A Home for Unusual Monsters

1

Uncle Archie was a liar. Professionally. He could spin a story from nothing, weav-ing the threads of it together so expertly that the person being lied to might never see the seams. Big lies, little lies. Uncle Archie had mastered them all. I’d seen him lie to bankers and bakers and lawyers and police. I’d even seen him lie to a priest, though I kept my distance when he told that whopper. Just in case.

But every liar has a tell, and though Uncle Archie didn’t know it, I had discovered his.

Right before Uncle Archie was about to lie, he checked the time. Usually it was nothing more than a glance at his watch or phone, over and done so quickly that it was easy to miss. I’d been with Uncle Archie half my life, and it had taken me a couple of years to spot the pattern. But once I’d noticed it, I couldn’t help seeing it each and every time.

“Didn’t you hear me, Samantha?” Uncle Archie said. “Go fish.”

Oh, I’d heard him. I’d also seen him glance at the time on his phone right after I asked if he had any eights. Usually watching Uncle Archie lie was like watching from backstage while a magician worked, but I hated when he lied to me.

I tossed my cards face up on the folding table. “Why are we even playing this silly game? I’m not six anymore. Are you afraid you can’t beat me at a real game?”

Uncle Archie set his cards face down and folded his hands in front of him. He looked like a librarian and had the patience of a kindergarten teacher. “When playing against a superior opponent, sometimes the only way to beat them is to choose a game you know you can win.”

“Even if you have to cheat?”

“When the stakes of the game are life and death, there are no rules.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh boy. Another lesson.” I stood and walked to the small cooler against the unpainted wall and grabbed a water bottle from inside. The floors were dusty cement, and the unfinished, abandoned office building smelled like mildew, but it was five stories tall and offered unobstructed views of our surround-ings.

“These lessons may save your life one day.”

“I’m tired of lessons.” I crossed back to the huge holes in the exterior walls where the windows should’ve been and looked across the street to an empty lot littered with garbage, overgrown with weeds and grass, and encircled by a six-foot-tall chain-link fence. “We should be there,” I said, pointing out the window. “Dealing with the furax.”

“We’re observing,” Uncle Archie said. “Observation is potentially the most im-portant aspect of our work. Proper observation and identification prevents us from blundering into situations we’re unprepared for and putting our lives, and the lives of those around us, in mortal peril.”

With his boring suit and haircut, no one would have guessed that Uncle Archie worked for a clandestine organization that investigated strange phenomena and creatures that most people thought only existed in myths and fairy tales. No one would’ve guessed it about me, either, because they saw me as just a kid, but I could change my appearance. Make people believe I was anyone I chose. I’m not saying I had superpowers, but it was a power and I was pretty super.

“Seven people have reported walking into that lot, finding a strange house that no one else can see, going inside, and leaving an hour later ten years older.” I turned back to catch Uncle Archie’s eye. “Do you know a creature other than a furax that eats years the way you gobble Oreos?”

“No,” Uncle Archie said. “However, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It wasn’t long ago that you were unaware there exists an entire world parallel to ours where lost people and objects sometimes wind up.”

He had me there. While researching rumors of a ghost at St. Lawrence’s Catholic School for Boys, we’d discovered Hector Griggs, a sixth grader who thought he could turn invisible but who could actually travel to the place where lost things went. We also found a monster living there that had been preying on the students for decades.

“Okay, but this is definitely a furax.”

Uncle Archie sighed. “That might be, but our orders are to observe and report back so that a proper team can dispatch the furax--or whatever else it may be.”

This was our third straight day of observation. We’d played a thousand hands of go fish, I’d completed my schoolwork for the next month--our Kairos teachers didn’t give us summers off--and I’d been forced to listen to Uncle Archie tell stories I’d heard a dozen times before. I wasn’t sure how much more observing I could take.

“You know I’m good enough to be an agent already.”

“I know you’re twelve, Samantha.”

“Going on thirteen.”

“Which is still too young to be chasing monsters on your own.”

“I’m not a kid,” I said. “I’ve known about this world since I was six. I’ve been help-ing you in the field since I was eight.”

Uncle Archie pinched the bridge of his nose. Another tell, this one indicating that he was frustrated. “And sometimes I wonder if allowing you to do so was in your best interest.”

“Why?”

“You deserve a family, Samantha. You deserve the chance to be twelve going on thirteen, neither of which you’ll get working for Kairos.”

“But I want to work for Kairos,” I said.

“Because it’s what you want or because it’s all you’ve ever known?”

I started to say that it was what I wanted, but Uncle Archie didn’t give me the chance.

“You’re smart and resourceful. You would make a brilliant agent, but you would also make a brilliant teacher or computer engineer or politician.”

“Do you want me to leave Kairos?”

Uncle Archie rested his hand on my shoulder. “I want you to know that the world won’t end if you do. I want you to know that you have other options, and that I will support you no matter what you choose.”

I didn’t know what to say. Kairos was my home. It had been my home since Uncle Archie carried me out of the house I was born in, which had been on fire at the time. Even though I doubted it was true, I felt like he was telling me he didn’t want me around anymore.

Uncle Archie pushed himself up from his chair with a groan. “I’m going to the sandwich shop to use the facilities and purchase our evening meal. Would you like your usual?”

I gave him a sarcastically enthusiastic thumbs-up. Another dinner, another turkey and cheese sandwich. Yay.

“Don’t forget, Samantha, we’re here to observe. If you see something, make note of it, but do not go near that lot.”

“Yup,” I said. “Got it.”

I leaned against the windowsill, listening to the sound of Uncle Archie’s footsteps as they faded and disappeared. I didn’t understand why Uncle Archie was question-ing my commitment to Kairos. Did he think I wasn’t ready? Did he think I couldn’t handle myself? I knew more about the creepy things that existed in the cracks be-tween our world than most adult agents.

I sometimes wondered if Kairos was only using me for my power. I wasn’t allowed to investigate the furax, but Uncle Archie and the Director had no problem sending me undercover to an all-boys school to search for a ghost or to a coding summer camp to question a werewolf or to a baking competition for kids to try to recruit a girl who could control yeast with her thoughts.

I hadn’t minded that last one so much. I’m a terrible baker but a world-class taste tester.

Helping Hector Griggs save his school from the gelim, a terrifying tentacle mon-ster that had been masquerading as a sweet old lady, should have proven to Uncle Archie and the Director that I could handle myself. Before that, I’d saved the entire town of Fairview from a glowing rock that made anyone who touched it hear the most annoying song they knew until it drove them into a murderous rage. I’d helped relocate an angry old tree that was giving residents of a community in Or-egon nightmares, and had helped a famous young actor come to terms with his ability to taste the history of anything he put in his mouth. I was ready to do more than observe. I just had to convince Uncle Archie and the Director of it.

Movement by the empty lot yanked me from my thoughts. A man in jeans and a hoodie was walking past the fence.

That’s it, buddy. Keep going.

The man slowed. He brushed the chain-link fence with his fingers. He cocked his head to the side like a dog listening to a sound only he could hear.

I stuck my head out the window and shouted, “Hey, you! Guy in the green hoodie!”

The man ignored me. He wore a dreamy, distant expression as he turned around and walked back toward the gate. Uncle Archie had chained it shut and secured it with a padlock, but the man easily scaled the fence, swung his legs over the top, and hopped down on the other side.

“I told them they should’ve put up barbed wire,” I muttered to myself.

The man walked toward the center of the lot and then vanished. He wasn’t gone, though. Furax were masters of camouflage, blending into their surroundings by taking the forms of houses or office buildings or cozy hotels--whatever would be most inviting to their potential victims.

I turned to run down the stairs but stopped when I heard Uncle Archie’s voice in my head, reminding me that I was only supposed to observe. Except, surely he couldn’t have meant for me to stand by while the furax stole a few birthdays from an innocent person’s life. The man wasn’t going to die--not right away--but he’d die a decade sooner than he might have if he’d never fallen prey to the furax. Un-cle Archie would probably have told me that though the man’s loss was unfortu-nate, we had orders to follow.

But I couldn’t do nothing. I had to help that man, even if it meant disobeying Uncle Archie.

Field Guide: Domus vitafurax

Domus vitafurax, commonly known as the furax, is a parasite that feeds off the life essence of other creatures, though humans are its preferred source of sustenance.

To ensnare their victims, furax take the form of any type of dwelling most likely to entice potential prey to come inside. Though furax generally take the shape of an inviting structure such as a house--the story of Hansel and Gretel wasn’t the story of a witch, but was one of the first recorded mentions of a furax--they have been known to appear to weary travelers as tents, stables, and, once, a Waffle House on an empty stretch of I-95.

Victims emerge from the structure, usually an hour or two later, visibly aged ten years, and retain no memory of what occurred inside. Despite the loss of years from their lives, furax victims universally report feelings of peace and content-ment.

It is believed that Domus vitafurax evolved to share a symbiotic relationship with early humans, offering them stable shelter and protection in exchange for siphon-ing small amounts of life. However, humanity’s explosive growth and its shift to-ward less permanent domiciles might have caused the furax to adjust its feeding habits.

The true form of the elusive Domus vitafurax remains unknown.

2

Most people run from danger. They see something scary, and they take off in the opposite direction as fast as they can. But I had always run toward danger. Like the part of my brain that should have told me to flee didn’t work right. Even firefight-ers, who make a living running into dangerous situations, take precautions before entering burning buildings. The way I should have.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of that as I dashed across the street toward the lot that contained the furax. I practically vaulted over the fence, landing in the weedy grass with a thud I felt in my knees. The only thing that scared me was that the furax might try to keep me out. I should have been more afraid that it would let me in.

Getting rid of a furax was easy. Certain types of folk music from the 1960s, played loudly, caused furax so much pain that they would do anything to flee. And, as a last resort, a furax could be killed by quickly applying a fresh coat of paint and some tasteful landscaping, causing it to ossify as whatever building it was currently camouflaged as. But Kairos was desperate to study a living furax, which was why Uncle Archie and I had been given strict orders not to interfere.

I didn’t like the idea of keeping monsters in cages. Not even the awful gelim I’d fought alongside Hector at St. Lawrence’s Catholic School for Boys. Monsters like the furax were only doing what came naturally to them. Punishing them for drain-ing years from people’s lives was like punishing a bumblebee for drinking nectar or a spider for catching flies. But maybe if we knew more about furax, we could understand and learn to live alongside them.

I crept across the lot, keeping my eyes peeled. The reports we’d gotten said vic-tims had described finding a quaint coffee shop filled with mismatched furniture and the best crumble cake they’d ever eaten. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to see the furax, but I suddenly felt like I was passing through a freezing-cold waterfall, and then there it was. I stopped and looked back. Nothing else seemed to have changed, but where there had been an empty lot now stood a cozy seafoam-green cottage with a front porch and rocking chairs and a simple sign in the front win-dow that said Coffee and Cake. The door was wide open, and a tangled aroma of vanilla and cinnamon hooked its fingers in my nostrils and invited me inside.

I walked up the steps carefully. “Hello? Hoodie guy? You there?” When no one an-swered, I went inside.

The café was decorated with worn tables, overstuffed chairs and couches, book-shelves filled with every genre of book from graphic novels to obscure repair guides for old video game consoles no one used anymore. The smell of coffee mingled with the aroma of cake. I didn’t drink coffee, but Uncle Archie couldn’t survive mornings without at least two cups, and the rich, earthy scent reminded me of him.

At the front of the shop was a long counter on which stood a beautiful chrome es-presso machine with spouts and spigots and knobs. Next to it was a glass case filled with every kind of cake imaginable. Coffee cake, apple cake with a crumble top-ping, slices of chocolate cake as big as my head. There were cupcakes, too, deco-rated with sprinkles and swirls and bouquets of buttercream frosting.