The Bottle Imp of Bright House

by Tom Llewellyn

  “It’s gone?” She rested her head on my shoulder. “Is it really gone?”

  “It’s gone,” I said.

  DEAR READER,

  If you walk onto my block—well, my old block—you won’t see the Bright House there anymore. Not a sooty beam. Not an ash.

  It’s all been cleaned up, but on a foggy day you can still smell the smoke. Of course, it could just be the smoke from all those years of Mrs. Appleyard’s cigarettes.

  In the spot where the Bright House used to stand is a shiny new home, with just one family living on the lot where all of us used to live: Doctor Mandrake, Mrs. Sedley, Joanna, Mom, Dad, Meg, Georgina, me, Lancaster, Mr. Brackley, Mrs. Brackley, Hashimoto, Jimmy Hyde, Alejandro Aguilar, and Mrs. Appleyard.

  Dear Reader, count yourself lucky if you’ve never seen a building burn. It’s terrifying and you’ll never be able to forget it. The fire ate the Bright House like a twitchy orange monster, taking huge bites and burping out black smoke.

  While we watched the firefighters try to control the flames, Alejandro handed my dad a fat envelope. “Insurance information,” he said. “You will need this in the morning.” Then Alejandro drove away in a shiny pickup truck I’d never seen before. We never saw him again.

  Jimmy Hyde and Hashimoto left in her red Lincoln Town Car. The rest of us—my family, the Sedleys, and Doctor Mandrake—caravanned to a nearby hotel. We ended up in adjoining rooms and went to bed.

  In the morning, Dad called a phone number he found in the envelope. An insurance man met us all in the hotel lobby. He said the insurance would pay for us to stay at the hotel for thirty days. Then he handed out three checks: one to Doctor Mandrake, one to Mrs. Sedley, and one to Dad.

  “Fifty thousand dollars each,” explained Dad. “For what we lost in the fire.”

  “That seems like a lot of money for our junky old stuff,” I said.

  “Shhh,” said Dad.

  By the end of the month, Dad and Mom found a house—six blocks from Henry’s house. It had regular-sized bedrooms and no holes in the living room ceiling. Dad used the insurance check and the leftover Ferrari money for a down payment.

  Joanna and her mom moved into a downtown condo—farther away from me than I like, but Joanna and I still see each other at school every day. The first time we visited their condo, Henry said, “I like it, Mrs. Sedley. It’s nice. But you know what it needs? More scarves. It’s not scarfy enough.”

  Joanna punched Henry, right in the shoulder.

  Mrs. Sedley is still healthy. In fact, Joanna said that she hasn’t so much as caught a cold since the wish. Makes me wonder if she’ll ever be sick again. She’s back at work. Turns out she owns a vintage-clothing store. And in case you’re wondering, Joanna still dresses all in black. Her mom even helps her find her dresses.

  Dear Reader, some things don’t change.

  Doctor Mandrake used his money to lease a storefront on Sixth Avenue. In the store he sells dusty antiques, crystals, and rings with dragons on them—the same kooky stuff he had in his old top-floor apartment. He lives above the store and does his readings up there. By the way, Dear Reader, every specific prediction Mandrake made about Joanna came true. Every one. Go back and figure it out for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

  Sometimes Henry, Joanna, and I stop by Mandrake’s to see what he has for sale. The last time we went in there—just one week ago—he said, “I have a prediction for you, young Sea Goat. For the rest of this year, your life will be boring, boring, boring.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting,” said Joanna.

  “It’s not,” said Mandrake. “So you had better do something about it.”

  I thought that was the end of the story. I thought the bottle was gone from this world. And I never thought I’d hear from Mrs. Appleyard again, because I figured she had died. She was the late Mrs. Appleyard. She’d burned up in the fire and lost her soul to the Devil.

  But then, just today, when Joanna was visiting, a photo postcard came in the mail. It showed a fishing boat, floating on an impossibly blue ocean.

  On the back of the postcard was written:

  Hey, Ten Cents. Greetings from El Pescadero. Turns out Mr. A was right. This fishing stuff is pretty fun after all.

  “Who’s it from?” asked Joanna.

  “It’s unsigned,” I said. “But it’s gotta be from Mrs. Appleyard.” I handed it to Joanna. “She doesn’t say much. But she doesn’t seem too worried about her soul.”

  Joanna studied the picture, then laughed. “I don’t think Mrs. Appleyard has ever worried about anything.” She pointed to the name of the boat, painted along the bow in neat blue letters.

  The name read: THE WISH TO LIVE FOREVER.

  I laughed with Joanna. And you should laugh, too, Dear Reader.

  Because even the Devil is no match for Mrs. Appleyard.

  I hand my first measure of thanks to Robert Louis Stevenson, for his dark, delicious words and for his short story “The Bottle Imp.” Bob, I shamelessly used that story as my outline, and stole character names from so many of your tales to use as the names of my own heroes, villains, and supporting cast members. Another portion of thanks goes as ever to my agent and friend, the esteemed Abigail Samoun, for continuing to believe, to bolster, to cajole, and to remind me to include those damn Oxford commas. I present a well-crafted ration of thanks to my beloved city, Tacoma, for serving as the setting for another story. Thanks especially to K Street, where this story is fictionally set. That said, Tacoma mapmakers, we all know this street should rightfully be called MLK. You left out two key letters on your signs. I pass a large measure of thanks to Kelly Loughman, my brilliant editor at Holiday House, for her keen eye, her encouraging words, and her shared appreciation of Liz Lemon. Finally, all the gratitude that is left, as always, I hand to Deb. Thanks, hon. I owe you a back scratch.