Elizabeth Webster and the Portal of Doom

by William Lashner

  “Well, as you can imagine, the police were quite skeptical of Moss’s glowing-eyed predator story,” said Mr. Topper. “Who would believe such nonsense? When they came to my house asking questions, I acted just as skeptical, all the while making sure Althea was safely away in the attic. The police report attributed the death to some wild animal on the loose. After that, no responsible lawyer would take Moss’s case. At least until some legal fiend showed up at her doorstep and agreed to sue me for the loss of the goat. He was the one who filed the action in the Court of Uncommon Pleas.”

  “Do you know the name of the lawyer?” said my grandfather.

  “Yes, yes I do.” From the pocket of his jacket Mr. Topper pulled out a scroll. “It says it right here on the complaint. Josiah Goodheart.”

  I almost fell off the desk.

  You see, Josiah Goodheart was my nemesis. You would think my nemesis would be that kid in advanced math who was better at calculus than me. Or the girl at Upper Pattson Middle School who ate my lunch in our last competitive debate. But no, my nemesis was Josiah Goodheart, the barrister for the demon Abezethibou, better known in ghostly circles as Redwing. It was Redwing who had imprisoned my father in one of his dungeons on the other side. And it was Redwing who had threatened to imprison me next. I knew if I ever did land in Redwing’s prison, it would be Josiah Goodheart who made it happen.

  “Goodheart, you say,” said my grandfather, something suddenly cold in his voice. He took hold of the scroll, untied the ribbon, and gave it a quick review.

  “As soon as I was served the complaint,” said Mr. Topper, “I went right to the store where I had bought Althea and showed it to Nascha. She was the one, Ms. Webster, who mentioned your victory over Mr. Goodheart in the Court of Uncommon Pleas. She suggested you might be just the barrister to win my case.”

  “Elizabeth will do a bang-up job, I’ve no doubt,” said my grandfather. “I think we’ve heard enough. Why don’t you step outside and talk to Avis. We’ll need a retainer and a fee agreement.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Topper. “What do you think my chances are, Mr. Webster? Will I be able to keep my Althea?”

  “The law, as we like to say, is the law,” said my grandfather, still examining the scroll. “But Elizabeth will ensure you receive due process every step of the way.”

  “I will?”

  “Of course you will. We are all entitled to due process, human and gremlin alike.”

  “Perhaps you both would be more optimistic about my case if you met her.”

  My grandfather’s head jerked up. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But she really is so sweet,” said Mr. Topper. “To know her is to know how impossible the claims against her are. Wouldn’t you like to greet your real client? I’m sure you would.”

  “I’m sure we wouldn’t,” I said.

  “Maybe some other time,” said my grandfather.

  “Oh, no time like the present,” said Mr. Topper. “Mr. Webster, Ms. Webster, say hello to my darling Althea.”

  And even as my grandfather said, “Not here. Not now,” in increasingly desperate tones, the goggle-glassed Mr. Topper lifted the latch on Althea’s carrier and opened the door.

  A GREMLIN IN THE OFFICE

  The gremlin shot out of the carrier like she was being chased.

  She was a little green thing, no bigger than a puppy, with glowing red eyes, sharp ears, and a line of yellow horns leading from her forehead to her poky little tail.

  I lifted my legs as the gremlin dashed beneath my feet and sprinted right between my grandfather and his cane, spinning him like a top, before racing out of the office.

  “Althea!” shouted Mr. Topper as he rose from his chair and lurched after her.

  “Well, are you going to do something,” said my grandfather, still spinning, “before I screw myself into the floor?”

  I jumped off the desk and grabbed hold of him, stopping his spin. Even as the outer office filled with shouts and cries, my grandfather looked into my eyes and said, “Goodheart.”

  “Him again,” I said. “Weird, right?”

  “Something is afoot.”

  “You mean something other than a foot is a foot? Like a hand is a foot, or a piece of pie is a foot?”

  “This is no time for joking.”

  “Who’s joking?” I said.

  “Go, go,” he said, waving his hand toward the outer office. “Catch that thing before it creates a mess.”

  By the time I ran out the door, the outer office was in an uproar. Avis stood on top of her desk, flapping her arms, feathers and pieces of straw falling all about her. Barnabas was pressed against a far wall, his arms outstretched. Sandy stood on her chair and screamed, hairy hands over hairy eyes. And my new client, Mr. Topper, was chasing about the room with stiff legs and his arms outstretched, looking like a hyped-up zombie with goggle glasses.

  Only Mildred, the young girl/old lady, was calm, sitting in her chair with her red shoes dangling, sucking on a lit cigarette. I figured the gremlin had something to do with setting it on fire.

  As for Althea herself, she was nowhere to be seen, but dozens of maroon files were flying out of the file room, papers spewing everywhere. I was about to charge forward and lock her in when she darted back into the outer office and swung on the knob of a closed door, opening it just enough so she could squeeze through the crack.

  The door closed behind her and suddenly Avis stopped her flapping. Mr. Topper stopped his chasing. Barnabas’s mournful face took on an expression of horror. And I understood, for Althea had entered the doorway to the temple of gloom, to the land of no smiles—the doorway to my father’s office.

  And then all three turned to me.

  I stood there, taking in their stares, before saying, “All right. I’ll get her. Geez, Louise. Does she bite?”

  “Only if she’s hungry,” said Mr. Topper.

  “That is so comforting,” I muttered as I trudged to the door. I hesitated just a moment more, screwing up my courage, before gripping the knob and heading into my father’s office.

  We had not been getting along, my dad and I. For so many years he had been like a ghost, appearing here or there at odd moments but pretty much leaving me on my own to deal with my mother and stepfather, my brother, my life. I thought that was the worst, until he suddenly reappeared and I had to deal with him, too. Whenever he saw me in the office now, he took on a pained expression, like he was wondering how he could get me to go away.

  It was enough to give a girl a complex.

  Inside my father’s office all was calm. It had been the firm library before my father took it over and it still had the library hush, along with walls of dark wooden shelves filled with a mishmash of old legal books. My father was working at a big desk, writing on a yellow pad. He had a wide red face and black glasses and dark hair that sort of just flopped around on his head. He glanced up when I came in, gave me one of his disappointed expressions, and then went back to his work.

  “Trouble outside?” he said.

  “Nothing much,” I said. “A lit cigarette, a loose pet, Avis clucking about.”

  “The usual, then.”

  “You haven’t, like, seen a gremlin, possibly, come into your office, have you?”

  “I think I would have noticed,” he said without looking up.

  I spotted her right then, climbing silently up one of the bookshelves surrounding the window behind my father. She saw me looking at her and grinned.

  “You would think that, wouldn’t you,” I said. My father was just sometimes so…

  “I’ve been working on your banshee case,” said my father as I continued to follow the gremlin’s climb. “Barnabas has found a lead on Keir McGoogan. An address I’ll be checking on tomorrow.”

  “Can I come with?”

  My father looked up at me for a moment and I felt a flutter of hope, but it soon died a quick and agonizing death. You could hear the hope choke and sputter before letting out its final little cry.
I tried, it moaned. I really, really tried. And then: splat!

  “This case is more complicated than it appears,” my father said before turning his attention back to his papers. “I think it’s best if I handle it on my own. And don’t you have school?”

  “Like every other day, sure.”

  “What would your mother say?”

  “Field trips can help the learning process?”

  “Somehow I don’t think so.”

  I would have been more upset at my father’s dismissal of my offer to help, but I was busy watching the gremlin climb the bookshelf. When she reached the top, she leaned forward, gripping the wood with her overgrown toenails and swinging her arms.

  “And I understand,” my father said, still writing on his pad, “that you are getting your own case.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Something about a goat? That could be tricky.” He tapped a pile of documents on his desk. “These need to be filed.”

  “I’ll get right to it.”

  “And good luck finding your gremlin.”

  “The problem isn’t so much finding her anymore.”

  “It’s a her?”

  “Her name’s Althea.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said as he kept on writing. “In my experience, female gremlins are the most challenging.”

  Just then Althea leaped from the bookshelf to the overhead light, a round stained-glass thing hanging on a chain. Swinging back and forth, she struggled to hold on until she made another leap toward the door.

  That’s when I snatched her out of the air.

  She turned and tumbled in my arms, hissing and scratching at my shirt, but I kept my grip until she quieted enough for me to hold her out in front of me with my hands under her arms. For all the trouble she was causing, she was pretty light.

  She tilted her head to the side as if to say Aren’t I the cutest thing?

  I shook my head as if to say Not really.

  Then she purred and licked my hand and let me hold her like a football so she couldn’t do any more damage. I turned, expecting to see my father finally smiling at something I’d done in the office.

  Instead he stared at me and the gremlin with disappointment creasing his eyes. “Funny,” he said. “That doesn’t look like a gremlin.”

  “Well, it’s not a puppy, that’s for sure.”

  My father stared blankly at me and then patted the documents on his desk. “Don’t forget,” he said.

  I didn’t whine, I didn’t complain, I didn’t yell out all the terrible things I was thinking about a father who had all but abandoned his daughter and now was treating her like a toddler. Instead I kept my mouth shut, stomped over to the desk, and, while still gripping the gremlin, grabbed the documents. I was about to storm out of the office when my father said, “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Something else for me to sweep?” I said.

  “With the mess your little friend made, don’t you have enough sweeping to do as it is?” He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either, which was about the best I could expect from my father anymore.

  He lifted a book from his desktop, something thick and old and covered in leather.

  “Take this,” he said.

  “To Grandpop?”

  “No, it’s for you,” he said.

  I lifted the arm that held the gremlin, lifted the opposite hand, which was filled with his papers, and then shrugged. He leaned forward and stuck the old book in the gap between my jaw and my neck. Althea immediately licked the binding and let out a yummy purr, like it was the spine of a dead fish and not some old book.

  “This volume belonged to your great-great-grandfather Elmer Arden Webster,” said my father. “It’s a book written by a man named Holmes.”

  “Sherlock?”

  “Oliver. Give it a read. It’s got stuff on contracts, fraud, and, most importantly for you, negligence.”

  “Really, Dad?”

  “You might find it useful.”

  And that right there was my relationship with my father.

  SOCIAL STUDIES

  He’s just infuriating,” I said to Natalie. “The way he looks at me, like he’s ashamed to be related.”

  “You have to cut them some slack,” said Natalie. “It’s a difficult time. They’re getting older, their bodies are changing.”

  “And he’s so sad when he’s with me, like I’ve ruined his life. I just want to scream all the time.”

  “Their emotions are all over the place,” she said. “I mean, middle age, right? You can only hope they get through it without doing too much damage.”

  Natalie and I were talking quietly in the back of our seventh-grade social studies class as Mr. Armbruster sat on the edge of his desk and droned on about some president named Theodore who, based on the photographs up on the screen, would run around with boxing gloves and ride horses up hills. Nice work if you can get it, but just then I wasn’t so worried about Theodore and his saddle sores. I was steaming about my father. And Natalie, I must say, wasn’t being so sympathetic.

  “You’re not being so sympathetic,” I said.

  “A few weeks ago you were complaining about your father never being around. And now you’re complaining about him being around too much.”

  “That’s it exactly!” I said. “And all he wants me to do is sweep and file, file and sweep. He gave me this stupid thing to look at because he says I’ve been negligent in my sweeping.” From my pack I pulled out the old leather-bound book my father had stuck under my chin and dropped it with a thud on my desktop. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Read it, I suppose.” Natalie took the book and weighed it in her hand. “You think it’s a romance novel? I could give it to my mom. She reads a lot of romance novels.”

  “Are we disturbing you, Natalie?” said Mr. Armbruster from the front of the class. He was tall and his Afro was gray and he wore bow ties. Yeah, bow ties. One of those. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your conversation with Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Armbruster,” said Natalie. “You won’t.”

  As the class laughed, Mr. Armbruster hopped off the desk and strolled toward us. He was always so annoyingly theatrical, which sort of made his class annoyingly fun. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “A book?” said Natalie.

  “But not your textbook. Let’s see.”

  Mr. Armbruster lifted the book from the desk, took a look, stared at Natalie like he was staring at a fish on a bicycle, and then looked back at the book. “The Common Law by Oliver Wendell Holmes Junior? Why on earth are you reading this?”

  “For the romance?”

  “You aren’t by chance doing independent research for the oral presentation that each of you will be required to give at the end of our section on the Progressive Era, are you?”

  “Would that be good?” said Natalie.

  “That would be thrillingly unexpected,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Our Mr. Holmes here was actually appointed to the Supreme Court by President Theodore Roosevelt. Did you know that, Natalie?”

  “I have the book, don’t I?” she said.

  “Well, that settles that. You can do your presentation on Justice Holmes and his famous book.”

  “An oral report on this book?”

  “Just a five-minute PowerPoint. And we’ll all be expecting some interesting photographs. Justice Holmes cut quite the dashing figure.”

  No matter how much fun it was to see Natalie squirm under Mr. Armbruster’s attention, I felt right then it was my duty to step in. You know, as a friend, and as the person who actually owned the stupid book that was causing all the trouble.

  “Mr. Armbruster,” I said, “though I am excited to see Natalie’s PowerPoint—”

  “As are we all.”

  “I have to admit,” I continued, “that the stupid Oliver-whatever book is my book, and so if anyone needs to—”

  “Are you trying to steal Natalie’s topic, Elizabeth?”


  “No, it’s just—”

  “I’m very proud of her for showing such initiative. I was going to give her extra credit for bringing the book into class and discussing it with us all. And she sure could use it. But if you’re trying to take that for yourself, well then—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was just—”

  “Maybe you should concentrate on your own work in this class. Your test on the Gilded Age was not quite so stellar. What was the line in your essay I was so taken with? Oh yes, ‘Just a bunch of rich guys walking around in funny hats and getting fat at banquets.’”

  “And your point is?” I said.

  Mr. Armbruster was laughing with the rest of the class when there was a knock at the door and a kid came in with a note. Mr. Armbruster gave Natalie back the book and smiled at her before hurrying to the front of the room.

  “Ah, this is a shame,” he said after reviewing the note and sending the kid on his way. “We’re going to have to finish our discussion on Elizabeth’s essay at a later time. Because right now, Elizabeth, you are wanted in the office.”

  The classed filled with oohs and aahs and squeaks—long sad story about the squeaks.

  “And take your pack with you,” he added. “You might be gone for a while.”

  THE IRON GATE

  When I reached the school office, I found out about the doctor’s appointment that had supposedly completely slipped my mind. Silly me.

  “We’re sorry about this,” said my father—that’s right, my father—as he signed me out at the front desk. He wore a tan raincoat over his suit and didn’t look at me as he spoke to Mrs. Haddad, the desk lady. “But we made the appointment with Dr. Fergenweiler months ago and it can’t be changed. Elizabeth knew about it, but she left her note at home.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said with a weak smile.

  “I’ll wait while you get your things from your locker,” he said.

  A few moments later he was walking toward his car, parked in the bus circle, as I trudged behind in my blue coat.