Elizabeth Webster and the Portal of Doom

by William Lashner

  He tried to stop them, to have them take what they’d learned to the police, or even get the help of that Dr. Van. But they had tried the police and didn’t trust the Dutchman. They were scared, yes, but they weren’t going to sit back and hope good things happened to their family and friends. They were going to make them happen.

  It was like they both had become something new and strong. Pili and Olivia, heroes for a new age. Mr. Jack watched them stride out the back door of the soda shop and he felt such hope for the future.

  “That was the last time I ever felt hope like that,” he said.

  “What happened?” said Keir.

  “I never learned the details, never really wanted to know,” said Mr. Jack. “All I know for sure is that when Pili came back to the shop her eyes were dead as marbles, and just as hard. And Olivia, though she made it back to her house, she never made it back to school or those teams of hers. She just stepped away from her life. As for the boys, the firefighters found their bodies in the wreckage.”

  “It’s too tragic for words,” said Natalie. “It’s like a sad song.”

  Mr. Jack wiped at the counter with a rag. “I always thought if Pili had trusted in that Dr. Van at the start, had taken the help he offered, maybe things would have turned out differently. And not just for the boys. The doctor seemed to have a more humane approach. His spirit of generosity might have tipped Pili’s heart in a different direction.”

  “What direction did it take?” said Natalie.

  “It took a hard turn to hate. What had been good in her spun toward violence and vengeance. All she wanted was payback from those who had taken her brother.”

  “Payback from who?” said Keir.

  Mr. Jack stopped his wiping and looked up at Keir. “You tell me, son. Because I surely don’t know who was in that house. But with the way Pili turned out, and knowing her like I do, if I were one of them, I’d be more than worried. I’d be scared to my very bones.”

  THE SKINWALKER

  Ah, Fishtown,” said my grandfather as he steered the Sturdy Baker through narrow city streets. “Can you smell the sea?”

  “All I smell is this car,” I said, leaning out my window.

  “That’s my air freshener.”

  “It’s very fresh,” I said.

  “In the late spring they used to bring in so much shad from the Delaware River, the streets of Fishtown ran with scales and blood. Let me tell you, Elizabeth, there is nothing like a good plate of boiled shad with a drizzle of malt vinegar on top while you’re ankle-deep in scales and blood.”

  “I believe it,” I said, laughing. “Nothing.”

  This was the next Monday, when we had to suspend our investigation of the wooden-stake-wielding Pili so that Henry, my grandfather, and I could try to figure out how Mr. Topper ended up with his goat-devouring chupacabra.

  “What’s that address again, young man?” said my grandfather.

  Henry, in the back seat, looked at the piece of paper in his hand and read the address aloud for the fourth time.

  “Yes, of course,” said my grandfather. “Where else would she be? And why are we going to see her?”

  “We have some questions,” I said.

  “Excellent,” said my grandfather. “It’s hard to get answers without a few questions. Ah, and here we are.” He stopped the car and peered out the window. “Why, I barely recognize the place.”

  “That’s because this isn’t it,” I said, looking at the numbers on the door. “I think it’s on the next block, Grandpop.”

  The right address, when we finally reached it, was a blocky brick building with narrow slots for windows, as if to keep something out, or, more worrying, to keep something in. A sign above the door read:

  NASCHA’S HOUSE OF SPECIAL PETS: ENTRANCE BY APPOINTMENT ONLY!

  My grandfather banged his cane on the door once, twice, and was about to bang it a third time when a salamander medallion on the door slid up and one brown eye appeared.

  “Appointment only,” said a rabbitlike voice.

  “We have an appointment. I am Ebenezer Webster the Third, here to see Nascha on important business.”

  “What type of business?”

  “Pet business, of course,” said my grandfather. “I’m not here for the pastries.”

  The salamander medallion slammed closed, as if it was insulted, but a moment later the door opened.

  “Come in, come in,” said the burly man who greeted us. “And welcome to Nascha’s.”

  Just inside the doorway was a large display window, where a couple of sweet young creatures were frolicking. I couldn’t quite identify the species, half mammal, half bird, all cute. When Henry tapped on the window the creatures jumped about and spread their wings, delighted at the attention. Above them, wrapped around a fake tree, was a huge purple snake staring at the three of us.

  “Does the snake look hungry?” I said. “I think it looks hungry.”

  “Nonsense,” said my grandfather. “I’m sure all the special pets are well fed.”

  “With what?” I said. “That’s the question.”

  The store beyond the display window was chock-full of terrariums and aquariums and little cages with fluffy balls of fur. Fish with lizard heads swam, and lizards with fish heads stuck out their tongues, and catlike creatures lay on shelves wagging their multiple tails and staring at caged birds that sounded like trombones.

  “I’m sorry for the questions at the door,” said the man. His skin was brown, his beard was brown, his suit and tie were brown. There seemed to be a theme. He leaned forward and rubbed his little hands together as his two oversized front teeth fluttered against his lower lip. “But we can’t have just anyone wandering in. I am Clarence. Now, how can I help you this fine afternoon?”

  “We’ve come to talk to Nascha herself,” said my grandfather.

  “Oh, I’m sure I can render whatever assistance you require,” said Clarence. “So tell me, what kind of pet are you looking for?”

  “Do you have a gremlin?” I said.

  “A gremlin? You don’t want a gremlin. Such disagreeable creatures. Now, we have those gryphons in the display window, which are just so adorable.”

  “Adorable is right,” I said.

  “But we only sell them in pairs. Two gryphons are a delight, one is a nightmare.”

  “Do you have puppies?” said Henry.

  “Puppies?” said Clarence as if Henry had just yanked his beard. “We have no puppies. Do you know about the mills in which they are bred? Barbarous. We have chimeras, and mini-hippocamps, and a jackalope, if you are ready for such a thing, but no puppies. We can get you a cat, if you choose. Just let us know how many heads, how many tails. Wings are usually extra.”

  “What about a gremlin?” I said.

  “Why on earth would you want a gremlin? Don’t you know the trouble they cause?”

  “That’s sort of the point,” I said. “You see, there’s this goat in the neighborhood.”

  “A goat?” said Clarence. “A gremlin won’t be of any use against a goat. Now, if there was a machine nearby making all kinds of noise, let’s say an air-conditioning unit, well then, a gremlin would be perfect. It could even spoil a piano for you in a pinch if that downstairs neighbor insists on playing Mahler through the night. But a goat? How could a gremlin help you solve a problem with a goat?”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “Hello, Ebenezer,” came a melodious voice from behind us. We turned to see a woman approaching.

  “Nascha,” said my grandfather. “How nice to see you again.”

  “That is all, Clarence,” she said. “I’ll take care of Mr. Webster and his coterie.”

  Clarence nodded and bowed. “As you wish,” he said before backing away from the woman. He kept backing away until he passed through a beaded curtain and disappeared into another room.

  Nascha was tall and thin, skeleton thin, with cheekbones so strong they could wrestle a bear. She wore a patterned purple dress and was b
arefoot. Behind her we could see the tree in the window display, now without the purple snake. I remembered then that my grandfather had described her as a skinwalker, and I suddenly sensed what that might mean.

  “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Elizabeth,” said my grandfather.

  “So you’re the Elizabeth I’ve heard so much about,” she said. “I thought you’d be older.”

  “I’m working on it,” I said.

  “And this is Henry Harrison,” said my grandfather. “He was the wrangler for that gremlin you sold to Mr. Topper. You remember the creature, don’t you?”

  “I seem to, yes,” said Nascha, her gaze still on me. There was something about her eyes. It wasn’t like she was looking into me as the countess had, it was like she was reaching into me and trying to rearrange things. I quickly looked away.

  “Well, funny story,” said my grandfather. “It was not a gremlin at all. Imagine Mr. Topper’s surprise. It turned out to be a chupacabra.”

  “You don’t say,” said Nascha.

  “I was wrangling a chupacabra,” said Henry.

  “That’s quite impressive, young man,” said Nascha. “And I see no scars. You must have had quite a helmet.”

  “No helmet,” said Henry. “Just jerky.”

  “Astonishing,” said Nascha. “We might be looking for some help around the store. Clarence is getting so… robust, and we could always use another hand.”

  “Would I get it back?” said Henry.

  “My my, Ebenezer,” she said. “Your friends are so charming.”

  “Who did you buy it from?” I said, still avoiding the woman’s gaze.

  “Buy what, dear?”

  “The chupacabra.”

  “We didn’t know it was a chupacabra,” said Nascha. “We thought it was a gremlin.”

  “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t,” I said. “And maybe we’ll let the judge decide if our client, Mr. Topper, decides to sue you in the Court of Uncommon Pleas.”

  “On what possible grounds could he sue?” said Nascha.

  “Breach of contract,” said my grandfather as he put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s really straightforward. You agreed to sell Topper a gremlin and sold him instead a dangerous beast.”

  “Or maybe fraud,” I said. “That’s a tort. And I’m not talking about apple pie.”

  “Does it get tiring being so clever, dear?” said Nascha.

  “Yes, actually,” I said. “It really does. But maybe it wasn’t fraud, maybe it was a simple mistake on your part. Maybe, despite all your years of experience, you yourself were fooled. And that is why we are here and not in court. How did you end up with the chupacabra?”

  “Look me in the eye, girl.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, Ebenezer. You must be so proud.”

  “More than you know,” said my grandfather.

  “A man came into the store carrying a cage,” said Nascha. “An officious little man with a hat and a mustache. I thought he might be an accountant. He said he had recently come into possession of a gremlin, which he could not keep because it was agitating his goats. He said the gremlin was of a rare type he’d bought in Puerto Rico. I took a look. I had never seen that kind of gremlin before but took him at his word as to what it was. The man sold it to me at a very fair price. A few days later Mr. Topper came into the store with his sad story. I thought the gremlin would be perfect for him. That was the end of it.”

  “Did you get the accountant’s name?”

  “Fred, I believe it was.”

  “That makes sense,” said my grandfather. “In my experience, all the best accountants are named Fred. Why, our firm’s current accountant is Frederica Himmelfarb. Deliciously clever with the numbers, I must say. Never skimp on your accountant, Elizabeth. That way leads only to misery.”

  “Fred what?” I said to Nascha.

  “Abiz, dear,” she said, and when she said it I couldn’t help but glance her way. A victorious little smile lit her face, as if from the moment we had walked into her store she’d been waiting to give us this jolting little fact. “His name was Fred Abiz.”

  It wasn’t so hard to decipher. I had guessed right away who might be the officious little man with the mustache, and when I heard the name I knew it was no man at all. I had met it in court when it was clothed in its accountant’s garb, and suffered its threats when it took its truer form, a horned demon with clawed hands and hooves for feet. The demon Redwing, whose proper name was Abezethibou, had set up Mr. Topper so Mr. Topper couldn’t interfere with the demon’s plans to extend his dominion into our world. And for some reason he wanted me to know.

  Was is a taunt? Was it a threat? Did it matter?

  No, it did not matter. Redwing’s horns were red and they blazed with fire. Either way I was toast.

  SUNKEN SHIP

  It was a setup from the start,” I said. “I was just a stooge.”

  “Find two more and you could have an act,” said Natalie. “But that just means the fake gremlin’s fate was sealed from the beginning. It’s like a heartbreaking movie. The tragic heroine, the lovelorn boy left alone to wonder what might have been. None of it was your fault.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But I still feel like I’m the goat. And the thing is—”

  Just then Natalie shushed me as Mr. Armbruster peered at the two of us from the front of the classroom. Mr. Armbruster was showing us pictures of a boat called Lucy something that had somehow sunk and caused, like, a whole world war, but we had bigger fish to fry. Like why had the demon set up Mr. Topper? And what had really happened to Pili and her brother in that burned-down house? And when was the pink ever going to grow out of my hair?

  “Give it time,” said Natalie after the lifeboats had been launched and the boat had disappeared. “Pretty soon your hair will be half black and half pink, and that always looks kind of cool in a pathetic sort of way. Oh, and I think I found that Olivia.”

  “So quickly?”

  “What’s she saying about Olivia?” whispered Keir, who was sitting on the other side of me.

  “Mr. McGoogan,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Why don’t you share with all of us your thoughts on the Lusitania?”

  “Must I, sir?” said Keir.

  “I think you must.”

  This was not a one-off occurrence, Mr. Armbruster picking on Keir as soon as he opened his mouth. It wasn’t so much harassment as intense interest. Like Keir was a puzzle the teacher was trying to solve. The problem was, even with the bow ties cutting off the circulation to his brain, Mr. Armbruster was just smart enough to maybe succeed, and then where would we be? Down in the deep with Lucy.

  “Come now, Keir,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Keir gave me a look, like it was all my fault—which, I had to admit, it was—then stood, took his baseball cap off, and placed it over his heart.

  “They told us there were one hundred and twenty-eight Americans dead when the Germans sank that boat. They sang angry songs and waved flags. It was all part of the march to war that sent our fathers and brothers over there to fight and die. They didn’t tell us then how many millions of bullets were in the belly of that ship, how many tons of shells and shrapnel. That might have muddled things, you see. We the people need to be spoon-fed our stories without any inconvenient facts when we’re sending our loved ones someplace distant to die. We need to be stirred, you see. I guess one hundred and twenty-eight was stirring enough. The end.”

  When Keir put his cap back on and sat down, there was a moment of quiet in the classroom, like everyone was embarrassed for him. I mean, what kind of kid gives a speech like that about some stupid boat? And Mr. Armbruster just stared, like he was on the edge of figuring everything out.

  “Couldn’t you have just said it was a boat and it was, like, torpedoed?” I whispered when Mr. Armbruster went back to his little slide show. “Sometimes too much is too much.”

  “It went over, though, didn’t it?”


  “It did not go over.”

  “I stunned them with my words.”

  “I think they were stunned by something else,” I said.

  He looked at my face and then looked away. “I know, I know. Keep my head down.”

  “Your oral reports on the Progressive Era are due next week,” said Mr. Armbruster after he turned off the projector. “I’ll have a schedule on our class page by the end of this week. While it is not required, I’m encouraging each of you to talk to me about your project. I might be able to give you some guidance about appropriate reference materials. Once again I want to warn you, you cannot just read something off the web.”

  The bell rang and the quiet of the class was suddenly overtaken by burbles of conversation and the sounds of books being stuffed into backpacks. And then above this everyday meaningless noise, Mr. Armbruster said,

  “Oh, and Keir? Can you see me before you leave the classroom, please?”

  Natalie and I stood outside the classroom, waiting to learn what was going on behind the closed door. What had Mr. Armbruster discovered and what was he going to do about it? I kept expecting to see a pack of police storming down the hallway. I could already see the headline: HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD VAMPIRE CAUGHT IMPERSONATING MIDDLE SCHOOLER. And the cops, if they came, wouldn’t just be taking in Keir. I’d be with him in the big house, hoarding spoons. For some reason something about prison always made me think of spoons.

  “What is taking so long?” I said.

  “Don’t worry so much,” said Natalie.

  “You know, you might end up in as much trouble as Keir and me,” I said.

  “You’ll keep me out of it,” she said.

  I looked at my friend Natalie and then turned away. “You’re right, I will. So what’s this about Olivia?”

  “I joined a group chat of some kids at her school.”

  “Really? Did you know any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you do that?”

  “I lied, naturally,” said Natalie. “And it turns out that someone was at a funeral of an aunt and saw Olivia at the cemetery, just sitting beside a gravestone.”