Pandora's Closet

by Martin Harry Greenberg

  The wolf snarled.

  “Finish this!” he barked, remaining tucked beneath the sheet on the bed. He seemed to be struggling, fighting the urge to leap up and devour me, but was bound by some power from doing so.

  The power of the tale was binding him somehow.

  I tried the zipper again, but it still wouldn’t budge. I grabbed bunches of the fabric and tore at it, but it wouldn’t give. I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and began searching through it for something, anything that might help.

  “Why Nana,” I said slowly, fighting against my compulsion to speak the words, “what big ears you have.”

  “Better to hear youuuuu,” the wolf howled.

  I shuddered as the sound ripped through me. I had to think. What were my advantages? I was much smaller than him, and I seemed to possess a greater knowledge of the situation.

  “And what big eyes you have,” I continued, as I kept rummaging through the bag. I was coming across nothing of use. I doubted my iPod would help, unless I could wedge my earphones into his ears and hope the old maxim that music hath charms to soothe the savage beast held true.

  “Better to see you with, my dear,” he barked. His body tensed in anticipation of the final lines of our roles being fulfilled.

  “And,” I said finally, fighting, dreading the words as they came spilling out, “what a terrible big mouth you have.”

  A clatter came from down the hall, and I craned my neck to see Nana. How the hell had she eluded the wolf? I had never really thought about it before, but Nana was in remarkably good shape for a woman in her seventies. She was moving at a brisk pace.

  “The better…” the wolf began with finality.

  I tensed with fear.

  He threw off the covers and readied himself to pounce, “to eat you with!”

  I dove for the door at the same time he lunged. My hand had wrapped around something small and cylindrical in my bag. The rest of the bag tore away from me as the wolf’s claws caught the strap, the contents of my little life leaking out onto the floor. I screamed as I tumbled through the doorway, and slammed the door behind me. I held it shut as I felt the full weight of the wolf charge into the door on the other side.

  “Run!” I screamed at Nana.

  Nana did just that, making it to the bottom of the stairs at record speed and heading for the front door. I felt the doorknob twitching in my hand as the wolf clawed at it clumsily. It was only a matter of time before he smashed his way through.

  A claw punched through the bottom of the door and snagged my leg. I yelped in pain. I felt blood trickle down my leg. I heard a large snuffle from the other side of the door and I imagined the wolf fully taking in the scent of my O Positive.

  I decided it was better not to wait around for him to break all the way through. I bolted for the stairs, hurling myself down them without a thought for my safety. Behind me, the door flung open and the wolf leaped out, landing right where I had been standing a heartbeat ago. I swallowed hard and spun to face the beast, almost losing my footing on the stairs. My mind was racing, and I suddenly remembered one last component-one last character-to the story.

  “No reason I can’t be the huntsman too,” I said and ducked low as he charged at me. In my hand, I gripped the lone weapon I had managed to retrieve from my bag. I thrust it up, and only after I drove it into the beast’s chest, did I disappointingly realize was it was. A pen. What the hell good was a pen going to do?

  The wolf cleared me and practically flew down the rest of the stairs, hitting the wall, spinning, landing on its back at the bottom. It writhed frantically, howling, clawing at its own chest, and smoke began to rise from the small wound I’d inflicted. The smell of acrid burning hair filled the room, and after what seemed like an eternity of screaming, the wolf stopped moving.

  I stood slack-jawed, both horrified and pleased by what I had done.

  Nana was crying, and my own breath was heaving in and out in great bursts. Outside, sirens went screaming by, and the two of us simply stood over the beast. Tears of relief started running down my face.

  Nana stared. “How did you do that? How did you stop that monster?”

  I shrugged, stepped over the wolf, and hugged her. I could feel her heart going a mile a minute.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “All I did was stab it with a pen.”

  I released her and leaned over the lifeless body. Holding back my own personal squick factor, I pulled the pen free, and lifted it up for examination. I began to laugh.

  “What is it, dear?” Nana asked. I was sure I must have looked unhinged. And maybe I was. My mind was still reeling from the events of the past few hours.

  “Well,” I said when I could finally speak, wiping the tears from my face, “What else does every college freshman have from their Nana but a nice graduation writing set? A silver writing set, to be exact.”

  “And you said you’d get no use out of such a thing,” she tsk-tsked.

  I hugged her even harder than before.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  Nana nodded. “That was a pretty fancy move you did on the stairs.”

  “I guess watching reruns of Buffy must have paid off.”

  “From what I hear,” Nana said disapprovingly, “that’s all that’s paying off. About those grades of yours…”

  “Nana, please,” I said, “I just saved your life. Maybe you could call my mom and put in a good word for me?”

  She thought for a minute, then smiled. “I suppose I could put in a good word or two for my favorite little Red Riding Hood.”

  With the mention of that name, I tugged at the zipper on the hoodie once again. This time it came free. The brightness of the Technicolor world faded and things around me turned to normal. The wolf melted into the floor.

  I held the hoodie at arm’s length.

  It was a bittersweet parting; I had loved the way it looked on me, but what I had been through was definitely too high a price for fashion’s sake.

  The following day I returned to the thrift store, and asked for my money back. Hey, three dollars was three dollars. That was like three meals off the dollar menu or three midnight movies! Besides, I secretly held the wicked desire that that old crone who frequented the place, Mrs. Punzelli, might come back for it.

  As I left, I caught the latest breaking news on the thrift store’s one working television. The story concerned a pack of wolves that had reportedly leaped from the subway car at the end of the 7 line the previous night. No one had been hurt, luckily, and after dispersing they were all later found surrounding a brick high-rise, barely able to move, and exhausted-from prolonged huffing and puffing, I had no doubt.

  ANOTHER EXCITING ADVENTURE OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES: A TOUCHING GHOST STORY by Belle and Nancy Holder [1] [2]

  Gentle Reader, You may recall that in our previous story, “The Further Adventures of Lightning Merriemouse-Jones,” Miss Merriemouse-Jones had fallen into the clutches of the evil Count Dracurat and his horrid Countess, who blamed dear Lightning for her husband’s extramarital misadventures. The lovely young rodentina was rescued by the dashing private detective Quincy Dormouse, a strapping Texan of large fortune. Once Lightning had been restored to her doting parents, Mr. Dormouse began to woo her with all the ardor of a young mammal who has stared death in its beady red eyes and known, down to the depths of his furry soul, that the bell tolls sooner than one can ever imagine and that one must seize the day-or in this case, clasp hands gently-for the impetuous American believed his singular chance of earthly happiness lay in persuading Miss Lightning to be his bride.

  As you may also recall, Lightning was quite dashing herself, and no stranger to passion-for she had left her family home in the wall of the Summerfield estate when pressed by her well-meaning parents to select a husband and “be settled.” Our young heroine felt that the words “settled” and “Lightning” had nothing to do with each other. Therefore, to avoid such a fate mundane, she slipped into the pocket o
f Maria Luisa Summerfield, who was herself launching into matrimony via an elopement with her second cousin, Juan Eldorado Adelante-Paz.

  It would be quite difficult to convey, in these more modern and, may one say, permissive times, what a serious breach of decorum an elopement was. But the two young misses were much of the same mind: Lightning herself was being sorely pressed to select a husband from the rats, mice, hamsters, and gerbils who came calling at her Papa’s door, and she truly fancied none of them, not even Gerhardt von Ratschloss, who traveled all the way from Prussia to dance attendance upon our young lady. In a similar state of vexation, Maria Luisa would have none other than Señor Adelante-Paz, declaring that she would rather die than be separated from him.

  Thus, Lightning and Maria Luisa decamped, and after the wreck of the frigate El Queso, Lightning found herself thrust into the nightmarish world we described at length (four thousand, one hundred words including eeks) in our previous (and may we say, with all modesty, well-received) tale. And when all was resolved-with the death of Count Dracurat, and the restoration of Lightning to her parents-her mama made it quite clear that she thought Mr. Dormouse would make as spectacular a catch for her daughter as a fragrant chunk of Blue Castello perched upon the most devious of mousetraps. [3]

  One may recall the thrilling conclusion of our previous story, [4] promising more adventures of Miss Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, and so, we are happy to provide such a story here. We have the means at our disposal to entertain our readers for some time to come, for when Belle was approximately eight years old (she is nearly ten as we write this), we discovered an object of great fascination on the porch of our home. It was so tiny and brown that at first I, Nancy, sans my spectacles, thought it was some sort of bug. But Belle, being keener-eyed and quite knowledgeable in the study of insects, declared it was no bug at all. [5]

  She was quite correct: it was a tiny catgut notebook, labeled THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES. Imagine our delight! It is from this volume that we drew the material for our first story, and now do so again for our second. We happen to believe that it was deliberately left for us to read, and we have now accepted the commission to play scribe to this exceptional mammalian adventuress. The JOURNAL is filled with diary entries detailing her many deeds of derring-do, which pose some questions that we have yet to answer. Specifically, it appears that Our Heroine possessed (and perhaps possesses still!) some method of time-travel bequeathed upon her by her raternal uncle, Cheddrick Merriemouse-Jones. He was in his day either an innovative genius of the first water or a crackpot, depending upon whom one asks. He lived in the small English village of Stilton-Upon-Rye… and seems never to have died.

  We mention this before commencing our actual story because you will see that our narrative opens in 1940, when Lightning should have been sixty years old, as she was born in 1880. And yet, in this tale, she is still a young, unmarried maiden as fresh as Devonshire cream. Indeed, as we began working, we were quite puzzled, and at first we thought the hero of the story was actually Cyclone Merriemouse-Jones, supposed to be a descendant of Lightning’s, who is buried in the quaint and lovely churchyard in the village of Neufchâtel.

  Bewildered, we determined to read the entire journal before we commenced this story, and approximately halfway in we read a trio of entries concerning an invention of her uncle Cheddrick’s: a purplish-green taxi cab, which periodically arrived for Lightning at the exact instant that she presented herself at the heavenly Gates, in hopes of that final reward for which all good Christians yearn. It seems to have been the very conveyance by which Cheddrick himself evaded the Scythe of Time that cuts us all down-king or knave, queen or scullery maid-with the possible except of Lightning and her uncle. In other words, we believe that Lightning and Cheddrick both may be actual time-travelers! [6]

  When we have fully digested the complexities of Lightning’s discourse on the subject, we will happily share them with you, our Devoted Reader. For the nonce, suffice to say that despite the seeming contradiction in time periods, the heroine of this story is indeed Lightning, as a young lady.

  Thus assured, please read on, and enjoy “Another Exciting Adventure of Lightning Merriemouse-Jones” (including, as was the case in our previous work, annotations from Miss Belle Holder.)

  With great respect, and deep affection, Belle and Nancy Holder, fille et mère

  THE TALE ITSELF

  25 September, 1940, London Town

  They call it the Blitz! In the language of our Enemies, that translates as “Lightning,” just like my name! And it is very like lightning, this nightly barrage of explosives loosed upon poor, dear London. Herr “Furrer” Adolph Ratler, who is surely the most evil creature ever to run the wheel of Life, has dropped bombs for over a fortnight on the beautiful warrens and mazes of the very seat of Civilization. His hellspawn minions, the bloodthirsty Katzies, fly in a parade behind a sinister black aeroplane unmarked save for what we assume is a registration number: 070617. No one knows who the pilot is, but he is merciless, shedding bomb after bomb upon the helpless populace as if it is his life’s work. And so it is; many lie dying, or dead, and no one is spared, be he King Rat or common field mouse. Some say that the war will end when the pilot of the black aeroplane is killed. But others say that this unholy war will never end.

  As for me, I count myself as the recipient of great personal tragedy. I am bereft. I have hastened to find my family’s London mousehole a ruin. Nothing can be saved-not the beautiful pianoforte in the drawing room, nor the exquisite tea service Mr. Dormouse presented my dear Mama in the halcyon days following my deliverance from the evil Count and Countess Dracurat. All appears to be gone, lost to enmity and flame. I shall dig through the debris with a heavy yet hopeful heart, on the off chance that something remains of my family’s precious mementoes.

  Hark! On the radio, we are warned to remain indoors! The brown-pelted Katzenjammers have landed at the White Cliffs of Dover! I hear their jackboots on the pavement outside! We are undone!

  26 September, 1940

  As I cower in my family’s destroyed mousehole, I have found something! It is an olive-green metallic trunk, which was stowed beneath the attic eaves next to the chimney. It appears that when the bombs hit, the bricks tumbled in such a way as to create a protective wall over the trunk, not unlike a Sumerian corbelled arch, and so it was untouched. I have cleared a space such that I may drag it out and am now endeavoring to open it. Fingers crossed that something of value lies within-nay, not of financial value, but which may bring some measure of happiness to poor, wretched Lightning!

  And so it did, Dear Reader. Let us describe for you in these next few pages what she indeed found, rather than put you to the task of deciphering more of her journal entries. For alas, there was another stupefying Blitz attack, and a battle in the streets between the Katzenjammers and various English ratriots-those deemed too old to go to war, but nevertheless eager to protect their kith and kin. Amidst the chaos, it took our brilliant but pressured young lady some time to discern what exactly she had found inside the trunk, and by what means she should employ it. We hesitate to publicize that her immediate entries after the above couplet became a bit rambling; and those further on might stir pangs of utter disbelief and incomprehension. There too, as we are cognizant of the many demands placed upon our readers’ time and attention, we ourselves shall attempt to summarize precisely what next occurred.

  You may recall from your studies in school that the Great War, known also as World War One (1914- 1918), was believed at the time to be the war that would end all wars. It was also a time of quite colorful personages, including the World War I Flying Ace, Count Orloff von Limburger, known far and wide as the Bloody Rat Baron. He won at least eighty air combats and was so beloved by his people that he was asked to retire rather than continue to fight, but he refused.

  Von Limburger sustained a serious head wound on July 6, 1917, and was ever after much changed. He became distant, unemotional, and utterly devoid of
humor. It was whispered that he was himself no longer, but a phantom. This caused joy among his own forces, but dismay among the Allies-for who could kill a ghost?

  Yet he was killed… or so it was asserted… on April 21, 1918, from a lone.303 bullet (that is to say, from a Vickers-Maxim machine gun.) It has never been conclusively proven who exactly killed the Bloody Rat Baron, although credit was given to a Canadian named Brown. However, in Miss Lightning’s family, the author of von Limburger’s demise was firmly believed to be Edam (“Eddie”) Merriemouse-Jones, whose plane went down in the wilds of Gouda shortly thereafter and who was never seen again.

  After the war, however, some of Eddie’s personal effects were sent home in the selfsame olive-green trunk that Lightning retrieved during the London Blitz. In this trunk lay his most beloved object, a WWI brown leather bomber jacket painted with the initials, BRB in scarlet, through which a black slash had been painted. However, in the interior pocket of the jacket, Lightning found the fragments of a sealed envelope, which appeared never to have been opened. She hesitated not at all, but ripped it asunder at once.

  Inside lay portions of a moldering letter, which read:

  … I did not kill von Limburger. I thought I had him in my sights, but the plane I shot down contained a mouse who very closely resembled the Bloody Rat Baron. But it was not he! However, his death was proclaimed, and it was attributed variously to Brown, to me, and others.

  My superiors knew that I knew I had not rid the earth of von Limburger. Therefore, I was pledged to silence, as the populace of London had suffered grievously at the hands of von Limburger, and morale would plummet if the truth were known. I have been ordered to say nothing, and I will not; and I swear upon my loyalty to Crown and Country that I will secretly devote my life and those of my descendants, to hunting down von Limburger, and ending him once and for all!