I opened my mouth to try and change the subject to a more friendly topic after that extremely morbid declaration, accompanied by not-me's ability to smile like a complete lunatic monster. But right at that second, Mrs. Streep bustled back in. She was humming a merry tune, and as I looked up, I saw that she had redone her makeup. She looked up at where I stood in front of her desk holding her little hand mirror, and she gasped.

"Oh!" she said, hurrying over. She reached past me and clicked something on the computer. I turned and looked. The monitor was blank, which confused me because it had been blank when I had walked up to it. She seemed to have put it to sleep or turned it off before she had left, and I had thought nothing of it, being way too distracted speaking about the need to let my luck run out and die.

I pushed that out of my mind. Looking at the computer and then at Mrs. Streep, she looked a little worried.

"You didn't read anything there, did you?" she asked, sounding concerned.

I shook my head. "No," I said, honestly.

"Oh, good," she breathed. "Very good," she said. "I wouldn't want to..." She fumbled for a second, looking unsure of what she wouldn't want to do. "Shock your young sensibilities," she said, "with confidential patient knowledge, you know," she added, blushing.

I wasn't sure what was going on, but I assured her, "No, I didn’t read any patient files. When I came over here, the monitor was off."

She seemed visibly relieved at that. She deflated. "Oh, thank God," she said, and then covered her mouth with her hand. "Excuse me, I meant thank goodness."

I eyed her. This seemed too much fuss to make about patient confidentiality. Maybe she'd gotten in trouble before. I knew what that was like.

I walked back into the other room. She asked for the mirror, so I gave that back. Returning to the bed, determined to find something useful to do with my time, I got out one of my school books, deciding to read it. Perhaps I would find something interesting inside.

***

The school textbook was written with some sort of otherworldly sorcery. The longer I looked at it, the sleepier I got. I shook my head, looking up and pinching the bridge of my nose. I didn't tend to get sleepy when I read things.

‘This book must be enchanted,’ I thought to myself.

Either that or the author had discovered some sort of secret hypnotic science to embed the text with. Layered suggestions of sleepiness and boredom. That was definitely it. This book was written by an evil mastermind. Maybe that's what magic was. Maybe magic was just the ability to apply knowledge beyond current understanding.

Just then, something scuttled across the floor like a mouse running across the room. Except this was closer to the size of a hamster or a guinea pig. It was quick, small, and gray.

I looked up, but as soon as I looked, I didn't see anything. I leaned forward off the table, being as careful as I could not to crinkle the table paper and spook whatever rodent had found its way inside. But despite leaning forward and being able to see underneath the counters and the edges of the bed, I didn't see anything.

That was strange. With the bright linoleum tiles, the white cabinets, and the curved vinyl toe kick lining the wall, there was nowhere for a little creature to go. I could see pretty much the whole room. Confused, I closed my book and hopped down. The bed had drawers and reminded me of the type you see in hospitals. Also, it was on casters, so there was a little room underneath. It looked too small for a creature the size of what I thought I saw. But what I “thought” I saw was quickly becoming more firmly lodged in my mind.

As I laid down and looked under the bed, I could clearly see the linoleum floor through to the other side. There was some dust underneath and a tongue depressor. I stood up, puzzled. I felt sure I had seen something. As quietly as I could, I stepped so that I could peer into the room where Mrs. Streep sat at her desk. She was sitting at her computer, merrily typing away.

I leaned down and looked. Nothing under her desk or her chair. The room she was in was also well lit. The floor was empty. It wasn't very wide, although perhaps a creature could have slipped between the cabinets on the other side of her. Curiosity overcame me at this point. Mrs. Streep was so intent on whatever it was she was typing that she didn't look up.

I walked a little bit further, angling my line of sight, so that I could catch a glimpse of her screen over her shoulder. I knew I shouldn't, but she had made such a fuss about it earlier that I really wanted to see what she was doing. Was she playing a game? I wanted to know what she was playing. I looked at her fingers. No, she was definitely typing. She was smiling and humming to herself. Every now and then, she would giggle and start humming a new tune. She was certainly enjoying her work.

Moving far enough behind her that I could see the monitor over her shoulder, I became even more puzzled. It was completely blank. It wasn't even on, as far as I could tell. The monitor was just a flat black, the same thing that any screen for any computer that's unpowered looks like.

She stopped typing, bringing her hand up to her chin. She tilted her head back and looked up. I held my breath, trying not to make any noise and draw her attention. After a second, she grinned and bit her knuckle, letting out a little happy noise. She then set to typing whatever it was that was making her so happy.

I felt deeply confused at this point and embarrassed at having looked. I backed away as quickly as silence allowed. Thankfully, I was able to get out of her line of sight before she noticed I had spied. I got myself another drink of water, climbed up on the bed, and tried to read a little bit more of my book. This time trying to decipher the code that the genius who had written it had layered into the text. I wondered if this text only worked on me, or if anyone who tried to read it would grow sleepy. I needed to find a way to test that.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

After about a paragraph, in which I was already succumbing to the drowsy effects of the book's magic, something scuttled across the floor once more.

I looked up quickly this time, determined to catch it. The second I looked, it was again gone. I closed the book and fished around the room for something reflective. I needed to know if this was in my imagination or if there was something going on.

***

My search yielded a spoon, of all things. This was clearly not a room in which spoons belonged. However, upon opening one of the drawers, I found a gathering of disorganized clutter, which contained a simple metal spoon. I took the spoon and closed the drawer, careful to remain quiet. Mrs. Streep continued to type, and I had no desire to break her creative fugue.

The spoon gave me a distorted reflection, which always seemed easier to catch sight of Not-me when I held it up. I was able to see distorted facial features, which at this point I knew were Mrs. Streep's. I was glad for the distortion because it made it hard to make out what disgusting things "Not-me's" presence was doing to poor Mrs. Streep's reflection.

“I saw you crept over and snuck a peek. Was it educational?” He said, a smile in his voice.

“What?” I said, confused.

"At what Mrs. Streep is writing?"

I blinked.

"She's writing?” I kept my voice to whisper. “I see that she's typing at her computer. But when I looked, the monitor was off.”

"Uh-oh," not me, said. "This could be a problem."

"What could?” I said.

"I can read the monitor. You're telling me you can't see anything on there. Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said.

"Crap," not me, said. "This is going to complicate things."

"What?" I said.

"We need to test it. I don't want to worry you about it yet. Why'd you get the spoon, kid? I was enjoying reading over her shoulder.”

“What is she writing?" I said.

"Romance."

"Wait, What?"

"Romance. She's a romance novelist. She moonlights as a nurse. She's actually making a good enough living that she has no need to be here at the school, but she enjoys interacting with kids."

"What is romance?" I said. "That's... Wait, is that a book genre?" Something clicked. I had seen romance as a book genre in the library. The books tended to have women who looked close to fainting, or men who had forgotten to put on shirts. But that was okay. They were clothed in muscle.

"Huh. Romance," I said. "What's it about?"

Not me started laughing at this. "It's about romance. You'll find out when you're older. Maybe you should pick up one of her books. She writes under the pseudonym, 'Pen is the Mighty.' You'll frequently see it on book jackets, 'P.I. The Mighty.' It's pretty clever."

I shook my head. "What is clever about that? Is this a reference to the pen being mightier than the sword?"

"Forget it, kid. You'll get it when you're older. What's up? The longer I talk to you, the quicker this thing falls apart."

I saw in the spoon's reflection he was gesturing at himself. That was clearly true, from what I could see, but I was glad I could not see the details.

"Isn't this dangerous future knowledge that you’ve just given me?" I said to him.

"What? No. You found out she was a romance novelist the first time you came into her office, you little sneak. You can't help sticking your nose in other people's business.”

I frowned. Was that true about me? Was I a snoop? I sighed. Now was not the time to have a moral debate with my zombie future self. I would clearly lose... to somebody who should clearly lose. It wasn't fair.

"No," I said. "What I want to know is if what I'm seeing is real, or a part of this... whole thing that's happening to me, or if I imagined it."

"I don't know, kid. What thing are you seeing?"

The timing was absolute perfection. It scuttled across the floor right as I was going to try and explain it. I looked again. It was gone when I looked, but it had been headed for Mrs. Streep's part of the nurse's office.

"That," I said, "it just ran across the floor. Did you see it?"

"Oh, you can see that?" not me, said.

"So you could see it too. Where did it go?

“Ah, alright. Well, you're going to make a fool of yourself if I don't explain this. You're seeing into the spirit realm. That is what I like to refer to as an imp, although some cultures would disagree. In classic Americana lore, this became known as a gremlin."

"A gremlin," I said. "You mean, like, one of those little creatures that's supposed to break machines?"

"Yeah," said Not-me. "That's not very far off from the truth."

"What is it?" I said.

"It's a gremlin. What do you want from me?"

"No, seriously. What is it? And where did it go?"

"Oh, you can't see it? Try looking for it with your peripheral vision. It will be easiest to do that if you keep your focus on the spoon, or on a book, or something, and try to catch it out of the corner of your eye. Resist the urge to look directly at it. If you’re not practiced, direct sight will make it disappear."

I tried this, keeping my focus on the spoon and slowly moving my vision around so I could look out of the corner of my eye. I caught sight of it. It was gray and indistinct, seen only out of the corner of my vision, but it was climbing the chair to where Mrs. Streep was.

"What's it doing?" I hissed. "We’ve got to stop it!"

"No, you don't have to stop it, you fool. It's just going to take something out of her pocket and hide it. This appears to be the consequence that comes of us having taken some of her luck."

"What? You mean we summoned that thing?"

"Stop!" not me said. "You're making it sound like a demon. We didn't summon shit. That," not me sort of pointed, sort of gestured at the gremlin, "is a natural part of existence. These things are almost like machines themselves. They live to complete their master's bidding. They can't go anywhere they don't have permission to go. They can't do anything they don't have permission to do. They are searching for agreement, and when they find it, they will follow through by causing things to happen that wouldn't be allowed to if the person had more luck."

"What?" I said.

"Think about it this way. There are realms and domains. A Big-Bad's in charge of an area. Big-bad gives authority to some minions to accomplish stuff on his behalf. Those minions are in charge of smaller areas, right? Is this sounding like a kingdom yet? The minions are in charge of large areas. They need gangs to run things. The gangs use automated bots to enforce most times, and so things that are outside of favor or permission with Big-Bad get sent a little bot, or gremlin if you want, who come and enforce the will of Big-Bad so things come into alignment. It's sort of an auto-cleanup of the universe. Lose a little luck, attract a little gremlin. Lose a lot of luck, attract the attention of someone who has the oversight of the gremlins. He's got numerous methods at his disposal to try and correct you. If you are unlucky enough to attract the attention of the overseer you are going to get squashed. He has ways upon ways of removing things that don't fit his picture of his little kingdom. I don’t need to mention the Big-Bad. That belongs in the realm of gods. Welcome to spirit realm 101 kid. Leave the thing alone. It's probably going to take something that she wants and hide it."

I watched as the gray indistinct figure rifled through Mrs. Streep's pockets. After a second, it emerged with something. I couldn't see it well enough to tell what it was. I kept the gray thing in my peripheral vision. It carried the thing above its head as it climbed down the chair and then across the floor. It scuttled to the cabinets in my part of the room. It walked up the cabinet without slowing. Upon reaching the top, it walked across the countertop, found a place, and set whatever it had taken down. Having accomplished this, it walked to the edge of the counter, walked down the cabinet, walked across the floor, and scuttled out of the room.

I blinked at Not-Me and the spoon.

"Gremlins!" I said.

I moved the spoon down so that I didn't have to watch Not-Me fall apart, and walked over to inspect what had been set in a hiding place behind a stack of papers. It was a little USB stick. I cocked my head at this. I didn't know anyone used these anymore. Everything was so much easier to just transfer online.

The sound of typing caught my attention. I picked the USB stick up and moved it to the front of the papers. I decided not to try and hand it to Mrs. Streep. That might raise more questions that I didn't want to talk about. But at least I was putting the thing where she would find it.

I sat back down on the bed and glanced down at the spoon.

"Hey!" said not me. "What the hell did you do?"

I looked down at Not-me. "What?"

"Never undo the work of a gremlin within seventy-five minutes of it having done it."

"What?" I asked. "Seventy-five minutes? That's a really odd and specific number. What are you talking about?"

"You need to give the gremlin time to report back that it accomplished its task."

"So?" I said, "I didn't interrupt it. It hid it."

"Kid, didn't I tell you it was more like a machine?"

"Yes," I said, feeling exasperated.

"Well, machines have odd ways of keeping track of things. The gremlin has been alerted that its task has been undone and is going to come back."

"So?" I said.

"It's going to bring help when it comes back, jackass. What do you think is going to happen to you, and Mrs. Streep and probably this whole damn room when the gremlin returns with the gang leader?"

***