Joey and the Magic Map Read online

  Joey and the

  Magic Map

  Tory C Anderson

  Cover Art by Sarah Hunt

  Copyright © 2013 Tory C Anderson

  Oryander Publishing

  PO Box 445, Levan, UT 84639

  Third Edition

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1483961680

  ISBN-13: 978-1483961682

  DEDICATION

  To Tory, Cory, Rory, Clory, Lory, Jory, Glory and Story, my inspiration. To my sweet wife, Barbara, who believes in me.

  Chapter 1

  Just outside the little town of Stoneybrook, Tennessee, past Katy Mills’ Homemade Pie Company, and up a dusty lane lined with tall poplars is an old mansion. People call it the Mansion on Katy Mills’ Road. It’s not a typical mansion as old Southern mansions go. Some would say it isn’t a mansion at all, just a big house. Two stories rise above the ground and on top of these sits an attic with dirty dark windows looking out in four directions. It does have three tall pillars out front with white paint peeling like somebody’s sunburned nose. Untrimmed shrubs reach toward the windows. Fat oak trees shade the lawn so much that it isn’t green but only brown grass mixed with patches of dirt.

  Colonel Orson T. Horsebaum built the mansion before the Civil War with his great fortune made in slave-grown cotton. Tales say that Horsebaum boasted of building the mansion to last five hundred years. Fifteen years after building it the Union Army burned it to the ground. Well, it would have burned to the ground if it hadn’t been for the rain which saved the pillars out front. Colonel Horsebaum, a stubborn man, with a little gold he had hidden, rebuilt his mansion in hopes the South would rise again. His money ran low; he ended up with only a large house with pillars. The South didn’t rise again either, at least not to its former glory.

  The little mansion is 160 years old. It stands as stubbornly as Colonel Horsebaum lived. It could be that it leans to one side just a little, but to which side depends on who you ask. Like a lot of old houses it seems alive at times. The floors creak and the walls groan. When the wind blows, even with the windows closed, the curtains dance and papers shuffle. Everybody within twenty-five miles, child or grown up, has talked of the mansion being haunted. The grownups don’t actually believe in haunted houses. The children know better.

  The first time Joey laid eyes on the mansion on Katy Mill Road he knew it was haunted. It was early Thursday afternoon. His mother, Mrs. Molly Wilhelmina Johanaby, drove the old, extended-cab, pickup truck pulling a U-Haul trailer up the dusty lane. With brakes squeaking she stopped in front of the house. Mrs. Johanaby, Joey, and the twins stared silently at the mansion. They had come from five states away and knew nothing of the mansion’s history. The mansion seemed to speak for itself.

  “This is the place,” Mrs. Johanaby finally said, breaking the silence.

  The two back doors flew open and the twins Glory and Story leaped out. They ran to the front door, tried the handle, and then began banging on it.

  “It’s locked, Mom!” Glory yelled.

  “Back door!” Story said and took off along the porch with Glory one step behind him. As they disappeared around the corner of the mansion silence descended on Joey and his mother once again.

  Mrs. Johanaby’s mouth hung open, the words “I’ve got the key,” right on the end of her tongue. The twins moved too fast. She shut her mouth slowly.

  Joey and his mother showed none of the twins’ energy or enthusiasm. They continued to sit in the truck. Mrs. Johanaby sat because she was tired. Joey because he thought the mansion, or something in it, was staring at him. Goose bumps rose on his arms. The hair on his neck stood up. The feeling had come over him the moment they turned into the lane and he caught sight of the house. It was the same sudden fear you might feel when you are walking home at night and suddenly an unseen dog growls at you from the shadows. He almost told his Mom that they should leave, now, and never come back.

  Before he could speak, the panic drifted away like the smoke from an exploded firecracker. It was replaced by a kind of excitement which was like fear, but more hopeful.

  “Mom,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “There’s something about this house . . .” He stopped, not knowing what words to say.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a wonderful old house, isn’t it.”

  His mother wasn’t feeling it. He could tell. He knew better than to try to explain.

  “Are you going to get out?” his mother asked.

  Joey nodded, taking his eyes off the house for the first time since they had driven up the lane. By the time he and his mother got the front door opened, the twins had completed their round of the house. They stood behind Joey panting happily.

  As soon as Mrs. Johanaby opened the door a crack the kids pushed past her. Yelling excitedly they began exploring the mansion at a run. Joey wanted to follow. He hesitated. “Do you want to start bringing in stuff now?” he asked his mother.

  “No. Let’s have a look first,” she answered.

  Joey stepped into the house. He found himself in a dim entryway. A wide staircase with wooden banisters rose in front of him. On one side of the stairway was a dark hallway. In front of the staircase, on either side, were doors leading into other rooms. Joey realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a puff. His first breath of the old mansion was of things old and musty. He expected this. Then his nose detected something unexpected. The scent was faint—the ghost of a scent.

  “I smell lilacs,” Mrs. Johanaby said.

  Yes, that was it. “Lilacs? In the house?” Joey asked.

  “Maybe someone left a bouquet,” she said, raising an eyebrow in doubt.

  Joey turned and walked into the room on his left.

  “It’s a formal living room,” his mother said, walking in behind him. The wooden floorboards were warped and uneven. Dusty couches and chairs sat on a rug that covered all but the edges of the wooden floor. The furniture looked old and used like furniture Joey had seen in thrift stores where his mother liked to shop. The ceiling was high in this room. Paint on the walls near the ceiling peeled back in delicate curls. The room was painted a light blue.

  Behind him Joey heard his brother and sister run down the hall and scurry up the stairs. Curious he turned and climbed up after them. There was another long hallway lit by two windows in the west wall. There were four doors on the right. There was one more door facing them at the other end of the hallway. Joey found Glory and Story in the first room. It was a large bedroom with windows facing north and east. The room was nearly bare. A queen size bed stood at one end of the room and a large oak wardrobe at the other end. Glory was bouncing on the bare bed making it squeak furiously. She executed a forward flip landing on her bum. Story opened the wardrobe door and climbed in.

  “Wow, it’s huge,” he said from the darkness inside. Sticking his head out the door he added, “It’ll make a great fort.”

  “This is my bedroom,” yelled Glory. She wasn’t expressing hope, but staking her claim. It would take a formal eviction notice to get her out now.

  Story, a bright kid, stood for a moment preparing to argue with Glory. Before he spoke his eyes lit up with an idea. He ran out the door. A moment later the same thought occurred to Joey. It was too late.

  “This is my bedroom,” Story yelled. His voice echoed faintly down the hall. Joey found him in a bedroom just like the first except the two windows faced south and east.

  “Get out of my room,” Story said as Joey stepped in. “Trespassers will be violated.” He quoted from a sign he had seen on a junk yard gate. The sign had an outline picture of a big, snarling dog.

  Joey didn’t argue. He never argued with the twins. They always got what they wanted no matter how u
nfair it was. Disappointment growing, Joey checked the two doors in the middle. He found a bathroom and a small bedroom with only one window facing east. The bed was small and dumpy looking. There was no wardrobe at all, just a chest of drawers.

  Joey knew this would be his room. The twins had staked their claims. They would get what they wanted. As the oldest child he should have some clout. For some reason he didn’t get much respect. Respect slunk away from him like a strong-willed dog from a weak master.

  He was thinking of how he could make his case for one of the bigger rooms when Mrs. Johanaby stepped in behind him.

  “It isn’t fair,” he said. “Their rooms are ten-times bigger than this, and they’ll just end up sleeping in the same room anyway like always.” Joey made some good points, but even he heard the lack of energy and conviction in his voice. He had lost already.

  Joey looked up at his mom as she eyed the room. Ever since his dad died she looked tired all the time. Underneath the tired she was still pretty.

  “This used to be as big as the other two, but it looks like they took part of it when they added the bathroom,” she said.

  “I want one of the big rooms,” Joey said. He heard the whine in his own voice. He blushed, ashamed. He had promised his father he’d be the man of the house.

  Mrs. Johanaby looked at him and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Give me a hand with the stuff from the trailer.”

  Hearing his mother sigh made his face grow even redder. Wishing he could take back his complaint Joey followed her down the stairs.

  They didn’t have to bring their furniture because Aunt Winocha had left all hers. There were couches and beds and end tables and funny looking dressers with long legs. They sat like obedient dogs in rooms where Aunt Winocha had left them. It’s possible that some of the furniture was still sitting where Colonel Horsebaum left it. Aunt Winocha had inherited the house from him.

  Aunt Winocha lived more than one hundred years—longer than most of her relatives. She had to search long and hard before she found Mrs. Johanaby—her cousin three times removed—to whom she left the house. This was lucky for the Johanabys. Eight months earlier Mr. Johanaby had died from cancer. Mrs. Johanaby couldn’t make the house payments. The same day the foreclosure notice from the bank arrived Mrs. Johanaby received a call from Aunt Winocha’s trustee.

  When Mrs. Johanaby realized she had a place for her family to live she cried. The twins cried when she told them they were moving. Joey didn’t, not then.

  “This is where Dad lived, and this is where I want to live,” Glory said.

  “Dad bought this house for us so why can’t we stay here?” added Story.

  Joey wasn’t feeling much at all. His dad had died. Nothing mattered anymore.

  Mrs. Johanaby explained that the house wasn’t paid for. She couldn’t make the payments. The bank was taking it back

  “Well, then, get a job like Dad so we can still live here,” Glory said. Joey saw hurt in his mother’s eyes.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” she said.

  There were more tears and mutinous exclamations as they packed the trailer. Glory was going to lock herself in the bathroom. Story was going to run away from home. They weren’t far down the road on the way to Stoneybrook, Tennessee, when the twins began to forget about their old home. They started talking about the mansion.

  Glory and Story were like that. They could move from one thing to the next as if nothing really mattered. They were only eight. It helped that they were Mr. and Mrs. Johanaby’s babies. They were spoiled. That’s the way Joey saw it. Joey would have cried if he had had the energy. That was the only house he had ever known. Driving away made his dad seem deader. He wondered what his mother was feeling. She wore sunglasses. He couldn’t see her eyes.

  At dinner, after the trailer had been unloaded, the twins asked him where he was going to sleep.

  He ignored them as if it wasn’t an issue.

  “Well you don’t get my room,” Glory said. She was only eight and yet spoke like she was his big sister. Somewhere in her eight years she had taken his power from him.

  “You can’t have my room either,” Story said. His voice wasn’t nearly as bossy. He folded his arms for emphasis. Story couldn’t argue like his sister. To her credit Glory would defend Story’s interest as her own—that is unless his interest conflicted with hers. Toward Story her motto was, “You first . . . after me!”

  Joey gave his mother a quick glance. Even though the odds were the same as winning the lottery he hoped she might stand up for him here. The thought of taking the little, middle room while his little brother and sister got the big rooms made his blood boil.

  It wasn’t really about the room. It was about how he was always expected to give in to them. If he went somewhere they had to come along. If there were only two cookies left they got them. They didn’t seem to think about him getting none. Or maybe they did—Glory sometimes grinned at him at times like that. He had learned that justice in the family was arbitrary.

  His mother didn’t appear to be listening. Her eyes wandered around the old, rather bare-looking kitchen as she ate her spaghetti. It was the mushy kind from a can. The empty cans were still sitting on the counter next to the massive, old stove.

  Feeling more cantankerous than courageous, Joey said, “I’ll take whatever room I want.” This was unexpected. Glory and Story stopped chewing and stared at him. Glory pulled herself together and went into action.

  “Mom!” Glory said, in that sharp way of hers. That was all she said. Just one word, but it was her shot across the bow. She had given warning and waited to see the response. Giving in to her was so much easier than fighting her. She knew this and so did everyone else. If she didn’t like the response she would start in on one of two strategies—extreme annoyance based on reason (I called it first!) or extreme annoyance based on sheer defiance (It’s my room and he can’t have it!).

  Mrs. Johanaby’s tired eyes came to rest on Glory, then Story, and finally on Joey. She pushed her chair back and got up. For one fearful moment Joey thought she was just going to walk away and leave him and the twins to it. But then she said, “Follow me everybody.” There was a tired smile in her voice.

  Leaving the mushy spaghetti in red sauce, they pushed away from the table and hurried to catch up with their mother. They caught up with her in the hallway and followed her up the stairs. She walked past the bedrooms in question to the end of the hallway and stopped at the fifth door. This was a mystery door. The kids had tried to open it earlier. They found it locked and the door solid.

  Mrs. Johanaby produced a key—an old-fashioned one that had an ornate ring at one end. She worked at the lock until it sprung with a “click.” The door opened noiselessly to reveal a very narrow stairway that led up sharply into total darkness.

  “Whoa,” said Story. He stepped closer to his Mom.

  “Where does it go?” asked Glory. She nervously pulled at her bottom lip with a finger as she peered doubtfully up into the darkness.

  Mrs. Johanaby looked at Joey and smiled. She raised her eyebrows as if to say “isn’t this exciting.”

  “Follow me,” she said as she disappeared into the darkness.

  Glory and Story didn’t move. They just stood staring. Joey was inclined to stay with them.

  His Mom called down, “Joey, you will want to see this.”

  Joey put his hand on the wall for support and started up. He was halfway up when a light turned on making the rest of the steps easy.

  “We’ll have to get a switch or something at the bottom of the stairs,” his mother said from somewhere up above.

  At the top of the stairs Joey stepped into the happiest room in the house. It was the attic, but an attic made to live in. It was a large square space with a ceiling that was high in the middle, but sloped gently on all four sides. There was an old eight-paned window in the center of each wall. The windows were open. A sluggish evening breeze disturbed the hot air in the attic o
nly slightly.

  Unlike the depressing blue of the rest of the house the walls were painted in a kind of gold. The floorboards had been painted brown. A bare bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling lit the room.

  Joey stopped in the doorway, his mouth open. Glory and Story pushed by him.

  “Out of the way, bro,” Glory said. She took two steps before she suddenly stopped. “Whoa.”

  The room was empty except for a brass bed sitting right in the middle. And unlike the other beds in the house, which were still bare this one was made up with sheets and a quilt. At one end there was a pillow that looked inviting. Mrs. Johanaby stood on the other side of the bed smiling at Joey.

  “This is the attic?” Joey asked.

  “Well, it should be,” said Mrs. Johanaby, thoughtfully.

  “But where’s all the stuff?” asked Glory. “Attics are always full of stuff.”

  Story took off and did a lap around the bed. “We could play up here,” he said.

  “No,” said Mrs. Johanaby. “This isn’t a play room; this is Joey’s bedroom—that is, if he wants it.”

  “Not fair!” yelled Glory.

  “What’s not fair?” asked Mrs. Johanaby

  “Well, that he gets this room,” Glory said, less certain of herself.

  “We need it to play in,” Story said, turning from the window he was peering out of.

  “Nope,” Mrs. Johanaby said. “This is Joey’s room. Right Joey?”

  Joey walked to the window Story was at. He looked down at the tops of the oak trees in the front yard. He could see the pickup and trailer through the limbs. Lights of a lone car on the old highway made a bubble of light as it drove past their lane. On the other side of the highway, beyond the woods, he could see the dying glow of a sun long set. He turned and gazed again at the happy bed in the middle of this golden room. “Yes, Mom. It’s perfect.”

  Joey ran downstairs to the living room and began hauling his things to his new room. He had a suitcase of clothes, a box of books, a telescope, model airplanes and ships with gluey fingerprints, and a model rocket that really flew.