the Jam Jar

The Jam Jar
By Sam O'Beirn

To Ray Bradbury, who taught me to dream.

The air was cool, and crisp as Pete walked home from school that day.  As he passed his neighbours houses, he smiled as he saw people putting up Halloween decorations.  The sun was high in the sky, cutting the cold of the afternoon with the last of the summer heat.  The leaves were bright and vibrant colors of red, yellow and orange.  There was a spicy scent to the wind, a smell of apple and pumpkin pies, of spiced cider, and underneath it, the smell of dying leaves and earth.  The smell of autumn.  It was, Pete decided, a day of magic.

Being 11 years old, Pete was of that special age where reason had started to rear it's ugly head, but the concepts of magic and dreaming were still alive in his mind. He still knew the simple truths that adults had sadly forgotten, truths that all children know deep in their hearts.  Truths like "Good will always triumph over evil, no matter how dire the odds," or "Love will always triumph over hate."  These things got muddled over time in the adult mind, and rarely will one remember the simple truths of childhood as anything but naivety, or innocence.  This may be the reason why some children look at adults with a kind of sorrow, knowing that they can never see the hope that they left behind again.

Pete walked down the sidewalk, feeling the crunch of leaves under his feet.  He smiled and waved to Missus Fitzpatrick, who was cleaning the gutters of the house she shared with three cats and a daughter that had just left for college.  She had the best caramel apples on the block, cause she rolled them in gummy worms before the caramel cooled.  She waved back at him, a black length of goop falling off her gloves.  He continued down the street, until the sidewalk ended at the old Whittiker mansion.  He stopped and stared at it.

One of the Magical Truths that all children know is that every town has a Haunted house.  The Whittiker mansion was so old, it might have been the mother of them all.  An old victorian mansion, it had been there for longer than anyone in the city could remember.  While it might have been a beautiful thing in its day, it sagged and loomed like an old victorian prostitute.  The paint had flaked away to a uniform grey all over the house, leaving the front porch and its nest of spiders and various vermin well hidden in the shadows.  Two of the windows of the second floor were boarded up, broken by some brave child and their stones years ago.  The teeth of jagged glass leered at people as they passed by, a dangerous reminder to stay away.  The front lawn was ill kept, but neat, and an old birdbath with a scum of black water that no bird would ever be hard up enough to bathe in, sat in the middle.

As for Mister Whittiker, no one could say much about him.  The rarely seen old man occasionally bothered the spiders on his porch to pay for a grocery delivery, or to sweep up the broken bits of slate that a strong storm blew off the roof.  No one could honestly say what he looked like, other than old, and as such many of the children in the neighbourhood made up stories about him being a sorcerer, or a crazy madman that kidnapped children.  None of the parents or other adults in town believed any of the tales.  When they heard the children tell them, they were rapidly told to shush, as their parents looked away ashamed.  Then again, these were the adults that didn't believe in magic.  Most of the kids in the neighbourhood humoured the adults, and left the tale telling to when they were well out of earshot.

Pete stared at the house, and felt a cold chill creep up his spine.  The heat of the sun seemed to die out around him, and a cold breeze swept the leaves up around his feet, spinning them in odd patterns and circles.  Pete thought he saw one of the old red curtains in the front window move for just a second, was sure he saw an old malevolent eye stare out at him, when he felt someone push his shoulder lightly, and shriek loudly beside him.

Pete jumped and yelled in shock, then glared at the group of children that had appeared beside him.  They were either laughing at him, mostly good naturedly, or smiling broadly at the joke the leader of the group had played on him.

"Real funny Jake," Pete said angrily, then smiled a bit.  Jake was his best friend, and it was hard to stay mad at him.  They had been friends for as long as either of them could remember, and he had a good nature about him so that Pete, nor anyone else, could stay mad at the boy.

"Oh man, you screamed like a girl, man!", Jake laughed, "When you jumped, I thought you were going to piss yourself!"

"Bite me.  I was looking at the house, and Mister Whittiker was staring at me through the window," Jake said, a little angrily.  Most of the kids stopped laughing or smiling at that.  An actual sighting was paramount to urban legend amongst the children of the elementary school.  Everyone knew a kid who knew a kid, who went to highschool, or moved, who had seen Mister Whittiker, but no one could actually put a name to him.

"Don't joke about that, man."

"I'm not.  He was peering out the window there."

All the kids looked at the window, trying to see anything but the thick red curtains.  No one said anything, as the wind whistled through the trees.

"Dare you to go in there," Jake said suddenly, and all the children let out a "OOOooh" at the same time.  Pete looked at them all, nervously.  Part of him didn't want to break the law, but part of him didn't want his friends to hit him with the dreaded "Chicken" label.

"No way, man!", Pete yelled.

"Chicken?"

"But he's home.  What if he catches me?"

"Oh don't tell me you believe all the stories about him kidnapping kids and all that crap," Jake said, and there were a few scattered chicken calls around them.

"But-"

"The worst he can do is call the police, who will take you back to your parents, and you'll be grounded.  Come on, man.  If you do it, I'll give you one of my video games."

Pete hesitated.  Then he looked towards the house.  The clouds seemed to gather over the sun and the house, darkening the sky around it.  He looked at the group of kids, then the house, and then the kids again.

"I double dog dare you," Jake said, jumping up the threat level.  Pete swallowed, and looked at the gloating smile that was on Jake's face.  He turned and looked at the mansion again.  Someone that broke a double dog dare was someone that was alienated and set down below the lowest of the low at school.  The kids that ate paste at the back of the class had more school ground rank than dare breakers.

Pete swallowed again, his throat had suddenly gone dry.  He looked at Jake and the rest of the children.  He looked at the windows again.  Were the thick, red curtains moving again, parting to show an evil eye watching them?  Pete felt his body go numb as he turned, slowly opened the gate door, and walked towards the Whittiker Mansion.  The cool breeze from before was back, blowing grass clippings and leaves in front of him, still in the same whirling, odd patterns.  The smell of mildew and of compost was stronger the closer he got to the house, and when he had made it to the ancient front porch, he looked back at the group of his friends at the gate.  They were all staring at him, shocked expressions on their faces.  Jake looked slightly worried as well, not quite believing that he would ever have to lose one of his video games.  Pete swallowed, and stepped up to the door.  He reached out slowly, and opened it.  The world seemed to hold it's breath as he stood there, staring at the crack that he had opened.  He slipped in, and closed the door behind him.

Looking around, Pete felt his heart thunder in his chest.  He was in an ancient foyer, on an old red patterned weave rug.  There was another door into the house proper, in front of him, made of a dark red wood, and ancient warped glass.  As he opened this door, the smell of spices hit him, sweet and cinnamon.  He took an involuntary step in, suddenly the smell slightly changed, cloves and honey, and Pete closed his eyes and smiled.  The smells reminded him somehow of his grandmother's house. He could almost hear her voice, softly in his ears.

"Can I help you, young man?"

Pete felt light headed, and his stomach took a trip to somewhere near his sneakers when he heard the voice.  He turned around slowly, taking in the rich carpet on the floor, and the dark hardwood beneath it.  In the faint light his quick glance saw a small table, with a small marble bust sitting next to a smaller crystal bowl filled with keys sitting on it.  He turned towards the stairs, made of the same dark red wood that the door was made of, and there on a small landing, stood Mister Whittiker.

Mister Whittiker was old, this much was true.  He had a ring of bright white hair on his head, and his scalp seemed to shine in the lowlight of the hallway.  His blue eyes, looking through a pair of thick glasses, glinted mischievously at Pete.  A wry smile was on his face, and a white eyebrow was arched quizzically.  Pete froze.

"Uhhh......", was all that came out of his mouth.

Mister Whittiker shook his head and chuckled to himself.

"Well, I suppose I should expect an answer like that, from a young child caught in my house uninvited," he said, slowly easing himself down the stairs.  Walking past Pete, he walked through the hallway, and turned into a room off the right of the hall.  He looked back at Pete with the wry look.

"Well, come here, boy.  I haven't got all day."

Pete looked at the door, then at Mister Whittiker.  The urge to run was screaming in his head.

"You're not in trouble, boy.  I just want to talk.  I don't get many visitors, you see."

Pete looked back at the door, again, then took off his shoes and walked towards the room that Mister Whittiker had turned into.  Mister Whittiker chuckled again as he watched Pete take off his sneakers.  Pete turned into the room, and looked around.

"Well, at least you're polite for a footpad, I'll give you that," Mister Whittiker said, easing himself down in a large leather easy chair near a huge marble fireplace.  The room was lined with bookshelves that were stuffed to overflowing with every kind of book that Pete could imagine.  He saw textbooks next to fantasy novels, sci fi sitting next to encyclopedias, and everything inbetween.  Pete looked at the fireplace.  The marble columns around it had ivy vines carved on it so realistically, that it almost looked like the stone was growing up to the mantle.  The mantle itself was bare, no photos or bric-a-brac, but a huge mirror hung over the fireplace, framed with a thick purple-ish wood.  Mister Whittiker gestured to another easy chair across from him, then picked up a thick black mug, with something steaming in it.  He took a sip as Pete sat down in the comfy chair, and looked at Pete over the rim of the steaming cup.

"Tell me boy, who are you?"

"P-p-p-pete J-j-j-johansen, sir", Pete sputtered.  He felt a little nervous, just sitting and talking to the man that legend said used the skin of little boys to stay young.  Mister Whittiker nodded to himself.

"Craig and Patty's boy?  I remember your parent's wedding.  It was very lovely," Mister Whittiker said, offhanded.  Pete instantly felt all the blood fall from his head to his chest.  Crap!  He knows my parents, was all he could think.  He smiled to Mister Whittiker, looking a bit sickly at the same time.

"Oh?  Th-th-that's nice," he said, and Mister Whittiker laughed.  It was  thick, and throaty, a laugh that put Pete at ease a bit.  He couldn't see anything funny in the situation, but then again, he generally didn't understand adults that much either.

"I told you, you're not in trouble, p-p-p-pete.  I won't call your parents."

A wave of relief hit Pete.  He sighed and slumped in his chair a bit.

"Oh thank you, sir," Pete said, and looked curiously around the room.  Mister Whittiker followed his gaze, and smiled a bit.

"You a reader, Pete?"

"Umm...I guess so, sir," Pete said, looking back at Mister Whittiker.  "I mean, I have to read at school..."

"Hells to that, boy!  I mean, do you enjoy it?  Can you see the story in your mind when you read the words, boy? Do you feel The Magic when you open the cover?" he yelled at Pete, jumping to his feet suddenly.  Pete started, and pushed himself back in his chair, scared that the stories about Mister Whittiker were true, and he was going to end up in an unknown grave in the back yard.

"Muh-muh-magic, sir?"

"Magic, boy!", Mister Whittiker yelled again to Pete, pointing at him with a bony finger, "Tell me you still believe in Magic, boy!  The simple truths of the universe!  That Good will always triumph over Evil, no matter the odds!  That Love will always triumph over Hate!  That Hope will always beat Experience!  That there's a haunted house in every town!  I remember the rules of Magic, boy!  I may be old, but I still remember them!  I remember them all!"

"Mag-Magic isn't real sir...", Pete began, edging away from the old man

Mister Whittiker bent and looked at Pete for a while, studying him.  Pete started to feel uncomfortable, but kept his gaze locked on Mister Whittiker.  The old man nodded, then stood up straight, seeing something that he was looking for.  He started to walk out of the room, then turned and motioned Pete to follow.  He looked at the old man, and cocked his head, questioningly.

"Well, come on, boy.  We've lots to see.  Magic exists in the world, boy, and it's time for you to see it."

Pete stood and followed the old man out of the room.  Mister Whittiker turned and slowly began walking up the stairs.  Pete watched Mister as he climbed the stairs, not sure if he should follow or not.  His shoes were right there, and all he had to do was put them on and walk out the door to go back to his friends.  He'd be a hero, he thought.  The boy who entered the Whittiker Mansion, and got out alive.  As he was looking at his shoes, he heard a snort of disgust from Mister Whittiker, and Pete looked up at him.

"Go ahead then, boy.  You can put on your shoes and leave, if you want.  As I said, you're not in any trouble, and you're free to go at any time.  You can go back to your chums who are probably still waiting for you," Mister Whittiker said, with an almost disappointed look on his face.  Then his eyes glinted with the wry smile again.

"Or..." was all he said.  Pete looked at him.

"Or what?"

"Or...", Mister Whittiker began, looking into Pete's eyes, with the wry smile broadening on his face.  "Or...you can follow me, and maybe I can show you that the old man's not so crazy after all, hmm?  That maybe I do actually know what I'm talking about when I say Magic."

Mister Whittiker continued climbing slowly up the stairs.  Pete looked at his shoes, then the door again, and finally began to climb stairs, up to the darkness of the second floor.  He stopped behind Mister Whittiker, who was turning on the hallway light to banish the shadows that had surrounded them in the windowless hall.  The hall was long and narrow, leading down to a single door at the end of the hallway.  A polished brass knob on the door reflected the light back at them, adding a bit of golden cheer to the hallway itself.  The hallway had no photos on the walls, or paintings, and the wallpaper ended halfway down, to rich wood paneling.  Each door down the hall was the same dark red wood that seemed to fill the house, and each door had a small brass plaque on it.  The only doors that didn't, were the door at the end of the hall, and one door sitting to the left of the top of the stairs.  It was slightly open, showing the beginning of a large, claw footed bath tub.  Mister Whittiker gestured down the hallway, and looked at Pete.

"Well, boy, Take your pick.  I recommend the first door there, on the right.  Work your way down the hall.  I'll wait here for you when you're done in there," Mister Whittiker said, pointing to the door on the right.

Pete looked at him, and nodded, slightly, not sure what to expect.  He looked at the plaque on the door, and it read "Summer Holiday".  Pete opened the door, not sure what he was expecting, but saw nothing but blackness in the room.  He looked back at Mister Whittiker, who shrugged, and motioned for him to enter the room itself.  Pete took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.  The door closed slowly behind him.

He was 7.  His parents had rented a cabin on the edge of a lake for a week, and they had spent the week swimming, hiking, and fishing around it.  He remembered catching his first fish, and his father was so proud, they brought it back to the cabin and fried it up for dinner that night.  As the hot summer air cooled slightly in the evening, Pete and his family sat down around a fire pit, cooking hotdogs and marshmallows, laughing at bad jokes, and telling stories around the light of the blaze.  It was a perfect day, Pete thought.  A day of magic.  He fell asleep as night fell, leaning on his mother, just as his father popped a marshmallow into her mouth.

The Door closed behind him, and suddenly Pete was suddenly back in the hallway, with Mister Whittiker smiling that wry smile at him, saying nothing.

"How...",Pete started, and Mister Whittiker laughed the deep throaty laugh that he had.

"I told you, boy, it's Magic," he said, as Pete whirled around and looked at the door again.

"That was the summer by the lake.  That was the best summer vacation that I've ever had.  How did it get in there?  How did the lake cabin get into this room?", Pete asked Mister Whittiker again, and again Mister Whittiker laughed.

"Magic, boy.  Days and nights of Magic.  That's what you'll find here.  I told you Magic existed, boy.  Look around at us, boy.  Look at the doors, and pick a new one, and discover all the memories of Magic that everyone forgets.  They're all still there, waiting for someone to take them back."

"So you take them from people?" Pete asked, incredulous.  How could someone just take someone's memories like that, and then store them in a house?  Pete was shocked.

"No boy, I don't take them.  People forget them," Mister Whittiker said sadly.  "I just hold onto them, until people take them back.  This is where the Magic of the world, good or bad is kept, boy.  This is the forgotten place of the world.  This is the place where every perfect day, truly loved object, and every moment of bliss with a loved one is kept.  And they're all waiting to go back, so that magic can be back in the world, boy.  All I am is the caretaker."

Pete walked down the hall, looking at all the plaques on them.  "Honeymoons" was next to "Marriages", which made sense.  "Halloween Nights" was across the hall from "Christmas Day".  There were some written in languages that Pete couldn't understand, and some that were so faded and worn that Pete couldn't read them.  Pete stopped in front of one of those doors, and tried to open it, but it wouldn't open.  Mister Whittiker nodded, gravely.

"Old Magic, boy.  Can't be remembered until it's found again," was all he said.

Pete walked down the hallway looking at the doors as he passed them.  They started to have stranger names, "Things that were truly loved" on one, "Safety" on another.  He had just walked past a door that simply said "Silence", when he stopped, and looked around confused.  He was sure that he had been walking for at least an hour, but he appeared to only be in the middle of the hall.  He looked back at Mister Whittiker, confused.

"Magic, my boy," he said to Pete, shrugging.  Pete thought for a second, then smiled a bit.  Okay, Magic, then, he thought.  Pete smiled, a slight, wry smile, and Mister Whittiker laughed his throaty laugh.

"Starting to Believe, boy?", Mister Whittiker said, his smile and eyes shining.

"Maybe...", Pete said, then pointed to the room at the end of the hall.  "What's in that room?"

Mister Whittiker looked at the room, and smiled a bit.

"Son, that's the Magic of a very personal kind.  A Magic that's part memory, part fantasy, and purity.  It's the room of the Magic of Morpheus."

Pete looked at Mister Whittiker confused.  Mister Whittiker smiled slightly and warmly, a different smile from his wry grin.  Pete thought it almost made him look grandfatherly.  Then he chuckled, and the wry grin was back.

"It's my bedroom, boy.  That's where I sleep."

Pete blinked, stunned for a second, then he laughed.  The thought that the caretaker of the world's magic might need to sleep never had entered into his mind.  He smiled, and realized that for the first time since he had come into the house, he wasn't afraid of Mister Whittiker.  He was a little in awe of the strange old man who lived in the haunted house.  Mister Whittiker smiled a bit, then stretched, and started to move back to the stairs.  As Pete followed, he realized that it only took him three steps to get back to the top.  Pete looked up at Mister Whittiker, who shrugged.

"Magic?", Pete asked, and Mister Whittiker's wry smile beamed.

"You're starting to get it now, aren't you, boy?  The rules of magic don't go away, they're just forgotten.  When you remember, it's set free."

"But why do we forget?", Pete asked, as Mister Whittiker turned off the light, and slowly walked down the stairs.  Mister Whittiker stopped on the stairs, and looked up sadly at Pete.  It seemed to him, that Mister Whittiker had aged slightly with that question, as Mister Whittiker looked tired, and depressed suddenly.

"Magic, and it's laws are a truth, son.  Truth is beauty, but truth is painful, too," Mister Whittiker said, sadly.  "Most people, almost all people, choose to forget something painful rather than let that pain help them grow.  Growing up is painful, son.  Full of heartache, full of ration and reason, and full of hurt.  Love may conquer Hate, but not Pain, son.  So, most people choose to let Magic slip from them, rather than having to deal with trying to make something beautiful out of something that hurts them deeper than anything ever in their lives ever will."  He looked away from Pete, and continued to walk down the stairs.  Pete stopped, and watched Mister Whittiker.

"Come on, son.  Share a cup of tea, and a scone with me," Mister Whittiker said, sounding tired.  "Then you can be on your way, and tell all your chums about the crazy old man."  Mister Whittiker reached the bottom of the stairs, and walked down the hallway, past the room with the fireplace, to a swinging door near the back.  Pete briefly wondered if he had done something wrong, since Mister Whittiker seemed so sad suddenly.

Pete walked down the rest of the stairs, and followed Mister Whittiker through the swinging doors, into a nice, if somewhat normal looking kitchen.  The tile on the floor was white, and clean, and the cupboards were made of a light coloured wood, that seemed at odds with the dark red wood that filled the rest of the house.  There was a small shelf over a table in the back corner of the kitchen, near a white refrigerator.  A door, that opened to a small patio in the backyard, was in one corner of the room.  Through it, Pete could see a well kept backyard, that was dominated by a huge tree, with odd leaves that Pete had never seen before.  As Pete looked around the room, his eyes stopped on a door that seemed out of place in the house.

The door was made of dull, thick metal, and looked solid, ugly, and heavy.  Down the side of the door were locks.  Deadbolts, chain locks, push pin locks, and a thick piece of the dark red wood barred it closed.  There was a small slit at the bottom of the door, that seemed to allow things to be pushed in...or to come out.  The sight of it unnerved Pete, but not as much as the plaque on the door.  The door's brass plaque had no name, no number, and no words.  It had nothing, but a single rectangle of a black glassy substance, that seemed to reflect all the fears that Pete had when he first walked into the house.  He became scared again, and thoughts of Mister Whittiker being an evil sorcerer suddenly began to creep back into his head.

He watched as Mister Whittiker put some water in a kettle and put it on the stove, then pulled a bag of scones out from a cupboard.  Pete looked around, wondering if there was something that he could do to help, or cheer up Mister Whittiker in some way.  If anything, he didn't want to end up victim to whatever was behind the locked door.  His eyes spied a small jar sitting on the back shelf.  It was filled with a dark purple substance, that looked vaguely jam like.  Pete thought back to the times he spent with his grandmother, and how they would have tea, and scones with jam.  Maybe that would cheer the old man up.  He walked over, and reached up to grab the jar off the shelf.  Pete felt a strong hand grab his shoulder, and was spun around.

Mister Whittiker glared at him from behind the thick glasses he wore.  He looked at the jar on the shelf, then at Pete.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?", Mister Whittiker asked Pete with an angry tone to his voice.  Pete looked at the old man, too scared to answer.  The anger in the old man's voice had frozen Pete like a field mouse starring in the eyes of a diving falcon.

"J-j-j-jam," was all that Pete could stutter at Mister Whittiker, as he watched him reverently pick the small mason jar off the shelf.  Mister Whittiker looked back at Pete again, with a mix of anger, and quite possibly fear in his eyes.

"This, boy, is not jam.  It's not for your hands, either.  You shouldn't be touching what you don't know, in strange people's houses," Mister Whittiker told Pete, and held the jar close to his chest.  It looked like, to Pete, that he was coddling the jar, or trying to protect it.  

"Wha-what is it?", Pete asked cautiously.  He still wasn't certain that Mister Whittiker wasn't going to kill him, and all he thought was to keep the old man's thoughts occupied with what was in his hands, rather than what was inside Pete.

Mister Whittiker sighed and sat down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table.  He gently placed the jar down on the table, and stared at it.  He motioned Pete to sit down in one of the chairs, and Pete sat down near him, but far enough away to run if he had to.  Mister Whittiker looked at Pete, then the jar.  He started to say something, but stopped, not quite sure of his words.  He looked at Pete again, cocking his head in a questioning way.

"Boy, have you ever thought about where magic comes from?", he asked Pete, and Pete shook his head.  Mister Whittiker sighed, and looked back at the jar, lost in thought.  Pete looked at the jar on the table, and as he looked closer, he could see that the dark purple of the contents weren't the only colours there.  He could see gold and silver ripples as fine as baby hair, and almost as invisible, swirling throughout the substance in the jar.  As Pete watched the swirls of gold and silver, they started to move and spin before his eyes, slowly, and in the same shapes that the leaves and grass clippings had swirled outside.  He looked at Mister Whittiker, amazed, and Mister Whittiker nodded to himself.

"What is it?", Pete asked again, this time with a little awe in his voice.  Mister Whittiker smiled slightly, the ghost of his wry grin flashing across his face.

"The Stuff that Dreams are made of", he said in a soft voice, and let the wry grin finally come back all the way to his face.  Pete looked at Mister Whittiker confused, and Mister Whittiker chuckled slightly.

"Boy, this is where the magic comes from.  Ever look up at the night sky, and think how small we are in the universe?", Mister Whittiker asked, and Pete nodded at him.  Mister Whittiker gestured to the jar again, and Pete looked at it confused.  He watched the swirls of silver and gold in the jar for a moment, and images of walking home on a dark night from a neighbor's with his parents flashed through his head.  Looking up at the stars, and the moon, and feeling so full of wonder at what he could see.  Pete shook his head as the vision fell from his mind, and looked at Mister Whittiker.

"What is it?" , he asked again, a little more in awe.

"It's the Universe, boy," said Mister Whittiker, simply.

Pete started to say something, something like "That's impossible," or "That's crazy," but he stopped, and looked again at the jar.  He could see the swirls of the gold and silver in the purple substance, and he got the same sense of awe as when he looked up at the night sky.  In the end, he just stared at the jar for a few moments, and then looked up at Mister Whittiker.

"Why do you have it?", Pete asked, and Mister Whittiker shrugged.

"It was given to me, to watch over and care for.  I was told to be careful, and shown how it works."

"How does it work?", Pete asked excitedly, and Mister Whittiker looked at him oddly for a moment, then grinned the wry grin at him again.  He gently picked up the jar, and looked at Pete.

"Well, the first thing you do, is you pick it up and open it, boy," Mister Whittiker said, and gently unscrewed the top of the jar.  Pete watched in awe as Mister Whittiker's hands slowly lifted the lid of the jar a little, to open it a crack.

There was a faint smell, of sweet and cinnamon, and then cloves and honey.  Pete watched in awe as a ripple of the gold and silver wound out of the jar, and floated in front of them.  He could see faint images of people smiling, laughing, or just with a contented look on their face, then the swirls of gold and silver floated out of the room, and away from sight.  Pete watched it go, then turned back to Mister Whittiker with a smile on his face.  He stopped smiling when he saw what else was coming out of the jar.

Pete could smell mildew and compost, so strong he gagged, as a purple-ish black length of goo fell from the jar, and on to the floor with a sickening splat.  As Pete looked down at the goo, he could see awful, and horrible things.  He could see men hurting women and children, people killing one another, bullies picking on the weak, and men and women crying.  He could see explosions, and crashes, and murders before Pete got sick, and had to look away.  He looked back at the goo, and saw that it was crawling...no, slithering to the locked door.  He watched it, as it pushed itself through the small slot at the bottom of the door.  Pete looked up at Mister Whittiker.

"What was that?", Pete asked, not sure he wanted the answer.  Mister Whittiker sighed.

"The most ancient of the laws of Magic, boy, is that there has to be a balance.  For everything good, there must be bad.  And this house is the storage place of Magic.  Good...or Bad, it's here, boy.  The bad ends up in the basement, where I hope it never comes back out.  But sooner or later, it does, and it ends up back in the jar to be re-used.  It's one of the downfalls of being the caretaker, boy.  You can't let good out without letting bad out as well.  And the bad is usually greater than the good."

`"Then why let anything out at all?", asked Pete.

"The Universe needs magic in it, boy!", Mister Whittiker exclaimed.  "Think about what it would be like without those perfect moments of happiness, or the horrible moments of pain, the things that make us grow and become the people we are.  Think about how dull the world would be with nothing to make us dream, with nothing to make us fight for good, with nothing to make us brave the haunted houses and the crazy witches and warlocks in the night, boy."

Pete thought about it for a moment.  His life would be really dull if Jake didn't get him into trouble as much as he did.  And at the same time, his life would be really dull if he didn't have the golden moments that he had with his family.  He nodded, slightly, and looked up at Mister Whittiker.

"I think I understand," he said, and Mister Whittiker nodded.  "So how does it work?"

Mister Whittiker blinked, and gently placed the jar in Pete's hands.  The jar felt warm and cold at the same time, but not uncomfortably so.  Pete could almost feel the gravity of it as he held it in his hands.  He looked up at Mister Whittiker, and smiled slightly.

"Now I just open it?", he asked, and Mister Whittiker nodded.

Pete opened the jar slowly, and he could feel it shake slightly in his hands.  He held on tight, and the lid loosened in his grip.  Pete opened the jar a crack, and suddenly the room was filled with the same scent of spice and sweet, as a ripple of gold and silver rose from the jar.  Pete laughed, and watched with wonder as it floated out of the room, then looked down, and waited for the awful goop to fall out.

Nothing happened.

Confused, Pete looked for Mister Whittiker, but he was nowhere to be seen.  Pete turned and looked around the kitchen, but all he saw was the heavy, ugly door slam close, and the thick heavy length of red wood fall into place with a bang.  Confused, Pete put the jar back on the shelf, and looked around the kitchen.  He saw a steaming cup of tea sitting on the counter, and took it, holding the warm cup in his hands.  He left the kitchen, wondering if perhaps Mister Whittiker had gone upstairs.  He walked down the hall, and placed the tea down on the small table with the marble bust on it, near the front door.  If Mister Whittiker had gone to the bathroom, maybe he'd like it when he came back down.

Pete knelt down, and grabbed his shoes.  He sat on the bottom step, and tried to put them on, but for some reason, they didn't seem to fit.  They were too small, and they were really dirty, like they had been sitting in the back of the closet for a year or so.  Pete looked at them confused, and decided to call his parents.  He thought he saw a phone in the book room, so he grabbed the teacup, and walked into it.

As he walked into the room, he looked into the Mirror over the fireplace, and stopped.  There was an old man, standing there, looking back at him.  Pete almost thought it was Mister Whittiker, when he realized the old man wasn't wearing glasses, and had a full head of hair.  Pete reached up to touch his face, and the old man in the mirror did the same.  His face felt old, and Pete started to panic a bit, but then something lept to his mind.  Something that Mister Whittiker had told him:  All towns have a Haunted House, and a crazy old man or woman living in the house.  It was one of the Laws of Magic.  Pete looked down at himself, and then back in the reflection.  He suddenly knew where Mister Whittiker had gone, and why.  And he smiled a wry, sad grin to himself, as he realized what had happened.  

The new caretaker of the House of Magic pulled a copy of "The Illustrated Man," off one of the bookshelves, and set it and the tea cup down on a small table near one of the large leather lounge chairs.  He lit a fire in the fireplace to warm himself, sat down, then started reading and sipping his tea.  Mister Johansen smiled to himself, and wondered when the day would come when his visitor would appear.