When 13-year-old aspiring naturalist Felix Fizzystyxx discovers that
orphans at Wayward Amok Orphanage are transforming into wood-eating zombies,
his quiet tree-fort observations are no longer enough. Someone has
deliberately unleashed a strange plague on Tub's island town of Spinachi-and
they're still out there.
To find a cure, Felix must team up with Ninja, a shadow-dwelling orphan who
trusts her instincts and never backs down. Intense and razor-sharp, she
notices what others overlook and lives up to her name as the island's most
mysterious sleuth. With their eccentric mentor Doc Brunne compromised and the
town's water supply contaminated by a glowing bioluminescent substance, the
two mismatched investigators must combine scientific observation with sharp
intuition to stop the outbreak before their island home is devoured.
The green substance pulsed three
feet from Felix Fizzystyxx’s face, defying every natural law he’d documented in
four years of fieldwork.
He crouched low in
the orphanage hallway, his field notepad balanced on his knee, pencil hovering
over the page. The goo glowed—an unnatural, phosphorescent color that reminded
him of the lightning bugs he’d cataloged last summer, only much more intense.
Felix leaned closer. Was that a shimmer at the edge? Yes. The substance
expanded slightly, almost like a water droplet responding to surface tension.
Unprecedented.
Undocumented. Unknown.
His pulse
quickened. If he could document this properly, maybe he’d finally prove he was
a real Naturalist. The kind worthy of creating maps that mattered. Like the one
in Spinachi’s town hall. Detailed. Beautiful. Important.
“Fizzysquirt!
Where’d that freak go?”
Felix’s hand froze
mid-notation. Gilly’s voice. Close. Too close.
His heart rate
spiked—sixty-eight beats per minute, he estimated. Unusual for him. His eyes
darted down the hallway. The orphanage’s dim gas lamps cast long shadows across
the floorboards. Three doors. The pantry was closest.
“Check the stairs,”
another voice called. “He always hides. Check outside.”
Move.
Felix snatched his
notepad and ran, his lanky frame folding into motion. His green vest flapped as
he twisted the pantry knob and slipped inside, pulling the door closed with a
soft click.
The orphanage
pantry wasn’t designed for naturalists.
Felix shifted his
lanky frame, trying to fold himself smaller. His elbow knocked against a shelf
of dried spinach. Green particles puffed into the air. Above
him, one of his tight curls snagged on a splintered board—he yanked it free
with an irritated huff, missing the initial dispersal. Still, the remaining
trajectory was clear—three feet up, two feet across, settling in a pattern that
matched his earlier incident with the flour. Predictable, like most things in
nature.
His knees were
pinned against a lower shelf cluttered with dusty bottles. The pantry smelled of preserved vegetables
and ancient wood polish that hadn’t been opened since long before he
arrived at Wayward-Amok Orphanage. Felix catalogued the scents
methodically: spinach—dried and fresh (dominant), wood (secondary), and… something
else—unusual, unfamiliar.
Was it metallic?
No, that wasn’t it. It certainly didn’t belong among the familiar pantry
smells.
Interesting.
Mental note: will document later.
With his shoulders
hunched at just the right angle, he mentally calculated how to get his head
closer to the ground. The space had been adequate three growth spurts ago, but
now he had to fold his body like one of those collapsible rulers Cookie kept in
the kitchen drawer.
This is
ridiculous. I’m turning 14 in four months, too old for this hiding nonsense!
But hiding was
logical. Necessary. Gilly destroyed his last journal and his best pencil. Months
of data were lost and difficult to replace.
Felix huffed and
adjusted his green vest. His goals were clear—1) make no noise, 2) secure an
unobstructed view of the hallway, and 3) most important, whatever his pretzel
position, it must not limit access to his meticulously organized field notepad.
It wasn’t one of his special, leather-bound field journals—those stayed safe in
the tree fort, too precious and too bulky to risk on spontaneous
investigations.
No. The notepad
was different: small, portable, expendable if necessary. When he’d seen that
green glow outside the front door and sprinted after it, the notepad had come
with him automatically. It was always with him, tucked in his vest beside his
precious pencils. Raw observations went into the notepad first. Only later,
safely in the tree fort, would he transfer the important data into his proper
journals with detailed diagrams and analysis.
Carefully, he
positioned his head closer to the small vent at the bottom of the pantry door,
straining to see the hallway beyond. Through the grate, he could make out
movement—boots. Four pairs.
Gilly’s confident
stomp led the formation. Felix recognized the gait immediately from months of
documentation. Two other pairs shuffled behind in their usual pattern. The
fourth hung back, hesitant.
“Where is he?”
Gilly’s voice carried through the vent. “Little freak was out here somewhere.”
“Maybe he went
outside,” one of the others offered.
“In the dark?
Fizzysquirt’s scared of his own shadow.” Laughter. “Check the kitchen. I want
my chocolate tax tonight, and he still owes me from last month.”
The boots moved
past the pantry. Felix held his breath, his pencil frozen mid-grip. He counted
in his head. Thirty seconds. Sixty. Ninety.
The voices faded
down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Felix’s shoulders
relaxed slightly. His heart rate dropped to sixty-five beats per minute. Safe.
For now.
He consulted his
mental calendar. Chocolate Day—of course. The one day each month when they
distributed small bags of chocolate—and a few hours later, Gilly collected his ‘chocolate
tax.’
Felix shook his
head. He should have checked his “Gilly’s Rotation Schedule” before venturing
out. Sloppy fieldwork on his part.
But he’d had no
choice. That odd glowing goo! For the first time in years, Felix had acted
without consulting his notes or calculating risks.
Real
Naturalists didn’t cower in pantries. They explored. They discovered. They
created maps that mattered.
Yet here he was, crammed into this
inadequate space, when he should be out in that hallway recording the most
unusual phenomenon he’d ever encountered.
Felix pressed his
eye closer to the vent, ignoring the discomfort as the cold metal edge dug into
his skin. The hallway appeared empty now. Just gas lights and shadows. If he
moved quickly, he could—
Footsteps.
Felix froze.
But these weren’t Gilly’s confident
stomps. These footsteps moved with an irregular rhythm, dragging… or was it
stumbling? Felix shifted his head against the vent, analyzing the gait. Not
Gilly’s gang. Not Cookie’s quick patter. Not any walking pattern he’d noted in
orphanage observational files.
These were wrong.
The footsteps moved closer. Closer.
Too late—they stopped directly in front of the pantry door.
A shadow fell
across the vent as someone—or something—stood motionless outside his hiding
place. Felix held his breath, his pencil frozen mid-notation. The stillness was
unnatural. Even the most patient person shifted their weight, breathed audibly,
made some sound.
This was odd. This was strange.
The doorknob
rattled from the outside.
For the first
time, a sensation that had nothing to do with scientific curiosity crawled up
Felix’s spine. Goosebumps rose on his arms despite the pantry’s warmth. His
body was reacting to something his logical mind couldn’t yet process. Whatever
waited outside that door defied his classification of normal.
A low, unnatural
sound filtered through the vent. Not a voice. Not breathing. Something... else.
Something that made Felix’s carefully organized thoughts scatter like the
startled birds he so often documented. The sound resonated at a frequency that
seemed to vibrate inside his bones.
The doorknob
rattled again. Harder this time. More insistent.
Felix released his
grip on his notepad and pressed himself back against the shelves, suddenly
aware that the thin wooden door might not be enough. Not enough for what, he
couldn’t say—and that uncertainty was the most disturbing element of all.
Record, don’t
react, his old mantra whispered. Document, don’t disturb.
But this—this
defied documentation.
The rattling
stopped.
Silence pressed
against Felix’s ears. He strained to hear anything. Breathing. Movement.
Footsteps retreating.
Nothing.
Then—
Splat.
A sound echoed as
if something dropped to the floor outside. The shadow shifted across the vent.
Gradually, the shuffling footsteps moved past, fading down the hallway in the
opposite direction from where Gilly’s gang had gone.
Felix waited. Ten
seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
His fingers twitched with impatience. Every
second lost. Scientific discoveries didn’t wait—especially not for orphans
hiding from bullies. Or whatever that had been.
He positioned his
eye back against the vent.
There.
Through the grate,
Felix could see it clearly now. A new sample of the odd green substance sat in
a precarious spot, straddled over two floorboards whose ancient planks had
cracks wide enough to swallow small objects. If he didn’t act quickly, the
substance would either seep through or be absorbed by the parched wood.
Felix weighed his
options. Quickly, he unfolded his body, snatching his notepad and pencil in one
hand, gripping the doorknob in the other. His hand froze on the knob.
Record, don’t
react. The rule that had kept him safe. The rule that made him a good
observer.
But not a
participant.
Think
logically. If I lose my notepad to Gilly, I lose tonight’s observations. If I
miss documenting the odd substance, I lose one data point.
But this wasn’t
just any data point. This was unprecedented. Undocumented. Unknown.
Decision made.
Felix twisted the knob and stepped into the hall.
The goo was still
there.
Felix approached
cautiously, crouching for a better view. It was small, perhaps the size of a
coin, but there was no mistake—its green color glowed vividly, that same
phosphorescent intensity he’d seen before.
On the ground, his field notepad open, Felix
cataloged his observations: No obvious cellular structure. No appendages. Just
a puddle of goo. The phosphorescent glow played across his warm brown hands as
he sketched.
A salty, musty
odor emanated from it, similar to tidepool water. Strange. Spinachi was
bordered by an ocean—the entire island of Tub was surrounded by the ocean. Living on an island meant Felix had
cataloged ocean smells his entire life. This was different.
As he leaned
closer, the substance… changed. It expanded slightly, almost like a water
droplet responding to surface tension. Felix rubbed his eyes. Surely, he was
mistaken.
He wasn’t. This
time he ignored counting how many heartbeats were pounding in his chest. The
closer his hand came, the larger the substance grew. No natural material
behaved this way, not that he knew of.
Felix extracted a
small measuring stick from his left pocket and extended it toward the goo. The
substance expanded again, reaching toward the stick like a plant seeking
sunlight.
Fascinating.
When he pulled
back, the substance contracted slightly. Grinning, he documented this reaction,
sketching the progression with quick, precise strokes.
One more test.
Felix moved closer again, this time bringing his face near the substance. As
predicted, it expanded, reaching upward as if drawn to him. Then, without
warning, it shriveled dramatically, as though hit by intense heat.
Felix startled
when a black shoe appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Sketching
floorboards? So weird.” A girl stood behind him, already moving on without
waiting for an answer. “Yesterday, your note on the robin’s nest was wrong. The
mother laid four eggs, not three. You missed one behind the branch.”
Felix whipped
around, nearly dropping his notepad as he stood. A girl appeared in front of
him, seemingly from nowhere. She was about a foot shorter than Felix, with
tied-back black hair and clothes so dark they seemed to swallow the light. Her
hands were planted on her hips as she looked down at him, despite her shorter
stature.
“Who are you?” he
demanded, instinctively clutching his notepad closer.
“Hope you weren’t
trying to hide in the pantry?” said the girl, not really asking. “Gilly’s crew
always checks there for extra chocolates.”
Felix looked over
his shoulder, checking for Gilly’s gang.
“Relax, none of
them are here.”
Felix blinked, his mind racing. Who was she, and how did
she know about his observations? He studied her face, searching his mental
records for any previous encounter. Her features were a mix—sharp cheekbones,
pearl white skin, straight blue-black hair, eyes that turned to crescents when
she squinted at him—like she belonged to two worlds at once.
Nothing in his mental records matched. She clearly knew
more about Gilly's rotations and pantry checks than he did—this was valuable
new data he'd missed somehow.
“I… I didn’t know.
Thanks for the tip. Maybe we could work together to avoid Gilly’s gang? I’ve
been mapping their patterns, but clearly my data is—”
“I work alone,
Felix,” she cut him off, her expression unchanged. “Another tip: counting on
others just leads to trouble.”
Felix’s eyebrows
shot up. “How do you know my name?” He
scanned his memory—every orphan he’d documented in the last year.
Nothing. “I’ve never even seen you before. Not once.”
A ghost of a smile
crossed her face. “That’s how I like it.”
She turned away,
fingers tapping against her leg. When she glanced back at him, her eyes
narrowed like she wasn’t sure talking to him had been a good idea.
“Right. So, you
know my name,” he held out his hand. “Have we met before?”
“Ninja,” she said,
not shaking his hand. She started to move down the hall. Felix couldn’t help
but follow.
“Rookie mistake
hiding in the pantry,” Ninja said over her shoulder as she walked. “But I’m not
surprised. I’m great at hiding. Gilly’s gang doesn’t even know I exist.”
Felix found
himself fascinated by this girl. Still and super focused one minute, gliding
like air the next. Her movements were precise, economical. First the impossible
green substance, and now this girl who knew him when he knew nothing about her.
Two mysteries in one night. His notepad would need a new section entirely.
“That’s for sure,”
Felix muttered before he could stop himself.
Ninja spun around
and looked him up and down. Her black outfit was a marvel of practicality,
covered in pockets of all sizes, perfect for hiding things. She blended into
the shadows like she belonged there.
“You’re much
taller up close,” she said. “Nice green vest. It matches that tree where you do
your drawings. How’d you get it that color?”
“What?” Felix’s
jaw dropped. “I mean—I didn’t—” His mind raced through calculations. The
statistical probability of someone spotting his tree fort was approximately
0.037%, based on visibility angles, foliage density, and his carefully plotted
observation schedule. He’d employed seven distinct camouflage techniques. “I
assumed nobody saw me up there.”
“Relax. Nobody
else sees you. One more tip? People don’t look up.” Ninja’s mouth twitched in
what might have been a smile. “I notice everything. I’m in the oak tree next to
yours. Your drawings aren’t bad.”
“What? You’ve been
in my tree? Seen my drawings?” Felix squeaked.
“Tree isn’t yours,”
Ninja shrugged. “Just looked at your work. So, your vest?”
His head spun.
Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest. This bold, mysterious, and
categorically very strange girl had been watching him while he thought he was
the one doing all the observing! He wasn’t so sure he liked being the one
observed.
“Um, right. Cookie
lets me use leftover spinach water. I dye all my clothes green.”
Ninja’s eyebrows
rose, genuine surprise crossing her face. “Spinach water? Smart.” She studied
the vest with new interest.
The girl glanced
down the hallway, head tilting slightly as if listening to something Felix
couldn’t hear.
“They’re almost
done passing out the chocolate for the night,” she said, already backing away. “Coming?”
Felix hesitated,
his mind still cataloging everything about this unexpected encounter. Something
told him following this girl would lead to answers—and likely more questions.
Either way, what did he have to lose?
“Did you get your
chocolate yet?”
“Nope.”
“Everyone’s
already been to Prattle-pinch’s room. I think we’re the last ones.”
Felix gasped in
surprise.
Prudence Amok, aka Prattle-pinch, ran the
Wayward-Amok Orphanage, a creaky old building that always smelled like boiled
spinach. The orphans had given her the nickname behind her back—she was a
gossip and spent too little on them. Felix had only heard Gilly’s gang use it. To
the townspeople of Spinachi, she acted like she cared about the orphans, but
Felix knew better. While she ate fancy foods, the kids got spinach for
breakfast, lunch, and dinner—there were only so many ways to cook the same
vegetable.
“What?” Ninja
asked.
“I’ve only heard
Gilly’s gang call her that name,” Felix said. His mind was still cataloging
information about this mysterious girl—her movements, her knowledge, her
apparent invisibility to everyone else. Each new fact was like discovering a
rare specimen. “It sounds funny... I guess, coming from you.”
"Funny?" Ninja raised an eyebrow. "You
really don't get out of that tree much, do you? Everyone calls her
Prattle-pinch. Even Cookie calls her that, and they're best friends." She
kept walking down the hall. "What's shocking is how Prattle-pinch thinks
she has the right to give us all made-up names! My real name was the only thing
I had from before—I bet it meant something in my mother's language—and she just
erased it. Why shouldn't we give her one back? I mean, Nettiwiggs—what
kind of last name is that?”
Felix just nodded,
but he noted the intense furrow of Ninja’s brow when she was talking about
made-up names. Her reaction seemed disproportionate to the topic—another data
point to record later. This girl had taught him more about the orphanage in
five minutes than he’d learned in years. But the green substance was still
foremost in his mind—a scientific anomaly that defied categorization.
“Um, Ninja,” he
said, his face turning red, “before you found me, did you hear or see anything
strange in the hall?”
“Like what?” Ninja
stopped walking.
Felix rubbed his
neck. “Like, dragging sounds? Moaning?” He wanted to ask about the green goo
directly but worried she might think he was making things up. Better to start
with the auditory evidence.
Ninja’s forehead
wrinkled again as she thought. “No. But there was something.” She closed her
eyes, her fingers twitched like they were feeling the air. “Like a feeling.
Like something in the air. It’s what led me to the hall.” Her eyes snapped
open, she shrugged her shoulder and continued moving. “I thought I saw
something but I didn’t.”
“You didn’t see
anything glowing?” Felix whispered, feeling goosebumps pop up on his arms even
though there wasn’t a breeze. The probability of two people independently
hallucinating the same phenomenon was approximately 0.0042%. If she’d seen it
too, that would confirm its existence.
Ninja halted, her
eyes squinted back at him. “I didn’t say anything about glowing.” Ninja stood
there, quietly observing Felix, drawing out the moment and making it awkward.
“No, I didn’t mean
it like that. If you saw something, it’s not like I’m going to think you are
crazy, or anything,” Felix said, thinking this was the most interesting person
he’d ever met. Each new fact was like discovering a
rare specimen. His scientific curiosity was now fully engaged—not just
in the green substance but in Ninja herself. Two unprecedented discoveries in
one night! “Just, uh, if you saw something... different, you could tell me.”
“Yeah, I get that
about you.” Ninja started walking again. “I trust my feelings. They’re usually
right.”
Seeing how
confident she was, Felix had to ask, “You’re not scared of Gilly and his gang
at all, are you?”
“Nope!” Ninja
laughed.
Felix blinked. She wasn’t just unafraid of
Gilly—she found him amusing.
“Gilly’s seen me a
few times, but never long enough to remember my face.” She stopped at
Prattle-pinch’s door and listened. “Is she—laughing?”
“I don’t know,”
Felix raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never heard her laugh before. Someone must be
in there with her.”
Just then,
Prattle-pinch’s door swung open. Before Felix could blink, he was yanked off
his feet.
Melanie Abed is a behavioral expert turned story weaver. She believes
dragons are real but hiding, and finds thunderstorms equally delightful and
terrifying. A tea-loving bookworm, she champions young minds and writes to
help kids discover their superpowers are real.
