The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1)

Tick laughed despite the craziness of it all. “Mothball, I’m more confused every time you speak. How about you just tell me whatever you want, and I’ll shut up and listen.” He rubbed his neck, which hurt from looking up at her so much. His scarf was crusted in snow.

“Now that’s more like it, though I must admit I don’t know what to say now.” Mothball folded her arms, her face scrunching up into a serious frown as she stared down at Tick. “No harm in tellin’ that you’re from the Prime, I reckon, and that I’m from the Fifth, and me friend Rutger’s from the Eleventh I told you about just now. Wee little gent, old Rutger—looks a little like a ball of bread dough, he does. The poor bloke is short as a field swine and twice as fat. You’ll be meetin’ him, too, ya know, right directly if he’s about his business.”

“Wait,” Tick said, forgetting his promise to be quiet, at which Mothball rolled her eyes. “You sound like you know who I am. This is somehow related to the letters I got in the mail, isn’t it?”

“What else, little man? Did ya ever see an eight-foot woman before you got the notes from the Master?”

“Mast—” Tick paused, his mind churning like the snowflakes that swirled around his body. This giant woman had obviously come to talk to him specifically, for a purpose, and yet he’d learned nothing. “Look, Mothball, maybe you could explain everything, from the beginning?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Can’t do that, little man. Can’t do that at’all.”

“Then why did you come here? Why did you step out of the woods to talk to me?”

“To rub ya a little, give ya a bit of confidence, ya know. Me boss sent me. Sendin’ me all over the place, he is, just to help where I can.”

“Help with what?”

“Not sure to be quite frank. I know I can’t talk about the messages, and I can’t tell you anything about the Master or the Barrier Wand or the Realities or the Kyoopy or the Chi’karda or anythin’ else to do with ’em.” She held out a finger as she said each of the strange items as though she’d been given a list beforehand. “Other than that, feel free to ask your questions, since I have no idea anymore what to talk to ya about.”

Tick rubbed his eyes, frustrated. He tried his best to memorize each of the odd words Mothball had said, burning them into his mind for later analysis. “Miss Mothball, it’s official. This is the craziest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Sorry, little man. Truly I am.” She kicked the snow at her feet, making a huge divot. “’Simportant you figure things out for yourself. It won’t work otherwise. But, er, maybe you’ve seen something, er, strange since you got those letters?”

Tick’s interest perked up considerably. “Yeah, I have. Just a couple of hours ago I saw this smoky, wispy thing that formed into a face and made a freaky sound. Can you tell me about that?”

Mothball’s face lit up despite the scary subject matter of his question. “Ah! Tingle Wraiths! That’s what you’ve seen, I’d bet me left shoe. Scary fellas, them. Now that I can talk about.”

“You know what they are? Where they come from?”

“I ruddy well should! They almost killed me friend Rutger just last winter. ’Ere, did you get a little tingle down your spine when the Death Siren started? Ya know that’s where they get the name from.” She paused. “Ya know, tingle. Down your spine. Tingle Wraith. Get it?”

“Yeah . . . I get it.” If she noticed his sarcasm, she didn’t show it. “But what are they?”

“That awful sound you ’eard is the Death Siren and it only gets louder and louder, I’m afraid. They can’t move more than a few feet or so once their face is formed, but there’s no need as long as you can hear that terrible cry of theirs. Thirty seconds, once it starts—that’s all you’ve got.”

“What do you mean?”

Mothball’s brow furrowed as she wagged a finger at him. “If any man, woman, or child hears the Death Siren for thirty seconds straight, their brain turns right to mush. Nasty death, that. Seen it happen to an old bloke once. His body flopped around like a chicken with its ruddy noggin

lopped off. The poor wife finally let ’im out of ’is misery. Bludgeoned him over the head with a teapot, she did.”

“You’re serious?”

“Do I look like the kind of person who’d make funnies about an old woman knocking ’er own sweet husband over the head with a teapot?”

“Well . . . no, I guess.”

“Sad, it was.” She stared at an empty spot past Tick’s shoulder for a few seconds, then looked him in the eyes. “You’ll be all right. S’long as you can run, they’ll never catch you. Just avoid ’em if you can.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

A long pause followed, and Tick began to panic that Mothball would leave without telling him anything else. “So . . . what do I do? What are the messages for? Who is M.G.? What’s supposed to happen on the day he talked about in the first clue?” The questions poured out, even though he knew what her answer would be before she said it.

“Sorry, can’t speak about it. Master’s orders.”