Young Writers Society

Déjà vu swelled in Braxton’s mind as he watched his younger brother stride across the tiny grass lawn between the forest edge and the tidy, straw-thatched stables that Randall claimed held the golden horse.  Nothing seemed wrong—the sky was clear, and the whinnying of horses floated through the air.

Of course, it was the calmness of it all that sent Braxton’s ghostly senses into overdrive. He wanted so badly to scream at the top of his lungs that he knew Ferrell would fail. Even without the soldiers and their weapons, or the foreboding, black castle, there was probably a trap almost exactly like the one with the golden bird.

Instead of voicing his concern, Braxton resigned himself to asking Randall if he had to follow his brother again.

Randall snorted, or at least made a noise close to it. “Follow him again? Why? It’ll be the same spiel as last time, only less dangerous. You’re actually going on a little excursion. My tail, if you will.”

Despite the dangerously playful look in Randall’s eyes, Braxton took hold as the fox counted to three.

As the forest and farmland passed beneath them, Randall’s ears flicked backwards. His voice carried over the wind and floated to Braxton’s ears.

“I assume you’ve already guessed that Ferrell will fail the next task, right?” Randall asked.

“Yes!” Braxton yelled, wondering if the fox could hear him with the wind.

“First, no need to shout. Second, good thing you’ve guessed, because we’re going to the location of the next… item. Your job is to comb through the mansion and find a magic room. You’ll know which one it is; it’s the only one in the estate.” The next moment, Randall yelped, and Braxton felt a jolt under his feet as the green-brown blurs slowed momentarily.

“Sorry!” Randall said, “Tall tree in my way. Anyways, when you’re in the magic room, there’re some things you’ll need to look at. They explain everything, since well…”

“You’re not allowed to talk about the magic, right?” Braxton cut in.

Randall’s ears shook as he nodded his head. “Uh, yeah. And there are three rules: don’t talk to the daughter of the house, don’t touch anything other than paper when you’re in the magic room, and don’t, under any circumstances, find yourself in the same room as the owner of the mansion.” Suddenly, the blurry landscape solidified, seeming to freeze in place. Pine needles rained through Braxton’s body, and Randall shuddered.

“I hate pine needles,” the fox hissed, before carefully turning around to face Braxton. “Now go. Go spy, or haunt, or whatever you want to call it. If you need help, ask the boy. He’s, oh, fourteen years old. You’ll know him when you see him.” Randall waved his tail, a gleeful spark in his beady eyes. “I can’t wait to watch this. I’ll see you when your brother comes.” And with that, the fox vanished. Except for a small wind that scattered leaves into the air, it was almost as if the fox had never been there at all.

Sighing, Braxton stood up and surveyed the area. Behind him, the only remarkable thing was a ring of white mushrooms poking out of the foliage; everything else was just trees. In front, however, there was much more to look at. A vast garden of hedge mazes and intricate, winding patterns of blue phlox spread out before him. Metal trellises covered with white and yellow honeysuckle surrounded a separate rose garden. The garden was almost beautiful.

Of course, it wasn’t. The colors did not fit together in the slightest. Yellow and grey was a terrible combination on those trellises, and the blue phlox was garish when set directly against grass. Whoever designed this garden could certainly use a tip from the Tradors.

Sniffing in contempt, Braxton stepped past the pine tree Randall had nearly crashed into, and entered the property.

It took nearly five minutes of hopeless wandering, but Braxton did manage to finally spot the mansion. As he floated through one of the many hedge mazes, very grateful that he didn’t need to actually have solve it, a white glimmer caught his eye. Surrounded by trees, and smothered by climbing vines, the back of the mansion was well-camouflaged. Eager to find out about the magic contracts, Braxton hurried towards it.

Unlike popular fashion, this mansion lacked a large, back patio for “picnic” style tea. Only one door opened to the back, which Braxton was sure the guests were grateful for. He walked through, noting that the iron bar locking it in place was rusted.

The first thing Braxton noticed was how quiet the mansion was. Every so often, he swore he heard something, but there were no scuttling servants or rowdy fourteen-year-old boys to be seen. Suddenly, someone screamed. Braxton whipped around, worried that someone had seen him, but no one was in the corridor. His only company within the white walls and white floors was a potted plant by a faraway door.

As Braxton stepped closer and closer the plant, which he discovered was actually a small tree, muffled squealing reached his ears.

“Is that a mouse? Oh, please, Papa, tell me it isn’t a mouse! Or a rat? That would be even worse! Someone please, get rid of it! And—Oh my goodness, Charles! Why are you touching it?”

The voice that answered back was monotonous and bored, almost on the edge of annoyed. This Charles must have been the boy Randall said would help.

“I’m touching it because I want to,” he said, “and also because it grosses you out.” Judging by the shriek that followed after that, Charles must have done something akin to dangling the dead mouse in front of the girl. Braxton could almost imagine himself doing that to this girl as well; she sounded irksome.

As Braxton stuck his head through the door with the plant, only to find it disappointingly empty, a gravelly, bass voice resounded from wherever these people were.

“Charles, Dianne, stop this right now. Your bickering is unsightly.”

Braxton almost choked. Had the low voice mentioned Dianne? Dianne of Trador? Impossible. According to the Baron and Baroness, she was supposed to be something of a genius. Not to mention that this Dianne presumably called the low voice ‘Papa’. Braxton almost wanted to peek into all of the rooms nearby to see if she looked anything like the Baron or Baroness, but Randall’s rules came back to him. He couldn’t risk being in the same room as the master of the house.

He would have to hide somewhere. Peeking into the room with the plant again, Braxton decided that the toy soldiers on the floor marked it as Charles’s, and he slipped inside to eavesdrop and wait. If the master of the house threatened to come in, Braxton could always flee through the walls anyway.

“Listen, we’ll call a servant to take away the mouse. Now why don’t we just change rooms? The parlor would be suitable, and you could play the piano for us.”

Dianne giggled, a tittering bird sound that made Braxton’s ghastly guts churn. “Oh but Papa, you know I’m not very good.”

“She isn’t,” Charles agreed. That comment was followed by more giggling, and a slapping noise. Braxton winced; no matter how obnoxious he and his brothers had gotten, there had been no hitting in the palace.

The door to the other room clicked open, its hinges silent as tapping shoes echoed in the hallway. Charles was yelling now, but his words were drawled and incomprehensible. Braxton could barely make out a ‘that hurts’ scattered somewhere.

Suddenly, the door to Charles’s room flung open. Braxton retreated through the desk on the left wall, finding himself half into a green room with mint-colored couches.  The sandy-colored wood on the furnishings looked terrible by anyone’s standards. Judging by the dead rodent, charmingly placed at the center of a large, flowery rug, this was the room that everyone had just been in. Braxton sighed in relief, realizing how close he’d been to the probable master of the house.

He turned back to the boy’s room to look around, maybe somehow communicate with Charles, as Randall had recommended, only to find the boy gawking. His right hand covered his ear, and his jaw hung open as though he’d gotten it stuck there. As soon as the boy realized that Braxton was staring back, his gaze faltered. He glanced from side to side before bowing and clutching his ear harder.

“Can-can you see me?” Braxton asked.

Still locked in his bow, Charles nodded. That was strange, especially since Randall had blamed his special spirit vision on a fairy ring they happened to be in.

“Why are you holding your ear like that?” Braxton asked tentatively. “Oh, and you can stop bowing. It’s a little formal for a ghost, isn’t it?”

Charles stood up, his neatly combed, red hair as stiff as a lady’s curls. “The… man boxed my ears. Punishment for being rude to that girl. By the way, you’re not a ghost. Just a wandering spirit. I spied in the man’s private room once, so I know the difference.”

Any questions Braxton had had about the strange family were erased from his mind. “His private room?” he repeated. “Is that where he keeps his magic?”

As Charles nodded, a look of revelation crossed his face. “Oh! You’re the person that the fox told me about! I’m so glad you’re here, because Prince Ferrell is going to be here any day now, and I have to make sure that he does his part right.”