Then, before Emrys knew it, he was home. His dog, Sir Galahound, greeted him with his usual wiggly butt and waggly tail, before turning his exuberance on Mr. Navarro. Emrys’s mom appeared from around the corner, her face outlined in candlelight, just as the dog was receiving an epic ear-scratching.

“Felix!” she said. “Thanks for walking Emrys up. I was just on the verge of getting nervous.”

“No problem at all,” Mr. Navarro said. “Serena had … an accident with the intercom, which is apparently no longer connected to our wall. Figured she and Max could use some space to talk it out.”

Emrys’s mom grimaced. “Want to come in for a minute? Have a drink?”

“Desperately,” Mr. Navarro chuckled. “Thanks, Grace, but I should head back down and offer support. I’ll figure out to whom when I get there.”

After bidding his parents and Mr. Navarro good night, Emrys hurried to his room, Sir Galahound hot on his heels. He quickly dug the portable battery charger from his desk drawer and connected it to his phone. Instantly, the battery icon in the upper corner was cut in half, bisected by a zig-zagging lightning bolt. That beautiful symbol meant power was flooding into the phone. Everything would be okay.

Outside, thunder boomed. Real lightning was still crashing above New Rotterdam, of course. The storm raged on, but here in 49 Eldridge Heights—with his phone and his dog and his parents readying for bed across the apartment—Emrys finally felt his anxiety begin to disentangle.

Then his phone buzzed.

Did you see anything on your floor? Hazel had texted Emrys and Serena in a group chat.

What do u mean?

The whistler! Hazel texted. Any sign of them?

Emrys chuckled. The Whistler is a pretty good wiki name but no.

A few moments later, Serena chimed in.

They must have gone all the way up

Was it the Sorcerer of #701? Emrys texted. Then, Are you in trouble Serena?

Yes

A beat later, she texted, Van Stavern never leaves his apartment. Mr. Popov even brings his mail up. Definitely not a whistler.

He’s never had a visitor before, Hazel texted. Not that I’ve seen.

An idea was simmering in Emrys’s mind, a pressure that begged for release. It was ridiculous, really. He was already safe in his room in his pajamas, the eeriness of the night long past.

I could listen outside his door, he texted. Maybe the Whistler went inside?

Serena was probably right—Alyx Van Stavern probably was just a sad old man—but the failure at Cold Beach had left Emrys hungry for a win. What if he discovered a brand-new entry for the wiki? Of the three of them, Emrys was the closest to the Sorcerer of #701’s apartment. The man lived just one floor above him. Emrys’s parents were in their own bedroom, their door already closed. He was sure he could sneak out and then back in without being noticed.

YES!! Serena texted immediately, just as Hazel’s Emrys no, popped into the chat below it.

His feet were already on the floor, his fingers tapping frantically. Just up and down really quick i’ll let you now if i hear any thing

Sir Galahound raised his head, then hopped off the bed, too, curious about the late-night flurry of activity.

“Sorry, boy,” Emrys whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

He decided to forgo his shoes for the mission. Socks would be quieter on the stairs.

The apartment was pitch black—and dead quiet. Emrys tiptoed down the hall to the front door. Thankfully, his parents’ room was at the other end of the apartment.

Emrys carefully nudged the door open. He clicked the toggle that allowed it to be opened from the outside without a key, then slipped into the hall and pulled it shut behind him. Only then did he dare turn on his phone’s flashlight.

Emrys swung the beam toward the stairway, pointing up to the penthouse apartment that took up the entire seventh floor.

He edged toward the staircase, listening for any signs of conversation—and especially for that eerie, musical whistling. He didn’t hear a thing.

Not for the first time, Emrys wondered what he was doing. Just moments ago, the darkness had been so all-consuming, so confining, that he could feel his mind rattling against it like a caged animal. Emrys had never been good at sitting still. Quiet moments were when his brain rebelled, conjuring every fear he had ever harbored and holding it up for him to examine. He needed a puzzle to solve, a mystery to worry over, in order to feel truly calm.

Serena loved her slashers, and Hazel her monster movies. Emrys’s favorite had always been cosmic horror—stories of forbidden and dangerous knowledge, where characters sought the hidden mysteries of the universe, usually to their dooms. J. B. Goodheart, his favorite writer of the genre, had even grown up near New Rotterdam! Several of the more famous wiki entries—like the Witch’s Needle and Five-Pointed Fright—bore striking similarities to Goodheart’s stories. Emrys had only seen the movies, of course, but he still sensed a fellow pessimist in the man. Goodheart seemed to suspect that the universe was as cruel as it was vast, and that it only became crueler the more one learned.

Still, just like the ill-fated knowledge seekers of the genre, Emrys found he could seldom leave well enough alone. There was nothing more irresistible than a forbidden question.

He took a careful step up, then another. The beam from his light wobbled as he climbed, sending shadows careening. Darkness warped the shapes around him, twisting every curve into a sinister smile.

Which is perhaps why he didn’t notice what was truly wrong until it nearly hit him in the face.

A lance of heat plunged through the air, sizzling just past Emrys’s nose. Something hissed against the ground, right beside his unprotected foot. Emrys gasped, snapping the flashlight downward, where he saw what appeared to be a boiling bubble of …

“Glass?” Emrys rasped aloud.

Instantly, he flicked his phone upward to where a small, old-fashioned light fixture had been set above the landing. Now it was a melted ruin.

Not just the fixture, but the bulb itself. The glass drooped, fusing into the bronze-colored fixture.

Had the building actually been struck by lightning? Surely someone would have noticed. Emrys pointed his light toward the door to apartment #701.

Only there was no door to be found.

There was a doorframe—or pieces of it, anyway—clinging limply to the wall. But the door itself had been blasted inward by some devastating force. Beyond it was a void, just a rectangle of depthless black. Van Stavern’s apartment was so dark, not even Emrys’s flashlight penetrated beyond the threshold.

What in the world had happened here? And how had no one heard a thing while it was happening? Whatever destroyed this door must have been colossal. Wrecking balls usually made a noise when tearing through peoples’ homes.

This … this was bad. Certainly it was more serious than Emrys could handle on his own. He needed to call the police. Or an ambulance. He needed to warn someone.

He took a step back.

“Don’t scream,” a voice whispered in his ear. Then someone wrapped their hands around his mouth.

The Witch’s Needle

From the New Rotterdam Wiki Project