The Storybook of Strange: Chapter 1

jinx. can't say your name
until forever runs out.
don't run across the street.
you'll get hit by a bus.
or blow a tire. on the final leg of that journey.
and miss the girl.
and kiss her dad.
just your luck. on a friday.
emily strange. come out to play.
with your merry cats o' plenty.
and give the devious smile that so become you.
we'll make mischief.
everywhere.
later when it's dark. we'll paint the sky red.
and then it will rain unluck.
for today is friday the 13th you know.
you'd better watch yourself...

The Beginning of an End

         They were moving again.

         Grandma had that look in her eyes, and it only occurred when they were going to move. Some could speculate that it was because the tourist season was over, and the icy fingers of fall were slowly spreading into the sleeping hollow of Stilltown, but probably not. Emily knew that Mrs. Debblebaum had been spreading rumors, claiming Grandma was actually a witch. Grandma hated Mrs. Debblebaum, but she hated witches more. And so a look overcame her, and shone out through her blue eyes, as if they were the sea itself, a grey-blue, then bright blue, then turquoise, but never the same color; it was as if someone had turned a light bulb on inside of her head, and it only happened just before they moved.

         Emily began packing as soon as she saw it, and sure enough, Grandma announced the move that very night. Moira, Emily’s sister, had sat with a blank expression at the news, her arms closely clutching Digory, her dead dog. Emily was used to the change of residence, as they did so every few months, as long as there were people to buy trinkets and jewelry that Grandma created. Once sales went down, Grandma would become restless, and suddenly, they would hop into the old ’58 Chevy Apache truck with what little they had, and drive until the wind told Grandma where to stop.

         The towns they stopped in always needed help, Grandma had told them.

         In Stilltown, it had been Mr. Frickles, the ice cream shop owner. He was a timid, sad little man, but when Grandma had given him a trinket to give to his sweetheart, he changed. He’d broken up with his sweetheart in a fight that had been detailed in the town newspaper, and moved to Las Vegas. No one knew why, but Grandma had said that he was happy.

         Grandma was always helping other people. Once, in a little town called Milton, a woman had been happy all the time, but Grandma knew that she was truly unhappy, that she wore masks all the time. As soon as the woman bought a necklace from Grandma, she had gone and killed herself in such a violent manner that her daughter had cried for a whole month without stopping. No one knew why, but Grandma said that she was happier in death.

         And so, just like all the other times, Grandma and her two granddaughters, Emily and Moira, threw their tiny suitcases into the back of the truck, got in, and drove away down the dusty, bumpy road of Stilltown. Days went by. Then a week. Then a whole ten days. They drove all the way from the west coast to the east coast, but still no wind, so Grandma drove on.

         Finally, after two weeks, the wind blew up and whispered to Grandma that it was time. They stopped in front of a house at the corner of Fiddler and Knight Street; it was leaning to the far left so much so that if you tilted your head sideways, it looked like an ordinary house. The windows and doors were all boarded up, but Grandma stated that it was perfect.

         Emily wasn’t so sure, but Grandma had never been one to question, because she was always right, and Moira didn’t say anything at all.

         In a few short hours the boards had been removed and Emily had to admit, it did look rather cozy. Dead ivy hung all about the walls and around the porch with the sagging roof that contained a few gaping holes. The grass was a deathly pale yellow, with only a few weeds poking up from the ground, starved for water; the white picket fence was missing a few boards, and its tiny, stubborn door wouldn’t close, instead choosing to swing to and fro like a wayward child. A few of the windows were broken, and the once white paint on the clapboard siding had chipped and peeled, dirtying until it looked more grey than white. They had lived in better, and worse.

         As they stepped into the house through the creaking and aged door, the musty smell of decay and dust met them. Grandma looked about and nodded her approval.

         “Emily, Moira, get the bags, please.” she commanded gently, for she was not a harsh woman. All the time that Emily had known the woman, she had never yelled at them. Emily guessed it was because she didn’t have to, for neither Emily nor Moira had ever created any kind of trouble.

         The girls did as they were told and the two of them stepped out into the bright sunlight of the afternoon, both of them blinking rapidly against the light entering their pupils. Out of the two sisters, Emily was the eldest at the age of thirteen, and Moira was nine. Digory, had he been alive, would have been eighty-nine in dog years, but he had died at the age of forty-nine, and since then, Moira had taken to dragging the tiny black corpse around on a leather leash.

         Moira was a quiet girl, with curly blond hair, streaked black by the sun; it always hung in her pale face, covering her large doe eyes. No one could see what emotions crossed her face because of her hair. Once, when Digory had first passed away, they had tried to take the dog away to bury it, but she had suddenly jumped up, barred her teeth angrily and hissed, like a black cat on a Friday. Grandma had tried all sorts of things to remedy the situation, but Moira always knew, and she would never let Digory out of her sight for even a moment. It smelled something awful, and the neighbors would always look at the girl strangely for dragging a decaying dog around, but Emily and Grandma had learned to live with it for the time being.

         Emily was quiet only when she was curiously observing something, but much more talkative than her younger sister. She spoke for the both of them, as if she had some kind of silent connection with the girl. Coal black hair hung long like her sister’s, but stick straight, and with blunted bangs that ended just above her eyes. She possessed a small pointed nose, one that made her look like a pixie, at least, that was what a shadow had told her. She was a skinny girl with skin of porcelain and eyes so dark they looked black as night. Grandma had said it meant she was evil and mischievous, and sometimes she was, but she’d never gotten caught, so her adventures were left to a mystery. Her nose could be found at times within the pages of a book, but she’d never gone to school. Grandma hated teachers, and wouldn’t dare set her foot in the building of a school, much less enroll her granddaughter in one. Besides, they moved too irregularly to adhere to one particular school. Emily had learned to read on her own, with her Grandma’s help, of course, and knew all that needed to be known through books.

         The girls walked in unison on the cracked pavement, looking like ghosts in their traveling garb of black that Grandma had craftily sewed for them. Unbeknownst to the pair, they were being watched by carefully hidden observers, curious at the sight of a truck in front of the old Snively Place. They watched as the girls took three red suitcases out of the back; one was small, one was a medium size, and the other, rather large. That was all.

         Emily could feel someone – more than someone – staring, and glanced around, her piercing dark eyes searching for whoever could be watching them. No one seemed visible. She made a mental note to search later, when she could see better.

         “Odd.” she muttered to herself as they stepped back into the dimness of their new house.

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