Nightmare Hour (3 page)

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY BERNIE WRIGHTSON

S
ome stories are written out of love. Some come from a darker place. I wrote this story on a dare.

Another writer--I can't tell you his name--dared me to write a story that took place in another time, another world. A world that had nothing to do with my life or my memories. I picked a world of sorcerers and evil magic. I've always wanted to write about a time in which all kinds of magic, good and bad, can actually happen. A world in which no one is ever safe.

But I almost lost the bet. I couldn't think of an ending for the story. I stared at my keyboard, stumped. Then, suddenly, my fingers started to move over the keys. The words and sentences came as if out of nowhere. I knew what was happening. The sorcerer had taken control. He was finishing the story for me.

Do you believe in magical powers? You might after you read this….

M
argolin
pulled back his hand and slapped Ned across the face. The smack echoed off the stone walls of the dining chamber.

Startled, the boy staggered back. His thin, pale face, white as the flour he had used to bake Margolin's breakfast cakes, bloomed red where the sorcerer had slapped him.

“Why, pray, did you do that, sir?” Ned asked, rubbing his stinging skin.

“To wake you up,” Margolin said sharply. “You had that dreamy look about you again. I cannot tolerate that look in the morning.”

Margolin rubbed his pointed black beard as he lowered himself behind the long oak dining table. The stack of breakfast cakes steamed fragrantly on their silver platter.

Margolin grumbled something, then glared at Ned. “Idiot, you know I require bacon with my cakes.” His sneer revealed two rows of yellow teeth beneath the black mustache.

“Yes, sir! The bacon is ready, sir,” Ned replied, still trying to rub the sting from his cheek.

“Then fetch it, fool!” Margolin bellowed. “Fetch it right now!”

Ned spun away with a gasp. He hurried to the fiery hearth, speared the bacon with a knife, and carried it to the table on another silver platter.

The sorcerer sniffed deeply, inhaling the delicious aroma. He grunted his approval and piled several bacon slices onto his plate of cakes.

Ned edged back to the wall and stood watching alertly as the sorcerer noisily--and sloppily--downed his breakfast.
Ned had to remain stiffly at attention, in case the sorcerer wanted more breakfast cakes or suddenly changed his mind and wanted eggs instead. Ned was there to serve Margolin's every demand.

For that is the job of an apprentice.

Lucky Ned.

At least that's what his father had said two years ago, when he'd left Ned at the sorcerer's dark castle on Ned's tenth birthday. “You are lucky that such a powerful man of magic has agreed to let you serve him, lad. If you stayed with your mother and me, you would surely starve.”

Ned didn't want to leave home, a tiny thatched hut on the edge of the forest. He cried when he had to say good-bye to his five brothers and sisters.

But his father's word was law.

“Margolin will show you what life is about,” his father said as they stepped into the dark shadow of the sorcerer's castle.

Ned had a lively, mischievous spirit. He liked to play tricks on the village kids and take away the apples and sweet figs their parents had given them. His favorite sport was stealing chickens from the neighbors' henhouses.

“You need taming, boy. Margolin will teach you responsibility,” Ned's father said. He patted Ned's head, turned, and walked away from the castle. He didn't look back.

Margolin was cruel to Ned from the start. He fed Ned leftovers, dressed him in rags, and made the thin boy do the work of six men. He slapped Ned daily, for no reason, and ordered him about like a dog.

If only once in a while he would allow me time to play, Ned thought bitterly. Time to go outside and enjoy the sunlight and the sweet forest air.

But Margolin never left the castle. And he forced Ned to remain inside its dark stone walls along with him.

The sorcerer spent all his time in the vast magic chamber, mixing powders and liquids, inventing new spells and curses. Usually he tried them out on Ned. Sometimes he cast his spells on the unsuspecting people in the village.

The farmers were powerless when their pigs turned blue and died. The villagers were horrified when their tongues swelled up like sausage meats. Or when their children couldn't stop dancing.

Ned had no choice but to help with these cruel spells. He ground the bird wings and squirrel bones to powder. He mixed the animal blood, the dog intestines, the cat eyeballs, and then cleaned the putrid jars and beakers when they were emptied.

And if he didn't work fast enough, he received a stinging slap from Margolin that swelled his cheek and made him reel with dizziness.

“
Mmmp mmmmph
.” The sorcerer suddenly stopped chewing his breakfast. His dark eyes bulged. A slice of bacon wriggled out between his lips.

Ned stared openmouthed as the bacon dropped from Margolin's lips and wriggled on the tabletop. Then all the bacon on the silver platter began to wriggle and curl.

“
Ssssnakes!
” Margolin hissed. He jumped to his feet, spitting furiously. Another brown snake slid out of his mouth. It
hit the floor and slithered under the table.

Snakes slithered over the breakfast cakes, spilled off the plate, and slid onto the table.

“What has happened here? Someone has turned the bacon into snakes!” Margolin bellowed furiously, glaring at Ned. He wrapped his fingers around a fat, brown snake and heaved it across the room at him.

Ned ducked. The snake went
splat
against the stone wall behind him.

“Please, sir. Please--” Ned pleaded, falling to his knees, raising his clasped hands. “Please--the bacon was fine when I cooked it!”

Margolin kicked a snake away with the toe of his boot. “I know who did this!” he bellowed, sweeping more snakes off the table. He pounded his fists together. “It was Shamandra.”

“Shamandra?” Ned cried, still on his knees. “Who is Shamandra?”

Margolin's eyes flashed with dark anger. “Shamandra is a puny, pitiful sorcerer. Snakes are his specialty,” he said through gritted teeth. “It is Shamandra's warning to me.”

“W-warning?” Ned stammered.

“Warning that he is coming here,” Margolin raged. “That he is coming here to destroy me and take my castle as his own.”

Ned trembled in fear. “Then what…what will happen to me?” he whispered.

Margolin stared at him. “Who cares about
you?
” he said. He strode from the dining hall, his shiny black boots thudding hard on the floorboards. “Come, boy. We will prepare
something special for Shamandra. He will not find it so easy to battle Margolin. Shamandra will fail miserably. After all, that is the first part of his name. Sham. And a sham is a
fake!
”

Ned cast one last glance at the snakes crawling across the floor. Then he scrambled to his feet and followed Margolin into the sorcerer's magic chamber.

“Shamandra would not be able to cast such a spell unless he was close by. He is only a day or two away,” Margolin said. “I know him. Once he has made his challenge, he will not waste any time.”

He stepped to the wall of supplies and began pulling jars and flasks and tiny cloth bags from the shelves. “I know the spells I will use to defeat him.”

“Will you cast a vanishing spell?” Ned asked.

Margolin snorted. “No, fool. That is too painless. And too quick. He must suffer first. I'll show you what I'm going to do.”

Ned backed away in fear. “
Show
me?”

“First I will embarrass and humiliate him,” Margolin declared. He threw a handful of black powder over the shoulder of his robe, chanted mysterious words in a low whisper, and pointed a crooked finger at Ned.

“
Ulllp
.” Ned choked and grabbed his throat. “Can't…breathe…” he gasped.

He felt something large and heavy clogging his throat.

Desperately, he struggled to suck in air. To cough the thing up.

Straining his whole body, he coughed hard. Coughed again.

He felt something furry slide up his throat. Into his mouth.

Ned gagged. Gagged until his stomach heaved. Gagged and spit.

“Ohhhh.” A fat, black rat slid out of his mouth, its patchy fur glistening. Eyes blazing red, the rat hissed at Ned as it scurried across the stone floor.

“Please--” Ned begged.

But Margolin just smiled. And…

Ned's throat clogged again.

His neck bulged.

He gagged and coughed. Bent double.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe…

Another rat, this one the size of a small dog, dropped wetly from his mouth.

Weak and quivering, Ned dropped to his knees again. “Please, sir. Please…” He spit several times and pulled bristly rat hairs from his teeth. “I beg you--why are you doing this to me?”

But Margolin wasn't paying any attention to Ned. Now he was madly stirring liquids in a glass beaker. “First I treat Shamandra to a few fat rats. Then it's pain time,” he said.

He snapped his fingers, muttered a few words, and stared at Ned.

At first Ned didn't feel anything. But then his arms began to itch. His legs tingled. The back of his neck prickled.

He pulled up his sleeve--and gasped when he saw dozens of hairy brown spiders swarming over his arm.

He swiped at them, tried to brush them off.

But the spiders clung to his skin.

His legs throbbed. His hair itched. He could feel the spiders digging into his scalp.

“Please--please, sir--” he screamed.

But the sorcerer kept his cold stare locked on Ned. He snapped his fingers again.

“
Aaaaaaaii!
” Ned opened his mouth in a wail of pain. “No! Please--”

Now all the spiders were burrowing into his skin. And then he could feel them crawling
under
his skin.

Under his skin. Under his skin…

He squirmed in agony. He slapped frantically at his arms and legs. Tore at his skin with his fingernails.

He watched in horror as little bulges moved down his arms, inside his palms….

Now he itched from
inside
.

And all his clawing and scratching and slapping did nothing to ease the horrible, throbbing itching.

“Please, stop it!” Ned shrieked. “It hurts! Ohhhh, it hurts!”

“Good,” Margolin muttered to himself. “Very good. Yes. This spider spell will work nicely. A wonderful way to begin.”

Margolin snapped his fingers. “Get up, fool. We have work to do.”

The bulges under Ned's skin went flat.

The itching stopped.

He climbed shakily to his feet.

“I
like
that spell,” Margolin said, pulling glowing bottles and powders from the shelves. “The itching will drive Shamandra insane. The more he scratches, the deeper the
spiders will dig into his flesh.”

Margolin grinned. “Within minutes Shamandra will scratch all his skin off. As I watch with glee, he will scratch himself to death!”

Ned shuddered. He could still feel the spiders' prickly legs on his skin. He took a deep breath. “Sir, how can I help when Shamandra arrives?”

Margolin turned from the shelves. “Help? You?” He sneered once again at his trembling apprentice. “You can't help, idiot. Don't you realize that you are doomed?”

Ned gasped. “Doomed?”

Margolin nodded. “I know Shamandra. I know his every move. When he arrives, it will be your last moment as a human. He will turn you into a lizard.”

“A l-lizard?” Ned stammered.

Margolin nodded. “Yes. He will want to insult me as soon as he appears. He will step into the room and turn you into a lizard. That will be his insult to me.”