The red Jeep sped down the road like a battle chariot, its passengers squabbling like magpies as the radio smashed out tunes by the immortal band Pink Floyd. Luke jabbed his finger down a side road. “Down there! That way! That way!” The engine roared as the driver steered confidently in the direction indicated.
“Ducks!” Adara shrieked, slamming her eyes shut. “Noooooo!”
Screeeeeech!
The Jeep leaned dangerously onto its two left tires, drifting sideways.
“Relax!” Rory shouted from behind the wheel, her hands steady even as the tires squealed. “I’m a pro at duck-dodging!”
“Ahhhhh!” screamed the two human pretenders in the back.
A split second later, all four wheels slammed back onto the asphalt, and Rory shifted the gearbox with a casual flick.
Luke let out a long sigh of relief, spinning around in his seat to check the road behind them. “The ducks are safe! I repeat, the ducks are safe!”
Rory grinned smugly. “See? No quackers were harmed in the making of this journey.”
Adara cracked one eye open, her knuckles white against the seat in front of her. “Are you sure?”
Luke nodded. “Yup. All waddling and accounted for.”
Adara exhaled. “That was too close.”
“Oh ye of little faith!” Rory smirked, glancing at her passengers in the rearview mirror. “You gotta trust the artist behind the wheel.”
The Jeep rumbled on, the engine growling as it barrelled down the road.
“There’s still no sign of monsters in the air,” Luke muttered, leaning out the window slightly to squint up at the sky. His tone was half-relieved, half-wary, as though daring the universe to challenge him.
“Don’t jinx it,” Adara hissed. “You’ll summon something worse.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. “What’s worse than a stone demon that can punch through walls?”
“Don’t ask that!” Adara groaned. “The universe listens!”
As they approached a grand iron gate flanked by an even grander, shimmering lake, Luke’s enthusiasm hit a new high. His arm shot out, pointing. “Right there! Drive up there!”
Rory complied, the Jeep growling as it rumbled through the gate and onto the driveway. The moment the tires hit the curb, the vehicle jolted violently.
“Owies! Dis horse is mean! I tink it’s tryin’ ta squish us!” wailed Luke 2.0 as he bounced in the back seat.
“Prithee, can we not evade an untimely doom after vanquishing yon gargoyle?” said the big-eared Adara. “Must the Fates forever conspire to make sport of our survival?”
“Blame the curb!” Rory shot back, struggling to keep a straight face. “It came out of nowhere. Totally ambushed us.”
“Seriously, Mum! Can we not destroy the driveway?”
“Hey! The driveway’s still intact!”
Adara groaned, sinking back into her seat and muttering under her breath about cursed road trips. The Jeep rumbled to a stop in front of the house, its engine letting out a grumble as if it, too, was done with the journey.
“So, do you live here with your mother?” Rory asked, turning to Luke.
Luke shook his head. “Nah, I live with my mate Harry. But I try to visit as often as I can. Mum says it’s never enough though.”
“Mama bears always miss their cubs,” said Rory.
The Jeep jolted suddenly as the front wheel rolled over a potted plant, sending it wobbling precariously.
“Careful Mama bear!” Adara scolded.
"Sorry," Rory said with a smirk. "Wouldn’t want to ruin my first impression by tearing up your boyfriend’s mum’s garden!"
Adara’s face flushed crimson as she shot Rory a death glare. “Luke is not my boyfriend!”
“Could’ve fooled me, kiddo.”
“We literally just met today.”
Luke nodded in agreement but then added. “Well, technically, we’ve been in the same class all year. But yeah, this is the first time we’ve actually talked.”
“So… you’re just friends then?” Rory asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, just friends.” Adara puffed.
Luke snorted. “Thanks. I guess. Friend.”
“Anyway,” Adara continued with a shrug, “he’s too old for me.”
“Hey! I’m not that old!” Luke protested, quickly checking the mirror to see his premature greying hair in the reflection. “I’m still in my thirties thanks…”
“Yeah, my point exactly… I’m still in my twenties than you very much,” said Adara.
Rory burst out laughing as the Jeep finally rolled to a stop in front of the house. Shaking her head, she said, “Just remember—age is but a number.”
The elf disguised as Adara leaned in close to Luke, whispering, “Verily, that was most awkward, was it not?”
Luke let out a puff of frustration. “Verily.”
Ahead of them, the front doors of the house flew open with the force of a hurricane. A woman swept out, her arms flailing like a conductor leading an orchestra of chaos. Behind her, a chocolate coated border collie bounded down the steps, barking at the new arrivals.
“Quick, quick!” the woman called, her voice ringing out like a bell as she gestured wildly towards the Jeep. “Get in the house!”
Seatbelts clicked, and the doppelgangers tumbled out of the Jeep like uncoordinated circus performers. Luke, grunting with effort, hauled the ancient, humming typewriter.
“Don’t drop it!” Adara hissed, darting a glance over her shoulder. “If that thing explodes, we’re all toast!”
“It’s fine! I’ve got it!” Luke puffed, nearly tripping over a step as they hurried toward the house.
The unlikely crew spilled through the front door, boots thudding against the polished hardwood. The chocolate border collie from earlier wagged its tail, barking a cheerful welcome as it darted between their legs. Luke stumbled inside last, juggling the humming typewriter like it might spring to life at any moment.
Luke’s mother waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about your shoes. Just keep that typewriter quiet—the dog loves barking at the dumbest things.”
“Dumbest things? Like what?” Rory asked, eyeing the eager dog.
“Leaves, shadows, her own reflection… take your pick.” She chuckled, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears before standing and motioning them inside. “Come on in. Make yourselves at home.”
The group shuffled into the open, airy space, momentarily stunned by the breathtaking view. A wall of glass stretched across the far side of the room, framing the serene lake outside. The still water mirrored the soft clouds drifting overhead, creating a tranquil, almost otherworldly effect.
“Wow,” Adara murmured, staring out at the scene. “That’s... a stunning view.”
The house itself was equally impressive. Polished wooden floors gleamed underfoot, and every wall was decked with massive, vibrant paintings of flowers. Stark reds, yellows, purples and blues seemed to leap off the canvases, filling the space with life and colour.
Adara pointed at one of the paintings, her eyes wide. “Who painted all these?”
Luke straightened, a proud smile spreading across his face. “Mum did.”
“They’re beautiful,” Rory said softly, stepping closer to admire the brushstrokes. Her fingers hovered near one of the vibrant reds, as if the flowers might come to life under her touch.
“Thank you,” the host said warmly. “I’m Margaret by the way, Luke’s mother. It’s lovely to meet you all.”
The group exchanged quick introductions and polite formalities. As they did, the orc dropped his doppelganger spell, his hulking form shimmering into view alongside the elegant figure of the elf.
Margaret raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her composure unshaken. Instead, she gestured toward the typewriter in Luke’s arms. “Luke, could you put that on the antique desk in the backroom? It’ll be secure there.”
Luke hesitated. “Are you sure, Mum? This thing isn’t exactly... safe.”
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“Trust me,” she said firmly. “The desk can handle it.”
Adara frowned, glancing at Luke. “Are we really sure about this? You do remember what happened to your car, right?”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed at Luke. “What happened to your car?”
Luke sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s totalled. Completely smashed.”
Adara jumped in. “By a giant stone gargoyle monster—like, actual gargoyle. It smashed it to pieces like it was a tin can.”
Margaret blinked, taking in the explanation with a surprising amount of composure. “A stone gargoyle destroyed your car?”
Luke nodded, looking down at the humming typewriter in his arms. “Yup. One swipe, and the poor thing didn’t stand a chance.”
“So, forgive me if I’m not exactly brimming with confidence about putting that thing on a desk,” said Adara.
Margaret’s lips twitched. “Well,” she said, “at least you both made it here in one piece. And I assure you, the typewriter will be perfectly fine on the desk.”
Adara still wasn’t convinced. “But how? I mean, look at it—it’s practically vibrating with bad intentions.”
“The desk is no ordinary piece of furniture. I got it from Peru a long time ago. It’s Spanish, crafted during the days of the conquistadors, but made from Amazon wood,” Margaret explained, her voice calm and assured. “The wood is marked with Incan engravings and infused with ancient symbols of protection. Inside the drawers, are something special—charms woven from elephant whiskers flown in from Mali, enchanted with spells from witch doctors of the region.”
Adara’s eyes widened. “Elephant whiskers? Witch doctor spells? That’s… oddly specific.”
“As long as the typewriter rests there, it’ll be contained,” Margaret continued with a knowing smile. “For a time, anyway.”
“For a time?” Adara repeated, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
Margaret shrugged lightly. “Everything has its limits, dear. But I think we’ll be fine for a few hours. Good. Now Luke… would you kindly go ahead and put it on the desk. And don’t worry—it’s not the first enchanted thing to pass through this house.”
The group watched as Luke shuffled off to the backroom, clutching the humming typewriter like it was a ticking time bomb. “No funny business, alright?” he muttered under his breath to the machine, giving it a wary glance before disappearing down the hallway.
Margaret clapped her hands lightly, her tone as bright as sunshine. “Now then, how about some tea? Or coffee? I might even have cookies left—assuming Luke hasn’t inhaled them all.”
Adara leaned toward the orc, her voice a dramatic whisper. “I’m starting to think Luke’s mum might actually be the scariest one here.”
The orc smirked but said nothing, his eyes following Luke’s retreating figure. Adara turned her attention back to Margaret, her brows furrowed. “So… I take it you’ve got some safeguards lying around?”
Margaret chuckled softly. “You’ve got quite the eye, dear.”
“Well,” Adara said, crossing her arms and glancing around the room, “you seem way too chill about all of this. If you knew about the typewriter and still let it into this gorgeous house, you’ve got to have some serious tricks up your sleeve.”
Margaret’s smile widened, a mix of pride and mischief sparkling in her eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve learned to keep a few magical safeguards here and there. You never know what—or who—might wander through these doors.”
Adara nodded, but the way Margaret's gaze lingered on her vibrant, colourful creations made her wonder if they were somehow connected.
Margaret clasped her hands and turned back to the group. “Now, let’s get back to the important question: tea or coffee? I can promise the cookies are worth it—if Luke hasn’t devoured the last batch, that is.”
Rory raised a hand like a student in class. “Uh, are these cookies normal cookies? Or are we talking about the experimental kind?”
“They are choc-chip.”
Adara exchanged a glance with her mother. “You know what? I’ll risk it. Tea and a cookie, please.”
Margaret busied herself in the kitchen, humming as she boiled water for tea, brewed coffee, and rummaged through a cupboard for treats. To her surprise, the cookies were still there—untouched, a minor miracle given Luke’s notorious sweet tooth. She placed the tin on the counter triumphantly. "Well, there’s a first for everything," she quipped, opening it with a flourish.
Meanwhile, Luke carried the humming typewriter down the hall, carefully placing it directly in the centre of the antique desk. The golden filigree on the desk’s top gleamed under the light, drawing his gaze. He’d seen those intricate symbols his entire life, but now, with everything happening, they seemed to hum with a meaning just out of reach. It was as though the desk held a secret waiting to be revealed—one his mother had never shared. He sighed, his frustration growing, and turned to head back to the kitchen.
When he rejoined the others, Margaret was already in full host mode, pouring steaming cups of tea and passing out biscuits. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. Adara nibbled on a cookie, eyeing the tin to judge whether it was safe to grab another. Rory leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying the cozy scene.
Luke, however, stood with arms crossed, his brow furrowed. “So,” he began, his tone clipped, “what else have you been keeping from me?”
Margaret paused mid-pour, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” Luke said, gesturing vaguely toward the backroom, “the typewriter. The desk. All of it. What else haven’t you told me?”
Margaret sighed, setting the teapot down carefully. “Luke, there are parts of my life I left behind a long time ago. Mystical things I haven’t touched since before you were born. There was no reason to tell you about them, especially when you were a child.”
Luke’s frustration bubbled over. “Well, I’m not a child anymore, am I? You can tell me now.”
The tension hung in the air until Rory, Adara’s mother, chimed in, her voice calm but firm. “Everyone has their secrets, Luke. Your mother kept this one to protect you. That’s what parents do.”
Luke glared at the floor, his jaw tightening, but he finally let out a grudging sigh. “Fine,” he muttered, “but I want the full story.”
Margaret nodded, her expression softening. “Alright.” She leaned against the counter, her voice taking on a nostalgic tone. “When I was a little girl, my father was in the British Navy. He travelled all over the world and always brought back gifts for us after his long trips. Exotic trinkets, strange artifacts... he always brought back something from his trips.”
She smiled wistfully. “I was a creative child, always reading and dreaming. My first storybook was a treasure to me—I’d carry it everywhere. So, for my birthday one year, my father gave me something incredible: a typewriter. Not just any typewriter, mind you, but the typewriter.”
Luke perked up, leaning against the doorframe. “The one in the backroom?”
Margaret nodded. “That very one. I was ecstatic. I started writing stories right away—castles and lords, ladies, knights in shining armour, unicorns, fairies, you name it. But…” Her voice faltered slightly, a shadow crossing her face. “I may have been... influenced by a certain Dorothy Gale. So naturally, I had to write about a particularly nasty witch.”
Adara leaned forward, intrigued. “Then what happened?”
“At first, it was innocent,” Margaret said with a faint smile. “Just ink on the page. But as I wrote, something strange began to happen. The typewriter seemed... alive. Like it was feeding on the stories. And then, one afternoon…” She hesitated, her voice dropping. “I was sucked into a world of my own creation.”
Adara broke the silence. “Wait. You mean… literally?”
“Literally,” Margaret confirmed, her tone grim but matter-of-fact. “One moment, I was writing about a castle under siege by a witch’s army. The next, I was there, in the middle of it.”
Luke blinked. “You never told me this.”
Margaret’s eyes softened. “I never wanted to frighten you, Luke.”
Adara glanced at Rory, who simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, Told you so.
Margaret sighed, pushing herself upright. “But now you’re older, and you deserve to know the truth. The typewriter… it’s not just a relic. It’s a gateway. And that’s why we have to be careful.”
Luke crossed his arms, tilting his head at his mother. “Okay, so you got sucked into this world of your own creation... but how did you get back?”
Margaret sighed deeply, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Alright, let me start from the beginning. This typewriter isn’t just some old antique—it’s a gateway, a portal to a world made entirely of imagination and ideas. It’s a place where thoughts become solid, surrounded by the hazy borders of unfinished dreams, half-formed wishes, and incomplete stories. Think of it as a real place on an island of creativity floating in an ocean of unshaped ideas.”
Adara blinked, already overwhelmed. “An island?”
Margaret nodded. “Not every story ends up there, mind you. But anything typed on this typewriter becomes reality within that world. Most of the time, those creations stay put, living among their peers in this safe, protected world.”
“But sometimes… things get out?” Luke asked, raising an eyebrow.
Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Sometimes. Unfinished thoughts, unsolidified characters, or random fragments of imagination can slip through. Especially if something—or someone—creates a key to open the door.”
Luke and Adara exchanged a quick glance. “That explains the librarian,” Adara said, frowning. “We accidentally gave her a light bulb.”
Margaret’s eyes lit with understanding. “Ah. Sounds like she was able to create a conduit. That would’ve unlocked the gateway. Once that door is open, anything can come through—both solidified and unsolidified creations. It also means the witch could re-enter that world.”
Adara leaned forward. “So that confirms our librarian was the witch of nightmares?”
Margaret nodded. “When I was pulled into that world, the witch was already there, a villain I’d created for my story. But because I was her creator, I knew how to defeat her. I managed to eject her from that world, leaving her powerless here, using my own conduit… this.” She reached around her neck and pulled out a delicate chain with an old locket hanging from it. Inside the locket was a faded picture of a man and woman.
“That’s grandma’s locket.”
“Indeed,” Margaret confirmed. “It became a conduit when I was a little girl. After defeating the witch, my father helped me get rid of the typewriter. He took it on one of his voyages and threw it into the ocean. I thought that was the end of it.” She sighed heavily. “But clearly, the witch survived. Somehow, she got the typewriter back—and she’s been plotting her return ever since.”
Luke’s jaw tightened. “So, why now? How did she start it up again?”
Margaret hesitated. “I think she needed someone from my bloodline to create a new conduit. The typewriter seems to respond to members of our family—it’s part of the reason I never told you about it.”
“And now, we’ve gone and written stuff that let her escape back into that world,” Luke said, throwing up his hands. “Great job, us.”
Margaret studied the two new creations standing awkwardly nearby, her eyes flicking between their mismatched features and the obvious differences in style. The modifications from having two authors at work were unmistakable. She frowned slightly, her brow knitting in thought. “It seems the typewriter’s very fabric has been… altered. Almost as if it’s adapting to accommodate the changes.”
“Changes?” Luke asked, crossing his arms. His brow furrowed as he added, “Like the gargoyle that attacked us. Its wings were way too small for its massive body. It shouldn’t have even been able to get off the ground, but it still managed to wreck my car and nearly crush us.”
Margaret paused, her lips pursing. “A gargoyle with tiny wings…” She glanced at the two peculiar creations, then back at Luke. “That’s odd. The witch used to conjure gargoyles from the space between worlds into her realm. I remember them clearly—huge, with wings to match their size. They were her enforcers. Tiny wings don’t sound like her usual style at all.”
Adara raised her hand hesitantly, her cheeks flushing crimson. “Uh… actually… that might be my fault. In my fanfiction, there’s a gargoyle in the halls of Hogwarts with tiny wings. It was supposed to be funny, like comic relief.”
Margaret’s gaze shifted to Adara, her expression a mix of amusement and understanding. “It sounds like your writing has somehow blended with the witch’s creations?”
Adara groaned, burying her face in her hands. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I did… uh, tweak a few things. I didn’t think it would matter this much!”
Margaret chuckled softly, the sound warm and calm. “Yes, Adara. It seems your tinkering unintentionally modified the process. But don’t be too hard on yourself—your meddling might have actually worked in our favour. You might have stopped the witch from fully solidifying her control.”
Rory leaned casually against the wall, laughing. “That’s my crazy daughter for you. Always finding new ways to rewrite the rules. Literally.”
Margaret smiled knowingly. “Well, her creativity has certainly kept things interesting. But it’s also made the witch desperate. She’s using the transitional space now—the border where imagination doesn’t solidify—to throw everything she can at us. Monsters, chaos, you name it. She’s trying to stop anyone from reaching her.”
Adara’s face scrunched in disbelief. “So… she’s just going to keep doing this? Throwing monsters at us until she wins?”
Margaret nodded, her expression grim. “Unless we stop her, yes. She’ll keep using the typewriter to protect herself and her hold on that world.”
Luke glanced around at the group, his frustration melting into determination. “Alright then. So, what’s the plan?”
Margaret straightened her posture. “The plan is simple: we go in and stop her.”