The Afterlife Academy (9 page)

H
oonga and Trutti sat at a table playing a rousing game of Bones. Unfamiliar to human beings, the game of Bones was played a lot like Jenga. Players took turns and attempted to remove pieces from a tower. The first player to knock over the tower lost. But unlike Jenga, instead of using a stack of wooden blocks, the game was played with actual bones. Fingers, toes, and ribs worked the best.

In general, demons despised any human recreational activity. Sports, arts and crafts, painting, and games made Underworld creatures squirm with discomfort. Hoonga always kept plenty of games on hand whenever the situation necessitated some good old-fashioned torture. Though he would never admit it, the Cyclops had actually grown quite fond of playing a few of them, but he had to make some minor tweaks to disguise them from the other demons.

Hoonga clamped a hand over his lips to stifle a laugh as Trutti selected a rib near the bottom of the stack. The tower of bones toppled over on the table.

“No!” Trutti whined. “Not again! I really thought I would win this time!”

“So did I.” Hoonga nodded sympathetically as he spun the Punishment Wheel. The dial landed on “Ears,” and Hoonga blew a billowing puff of fire. Howls and cackles ensued from Trutti and Hoonga, respectively, as red flames ignited the demon's tiny head.

“One more game!” Hoonga insisted, rubbing his meaty paws together. “Come on, Trutti.” He made a pouting face as the tortured demon extinguished the flames from his batlike gray ears. “Just one more. I promise to let you win this time.”

“You said that last time,” Trutti huffed, blinking his yellow eyes. “And the time before that and at least a thousand times before that!” He sucked the saliva from his buckteeth back into his mouth.

“I can't help it if you haven't figured out which pieces to pick. There's a strategy. Look, if you'll be a good sport, I'll teach you how to play and win.”

Trutti stared at the pile of bone pieces and scrunched his nose.

Just then, a knock sounded from the door at the top of the staircase, and Hoonga's eye narrowed. He nodded at Trutti, who eagerly cleaned up the game pieces and shoved them back into their box.

“Come in, Gorge!” Hoonga bellowed.

The door opened and a red apelike demon with horns sauntered timidly onto the first step of the staircase. “Master Hoonga, I—” Gorge started to speak, but Hoonga cut him off.

“Come down here!” he snarled. “Don't make me strain my ears.”

Gorge hung his head, horns sparking against the stone handrail as he tromped to the bottom.

“Now,” Hoonga said once Gorge stood cowering in front of him. “Give me your report.”

“I ran into a problem with the boy,” Gorge blubbered.

The Cyclops folded his arms and sat on the edge of his desk. Trutti scampered up onto Hoonga's shoulder.

“The boy is aided by some sort of familiar. A guardian spirit. One of the Afterlife Academy Agents, I believe. The shades warned me about it, but I didn't think it would still be there when I arrived.” Gorge glanced around the room, and his eyes focused momentarily on several rusted torture racks. Known for his zero-tolerance policy when it came to failures, Hoonga always kept his torture racks oiled and ready for use.

Hoonga followed Gorge's gaze and smiled. “You're not making any sense, Gorge. Please explain.”

Gorge looked away from the horrifying devices. “Uh…the boy. Some spirit guides him from the inside.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You just explained that. What happened next?”

“I tried to pull the spirit out, but it resisted, and then…” His head drooped, and Hoonga jabbed a black claw under Gorge's chin so that Gorge was forced to look him in the eye.

“You let him get away?”

“I let him get away.” Gorge let out a sob. “He made it to a sanctuary. I didn't anticipate that. I toyed with the boy for a bit. Had a little fun. Thought I would chase him around until he wore out, and then I could have an easier time with him. But I wasn't quick enough. And once he made it to the church, I was powerless, you know. I was this close.” Gorge held up his thumb and forefinger to give Hoonga a visual. “I tried, master, but I failed.”

Hoonga sighed. “Indeed you did.”

“But I will try again,” Gorge quickly spoke. “Next time there's a storm. The very next time, I will go, and I will not fail you. You'll see. I'll—”

“Ah, but you see, there's no more rain in the forecast for the next few days.” Hoonga clamped his hand on Gorge's shoulder and squeezed. “That's why your attack was so important. I think I was very clear with you when I gave you this assignment.”

Gorge groaned. “I know, I know. Give me another chance, boss. Let me make this up to you.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hoonga nodded.

“Really?”

“Of course. But not in the way you're probably hoping. What do you think, Trutti?” He peered up at the smaller demon. “How should we let Gorge make it up to us?”

Trutti was nibbling on a wiry fingernail. He snapped his fingers and began to chant, “Let's play…Old Maid, Old Maid, Old Maid!”

Hoonga's eye brightened. “Excellent idea!” He forced Gorge to turn around and face a twisted metal table. Covered in stains, it had razor-sharp edges and had been created with one purpose in mind: absolute torture. A single deck of musty playing cards sat in the center of the table.

Gorge whimpered. “Not Old Maid. Anything but that!”

Hoonga clicked his tongue. “Oh, come now, you know you want to play.”

“I do not!” Gorge insisted.

Hoonga ignored the red demon as he took up his deck of playing cards. Trutti continued to chant from atop Hoonga's shoulder, growing louder and louder. Old Maid was by far the worst game and caused the greatest amount of anguish for Hoonga's victims.

After a rousing, or torturous, depending on your perspective, game of Old Maid, Gorge was free to go.

An hour later, the intercom buzzed, and the sniveling voice of Hoonga's secretary filled the room, temporarily breaking Hoonga's concentration.

“Master Hoonga?” the voice inquired.

“Yes, Tharice, what is it?” Hoonga responded.

“I have a message for you.”

“Go on.”

“Someone will be paying you a visit later this evening to discuss an important matter,” Tharice said.

Hoonga's eye twitched. “Who said this?”

The static crackled on the intercom. “I apologize,” Tharice said. “He wouldn't give me his name. But he did say you would be expecting him.”

The intercom fell silent, but Hoonga didn't move.

“What is it, master?”

“Not now, Trutti.” Hoonga walked to his desk. “I need time to think. Leave me for a while.”

“Leave you? You want me to
go
?” Trutti asked in disbelief.

Without another word, the enormous Cyclops shooed Trutti off his shoulder, and the lesser demon darted from the room.

C
harlie weaved his way through the crowded hallway toward his Spanish classroom. He felt awkward and exposed with the weight of the unusual book sagging in his backpack. All around him, kids whispered to one another at their lockers, and he wondered if they were still talking about what had happened yesterday with Mo.

“Look!” Walter cheered. “It's your girlfriend!”

Charlie looked up, then quickly ducked his head. Melissa Bitner, perfect ponytail whipping behind her in slow motion, was walking straight toward Charlie.

“She's looking right at you!” Walter's voice was filled with glee.

“No she's not,” Charlie muttered under his breath. “She's probably—”

“Hey, Charlie.” Melissa stood in front of him, hugging her chemistry textbook to her chest. “I feel bad about what happened yesterday. Are you okay?”

She was all by herself. Where were the other popular girls who usually followed her around? Charlie had never shared an actual one-on-one conversation with Melissa before.

“Uh…um…I…have Spanish class.” They were the only words he could piece together in his mind.

“Oh my gosh,” Walter groaned. “You are horrible. Just say something normal to her.”

“Mo thinks he's so cool because he can pick on people,” Melissa said. “But he's really just a big idiot.”

Charlie swallowed.

“Come on! Don't do this. Just agree with her. Nod or something!” Walter pleaded in Charlie's ear.

“Yeah…you're right,” Charlie managed to say. “He is an idiot.” He kept his eyes glued to the floor and Melissa's light-blue flip-flops.

“That wasn't so bad, now, was it?” Walter asked.

Melissa laughed. “So, are you heading to Spanish class? Is that what you said? Who's your teacher?”

Charlie found an ounce of courage and raised his eyes, but only halfway. He ended up staring at Melissa's painted fingernails and her chemistry book. “I have Mrs. Morales.”

“Oh, I heard she's tough.”

“She's not so bad,” Charlie answered, relaxing a bit. “She just sometimes—” He stopped short and stared at Melissa's arm. That was odd. Where did she get that bracelet? Had she always worn it? He'd never noticed it on her before.

“Here we go again.” Walter's voice snapped Charlie from his trance. “How many times are you going to make her say your name over and over before you answer?”

“Charlie?”

Charlie finally realized Melissa was speaking, and he dropped his eyes once more to the floor. “I better get to class,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, me too.” She moved to the side, and Charlie shuffled past.

“What happened?” Walter asked. “Do you always freeze up when you talk to girls? That's a real problem. If you would just listen to me, I could help you not act like such a doof.”

“I don't need your help,” Charlie said, pausing at the drinking fountain. He took a gulp of water and glanced around. “I froze up because I noticed something about her. Something weird.”

“What kind of weird?”

“She was wearing a Spirit Spy bracelet.”

“A what?”

“Spirit Spy is Wisdom Willows's trademarked brand. The same geometrical design is stamped on all his merchandise. T-shirts, excavating gloves, jewelry. Melissa's bracelet had that symbol!”

“Whatever, man. It probably just looked a lot like a spirit—whatever you called it—bracelet.”

“I think
I
would know what it looks like, okay? I've seen that design hundreds of times on SpiritSpy.org. That was definitely one of Wisdom Willows's products.”

“Well, I bet she doesn't even know what it stands for.”

“I guess so.” Still, where would Melissa find a bracelet like that? It wasn't like they were sold at the mall.

“¿Sí, Charlie, puedo ayudarte?”
Mrs. Morales asked as Charlie approached her desk. The bell had rung a minute earlier, and all of Charlie's classmates had already left.

“Um, yeah, um…what?” Spanish was not Charlie's best subject.

“May I help you?” she translated.

“I was wondering if you know what language this is written in.” Charlie unzipped his backpack and removed the book. It thudded loudly against the desk.

Mrs. Morales frowned at the dirty cover and ripped several tissues from the box next to her mug of pens. After wiping most of the dirt clean, she flipped open the cover and raised an eyebrow. “Is this from the library?” she asked.

“Yes…I mean, no. Uh…” Charlie stumbled over his words. “It's not from the school. I checked it out from Gabbiter Public Library.”

“Well, it's definitely not Spanish or any language I've ever seen before,” she said.

“Can you read any of it?”

She wiped one of the pages with another tissue and narrowed her eyes. After several more flips, she sighed. “I'm afraid not. I would assume it's written in some sort of dead language.”

“Oh, snap!” Walter shouted.

Charlie jerked back in surprise and nearly knocked over the plant on his Spanish teacher's desk. Mrs. Morales gasped, and Charlie quickly faked a sneeze.

“Sorry!” Charlie apologized, wiping his nose. “I think I have a cold.”

“It's all right,” she said.

“Did you hear her?” Walter still spoke with a blaring voice. “A dead language? We were right!”

Charlie glared down at the floor and shook his head.

“If she knows it's written in a dead-people language, maybe she's a paranormal geek too. Ask her why the demons want it so badly,” Walter continued.

“Be quiet,” Charlie hissed.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Morales peered over her glasses.

“Sorry, I didn't mean you. Thanks for your help.” Charlie collected the book and walked hastily out of the classroom.

“Why did you tell me to be quiet?” Walter asked once they were out in the hallway. “And why did you leave without asking her about the demons? Go back in there!”

Charlie stomped his foot. “She wouldn't know what I was talking about, and she would probably think I was crazy!”

“She said ‘dead language.' Weren't you listening?”

“A dead language is a language no one uses anymore. Like Latin! And demons aren't dead. They're not zombies!”

“Oh,” Walter said softly. “I didn't know that.”

“Obviously!”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I don't know. Maybe there's another teacher I could talk to. Someone at the high school.” Charlie hurried past several students, but he didn't care if they could hear him apparently talking to himself.

“Don't go to another teacher. They won't know,” Walter said. “What you need to do is scan the pages onto your computer.”

Charlie scoffed. “Oh, okay, you're
so
brilliant.”

“You could then upload them onto your dorky website and ask your friend Mr. Willow what he thinks it is.”

Charlie started to twirl his finger next to his ear, but stopped short. “That's actually a good idea.”

“No kidding. Don't you have computer lab after lunch?”

“Not today. It's only twice a week, and I'm still not allowed on the computer at home.”

“So? Just wait until they go to sleep tonight and sneak into the office. Your parents forgot to lock the door this morning after you fed your birds.”

Of course Walter had noticed that. But it was another good idea. All of a sudden, Walter was full of them. Or was he? Why wasn't Charlie able to think straight anymore?

Charlie's shoulders drooped. Cutting class. Sneaking out of his room. Going behind his parents' backs. He sighed and shook his head.

“You're turning me into a criminal.”