d have to run hard and fast until he gave up the chase. Trolls don’t have a lot of endurance, but running is a last option around here, at best. It’s too easy to flee from one danger right into the arms, claws, or jaws of another. And there were plenty of other dangers ahead of me.
I made it across the bridge in silence. Half a mile later, I heard faint singing. It was coming from the left side of the trail, up ahead. There was a steep drop on that side. It had to be Sirens, trying to lure travelers to their death. I had wax in my backpack. I took a piece out, broke it in half, and, feeling slightly troll-like, plugged my ears.
I was pleased with my cleverness in avoiding danger until I noticed the shadow moving up from behind me. I rolled to the right side of the path just as the basilisk leaped toward me. As he came down, I kicked out hard, sending him over the side of the ridge, making sure to avert my eyes.
I realized he’d teamed up with the Sirens. That was new, and dangerous. I moved ahead, waiting until I was far out of range before removing the wax. I took a careful look around, making sure nothing else was stalking me.
When I reached the boulder pile, I took out my grappling hook and started the climb. It was a difficult way to go. But I preferred it to the road, which passed through the field of corpses. They were slow, and easy to fight, but the stench was close to unbearable, maybe even worse than that of an ogre, and the sight was fairly troubling.
There were snakes and scorpions hiding among the boulders, but my boots gave me plenty of protection, and I was careful not to put my hands down where I could be bitten. I knew from experience that even a small scorpion bite takes ages to heal, and continues to hurt even after all signs of the wound are gone.
Just one more mile, I thought when I clambered down off the last boulder and headed for the woods.
I had to hide behind a tree for several minutes after a Minotaur crashed through the path ahead of me and paused, snorting steam from his nostrils and looking around for someone to gore with his deadly horns. He dashed off soon enough.
Finally, I reached the far side of the woods. Almost there. I’d just stepped into the clearing when something blotted out the sun. I looked up, already knowing what I’d see.
Dragons. Lots of them.
They have a hard time
spotting anything that isn’t moving. I had a hard time standing still. I was tempted to dive back into the woods. But if they saw me, and they were hungry, they’d torch the entire woods to drive me out.
So I stood still and waited for them to pass.
But they didn’t pass. They landed in the clearing. I was trapped until they flew off. But I couldn’t stay there. I had to keep going.
I watched as they wandered through the field. There were seven of them, strolling around, sniffing the earth once in a while, as if they were on the trail of some quarry or enemy. Every once in a while, all of them would end up facing away from me. At every opportunity, I’d take a step or two, circling wide of their paths. As soon as one started to turn toward me, I’d freeze.
It took forever, but I finally reached the other side of a low crest. Once I was sure I was out of their sight, I ran toward the small wooden building. I reached the door and hurried through.
“William, you’re late,” Miss Everlearn said.
“There were dragons,” I said. “Seven of them.”
“No excuses,” she said. “Be grateful you have a school here. We’ve already started the math lesson. Take out your textbook and turn to page forty-seven.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I took my book from my backpack and followed along with the lesson. After math, it was time for language arts. We were reading a story about a boy and girl who lived in a world where it was safe and easy to walk to school. A world without ogres, Sirens, basilisks, and walking corpses. I enjoyed it a lot. I love fantasy.
NO THANKS
“You need to write thank-you notes,” Edwina’s mom said, handing her a box of cards.
“I will, Mom,” Edwina said. But she wouldn’t. It was a lie—the same lie she’d told every birthday and Christmas since she’d been old enough to write. Unbeknownst to Edwina, who didn’t keep track of such things, she’d just received her 128th never-to-be-thanked-for present and was about to not send her 128th note. The number 128 might not seem special to you or to me, and it would definitely not seem special to Edwina, but it did mean a lot to the universe. The universe likes order. Two times two is four. Two times four is eight. Keep going, and you hit 128.
