The days dragged.
The nights dragged.
It had been a whole week since he made that little mistake with the spell.
He might as well be in jail. Every time he left his room and went downstairs to even glance at the front door, Aunt Lizzie was there, her arms crossed, her head shaking, “No.”
How was he going to survive much more?
That night he flopped into bed, sending another brain-to-brain message to Harriet. “Please talk to me. How much longer do I have to stay locked up?”
But Harriet didn’t answer. It was as if she’d vanished. And what if that had happened? How was he going to get out of here? And what about that Timelock? Who was going to fix it? And what did Fix It mean anyway?
He was in a super ginormous mess.
“Arrrg!”
He wished he could go back to his old home where he was just an ordinary kid, doing ordinary things with his mom and dad. He got into trouble there, but not much. Not like in Hadleyville where anything he did made Principal Pitt and Sheriff Elmer twitchy to nab him.
He wished he’d never seen this swampy place, except he’d miss Fanon. And he’d miss Aunt Lizzie, too. Then there was Weasel. He’d miss … .
Pete yawned and closed his eyes. It was better to sleep than to think. Time passed quicker that way.
He was deep into a wonderful dream when the house shook and brought Pete upright in bed.
Ka bang!
He clamped his hands over his ears and jumped to his feet, his eyes wide open.
“What”— he gasped—“was that?”
He sniffed the air.
“Smoke!”
“Where?”
He got to his knees and peeked under his bed, then opened the closet door and sniffed inside. When he turned around a small spiral of smoke trailed from his bedspread. He grabbed his pillow and pounded until he was sure the tiny fire was out.
At the foot of the bed lay a scroll of paper.
Without turning his back on it, he felt behind him for his nightstand until he touched his pencil. Then, using that pencil, he lifted the scroll from his bed and dropped it on his desktop.
When it didn’t go up in flames and nothing else happened, he pried the scroll open, handling it like a tiny bomb.
There was writing inside. At least it looked like writing, but it was so messy he couldn’t make any sense of it.
Sleep wasn’t going to happen now, so he paced, thinking, trying to figure out what this thing might mean. Who was it from?
“Harriet,” he said in a breathy whisper. It had to be from her. Who else would drop a hot piece of paper into his room from out of nowhere, and shake his bed, then set off some kind of firecracker in the middle of the night to wake him up? Her message must be important. So then, why couldn’t he read it?
He held his head. “Why is this happening to me? More important, what do I do now?”
The answer was simple, really.
Escape. Get to Weasel.
He pulled on his jeans and shirt, stuffed his feet into his tennis shoes and carefully tucked the scroll under his shirt.
After tiptoeing down the stairs he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.
The Encircling Spell was strong. Aunt Lizzie doubled its potency during the night. “More to keep unwanted visitors out, Pete, than to keep you in,” she’d said.
“Right. So now how does that Un-encircling Spell go?”
He whispered the words and some of the spell’s strength lessened. He said the words a little louder and this time the spell vanished.
“I can do some things right,” he said as he crept from Aunt Lizzie’s porch.
The full summer moon should have been a good omen. It brightened the night and promised the people of Hadleyville all was just as it should be in their town. But for Pete that full moon wasn’t one bit good. It made his escape downright dangerous-difficult. If he didn’t have this emergency the size of two humungous alligators, he wouldn’t have chanced his breakout.
He hurried to grab his bike, stood on the pedals and pumped, his shadow flickering over the cracks in the pavement.
Holy beans. There’s way too much light. I’m easy to spot.
But he needed to talk to Weasel. And now.
Maybe if Weasel saw that note he could figure out what it meant, and Pete could get off the hook. He had a feeling that understanding it was exactly what he had to do.
He screeched to a stop in front of Weasel’s place and dropped his bike. Then he scooped up a handful of small pebbles, hauled off and tossed them at the upstairs window. Weasel’s was the only window with a light on. He was awake. Probably reading.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Weasel’s face pressed against the glass, then the window slid up.
“Hey! It’s me,” Pete called. “Let me in. Quick.”
“Go away. It’s ten o’clock. I’m sleeping.”
“Right! With your light on. Come down and open the door. It’s important.” Pete waited until Weasel pulled the window down and clicked the lock on it.
Weasel had to come through for him again. He’d been there to help save the Ornofree swamp alligators. He’d stuck next to Pete when Aunt Lizzie and her coven of witches had been swept away by their own bad spells. He’d helped Pete figure out how his super powers worked. Still, Weasel didn’t like trouble, and he never held back telling Pete that was all he was. Trouble.
“Come on, Weaze.” Pete tapped his foot and glanced over his shoulder at the moon that kept climbing and casting ever longer shadows.
In a few minutes, a lot more time than it took to walk from upstairs down to the front door, Weasel stepped onto the porch. His Super Hero sweatshirt hung from his skinny shoulders about the same as it would from a hanger in his closet.
Pete ran up the steps, but Weasel blocked him from going inside. “Hold on. What did you do this time?”
“First, let me in, then I’ll tell you.”
Weasel shook his head and pushed his glasses higher onto his nose. “Tell me, then I’ll let you in. Maybe.”
“You sure don’t make things easy. You know that?” Pete looked over his shoulder at the deserted street. The moon was really high now, and it spattered light through the tree tops. The street, the sidewalk. and the smoothly cut lawn were thick with the spiky shadows of leaves. He didn’t think anything was out there, but he felt jumpy anyway. It was all about that note. No it was more than the note.
He faced Weasel. “It’s this way.” Pete cleared his throat because it had gone tight on him. “There was this spell. It didn’t go real good.” Again, his throat kind of seized up. He swallowed, and then choked. “I need water,” he gasped.
“I wish you’d stop trying to tool me.” But Weasel opened the door, and Pete followed him into the kitchen. He gulped down a glass of water, and then leaned against the counter.
“So, about that spell,” Weasel said.
“I wasn’t supposed to do it, but I … Well, it was there and it looked easy and … so I did. Harriet didn’t know. I don’t think she even knows now. It was the second one—”
“Hold it. You worked two spells?” When Pete opened his mouth to explain, Weasel stopped him. “I get it. You weren’t supposed to mess with either one of them, but the first one didn’t blow up in your face, so you did the second one and—”
“It kind of blew up.”
“And I’m not surprised. Do you know why?” Weasel waited while Pete filled his glass again and chugged more water.
“I’m a magnet for trouble?”
“Good. At least you know the answer.”
“So do you want to hear the whole story?” Pete asked.
Weasel ran his fingers through his hair. The cowlick at the back of his head flattened, then popped up again. “Do I get to choose no?”
“No. And here’s why.” Pete reached under his shirt and took out the piece of yellowed paper. It crinkled when he unrolled it and handed it to Weasel. “What do you make of that?”
The writing was big and dark and splotchy, as though every once in a while the writer had splattered ink next to a letter. The words sort of sprawled across the page. It was as if someone had written it in a hurry. Pete couldn’t read it at all.
Weasel held it out, then pulled it closer and squinted through his glasses. “Funny paper. It looks old.” He sniffed. “It smells old.”
“See? It’s a puzzle. You love puzzles.” Pete smiled as if that would convince Weasel he loved puzzles more than anything.
Weasel slid a stool out and sat at the counter. He spread the paper on the surface and, propping one hand under his chin, in a tired voice said, “Okay, tell me the whole story.”
“That second spell”—Pete glanced at the front door, then sat on the stool next to Weasel and leaned in close—“was about a thing called a Timelock.” He swallowed and licked his lips. “I unlocked it.”