Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire)

  by

  Clay Held

  BAD APPLE: BOOK ONE OF THE WARNER GRIMOIRE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents in this product are fictitious, and the result of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Likewise, any similarities to actual monsters, creatures, bad things, wizards, witches, warlocks, sorcerers, or other supernatural entities are entirely coincidental. Please refrain from cursing, eating, haunting, or otherwise inflicting paranormal harm on the author.

  Copyright © 2013 by Clay Held.

  First Kindle Edition, 2013.

  ISBN: 978-0-615-76656-0

  No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without explicit written permission by Clay Held. Excerpts may be used for the purposes of review. All rights reserved.

  Produced in the United States of America.

  This one is for my wife, Kat.

  You always see the good in me, even when I can’t.

  So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

  --H.P. Lovecraft, Ex Oblivione

  A WORD OF WARNING...

  Know this, mortal. A wizard's power has two halves.

  The first half is his soul, the source of all magic inside of him, and his connection to the great elemental forces of the universe.

  The second half is his grimoire, which is his guide, his constant companion, and his unbreakable secret keeper.

  You hold in your hands the grimoire of a young wizard named Simon, a brilliant but bashful child who was unnaturally summoned into this world, as his parents would later claim, entirely by accident. How you came by his book, and why he no longer has it--that is a mystery, yet one I can not solve. As such, while not in the hands of my wizard, I must make hidden the ways of magic on these pages.

  But…if you insist on continuing, as I suspect you will, I do have a story to share. I will fill these pages with the story of my young wizard's life, and his journey shall be the way we pass the time during our prolonged and idle discussion. Our palaver, as an old friend once called it.

  Listen well, mortal. I am the Warner Grimoire, and I was born the day Simon Warner died.

  Act One

  The Wizard and The Boogeyman

  The Old Ones came here from Algul.

  That was their first mistake.

  ––Nicodemus Limnic, An Honest History of the Wizard’s Craft, Chapter 18

  CHAPTER ONE

  A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE

  Many years later, Simon would look back and remember how quiet it was the first time he died.

  At the time the quiet surprised Simon, who had just a moment earlier been hanging over the dock guardrails, reaching past the very large and very clear NO CLIMBING sign, thinking he could grab the overhanging branch and steady himself without falling.

  He was wrong. Again.

  He had misjudged the reach of the branch, and before he could catch himself, he was falling into the water. The undertow seized and pulled him down before he could even realize it. There was no time to yell. No one saw him climbing over the guardrail, not even his ever-present father Sam, who usually kept such a close eye on him.

  His lungs ached.

  His eyes burned.

  His heart pounded.

  If the water didn’t kill him, the fear just might. From below, the surface of the lake rippled like milky spiderwebs.

  Simon was overtaken by panic. He flailed uncontrollably, uselessly, trying in vain to reach the surface. Instinctively, he tried to scream, but huge bubbles came up out of him, and the cold lake water rushed down his throat, stinging and freezing him all at once. The force of the undertow crushed him against the retaining wall of the spillway, and he struck his head hard against the steel bars of the submerged drain.

  He gulped down great big gobs of water, and his vision began to blur. Panic gave way to raw terror, but even then he could not move. He just stared hopelessly at the milky surface of the water until he no longer really saw it.

  Unexpectedly, memories began to leak out of him as the water claimed him. The memories rapidly flashed by, his life before his eyes, bubbling up out of him to the surface, lost. He forgot how warm the sun had felt that day, then coolness of the autumn breeze, and then even falling into the water suddenly seemed just so very far away. Everything played through his mind in reverse: Sam’s warning to stay away from the guardrail, their hike to the shore, the picnic they had packed, and finally, everything else in his short life. Sam’s girlfriend, Molly. Her six-year-old daughter, Zoey. His school, his room, his books and his classmates. Everything blurred together in a confusing, soggy mass, and then it simply floated away, leaving him empty and alone, forever.

  Simon felt so little now, waterlogged and soaked and stuck at the bottom of the lake. His concentration slipped away with every failed breath, and the feeling of pins and needles began to spread across his limp, freezing body.

  He was cold and alone.

  A strange voice whispered in his mind. “You’re dying, Simon.”

  A relentless humming grew louder in his mind. Must have been his ears shutting down. “This is it,” the voice spoke in his head. “You are going to die. Right here, right now.”

  The water crushed him, pinning him down to the bottom of the spillway. For only being fourteen years old, his time was already here.

  The humming faded. Silence and darkness surrounded him, and then Simon felt...nothing. Everything became so very, very still.

  There was a brilliant flash of silver light, and then, Simon died.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NIGHTMARE

  The Illinois sun had just broken over the town of Crowley, and the first rays of light had begun to creep into the alleyway behind the Rabbit’s Paw Tavern. Sam Thatch, the owner and operator, leaned against the backdoor while the deliveryman parked. Sam scratched at his beard while the deliveryman, an older fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and a large bushy beard, walked around to the rear of his truck and lifted the rolling door.

  “Morning,” the deliveryman said. Sam answered with a small nod, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The deliveryman dropped the metal ramp out of his truck, letting it drop onto the dead leaves. He rolled out a fully loaded cart, his feet crunching softly as Sam held the door open for him.

  “Getting cold quick,” the delivery driver said, wheeling the cart down the hallway and into the kitchen. A brunette woman stood near the passthrough window, tending to a pile of unwrapped silverware, quickly snatching forks and knives and wrapping them with alarming speed, then piling them onto a serving tray set off to her side.

  “All the better, Frank.” She smiled and turned away from her pyramid of silverware. “It’s been too hot already. Zoey almost wilted when we took her and Simon to the park last week. Besides, this cold front was just what we needed to get in the mood for Halloween.”

  Frank parked the rack near an island in the middle of the kitchen. “It’s you brunettes, Molly. Little bit of heat and you just about shrivel up.” His eyes twinkled when he laughed a good, honest laugh that started in the very bottom of his large belly, spending considerable effort working its way up and out. A few small strands of his white hair snuck out from under his delivery hat, and never once did he seem to mind as he unloaded the bread. The wild hairs stuck straight out to the side, blowing like unanchored strands of spider silk.

  “You stop it.” Molly set down her last silverware bund
le, then picked up the tray and headed towards the door to the dining room.

  “You two already bickering?” Sam said as he entered the kitchen, placing his clipboard on the old chipped countertop.

  Frank’s laughter dropped off slowly, and he eyed the door to the dining room. “She’s a keeper,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. He handed his invoice over and leaned in. “You ought to marry her before she slips away. You and Simon can’t live upstairs forever.”

  “Don’t plan on it,” Sam whispered, smiling slightly.

  Frank finally fussed with the lose strands of hair. “Don’t you let any of them get away, you hear me? Not after--”

  “You stay warm out there today, okay?” Sam handed the clipboard over harder than was necessary. “Hey, you ever fix that busted old heater in your truck?” he asked, way too cheerfully.

  Frank zipped his coat up. “Like many things, it’s on the list, my boy. Like many, many things.” He turned back towards the hallway.

  Sam eyed Frank, almost suspiciously. “Don’t let it go too long.”

  “I’m not completely helpless,” Frank added with a false smile. The moment had soured between them, but before Sam could say another word a boy with dark brown hair came stumbling down the stairs.

  “Well!” Frank said, stepping aside. His voice lightened as if by helium. “Good morning, Simon! In a hurry already?”

  Simon blinked slowly at the delivery driver without speaking. He cleared his throat and blinked again, finally managing a halfhearted, “Morning,” as he slipped past him into the kitchen.

  Frank slapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Not an early riser, I see. Some things never change. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it one day.” He shook Simon’s shoulder playfully, then started down the hall. At the back door he stopped and glanced back, this time at Sam. “I find that eventually we all get used to what we have to do,” he said, vanishing out the backdoor before Sam could answer.

  Sam stepped into the hall. “Simon, hey. I glad you’re up. I’m about to get the griddle going. When you’re a little more awake can I get you to help Molly set the tables?”

  Simon yawned again, still tasting sleep in his mouth. “Yeah,” he mumbled. He started towards the refrigerator. “There any--”

  “Already on the counter.” Sam zipped up his jacket and headed towards the back door. “Jelly’s still in the fridge though. Remember to leave some for Zoey.” He moved for the door. “Be right back, Molly!” he shouted as he stepped out the back door. “I’m getting that surprise we talked about!” Simon turned around to look at Molly, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Instead she just smiled and returned to setting the tables.

  A plate of fresh homemade waffles sat on the counter next to the pile of undressed silverware. He found the grape jelly in the fridge and gathered everything up in his arms and made his way to the dining room.

  The dining room still had the same fading yellow wallpaper and wood paneling since they had opened. The ceiling fans with their large, bulbous globes lit the room with a gassy, topaz light. Heavy curtains hung over the large front windows, faded floral prints that did little to block out the light, yet the dining room always seemed dingy. This was all despite a booming business, and Sam had never made a single attempt to change anything since opening. A small wooden plaque was hung above the front door, with the message Caveat Attemptor carved into it, just below a gnarled rabbit’s foot. Simon often wondered exactly what the message meant, but whenever he asked, Sam had said it was only a decoration from a flea market, just another something to help sell the name of the place, and that is was not worth the time to worry about. Still, Simon caught Sam glancing at that plaque every now and then. Just after his scare at the lake, Sam had become more defensive about the plaque. It had fallen suddenly during the lunch rush the day after the lake, and Sam had almost spilled soup all over the fire chief while running to fix it. He had rushed it back up over the door, then stayed on top of the ladder a moment to catch his breath. He climbed back down to a crowd of confused faces, center among them Simon, yet he had simply shrugged them off and gone upstairs. He had never explained his panic.

  Simon flipped a stool off the counter and ate in silence. The smell of biscuits floated in from the kitchen and he finally turned on the radio. Just the news came in this early but he didn’t mind. He wouldn’t be there long--he would have to finish quick and push the curtains open before leaving for the bus stop. Both Molly and Zoey absolutely hated the curtains. Molly had also said on more than one occasion that when she could, she was going to rip them all down and have a big bonfire out behind her farmhouse with hotdogs and hamburgers and everybody from Crowley would be invited. Despite her threats, the curtains always remained, and Simon opened them every morning.

  Simon ate quickly. He left the plate on the counter and started flipping the rest of the stools off the counter, then he went ahead and pushed the curtains open. Morning filtered in slowly. The sun seemed slower than normal today, just barely over the nearly naked trees, and the entire town was cast in pale green light. The streetlights blazed with one final phosphorus burst of orange-yellow before finally clicking off, and across the street the various storefronts resembled caves--the town firehouse sat on the corner of the block, a few of its windows already lit from within, and tall, distorted shadows slipped back and forth silently against the light.

  “Simon?” Molly was back in the kitchen. “Honey, can you go wake up Zoey?” She smiled at him through the order window, her eyes radiant like emeralds in the dimness of the room. “Pretty please, for me?”

  Simon nodded and grabbed his dish off the lunch counter. He hated waking Zoey. She acted like such a little sister to him, fussing and throwing a fit whenever Simon went to wake her. But, he still always did whatever Molly asked. First, he did it because it was expected of him, but also, Molly was the closest thing he had to a mother, and Zoey was the closest thing he had to a sister. Though he would never dare admit it, Simon liked the idea of having both a mother and a sister. It had been just him and Sam for so long, and he didn’t even remember his own family, his birth family, at all. This lack of memories had always left a weird emptiness in Simon, a hole, and so he secretly longed for the day Sam would marry Molly, and then they all would be a family, a real family.

  Simon clicked the radio off and left his dish in the passthrough window on his way to the back hallway, brushing past a large print of the thirteen colonies that Sam had insisted on hanging just right there a few years ago.

  The back stairs led to his and Sam’s apartment over the diner. The upstairs apartment was a large, open room with similarly large, open windows facing the street. Exposed brick spoke to the building’s original life as a workshop, then as a hardware store, then finally an empty building for several years until Sam--with a toddler Simon in tow--had arrived and opened the Paw. Up in the attic there was still boxes of old, unsold tools, and under them even older boxes of workshop materials. Sam had rescued their burnt-orange couch from the curb before they had even signed the papers to the place, and none of the furniture matched, from the mismatched curtains to the mismatched chairs around the kitchen table to the large rugs that covered every inch of bare hardwood floor. It drove Molly completely chaotic crazy. but despite its many quirks, the apartment had a certain charm, like a junk drawer that had magically grown out into an entire home. It might not have looked like much to an outsider, but it was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and most important of all, it was home.

  Simon was adopted. Sam was the only family he had ever known--both of Simon’s parents were simply gone, from the first moment he could remember. He always questioned it, always questioned the hole their absence had made in him, but he never doubted that this was just the way things would always be. Even still, sometimes it gnawed at him, kept him up some nights, especially around the holidays, and always on his birthday. It was a strange pain, a dizzy ache in his heart he couldn’t really understand. Did he miss them o
r not? Even after the near-drowning at the lake his feelings were still as muddled as ever--no need had swollen up to know any more about his birth parents, despite what the school counselor had said. The numbness he felt towards his parents bothered him almost as much as nearly dying. What did it mean? Though he would never tell the school counselor, he often wondered, when it came to his parents, if something inside him was simply broken.

  Even though Molly and her daughter Zoey didn’t live there, that never stopped Zoey from curling up on the couch and falling back asleep when they came over every morning. Molly was over to help them for breakfast, when they could expect the fire chief and his men over right after they opened, and while it was Simon’s job to open the curtains and flip the stools, it seemed Zoey’s job was to keep the big orange couch warm.

  Simon clicked on the television. Zoey mumbled and fidgeted, but she kept her back to him. “Wake up,” he said, nudging her gently. “You need to get ready for school.” She didn’t respond, and he nudged her again, just the slightest bit harder. “C’mon,” he repeated. “Get up!”

  Zoey finally rolled over, her young eyes already able to copy her mother’s rarely-seen glare. “No,” she said, and rolled back over. When she did, a tiny pair of ears from her stuffed cat poked out from under her arm. Simon smirked and grabbed them, pulling the felt animal out from under her arm, then she bolted up, her tiny face twisted with anger. “Give him back!”

  “Get up.” Simon said, laughing and tossing the stuffed cat on the kitchen table. “You need to get ready for school.” He stomped through the kitchenette to get his backpack. They didn’t have a full kitchen upstairs, just an ancient brown fridge, a constantly dripping sink, and a two-burner stove nestled between the door to Simon’s bedroom and a prehistoric water heater.