{"product_id":"more-tales-to-keep-you-up-at-night-isbn-9780593387504","title":"More Tales to Keep You Up at Night","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the co-author of the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling series The Magic Misfits comes a spectacularly creepy follow-up to \u003ci\u003eTales to Keep You Up at Night\u003c\/i\u003e that will keep you up way past bedtime. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerfect for fans of \u003ci\u003eScary Stories to Tell in the Dark\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert is visiting his injured brother, Ant, in the hospital, when he sees a shadowed figure leave behind a satchel filled with old cassette tapes. Despite a strange, garbled voicemail telling him \"Don't listen to the tapes,\" Gilbert can't resist playing them and listening to the chilling stories they reveal: tales of cursed seashells, of doors torn through the fabric of the universe, of cemeteries that won't let you leave, of a classroom skeleton that hungers for new skin. And wandering through all the stories, a strange man named November, who might not be a man at all...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Gilbert keeps listening to the tapes, he slowly realizes that the stories may hold the key to helping Ant. But in order to save his brother, he may be opening a door to something much, much worse...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith hair-raising, spine-chilling prose, Dan Poblocki delivers a collection of interconnected stories that are sure to keep you up late in the night.\"Reading like a mashup of Goosebumps and \u003ci\u003eThe Twilight Zone \u003c\/i\u003ewith a healthy dose of \u003ci\u003eBlack Mirror\u003c\/i\u003e, this series... is a surefire hit for horror aficionados. Expect the shivers to last long after the final page is turned.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eTales to Keep You Up at Night\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eTales to Keep You Up at Night\u003c\/i\u003e is a delightfully wicked collection of bite-sized scares, with stories that are magical, strange, and downright unsettling—the perfect treat for a young reader looking for a properly spooky read.”–Kate Alice Marshall, author of \u003ci\u003eThirteens\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eI Am Still Alive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“This book is magnificently frightening! It is this delicious blend of old timey folktales and creepy weirdness that kept me riveted to every single page and then, as promised, kept me up all night. Absolute horror story perfection!\"—Ellen Oh, author of \u003ci\u003eSpirit Hunters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Poblocki is the middle-grade Crypt Keeper, spinning yarns that are devilishly inventive and genuinely unsettling. This is the book to reach for during the witching hour.\"—Daniel Kraus, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of The Teddies Saga\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Grab a flashlight and a blanket—this lives up to its titular claim... Alternating between Amelia’s storyline and the contents of the book she’s reading, Poblocki’s delightfully constructed offering is somewhere between a literary matryoshka and an ouroboros as the vignettes twine perilously around each other, rewarding close readers and demanding rereads. It includes well-established genre tropes like creepy clowns and being buried alive, making it a fun distillation of elements from crowd pleasers by authors like R.L. Stine and Alvin Schwartz.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"The novel’s framework, which alternates between Amelia’s real life and the scary stories’ contents, slowly builds tension, intricately weaving classic and supernatural horror elements to deliver an immersive experience drenched in ominous atmosphere.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“… a masterful, hair-raising work, start to finish.”—\u003ci\u003eBooks to Borrow, Books to Buy\u003c\/i\u003eDan Poblocki is the co-author with Neil Patrick Harris of the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling series The Magic Misfits (writing under the pen-name Alec Azam). He's also the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Stone Child\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Nightmarys\u003c\/i\u003e, and the Mysterious Four series. His books, \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost of Graylock \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Haunting of Gabriel Ashe\u003c\/i\u003e, were Junior Library Guild selections and made the American Library Association’s Best Fiction for Young Adults list in 2013 and 2014. Dan lives in Saugerties, New York, with two scaredy-cats and a growing collection of very creepy toys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie Bergeron was born and raised in Montreal. After studying cinematography, she attended École de Design. Her style is inspired by many things, including films and games, contrasting a more graphic approach with organic strokes. Her clients have included Marvel Studios, Paramount Pictures, Warner Bros., Fox Entertainment, and more.\u003cb\u003eGilbert Gets a Call\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilbert Campbell was shelving books at the public library on the Upper West Side when his phone dinged. One new voicemail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His brother’s message was garbled, mixed with static, but Gilbert was able to make out: \u003ci\u003e“. . . tell you . . . Important . . . Whatever you do . . . Don’t listen to the tapes . . . Explain more when I . . .\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was followed by about thirty seconds of a soft hissing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert played the message again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas there panic in Ant’s voice? Or did it only sound that way because the recording was messed up?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was the week of winter break. Holiday festivities had come and gone. Gilbert and his best friend, Percy, had been planning on playing video games and catching up on their favorite shows, but he hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Effiong for time off—a bummer, especially since this particular library was up by their school and nowhere near home. His mom and dad were away on vacation, and Grandma Rosemary was visiting. This wasn’t a bad thing—Grandma Rosemary didn’t mind TV bingeing or video games. In fact, she often joined in. The problem was that whenever their grandmother looked after them, Gilbert’s older brother tended to act out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhatever you do . . . Don’t listen to the tapes, \u003c\/i\u003eAnt had said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhich tapes? \u003c\/i\u003eGilbert wondered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore returning the call, he noticed that Ant’s message was from early that morning—before dawn—but it had only just arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWeird.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe line rang and rang.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShivering, he returned to the shelving cart, deciding to grill Ant later. Since his shift was nearly done, only three books were left: \u003ci\u003eThe Secret of the Stone Child\u003c\/i\u003e by Nathaniel Olmstead, \u003ci\u003eThe Clue of the Incomplete Corpse\u003c\/i\u003e by Ogden Kentwall, and something called \u003ci\u003eElsewhere Gardens \u003c\/i\u003eby an author named October Bowen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis last one he handed to Mrs. Effiong across the counter. “I’d like to check this out before I go. It’s for my best friend.” Percy was a self-proclaimed botanist-in-training. Once, they’d said, \u003ci\u003eWhat in the world is more hopeful than a garden?\u003c\/i\u003e Gilbert loved that. Mrs. Effiong’s big brown eyes glinted as she scanned the copy into his account.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert’s phone dinged again—a message from Percy. Their ears must be burning!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy mom wants to know if you can come over for pizza later.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert typed back:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSure! I’d love to have pizza with your mom. Will you be there too?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHAR. HAR.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Effiong tsked as she slid the book to him. “Gilbert, you know I don’t like our volunteers on their phones—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I just have to check in with my grandmother. I’ll be quick.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Gilbert pulled up Grandma Rosemary’s contact info, the phone buzzed in his hand. She was calling! Ignoring Mrs. Effiong’s frown, he swiped to answer, to say something about the cheerful coincidence. But his grandma sounded frantic. “Where have you been? I’ve called and called!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Service is spotty at the library. What’s wrong?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s Antonio.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis brother’s strange voicemail crackled through Gilbert’s memory. “Is he okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do I \u003ci\u003esound \u003c\/i\u003elike he’s okay?” Grandma Rosemary sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s just . . . he got hurt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How hurt?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re in intensive care. Please come.” She told him the hospital name. “The entrance is by the river.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA map of the city flashed through his frazzled mind. “I’ll catch the bus.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have to get in touch with your parents—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a click. She’d hung up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everything all right?” Mrs. Effiong asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert felt like he was floating. His skin had gone all prickly. He thought of Ant’s face—his bulbous nose, stubborn acne, dark fuzz on his chin, curly black hair that faded to the skin just over his ears. Then, Gilbert’s brain did a frightening thing—it covered Ant’s face in red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWet and sticky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike in horror movies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gilbert?” Mrs. Effiong’s voice came again. “What’s the matter?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert clutched the counter’s edge, then slipped Percy’s botanical book under his arm. “My brother . . . There was an accident. I—I have to go.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Effiong’s hand drifted toward her mouth. “Is there someone I can call?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My grandmother wants me at the hospital.” Gilbert’s voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. “And my parents are—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let me give you cash for a cab.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have a MetroCard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not sure I feel comfortable—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll be fine. Promise.” He retrieved his coat and scarf and hat from the chair behind the circulation desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You have my cell number?” the librarian asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStrange how those were the words that should make his eyes sting. “I do,” he answered, fighting to look \u003ci\u003eall business\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Text me when you get where you’re going?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAn accident . . .\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIntensive care . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBig brother . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook the thoughts away, then tossed a nod to Mrs. Effiong. If he stood there any longer, he knew he’d break. At the landing, he pushed the door open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCold air rushed into the library like a gasp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Snow flurries started when the crosstown bus finally stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert tugged his scarf tight and trudged to the hospital entrance around the corner. A security guard pointed him to the second floor. Upstairs, Gilbert stepped into a busy corridor. His phone chimed with a new message from Percy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy mom wants to know what toppings you want? Meatballs? Peppers? Olives?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePercy! In the rush to get here, Gilbert had forgotten to tell them about Ant’s accident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy brother’s in the hospital.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOMG. Everything all right?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll text you in a bit.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePercy answered with a bunch of question marks. Gilbert was filled with a bunch of question marks himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe remembered to text Mrs. Effiong, then crept to the room the security guard had mentioned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door was open wide. Inside, a dim light hung on the wall over a headboard. A large silhouette was standing between Gilbert and the room’s occupant. A nurse? A doctor?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert knocked. “Hello?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe figure straightened, then bolted to a hidden corner of the room. Startled, Gilbert grabbed at the door frame and nearly dropped the library book for Percy that he realized he was somehow still holding on to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, he saw his brother, and any notion of the shadowed figure flew out of his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTubes and hoses and bags filled with clear liquids hung from hooked stands on either side of the bed where Ant was lying. His eyes were closed. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert took Ant’s hand. “Wh-what happened to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA noise came from behind him. He turned to find a closed door. \u003ci\u003eThat shadowed figure . . . Was this where they’d gone?\u003c\/i\u003e A small placard read RESTROOM.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked to his brother. A large bandage covered Ant’s lower left cheek. Another was taped to Ant’s throat, snaking beneath his hospital gown. The skin around Ant’s eyes was purple with collected blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe noise came again. Fabric rustling? Wind through air vents? Wings fluttering? “Who’s there?” Gilbert asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen no answer came, his hope that the person was a nurse or doctor—or even his grandmother—evaporated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNervous, Gilbert glanced around for something to block the door. The wood-framed chairs in the corner wouldn’t be heavy enough. Then the latch clicked, and the bathroom door opened a crack. A sliver of black. Gilbert sidled against the wall beside the door, out of the sightline, and listened to the nothingness within. A moment later, he clasped the library book like a baseball bat, yanked the doorknob, and shouted, “\u003ci\u003eHyah!\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA toilet was against the far wall, a chrome handle attached to the tiles, a corner sink stuck beside a cramped shower stall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one was there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked to Ant with a nervous grin. Had he really shouted \u003ci\u003ehyah\u003c\/i\u003e? “You’d better not remember that,” he whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe flicked the bathroom light switch. In the shower stall, a leather satchel sat, sagging in on itself. Curious, Gilbert flipped it open. Inside, a few objects glinted. Plastic. Angular. He held one of them to the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt first, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. A rectangular thing no bigger than his own hand. Then, his mind was whipped back to the garbled words of his brother’s voicemail. \u003ci\u003eDon’t listen to the tapes.\u003c\/i\u003e These were cassettes—tapes like the ones Grandma Rosemary kept in a box in a cupboard in her living room, next to an old boom box. Gilbert upended the satchel onto the floor. Two more cassette cases clattered out, followed by something larger, heavier. The player was bright yellow. \u003ci\u003eWalkman \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eAM\/FM\u003c\/i\u003e were stenciled onto its side. A set of headphones slipped out too, attached to the player by a thin black cord. Totally retro.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid the bag belong to Ant?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFootsteps echoed from the hallway. Gilbert shoved the bag’s contents back inside, along with the library book. He turned off the bathroom light, then stared out through the crack in the door. The person who appeared was small. She placed a paper bag on the table beside the hospital bed, let out a sigh, then ran a hand across her short, graying hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClutching the satchel’s straps, Gilbert elbowed the door open and said, “Hi, Grandma . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe startled. “Oh, honey. You scared me!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething told him to not show her his discovery, so when she hugged him briefly, he dropped the satchel and nudged it under the bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes were pinkish. “I grabbed us some coffees.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert took the cup even though he didn’t drink coffee. He glanced at his brother again, all of his worry rushing back. “What happened?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere’s what Grandma Rosemary told him:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat morning before work, she’d noticed Ant’s door open, his bed made. Antonio’s absence didn’t surprise her. He’d often crash at a friend’s place if it got late and he was sleepy. But when Ant didn’t answer his phone, she’d fretted. She almost woke Gilbert but hadn’t wanted to worry him. Then, at her office, she reached out to some of Ant’s friends . . . By noon, she’d begun contacting emergency rooms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone had found Ant on a subway platform sometime before sunrise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d been unconscious from the start, his skin marked with strange wounds, deep gouges and scrapes. The IVs now connected to his arm were filled with antibiotics and saline and some medication for pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs soon as Grandma Rosemary took a breath, Gilbert asked, “Did you get in touch with Mom and Dad?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They’re booking a flight back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is he going to be okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The medicine will do what it’s supposed to.” There was something in Grandma Rosemary’s voice that felt like a lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTogether, they held Ant’s hand. Gilbert felt Ant’s pulse just below the skin under his knuckles. Faint. He thought again of the voicemail his brother had left him. About the tapes. What else had it said?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnt had been keeping secrets. That much was clear, and it wasn’t only the past twelve hours that proved it. In the weeks leading up to the holiday, Ant had been acting funny. Quiet. Tired. Even his friends had called him out on it. Last week, Fernando and Rosalie had stopped by, and Gilbert could have cut the tension between them with a laser beam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnfortunately, most warning signs are recognizable only in retrospect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What now?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We wait,” she said, reaching for her coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was one thing Gilbert was not willing to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the hospital cafeteria, he bought a chocolate chip cookie and a small bottle of apple juice. When his phone chimed yet again, he ducked toward a secluded table near the tall windows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAny news?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Gilbert didn’t want a whole back-and-forth just yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, he stacked the cassettes on the table. The labels read \u003ci\u003eMore Tales to Keep You Up at Night\u003c\/i\u003e, and each was numbered. \u003ci\u003eOne\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTwo\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThree\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t listen to the tapes . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert opened his voicemail app and played the garbled message again. Clearly, \u003ci\u003ethese \u003c\/i\u003ewere the tapes. He thought of Ant—stubborn and silly and oftentimes rude—and then banged his fists on the table. The stack rattled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow could you ask someone to \u003ci\u003enot \u003c\/i\u003elisten to something, then leave that very thing for them to find?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut his brother had been unconscious when they’d brought him here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich meant . . . what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat the dark figure at Ant’s bedside had really been there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat they’d left the satchel for Gilbert?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf so, didn’t that mean he \u003ci\u003eshould \u003c\/i\u003eheed Ant’s voicemail warning?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe took a deep swig of apple juice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnt had mentioned the tapes in his last bit of communication. That had to mean something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGilbert needed to figure out what that something was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnlike the earbuds Gilbert was used to, the Walkman’s phones had wide foam pads that hugged his head like muffs for cold weather. He popped open the player, reached for the tape marked \u003ci\u003eOne\u003c\/i\u003e, fit it inside, then closed the Walkman’s lid. When he pressed PLAY, a warm, not unpleasant voice—expressive and musical, masculine with a hint of rasp—began to speak, as if directly to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eExerminators\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst, you should know that Tony wasn’t tall, wasn’t broad. Also, his nose was wide, and his teeth were slightly crooked, and his eyebrows had started to join in the middle. He didn’t have a problem with how he looked, but other boys in gym class made him feel like a troll.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he tried to stand up to them one afternoon, they ganged up on him. That is, until Matt Miller—six foot two, thick as a slab, and growing still—stepped in, put them in their places. The details of how it went down aren’t necessary. If you’ve ever been young, you know the story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony was a freshman that year. Matt was two years older.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter school, Tony found Matt waiting for him on the wide front staircase leading down to the sidewalk on Seventh Avenue. Students stepped around him. Matt was a boulder in a stream, and the others were rushing water. Matt smiled and waved Tony over. Tony almost got swept up in the crowd, but Matt pulled him aside. “You okay?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony hated that his face was getting warm. “I can handle those guys.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, I know. It’s just . . . some of them live on my block, so they listen to me more than other people.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony’s cheeks were burning now. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you up to?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Right now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony played off his nerves as best he could, kept quiet, let Matt do most of the talking. They went down the block to the chocolate shop, and Matt bought Tony a mocha latte. They sat at the corner table in the back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat first day was just for fun. A getting-to-know-you kind of thing. Like: “Maybe let’s be friends.” Tony learned that Matt had two older sisters. Both were in community colleges out of the city, hoping to transfer to bigger schools after their sophomore years. Money was tough. Matt’s parents were city employees, though Matt never said doing what. Tony shared that he had a younger brother, his parents worked for nonprofits, his grandmother lived across the city with her sister, his great-aunt, that they’d traveled together from St. Croix when they were young, following other family members who’d come before them. The boys talked about video games and their neighborhoods and comic books. Turned out they liked the same titles. When they finished their drinks, they strolled to the local comics shop and wandered the aisles. By the time Tony made it home, he felt different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had never been easy for him to connect with people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn conclusion: Matt Miller was cool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey went on like that for a long while. Making jokes through phys ed class. Grabbing coffees after school. Stopping by the comics store. Heading to the park to read and talk about how they’d change some of the stories if they could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA month into the following school year, Matt asked Tony if he wanted to make some extra cash. Matt was having trouble keeping up with a new job and needed a break.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, Tony wanted to help. “It’s not anything illegal, is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not that I know of.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do I have to do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gig sounded easy enough: Pick up an envelope. Drop off the envelope. Get paid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why don’t they just \u003ci\u003email \u003c\/i\u003ethe envelopes?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They need them faster than that. Like . . . a messenger service.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That would be us?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exactly. \u003ci\u003eMessengers\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s in the envelopes?” Tony asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this, Matt’s expression grew darker. “That’s not our business. The boss has a bunch of rules. It’s best to not break them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony shrugged. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he replied, though he felt unsure now whether he wanted to get involved at all. “I can follow rules.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatt raised an eyebrow. “Rule one: Knock on the boss’s door three times only. Two: Never look inside the envelope. Three: Take the subway directly to the office. Four: Get your cash and go home.” Matt pulled a leather satchel from under his chair and plopped it on the table between them. “One more thing.” Tony peeked inside. “The boss needs you to listen to these tapes before you can start.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Really? What for?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He said they give you access. To his building, I guess? I’m not sure why, but I listened to them too.” Matt reached into the bag and removed an old Walkman AM\/FM radio cassette player. \u003cbr\u003e“Think you can get through these tonight?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony listened. The tapes weren’t filled with music, as he’d been expecting, but with a voice telling a bunch of scary stories. There were tales of curses and revenge. Stories of doors—portals to other places—where inhuman creatures could cross into our world. Stories of the search for forbidden knowledge. There was even a story about where the tapes had come from.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter he’d finished, Tony noticed an odd sensation in his chest. He felt changed somehow, as if he knew more about his universe now and his place in it. Yet, the feeling didn’t \u003ci\u003ebother \u003c\/i\u003ehim. He knew that stories have power.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCould this be what Matt had meant by \u003ci\u003eaccess\u003c\/i\u003e? When Tony asked him at school the next day, Matt shrugged. He gave Tony the addresses where he’d pick up and drop off the envelopes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How often do I do this?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatt wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Every day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shiver crept across Tony’s skin. “For how long?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not long. Like I said before, I just need a little break is all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The brick building was easy enough to find. Almost directly at the top of the subway steps. The entryway was through an iron gate, across an overgrown evergreen garden. The empty lobby’s marble floor was mostly black, with flecks of gold that caught what little light came in through the doorway. At the elevator, Tony caught an acrid whiff and saw the flickering light overhead, so he took the stairs instead. Five flights were enough to steal his breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis parents would certainly ground him for even \u003ci\u003ethinking \u003c\/i\u003eabout doing this. All he’d told them was that he’d joined a new club after school and he’d be coming home later than usual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door was at the far end of the dull beige hall. Staring at the peephole, Tony was overcome with a sudden fear. As if whoever lived here was watching him. Remembering Matt’s rules, Tony knocked. Three times. A plain white envelope emerged from the bottom of the door. He picked it up, turned around, walked quietly back down the silent stairs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe train arrived as Tony made it to the platform. He knew the subway routes like the backs of his hands. If he stayed on this train (no transfer), he’d make it to the destination in about an hour. He settled into the seat, patted the pocket of his jacket where he’d stuck the envelope, then pulled his homework from his knapsack. He made it through all of geometry and half of his history chapter before arriving at the station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the brisk evening air, the surroundings belonged to a different city—wide lots with cracked asphalt, brown grass grown up tall in patches, an emptiness that felt opposite from his own neighborhood. A salty tang coated his tongue. Docks stretched out past a tall chain-link fence. Lights from a few houseboats glowed upon the black water. A horn sounded—a passing ship signaling danger off the coast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA warehouse stood about a block away. The entry was illuminated by a dim sconce under which was a diamond-shaped sign reading EMBER'S EXTERMINATORS. Tony tried the knob, but it was locked. There was a mail slot in the middle of the door. He knocked, three times, like at the apartment. To his surprise, a voice spoke from the other side, “Go ’head.” Then, as if flicked by fingers, the mail slot’s cover rattled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony shoved the envelope inside. A moment later, a small package popped out of the slot and fell to the ground—a yellowish envelope, a thick stack of bills inside. “Is this all for me?” he asked, but the voice did not come again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn hour or so later, Tony was home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring the journey, he’d tried to make himself look as small as possible, which wasn’t hard, since he was already pretty small. The yellow envelope weighed heavy in his pocket. There’d been no taxis near the docks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony called Matt Miller from his bedroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello?” Matt sounded like he’d been sleeping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You all right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just tired. You?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony hesitated. “I did the thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Worked okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I think so. It’s just . . . this isn’t what I was expecting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatt scoffed. “Not enough?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony laughed, surprised. “More than enough.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is there a problem?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you . . . want half?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” Matt answered quickly. A moment of quiet. Then, he added, “It’s all yours, bud.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next day, Matt barely looked at Tony during gym class. Afterward, when Tony tried to ask him what was wrong, he shrugged and walked away. Maybe he was angry about the money, after all?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter school, Tony caught the train. Picked up the envelope. Dropped it at the warehouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hid the cash in his bedroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the next few weeks, Matt continued to give Tony the cold shoulder. Tony felt so frustrated, he almost said he didn’t want to do the job anymore. There was so much money in his bedside table, it seemed almost pointless to collect more. Tony might have actually quit, but he worried Matt might never speak to him again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then, about a month after Matt had asked him to take over the deliveries, he stopped showing up at school. Tony called a few times to check in. Matt’s parents said he wasn’t feeling well or that he was asleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, one evening, Matt answered the phone himself. “You’ve got to stop calling,” he said quietly, quickly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s too much.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTony pressed. “Are you sick? Everyone is worried about you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eEveryone\u003c\/i\u003e?” A punch in the chest. Matt meant: \u003ci\u003eYou?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s going on?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatt Miller was silent for several seconds. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis hurt even more. “I don’t get it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You don’t need to get it. In fact, it’s \u003ci\u003ebest \u003c\/i\u003eif you don’t get it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What about the job?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Keep it.” Tony had to sit on the floor to keep the world from going dark. “Follow the rules and you’ll be fine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething occurred to him, and he asked quickly, “Did \u003ci\u003eyou \u003c\/i\u003efollow the rules?” The line went still. After a few seconds, a signal rang in his ear. When Tony tried calling back, there was no answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSchool the next day felt like walking through molasses. Whatever was going on was because of the job. But why? What could have happened? Tony thought of the last thing he’d said to his friend: \u003ci\u003eDid you follow the rules?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat afternoon, when he reached the boss’s door, Tony hesitated before knocking. He reached for the knob, as if to turn it, maybe even walk inside, confront the person behind all this. But his gut squelched, insisting that would be a huge mistake. What if he asked a few questions? To help Matt? That too felt like the wrong idea. So he knocked. Three times. A moment later, as always, the white envelope appeared at his feet. Tony snatched it up and ran.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMinutes later, in his usual spot in the corner of the train car, Tony glared at the envelope. Maybe the answer to what was going on with Matt was hidden inside. Without thinking, Tony held it up to the dingy fluorescent light. The outline of a ragged scrap of paper appeared, marked with the hint of dim scribbles. He squinted, and the backlit writing became clear. Trembling, Tony shoved the envelope into his pocket, where it should have been in the first place, then climbed down and pushed himself against the plastic seat, hoping no one had seen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe words in the envelope had been a name, scrawled in dark ink: \u003ci\u003eMatt Miller.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Tony reached the exterminator’s office, he slipped the envelope through the mail slot, then walked away, ignoring the package that dropped to the sidewalk behind him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night, Tony had trouble falling asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the twisted tapes that Matt Miller had asked him to listen to. 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