Riddle Me Crazy!

This is a collaboration. Or at least, it will be. This is another HMC play made into a novel. In this particular play, Cassie developed a three-and-a-half page bio character. This term was inspired by Morgan "I brake for cardboard boxes" Ritchie, and Cassie's bio was probably much longer than just three pages. But there was so much too her character's rather eventful life, and she said she'd have to actually write it down one day. So, when I decided to make Riddle Me Crazy! one of my projects (though I wasn't actually in it), Cassie asked (or rather, demanded . . . this is Cassie we're talking about) to include some chapters about the life of Susannah Williams. So, Cassie will write the bits about Susannah's life, and I'll write bits about Susannah's afterlife that made it to the stage version.

This particular entry is just the prologue, and is rather shorter than the other stories I've put on here. The first chapter will belong to Cassie, and the prologue is being submitted for her approval. So, here it is. Enjoy!

Riddle Me Crazy!
By Matt and Cassie Guion
based on the play of the same name,
created by the Fall 2004 Youth Theatre Lab
(aka HMC)
original script by Keith Guion

Prologue

Hello. My name is Susannah Williams. And before we go any further, let me clear up one or two things, lest you become confused. First of all, I am dead. I know it may seem a bit strange to be addressed by a dead person, but I do hope you'll take it stride, because otherwise you'll miss what I think, at least, is a very good story. But for those of you who are a bit squeamish about being addressed by the dead, I suggest you stop reading, because not only is a dead woman telling the story, but the same dead woman is a character in the story, and will be addressing several other people.

Very well, for those of you who are still with me, yes, I am dead. I was the last of the Williams line. I had one daughter, and she married and had another daughter, so the name dies with me. Which may be why I am now here as a ghost. I mean, we can't have the Williams name die completely, now can we?

This is my house . . . very well, use your imagination. It's a very nice house, actually rather larger than one would expect of an old woman living on her own. It's very cluttered too, filled with all sorts of old artifacts and memorabilia from my family. I was always very interested in family history. It looks well lived in . . . which in fact it was. I lived here for most of life. It was an eventful life, and I'll be telling you some of the more eventful moments of it throughout this story . . . but first we have to get this story going. It happened not long after I had died, just a few days after my funeral, when my granddaughter, Keira arrived to settle my estate. I had named her executor of my will, much to her surprise and dismay . . .

***

Keira Winston fumbled the old key into the older lock of her late grandmother's house. Shifting the cumbersome box of papers into the crook of her left arm, she pushed the door open. It creaked loudly. She made her way into the house.

"So, this is where my mysterious grandmother lived," she muttered to herself. "Doesn't look too unusual?"

What were you expecting? Cushions on the floor? Maybe a few lava lamps, some beads?

Keira looked around the old living room. All the furniture had a tag on it, supposedly telling what went where. "At least she was organized," Keira said, setting the box down. "This shouldn't take too long. Good . . . I want to get this done quickly and get back home."

Is she in for surprise!

Keira found a chair and sat at the coffee table where she had set the box. She sighed. "Why on earth did she choose me for this?" she asked herself. "I didn't even know the woman. I'd met her . . . I think twice? At least that I can remember. Why not mother?" Then she laughed at the silliness of that particular question.

Yes, we both know the answer to that question, dear. As if your mother could be bothered. If Gwynna had been executor, this house would have stood empty for years. Not only was she not named executor, she isn't even mentioned in the will.

This requires some explanation. I know how cruel it must sound to leave one's own daughter out of her will . . . but believe me, Gwynna wants it that way. She would probably burn anything I left to her, because she hasn't wanted anything to do with me for years. That was her choice, and I respect it. We never really did understand each other. The best thing she did was run away when she turned eighteen. It was, quite frankly, a relief for both of us. Oh, I kept tabs on her, of course. I was in the back of the church when she married Kenneth Winston, though she never knew it . . . and I was there to meet my new baby granddaughter when she was born, much to Gwynna's disgust. Obviously, I couldn't see Keira as much as I wanted to, but I watched her grow. I saw more of myself in my granddaughter than I ever had in my daughter.

That's why I chose you, dear. You are the only member of the family who is able to carry on the Williams' family legacy, and with my help, you will.

She couldn't hear me, of course. I was a ghost, and I had only been a ghost a few days at that point, so I hadn't quite figured out how to make myself perceivable by mortals. All I could do was observe, and that's what I was doing: observing Keira go through the quite frankly dry and boring documents in her box.

Keira shivered, and glanced around the house. "There's something creepy about this place. I keep having this feeling as though something is looking over my shoulder."

Well, that proves that you're more perceptive than your mother. She'd have been striding through here making snide remarks about my furniture, my housekeeping, my house . . . I could pound on her face with my fists, and she'd never notice. Never did have much sense, or sensitivity. I seriously thought she had been switched at birth. It wasn't until Keira was born that I saw any of myself in her at all.

Keira pulled out another piece of paper. "Mom's third grade report card?"

What's that doing there? I thought I got rid of all that stuff years ago.

Keira read the report. "‘I'm concerned about young Gwynna. Her grades are acceptable, but I know she could do better. She doesn't take any initiative, and always keeps to herself. I think she could be an excellent student if she ever showed any interest in anything.'" She put the paper back in the box. "Yeah, that sounds like mother."

Ah, now I remember. Her third grade teacher captured her essence very well in that report.

This seems a good place to tell you a bit about my life . . . the part that involved my only daughter Gwynna. It's not an easy story to tell, believe me, because it reveals as many faults in me as in my daughter, and it is, of course, very painful to relive one's own flesh and blood leaving her. But I suppose if I'm going to tell you about my life, I may as well go all the way. So . . . here goes.
***
"What's next?"

Rude Awakening

"Okay, it couldn't have gone far, right? . . . Somewhere in this building . . . is our talent."

I seem to be regaining some of my writing ability. This is the opening chapter of a new story I'm working on. The chapter is called "Rude Awakening." The story has no title, yet, but I can tell you that this story is not part of the 13 series. Yes, I do write things other than the adventures of Tabbitha and Samantha and all the rest. I just haven't posted many of them here, yet. So, here's a story I've been working on about a waking princess.

Untitled
Chapter 1: Rude Awakening

Lina awoke to a peculiar experience. It was like a dream that she hadn't quite awakened from. Or a memory. She was vaguely aware of a hand on her face, a pair lips touching hers. A lock of hair tickled her forehead. She moaned softly as the feeling subsided, and opened her eyes. A handsome face, with jet black hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a prince's crown, was immediately above her. A realization came to the young princess. This man–this handsome prince–had just kissed her, thus awakening her from her too deep sleep. She sat up slowly, and gazed into his eyes. Truly, this called for immediate action.

She took a deep breath . . . and smacked him across the face as hard as she possibly could.

"You unspeakable cad!" Lina screeched, as only she could. "How dare you!"

The prince, still reeling from the smack–which had, after all, been surprising, as well as painful–decided that this was the time to say something intelligent and eloquent.

"Huh?" he said, intelligently and eloquently.

"Oh, don't act like you didn't know what you were doing! Do you have any idea what price my father will put on your head? What did you think . . . you'd just have your way with me before I woke up? I thought Princes had better manners than that . . . but in the end, I guess you are just a typical male!"

"But . . . but . . ." the Prince said, seeming flustered. "I've . . . just saved your life, Princess! I fought my way through the castle's defenses and roused you from your slumber with my kiss of true love!" Lina looked at him in sheer disbelief.

"What, a gentle shake on the shoulder wasn't good enough for you?" she exclaimed. "And what do you mean, ‘saved my life?' I just took a nap! Aren't I entitled to a bit of beauty sleep without some horny Prince thinking he needs to kiss me awake?"

"You hardly need the beauty sleep, Your Highness," the Prince said, finding his charm again.

"Don't try to flatter me!" Lina yelled. She had heard this phrase, and variants of it, for too long from too many men, to be affected by it. It was true that she was quite fair–flowing blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a slenderness most girls only dreamed of, as befitted a princess–but it was also true that she was not as beautiful as her sisters, and that anyone telling her she was pretty was usually pretext for, "So, do you think you could introduce me to . . ?" It was the perpetual frustration of being the youngest of twelve girls. "You're evading the subject! Why did you wake me from my nap?"

"Begging your pardon, Princess . . . but you've been napping for quite a long time."

"So, I like to sleep in!" Lina said, growing more indignant. "Is this my parents' idea of a joke? I swear . . . every time I sleep a little past noon . . ." But then she stopped, and not just because the Prince was looking at her as though she was slow of intellect. Without thinking, she glanced down at the little finger on her right hand. Sure enough, there was a little scar there, as though a deep cut had not quite healed over properly. She looked a few feet from where the prince was standing and saw, covered in what appeared to be a hundred years' worth of cobwebs, a spindle and spinning wheel.

Lina's parents had never told her about the curse that had been placed on her shortly after her birth by an evil witch, or faerie, or some other being. Her elder sisters had, and at the time, Lina had been so scared that she had hidden in her bed and refused to come out from under the sheets. A concerned mother and father had assured her that the curse was made up by her sisters in an effort to scare her. Since then, she refused to believe the story, though it stuck vividly in her mind.

The evil being, furious for not being invited to the party celebrating Lina's birth, stated that on Lina's fifteenth birthday, shortly after pricking her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, she would die a premature death. But the curse was amended by a second, good-natured being, saying that it would, instead, be a hundred year sleep that would plague the Princess. That was hardly any better, of course, and now here was Lina, one hundred years later, awakening from a very long nap.

She rushed over to the window and looked out. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be! But alas, the castle grounds were in sad repair. The gardens were overgrown with weeds, the walls were crumbling, and the climbing vines had come up to cover the entire castle. She peered out farther seeing that, not only the castle, but the entire kingdom seemed to be deserted! Everything she had ever known . . . her father, her mother, her sisters, her home . . . all gone . . .

"You see?" the Prince's voice sounded behind her. "I had to come. You were in an enchanted sleep . . . one that only the kiss of your true love could break." Lina snapped out of her reverie.

"What?!?" she yelled. "‘True love?' You?!? I don't even know you! I've never seen you before in my life!" The Prince looked even more flabbergasted than before. This was surely not the sort of scene he had envisioned.

"But it's true! I love you, Princess . . ."

"Oh, think sensibly, man!" Lina shouted, exasperated. "You don't even know my name! I was alive a hundred years ago. Surely you weren't around a hundred years ago! This is the first time you've seen me, and the first thing I did when I woke up was smack you! Can you honestly say that you're in love with me?"

The Prince looked at her, quite taken aback. He tried to think of something else intelligent and eloquent to say . . . something like, "How could one not fall in love instantly at the sight of you?" or "I was so overcome with emotion that I kissed you, though you were asleep. Is that not love?" or "Hey, we're all alone in this tower . . . want to have some fun?" But all that came out was a barely distinct, but honest, "No."

The Princess sighed. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for him. Then she remembered that he had kissed her without provocation and went back to being angry at him. "You had to kiss me?"

"Well . . ." the Prince said, uncertainly. "The curse did say that the kiss of your true love would break the spell."

"Well, let me ask you this," Lina said. "If the sleep is only supposed to last for one hundred years anyway, why does it matter whether or not I'm kissed at the end of it? What makes you think I wouldn't have awakened on my own if you hadn't been here? Why do men always think that women can't do anything on their own?"

The Prince struggled to look for an intelligent and eloquent answer. He couldn't find one.

"Well, while you're struggling for a solution to that conundrum . . ." Lina said. And she left the Prince behind in the tower.

All at once, her grief caught up with her. Lina was all alone, probably the only one left in the kingdom, except for the Prince. There were other kingdoms of course, but after a hundred years, who would remember her? And if her kingdom had been deserted for this long, it was probably all but forgotten.

Lina went down the stone steps of the tower. Broken cobwebs layered the walls of the spiral staircase, and Lina took care not to let too many brush up against her. If there was one thing she was deathly afraid of, it was spiders. Sometimes her sister, Kathleen, liked to put them in her bed. Oh, how she hated being the youngest! Though now, she would have welcomed the prank, if it meant having Kate and her other sisters back.

She arrived in a corridor and stood, appalled. Dilapidated hardly seemed the appropriate word. The passageway, formerly so warmly lit, was now dark and dismal. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, tickling Lina's nose unpleasantly, and the cobwebs were worse than ever. Lina shuddered and moved forward, desperately seeking out paths where the cobwebs were thinnest. It all seemed like a bad dream, like some scary story that Helena would have told. She passed by a place where the vines had started growing inside the window, snaking their way slowly across the wall.

Lina felt something odd happening. Her eyes were burning and watering, and she felt a choking sensation in her chest. She had only ever felt this way before when her older sisters had teased her too much. She had never, in her life, had a true and unchildish reason to cry. Although she was the youngest princess in her family, she was still that: a princess. And, shallow though it may seem, she had been pretty well pampered all her life, with no real life issues to concern her. And now . . .

Lina found herself outside of her bedroom door. It was open, and there was a minimal amount of cobwebs in the doorway. She nerved herself, hoping that she wouldn't find the eleven skeletons of her sisters in their beds, and walked in.

There were no skeletons, but it was just as bad. The cobwebs completely obscured the twelve royal beds where Lina and her sisters had slept. This had been their bedroom, playroom, whatever room, the place where Lina had many fond memories of her sisters . . . and a few not so fond ones as well.

She walked past each bed, her eyes falling to the portraits that hung above each one, showing which princess that bed belonged to. There was Kathleen, the second youngest, only a year older than Lina. The portrait showed her thick, strawberry-blonde hair, her piercing green eyes–everyone in the family had those eyes–and her dimpled smile. The painting also showed her with a clear complexion, but Lina knew that the painter had eliminated the freckles that speckled Kathleen's nose. Lina had always liked the freckles, though for some reason, they were considered unattractive. Kathleen's bed, along with everyone else's, was now covered with the same sort of spiders she had used to hide in Lina's bed. Kathleen had always seen fit to tease her unmercifully–as was proved by the spiders–though they only differed a year in age.

Jacquelyne's bed was next. Jacquelyne was Kathleen's twin sister–their names rhymed–but they were quite different from each other. Jacquelyne was usually the one who comforted Lina after Kathleen had been particularly cruel to her. Jacquelyne's portrait looked almost exactly like Kathleen's, except that where Kathleen's strawberry-blonde had had a bit more blonde than strawberry, Jacquelyne's had a bit more strawberry than blonde. And Kathleen's dimpled smile resembled more of a smug smirk . . . at least, it always had to Lina . . . whereas Jacquelyne's smile was genuine. She was easily the most kind, humble, and thoughtful of her sisters.

Next was Ilianna, the golden-haired, eighteen-year-old beauty, who was less like a princess than any of the twelve sisters. was the one who was always most aching to go anywhere other than the palace. She had tried to jump the castle gate many times, and although she had been caught, she also claimed to have escaped the notice of the guards once or twice, and had explored the surrounding kingdom. It was more than likely that none of these stories was true, but it was entirely possible, for Ilianna was also the cleverest of the sisters.

Helena was Ilianna's twin, also eighteen, and always able to talk up a good scare. It was she who had told Lina of her curse, surely embellishing several aspects of it, for she had only been four at the time. But she had made up plenty of stories too, some scary, some not, and had told most of the scary ones to Helena. She had always had a vivid imagination. Between her imagination and Ilianna's brains . . . it was almost scary to contemplate what they could have come up with. But unlike her twin, Helena was one of the least attractive of the sisters. Oh, she was attractive . . . all the princesses were attractive . . . but in much in the same way that Lina was. Where Ilianna's hair was like pure gold, Helena's hair was a dishwater mismatch of blonde, brown, and red, which she always insisted on keeping short. And though they were omitted from the portrait, freckles fairly covered her face. Plus she had a short temper, and could be downright beastly when something set her off.

Tawny-haired Ginevra, in contrast, was absolutely ravishing. Her hair, the perfect mixture of brown and blonde, was the hair girls dreamed of having, and was second in length only to Donnatella's. She was barely nineteen, yet of the twelve sisters, she had gotten the most marriage proposals . . . with the exception of Anna, of course. Even the painter had seen fit to leave the freckles on her nose in the painting, because he couldn't bear to do anything to change that perfect face.

Florinda was the most rebellious of the sisters, even more so than Ilianna. At twenty, she had defied the wishes of her parents many times, with or without their knowledge. She was the one who was most likely to marry some random man living in the woods. She was, in fact, known to have one or two affairs that her parents had never found out about. Nothing serious, of course, but there had been plenty of stories for the other sisters.

Eleanora one of the three triplets, a twenty-one year old beauty, with fiery hair and a personality to match. Of the twelve sisters, she alone had painted her own portrait, for she had a gift for art that was unmatched, even by the king's painter. She had taken the liberties the regular painter usually took–she hardly needed to–so her picture actually showed the freckles that were present on Eleanora's nose, and her hair was bright red, almost orange, not the more "tasteful" auburn the painter would have undoubtedly made it. Eleanora was also a brilliant dancer, second only to Anna . . . and even she had to work to be better than Eleanora. Eleanora had such grace and poise that it looked as though she was hardly working at all.

The second triplet, Donnatella, had long, beautiful, chestnut hair that Lina had always been deeply jealous of. At last measurement, it had been down to her knees, flowing eloquently always. Although, Lina didn't envy her the chore of washing that hair! She was easily the bravest of the twelve sisters, with the possible exception of Anna, always willing to jump into whatever fray . . . but she was deathly afraid of heights, Lina remembered, as afraid of heights as Lina was of spiders.

Clarabella, the third triplet, had dark auburn hair, almost black in the shadows, full lips, and creamy white skin. She was, in fact, the only one of the sisters who didn't have any freckles; her complexion was almost clear enough to be a mirror. Clarabella was usually overshadowed by Eleanora and Donnatella, but she had same personality they did. She preferred to sit demurely and quietly . . . until crossed. And one crossed Clarabella at their peril.

Bella, twenty-three, with thick, chocolate-brown hair, and elegant facial features that even the few freckles on her nose could not mar, was a wonderful musician. She played the lute and sang beautifully. Sometimes she sang while Eleanora danced, and anyone watching immediately fell in love with both of them. She had had her fair share of proposals too, just for her voice. She also had the enviable ability to take anything that was thrown at her with grace and poise. She was a wonderful actress, and could fake smiles and tears alike.

And finally, Anna, her portrait looking haughtily down from its lofty place in the room. The oldest at twenty-five, she naturally had power over them all, and was able to best many of them in many things. She had black hair in tight curse that framed her elegant face. She had all the qualities of the other sisters combined, and had an unquestionable authority fit for a queen.

And she was married now, to a mysterious soldier . . . but she had only been married for a few days . . .

There was a blank spot in Lina's memory. Why did she not know more about Anna's suitor. She hadn't married until twenty-five, and her marriage was surely a highly celebrated event. Why could she barely remember it?

She sighed, deeply. What did it matter now anyway? Anna and her husband, as well as the other sisters and her mother and father, were all dead now. It was possible to live past a century, but few did and even fewer cared to try. She looked back at the portraits of her beautiful sisters, and the burning and choking returned as she began to cry.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Oh, right. The prince. "Can't a princess have a moment by herself?" she asked, angrily.

"My apologies, princess. I'll just stand by the door." She sighed. This prince, whoever he was, really had come at a very bad time. If he had come now, after she had awakened and needed a way out of the kingdom that was clear of spiders, she might have welcomed him differently. Hell, if he had come while she was asleep and had simply sat and waited quietly for her to awaken, she would have welcomed him differently!

Oh, well. He was here now. Something would have to be done about him. She quickly wiped her eyes–she would not give the prince the satisfaction of seeing her cry!–and walked past the innocently smiling portraits of her sisters, and back out of the room.

"Good Prince," she said, with the eloquence that had been drilled into her as a princess. "Your intentions, I'm sure, were good, if unnecessary, and for that at least . . . I thank you. I assume you know the way out of the palace, so . . ."

"But . . . what about you?" the prince asked, stupidly.

"What about me?"

"You're going to stay here?"

"Of course!" Lina said, impatiently. "It's my home, my kingdom! Do you see any other heirs around here?"

"I don't see any other subjects around here either, Majesty . . ." Something about the way he called her "Majesty" put her off, slightly.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" she asked.

"Well . . . I had assumed that you'd . . . come back to my kingdom and be my bride." She stared at him for a moment, not sure if she had heard him right.

"What?!?" she expostulated, dropping all pretense of eloquence. "Did you fall off your horse and hit your head?"

"Well, given the circumstances . . . perhaps it was a silly notion . . ."

"You think?"

"Regardless, princess, you cannot remain here," the prince insisted. "This kingdom has been all but forgotten for the past century. There is nothing to rule. You must come to another kingdom and . . . make a new life for yourself."

"What sort of life is there for a century old princess?" Lina asked, dryly.

"You are . . . easily recognizable as a princess. I'm sure that some . . . royal family . . ." But even as he said it, he realized how lame it sounded. No royal family–at least none that Lina knew of–would want another competitor for the throne.

"Look, there's nothing for me," Lina said, firmly. "I'm the lost princess. I overslept, and my kingdom left without me. There's nothing you can do. Just go, and . . ."

"Leave you alone in this place?" the prince asked. "I couldn't do that!"

"You can. And you will."

To her great annoyance, the prince began to laugh. "Begging your pardon, Majesty," oh, that word again!, "but this seems hardly a fit place to leave a kitchen wench, let alone a princess. It would hardly be gallant to leave you behind."

"It would hardly be princessly to leave my kingdom, now would it?"

"There's nothing here for you but the spiders, princess. Now stop this foolishness, and come with me!" She wanted to retort and stand her ground, but the comment about the spiders finally did Lina in. Stubborn though she was, she was not about to stay here while there were spiders about.

The prince took about a staff, which was already covered in sticky cobwebs, and began to beat a path down the corridor.

"What is your name?" Lina asked.

"I am Prince Lance," the prince said, in a somewhat haughty tone that did nothing to improve Lina's image of him.

"Oh . . . ‘Prince Lance,'" she said, deepening her voice and trying to imitate the haughtiness. Her sister Bella would have been able to pull it off perfectly. "‘I'm Prince Lance! I'm handsome and charming and all those things a proper prince ought to be! Now, I have to help a sleeping maiden wake up, and after that I'm going to slay a few dragons, for I am Prince Lance!'" Her mimicry was a far cry from anything Bella could have pulled off, but it nevertheless got the desired effect. The prince was, once again, flustered.

"I did slay a dragon, for your information!" he said, stoutly. "Coming in here! There was dragon guarding the gate. Almost got fried alive, but I slew it!"

"Uh-huh," Lina said, seeming bored. "Sure you did. And flying monkeys are attacking the castle."

Prince Lance sighed, sounding frustrated. Good. "Of all the princesses to get stuck with . . ."

"Hey, you're the one who decided to kiss me! And you're no great treat yourself. The castle entrance is that way, doof," she added, pointing to the turn he had missed. Looking sheepish, Prince Lance changed course. "Didn't you mark the way in?" Lina muttered. Prince Lance cleared his throat sheepishly, but said nothing else has he continued to clear away the cobwebs.

After much bickering, they finally made it to the castle gate. The rest of the castle was just as dismal as the upstairs corridor had been, with more dust and cobwebs than Lina had ever thought possible. But now they had a new problem. Beyond the moat, the entire castle was surrounded by briers so thick, a mouse couldn't fit between them.

"Hold this," Prince Lance said, thrusting the staff at her. Lina squealed and almost dropped it; the whole thing was covered in a sticky mess of cobwebs. She checked carefully to make sure there were no spiders crawling in the webs.

"They're not going to hurt you," Prince Lance said condescendingly as he pulled out his sword. Lina glared at him.

Now Prince Lance approached the briers, and paused. "Well, what are you waiting for? Hack your way through," Lina said.

"I . . . I'm trying to avoid getting cut . . . those thorns are sharp . . ."

"How on earth did you get in?"

"The briers must've grown over . . ."

"I can see that!" Lina said, impatiently. "I meant, if you hacked your way in, why can't you hack your way back out? I mean, if you can slay a dragon . . ."

Prince Lance paused. "Maybe there's a path around . . ."

"Oh, give me that!" Lina said, reaching for the sword. The prince gave an arrogant and superior smirk that irritated Lina to no end.

"This sword weighs more than you do. I'm not going to . . ." But his speech was cut short as Lina grabbed the sword from his hand and began hacking away at the brier patch. As soon as she had made a decent sized dent in the thorns, the prince found his voice again. "Just what kind of princess are you?"

"Apparently, the kind who can wield a sword better than Prince Lance," she said, putting manly emphasis on the name. "What are you, afraid of your own blood?"

"It just . . . makes me a bit squeamish is all . . ."

Lina sighed, shaking her head. "Of all the princes to stop by, I had to get the one with a thing about blood," she muttered. "Tell me again how you managed to get in?"

"Well . . . things were more desperate then . . ." Prince Lance said, lamely.

"Yes, heaven forbid that you not get to the sleeping princess before she wakes up, because then you might not be able to kiss her . . ." But before Prince Lance could come with an appropriate retort, Lina's sword broke through the wall. Perplexed, Lina stepped through the hole. Behind it was a perfectly clear pathway. She turned slowly back to the prince.

"And how, pray tell, did you miss this?" she asked, sweetly. Prince Lance sputtered for a few minutes under her glare. "You know . . . I thought you were an idiot before. Something tells me I underestimated you." She thrust the sword at him, hilt first–though it was considerable temptation to thrust it at him the other way–and started down the pathway.

After a few steps, the path veered off and forked. It was a labyrinth! This thing couldn't just have grown up on its own. Someone must have planted it sometime in the last century; someone who wanted to effectively hinder any progress to or from the castle. Since Lina had been the only resident of the castle for the past century, she could only assume that the barrier was meant for her. Of course, the curse was enough to tell Lina that someone had it in for her . . . but this thorny labyrinth seemed to doubly confirm it. And if everything Lina had heard about diabolical enemies was true, they usually operated in threes, which meant that there was surely some other thing that was supposed to stop her . . .

Out of no where came a roar. It was so powerful it knocked Lina off her feet. Prince Lance made a feeble attempt to catch her, but only succeeded in inadvertently grabbing her in a place where a princess ought not to be grabbed.

"Get your hands off me!" she screeched, getting back on her feet. She looked around for the source of the noise. "What the hell was that?"

If the prince was shocked to hear a princess use such language, he did not show it. "That sounded to me . . . like the roar of a dragon."

"A dragon?" Lina said, fear taking hold of her again. "You mean there really is a dragon here?"

"I told you there was," Prince Lance said, sounding a trifle exasperated.
"And I thought you also told me that you slew the dragon, did you not?" Lina said, trying to keep her voice below the high soprano range.

"I . . . I thought I had . . . I guess it must have . . . woken up . . ."

"Well then, you didn't slay the dragon, did you?!?" Lina screamed. "All you did was knock it out!"

"Well, dragons are hard to kill entirely!" Prince Lance insisted. "They're pretty tough . . . they have incredible endurance, and can take a lot of punishment without succumbing to . . ."

"WILL YOU SHUT THE HELL UP AND SLAY THE DAMN THING?!? WHAT ARE YOU, A PRINCE OR A NATURE PROFESSOR?!?" The prince looked as though he would have liked to make a retort to this outburst, but at that point, the dragon manifested.

It was a textbook dragon, to be sure. Green scales, sharp teeth and claws, long sinuous neck, tail like a whip, and smoke issuing from its mouth and nose. It would have been a truly formidable creature . . . had it been a bit bigger. The dragon was by no means tiny, roughly the size of two horses. But the dragons that Lina had heard about had always been described as towering over small buildings. This dragon didn't seem at all like the towering type.

They just stood for a moment, staring each other down. The dragon could be still be formidable, despite its size. Lina did not have to be told why smoke was issuing from its mouth and nose. Lina stepped aside, giving Prince Lance a clear shot. Annoying he might be . . . but he said he had overtaken the dragon once. Lina could handle a brier patch, but large, fire-breathing reptiles were a different matter.

The dragon wasted no time. He came charging toward the prince. Prince Lance stood his ground, sword in hand. As the dragon came in range, Lance swung his sword at his snout . . . and missed. Spectacularly. Caught off balance, he fell to the ground, sword clattering next to him, as the dragon ran by. Lina wondered if she should give herself over to the dragon and be done with it.

"What is the matter with you?" she said, sounding more exasperated than angry now. The prince stood up quickly, sword back in hand.

"I'm just . . . out of practice is all . . ." he muttered sheepishly.

"You just slew the damn thing ten minutes ago! Or at least you thought you did!" Suddenly there was great crash. Lina looked, and saw what had happened. The dragon, caught off guard by Prince Lance's clumsiness, had been unable to stop and had crashed into a wall of briers.

"Quickly," Prince Lance said, moving in the other direction. "Before he comes free."

"Let me guess . . . you planned that whole thing, right?" Lina asked sarcastically. The dragon was moving its back claws, trying to extract itself from the wall.

"Just move! Quickly!"

"I don't think we're in any danger. That thing's as clumsy as you." She started to follow the prince, but stopped, and turned back. There was a strange noise coming from the place where the dragon struggled. It was making no progress; the smoke in his vicinity was increasing. And that noise . . . it was a noise Lina had made before, usually when Kathleen was torturing her with spiders, or when Helena was telling a particularly scary story. Was it whimpering?

"Lina!" the prince called. "Where are you going?" For Lina had started back toward the dragon. Ignoring the prince, she approached the beast, trying to avoid the flailing claws. She realized that she the wall was not complete; she could step around it and get the head.

She did so. The dragon did indeed seem to be whimpering, and with good reason. It's side now had several gashes from the sharp thorns, and the dragon was surely making them worse with its thrashing. Its eyes were pain-filled, and seemed to be tearing.

"Hey there," she said, softly. The dragon saw her. His thrashing grew wilder. "Stop! Stop! Take it easy . . . you're only making it worse." She approached the dragon's head slowly. "I'm hear to help you. Take it easy . . ." Lina wasn't sure whether the dragon even understood her. Maybe it was just the sound of her voice, but the dragon did seem to be calming down.

"I know, I know it hurts . . ." she said. "I got cut by thorns like these once." She looked at the brier wall. His body seemed pretty firmly lodged there. He could probably extricate himself in time . . . but not without doing considerable damage.

"Can't you breathe fire on the wall?" she asked. "Burn it down and get free of it? Fire shouldn't hurt you." The dragon's whimpering returned. "Oh . . . can't you breathe fire?" For answer, the dragon let out a small cloud of smoke. Lina understood . . . the dragon could handle smoke, but not fire. "You haven't learned how yet?" The dragon seemed to agree. It could understand her. "Why . . . you're just a baby, aren't you?" The dragon nodded, sadly. "Oh, you poor thing . . . you must have gotten lost in this brier patch, and that mean Prince Lance came after you . . ." The dragon nodded. "Well, I agree, he's an idiot . . . but he didn't mean anything by it. I know what it's like to be the baby . . . I've been a baby all my life, at least compared to my other sisters. So they always pick on me and try to scare me." The dragon looked at her with new appreciation. It surely helped to find someone who understood. Lina realized that she was playing the role that her sister Jacqui so often played: the comforter. Though she never thought she'd be comforting a dragon!

"Don't worry; I'll get you out of here," Lina assured the dragon. "Don't move, I'll be right back." She went back around the wall and called to the prince. "Hey you! The mighty warrior! Get over here, I need your sword!" The dragon started thrashing again. "Not for you!" she insisted. "To cut the briers, to free you." The dragon still seemed nervous, but stopped thrashing.

Prince Lance came over. "Want me to kill it?" The dragon heard.

"Shut up!" Lina said, slapping him again. "You're scaring it! Give me the sword."

"What are you doing?" the prince exclaimed as Lina took the sword from him.

"The dragon didn't mean anything! It's just a baby. It's been lost in this patch for who knows how long! It's okay, it's okay," she added, soothing the dragon. "Just hold still. I won't cut you." She began hacking away at the briers.

"You're helping it?" the prince expostulated. "It attacked me!"

"Only because you attacked it first!" Lina retorted. "It can't even breathe fire, poor thing . . ."

"Poor thing? Not five minutes ago, you were berating me for not killing it!"

"Stop saying that!" Lina shouted as the dragon stirred nervously. "It's okay. Try backing out now . . . but slowly! Don't hurt yourself."

Slowly, the dragon backed its way through the hole in the briers. It whimpered a few times as a few thorns left some last cuts, but kept moving back until it was free.

"There now!" Lina exclaimed happily. "Now, hold on. There might still be some thorns under your scales. Let me take a look."

"This isn't happening . . ." Prince Lance muttered as Lina circled the dragon, pulling out the thorns that remained in the dragon's skin.

"You look okay," Lina said. "The cuts are healing really fast. Soon, you'll be as good as new." On impulse, she hugged the dragon around the neck, like one would a horse. The dragon looked surprised, but not displeased. Prince Lance, on the other hand, looked surprised, displeased, and completely nonplused.

Lina stepped back and looked into the dragon's eyes. "You should have a name. Is it all right if I name you?" The dragon nodded assent. "Okay . . . what's a good name for a dragon?"

"How about ‘Menace?'" Lance muttered.

"Just ignore the mean, stupid man," Lina said. "Oh . . . you like that name?" For the dragon was nodding its head toward Lance. "You like the name Menace? Okay, Menace it is!" Menace gave out a happy snort of smoke. "Good idea, Prince. Very well thought out." Prince Lance looked as though he had swallowed something unpleasant.

"Now, we need to find a way out of this maze," Lina said. "Can you stretch your neck and look over the walls?" Menace stretched his head up as far as it would go, but his eyes came just short of the top of the wall. "No, I guess not. But maybe I could, if I stood on your head. Would that be all right?" Menace brought his head down and laid it on the ground so Lina could climb up. "I'll try not to squash your ears," she said. Menace gave a snort; he would appreciate that.

Lina set the prince's sword down and hauled herself up onto Menace's head. She stood carefully, maintaining her balance, as Menace slowly stretched his neck back to the top of the wall. Suddenly, Lina could see the entire maze, laid out before her. "Okay, I see it . . . we have to go out this passage here . . . then go left, then right, then left, then left again, and then we're out! Okay, you can let me down." Menace lowered his head slightly, then tilted it back, so that Lina slid down his neck onto his back. "You want me to ride?" Menace nodded. Lina beamed. "Okay! Let's go!"

"Excuse me," Prince Lance said. "But may I have my sword back please?"

Lina turned to him. "Oh, are you still here?" The prince glared at her. "Your sword's right there, highness," she said, pointing. Lance smiled dryly, and moved toward it . . . but Menace got there first, setting his claws on it and snorting smoke at the prince.

"I guess Menace doesn't want you to have it," Lina said, amused.

"But suppose there's some threat in the maze?" Lance asked.

"What threat could there be that a dragon couldn't take care of?" Lina asked, patting Menace's neck. Menace snorted, appreciatively.

"But . . . but . . ." the prince sputtered. Lina sighed.

"But, I suppose you should have your sword back. Tell you what, Menace. If the mean, stupid man agrees to keep his sword put away, will you let him have it back?" Menace considered, then stepped back from the sword. Prince Lance stepped in and grabbed it before Menace could change his mind. "Isn't there something you want to say?" Lina inquired, sweetly.

"Thanks," Prince Lance muttered, sheathing his sword, his face turning red.

"No problem," Lina said. "We wouldn't want to deprive you of the opportunity to fall on your ass again." Menace snorted in a pattern that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

In due course, the three of them emerged from the brier labyrinth. Lina looked back at the castle. "Well . . . there's certainly no future for me here," she said, sadly. "I guess I'll have to find some other place to live." She slid down from Menace's back. "Thanks, Menace. You were a big help . . . I guess you'd better get back to your family." Menace looked at her and shook his head. "You don't? But why?" But that seemed to be a more complex answer than Menace could give, so he just nuzzled Lina's hair, bathing her with warm and surprisingly sweet smelling vapor. "You want to stay with me?" The dragon agreed. "Well, of course you can!" Lina exclaimed, hugging the dragon's neck again. "Things'll be much more fun with a dragon around. Without you, I'd be stuck alone with Prince Lance." The prince glowered, but said nothing.

"Well, where to?" Lina asked of no one in particular.

"I'll lead you to my kingdom," Prince Lance said, regaining some of his composure. "There, we can . . ."

"Why your kingdom?" Lina asked.

The prince looked at her. "Well, last time I checked, yours was in pretty poor repair, so . . ."

"Yes, but why are you so eager to get me back to your kingdom?" He looked at her blankly. "I know why. It's so you can take me off and marry me. But why do you even want to marry, given that you don't even know me? Because you need to produce an heir for when you're king, and I'm pretty enough to be entertaining . . ."

"Do I even need to be here for this conversation?" Prince Lance asked, rhetorically.

"I'm not playing your little game, highness. I'll be just fine on my own . . . with Menace," she added, looking up at the dragon.

Before the prince could stutter another word, Lina was back on Menace's back. "Farewell, Prince. Thank you for all your incompetence. It was much appreciated." And with that, Menace and Lina took off, leaving a frustrated Prince Lance behind.

***

"What's next?"

The 13 Guests, Chapter 2: Mr. Carpenter

I've been suffering from Writer's Block recently . . . which sucks, 'cause now that school's out, I actually have time to write. The bulk of the second chapter of this continuing story came from a sudden burst of creativity that kept me up until 1:30 in the morning, and will probably not happen again anytime soon. So, here is the continuing story of Tabbitha and the Carpenter house.

The 13 Guests
Chapter 2: Mr. Carpenter

Mr. Carpenter, though in his eighties, remained an imposing figure of a man. A soldier through three wars, a justice, and an intelligence agent, the man had seen a lot more than most, and his experience gave him authority, even when he didn't try to exert it. People who knew him, even if they didn't like him, respected him. He maintained his grave look–he hadn't smiled in years–as Mary walked in the door. Mary Holland had been a faithful servant to Mr. Carpenter for several years, ever since she had been an attractive college dropout in her twenties. Now she was an attractive woman in her thirties, with curly brown hair and a cute face that was still girlishly freckled, a feature of occasional embarrassment to her.

"She's here, sir," Mary said. "Phil's getting her cleaned up."

"Thank you," said Mr. Carpenter. "She is young?"

"Very young. She can't be more than sixteen." The man nodded. He had predicted as much.

"Our youngest so far," he said. "But she can handle it. I'll have Ron help her; he wasn't much older than she when he arrived.

"Sir," Mary said. "She knows this place."

"I'm sorry?"

"She knows it. She seems . . . familiar with it."

Mr. Carpenter shrugged. "She's probably heard the stories."

"There's more than that. She addressed Phil by name." Mr. Carpenter looked up.

"Really?" he asked. Mary nodded. Mr. Carpenter looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged again.

"Well, she may have done more research than the others." He stood. "I'll see her now. Thank you." Mary nodded again, and left.

In a moment, Phil walked in. Behind her was the girl. She was very young . . . although she seemed to have the same sort of authority that Mr. Carpenter possessed. Her hair, still damp from the storm, couldn't seem to decide between brown and blonde, and her eyes couldn't decide between brown, green, or hazel. She was somewhere between tall and short, between stout and skinny, and between plain and pretty. In short, a very ordinary looking girl. But there was something in her . . . a bright, fiery spirit, though at the moment it was deeply hidden. Mr. Carpenter saw that great things could be expected of her.

The girl had been changed into the clothing the house had provided her. The outfit would be typical of the kind she would ordinarily wear. In this case, jeans and a hoodie. Another ordinary aspect of her appearance that concealed her character.

"I'm Mr. Carpenter," said the man. "I'm the owner of this house. I like to meet with our new arrivals, try to get to know them and give them a chance to know me. Also, to fill them in on what's going on." He looked at her. She was frightened and trying not to show it. "What's your name?" She didn't answer. "I assure you, there's nothing to fear. Please . . . your name?"

"Tabbitha," the girl answered quietly.

"Mary tells me that you know more about this house than most, Tabbitha," Mr. Carpenter said. "Beyond the campfire stories, I mean." Tabbitha smiled.

"It started as a campfire story," she said. "I've always been into ghost stories, and this was one of my favorites. I wanted to find out more . . . I even thought about coming here myself. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. So I just poked around a bit. I didn't learn much, really. Just the names of the people who disappeared."

There was something about the girl that seemed vaguely familiar. "What did you say your name was?"

"Tabbitha. Tabbitha Forrester." Ah.

"Forrester?" Mr. Carpenter asked. "Your grandfather wouldn't have been Jeff Forrester, would he?"

"Yes," said Tabbitha, slowly. "That was his name. I never really knew him."

"No, you wouldn't have. Your father . . . Joseph?"

"Joe, yes," Tabbitha said. "You know my family?"

"Some of them," Mr. Carpenter said. "Jeff was in my unit during the Second World War." He was silent for a moment, then went on. "Let me tell you about the part of the story you probably don't know. Ten years ago, this house was cursed." He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a piece of paper. "Specifically, the curse stated that no one could leave the house. As near as we know this is true. We've tried every door, every window. None of them will open. The curse does allow, however, for people from the outside to let people out of the house. Unfortunately, no one knows we're here. So when someone does happen to stumble upon the house, they end up trapped like the rest of us. For once they're inside, they can't get back out. The curse allows for thirteen people to enter the house. After that, the house is sealed, both inside and out." He handed her the paper.

"Then what happens?" Tabbitha asked, reading the paper.

You're trapped here now; there's no way out,
The door is sealed, although you doubt.
The door is locked to you within,
But from without, they can get in.
The door is shut, there's no egress,
But I'll let in some thirteen guests
Before the door is locked forever,
And sealed from both sides, opening never,
Until this curse has run its course,
And all your guests have met the worst.
They shall not want, they shall not die,
They'll simply vanish from the eye.
This house becomes an empty shell,
Just as the Magic Circles fell.
Then they may come in, if they dare,
Only to find . . . there's no one there.

Mr. Carpenter knew when she had finished reading, even though the girl didn't look up. "The closest metaphor I can think of to describe it is death," he said. "The house has not begun dying yet. There's no telling when the process will start, but my guess is that it will be sometime when the arrival of the thirteen ‘guests' is imminent. That time is drawing closer. You are the tenth arrival since the curse was placed." Tabbitha was still staring at the paper. There was something else on her mind.

"Who cursed you?" Tabbitha asked.

"A man called Jeb. He was a man I once trusted. One day he came to my house, and when he left, he left the curse."

"Jeb Johnston?" Mr. Carpenter was surprised anew. He had known that this was no ordinary young woman, even before her arrival. But he hadn't expected this.

"You know of him?"

"I know him. And his brother."

"Jerome? He hasn't been seen for years."

"He's returned. His curse was broken." Mr. Carpenter sat down again.

"There is much I need to catch up on," he said.

Tabbitha looked at the old man for a moment. "Mr. Carpenter . . . maybe we can help each other. I'll tell you my story, if you tell me yours." Mr. Carpenter laughed, slightly.

"You're sure you'd be interested?" he said. "Most people aren't interested in the background. They're just interested in what's keeping them here, how they can escape it, and how long they have to wait until they can."

"I'd imagine so," Tabbitha said. "But as you've no doubt realized by now, I am not most people." The old man smiled. "I had a feeling something big was going to happen to me. Now that it's happened . . . I'm taking advantage of the opportunity. I want to know about this curse."

Mr. Carpenter leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk. "Very well. It's an involved story, and there are many aspects that I can't explain. But I'll do my best." He paused, collecting his thoughts, then began to divulge his memories.

***

Jeff Forrester paced. His young face was contorted into a mixture of worry, anger, and grief. His eyes were red from hours of weeping. My eyes were red too, but I was calmer than my friend. I had seen this coming. And I knew what was still to come.

"How much longer?" he asked.

"Few more minutes," I answered quietly. Jeff turned.

"I can't take this waiting," he said. "I wish it could just be over."

"I've been wishing that since I found out about it. It'll be over soon." Jolene, a wiry girl who had been sitting very quietly, looked at Jeff with concern.

"Why don't you sit down?" she asked her friend. She was upset too, I could tell. Everyone was.

"It ain't fair," Jeff said, ignoring her plea.

"No one said it was," I said calmly.

"No fifteen-year-old should have to go through this." Jeff looked out to where our dying friend lay. He couldn't see her; Gina was seeing to that.

"No, Jeff. No one should." Jeff turned to me, characteristically taking out his anger on the people he loved. We constantly forgave him.

"How can you be so calm? Our best friend is dying, and you just sit there!" I stood.

"You think I'm calm, Jeff? I'm screaming inside. Storming, cursing, doing everything you're doing, except I'm keeping it to myself. ‘Cause I know that all the yelling in the world isn't gonna bring her back. Sit down." I sat again, and watched as my friend did the same. We were young. All of us, young. The hardships we had endured were unlike those of most young children, yet still we moved, ever forward. But this most recent hit was nearly crippling.

Jolene went over to him. She had always liked him, though she was two years younger than he. And I knew that Jeff liked her. Jolene put one skinny arm around Jeff's shoulders, trying to calm him.

"Why do these things happen, Jolene?" he whispered. He was crying again.

"My ma used to say, ‘Bad things happen so God can make them good again." Jeff looked up at her.

"Maybe," he said, grabbing the hand on his shoulder and holding it tightly.

"Hey," Jolene said, perking up slightly. "I've been working on my Animation. Wanna see?"

Jeff looked like he was about to protest, until I spoke up. "Sure, Jo. Let's see it." The girl grinned and pulled a scrappy piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolded it carefully so as not to tear it, and looked at it. She had drawn a stick figure person on it in carbon, so it would show up easily. Concentrating, she willed the little figure to move.

The black figure twitched a bit, then started moving slowly, as if just waking up from a long nap. One of its legs crossed over the other, then moved back as the other came forward and the pattern repeated. Slowly, jerkily at first, and then more fluidly, the stick figure walked in place on the paper. Once it got the rhythm going, it held out its arms, and stepped to the side, then back, doing a slow waltz with itself, even swaying with imaginary music as it danced. Jeff smiled for the first time in almost two days. I smiled as well. The stick figure made a bow to its imaginary partner, then reverted back to an ordinary carbon drawing on the page.

"That's very good, Jo," I said. "Your magic is really improving." The girl beamed, proudly.

"Yeah," Jeff said. "Just keep practicing. Soon, you'll be able to make that stick figure jump off the paper." Jolene laughed. "Thanks, Jolene. That really cheered me up." Just as I knew it would, I thought as Jeff hugged the little girl.

I suddenly felt a wrenching in my gut. I turned toward the place where our friend lay. Jeff did the same. He knew as well as I did. "It's time."

Gina appeared, walking out right where I stared. She had blood on her hands and dress, and her dark brown hair had fallen out of its kerchief. She looked tired.

"She's dead," she said bluntly. "It's over." Jeff's tears were renewed. He sobbed on Jolene's small shoulder.

"What of the baby?" I asked.

"Jacqui's taking care of him. Near as we can tell, he's healthy." She paused. "What should we do with . . .?" She trailed off, afraid to say the rest. But I knew what she meant.

"We'll give her a proper burial, after we're through here."

"What about the baby?"

"We'll care for it." Gina looked at me.

"Are you crazy? We can barely care for ourselves!"

"It's either that or give him to an orphanage, and I won't do that," I said, adamantly. "Not after what we went through. We'll be fine. We've done pretty well by ourselves." Gina nodded. Then as if the realization of her friend's death had just hit her, she collapsed, sobbing, into my arms. It was all I could do to keep from crying along with her . . . but someone had to remain firm.

Jacqui appeared, in no better condition than Gina. She held a bundle in her arms. She surveyed the scene. Her eyes were red as well. Releasing Gina, I went over to look at the child.

"His name's Jonathon," she said. "It was her last request. Named after her father."
"Of course. Jonathon it is." Jeff and Jolene had come over too. The baby was beautiful. Like his mother had been.

"We'd better get back," I said, choking back tears of my own. "The others are waiting. Julian probably knows already. Jacqui, do you have the curse?"

"Right here." She handed me a small piece of paper.

"Good. Let's go." The five of us walked back to the main camp.

Julian met us as we arrived, his young face unnaturally somber. He knew. Julian had wanted to be there with her, but Julie had forbade it. She hadn't wanted anyone to see her, except those who had to help her with the baby.

The others stood as we arrived. Eleven-year-old George, who had brought us here, and who helped us when we needed speedy escapes; ten-year-old Gene, who had a talent for creating diversions and getting into trouble; nine-year-old Jillian, who got sicker by the day but remained strong in spirit, and her two-year-old sister Jill, oblivious to all that was going on. Jillian held another baby, sound asleep; Jacqui's daughter, named Juliet. A small, dark cat was curled up in Jill's lap. Jillian and Jill were the newest members to our group, apart from Jonathon. They had been rescued from an orphanage two years ago, along with Jolene. And now Jillian was sick, and no one knew what to do about it, except to have Gene develop his healing talent.

Jillian would not die of her sickness . . . though it would have been a kinder death than the one she experienced.

They all looked to me, waiting for me to speak. "Julie is dead," I said, bluntly. "She has . . . passed on her life to her son, Jonathon." Jacqui held up the baby for all to see. "Jonathon will grow with us. And he will be . . . a reminder of Julie's life. May we never forget her." The others nodded, even as they cried. "It's time to move on. Whatever took Julie from us isn't going to go away. I don't know how to defeat this monster. But I do know that none of us can do it alone. So, we need to come together." I took out the paper. "Julie wrote us a curse before she died. It's called the Curse of Friendship. I'm not sure exactly what it does, but she said it would enable us to grow closer together. I know this to be so." They nodded again. They trusted my predictions, though I didn't always trust them myself. Or, perhaps I didn't want to . . . for on that day, I was able to see the fate of everyone in that lot.

"Most of you have magical gifts. There are two of those gifts not with us, but I fear we can't wait any longer for them." The cat suddenly jumped from Jill's lap to the ground. I ignored it and moved on. "It's time. If you will all–" Jacqui tapped my shoulder. I turned to see what she needed. She was looking at the cat, now standing not five feet from me and looking into my eyes.

"That's no cat," she said. "That's a Transformer."

"Are you sure?" Jeff asked.

"I just made a quick search for one, just to be sure. There's Transformer magic coming from that cat." I turned to Jeff. The redhead nodded and knelt down in front of the animal. He made a few purring noises, and the cat responded. Jeff stood.

"He says his name's Josiah and that he's here with his friend, Jessica. He says they're orphans too."

"Where's Jessica?" I asked, looking around. Jacqui pointed to Jill, who had stood and was walking over. "She knows where Jessica is?"

"She is Jessica," Jacqui said. "She's an Illusionist." I nodded. I had not foreseen this, and found myself unprepared for these new additions.

"Jessica," I said to the girl, "show yourself." Jill's features melted away and were replaced with those of another girl. Jillian started, and immediately began looking around for her real sister. The girl now before me was not much older than the image of Jill had been, about a foot taller, and with fine, blond hair. She wore a simple yet soiled dress, and no shoes. She looked very cold.

"Jeff, tell the boy to change." Jeff communicated with the cat again.

"He says he doesn't want to," he said.

"It's ‘cause he can't change his clothes," the young girl said, speaking for the first time.

"What was that?" I asked.

"He doesn't wanna change back ‘cause he hasn't figured out how to change his clothes into the cat with him, so he hasn't got none. If he changes back now he'll be cold. He's a lot warmer as the cat, plus it's his favorite."

"Where's my sister?" Jillian yelled from her spot. "What'd you with her?" Juliet awoke and began crying.

"She's right there," the girl said, pointing. Jillian looked behind her to see Jill, sound asleep. "I gave her a nice dream so she'd sleep."

"Who are you?" I asked, as Jillian, somewhat consoled, tried to calm the baby.

"Jessica Stein. Josiah and me were in a bad place together, until Josiah found out he could make himself a cat. I can make myself a cat too, but it isn't real. It only looks like I'm a cat."

"You were orphans?" Jacqui asked.

"That's what everyone told us. We don't know what it means though."

"Your parents are gone?"

"I don't have any parents. They ran out of parents when I was s'posed to get ‘em, so they put me in the bad place instead. Josiah too." I smiled at her childish explanation.

"How long have you been following us?"

"We found you yesterday. You looked like good people, and we needed someone to take care of us, like they did in the bad place, only nicer."

"I see," I said. "Well, you can stay with us. Gina, see if you can get them some clothing, anything of Julie's." I turned to Jacqui. "Can I see you for a minute?" We walked away from the group somewhat, so we wouldn't be overheard.

"How's Jonathon holding up?" I asked, evading the uncomfortable issue.

"He's been sleeping, but he needs to be fed soon."

"He will drink your milk, Jacqui, along with your daughter. You will act as his mother. Can you do that?" Jacqui nodded. Jacqui had been raped along with Julie and had given birth to Juliet two weeks ago. The child had no magic, which suggested that Jacqui would have more children. Hopefully, it wouldn't happen anytime soon.

I looked back at the two newcomers. "A Transformer and an Illusionist are exactly what we need, and they suddenly appear from nowhere?"

"I know. It's strange. Can you tell anything from their futures?"

"Enough to know that they won't cause us any harm, at least no more than we'll get anyway." My eyes lingered on the cat. "The boy . . . there's something about him. It's the same thing I sense in Jeff and Jillian. And you. His offspring . . . I see two brothers, both fighting for good, yet fighting against each other. They will cause a rift in the fight."

"Should we send him away?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "That will make things worse. Besides, I couldn't send him away." I sighed, seeing the horrible vision unfold. "The third circle will be set apart. Just as Josiah's sons will be set against each other, so will Jeff's grandchildren. But they will come together again as the third circle breaks up and the fourth is formed."

Jacqui stared at me. "You're prophesying again!" I barely noticed her. I was in an involuntary state of mind, that sent me images of things I did not want to see.

"Our circle, the first circle, will fail," I said, speaking words that were not my own. "Our children too, the second circle, will also fail. The magic, the curse, will nearly be lost . . . but it will be rediscovered. The third circle will be largely without magic . . . only two will possess the gifts . . . yet they will come far and fight well . . . but not well enough. They will be misled, and when they think they have succeeded, then they too will fail. Unless . . ." He stopped. He could no longer find the words.

"Unless what?"

"Unless . . . history can be rewritten . . ." Silence fell between us.

"Come," I said, feeling drained. "It's time."

"Wait," Jacqui said. "If the effort will ultimately fail, then . . .?"

"Why even bother?" I finished. "Because I don't know if they will fail. There is a chance that something–a fourth circle perhaps–will help them succeed. The future at this point is oddly unclear. But I do know that there will be no third circle unless there is a first one. So, come." I turned and walked back to the group, leaving Jacqui, clutching the newborn Jonathon to her breast, to follow.

~~~

We became the First Circle. Josiah grew with us, and we did our best to act as proper guardians to him, young though we were. It was never easy. We had to fight, not only the magical peril, but the peril of starvation. Jeff and I went to war, Gina and Julian went to school, and the others went to factories, all for the sake of supporting our small circle. Josiah and Jessica remained good friends, and Jillian and Jolene loved playing with them. We helped Josiah with his magic, teaching him in our crude ways how to turn into other animals besides cats. But the cat remained his favorite, always.

We grew up, and apart . . . but the Friendship Curse kept the link between us. Josiah took a simple factory job, never striving to be anything more, and seeming satisfied. He married a lovely young lady, and they named their first son Jebadiah, Jeb for short.

I came to know Jeb mostly from the horror stories that came from Jeff's daughter, Nicole, who babysat him often. Apparently, he was an excited child, always up to something, and constantly leaving poor Nicole exhausted. Meanwhile, I had married, and had a daughter of my own, named Kathryn, Kate for short. Since Jeff and I were friends, naturally our daughters were as well, though they were as different from each other as it was possible to be. Nicole was outspoken, childish, and something of a troublemaker. She had the magic of Location, which she often used to locate trouble. Kate, in contrast, was serious, studious, and quiet, and usually submitted to Nicole's somewhat dubious authority. Still, Nicole depended on Kate more than she realized. They were inseparable in their early years, and they would be instrumental in the formation of the Second Circle.

But back to Jeb. Jeb showed no evidence of magic, but I knew that there was something special about him, so I kept a close eye. The child grew normally, showing the same knack for trouble that Nicole had, and–also like Nicole–an intelligence unmatched by his peers. Perhaps that's why they got along so well together.
When Kate and Nicole were fourteen and Jeb was eight, Josiah and his wife had their second son, Jerome. Nicole was called to their house more and more often to babysit Jeb. One day, she came to visit Kate, and I heard them giggling in the other room. Normally I ignored this, but something told me I should go in and see what was so funny. At the time, I thought it was only father's intuition.

Kate and Nicole were giggling over a piece of paper when I walked into the room. "Hi, Mr. Carpenter," Nicole said, still trying to stifle laughter.

"Hello, Nicole," I said. "May I ask what you're laughing at, or would I not get it, being an old, fuddy-duddy adult?"

"Oh, Dad . . ." Kate muttered, like she always did.

"Oh, it's nothing . . ." Nicole said, still giggling. "It's just . . . Jeb gave me this poem he wrote me . . . it's just so cute!"

"Jeb has a crush on Nikki . . ." Kate said in a singsong voice.

"Oh, stop it! He does not!" Nicole handed me the poem and I looked at it. It was a simple verse, written by an eight-year-old, talking about how much fun he had with his sitter, and how much he wished she could live forever.

"He's six years younger than me! C'mon!" Nicole was saying.

"Oh, like you've never had crushes on older men!" Kate retorted. "Remember Mr. Kenderson . . ."

"Shut up! You swore you'd never tell!" Nicole yelled, blushing.

"Not to worry, I didn't hear a thing," I said, handing the poem back to Nicole. "Sounds like Jeb's taken a shine to you, Nikki."

Nicole sighed. "Like father, like daughter," she muttered, and she and Kate went back to their conversation, having forgotten that I was in the room. I walked out, smiling, yet wondering what it was I had suddenly become so concerned about.


It wasn't until a few months later that I found out. One of the teachers at the elementary school had disappeared. Jeb's teacher, in fact. My suspicions aroused, I went to the school. I wished then that I had had Jacqui and her magic of Location with me . . . but Jacqui had died only four years earlier, so I had to settle for Nicole's much less developed magic.

"I just wish I knew what we were looking for," Nicole said.

"I have not taught you much about curses, I know," I said. "That's because I know so little myself. I didn't write curses."

"Well, refresh my memory. Maybe that'll help." We were standing in the cafeteria of the elementary school. No one was around but the janitors. I had told them that we were waiting for someone, and they accepted that. But if we waited here much longer, they wouldn't. And if they overheard me talking to Nicole about curses and magic, that would make matters worse.

"Maybe outside," Kate suggested. She was also with us, since curses often dealt with the written word, where Kate's magic of Communication would help us. And because Nicole hadn't wanted to go on this excursion without including her best friend. So at Kate's suggestion, the three of us moved outside.

"Curses are a form of magic not inherent," I said in a low voice as we arrived outdoors. "That is, rather than a person directly using magic, as you and Kate do, a person employs something else to do the magic for them. More often than not, this manifests itself in the written word. These curses can operate under any kind of magic. For instance, one doesn't have to be a Transformer to write a Transforming curse. All that is usually required is that the person has some sort of magic ancestry. The curse-writer doesn't even to have to have any inherent magic at all. So your brother Joe, Nicole, might be able to write curses." Nicole had a twin brother who I saw very little of. Jeff hadn't wanted him to be a part of this, since he didn't have the magic.

"So I'm looking for a piece of paper?" Nicole asked.

"Possibly. It could be anything with writing on it, though, not necessarily paper. What you are looking for is something infused with magic, whose magic is probably operating. And it probably has the written word."

"Which is where I come in," Kate said.

"Which is where you come in," I agreed. "Your magic is, as yet, undeveloped, but between the two of you, we might be able to find the curse."

"What makes you think the school is cursed?" Nicole asked. "I mean, you said only people of magical ancestry can write curses. Don't you know all the people of magical ancestry?"

"Yes," I answered.

"And would any of them write curses like this?" Nicole asked.

"Most of them don't know how," I replied. "Which is why I'm concerned. Now . . . we're wasting time. Search." Nicole and Kate turned to each other, gave a shrug that said "adults!" and began concentrating.

I needn't go into the specifics of the search. Suffice to say that it ultimately led to room 130, the third grade classroom that had been used by the vanished teacher. The door was unlocked, so we let ourselves in. By now, Nicole had a better idea what she was looking for.

"It's over here," Nicole said, leading us over to the teacher's desk. Nicole opened one of the drawers, reached in, and pulled out . . . and dog-eared piece of notebook paper. She looked at it, and furrowed her brow.

"This is Jeb's handwriting," she said, handing me the note. "I guess he didn't like his teacher very much."

I looked at the paper. It was another poem, crudely written in the style of an eight-year-old, stating his wish that his teacher would disappear. A common wish among elementary school students . . . yet with Jeb, the wish had come true. And by no accident.

"What is it, Mr. Carpenter?" Nicole asked.

"I'm afraid," I said slowly, "that Jeb is responsible for his teacher's disappearance."

Nicole tried to laugh, but she realized that I wasn't kidding. "What do you mean? Just because of this? They're just words . . ."

"No," Kate said, now reading the poem. "Not these words. These words have power." I looked at her startled, and realized that my daughter was fifteen, the same age Jeff and I had been at the start of the Circle, and was already showing signs of leadership . . .

No! It's too soon! They're too young!

"Are you saying that Jeb cursed the school," Nicole said, working it out, "and that curse caused his teacher to disappear?"

"Not just his teacher," Kate said. "His meaning was ambiguous. He doesn't refer to his teacher, but the ‘teacher in this classroom.' That means that any teacher who teaches in this room will also disappear." I realized that she was right. This was an aspect of the curse that would be taken literally.

"Should we warn people? Should we warn teachers not to teach in this room?"

"We can't," I said, sadly. "We'd be able to give no reason that wouldn't give them cause to think we were crazy."

"We have to do something," Nicole cried. "We can't just let all those teachers disappear!"

"We don't have a choice," Kate said. "It's too far-fetched for anyone to believe."

"Jeb . . . little Jeb . . . how can he be capable of this?" Nicole asked, near tears. "He's just a kid . . . just a little kid who didn't like his teacher. How . . .?"

"He didn't know what he was doing," I said. "He doesn't know he has such power. He'll have to learn how to use it properly . . . it can be used for good, as well as . . ." I stopped. Once again, my vision from many years ago came to me. Two brothers, turned against each other . . .

"It's time to head back," I said. I walked out of the room. I glanced back at Nicole, crying softly and being comforted by Kate. I didn't see fit to tell her about the other curse that Jeb had unknowingly written . . .

~~~

Jerome was his brother's brother, to be sure. He was a bit more subdued, but the excitement and intelligence were still there. The brothers were never close as children–the age difference made that impossible–but time changed that.

Soon, Jeb was off to Coleman Community College, the same college that Nicole and Kate had only too recently graduated from. Nicole was in her twenties now, and she still looked like a fourteen-year-old girl. This was something she and I had both had to come to terms with; she was cursed with Immortality. Though it may be every man's dream to live forever, Nicole had the wisdom to know that the dream would slowly become a nightmare.

Jeb met Dr. Jonathon Hampton, Julie's infant son, now pushing forty and a PhD in English Literature. In addition, he met Lilah Jordan, Gina's daughter, and the other children of the Circle. Soon he, along with Kate, Nicole, Lilah, and little Jenny Walker, Gene's daughter, barely into her teenage years but with an intelligence and maturity that astounded everyone, formed the leadership of the Second Circle. Using the same Curse of Friendship that Julie had originally written, with a few modifications by Jeb, the Second Circle was formed . . . forty years after the first one.

Meanwhile, the original members of the First Circle were perishing before my eyes. Jacqui, as I said, had died already. Jillian's death had followed shortly thereafter. Several years later, Jolene also met her untimely demise. Jeff was devastated. Though they had both married elsewhere, Jolene had always been Jeff's first love. Julian was killed in Vietnam, serving as a surgeon to the wounded. Jonathan died shortly after the formation of the Second Circle, leaving his infant daughter to be cared for by Kate and her husband. Only a year after that, Gina's daughter Lilah was murdered by a rapist. Jeb, who had grown very close to her, all but lost hope at her death. He took the leadership of the Second Circle, but his heart was never in it, and he eventually relinquished the duty to Kate and went into seclusion.

His brother, meanwhile, took no part in any of this. He moved to Vermont for his schooling. No one realized, at the time, that he possessed the magic of Telepathy. I did not even realize it. He had a hopelessly naive disbelief in magic, much like most people do, and thought his brother had grown quite eccentric. Jeb did not contact his family for a long time, and Jerome decided to go elsewhere, rather than fall into whatever trap his brother seemed to have fallen into.

Little did he realize that George White of the First Circle, with much the same idea in mind, had done the same thing shortly after Jillian's death. Jerome did not live all that far away from him, or his daughter, the other magical offspring who did not join the Second Circle.

Nicole, now thirty and still in the guise of a young teenager, decided to leave the area before she was suspected of . . . whatever she might be suspected of. She became an Immortal . . . one of a group of people who, for whatever reason, never age and never die. I didn't hear from her for a long time. Gene Walker died of a heart attack only months after Jenny's eighteenth birthday. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Jenny had only the Second Circle to depend on, and Kate and her husband helped whenever they could.

Then two years later, my own daughter, Kate, was killed. No one knew who had killed her, or why . . . but none of that mattered much anyway. Her death was as devastating to the Circle as it was to me. She had been the only thing holding it together. Its original leaders were gone. Lilah had died, Jeb and Nicole had fled, and Jenny, still recovering from the death of her father, now had the death of another caretaker to deal with. It was a wonder she made it through . . . but Jenny had the magic of Life. That may have been the only thing that kept her going.

Nicole returned for Kate's funeral, and mourned with me. Now thirty-five, she was unable to pose as Nicole Forrester any longer, so became Nicole Greerson, a young-looking, twenty-something model, and settled once again in Samuel Springs. She met an open-minded young man and fell in love with him. When she showed him her magic and explained her Immortality, (she said she wouldn't marry a man without telling him these things) he believed her, accepted her, and married her. But she couldn't hold the charade for long, and soon had to leave again. But before leaving, she gave her husband a daughter, who grew up to resemble her mother in many ways. She named her Samantha.

~~~

The deaths of my friends continued. Josiah was next. It was at his funeral that I finally met Jerome. I found, to my surprise, that he had just recently married Jenny Walker. I wondered at this, but I didn't have to wonder long.

"Mr. Carpenter," Jenny said, approaching me after the funeral. "May I have a word?"

"Of course." She was being unusually formal. It was a funeral, of course, but I didn't know how well she had known Josiah.

We went to a secluded area of the church. "There's an effort underway to relocate the surviving members of the Second Circle to someplace safe," she said. "Jeb feels that we're in danger, especially since Kate's death."

"What sort of relocation did you have in mind?" I asked.

"My father left me his house in Vermont when he died. I hadn't sold it, because it held sentimental value, and I started living there shortly after I finished college. That's how I met Jerome." She paused. "Actually, it was Jeb who brought on our meeting. He's been planning this for a while." So! Jeb hadn't abandoned the Circle after all . . . at least not completely. And neither had Jenny. The old leaders were still at work.

"Go on," I prompted.

"I'm convincing Jerome to turn the house into a boarding house of sorts . . . someplace where a lot of people would come to stay. He's warming to the idea. The area's already served as a place for those magicians who either aren't aware of their magic, or who have turned against it." I thought of George White and his daughter, ignorant of magic.

"How many members of the Second Circle know?"

"All of them who are left," Jenny said. "Julian, Amy, and Lily have already agreed to come. Also, we have a non-magical person in our number, Stephen Smith. He's been in Vermont keeping an eye on Jerome and Molly White, the other magical person that wasn't in the Circle. One thing led to another, and he and Molly are discussing marriage, and he'll convince her that they should move to the boarding house."

"What about the others?" I asked, trying to recall who all was in the Second Circle. Julian was the son of Julian Gregg. Amy was Jessica Stein's young daughter, and Lily was the infant of Jonathon Hampton, now nearly fourteen.

"Nicole believes that she's safe, now that she's immortal, and prefers to live on her own. Tom Elder doesn't want to leave his family." I nodded. Tom Elder, Jacqui's son, was one of the few members of the Second Circle doing well. He was a member of the Samuel Springs Police Department, married, had a son named Jake with Concealing magic, and a new baby daughter named Danielle. Naturally, he wouldn't want to drag them all to Vermont. He would just have to brave it out.

"Tammi's not sure. She's months away from giving birth, and although the boarding house would help her, she's not sure she wants it." Tammi, Jillian's daughter, had been the victim of a one night stand that had gotten her pregnant. She wouldn't want to be dependent on anyone. "Josiah Tolson refused. He said he wanted to keep searching, and he couldn't do that within the walls of a sanctuary." Josiah was Jolene's son. Kate's death had hit him, perhaps, hardest of all. It was causing him to continue a vigilant search for the thing that had killed her . . . but was also turning him against those few that were still close to him.

"We also have in our number, Jessica Stein . . . which is why I came to you," Jenny continued. "I'm wondering . . . if there are any other surviving members of the First Circle who want sanctuary in the house." I sighed. Most of the remaining Circle members would not go. Jeff wouldn't allow himself to be confined; George, of course, wanted to retain no memory of the Circle; and Gina, still teaching at the elementary school despite being nearly seventy, wouldn't want to leave. That left Jessica, who had already decided, and myself. But I didn't want to go either. There would be too many memories there. Perhaps I was like George in that regard . . . I didn't want to be reminded of our failed Circle.

I told Jenny all this, and she nodded. "I figured you'd say that."

"But I will help in any way that I can," I said.

"I figured you'd say that too. We've got it mostly figured out . . . but I'll let you know if we need your influence. You're pretty well respected by the others." She left me and returned to her husband at the reception.

I saw Jeb that day as well, but we didn't speak. He was oddly quiet, subdued. Of course, his father had just died . . . but I sensed more than that. What it was, I didn't know . . . but I would learn later.

~~~

Tammi ended up not going to Vermont. She stayed and gave birth to a daughter, which she named Molly. She raised her entirely on her own, and at the time I left, she was doing very well, a rambunctious child, much like Tammi herself had been. I don't know how she's doing now.

It was just as well that Tammi did not join the others. All that were supposed to be in the house were there. They arrived sporadically over the course of two years, and gave no sign that they knew each other. Jerome still did not know of his magic, or for that matter, of Jenny's or Jeb's, or that any such magic existed at all, and Jenny had not seen fit to tell him.

It wasn't until it happened that I realized what I mistake it had been to put the surviving members of the Second Circle together in one place. I didn't hear of the incident . . . until I saw a very strange news story. An entire house in Vermont . . . just vanished, along with everyone inside. As they named the names of the house's inhabitants, I realized what had happened.

Jeb. Jeb had cursed the house. I knew not how. Jeb, in his years of seclusion, had come into the power of the enemy. He had become the enemy. I should have seen it . . . should have divined it! He had betrayed Jenny. He had betrayed Jerome. He had betrayed the Circle.

So it was that the First Circle lost another member, and the Second Circle lost five. It was merely another death in the First Circle, but it was, in many ways, the final, crippling blow to the Second. Each Circle had only four members left. (I no longer counted Jeb as a member of the Second Circle.) Then a few weeks later, I received word: upon hearing of the disappearance of his daughter, George White had fallen ill and died.


Jeff Forrester died of a sudden heart attack the year before our house was cursed. It was at his funeral that I met you, Tabbitha. I realize this now. You were not yet five, loud and boisterous, like your grandfather and your aunt. Neither of your parents knew who I was, of course, and neither did you. But that didn't stop you from coming over and introducing yourself. I doubt you even remember. I sensed something in you. I still sense it in you. You are no ordinary girl.

Also at the funeral was Nicole, disguised again as an anonymous mourner. Only I knew who she was. You introduced yourself to her too . . . and there were tears in her eyes as she realized who you were. She carefully avoided seeing your father.
That evening, I went to see the only other surviving member of the First Circle. She was still at the school, planning what she would teach to her kindergarten class. She had always loved children, just like Jacqui . . .

Gina–known by her students as Mrs. Jordan–had grown old. Both of us had, in more ways than one. Slowly, carefully, we walked together to her home.

"It was a beautiful service," she said. She smiled. "His granddaughter's something, eh?" I smiled, remembering the little girl. "She starts kindergarten next year. So does Tammi's daughter. And Nicole's." She sighed, sadly. "They're all so lucky . . . that they had children who lived long enough to have their own children." She stopped walking, and turned to me.

"I can only keep myself concealed for so long," she said. "And you too. The First Circle has failed."

I nodded. "Jeb has gone to the enemy; Nicole can't show her face; Tammi's trying to raise a child on her own; Josiah is shutting out people more and more . . . even Tom can't last long. The Second Circle has also failed."

"Then we must form a Third one," Gina said determinedly.

"We have so little to work with," I said. "Most of the surviving children from the Second Circle are only going to be in kindergarten next year. Tom's son Jake is the only one we know for sure has magic, and he's only eight."

"Only eight?" Gina said, arching an eyebrow. "I was ‘only eight' once. So were you. Remember?" I remembered. All too well. "By the way . . . there's a new teacher in room 130." I sighed, and nodded. "Nice young woman, name of April. April First. Her parents must have had a quirky sense of humor. It would be a shame . . ." Gina looked at me pointedly. "Children grow. We can wait."


We waited. I stayed in my house most of the time, becoming as secluded in my old age as Nicole or Josiah. I knew people told stories about me. Made up stories, really. The people of Forrest Falls tended to avoid me. Some thought I was mad. But I didn't care. I was too old and too sad to care.

Then it happened. Philip came up to inform me that there was a Jeb Johnston to see me. I'd not heard from him since he had cursed Jerome's house. Why be so open? Surely he knew that I no longer trusted him. Did he not think I would notice Jerome's vanished house?

But Jeb had no magic. It was his brother who had it. I had him sent up.
Jeb was as friendly as I remembered him in his youth. Smiling, laughing, making idle conversation . . . it was as though he was back to normal. This, I feared, above all else that Jeb could have done.

Before he left, he placed a piece of paper on my desk. Too late, I realized what it was . . . and by the time I had read his curse, Jeb was gone.

~~~

I informed Philip and Mary, my two houseworkers, of our plight. They took the news badly at first, but ultimately accepted what had happened. We were trapped in the house. The door would not open, unless someone opened it from the outside to let us out . . . and of course, no one knew we were here. Even Gina had, somehow, been denied the information, and I had kept such little contact with the Second Circle survivors, that none of them knew I was missing until too late.

The curse provided us with whatever we needed to survive. Food, water, electricity, heat, etc . . . it wanted to ensure that we remained alive, even as the house died. For that was what the curse ensured . . . that the house would die, and all who were trapped inside it would disappear. It also stated that once thirteen people entered the house, the door would be sealed, outside and in, until the curse had run its course.

I predicted most of the arrivals . . . but no one could get to door before it closed behind them. That, too, seemed to be part of the curse. The first arrivals were some college kids, three of them, and a police officer who had been set to arrest them for trespassing. There ended the peace and quiet I had enjoyed for so many years. They fought and argued often. There was a couple experiencing some problems, and one of the students was apparently a dropout, who the policeman seemed to have it in for.
The next arrivals brought even more fighting; three sisters who had not gotten along since the youngest had graduated high school. The oldest, I realized, was April First, the teacher Gina had mentioned had taken over the cursed classroom. The curse, then, was manifesting itself this way. I also learned, through April, who was by far the kindest of the three, about Gina's death. I was now the only member of the First Circle left . . . and I was trapped in my own home.

The eighth arrival was a complete surprise. A high school senior, entering the house on a dare, I suppose, was found half frozen and unconscious in the doorway one night. In time, I learned that he too had a curse . . . a curse that had sent him back in time through his own memories. He had been cursed as an old man . . . and by his description, it sounded like it had been Jeb who had cursed him. This chilled me. If Jeb was to survive until this young man was an old man, what hope did we have? But the fact that this man had become old seemed to indicate a sort of hope . . . for him at least. Perhaps he would escape the curse of the house.

Next was a dentist, Nicole Wyde, a rather eccentric woman, who showed concern for my age and health. Concern that is, unfortunately, warranted. I hadn't really realized, until her arrival, just how old I had become. And yes, my health is failing. I have slowed down considerably, and do not often go farther than my bedroom or office in this house. Nicole reminds me so much of my own daughter, and she has come to care for me . . . perhaps more than she should.

And then you, our tenth and newest arrival, Tabbitha Forrester. And I have learned from you now that Josiah Tolson, after shutting himself away from the world, has vanished, but that Tom and Tammi are still very much alive, that Jerome and Jenny have returned from their curse . . . and most troubling, that Jeb is alive as well. I wish I could tell you what will happen, but the future is cloudy . . . which suggests that I will not live much longer. My only hope, Tabbitha, is that the Third Circle, which you are now apparently the leader of, will succeed where the others have failed, and that history, as I once predicted, will be rewritten . . .

***

"What's next?"

The 13 Guests, Chapter 1: Report Cards

Here's yet another story from the adventures of the 13 Friends. (I really should get some other storylines up here . . .) In order for the end of this one to have its full effect, you'll have to dig through the archives and read the prologue of The 13 Guests about the Carpenter's Curse. Enjoy!

***

The 13 Guests
Chapter 1: Report Cards

"Tab? Hey, Tabbitha?" Tabbitha slowly slipped out of her daze and looked sleepily at the chocolate-colored girl across from her. "Have you heard anything I just said?"

"No . . ." Tabbitha said, then came back to reality completely. "No. I'm sorry Kris."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . . didn't get much sleep last night."

"I know how you feel," Kris said. Tabbitha nodded, although she had a feeling that Kris had no idea how she was feeling. "Did you get your report card yet?"

"Uh . . . no," Tabbitha lied. "Not yet."

"Me either . . . I know I didn't do well in English again. That woman hates me I swear . . ." She was off again, but Tabbitha was barely listening. She had been barely listening to everyone who talked to her for the past few weeks now . . . just enough to be able to give basic responses to their questions. Enough to make them think she was all right, even though she wasn't.

A redheaded girl, who was way too good-looking for a high school sophomore, sat down next to Kris. Molly had taken the place of Kris's best friend since Jessie had moved away, although they no where near as close as the original "Inseparable Pair" had been. "Kris, are you griping about English again?"

"I'm failing that class because the teacher hates me Molly, I think I have every right to gripe about it." Molly sighed.

"You always get like this when report cards come out."

"That is because I always, without fail, get an English teacher who hates me."

"What about your other subjects?"

"Probably failed geometry, I'll be fine in history. Biology's so-so. American Lit is the only class I'm really doing well in." She sighed. "Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Wish me luck." She stood and walked stiffly to the office as Molly shook her head.

"She's gonna give herself a heart attack if this keeps up," Molly said. Tabbitha nodded numbly. "I mean, look at my report card." She shoved a little slip of paper in Tabbitha's direction.

AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . B
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . C
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C+
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . B
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . D

"Now that's not exactly a glowing report card, but I'm not worried about it!" Molly was saying. "And Kris's is going to look better than mine."

"Yeah," Tabbitha said, shoving the report card away from her.

"I just don't get that girl . . ."

"Damn that woman!" Tabbitha and Molly turned to the angry voice. Another redhead was storming over to the table. Other people, students and teachers alike, moved quickly out of her way. She sat down and slapped her report card angrily on the table. "One lousy grade! Would it be so hard for her to give me a B?" Tabbitha looked over at Susan's report card.

ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . C
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . A
FRENCH II . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
JOURNALISM . . . . . . . A
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A

"Susan," Molly said. "This is good."

"She gave me a C! A C!" Susan said, snatching back the report card and looking at again, as if expecting it to change. It didn't.

"One C isn't a big deal, especially when it comes from Gollee. Hell, a C is good . . . she must love you."

"She does not love me!" Susan said. "Because I think she is wrong!"

"Is she?"

"Most of the time!"

"Have you talked to her?"

"Yes," Susan said. "She said she gave me the C for ‘being difficult.' What she really means is being right!"

"How is she wrong?"

"Her pronunciation of words, for one thing, and the fact that she can't put a coherent sentance together more complicated than ‘See Spot run.'" Susan said. "Her literary interpretations . . . which I guess technically aren't wrong, but that is not to say that someone else can't have a different idea! And when I tell her in class that I have a different idea, she tells me it's wrong . . . Kris can tell you, she usually backs me up on this! But we're the only ones who speak up, and she's made our labels very clear: Kris is an idiot and I'm a troublemaker, which means that our opinions aren't given much credit, even though there's not a damn thing wrong with them!" She sighed loudly. "And that's not even the really irritating thing!"

"I was wondering," Molly said, "‘cause, you don't seem really irritated yet." Susan ignored her.

"She's not supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I'm ‘difficult.' She's supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I do the work, which I do, pass the tests, which I do, and participate in class, which I most certainly do. No where in her sylibus does it say anything about lowering a grade because a student speaks her mind!" A disgustingly skinny girl with long blonde hair walked over.

"Golee's class, right?" she said sitting down. Susan nodded. "Figured. What happened?"

"Amy, please don't get her started," Molly begged.

"She gave me a damn C," Susan said. "Because she doesn't like what I have to say."

"Susan, the only time she does like what people have to say is when they're saying ‘Yes, of course, you're absolutely right, Mrs. Golee.'"

"I know that!" Susan said.

"I have the same problem. Look at this." She pulled out her report card and showed it to Susan.

ALGEBRA II . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . D
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
GEOGRAPHY . . . . . . . A
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . B
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . A

"Okay, so things could be worse," Susan muttered.

"Things could be a lot worse," Amy said. "Especially judging by the looks of Kris," she added, looking over to where Kris was standing, looking at her report card. She didn't look happy.

Samantha, heavily freckled and the third redhead of the group, came and sat down next to Tabbitha. "Hey." Tabbitha nodded her greeting. "Kris is pretty upset." Tabbitha nodded again.

"How'd you do, Sam?" Susan asked. Sam showed her the report card.

AMERICAN GOVERNMENT . . . . . A
BAND . . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B+
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C-
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . B

"Sam," Susan said. "How'd you get a B in biology?"

"B-plus," Samantha corrected.

"Yeah, but still . . ."

"I forgot a couple assignments. Don't worry about it."

"Sam, you're the best student in that class. Don't you want to check it out? It could be a mistake."

"No, it's fine," Samantha insisted, getting uncomfortable. "It's not worth the trouble. Just drop it." Susan gave her one last look, then shrugged and handed her report card back to her.

Kris sat back down, clearly upset. She set her report card down on the table in front of her.

AMERICAN LITERATURE . . . . . A
ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . F
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B-
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . D-
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A-
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP
WORLD HISTORY . . . . . . B+

"I don't want to ask Chris for help again," Kris was saying, "but I think I'm gonna have to."

"Kris," Amy said, "how is it that you get A's in one English class but not the other?"

"Huh?"

"You've got an A in American Literature, which is a branch of the English curriculum, but not in your general English class."

"Yeah . . . and we're looking at a lot of the same type of literature. The thing is that the lit teacher doesn't use the textbooks, and Golee thinks they're the bible."

"Well, that may be your problem," Amy said, "and it's really no problem at all. This is the first grading period of the year, right? It might take some time for you to get used to the teacher, and for the teacher to get used to you. You've got seven months. Keep doing what you're doing, and see if Golee won't lighten up a bit. Your English grade can only get better from here, right?"

"I suppose."

"And if that doesn't work, nearly everyone at this table can show you how to master the art of BS." Kris smiled, slightly.

"What about geometry?"

"Umm . . . you might want Chris's help on that one." A purple-haired Amy appeared and sat next to her sister. Whatever Amy was, her twin sister Amber was incredibly not.

"Okay, Amy," she said. "What mindless optimism do I have to blot from their memories today?"

"None whatsoever, Amber," Amy said. "But if you want to take a crack at the intelligent, thoughtful optimism I gave them, be my guest. I'll just be back here knocking you in the head with a sledgehammer."

"Tabbitha?" Tabbitha didn't hear. "Tab?" Sam gave her a tap on the shoulder.

"Huh? Oh, sorry Sam."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. A little tired."

"You're not eating," Sam pointed out. Tabbitha looked down, remembering that she did have food in front of her.

"I'm not very hungry."

"You didn't eat yesterday either," Samantha pressed. Tabbitha sighed.

"No, I didn't, Sam." Samantha dropped it, catching the tone in her voice. But Tabbitha knew she hadn't heard the end of this.

"What you have ignored, yet again," Amber was saying, "is that Golee is going to be just as stubborn as them."

"You don't know that for sure," Amy said. "It could be that no one has tried."

"Spoken like a true hopeless optimist."

"Thank you." Another girl, also way too good-looking for her own good, but with brown hair, sat down.

"Hello all!" Mandy said, cheerfully. Tabbitha didn't even have to look at this girl's report card. Mandy took easy classes, and therefore got all A's. She also took classes like sociology and was pathetically good at them. "So, how did everyone do on their report cards?"

"Fine," Kris said curtly.

"Fine? What does that mean?"

"It means, I did fine."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"What Kris is trying to say," Susan said, "is shut up and mind your own business, Mandy."

"I was just . . ."

"Mandy," said a short, blonde girl, sitting down across from her. "Drop it." Mandy dropped it. She might not listen to the others, but she listened to Libby.

Tabbitha didn't have to look at Libby's report card either; it looked a lot like Mandy's, except with harder classes, and possibly a B or two. The difference was that Libby wasn't nearly as condescending as Mandy, and was usually able to talk the girl down from her high horse. Usually.

Samantha's boyfriend, a nice-looking and friendly young man, came over. Matt Morton wasn't a part of the group, but he might as well have been given the time he spent with them. Just about everyone liked him . . . except Susan, but then she was a law unto herself.

"What kept you?" Samantha said.

"I needed to work out a schedule conflict," Matt said.

"And . . ?"

"We'll see, but I should be all right."

"Did you get your report card yet?" Sam asked. Tabbitha sighed. Couldn't they talk about anything but grades?

"Not yet, no," Matt said. "After lunch, when the line dies down."

"Must be great," Susan said, "to be so perfect that you don't even have to worry about grades." Matt sighed.

"Just because I don't give myself an aneurism over one C doesn't mean I think I'm perfect." Susan's face reddened.

"Were you looking at my report card?"

"Yeah, Susan, I used my x-ray vision when I sat down . . . also I heard you down the hall, along with everyone else in this county." Samantha sighed. Arguments like this occurred nearly every day between these two, and Sam had long since learned that the best thing to do was just let them go at it.

"English, right?" Matt said.

"Anything else about my personal life you'd like to know, Matt?" Susan sneered, sarcastically. "My love interests, my secret thoughts?"

"Just the grades for now. We can talk about the rest later."

"Would you like to know why I got the C?"

"I already know why you got the C."

"Heard that down the hall too?"

"Didn't have to."

"Oh you've been sitting in on my English classes now?" Matt rolled his eyes.

"Susan, I had Golee too, remember? I know how she is with her grading."

"And how did you fair?"

"I did fine." Susan sighed.

"Of course you did!" she said. "You were probably one of those grinning yes-men in her class."

"Don't be ridiculous, I disagreed with her every bit as much as you do. But unlike you, I disagreed tactfully."

"Excuse me?" Susan was growing angrier by the minute. And she hadn't been in that great a mood to begin with.

"I know you, Susan," Matt said. "Something gets your dander up, and you get ornery about it. You've gotten so into the habit of disagreeing with Golee, that it's second nature to you now. Even if you agree with her, you'll find some fault in what she's saying, and you'll point it out just to make her look bad."

"That's not true at all!" Susan shouted. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I'm doing wrong! You don't know me that well!"

"I think I know you better than you think."

"Oh yeah?" They had attracted the attention of most of the nearby tables, but none of them seemed to care. One of teachers started to come over . . . then saw who it was and made his way quickly to the other side of the cafeteria.

"I don't have to take this shit from a jackass like you," Susan spat, "who thinks he's so perfect, he has the right to--,"

"Oh for God's sake!" Sam exclaimed. "Can't we have lunch together once without the two of you going at each other?"

"It's a lost cause, Sam," Molly said. "Not worth the trouble."

"Both of you," Samantha said, "just shut up for the next five minutes, all right?" The two gave one final glare at each other, then went back to their lunches. An awkward silence fell over the table.

"So," came a quiet voice next to Tabbitha, "where are we in the saga of Matt vs. Susan?" Tabbitha turned to Peter, the owner of the quiet voice.

"Stalled on account of Sam," Tabbitha said, listlessly. Peter looked at her. He was much older than he looked, and his stare could be disconcerting.

"You okay?" Tabbitha sighed, again.

"Fine."

"You're lying to me."

"Yes, I am. Anything else?"

"All this talk about grades has got you upset, I notice," he said, seemingly offhand.

"Between you and Sam, who needs a mother?" Peter shrugged, and let the matter drop.

"Let's say," Susan said, suddenly, "that you're right."

Sam sighed. "Five minutes, exactly. You will take me literally, won't you?" Susan ignored her.

"What do you recommend I do?"

"Well, I have a suggestion," Matt said. "But I don't think you can do it, and I know you're not going to like it."

"Well, I haven't liked anything you've had to say so far. Might as well keep going." Matt looked up at her.

"Don't be so quick to find fault with everything she says, and don't say that she's wrong. You can disagree with her without making her look stupid. You're complaining about how stubborn she is, but you're just as stubborn. Admit that you might be wrong once and a while. It's not like it's completely out of the realm of possibility." He paused. "Do you think you can do that?"

"Obviously you don't think I can," Susan muttered.

"Prove me wrong then," Matt said. "Bring your grade up next quarter. Prove to me that you can be right and get a B or an A in the class at the same time."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Susan said. Matt sighed.

"Ten bucks," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"We'll make a bet out of it. Ten bucks says you can't put aside your stubbornness and raise your grade in English." Susan stared at him for a moment, but not angrily.

"All right," she said, holding out her hand. "You're on." They shook on it. "Get ready to lose."

"I only hope I do," Matt muttered. Susan didn't hear him.

Tabbitha barely noticed the rest of the lunch period. Suddenly the bell was ringing, and Tabbitha's amount of food was only marginally smaller that it had been before. She moved slowly, not caring whether she got to class on time or not. She didn't notice the worried looks from Samantha and the others as she threw her largely uneaten lunch away, nor did she hear Samantha say, "I'll come see you after school." All that was on her mind were the words on the little piece of paper that sat crumpled in the bottom of her book bag.

ALGEBRA I . . . . . . . . F
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . D
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . F
HEALTH . . . . . . . . C
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . WF
PHYSICAL SCIENCE . . . . . . D-
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP

***
Tabbitha looked at her report card. I didn't look any better than before.

"Tab?" A knock accompanied the voice. "Are you in there?" Tabbitha crumpled up her report card and tossed it onto her desk.

"Come in, Sam," she said. The freckled redhead walked in.

"Hey," Sam said. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Tabbitha lied. Samantha looked at her a moment, then sat down.

"I have an unbelievable desire to knock their heads together," Samantha said.

"What?"

"Susan and Matt. Everyday, it's the same thing; one of them says something and they're off again."

"Oh. Right."

"It never stops. Every time we have lunch, we have to listen to them argue."

"Yeah," Tabbitha said, not really listening.

"There are days when I can't decide which is worse: them not shutting up . . . or you not putting two words together." Tabbitha sighed.

"I've been tired," she said.

"Yes you have," Samantha agreed. "For the past month. Not sleeping?"

"Not very well, no."

"So, something's bothering you?"

"No, nothing is bothering me. I'm fine." Samantha sighed and looked at her.

"You know, it's funny," she said, offhandedly. "We've known each other since we were infants, and you still think you can lie to me."

"Don't worry about it, all right?"

"I haven't been worrying about it for the past month."

"Yes you have," Tabbitha said. "You always do."

"Fine," Samantha said. "I haven't said anything for the past month."

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it that way."

"I'm sure you would, but I'm used to not being appreciated," Samantha said. "What's wrong?" Tabbitha sighed.

"Honest to God, I don't know," she said. "All month, I'm tired and yet I can't sleep. I have no interest in anything and yet I desperately want to be doing something. I'm bored with eating. I mean, how do you get bored with eating?" She shook her head. "I don't seem to care about school, and yet I was upset over my grades today."

"Bad?"

"Well, I have a GPA of two-thirds. You tell me."

"And you don't know why?"

"That's the most frustrating thing . . . I have no idea why I'm feeling this way. I have no reason to feel this way. I just do."

"Could it be . . ." she stopped, as though she didn't want to continue.

"Clinical depression? You can say it." She sighed again. "I thought about that . . . I don't know. I don't think so. That tends to run in families, and there's no record of that in mine." She paused. "It's not simply that I'm depressed. Things make me depressed. Certain . . . certain things make me feel bad. Babies, little girls, windows. There's this kid at school that does it. There's no connection between them, they just . . ." She suddenly lost interest in what she was saying. "Mostly, I just have this immense feeling of . . . hopelessness. Like something terrible's gonna happen, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Maybe you should talk to someone," Sam suggested.

"What do you think I'm doing now?"

"I was thinking along the lines of a doctor."

"I know what you were thinking. I don't want to see a doctor."

"Why not?" Samantha asked. "You'd rather feel depressed?"

"Sam, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of letting people know there's something wrong with me."

"Well Tab, in case you haven't noticed, I don't care." Tabbitha looked at her.

"Well that's nice Samantha, but I think I'll be the one to decide what my friends know about me." To Tabbitha's surprise, Samantha started laughing.

"Tabbitha . . . how stupid do you think your friends are? They've been worried about you too, all month! But they're not letting on, because they figure it's my job to find out what's wrong with you. And for a while, it has been my job, but I'm about ready to delegate someone else for it, because I'm getting tired of pulling teeth trying to get you to open your damn mouth and talk to somebody." She wasn't laughing anymore, nor was she sitting. "You are drowning in yourself and you don't even seem to care!"

"Well, if I don't care, then why are you bothering me with this?"

"Because I care!" Samantha shouted, angrily. "And you can be damn sure I'm not the only one! For God's sake, just talk to someone!" Tabbitha stood up.

"Sam, I gotta tell you, you've gone miles toward cheering me up! Thank you! I'm so happy, I'll just go out and kill myself now!"

"Yeah, you go ahead and do that Tab! Because God forbid that you actually try to figure out what's bothering you!"

"Maybe you haven't been paying attention! I . . . DON'T . . . CARE!!! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" The two girls stared angrily at each other for several minutes, until Samantha broke the silence.

"All right," she said, quietly, but no less angrily. "I'll go, if that's what you want. I'll leave you alone." She started for the door. "But I'll tell you something . . . you've got a lot of friends who aren't going to leave you alone. You want to know what's bothering you as much as anyone and we both know it." She paused. "Do everyone a favor and cut the bullshit, okay?" And with that, she left.

Tabbitha watched the doorway for a few more minutes before getting up and re-closing the door. She hated fighting with Samantha. Usually, Tabbitha was able to cow Samantha with a gaze or a word. But when Samantha set her mind to something, she could be just as intimidating as Tabbitha, if not more so. And Samantha used force in the worst possible way; subtly, gently probing and pushing and hinting and nudging, until something came out. And when that didn't work–as it hadn't this time–she got angry. And though Samantha's anger had a low frequency, she well made up for it with intensity.

And the worst part was, she was right.

Ten minutes later, Tabbitha sat in Jerome's living room. Jerome was a lot like Samantha; soft-spoken, gentle, and smarter than Tabbitha. And he wasn't mad at her. Tabbitha had always been a cynical girl, and she trusted few people. There were four outside her family that she felt like she could talk to in times like this. Samantha was always Tabbitha's first choice, but after their spat, she wanted to give her a day or two to cool off. Jerome was another of the four, even though she hadn't known him that long. It was as though he carried an ambience of comfort around him; anyone could trust Jerome.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"Many, many things," Tabbitha said. "I just had a fight with my best friend, my grades are dropping, I've been contemplating dropping out of school . . . and I'm depressed."

"I've noticed," Jerome said. "You've been out of sorts for a month or so."

"Jerome . . . you have magic with the mind. Can you tell . . . is it a physical problem? Something dealing with clinical depression or bipolar disease, or something that can be diagnosed?"

"Well," Jerome said. "The mind is a mysterious organ. But as near as I can tell, yours is functioning normally. It must just be in your head." Tabbitha sighed. If it had been a medical problem, it would have been easier to fix. A psychiatric problem was a different entirely. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Tabbitha shrugged.

"I don't know that much about it," she said. "It's very strange . . . I just wake up in the morning, and I feel terrible. It's like when you wake up on a Monday, and you know it's going to be a bad day, you know? Except, it's been going on all month."

"And the feeling doesn't go away?"

"Not really . . . it lessens, but it never really passes. And certain things trigger it."

"What sort of things?" Tabbitha sighed.

"Closed doors . . . windows . . . babies . . . there's this kid at my school, a freshman, Tim Way, I think his name is . . . he's this clumsy kid I see around every so often, but I don't really know him . . . but every time I see him, I get depressed. It's as though . . . he reminds me of someone that made me sad once, but I don't know who."

"I see," said Jerome. "You say you start feeling depressed when you wake up? What sort of dreams are you having?"

Tabbitha shrugged again. "Bad ones, I guess. I don't really remember . . ." She thought for a moment. "Wait, I do remember one. I'm in a big house, and I'm looking for someone out a window. And I hear this baby screaming, and I want to go help it, but I'm afraid that if I leave the window, the person I'm waiting for will come, and I'll miss them. Finally . . . I go to help the baby. I follow the sound of the cry, and I go to what I think is his crib . . . and the crying stops. I look into the crib, and there's no baby there." She shook her head. "I don't understand it."

"Neither do I," Jerome replied.

"So . . . what should I do?" she asked. Jerome leaned forward.

"I think you should try to figure out what's bothering you," Jerome said. "And the key seems to lie in these objects that seem to depress you. Your instinct is to avoid these objects, but I want you to do the opposite. Face them. Try to remember or figure out what it is about them that bothers you." Tabbitha nodded.

"That makes sense . . . I guess . . . thanks, Jerome," she said. Jerome . . . why did saying his name bother her so?

***

Tabbitha didn't go home from Jerome's house; she drove away from Samuel Springs, letting the car take over. The car took her to an ice cream shop outside Forrest Falls. Frozen Forrest Falls was a fairly popular place during the summer. Business had dwindled somewhat since the start of the fall. Around Thanksgiving, the place would probably close for the winter. Still, there was a fairly substantial crowd eating ice cream around the building. Tabbitha parked next to a billboard that read "Try our new Pumpkin milkshake!" Tabbitha smiled, and decided to forego the honor.

Tabbitha approached the empty order window. It had been another long day, and what she needed now was a--

"Strawberry milkshake?" The voice was accompanied by a hand holding a Styrofoam cup filled with cold, pink mush. Tabbitha took in the smell of the strawberries before taking a sip.

"Thanks, Susan," she said to the owner of the voice. The redhead behind the counter smiled.

"I saw you coming," Susan said. Susan was the third person Tabbitha could talk to. She, like Samantha, had been a best friend for as long as Tabbitha could remember. But she was as unlike Jerome and Sam as one could hope to get, as her argument with Matt that day had shown. Still, when she wasn't angry, Susan was a very nice, if overly serious, person.

"No charge," Susan said, as Tabbitha reached into her pocket. "This one's on me."

"Thanks," Tabbitha repeated, sipping her shake.

"You wanna talk?" Susan said. Tabbitha sighed, then nodded. Susan turned. "Dani! I'm going on break, would you take over for me?" Tabbitha walked over to a table by the back door. Susan joined her.

"Sam was here earlier," she said. "I think she might have scared away some of the customers." Tabbitha almost smiled.

"She's pretty pissed at me," she said.

"You're not alone," Susan said. "She lit into me about my argument with Matt today. I could tell she was already upset, so I didn't fight back." Tabbitha nodded. "I feel so bad for her. It can't be easy, dating him and being best friends with me at the same time."

"Why do you always fight with him?" Tabbitha asked.

"I don't know," Susan said. "We've never liked each other, ever since we were little kids. Something about a water balloon down the pants . . . anyway, it's been going on for so long, and neither one of us is very good at forgiveness." She smiled. "You know, he's the reason I hate being called Susie? He always called me that, and so I started associating the name with him." She sighed. "But today was my fault, I'll admit. I was upset, and I started the argument. I still think he's wrong, mind you . . . but I started the argument."

"Well, we both managed to piss off Sam today," Tabbitha said.

"How'd you piss her off?"

Tabbitha sighed. "You know I haven't been myself this past month."

"Yeah, I noticed," Susan said.

"Sam finally confronted me . . . we got into a fight." Susan nodded.

"Yeah . . . I thought it might be something like that. What's bothering you?"

Tabbitha took in another mouthful of shake and told her everything she had just told Jerome. Susan listened, without interrupting, until she finished.

"Jerome thinks I should try to confront what's making me depressed," Tabbitha said.

"That makes sense," Susan said, nodding. "That's what I would do. Were you just looking for a second opinion?"

"Mostly, I'm just looking for someone to talk to," Tabbitha said. "My own age, I mean. You and Sam are the only ones I trust." She sighed. "It's so weird, though, that only certain things trigger this feeling."

"Usually when that happens," Susan said, "those objects would be reminding you of something bad that happened to you."

"Except I can't remember anything happening to me involving windows or babies." She paused. "Maybe . . ."

"What?" Tabbitha shook her head. "Tab?"

"You won't buy it," she said.

"How do you know?"

"You're a card-carrying skeptic," Tabbitha said.

"Well, luckily for you, I left my card at home. Go ahead and try me," Susan said.

"Well . . . how much stock do you put in divination?" Susan smiled.

"You think it might be some sort of warning?"

"Jerome says it's possible," Tabbitha said. "He says there are people who exist that can tell the future."

"You think you might be one of them?"

"I can't think of any other explanation, except the possibility that I'm going crazy." Susan sighed, and thought for a moment as Tabbitha finished her shake.

"If I weren't a skeptic, as you say," she said, "I would probably agree with you. However, as I am a skeptic, I think that the explanation is this; there is something, subconsciously, that's bothering you, which is registering in your dreams, and your dreams are, in turn, causing you to react the way you do to everyday objects. My recommendation, in either case, is the same as Jerome's; try to figure out what it is that's bothering you. But I would add something else; don't try so hard at it." Tabbitha looked at her, questioningly. "I know you, Tab. You want to figure this out, and you're going to be bouncing somewhere between depressed, lethargic Tabbitha and gung-ho, ‘let's figure this out, and do it fast' Tabbitha. So, find a happy medium, and relax. Go through your normal routine, as if you aren't looking for something. And eventually, it'll come to you." Tabbitha smiled.

"Thank you, doctor," she said. Susan smiled.

"I better get back to work. Good luck." She gave her a final pat on the shoulder before returning to her job. Tabbitha sat for a while, thinking about what she said, trying to get the last bits of milkshake out of her cup. Finally, she threw the empty cup away, and walked back to her car.

***

Tabbitha never actually made it to her car. Halfway back, she decided she'd rather go for a walk than drive home. Her feet carried her inside the city limits of Forrest Falls. Forrest Falls was not that much bigger than Samuel Springs, either in area or population. In fact, Forrest Falls was almost a mirror image of the town Tabbitha had grown up in. The one immediately noticeable exception was the central intersection. Forrest Falls had a simple four-road intersection, whereas the designer of Samuel Springs had elected to be difficult. The intersection in Samuel Springs had been replaced with a circular road, surrounding a grassy hill. For drivers, this meant that if one wanted to go straight through Samuel Springs, they'd have to stop, make a left or right turn, go halfway around the circle, and make another turn on the road continuing on the other side. In other words, driver hell, as Tabbitha had recently discovered.

Her course took her past her old elementary school, an old brick building that had been among the first built in the town, the pub, which was run by Dani Elder's mother and served quite good food, and Tricia McCarry's general store, which Tabbitha tried to avoid, as Tricia McCarry was a particularly grouchy lady who hated children. Tabbitha crossed the other main road through the town, then turned and crossed to the other side of the street she was traveling on, not entirely sure where she was going. It wasn't until she turned into an old brick road that she realized, and started consciously heading to Alan Wyse's house.

Mr. Wyse was an old friend of the family, and was the oldest of the four people Tabbitha could talk to, unless she counted all of Jerome's five hundred years locked in his house. He had taught English at the middle and high schools up until his retirement a few years ago. He had always been something of a mentor to Tabbitha. Tabbitha had received advice from two age groups now, and although Alan had not seen as many years as Jerome, he had lived more of a normal life than the magician had.
Tabbitha approached his house. It was one of the smaller, historical buildings of the town. The beige siding was in need of a new coat of paint and the roof was missing some shingles. Mr. Wyse had lived alone for some time and, although he was remarkably fit for his seventy-odd years, there were some things he was simply no longer able to do.

Mr. Wyse, white-haired and slightly stooped, answered Tabbitha's knock. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. Without a word, he left the house. The two of them walked down the brick street together as Tabbitha told the older man about her depression. Mr. Wyse remained quiet as she spoke, and for quite a bit after she finished and asked, "So, what do you think is wrong with me?"

"What do you think is wrong you?" he asked finally, speaking for the first time. Tabbitha shrugged.

"Sam says I bottle things up too much, which I'm trying to fix right now. Jerome and Susan seem to think that if I confront what's bothering me, I'll figure out what's wrong."

"That's what other people think," Mr. Wyse pointed out. "What do you think is wrong?"

Tabbitha sighed. Mr. Wyse had an annoying habit of making Tabbitha think. "I don't know," she said. "I agree with all of them, somewhat. But I've been trying to figure this thing out all afternoon, and I'm no closer to a solution now than I was when I started." She shook her head. "It's just too unusual to be a passing feeling."

"I agree," Mr. Wyse said.

"But I don't think it's a physical problem either. I think there's really something bothering me."

"Yes, I agree with that, too." They walked in silence for a moment or two. Streetlights were beginning to come on. Every so often, Tabbitha could see, through the window, a small child being dressed in some sort of costume by a parent.

"Trick or treat night," Mr. Wyse said. Tabbitha smiled. She had some very fond memories of trick or treat night . . . and some not so fond ones as well. "You going out?" Mr. Wyse asked. Tabbitha laughed.

"No, the last time I went out on trick or treat night, I ended up lost in the woods during a storm. Anyway, I don't have a costume."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"You going out?"

"Not this year. Someone has to stay behind and provide sugar for the small children. And I don't have a costume either."

"This used to be my favorite time of year," Tabbitha said. "I loved being scared to death. I loved the concept of . . . vampires, and werewolves, and experiments gone horribly wrong." She smiled. "The last ghost story I told . . . y'know, there are days when I wish something like that would happen to me. I wish I could trapped in a haunted house, with no exit and no end in sight. I'd love to wander through labyrinthine passages with no clear idea where I'm going and no idea what sort of monster I'll run into next." She sighed. "I'd love for something that simple to frighten me. The things that frighten me now . . . they just aren't any fun."

"I know. I went through something similar. It's called maturity." Tabbitha smiled.

"I never thought I'd grow up. For the past few months . . . I think what I've been afraid of is . . . losing something. Or never finding something. One of them. At the same time when I feel like nothing exciting will ever happen to me . . . I feel like something big is about to happen . . . something life-changing . . . and whatever it is, it's going to be a lot harder to deal with than report cards." They stopped walking.

"Would you like to know what I think your problem is?" he said. "You're a thirty-year-old woman in a sixteen-year-old body. You've outgrown your surroundings. You're waiting for something to happen, because something should be happening. Be patient . . . I know that's hard for you, but try. You'll have to live with this life a little longer. But if you believe that something big is about to happen . . . then by all means, let it happen." Tabbitha smiled. As she did, the sky darkened. They both looked up in alarm. "Odd. It was clear a moment ago."

"So much for trick or treating," Tabbitha said. There was a threatening rumble. "Maybe that big thing is about to happen after all."

"I wasn't thinking of a thunderstorm when I said that," Mr. Wyse said. "You'd better get yourself home before it hits. Unless you'd like to stay at the house until it passes over."

"No, I'll be fine. It'll be good driving experience. Anyway, thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime," Mr. Wyse said. "I'm retired; I've got nothing better to do, right?"

Tabbitha sighed, for once not sadly. "Alan, if you were fifty years younger . . ."

"If I were fifty years younger, I'd be the most miserable man alive," the old man said. "Ten years younger, maybe . . ." The clouds rumbled again. "Better get going."

"Good idea," Tabbitha said. "See you later."

"Bye now." The old man turned and hurried back to his house, looking up at the still-darkening sky. The wind was picking up, and Tabbitha could feel the air thickening. She continued down the road. The road ran into the street which would eventually lead Tabbitha to Frozen, and her car. Whether she would still be dry by then remained to be seen.

It was not to be. She hadn't even reached the end of the brick road when the deluge hit. Tabbitha was soaked within two seconds; it was like the time Libby had dumped an entire cooler of ice water on her head, except without the ice. The fall of water became so heavy that Tabbitha could no longer see where she was going. Her eyes were forced down to her feet, where she could see the water collecting in the little dips within the bricks.

Lightning crackled overhead, and Tabbitha broke into a run as the air vibrated with thunder. She ran out into the road, checking briefly for headlights, no longer caring which direction she went, as long as she got out of the rain. She found a small side street and entered it. The rain was so heavy, she didn't even see that the street sign said Florence Court.

Tabbitha ran. She ran past other houses without even realizing they were there. Something seemed to be drawing her to one house in particular, at the end of the street. The asphult turned into unkempt grass. Tabbitha tripped over a bit of long since trampled barbed wire as lightning struck a nearby tree. She got to her feet, put her hands over ears, and kept running. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth, so that she had to breathe through her teeth to strain it out. She stumbled onto an unstable stairway, leading onto an even less stable porch. The roof over the porch offered no protection from the rain, so Tabbitha ran for the door, not seeing the number 24 nailed on the wall next to it. Without even bothering to knock, Tabbitha threw open the mercifully unlocked door and slid her way inside. The door shut behind her.

Tabbitha collapsed to her knees and didn't move. She struggled to catch her breath as water dripped from every part of her. She blinked several times to clear the rainwater out of her eyes, and tried in vain to wipe off her face with her equally wet jacket sleeve. As her body calmed, she stood slowly, and took in her surroundings. It was dimly lit, but clearly not abandoned. She was standing in a large room, probably a living room. The furniture was sparse: a sofa, a chair, a table. There was a staircase to the right leading upstairs to a balcony that overlooked the room, and another door straight ahead that lead to what was probably a kitchen. Tabbitha would have to find the owner and apologize for the intrusion. She wasn't too worried. Residents of Forrest Falls were mostly friendly, and she knew a lot of them personally. She took a breath to call out for someone.

Then, a thought made her stop. There was something oddly familiar about this house and this room. And whatever it was, it gave her the chills. She took another look around the room. Just above the door, the upstairs balcony continued. There was a semi-circular window looking out to the street. There was something unsettling about that window . . . and the door. In fact, there was something unsettling about his whole house.

Forgetting the owner, Tabbitha made for the door. The storm was letting up a bit; she could brave a little more water to get to her car. She turned the knob and pulled. The door refused to budge. She turned the knob and pushed, with no better result. Was it the humidity? Or maybe the wind. These old doors could stick with the slightest change in the weather. Still, it didn't seem like that was what was keeping the door shut. It felt like something else, some other force. It was almost like . . . magic . . .

Tabbitha let go of the door as if it had shocked her and took a step back. It couldn't be . . . and yet as she heard the kitchen door opening behind her, she knew exactly who was coming through it: a tall man with straight dark hair.

"Good evening," said Phillip Drollinger, the butler. "Welcome to the Carpenter house. Mr. Carpenter will see you now."
***
"What's next?"