Tag Archives: talking animals

Shadow Street Chapter 8

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

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This is a draft version of a chapter from John Saye’s book, Longevity and Other Stories. If you are daring, why not subscribe to my newsletter (they come few and far between), and I’ll send you a PDF copy of the book?

Up we went, grabbed and yanked into the sky. Clutched around our dangling arms and legs were the strong talons of an enormous beast. It flew silently. I could see brown and white in the feathers. I can’t otherwise see anything. Feathers are on my face. Those silent soaring wings. Mr. Curtis’s legs dangled below me as I watched our street fall away from us and the smoky city leave us behind.

They dropped us. I assumed it was to our deaths. I thought for sure that Mr. Curtis’s legs next to me were lifeless. We landed roughly on a tiled rooftop and rolled.

Mr. Curtis’s hat flopped by. I picked it up and sat up, then turned around quickly as a shadow crossed over me.

“What? Who?”

“It is I.”

It was Arthur, the owl.

Mr. Curtis stood up next to me and took his hat. I gave it to him, forgetting for a moment that I thought him dead just a moment before.

“I uh,” I said.

“No need,” said the owl.

Mr. Curtis reached into his hat and found another fresh outfit and started putting it on.

“Where’d you get…”

“This old thing…”

It looked freshly pressed.

The owl paced. Every few moments a ruffle would send fresh down feathers upon us. I brushed them out of my face.

“You boys,” said the owl. I swear his eyes lit up, but I don’t think they did. “You boys may be in way over your heads here.”

“What are we up against?” said Mr. Curtis, tying his tie.

The owl scraped the roof, sending tiles plummeting down to the ground below.

“I thought it might come to this.” The bird turned around. He was pacing. I thought he was preparing for liftoff.

“The bakery must be closed and cleansed. The tunnel must be closed that leads into the cave, and that will not stop them.”

“What will?” I asked.

“We’ll eventually have to find their lair and storm it. No one is safe, but in the short term, we can keep things under control.”

“How do we cleanse the bakery?”

“Salt. Holy water. Don’t eat the…” he coughed.

“And blocking the…”

“The drain…”

The owl tripped and landed in front of us. One eye was wide, the other tightly shut. He wasn’t breathing well. His beak opened, but it wouldn’t open wide enough for the creature inside to make its way clear. The first two sickly yellow tentacles pushed forth, trying to open his mouth.

I watched them in awe. We felt lost. “The surrounding town, Mrs. Constellation, the bakery, everybody, now this.” Mr. Curtis didn’t flinch.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said to the body of the owl lying before us, the creature inside trying unsuccessfully to take control of his large body. The failing eye winked at him as Mr. Curtis replaced the monocle in his left eye.

He handed me a flask and pulled quickly from his hat. It was a small one, glass with a stopper in the top

“Water?”

I saw the frog had in his hand a small salt cellar. He opened the lid, bidding me to do the same with mine. I popped it open.

“Holy water?”

“I thank you. You’ve told me enough. Now let’s cleanse my friend here.” He sprinkled the tentacles with salt. They retreated into the bird’s beak.

“Quickly friend,” he said to me.

I sprinkled some of the water onto the bird’s face, getting as much as I could on the beast.

“That’s right.” He did some more salt, going around the roof a little too. I did some more, following his lead.

The owl’s body convulsed. It flipped over. It shook. I poured a measure down the owl’s throat. The creature slowly emerged after it choked. It slid out and flopped to the rooftop, but it couldn’t cross the salt sprinkled around.

It was yellow, slimy, and pale. It resembled an octopus, but it had five tentacles instead of eight, and couldn’t easily supply support for its body weight. It blinked, looked around with a single bulbous bright blue eye, and stared us down. The person looked around.

“Looking for a way yet?” said the frog. “I’m onto you.” He faced the creative eye to eye, closing one of his own.

I carefully stepped away from them.

“I want you and your friends to leave,” said Mr. Curtis. “It’s hard enough being a frog or a rat in a world like this.”

“There’s room enough for all.”

“While true, I’m afraid I can’t condone parasites attacking my friends and neighbors.”

“We just… we must…”

“James, can you please?” Arthur was stirring. I ran to see him and helped him up.

“Of course,” I said.

“It’s just…” said the squelching squid.

“Can you live long outside of a host?”

“Yes, but not for long, and not above the surface.”

“Then I’m going to have to kick you out and ask two things.”

“What?”

“No coming above the surface.”

“And?”

“If you do, find a host that at least likes it.”

“Curtis!” I said.

“What? Somebody might.”

“Doubtful.”

“And if we don’t?”

“You may as well come kill me first next time so I won’t get in the way.”

It eyed me, where I was listening to Arthur’s heartbeat, and saw it, the place where we hadn’t sprinkled salt.

“We will come for the surface.”

It slid from me. I tried to climb the owl. Arthur just knocked me to the roof.

“Dr. James! The holy water!”

“Oh, yes!”

I pulled it from my breast pocket and uncorked it with my teeth. It reminded me of tossing grenades during the war. I tossed the bottle where it hit the creature, and mostly bounced off, but not without the contents spilling out all over the creature.

Where it spilled, what was later to be burned into the creature’s skin? It lost a tentacle, dissolving completely, then another one as it tried to run. Mr. Curtis chased it to the edge of the roof with the salt cellar, shaking handfuls of salt at it. It dodged this way and then rolled down the pitch of the roof like a ball. Its tentacles flopped and flapped like fettuccine that hadn’t quite seen enough boiling water and it fell from the roof, landing with a splat on the ground below. It opened its eye and looked up at us and I could hear in my mind. “We’ll be back. There are more.”

I squeezed my head, trying to get him out of there, thinking my body was quickly being taken over when I realized he was gone, squelching in the mud down a drain.

“Thank you, Arthur,” said Mr. Curtis.

“I’m never taking a roll from you again, Mr. Curtis.”

I walked back.

“What do we do?” I said.

“What? Do we?” Said, Arthur. “You, and you know.”

“Holy water and salt?”

“Where do we?”

“Come with me,” said Mr. Curtis. And he jumped down the drainpipe.

“I hate the drainpipe.”

I jumped down it and tried to keep my descent to the ground under control, but I couldn’t manage it. I slid out onto the dirty streets and with all the fluff, closer to the rat I know I am than the gentleman I see myself as. The tweed hid most of the dirt, so I straightened my coat as best I could. At least I’m in the shadows of the building.

“This way,” said the frog.

“What’s this way?”

“St. Albert’s cathedral. Holy water.”

I realized I’d used all I had on the poor thing.

“And salt?”

“The bakery,” said Mr. Curtis. “Besides, I still have some. Where’s the salt? Poor fellow, must I spell everything out for you?”

“No?”

I took off after him. The cathedral was several blocks ahead but faced the corner at one intersection. I could see it. It was the only place nearby where the stained glass was in red with blue and yellow. Skylights swallowed enough light at strategic angles to light the entire building with a certain glow. The morning streets were moving, but he kept on hopping rather than flagging a cab. The closer we got to it, the less I felt like flagging one down, either.

There were massive front steps of Stone, that also had a blue or red tile inserted every so often to keep up the motif, there was no sign for St. Albert’s only a large red cross in a field of yellow glass in the front with a blue letter A on each side. One was upside down, the other right side up.

We climbed the steps. It seemed like there were too many of them.

At the door, this early in the morning, I expected it to be locked. It wasn’t.

Mr. Curtis opened it and swung it wide. Giving me a look to the side. He hopped in and I followed. The door closed quietly behind us.

The tile was immaculate. I walked, hearing my footfalls echo down. “Mr. Curtis, how much exactly do you keep in that hat of yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always seem to have what we need in it.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Unlikely.”

“I’m doing my best here. I was never good at magic.”

“No?”

“Much better doing this. I’d rather not be on stage. What about you?”

“You know, I’d see patients.”

“You’re retired though.”

“Doesn’t Mean I…”

Something clattered ahead of us.

“What was that?”

We ran down and found him on the floor. He was a mole, dressed in a monk’s habit, lying on the floor near a grand basin before three sets of tall solid oak doors that led further into a sanctuary.

We ran up to help him up.

“Thank you, Thank you.”

“Is this the holy water?” I asked.

“It is,” he said. One of the sanctuary doors quietly closed.

“We… need…”

“How much?”

The frog just looked at him, then back at the monk. “All of it?”

“I understand.” He reached under the basin, touched a switch, and brought out two bottles. They looked like vodka bottles, with crosses on them.

“Ah.”

“Take ‘em.”

The frog smiled. I kept one under my arm, and Mr. Curtis slid the other into his hat.

“Come on,” said Mr. Curtis.

“Not here,” said the monk, “don’t disturb him here. Yes, I know he’s here.”

We pushed through into the sanctuary. It was darker than the previous hall. He was sitting there in the front row, breathing and huffing.

We walked down the aisle and sat in front of him on the steps before the altar. His tentacles hung there without touching the floor.

“You can’t just take who you want,” I said.

“I know.” Again, the response was in my mind.

“Just let me rest.”

We sat down.

“Where do you come from?”

“Here? The deep? Depths. It’s been so long. All we know is dark.”

“Do you have a leader?”

“We have. He tells us to break free. We must take the surface back.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s too much trouble.”

“It’s not worth it.”

He perked up. “Oh, it’s worth it. I just don’t know if the cost will simply be too heavy.”

“I’d like it to work out. Is there any other way?” I said, while Mr. Curtis sprinkled salt under him all over the side floor around him and then started hitting the surrounding pew.

“We just get a host. It’s the only way we know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Curtis.

The frog doused him. I didn’t even see him pour the glass.

Shadow Street Chapter 7

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

Buy Yours Here:

Amazon - Books2Read

“Mr. Curtis, what happened?”

We ran up to him where he was standing there, covered in donuts, his hat to the side. His monocle still hung from his eye and he had the silliest smile on his face.

“What?” said the frog.

There was a blank expression in his eyes.

“Let’s get them off of him.”

We started pulling donuts off him, popping them over his wrists, and then after pushing him to the ground with the cushion of baked goods around him, onto his back so we could disentangle his feet. Soon he lay there on the ground.

“Here’s your hat at least,” I said, putting it back on his head. This seemed to clear his mind ever so much and he seemed to look at us for the first time realizing…

“Well, then!” He reached into his hat and pulled out a long nightshirt. “That’ll do.” He rummaged for a second longer and pulled out a pair of red bedroom slippers. He put his feet in them, then wriggled into the nightshirt and put his hat back on. “Good as new! Come on, this way.”

He hopped down the hall, left and right.

“Which way are we going?”

“Listen, Dr. James, the singing! This way!”

He pointed in one direction and completely hopped in another. Mrs. Smith and I did our best to keep up, following his hopping flapping body in as best a serpentine fashion as we could.

“Wait, I can hear it,” said Mrs. Smith, and faint, I thought I could as well.

“It must be this way,” I said.

We scrambled around, down in the tunnels, and came around to a small balcony overlooking a large room. I covered the ceiling with glistening stalactites hanging from it. Lights from a fire pit below shined on it. There were several other small balconies like this one across the way, but they were all dark.

Down below, around the fire pit, were several folks, mostly moles, and a couple of mice, again with strange octopus creatures holding onto their faces. Each extended two tentacles, one to the left, the other to the right, and they were touching each other as they danced, or used their possessed bodies to dance around the fire pit.

“Do you recognize anyone down there?” I said.

“Anyone? I recognize all of them!”

“They all come to your shop?”

“Yes, I’ve seen all of them recently.”

“In the last few days?”

“I don’t know, but I think I’ve sold things to all of them.”

“What do we do?” said Mrs. Smith.

“Nothing yet. We’ll have to watch them,” I said.

Curtis was back down from crawling over the edge. “No jumping just yet, friend.”

“Humph.” Mr. Curtis folded his arms.

“Cut it out.”

I peaked over the banister’s edge and looked down, but all I could see were people dancing in the dark around a fire, and what seemed just a few people at that. I pulled a small pair of binoculars out and peered down below, and got a look right into one of their mouths.

“Yeah,” I said, then looked again. They were dancing around, holding onto each other’s tentacles, and swaying around, their arms hanging by their sides, to no music I could hear, and then they released each other in unison and I watched as the creatures slowly retreated into their mouths. A moment later, they were blinking and staggering around, and the fire went out.

“Now,” I said.

Mr. Curtis jumped over the side, giving me a wink on his way over.

“What? Mr. Curtis!” said Mrs. Smith. She ran to the edge to see Mr. Curtis deftly land and slide the rest of the way down to them, on a random stair banister. He landed in his pajamas and wandered into their midst, waving his arms and acting as disoriented as they were.

“How do we?” I said.

“This way.” Mrs. Smith took me by the hand and dragged me around the corner where the stairs were. We ran down to find Mr. Curtis helping a young mole up.

“There you go.”

The mole looked at us. “Where are we?”

“No idea,” lied Mr. Curtis. “Do you know?”

“This way everybody,” said Mrs. Smith. “This way.” She waved her arms. “Link Up everybody, link up.”

Everyone took a hand, and she led us out, occasionally I took the lead for a couple of turns, and mostly, Mr. Curtis kept up the persona of a dazed fool who didn’t know where they were, like the rest of them, on one or two occasions he sent us in the right direction when no one was looking.

“This way,” said Mrs. Smith, as we passed the mushrooms.

They passed under strange pipes and up to a strange mossy set of stairs. Above them, a gas lamp, covered in metal and glass, burned and flickered, casting strange shadows on the ground.

“This way everybody, follow me,” said Mr. Curtis. He hopped cheerfully up the stairs and found the door locked, but his face didn’t falter. He twisted the handle, and it rocked, but remained still.

He pulled a fine feather from his hat and jiggered it in the lock as the other folks were climbing the stairs. It clicked with a satisfying thunk and then twisted the knob and opened it as if it belonged to him personally.

“This way, this way.” He reached in through the door and found a candle on a holder which he lit, and picking it up by the little ring holder, he went in and proclaimed everything okay. “Through here, yes, right this way.”

He led them through and into the next room, which was someone’s front parlor connected to a ballroom. All the lights were otherwise out and there was a coating of dust on the floor that was sticking to my furry toes.

“I say, Mr. Curtis…”

“This way,” said the hopping frog. He led them right to the front door, and out into the night streets. Corners were lit with gas lanterns and a couple of cabs were still on the road.

I shared a look at Mrs. Smith and then with Mr. Curtis, and we hailed three of them for our woozy friends. I paid for the coaches and Mrs. Smith and Mr. Curtis gave them all scratches behind the ears. A black pug pulled one, and Scottish terriers pulled the other two. Mrs. Smith gave them all tickets for a roll and a coffee after we sent them home. After we walked Mrs. Smith back to her shop, we wanted to see if we could see them again.

We were stepping up to her front door and about to enter when she hacked, coughed, and held her neck.

“Mrs. Smith?” I said.

“Oh dear,” said Mr. Curtis.

We held her by her arms, one draped over my shoulder, and another in Mr. Curtis’s hand, when she erupted like a spring, spitting yesterday’s lunch from last Tuesday all over the steps. She sprayed like a faucet and soup coffee and dinner rolls splattered across my vest.

“Dr. James, I… Dr. James… Mr. Curtis…”

Then the tentacles erupted from her face. They splayed out like a pinwheel in the wind and wrapped around her head. Eyes came out of her upturned mouth, with a snapping beak, and her teeth and jaw hung slack. Her eyes were dark, and staring into nothing, lids loose and unfocused.

“Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith!” I said.

Mr. Curtis held her hand, aiding me to support her now relatively limp body.

“Mary-Anne!” I screamed.

“Friend, I think it’s taken her.”

She shook out of our arms and staggered away, shuffling like a zombie with a broken foot, back out towards the street, then the tentacles reached and touched the ground, and pushed her feet up off the ground. It carried its body-shell with it and headed down the street, her feet trailing behind her.

“By Jove…”

One tentacle, sickly yellow and pale in the moonlight, reached up, and they carried her up and over a building, and through the chimney tops.

It left us standing in the street in front of Mr. smith’s bakery.

“It’s in the rolls,” said Mr. Curtis.

“I’m realizing that now.”

“I wonder how long we have before one takes us, too?”

“I’m not sure, but I would certainly like to know what we can do.”

“How many people have they taken already?”

“Could be hundreds?”

“More than that shop here.”

“And it’s not just here. Who knows where else this is happening?”

“This is much larger than just us.”

We were already walking home, we just didn’t realize it. We made our way around the corner and back down the hill toward shadow street.

“I think I’m going to need a change of clothes,” I said, looking at my vest.

“Me too,” said Mr. Curtis. It’s not like I keep another suit in my hat. I’ll have to think of that for next time.

“How much can you keep in that thing?”

“It’s a magician’s hat. What do you think? I don’t know. I think it would bust the illusion for me to tell you.”

“Of course.”

We hiked down shadow street, past a line of businesses on the corner, then larger residences, then into townhouses, and straight up.

“Mrs. Constellation will not understand what we are up against here.”

“No, we’ll have to explain.”

“Pale slimy creatures of the night, erupting from the mouths of our friends and neighbors.”

“A strange ritual underground.”

“That we are likely to see next.”

The clock tower rang in the distance at one o’clock. Even from this far away, you could still see it, the face illuminated pale and dim, but there, a circle in the distance, you could count on more reliably than the half-moon above them.

Something passed in front of the moon, silent as the night. It was only briefly darker for a second, a shadow passing over them.

We looked for the source, but couldn’t see anything.

“Here we are.”

We stepped up the front steps, and I opened the door with my key, Mr. Curtis’s having been lost earlier. I had to find it, fishing through a pocket Mrs. Smith had vomited on. I gathered it, opened the door, and behind it stood Mrs. Constellation, covered head to toe in stringy yellow tentacles coming from her mouth.

The creature controlling her stared us down.

Her body was not slack, but her muscles were tense. She looked like a walking full-body muscle spasm.

“Mrs. Constellation…” I said.

“Is no more,” came from the creature. I could not tell where its mouth was until it revealed its beak the next moment and said, “And soon you too, and then the world.”

She shut the door on us. We were out in the cold. These creatures had infected our client and so many other locals, and we were certainly next.

I stayed on the first step.

Mr. Curtis went and banged on the door again. He was indignant. He beat on the door with his fists, calling over and over for Mrs. Constellation to open up. I thought him mad.

Then the door opened, and the creature trailing Mrs. Constellation’s body behind it stepped out.

“Who are you?” he demanded, standing there in his nightshirt and magician’s hat. “Tell me what you want!”

“We are coming to the surface. We are coming up from underneath, where we have lived for so long, in the shadows.”

“We know something about that. It doesn’t give to be hostile.”

“It’s the only way we’ve ever known.”

“Come on, try it.” Mr. Curtis’ face gave a wide smile, then croaked accidentally. “Excuse me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

It slammed the door on him again, then he came to sit with me on the first step.

“You know where else we can get a change of clothes?” I asked.

“I got nothing,” said the frog. He sat, looking with one eye into his hat. “Not a rabbit in sight.”

Shadow Street Chapter 6

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

Buy Yours Here:

Amazon - Books2Read

“Come here, come here,” said Mr. Curtis. He danced at the end of the counter.

“Let’s get this thing started,” I said. I made my way with Mrs. Smith around the counter.

“Help me with the boxes,” said Mrs. Smith. She waved to me, and I reached up above a cabinet and retrieved a stack of boxes, each made of thick paper, and about the size of a single-layer cake.

“Sorry, we closed earlier than usual. We’ll probably need more than that.”

I laid them on the counter. There were seven.

“Where are they?” said Mr. Curtis.

“Next to the ovens.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Mr. Curtis jiggled by me, swinging around, and disappeared into the kitchen. We heard clang after clang as he went for the wrong things. Each time Mrs. Smith would wince.

Bang! “Sounds like the pans.”

Clang! “The tea sets.”

Smash! “Oh goodness.”

“I found them!” He called from the back.

She looked at me. “You must have a strong friendship.”

“Why do you say?”

“Because I think I’d wring his froggy neck if it were just me.”

I smiled. “It’ll be all right. Assuming we’re not all dead already,” I said.

Her smile faltered. For a moment, I knew she either thought she was cracking down the middle or we were, and she wasn’t sure who it was.

Mr. Curtis appeared with a pile of the boxes in hand and running among the counter dropped them all at Mrs. Smith’s feet, then put his hands on his hips and stood there, either like a pirate or like some kind of superhero. I wasn’t sure what he was up to.

“Thank you, Mr. Curtis,” she said, gritting her teeth just a little. “Let’s get started.”

We opened the first three boxes onto the counter in a line, then she started by filling each one with a pile of muffins.

“I can’t sell anything else, so anything you think you could eat, feel free.”

“You mean of this? That’s safe.” I said.

“Quiet.” She covered her mouth.

For Mr. Curtis it seemed that for every third muffin that got put in his box, one went into his hat. I couldn’t keep up and lost count, but it seemed like a lot. There were a few rolls left behind, and they went in there as well.

We set those boxes on the counter and opened three more. Into them went scones and biscuits, crackers, and bread sticks. They filled the boxes evenly with various assortments, then after moving those boxes away, we set about doing what turned out to be the last five, full of donuts.

They were cream-filled, cake, glazed, and chocolate. Some were covered in sprinkles. Some were shiny, others dull, but they all smelled wonderful.

Alone of what was there, I kept one of the plainer donuts and fixed us all strong coffee as we helped Mrs. Smith empty the coffee and tea services.

“Here we are. Let’s take them back,” said Mrs. Smith. We each took a box and brought them to the back by the loading door, just as she always had. We set them down, then continued the journey until all eleven boxes were back there, all ready to go.

She dragged a small table back from the dining room and Mr. Curtis followed her in with three chairs held aloft, but unable to see. He seemed to be trying echolocation to find his way based on the amount of noise he was making. I quickly helped him and took two of his chairs away so he could see again.

“Oh, hello there,” he said.

“My goodness, let’s sit down.”

We arranged the chairs, and brought in the coffee, and what refreshments we believed to be safe. Mostly, Mr. Curtis would remove his hat, pull out a random donut or something, munch on it calmly with the hat firmly back on his head, then he’d get another one out again a few moments later.

“You didn’t have any maggot bread, did you?” He asked, as serious as could be. I thought about apologizing for him but decided he did that, or something like it all on his own with a shrug.

“I’m sorry, no,” she said.

“Darn!”

The lights were dim.

Outside, we could see the carriages going by, each pulled by a competent dog. I thought of our apartment.

“Tell me about yourself, Mr. James,” she said.

“Dr. James,” corrected the frog, a single index finger in the air waving around one of his sticky pads.

“Dr. James, I’m sorry! I understand the two of you share the townhouse you work out of. Is that true?”

“It is,” I said. “It’s mine, left to me by my father. I don’t need the whole place to myself, so I rent the second bedroom to Mr. Curtis.”

“Were you an investigator first?”

“Hardly,” said Mr. Curtis.

“I’m a doctor, I was a field surgeon in the war, and I used to practice General medicine until last year.”

“And you?” She turned her attention to Mr. Curtis.

“I am Curtis the magnificent!” He flared his coat like it was a cloak. It didn’t quite work, and his left hand just sort of poked out. “I’m a magician. Mostly children’s parties, and some other gatherings, but I have a problem. Want to see a card trick?” He pulled a deck of cards, no cover, ready for shuffling, which he did, out of thin air.

“No, I don’t, sorry.”

He shrugged and dropped the cards.

“What’s your problem?” She took the frog’s hand.

“Trouble follows me everywhere. Strange tales. Unusual tidings. Freak theater fires. I developed a knack for figuring things out, though. Patterns emerge, even when you’re not looking for them.”

“Especially when you don’t want them to,” I said.

“Since he’s the detective,” she said.

Mr. Curtis was looking at our pile of boxes of excess baked goods.

“What’s your role in all this?”

“I’m here to keep him on track, and out of as much trouble as I can.”

“Real good at splinting my arm, I can tell you that.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Interesting thing here,” said the frog.

“What’s that?” I took a sip of coffee and a bite of something I can no longer recall the taste of, except it seemed pretty dry to me.

“Didn’t we have eleven boxes here?”

“We did.”

“Well, now we have nine.”

“Nine? We brought out eleven,” she said. I thought she was going to crawl all over me.

“Yes, I count nine.”

I ran over and started counting.

“Need my magnifying glass?”

“I don’t think so. Yes, it’s nine.”

“There it is!” I heard myself saying it, but a lot was going on honestly. There was a yellow tentacle on the floor coming from the large drain. An eye popped up, and it heaved a box up, wrapping around it, and bracing with another appendage, pulled the box down.

“Eight,” said Mr. Curtis.

I dodged out of the way, and it grabbed another one. I jumped out of the way and let it go.

“Seven,” yelled Mrs. Smith.

“I know, yes!” said Mr. Curtis. “This is fantastic!”

“I can’t argue with that.”

Another one shot out and grabbed another box.

“Six!”

Two tentacles flew out and grabbed more, “five and four!”

Mr. Curtis jumped in one box.

“No!” I said.

“Oh yes,” he said back and began emptying one box of donuts as quickly as he could, spilling them everywhere.

“What are you doing?” she and I said together as the other two boxes went.

He closed himself in the box as a dozen yellow tentacles, thin and strong, whipped out not only to grab the box he was in but to clean all the remaining food off the floor. Tentacles whipped out to trip us up. One had three donuts on it, others curled gingerly around muffins and cookies. Both eyes were up, then everything sucked down the drain.

Slime was everywhere. The tentacles slipped away like spaghetti getting slurped up by a toddler. The eyes ducked down, and the last thing I saw before Mrs. Smith and I were alone in the loading room, was Mr. Curtis’s box pop open and an incredibly floppy happy frog wave to us as he found himself sucked down the drain with the rest of everything.

The oil lamp at the side of the room snuffed out, and the table we were sitting at so briefly fell over with a crash.

Mrs. Smith and I were in the dark, standing on the edge of the drain, which was massive now that some creatures below had come through it, holding paws and staring down into the darkness listening as my friend screamed, chortled, and tally-hoed his way down into the tunnels under the town, laughing like an idiot.

“Come on,” she said, and before I could say under no circumstances, she yanked on my hand and we tumbled into darkness. At first, I didn’t understand it, because I expected it to be a short tumble into a deep pipe, but the fall seemed to last for an eon. We slipped, slid, and powered our way down wet dirty tunnels that were covered in phosphorescent paint. With everything lit up in pale blues, pinks and yellows, I realized it must be from the very slime of the creatures we were looking at.

“Here, I’ll help you,” said a voice in the dark. Mrs. Smith helped me up. It took our eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and the new colors surrounding us.

“It’s quite beautiful,” isn’t it?

“Yes, almost as beautiful as…”

“I am?”

“I was going to say the Milky Way, away from city lights, but yes.”

“So, you’re not interested in Mr. Curtis?”

“What? No, he’s like a brother to me. If a frog can be a rat’s brother, anyway. No one is going to believe what’s down here.”

They turned a corner, found a fork in the tunnel, and took the one more brightly decorated.

“I am going to have to take a serious shower after all of this.”

“Your trousers seem dry, and your jacket.”

“Yes, well, I think I’m going to be trying to wipe this memory from my mind later.”

“You do that.” She curled her paw into his elbow and held onto him as the passage both widened, and became somewhat darker, even though luminescent mushrooms were sprouting in here and they were casting a soft glow on the crystalline ceiling up above.

“Have we passed into a cave?”

“I don’t think so. Look, there’s still a curve to the wall, and it joins up down there with other pipes. I just don’t think this gets used much.”

“It’s used by someone.”

“Or something.” She grabbed me hard then by my elbow, and I turned to see her mouth wide open, filled with yellow tendrils and extra eyes. A single tentacle that had to originate at least as deep as the gut shot from her mouth and I ducked it. It flung out and snagged a crystal on the ceiling, and pulled it down, reeling the big one in for another punch.

It breathed.

“Dr. James?” I heard her original voice speaking, fighting with what was inside her.

“Mrs. Smith?”

Then there were two. One Mrs. Smith, with what looked like a sick octopus in her mouth, and the other one, mad and unleashing furious anger, only a cook with too many timers going to know the truth if. She pulled up a huge chunk of crystal and lunged it down on the creature.

It leaped from her mouth.

She or it, or whatever. Something turned inside out and scampered down the hall. It looked like a small yellow octopus with an extra punching arm and eyes. It started around a corner as I took Mrs. Smith’s hand.

“Is it…”

“Injured maybe.”

“Are you Okay?” we both asked at the same time.

We nodded and laughed at each other.

“Is he?”

“I doubt it.”

Then we heard him ahead of us. We dived through a side passage where the sounds were coming from and there was Mr. Curtis. Naked, yet covered head to toe, arm to arm in donuts. His hat lay to the side.

He looked at us, and without skipping a beat said, “you want to see a trick?”

Shadow Street Chapter 5

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

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Amazon - Books2Read

“Let’s go,” I said. I patted Mr. Curtis on the shoulder. He croaked, blinked his left eye, and then a second later his right.

“Right.”

We bounded off up the front stairs and pushed our way into the shop. She wasn’t kidding. The place was hopping. It was teaming with visitors, patrons eating a roll, donut, or sticky bun while enjoying a spot of tea or a large cup of coffee during their lunch hour. There were a variety of mice, rats, moles, and a chameleon in the corner, all wearing work clothes, suits, or other daily wear. There was a family of hamsters down at the head of the line, and we could see, behind the counter, Mrs. Smith running back and forth, fulfilling orders and taking care of customers, ordering employees around otherwise surviving the moment.

“There she is,” said Mr. Curtis.

“What do we do about it?”

“This way.”

We fought through the crowd, twisting around them, but couldn’t penetrate the line. A pair of bats who were discussing a meeting they were going to this afternoon turned and stared us down.

I looked at Mr. Curtis.

He apologized, saying “excuse me,” then to me “let’s get in line.” So we did.

Looking around, we could see that all the side tables, and a lounge area next to the fireplace were filled with folks settled neatly into handsome leather chairs.

In the middle of the room was a standing series of tables, where most folks were. They were leaving almost as quickly as they came in, but no one in here seemed to be infected. I was watching everyone closely as I could, but no one seemed in the least bit distressed, except possibly for Mrs. Smith, and she simply looked like someone dealing with a lunch rush worth of people, yet I kept expecting trouble.

Mr. Curtis appeared to be on alert as well. He was behaving strangely, which meant more strangely than he usually did. He kept darting his eyes around, looking under tables, and taking his hat off to look in it, only to put it back on so he could pull it off again to look in it, and then squeeze down onto the floor to look at everyone’s shoes, then hop up and try to spin around, and put his hat back on.

I’m glad it wasn’t just me because a pair of mice ahead of us kept scooting out of his way, giving him dirty looks.

“Curtis!”

“What?”

“What are you…”

“Looking.”

“Stop.”

“James, clues, you know.”

“I think they’ll find us by this point.”

He looked in his hat again.

“What are you looking at in there? I gave to say sometimes I do not know what or how you keep anything in there.”

“I used to be a magician.”

“I know that. Never mind, what are you watching in there?”

“An egg. At least I think it’s an egg.”

I looked in the hat.

“I can see nothing.”

Then he waved his hand over the open hat. I imagine an almost automatic gesture for him, then reached in and pulled one roll out from this morning and showed it to me.

“My goodness Curtis, that’s three times the size it was this morning.”

It was. As they held it up, it dwarfed his gray-green hand. It looked like it was expanding and building up in different directions. Little ballooning pockets. I almost expected one to rupture and explode like a boil, but that’s not the thing you expect from a sticky bun.

He held it aloft and twisted it around for me to see.

“How long has it been doing this?”

“Since we left Arthur’s tower.”

“I say. Put that thing away.”

He dropped it back into his hat and put it back on. I couldn’t see how he could stand knowing that was up there.

“How can you just put it on like that, knowing it’s up in there?”

“Have you ever gotten used to keeping a sparrow in your hat?”

“No, and I’ve known too many to—”

“Well, once you get used to one of them hopping around up there, you can keep anything in your hat without thinking twice.”

“Maybe in your hat.”

“Precisely.”

We stepped up in line.

Mr. Curtis and I were now near a set of chairs by an end table where two fellows and a lady were taking tea. They had a plate of sandwiches between them that had three trays. The top tray was little desserts topped with cream and berries. The middle comprised rolls, and the bottom was cucumber sandwiches.

They were having a wonderful lunch when Mr. Curtis leaned over and said, “Excuse me, I think one of your rolls is hatching.”

“What?” said the lady with wide eyes. She was a mouse in a red dress wearing a tall hat with a purple plume feather coming from it. “Excuse me?”

“Your role there, it seems to be…”

A yellow tentacle popped from the side of the roll she was holding daintily in her right paw.

“Ah!”

She held it away from her and closed her eyes.

“M’lady, please,” said Mr. Curtis. “Please allow me to…” he reached out to take it from her when another squirming, yellow one popped out the other side. She dropped the bun on the floor, snarled, baring her teeth, and stomped on it, skewering the roll with a particularly devastating spiked high heel. She pulled her foot back, and the shoe remained.

Tentacles popped, grabbed the shoe, and twisted around it. She stomped again, then folks scrambled and scattered over tables.

“What is that?” said someone who had just lost their soup all over themselves. Tables fell and folks ran. The doors burst and the place emptied.

Mr. Curtis picked it up by hand in the middle of the chaos. It had closed over the shoe and tightened into a ball. He lifted it, and people around us hit the walls, plastered by fear.

I could hear Mrs. Smith in the background. “Everybody, please stay calm. Everything will be okay… ugh. What? Is? that?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Curtis. “I think it’s from another world.” He held it up, holding the shoe by the toe. “Very interesting.” He pulled a wooden spoon, I have no from where, and poked at it. The octopus creature squelched and tightened and the heel popped off and fell on the floor and rolled away under a turned-over table.

He poked it again.

It grabbed the spoon. “Eh!”

It dropped the shoe and hung off the spoon from underneath. It started climbing up quicker than I thought it could. I wondered how fast these creatures could move underwater.

It jumped on Curtis’s face. He ducked, and then it headed straight for me. I grabbed a glass from a table, and slinging cold brewed coffee everywhere, I smacked the creature to the floor. It ran from us, dragging two tentacles behind it. And either tripping around or rolling like some kind of insect, closed up and flying down a hill.

Rats ran. Some jumped, and others tumbled. Curtis was running after it, or closer hopping after it, and I was just trying to keep my eye on it while it bounded straight for Mrs. Smith, who was screaming.

“Kill it!” said someone.

“What is it?” said someone else.

“Not breakfast,” said someone else.

People were scrambling in every direction.

It crawled up on the counter-top.

Mrs. Smith screamed.

I slapped my arm down on one side of the counter between it and Mrs. smith, and it turned around, rolling like a ball, its tentacles slapping everywhere back towards Mr. Curtis, who had his hat ready. It rolled right into the hat and he trapped it underneath.

For a second, it was bumping around, trying to get out.

“Is it in there?” I said.

“I’m not sure,” said the frog. He peaked under, then quickly smashed it back down on the counter. “Yep, it’s in there.”

“Close up shop,” I said.

“Right,” said Mrs. Smith.

She jumped over the table and started shooing the people who hadn’t gotten out already. They were ready and willing to escape, tumbling out the door. When the last of them had scrambled out and gotten their hats together, she locked the door and she and I dimmed the lights and shuttered the windows.

“Bring it here,” I said.

“Right ho,” said Mr. Curtis. He brought the hat and placed it on a table in the middle just as I righted it. The three of us drew up chairs, each keeping a hand or paw on it as much as we could.

Someone knocked on the door. “Are you open?”

Mrs. Smith got up to answer it, but I held up my hand and shook my head. “Not yet.”

She sat back down.

“Let’s find out what’s in here,” I said. “Turn it over, Mr. Curtis.”

“Yes. Right.” He flipped the hat over, and each of us stepped back a little. It was dim, but we could see fairly well. The hat was dark.

It rocked a little. It bumped to the side.

An eye popped up on a yellow stalk. It blinked and looked at each of us.

A tentacle tentatively came out to writhe around, then another one, as another eye came up to look at me.

“Mr. Curtis,” said Mrs. Smith. “It’s moving.”

Then it was out. It flopped on the table and the hat went skittering.

“It’s out!” I said.

“Yeah, it’s out!” said Mr. Curtis. It rolled, tucking its eyes in, and splatted to the floor.

“Catch it again!” I yelled.

“Yahoo!” said the frog. He put on his hat and we were off, chasing it behind the counter, and back through the kitchens.

It slid under the counter and into the oven. We were after it with brooms. Mr. Curtis was slapping at the floor with a mop when we chased it into the back room.

“Not the drain, Mr. Curtis!”

It was flipping and sliding, avoiding blows and whipping left and right. We were right behind it. Mr. Curtis threw his hat, trying to trap it again, but it fell short, and the creature made it down the drain.

It slipped through the bars and vanished below the building.

We sat on the floor panting and clutching our chests. At least I was. Mr. Curtis just sat there and burped.

“Mr. Curtis!”

“Yes, Dr. James?”

He burped again.

“Oh, never mind. Let’s help Mrs. Smith clean up.”

Burp.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

We got up and blocked the drain by dragging several bags of flour as many as we could find, and covering it as best we could, and then helped her clean the tables up and bring the dining room back into order.

“What’s left?” I asked.

“The donations for the morning.”

“Right.”

There were still many rolls, buns, and muffins in the case of the lunch crowd. Mrs. Smith lined up several boxes. Admitting was more than usual, and we filled ten with extras to put in the back for pickup the next morning.

I looked over at the pile of flour bags, unsure. I’d seen enough strange things today.

“We should stay here tonight,” said the frog. “Yes, that’s what we will do, if you’ll allow us, Mrs. Smith.”

“What?”

“Yes, we’ll watch and see. Perhaps nothing will happen.”

“But maybe it will,” I said.

“Which will help us all unravel this mystery!”

“Of course. I’ll lock up.” She left reluctantly after Mr. Curtis assured her many times. After most of the lights dimmed, the shutters were closed, and she was gone, headed to her home on foot. It turned to my green friend.

“Now what?” I folded my arms.

He croaked. “We wait.”

Shadow Street Chapter 4

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

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Amazon - Books2Read

The owl ruffled its feathers and peered down at us with large orange eyes that tore my soul out of my body. I felt weak in the ankles and held onto Mr. Curtis by the hat to keep from falling over. Trouble was, he was jumping up and down, trying to get us killed.

“Freeze, frog,” I said, trying to hold him still, but he got out from under my grasp and jumped up onto a pile of old newspapers the owl must have been keeping.

“Mr. Curtis!”

Nothing. He stood up, took his hat off, and bowed before the great owl.

The owl flew down to a bar closer to us. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark.

“Greetings,” said the frog.

“Save it,” said the owl. This caused Mr. Curtis to step back a little, even if slightly.

The owl flew closer again, now face to face with Mr. Curtis. I realized I was closer to the owl now than I could imagine. I felt like lunch on a stick, running around in front of him like an idiot.

“Arthur,” said the owl.

“What?” I said, without knowing it.

“Sorry, Sir. Arthur,” said Curtis. He bowed again.

“I assume you’ve got something to show me?” Arthur shook out a wing and pointed to Mr. Curtis’s hat on the floor.

“Yes, here. We encountered these in a bakery nearby, and I was wondering…” he handed one bun up, and the bird snatched it in its beak and ate it so quickly that I fell to the floor.

As he chewed, he looked over at me, where I was cowering, and still expecting to be eaten any second. “What’s his, um, problem, Mr. Curtis?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” said Mr. Curtis.

I struggled to my feet as Arthur chewed, and looked at the ceiling, then quickly back at me. He jumped to the floor and crouched down to look through my eyes and into my brain. He finished the roll. And opened his beak and stretched it. I survived, as I’ve been able to chronicle this adventure, so I stood my ground. He turned his head to look at me a different way and smacked his beak one more time.

“I’ve tasted this evil once before,” said the owl. He flew back up to a more comfortable perch for him and turned around after shaking his tail feathers at us. One of them fell to the ground at our feet.

“Take that. Throw it in a fire if you need to see me, and it’s an emergency.”

I picked up the feather and tucked it in my jacket pocket, unsure exactly what he meant by that.

“Curtis, have you seen anything like this before. It’s not as simple as a curse or common magic. I believe we are looking at something from beyond.”

Arthur twisted its head to something on the floor. It was Mr. Curtis’s hat. One roll fell to the floor and was wriggling away, little tentacles growing through the dough.

It shot one out at Mr. Curtis and wrapped around his legs, knocking him down. He struggled, and I watched, unable to move as it got larger and larger. It was crawling up to the frog’s gaping mouth, where he was trying to breathe and get control. He scraped at the floor, right as Arthur landed, his talons ripping directly into Mr. Curtis’s belly. No, not Mr. Curtis, the tangled tentacle-bun. The owl squished it to shreds, never arming my friend.

I helped him up.

“Have you got another one in there, Mr. Curtis?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Give it to me. I’ve got something to check, please.”

“Here it is,” he said, handing it up, and putting his top hat back in place.

“I’ll be in touch Curtis. Be careful. This isn’t your ordinary mystery.”

Arthur gently took the roll in its talons, hopped toward the crack in the inside of the clock face, and flew away, out across the city.

“Well, I knew that, didn’t I?” said the frog.

“You almost got us killed.”

“Arthur, no. He’d never kill me.”

“I’m not talking about you, you numskull. Do you see all this around us?”

“Bones, I know how owls eat.”

“Bones of rats and mice.”

He blinked and looked around at the tiny piles of bones around, behind the stacks of newspapers.

“Oh,” he said. He could comprehend if you worked with him sometimes.

“How do we get down out of here?”

“Back this way.” He hopped through piles of decimated, broken bones, and newspaper clippings, and I followed him down the path to the elevators we had come up. It seemed more morbid on the way out than on the way in.

We got into the elevator and took it down to the ground floor, and went back out onto the street. Above us in the sky, Arthur circled, spied with his exceptional eyes, and glided away until we could no longer see him.

We stepped out onto the pavement, and Mr. Curtis jumped and leaped his way down the street.

“I say, Mr. Curtis.”

“Come on, no cabs this close to Arthur’s tower.”

“Oh, no.”

I carried on after him. I could run pretty quickly, but only in short bursts. Every once in a while I had to run behind something, more an instinct than anything, and hide, then. I was back on his trail again. We got back out to Main Street, and traffic picked up again. Dogs pulled cabs as they barked about pests in their fur and what kind of treatment they were going to eat when they got home.

I stuck out my hand and waved down a dachshund, pulling a cab.

“Hello, there gents.”

Mr. Curtis hopped up. “Heading down Main Street to Mrs. Smith’s bakery. You know it?”

“Best biscuits in town, with a nice water dish out back.”

“That’s the one,” I said and got in. Mr. Curtis tipped his hat at the dog and gut in, closing the door behind him, and we were off.

The streets were uneven, and I just held on and dealt with it. Beside us several folks passed us, riding reigned rabbits. They were leaping in and out of the other cabs and plenty of people, other rats, frogs, moles, and the occasional possum going here and there.

We pulled up to the bakery. We got out and just as I was trying to pay the dog, his eyes widened and he bolted down the street.

“Hey, I…”

Mr. Curtis tapped me.

“What?”

He tapped me again, and I turned around to see someone walking down the way, a gentleman, certainly a rat, wearing a dark suit, and clutching at his neck, his throat, gagging.

“Dr. James?” Said Curtis.

“Let’s go.”

I was already running across the street when I said it. I ran him down, and got to him, just as tendrils, like the ones we saw coming from the rolls came from his mouth. He clutched at his throat as the tendrils wrapped around his face and neck. It reached around and buried itself into his ears, and covered his eyes with rounded nods that slowly opened, first the left, then he could no longer breathe.

I jumped back, as did Mr. Curtis, got back up, and blinked silently at me, his head now covered by this octopus-like creature.

“Oh, dear. That man.”

“That is freaky!”

“Curtis!”

“What?”

The man, with the creature attached to his face, straightened his jacket and walked away like there wasn’t a yellow creature there at all.

“You ever seen anything like this before?” I said.

“Nope,” said the frog. He caught a stray fly as they watched him amble up the way.

He sort of shambled to the left and ambled to the right, and skidded into the wall. His arms were limp at his side, but one tentacle stretched out from the side of his head and pushed against the wall with a pair of suckers.

“What on earth is that?” I said.

“I don’t know, but it’s interesting.” He hopped on, behind the man, weaving in and out, trailing behind him. I watched from a distance. Two yellow tentacles wrapped around and back down his jacket. They weaved around keeping balance, as one near the front felt around for the ground.

“I say,” said Curtis.

He followed him, three steps behind, watching the tendrils wave as he weaved around.

“This is outstanding James, look!” He reached up, under one tendril to pull on it.

“No!” I said, running to catch up with him before… and he grabbed it, anyway.

The rat turned around, with the octopus plastered to his head. It opened its beak in the center of its face, its maw, which was surrounded by smaller twitching mandibles, and squealed.

I ducked. Curtis’s mouth opened wide in excitement, and a large, thick shaft of a rubbery fist, an arm ending in curved, spiked fingers, flew out of the middle of nowhere between the jaws of his beak. It slid out and punched the frog squarely in the jaw. He flew back into the road, his legs sprawling in all directions. He landed on his rear and his hat rolled into the middle of the street where a dog driving a cab ran over it and missed it entirely. It swirled around and flew back into the frog’s hand. It was a total fluke, but he acted like it was all part of the plan.

“That was amazing!” He stood up and ran after him.

“No, Curtis, no!”

He ran after the guy, who was turning the corner.

I huffed my way around there in time to see him reach out with four tendrils and start climbing up the side of the roof.

“What the,” I said.

“Isn’t he Interesting?”

“Curtis, I…”

“What did you expect, murders and missing kittens?”

“I don’t know, I… never thought…”

“With me, it’s the weird stuff!”

Mr. Curtis bounded after him, jumping up to the roof. He was an exceptional jumper. He looked as shrewd-footed as a brilliant dancer, yet going from chimney to roof peak to another. I just sight of him, but from the ground. I couldn’t see well enough, but Mr. Curtis got him from behind, pulled, pulled, and used his feet to leverage the rest, and yanked the creature free of the man’s face.

He flung it far, and I saw it swing wide and dive into a chimney with a puff of wild smoke.

The rat heaved a breath of life and Mr. Curtis took hold of him by the shoulders. Looking around, he said, “what am I doing up here?”

“It’s okay, this way down.” He guided him down the easiest possible way. “That’s right, one at a time there. Come on. This way. Here you go. You remember what happened?”

I came up by their side.

“I was, um, coming out of the bakery, and headed over to the watch shop when I…”

“Headed off the roof?”

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He checked his watch, which was not working, and put it back in his pocket.”

He looked around.

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah. Thank you.”

He turned, and with a nod, headed up the street.

“Well then,” I said.

“Well then,” he said back.

“What the heck are we up against?”

“Heck is the wrong address, my friend. I think we’re dealing with something much larger than that, and much scarier.”

He motioned up at the bakery window, where during a very busy lunch hour, roll after bun after cupcakes were being sold left and right to a happy, unsuspecting crowd.

Shadow Street Chapter 3

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

Buy Yours Here:

Amazon - Books2Read

Mr. Curtis munched on the bun. It was a roll flavored with sugar and cinnamon, and a very scant amount of icing kissed the top. It melted in his mouth, which was useful, as he usually liked his sticky buns filled with flies. That poor frog. He choked on me.

I turned around from where I was examining the drain and Mr. Curtis fell to his knees. “Mrs. Smith, get me a rag or something,” I said.

She ran off, her hands on her head, and I scrambled to my friend’s side. The man was on a roll. He hacked and coughed, but he couldn’t get up.

His monocle fell to the ground, but he held his top hat on.

I lifted him, and grasping him tightly around his bulbous body, I wrenched with my fist. He belched and from his throat popped something. I can’t say it was a roll. I can’t say it was an octopus either, but I could tell it was roughly golden brown, covered in what was icing or slime, take your pick, and it was spinning through the air away from us. I could tell tendrils were coming off of it, but it was moving so fast I couldn’t tell if there were three, six, or forty-seven. They were a blur until they hit the wall, and then they slowly flipped and slipped their way down to the floor.

“All right old chap?” I said, patting my friend on the back.

“Yes, yes,” said the frog, and he straightened up his jacket, shined his monocle, which was attached to his lapel with a thin chain, and placed it back in his eye.

We approached it, and looked at the flesh-colored thing, now slightly tinged with green. It squelched on the stone floor and wriggled at us.

“Oh my,” said Mr. Curtis. “What have we here?”

He leaned in and looked it over.

“What strange magic is this?” I said, taking a step back.

“I don’t know, Mr. James, but whatever it is, we have got to sort this out.”

“Indubitably.”

“Hand me that poker.”

I looked around and against the wall was a disused fireplace, with a poker beside it. It was so dark I hadn’t even seen it. I took it. The handle was covered in a fine layer of soot. I wiped it off absently, then gave it to Mr. Curtis, who reached out with it, hooking the little creature on the end of the rod.

Its tentacles closed quickly around the end and explored the poker. Mr. Curtis lifted it.

“Can you get a light?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mrs. Smith returned at that moment and gave me the wet cloth.

“Is he…”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine madam, thank you,” said Mr. Curtis. “Can I… do you have a light?” he was carefully watching the tentacles get closer and closer to his gray-green hand.

“Oh yes,” she said, quickly returning with a lantern.

We boggled at it. It recoiled from the light and crawled as far away from us as it could. Mr. Curtis kept it held in the air.

“Here, you take it for a moment,” he said.

I reached out and grasped the handle.

“Thank you,” he said, first wiping his face while the thing slithered down to grab at me.

I held the lantern up with my other hand and it recoiled again. “Come now, Mr. Curtis. Any ideas?”

“I’m working on it. Let me check something. Just a moment.”

He removed his top hat and looked inside. “Very Interesting.”

“What is that?” said Mrs. Smith.

“That’s an excellent question.”

He fished around in his hat and brought out a few other rolls he’d been saving for later.

“Just rolls. Okay.”

“Looking for a snack there?”

“No, I was wondering if it was the dark.”

He suddenly leaped on my arm, slid down it, yanked the lantern from me, and shuttered it.

“I say. You could have asked…” then I forgot everything as the tendril worked its way toward me. Mrs. Smith screamed as the light went out, then kicked Mr. Curtis for doing it.

There was light from outside, so we were not in complete darkness, but that hardly mattered. I switched hands and then flipped the poker over, holding the pointed end now as the creature explored the handle.

“Watch this,” said the frog.

“Oh no.”

“Here.’ He lit a match and held it under the creature, and frankly a little too close to my elbow, and the roll-creature fell back to the floor and scurried for the drain.

“Quick!”

I did not know what Mr. Curtis wanted me to do, but he bounded over me, pulling his hat from his head and leap-frogging toward the drain. One of his otherwise shoe-less spats came off his foot, and he slammed his hat down on the drain, just as the creature, for lack of a better term, disappeared down it.

The other rolls Mr. Curtis had been hiding in his hat lay strewn across the floor.

“Why not these?”

“I guess they can’t all be… Mrs. Smith?”

I turned to see her slumped against the door. She was unconscious. I suppose she’d have fallen to the floor entirely if she had been one step further from the door.

“Dr. James,” see if you can revive her, could you?”

“Now you call me Doctor, eh?”

“Please, sir.” Mr. Curtis was down on the floor. He reattached his loose spat and fixed his hat while I got out my smelling salts.

I held them briefly under her nose, holding her head, and waited. After a sniff or two, she awoke with a start.

“I’ll take you both apart. Don’t cross me, you pirate fiend!” she said.

“Mrs. Smith?”

“Sorry. What did I just…”

“Don’t worry about it. Can you get up?”

“I think so.”

I helped her up and took her by the hand back to her bakery. Mr. Curtis followed us a moment later.

The place was bustling a bit.

“Oh dear, the lunch crowd is coming in, and we aren’t ready!” She fixed her apron.

“Are you…” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’ll take it from here.”

“We’re on the case.”

Mr. Curtis and I took a booth near a side window, and he gingerly placed a bun from his hat on the table. He stared at it, leaning deeply in to get a close look. He nudged it with a fork.

“Mr. Curtis.”

“I want to go through her stock.”

“Poking them all.”

“Maybe later. Say au revoir for us. I’ll go get us a cab. “

He stood up and pushed several rolls into his hat.

“Where are we going?”

“To see the owl.”

“The one in the…”

“Yes, now go.”

I went off and explained that we had a lead and would return shortly, then went outside to see Mr. Curtis patting the dog and hopping into the carriage.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Curtis to the dog. “Oh good, here he comes.”

I crossed the busy sidewalk and opened the carriage door. “Hello Charles, are you well?” I said to the dog.

“Very good sir,” He barked at me.

I stepped in and sat across from the bullfrog, looking backward. Almost immediately, the cab sped off, and I had to hold on. I’d forgotten how Charles was, and sometimes I think the old dog just enjoys running through the larger puddles.

We hit a bump, and I went flying from one side to the other and ended up on the floor. I got up, dusted myself off, stooping a bit, and sat back down. I don’t know how Mr. Curtis stayed calmly where he was, but I suspect it had something to do with his little sticky feet.

I brushed my waistcoat and jacket down, in time for Charles to yell from outside the carriage, “Tallyho!” and we took another sharp corner, too fast for my liking. I was upside down, looking at Mr. Curtis, looking into his hat at the rolls. He took one out and licked it inquisitively.

“Please don’t eat another one, not here,” I said.

“No, dear boy. I’m not quite that stupid.”

I waited for it.

“Though many times I am moderately stupid.”

I rested my chin on my fist.

“Sometimes doing something wonderfully dumb can yield such interesting results.”

“Just don’t eat…”

“I know, I know. Choking isn’t my favorite way to find a clue either.”

“Tallyho!”

I grabbed onto my seat, and a strap that hung above the window for this, and nothing happened. I was just about to relax when…

“Sorry, here we go,” came from Charles ahead of us.

We slashed through a magnificent puddle that caused sheets of water on both sides of the car to spray up, and the corresponding bumps in the road left me scrambling for the strap on the other side of my bench seat.

“Good grief.”

I clung to the chair. Mr. Curtis just put his hat back on.

Soon we came to a stop.

“Thank goodness.”

I turned the handle and let myself out.

Mr. Curtis bounded out.

“Dr. James, give Charlie there a coin or two.”

“Very well.” I fished in my pockets and dropped the coins into Charles’s hip pouch.

“Thank you kindly,” said the dog, and he winked at me.

The streets were quiet.

“Curtis, no one comes here.”

“I know.”

“We’re liable to get carried off.”

“He’ll see us.”

“He should eat us.”

“In a normal world, I’d say you were right.”

Before us was the city’s clock tower. It looked over everything, rang the hour faintly in the distance, and everyone knew you don’t go too close to the clock tower because the owl would surely snatch you up.

I looked up and saw it closer than I ever wanted to, through the crack of the clock’s face. It was a large triangular missing piece of stained glass.

“I never noticed that the eight was missing,” I said.

“How do you think he gets in and out then?” said Curtis.

We made our way up the stairs, into what worked as a lobby on the clock tower’s main floor.

“We are not supposed to be…”

“Come on rat. Get with it.”

I was nose-to-nose with Mr. Curtis. He rarely did this to me.

“I… uh…”

“Now come on, this way.”

He hopped ahead of me. The lobby was made of marble and gold, but the doors we came through were broken and there were leaves, dust, debris, and old newspapers everywhere. I followed him through. It certainly didn’t look like anyone used this entrance. I’d still keep my guard up, though. I wished I’d had my gun.

He pressed the elevator button with his green finger. It lit up, and while we were waiting, he took his hat off again, took out a roll, put the hat back on, and played with the roll like it was a ball, rolling it around his fingers.

The door opened, and we stepped in.

“Let’s see, what floor…”

“The top,” said the frog. “Don’t fiddle about.”

The elevator whisked us away after I pressed the button. I could feel the pit of my stomach drop and was grateful I couldn’t see outside. I closed my eyes and listened to the ding after floors went by until the doors opened and I could see everything.

The windows went all the way around this floor, and I could see the whole town, including our little nook down on Shadow Street.

I heard something clamp and rustle above me, and a single feather fell at my feet, clearly as long as I was tall.

I slowly looked up into the inner workings of the clock to see an enormous eagle owl standing above us.

I could not move.

Mr. Curtis was practically beaming.

Shadow Street Chapter 2

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

Buy Yours Here:

Amazon - Books2Read

Mrs. Smith worked the bread. She pounded it out on the counter. Flour went everywhere. Out the window of her little shop, she could see the city, covered in the smoke of coal, yet the sun shined down through her windows and onto her work board. She kneaded the dough, rolling it out, and then braiding it up into perfect plaits and the oven. Donuts were down, pastries doing their magic, and cookies were lined up to go.

Younger mice scurried around and ran from corner to corner, keeping up with her in a flurry of activity. Their job, if it hits the floor, get it up. They ran around behind her, sweeping stray flour, wiping up minor spills, and eating stray globs of jam that had only moments ago gone in a blintz or spread onto a bagel.

There was a definite flurry around her.

She waved to another team, who ground coffee and brew it into large kettles for customers who were already walking by up and down the cobblestone outside.

She dropped a load of donuts while another team of field mice, all in hats and scarves, arranged the morning’s goods in the front window of the shop.

The door opened with the tinkle of a bell and a mole came in with her family on the way to school.

“Mrs. Smith, any of those fine bread sticks, the ones with the chocolate swirl in them?”

“I know you love them.”

Mrs. Smith pulled a basket of them up from beneath the counter and handed them across as the woman and her three children took them.

“Can you give Mrs. Smith the money?” The lady said to her youngest. The young mole handed her three pieces of silver. They thanked each other, and shortly they were gone. Outside, Mrs. Smith saw a carriage go by, drawn by a Scottish terrier who was clearly in charge of the whole situation.

He poked his nose through the door.

“Hello there Theo,” she said. She threw him a loaf of bread that he ate in one bite.

“Good morning,” he said as she came out.

“You have anything for me?”

“Only the usual.”

“Come on then,” she called into the shop, and several of the younger mice came out to help take several packages off the back of the carriage.

“Flour,” she said as the first ones went by.

“Sugar, okay,” she said as the second big bag went into the shop.

“Should be one more. Here it is.” She picked up a small bag containing a bottle. “Vanilla, very good. See you, Theo.”

“Good day Mrs. Smith.”

He was away, padding down the lane, pulling his carriage. He turned a corner. Other carriages were out. Folks were coming out on the street as the sun continued to rise.

“Morning, Mrs. Smith,” said a passing fox.

“Good morning.”

She went back in.

“The donuts!”

She jumped across the counter and lifted them from the oil. They were perfectly golden brown. She set them aside to drain as she lowered a fresh bunch in.

The door jingled and two rats came in, dressed in sweaters and hats.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Smith. She crushed a tuft of fur out of her eye.

“Hello there,” said one of them. “Hi,” said the other.

“What are you looking for this morning?”

“Danishes?” They said together.

“Cheese or cherry?”

“Cheese,” said one while the other said “cherry.” Then they switched.

“I’ll get you one of each, then.”

They nodded their heads happily while she looked through the danishes in her display case, picking the best ones.

She handed them over in a paper bag as the two rats gave her a coin each.

As they passed through the door and back out on the street, a frog, slender and young, and a turtle on two legs, came through the door.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” She looked up and recognized the frog. “Oh, how are you? You’ve got that party later in the day, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” said the frog. “It’s for the reception at the clock tower.”

“Right. I’ve got a box for you right over here. Hang on a second.”

They nodded to her. The frog tipped his hat with his tongue and put it back on again.

Mrs. smith left the counter. Her help was doing fine behind her. One of the mice was filling a cream-filled donut while another helped someone to coffee.

With her back turned to them, she looked over a table through several boxes already set aside for larger orders she had ready for the day. There were several birthday cakes, several boxes of assorted sweets, one box of soft pretzels, and then the box she was looking for.

“Here it is.” She opened it to confirm it had an assortment of jelly donuts in it, then she lifted it and turned to hand it to them as something green quickly slipped behind the table and out of sight.

“There you go.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

“Oh, thank you for the order, dears.”

She patted one on the shoulder and sent them on their way.

“Now, where was I?”

“We’ve got it, Mrs. Smith,” said one of her helpers. One of them took her by the hand and guided her to a table in the front window and pushed a cheese danish into her hands and then brought her a cup of coffee. She sat down and just enjoyed watching her place of work. The busy morning was always her favorite. Most of the help went home after lunch, and by the time she closed, she’d be on her own, but for now, it was nice.

Outside on the street, she could see carriages trotting down the road, driven and owned by the dogs pulling them. That’s when she remembered we were on the way.

Our carriage stopped in front of the bakery, and she could see us coming. She perked up, slurped down her coffee, and absently brushed at the flour on her apron.

Our carriage stopped and Mr. Curtis popped out of the door. He was more of a large bulbous head with little legs, and his skin was gray-green in the sun. He adjusted his monocle and his top hat.

“Dr. James, I believe we have arrived,” he said as he paid the corgi at the helm a hefty sum.

I stepped out of the carriage, stroking my mustache and squinting into a brief wind from down the street. “I believe you are correct,” I said.

“It smells fabulous,” said the bullfrog, who swept into the bakery and twirled on the spot.

“Thank you both so much for coming to see me,” said Mrs. Smith as I came through the door.

“It’s our pleasure.”

“That’s right!” said Mr. Curtis as he hit the floor. Crouched down, one eye closed, and another eye open to a bulbous extent, he eyed a crack in the cobblestone of the floor like he was looking through a microscope.

“What’s down there?” said Mrs. Smith as I rolled my eyes.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Curtis. He dug his finger into a crack in the floor and then tasted the result. “Interesting and delicious.” He stood back up, this time stretching his legs to appear taller than I am. It was a failure even with his top hat on.

“Please come and sit with me in the window.”

“Of course,” I said.

I sat at the table with her and Mr. Curtis rolled into a chair next to her. He never knew what to do with his feet, and I could see him having difficulty with whether he should be there and let them dangle or just sit on them, they weren’t long enough to reach the floor which is odd because I’ve seen how far the old boy can jump.

He eventually landed on sitting on one while letting the other one hang, but he just couldn’t figure it which one to let hang.

“Can we get you anything before you look around?”

“Oh I’m already looking around Mrs. Smith,” said Mr. Curtis, who was currently bulging his other eye out at the window, watching foxes, moles, mice, and the occasional dog or rabbit go by.

“That turtle is still trying to cross the street,” said Curtis.

“Yes, he is. Could I have tea?” I said.

“Coffee,” said Curtis. He stopped for a second and remembered himself. “Please?”

“Johnny?” she said.

A mouse ran by.

“Coffee and tea for my guests, a coffee for me, and bring the tray.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He scurried off and ran behind the counter to retrieve a wooden tray with a silver lining. He pulled an assortment of pastries from the display case, several donuts, several rolls, a couple of danishes, and a bagel. Then returning, almost fluidly from the coffee and tea stand, brought it all back to the table, along with a short stack of appetizer plates everyone could pull what they wanted onto.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Curtis, sniffing his coffee with a couple of over-sized nostrils. “I never miss a thing. Jamaican?”

“Columbian,” said Mrs. Smith.

“Quite right, yes,” said the bullfrog. While she wasn’t looking, I watched him remove his hat for a moment and store a donut and a roll in there for safekeeping.

I scowled at him, and he stuck his tongue out at me and mocked my outrage.

“Tell us more about when you first noticed something was off around here,” I said.

She coughed and sat on one paw in her chair. Mr. Curtis absently switched feet to match her.

“Well, it was about a month ago when the eclipse happened. Everyone was shielding their eyes, and the bakery was going bananas. It was so busy we didn’t get a chance to go outside to see it. We were too busy selling blintzes and rolls to do much more than see folks outside.”

“When it became dark?”

“You probably know most everyone did their best to return home like it was night or resisted their primal instinct to stay outside so they could watch the shadows on the street.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Curtis. “Shadows.”

He licked his eyeball.

“Yes, and there was this moment of calm, then as the sun came back out, kapow! There was this enormous bang.”

“Kapow…” Mr. Curtis was writing in a little notebook of his. I noticed he was using one of my favorite fountain pens in his hand.

“There was this clatter from the back by a loading dock on the back alley behind the bakery. Every night as I told you, we give away what we can’t sell. I went back there to see several boxes I had lined up sliding for a drain we have back there.”

“Can we see it?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s this way.”

She got up, and of course, I stood as quickly as I could, Mr. Curtis also following suit. I took a quick sip of my tea and put it down, while Mr. Curtis simply took his cup with him, besides nabbing another roll and following us, hiding the roll behind his back.

Mrs. Smith showed us through the bakery, past the ovens, and through to the back entrance. The stone floor was slick and made of cobblestone, closer to what was outside in the alley.

“Is this the drain?” I said, kneeling to look.

“It is.”

Mr. Curtis was looking at the ceiling while we talked, gaging when he could take a bite of the bun head behind his back.

It was a large drain, with bars far enough apart to fit my hand through. It was wet and smelled filthy, even though I could tell someone had sprayed the floor recently, probably pushing something down here.

“Curtis?” I said. “Thoughts?”

“None yet,” he said before pulling the not-so-well-hidden bun out from behind him and taking a bite like it was an apple.

Shadow Street Chapter 1

A life without end,
stars call from the endless night,
time slips through our hands.

Buy Yours Here:

Amazon - Books2Read

It was quite an ordinary day on Shadow Street. The streets themselves are of cool cobblestone and dampness. Mr. Curtis and I were settling in for a long evening before the warming stove of number 356. The warmth was there, but there wasn’t much coal left. The room was dark and long and overlooked the street. Mr. Curtis and I have our rooms above, and below is a kitchen and dining room we never use, and a parlor where our assistant Mrs. Constellation kept her desk. She keeps us organized and has free rein to terrorize us whenever we are being too lazy for our own goods.

It didn’t help sometimes being what we are.

Outside, a cart rolled by, driven by a dog in a waistcoat and bowler hat. I watched as he steered it around the corner onto Main Street.

Mr. Curtis sat in the back window, smelling incensed with his spindly yet strong legs curled up under him. The waves of incense circled his bulbous frog’s face. Next to him, on his desk, was his monocle, and several fountain pens with no ink in sight.

He was in deep concentration, and I hated to disturb him, but Mrs. Constellation had no such inhibitions. She called up the stairs, “Mr. James? Mr. Curtis? It’s time for your lunch.”

Mr. Curtis snorted. Almost catatonic, smelling the sweet smoke of his vanilla-burning cone. He licked his eye, smacked his lips closed and shifted from one foot to another.

“Mr. Curtis?” I said. “Mrs. Constellation just…”

A finger pop pumped up, long and green. It was so flexible I always wondered how many knuckles he must have in there. My rat’s fingers weren’t nearly so flexible, and I wasn’t sure that I’d even gotten through to him.

“Peter?”

“Silence Dr. James,” said the frog. His face was bulbous, dark green, and covered in handsome round nodules.

I hesitated, and recoiled, checking my waistcoat for my pocket watch, and returning it to its home a moment later. Still, without the knowledge of what time it was, I laughed a little. “Quite right.”

“Just a moment.”

It was at that moment, after I took a step back, that Mrs. Constellation came bursting through the door. She was dressed in a sleek single-bodied suit with three large loops on which she was wearing a hammer, screwdriver, and a T-Square. She pushed me out of the way, a look of disgust upon her face, and kicked the old bullfrog’s chair out from under him. It was the first moment at which I realized he wasn’t wearing anything in his chair. The way he curls himself up, sometimes I miss this.

The chair went skittering out, but the frog’s head didn’t move at all. His feet just fell to the floor under him as if he’d already been standing there.

“You old bullfrog, get something on. You’re already late. And I don’t care if you are naked as a jerk or not. You will be ready for your next client!”

“My dear, I’m always ready for my next client. I don’t know what you mean,” said the old frog.

“Oh!” She slammed down a tray, that I swear she hadn’t been carrying just a moment before, of little sandwiches. They bounced, but none tumbled to the floor. She stormed from the room, yelling “five minutes!” as she stomped out.

“Peter, you really should…”

“John, it keeps her on her toes. You know I do it to keep her occupied.”

“Certainly. “

The frog whipped out a tongue and took a sandwich from the tray directly into his mouth. “Lies and mint jam. My favorite.”

“Mrs. Constellation knows you well.”

“She is adequate.”

“Come now, Mr. Curtis. Be nice.”

The frog gathered a robe to draw over his shoulders, which he tied at his front, and then slipped his feet into a pair of open-heeled woolly slippers.

“Better?”

I pointed to my eye, where my pair of spectacles lived above my twitchy nose, and closed my right eye.

“Ah yes.”

His tongue whipped out and connected with his monocle on the table. After wiping it off with a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown and quickly returning it, he fitted it in front of his left eye, using the considerable brow he had to hold it in place. We could hear our assistant downstairs calmly inviting someone in the front door down on the street level below.

He turned then to face me as Mrs. Constellation knocked on the door. I hate that smile. It’s false. I’ve never found it to be genuine, but people use it anyway, so I suppose I just put up with it.

Mr. Curtis whiffled the smoke of his incense cone away and said, “Enter!”

Mrs. Constellation opened the door for a young mouse who looked younger than her years. “Your eleven-thirty, sirs.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Constellation. Please show her in,” said Mr. Curtis. He shared a scowl, light-hearted on his end and not on hers, with Mrs. Constellation, who held the door as the young mouse came into the apartment.

“Anything else, sir?” Mrs. Constellation asked of me, but Mr. Curtis answered her too quickly with a “Yes, thank you!” and a silly wave, which she also hated.

“Very well, Mrs. Smith then, gents.” She shut the door and left her in our company, but I knew better than to believe we were alone. It was always her job to keep tabs on us, keep us honest, I suppose. It wouldn’t surprise me to awaken with her sneaking through my room with her samurai sword, trying to catch me off guard.

The young mouse padded into our room, and even though I was easily twice her height, I felt inferior to her minute, yet effortless beauty.

“May I take your coat, Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes, of course, she turned her back to me and allowed her red cloak to slide from her shoulders. I placed it on the third hook by the door.

She turned in her white dress and licked her paw and cleaned the fur that had been matted beneath the cloak absently as we talked further.

On the first hook was Mr. Curtis’s green and yellow scarf and black top hat, and on the second hook was my modest coat and brown hat I kept around for excursions.

“Mrs. Smith, would you care to sit down?”

“Oh, thank you.”

I took her by the hand. I could hardly tell she was a baker as dainty as they felt to me. “You’re a baker?”

“Oh yes, the shop just down the main street is mine. It’s in the…”

“Back of the stables, I know,” said Mr. Curtis. He was behind his wing chair, more hanging off the back of it than sitting in it.

“Mr. Curtis?” I said.

He crawled over the back of the chair and slipped down into it after rolling over the top.

“Well there,” said Mrs. Smith. “That’s the way.”

“The only way,” said the frog, who also was concealing our plate of sandwiches behind him, and placed them on the little coffee table between the chairs.

I brought tea Mrs. Constellation had already sent up and waited. There was always a heedless cat-and-mouse game at this point where the client won’t clearly say what they want, and the old bullfrog already knows what she wants, anyway.

“What brings you, Mrs. Smith? I am so sorry about your husband,” said Mr. Curtis. “To what can I offer the best bread mistress this side of second street?”

“I wasn’t sure if I was in the rights coming to see you and all.”

“Too juicy a casserole, did you guess?” said the frog. “Please have a sandwich. The ones on the tray towards the top are likely more to your liking. The ones on the top were…”

“Special ordered for you,” I said. “Please tell us what you’ve seen.”

“I’ve been running the bakery now for three years, and in all that time I’ve been honing my craft.”

“Getting better, yes,” said Mr. Curtis, as he ate another fly and mint jelly with the crusts cut off.

“I worked my way through the bread, sweet doughs, raisin filled, mostly buns. I want to be the place for stopping in the afternoon for a coffee and a plum roll in the afternoon.”

I coughed and pulled my notepad out, and the pen I never gave to Mr. Curtis, because he always squirts himself in the face and then closes the note anyway when Mr. Curtis said “Yes, I frequently send Mrs. Constellation down there to get a box of rolls toward the end of the day. I like your assortments.”

He put his slippered foot up on the table for a moment, the other one under him in his wing hair. “Excuse me.” He pulled his foot from the table and back onto the floor.

“It’s the assortments I was talking about,” she said.

One of Mr. Curtis’s eyes bulged, and his left cheek bulged with air.

“I was cleaning up after closing three weeks ago about the time the carriage comes to take away the rest of the day’s buns.”

“What you don’t sell by the end of the day.” It wasn’t a question. I watched as Mr. Curtis swapped his monocle from one eye to the other. One eye bulged while the other shrank as he listened to her.

“Yes, I always have extra, and I always start with a fresh, empty kitchen at the start of each new day. I give away what I can’t sell to a boy’s school.”

“Franklin Academy, yes.”

“You know it?”

“My alma mater.”

“It is?”

“I know your bakery well, at least what comes from it.”

“So the carriage was there, and I was loading them in. I usually have five to fifteen boxes, and it hadn’t been a very busy day that day I had twelve.”

“This alone wasn’t enough to alarm you, though.”

“True.”

“The next day?”

“Seven.”

“The following week?”

“Nine.”

“Still insignificant.”

“Then it became drastic.”

“Five?”

“Four.”

“Three?”

“Two.”

“None?”

“It was three nights ago. I had, I know, twelve boxes when the carriage arrived, and when I turned to pick the first one up…”

“You saw the drain?”

“How did you know I was going to say…”

“I didn’t. Please go on,” he croaked.

“I turned and not only did I have nothing to give the carriage driver again, but I was also watching the last box go down the drain.”

“Which isn’t possible, correct?”

“It isn’t. The drain is in the floor of my back warehouse, more of a loading dock, and we never use it except to stage deliveries.”

“Yes.”

“And the drain, though a large storm drain, has a mesh closing on it that any of us could stand on and not fall through.”

“Interesting.”

“It was there, the last box, moving for the drain it couldn’t fit through, and…”

“It was gone.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” said Mr. Curtis as he stood up. “I’m happy to take your case.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am,” said the frog. “All the standard fees apply. I’m looking forward to every moment, and you my dear, have plenty to do as well.”

“I do?”

“Of course you do. John?”

I stood up out of habit, not used to the old bullfrog using my Christian name, and she followed suit, without realizing it.

He bounded to the door in two hops, one foot stuck to the doorknob, and he pulled it to call down the stairs. “Mrs. Constellation, we’ll take the case!”

“We will?” she said, crawling up the stairs.

“Of course, we will.” He popped on his hat and flipped his scarf behind his head.

“But what are your rates?”

“Oh, the usual, the usual. Not to worry. Mrs. Constellation?”

“Come with me dear,” said Mrs. Constellation.

“Tomorrow, have an additional couple of boxes handy at the end of the shift. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Okay, Mrs. Smith?”

“Of course.”

“Come with me,” said Mrs. Constellation, who led her toward the stairs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Smith. Goodbye!”

Mrs. Constellation shut the door. Curtis and I could hear them mumbling down the stairs.

“The case of the sneaky donuts! Tally-ho!”

I just put away my pen, rolled my eyes, and went along with it.

JOHN SAYE

Writer of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror

Tag Archives: talking animals

Shadow Street Chapter 8

Shadow Street Chapter 7

Shadow Street Chapter 6

Shadow Street Chapter 5

Shadow Street Chapter 4

Shadow Street Chapter 3

Shadow Street Chapter 2

Shadow Street Chapter 1