The Wikkeling (24 page)

Tom returned late from work. He entered the kitchen holding his cell phone in front of his face, reading something on the small screen. He pocketed the phone and gave Aline an exhausted look. “How was your day?” he asked.

“My mother passed,” said Aline.

Tom stopped short, caught off guard. Then he put his arms around Aline, who held him tightly.

“I knew she didn't have long, but . . . I never called. She raised me here, in this house.” Aline pulled away from Tom and looked disconsolately around.

“Did you tell Henrietta?” said Tom.

“Not yet. She's studying with her friends.” At that moment, Aline realized that Henrietta's room had been uncommonly quiet for a very long time. Without another word, she walked to Henrietta's closed door and entered.

Henrietta, Gary, and Rose were not there. Aline yelled, and Tom raced in from the living room. He was already on his cell, and Aline activated hers also.
She accessed FindEm™, a tracking program parents used to locate kids.

HELLO! LET US HELP YOU FINDEM™!

Aline scrolled down the Find menu, which contained herself, her mother, Tom, and Henrietta. She selected Henrietta and clicked F
IND
E
M
™.

FINDING . . .

Tom was similarly occupied. Aline sat on the edge of Henrietta's bed, holding the phone tightly in both hands. After a few moments, the word “Finding” was replaced on both their phones with

SORRY. CONTACT THE POLICE? Y/N

Aline selected
γ
and held the phone to her ear.

“Seaside Precinct. Missing persons,” said a disinterested woman's voice on Aline's phone.

“Henrietta Gad-Fly,” said Aline.

“Scanning for the phone,” said the officer. “I don't see it active.”

“What does that mean?” said Aline. “Is the battery down?”

“The phone was destroyed. When did you last see your daughter?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“Where?”

“In her bedroom, with her friends,” said Aline.

“Have you searched the house to ensure she and her friends aren't hiding?”

“Well, no, but if her phone is destroyed—” She looked around as she said it.
Tom knelt and peered under Henrietta's bed.

“Sometimes children destroy phones and hide because they're angry at their parents,” said the officer. “Maybe she's angry at you.”

“I . . . don't think so,” said Aline.

“I suggest you search the house. All I can do here is scan her cell records to see if a malfunction message was logged. What are her friends' names?”

“Gary Span, and Rose Soldottir,” said Aline.

“We'll check their phones as well.”

“Thank you,” said Aline. She hung up.

“Why is Henrietta's chair sitting on her desk?” said Tom. There was no immediate answer to this question, and the two of them split up and searched the house. Aline opened the kitchen cupboards and moved couches away from the walls. She felt a terrible, constricting ache in her heart.

Tom went through the master bedroom and the bathroom, and everywhere else he could think of, and eventually collapsed on the living room couch. Aline sat next to him, and her phone rang. The officer informed her that Henrietta had been classified as a Person of Unknown Whereabouts, as were Gary and Rose, whose parents were also being contacted.

Tom and Aline were directed to search the house again. Had they looked in the freezer? The toilet tank? The oven?

Tom, fed up, seized the phone. “She's obviously been kidnapped!” he shouted.

T
he garbage truck turned off the ten-lane arterial into a residential neighborhood.

Gary stood tall, the wind whipping his hair, a wide smile on his face. Henrietta, nauseated from the stench of the garbage, focused on scanning the buildings around her for anything familiar, and soon spotted the sign for Sunset Estates.

The truck pulled into the Estates, passed a long stretch of identical homes, and paused at a row of dumpsters.

“
Now!
” said Rose.

They extricated themselves from the trash, jumped from the stinking truck onto the asphalt drive, and beelined for the shadows at the side of the nearest town home, even as one of the garbage collectors hopped from the truck's cab.

“I wish my mom drove a garbage truck instead of a car,” Gary whispered, panting a little from the sprint. “So,” he said, taking in the line of identical houses. “How do we figure out which is your grandpa's?”

“His address,” said Henrietta. “Zero five, zero seven, six three two.”

The sidewalks running through Sunset Estates' honeycomb of streets were silent. All of the old people were inside, probably sleeping, and no one but the
garbage collector was driving through. The sound of the truck's grumbling engine diminished behind them as they walked.

They figured out the pattern of addresses and headed toward Al's.

“I hope he's home,” said Rose.

“I hope he's awake,” said Gary.

All of the town homes followed the same architectural pattern: Garage, porch, front door. Garage, porch, front door.

“Just a few more,” said Henrietta.

“WHERE DO YOU GO?”
said a voice. The children all turned, eyes wide, to find the Wikkeling out in the street, pacing them. Its haunting, flickering face gaped. A sound of static pulsed from its open mouth.

“
Run
,” said Henrietta.

The Wikkeling blipped along, appearing and disappearing, easily in step with them as they fled. Henrietta glanced at the address they were rushing past: Al's was next.

Garage.

Porch.

Front door. The Wikkeling closed in perilously as Henrietta pressed the doorbell, which began its cheery rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

“Grandpa!” Henrietta shouted.

This time, the Wikkeling went for Rose.

Its long finger stretched out and tapped her, but instead of disappearing as usual, the Wikkeling's finger stuck to Rose's head, as if it were glued there.

Rose collapsed as the front door opened to reveal Al, an old book in one
hand and a questioning look on his face as he took in the scene.

“Henrietta?” he said. “What—”

“Let us in!” said Henrietta.

“Who—” said Al.

Henrietta grabbed Rose's arm to support her. “Hurry!” she said. Gary grabbed Rose's other arm.

Al stepped aside to make way, and Henrietta and Gary stumbled in with Rose in tow. The Wikkeling, still attached to Rose by its index finger, dragged with Rose across the threshold.

The door swung closed behind them. Rose and the Wikkeling lay in a heap on the floor.

“Stop it!” Henrietta shouted.

“The
Wikkeling
?” said Al, his brow furrowing.

“You can see it?” said Gary.

“Release her!” said Al, whacking at it with the old book he held. Surprisingly, the Wikkeling recoiled as it was struck, and it swatted at the book, knocking it out of Al's hand and ripping a few pages from the binding.

“Books!” said Henrietta, grabbing Al's arm.

“What?” said Al.

“Books! Old books!” She turned to Gary. “Gary—it's not just that the houses are old. Rose's house is a library, and so is the attic! It's the books, too!”

“You're right,” said Gary.

Henrietta turned to Al. “We're taking Rose into your basement.”

Al asked no further questions, but knelt painfully on his old knees and
picked up Rose. The Wikkeling stood, its finger still stuck to Rose's forehead, and walked along beside.

“Don't let it touch you,” said Henrietta. She ran ahead and opened the basement door, ushering Gary in first. “Get the light,” she said. Gary flipped the switch, and the fluorescent lights flickered on.

Henrietta descended ahead of Al, Rose, and the Wikkeling.

As Al went, the Wikkeling didn't follow—it rooted itself to the spot on the top step and its arm began to stretch, unwinding from its body like a garden hose.

Once Al and Rose reached the bottom, the Wikkeling's finger disengaged with a
pop
and its arm recoiled up the stairs. It moaned out a sound like twisting metal, and flickered out for a moment. When it reappeared a second later, it was sitting on the top step, holding its hands to its head.

Al laid Rose on the basement couch, and the three gathered around her.

“Is she breathing?” said Henrietta as Gary knelt and listened.

“Yes,” he said.

Henrietta glanced up the stairwell at the Wikkeling. “Look at it,” she said. It sat there, head in its hands, as if in pain.

“Tell me what's going on,” said Al.

“We need to see your
Bestiary
,” said Henrietta.

Al ducked into one of the rows of bookshelves and brought out the copy he'd shown Henrietta on her previous visit.

“Is there an entry on the Wikkeling?” said Henrietta. “You knew its name when you saw it.”

“When I was young,” said Al, “I used to see it. Everybody did.”

“Just . . . walking around?”

“There was a story that it was supposed to protect people. But it disappeared as time went on. I'd started to think it was a dream.”

“We're trapped again,” said Gary, looking up the stairs where the Wikkeling was still seated miserably on the top step, between them and the exit.

“It has never protected us from anything,” said Henrietta.

Al flipped to the index of the
Bestiary
.

“Here it is,” he said. “Under
Nonliving Creatures
.”

Wikkeling, The:


It is argued in recent years whether the Wikkeling exists or is simply a story, though this author is compelled to assert his conviction that this unique creature is real, and was once seen by many. As time has gone on, and sightings have diminished, its existence has become increasingly mythologized.


The Wikkeling was engineered by two scientists named Henrift and Andi in the early days of civilization to destroy the Draageling (page 345) and to generally harness the power of nature toward human industry. It served faithfully in the outset, but grew maleficent, even killing its creators. The Wikkeling became increasingly reclusive as years wore on, shrinking from sight until finally absenting itself altogether from human contact. Its whereabouts are no longer known. Of those who believe in its existence, some maintain that it moved away, some that it died, and some that it remains invisibly among humans.


It is said to be violently repelled by highly time-resistant objects such as old books, old trees, and wild housecats (whose shrinking population is sometimes attributed to the Wikkeling).


—
Observed by H.G-F. Recorded by A.A.


Henrietta was thinking hard. “Al,” she said, “remember the cat I told you about?”

“Yes.”

“She got better, and finally left. I wonder—if the Wikkeling doesn't like wild housecats, is there any way. . . .”

“Right,” said Al, and he turned and disappeared again into one of the long rows of bookshelves.

“Al,” Henrietta called after him, “is time ever weird down here?”

“Time?” said Al, rummaging through the stacks.

“Does it seem not to pass down here?”

“Sometimes,” Al's voice came, “I'm down here for what seems like hours with these old books, and I'll get hungry for dinner, and head upstairs, and find that your grandmother—”

His voice cut off suddenly. Henrietta ran back to see what was the matter. She found him stooped over, having just removed a book from a low shelf. He was holding one hand to his forehead, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Henrietta's heart skipped a beat. Al turned and Henrietta saw tears on his cheeks. “I'm sorry, Henrietta. I'm grieving.”

“Grieving?” said Henrietta.

Al paused. “Did your parents not tell you?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “Your grandmother—my Henrie—passed away.”

“Oh,” said Henrietta. She felt a lump in her throat.

“Henrietta . . .” Gary's voice from the main room sounded urgent. “Henrietta!” he shrieked. Then, there was a soft thud.

Henrietta and Al both raced out to see that the Wikkeling had somehow managed to reach the bottom of the staircase. Its arm had snapped out again, and its finger was now locked to Gary's forehead. Gary lay unconscious on the floor, his face pale.