The Cursed Codex

By Matthew S. Cox

Fantasy roleplayers often get deep into their games, but thirteen-year-old Keith Croft is about to take it to a new level.

He's been invisible for seven years, smart but not working hard, athletic enough, but too lazy to excel. His parents are sorta cool, but only two weeks into his eighth-grade year, his friends are all busy with sports or projects and can't hang out. On the way home one day, he stops at a neighbor's yard sale and discovers a book for Crypts & Creepers that the lonely old woman says belonged to her granddaughter who disappeared without a trace.

Days after he convinces his friends to try this bizarre game that doesn't require electronics, strange noises in his closet wake him. His increasing inability to focus on anything other than a girl who vanished before he was born―and his obsession with her NPC ranger―drives him to dig deeper into the past, searching for what really happened to her.

By the time Keith realizes the Gamemaster's Codex holds something darker than rules within its pages, the curse that claimed the soul of a girl in 1987 has its claws in his group as well.

Keith vows his friends will escape―even if he can't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Division Zero Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949174229

Matthew S. Cox

Matthew has been creating science fiction and fantasy worlds for most of his reasoning life, which early on, took the form of roleplaying game settings. Since 1996, he has developed the “Divergent Fates” world, in which Division Zero, Virtual Immortality, The Awakened Series, The Harmony Paradox, and the Daughter of Mars series take place. Matthew is an avid gamer, a recovered WoW addict, Gamemaster for two custom systems, and a fan of anime, British humour, and intellectual science fiction that questions the nature of reality, life, and what happens after it. He is also fond of cats.

Book preview

1

Yard Sale

Invisible. That about summed up Keith Croft’s existence at Travis E. Hartford Middle School.

Sometimes, people did see him, but only when he wanted them to; those moments usually left him with bruises or a black eye—like the one presently throbbing on the left side of his face. Despite his war wound, he’d survived another average day in an average town.

Keith pedaled away from school, blissfully unaware of how un-average his life would soon become. The shouts of other kids faded into the distance behind him, leaving him alone with the scratch of bike tires on pavement and the clatter of a loose bolt neither he nor his father had been able to locate. A few blocks into his ride, he turned left and coasted down a hill lined with the oranges and browns of September trees, dreading having to explain the shiner to his parents.

Unlike everyone at school, they paid attention to him.

Teachers didn’t notice him because he generally followed the rules. Students didn’t notice him because he didn’t fit into any of the usual groups. He sorta played sports, but not often enough or well enough to be thought of as an athlete. He made decent grades, but they could be better. Mostly, school bored him. Keith had focus issues. His parents always told him he could be at the top of his class, but between not wanting to be thought of as a nerd and having a wandering mind, he cruised by on minimum effort. He never studied or took notes, but got Bs with the occasional C. Science class last year had been different. For once, the work had been interesting enough to hold his attention, and he got an A. He hoped this year’s science teacher would be cool, too.

Keith was smart. Problem being, he didn’t like showing it.

His clothes—a denim jacket, white shirt, sneakers, and jeans—appeared average enough to avoid the kind of mockery that befell some students for unfortunate fashion choices. Also, he usually kept his head down, avoiding conflict whenever possible—except for Tira. His best friend’s little sister got picked on a lot, and whenever that happened, Keith stopped being invisible.

Stepping between her and the three morons didn’t always end in a fight, but today it had. He didn’t win. Three on one rarely ever ended well for the one. At least he took their attention off her.

What kind of losers pick on a nine-year-old?

Of course, he knew why those particular three losers picked on her as well as his friend Ashur: they came from Syria—or at least their parents had. As far as he knew, Ash and Tira had been born here. Neither had even a tiny trace of an accent or behaved differently from other kids. Only their appearance set them apart. Keith shook his head and stood on the pedals, picking up speed as he neared the bottom of the hill where the street leveled off.

For eight years, he’d been happy in the background. In nine-ish months plus summer vacation, he’d officially be in high school. It kinda sucked to think about going from a king-of-the-hill eighth grader to a freshman. Social-status-conscious kids would have a rude awakening, but Keith Croft counted on remaining invisible.

Wanting to delay explaining the bruise on his face, he followed a longer path that circled around the neighborhood and brought him past the park on the east side of town. The Comets—the local Little League team—had already taken over the baseball diamond, all in their green jerseys and white pants. He rolled straight on by, barely looking at them.

Baseball bored him to death.

His father had wanted him to play, made him join the team a few years ago. Like with his schoolwork, Keith had put in enough effort not to fail out, but didn’t really try to succeed. Thankfully, last year, his dad realized picking belly button lint with tweezers interested him more than sports, so he hadn’t made Keith sign up again this year. As far as he knew, the team didn’t miss him.

Invisible. Another random thirteen-year-old with light brown hair and brown eyes. One of millions. Well, maybe he stood out a little, since his hair reached his shoulders.

He reversed the pedals at the base of the hill, bleeding off speed while leaning into a left turn that skidded the tires. The rear end of a parked blue pickup truck came at him fast; Keith braced himself, expecting to kiss it. An instant before disaster, his tires gripped the road. He blurred past the Ford with inches to spare and skidded to a stop.

Keith glanced back at the truck. Holy crap!

Once he caught his breath from the scare, he continued riding in the middle of the road.

Meadow Grove was the kind of little suburban neighborhood where a whole stickball game could happen on just about any street and probably not have to pause for a car. Everyone thought it a quiet, friendly town where kids still ran around trick-or-treating on Halloween and no one batted an eye at a boy making his way home from school alone.

Of course, his friend Elliot worried constantly about ‘creeps,’ but the worst thing to happen in Meadow Grove as far back as Keith could remember had been a bunch of seniors from the high school pelting one of the local police cruisers with rotten pumpkins on mischief night.

He looked forward to being a little older and having a car so he could go to the mall a couple miles down the road closer to the city. On days like this—that promised to be boring—he could buy a new game or something without having to beg one of his parents for a ride, though that would also require getting an actual job. Mowing lawns around here didn’t generate much cash.

At the end of the block, he swerved hard into a right turn, slipped past a parked Mustang, and steered for the crosswalk ramp to avoid the curb. He caught a little air cutting the corner and landed back on the road. The turn put him on Moore Street, a few blocks and two turns away from where his usual path home met Nellis Ave, the street he lived on.

Moore had a lot of old, huge houses with massive sycamore trees in their front yards. Giant branches still not fully surrendered to autumn surrounded him with a rustling of greens, yellows, and browns overhead. Riding his bike down Moore made him imagine being the pilot of a fighter ship launching from a space station. The tunnel of trees became an access shaft leading out to space in his mind, his bicycle a Falcon 94.

At least for a moment. A passing woman gave him an odd stare for making laser noises, and embarrassment transported him back to boring old reality.

Most of the homes here stood three stories tall and had an old-world style that gave off the mood of a horror movie. Many elderly people lived here, since it had to be one of the first streets ever built in Meadow Grove. He tried to avoid being around here at night since it got way creepy, though his friends always dragged him here on dares.

Up ahead on the left, a large collection of tables and people caught his eye. He rarely took this route home, and the sight of the apparent yard sale pulled at his curiosity as well as offered another distraction from dealing with his mother asking about the bruise. He leaned left, steering toward the curb, which he jumped, hopping the bike up onto the sidewalk.

The yard sale sat in front of a house painted a dull shade of blue-grey. Decorative white elements around the third floor roof gave him the willies, like that home in the movie where blood came out of the walls. So many leaves littered the yard they’d blown into dunes, and a mangy, overgrown swath of grass wrapped around the right side, threatening to devour anyone who dared set foot in it. Runaway ivy shrouded the trees in both front and back yards. Gnarled wooden creepers beneath the green laced around the trunks like crone fingers. Clearly, whoever lived here didn’t take care of it.

An old woman sat in a lawn chair behind three folding tables close to the front porch. She resembled a merchant from one of Elliot’s video games. Her long, grey hair draped over a blue shawl and a dark navy dress with little while dots. Probably purchased from Grandmas ’R Us. She gave off friendliness, not what he’d expected from someone living in the creepiest house in the world.

Four women around the same age as his mother picked among baubles, kitchen gadgets, some dolls, and a bunch of clothing laid out on the tables to the right.

Keith gravitated to the leftmost table, where a bunch of cardboard boxes held books as well as physical puzzles like a Rubik’s cube. He straddled the bike, walking it closer while browsing. Next to the boxes, four plastic models of military aircraft grabbed his attention, even though they seemed old. He recognized one as an F14 Tomcat since his dad loved that movie with Tom Cruise. A set of model paints appeared to be for sale as well, but one look at the bottles told him they’d dried out, probably before he’d been born.

Poor old lady. She has no idea they’re shot.

A metal tin of Prismacolor pencils intrigued him enough to open it; most had been used, but none more than a quarter of the way. Hmm. Maybe. Keith did like to draw. He set the case down. The old woman smiled at him while haggling the price of a bunch of sweaters and T-shirts with a heavyset red-haired woman.

Keith pawed at the box of books. Some of the novels he recognized from school’s summer reading lists. Fahrenheit 451, Catcher in the Rye, and so on. A large, shiny book stuck out of another box nearest the model planes, its cover patterned with blue scales. He grabbed and tugged it free, wide-eyed at the detailed artwork that made it look like some ancient wizard’s spellbook. It had to be over an inch thick and heavy enough to knock someone out with.

Crypts and Creepers: Second Edition adorned a scroll below a giant monster eye. Below it, smaller text read: Gamemaster’s Codex.

Huh… This looks like a game, but it’s a book.

Keith flicked down the kickstand and used his bike for a chair while thumbing through the pages at maps, cities, dungeon creation ideas, spell tables, traps, and so on. When he hit the rules section, his mind went into overdrive. The idea of a monster-smashing game that didn’t involve any kind of computer or console hit him like whoa. He’d always loved reading sci-fi and fantasy books, and this game looked an awful lot like that… only whoever got to be gamemaster wound up basically writing the book any way they wanted. Another page had pictures of dice in weird shapes, not simply boring cubes like in the Yahtzee game Dad whipped out every New Year’s.

He snapped the book closed and tucked it under his arm before peering into the box. A velveteen pouch, bright pink, emitted a plastic rattle when he picked it up by strings. Other than the color, it resembled a medieval coin purse. He pulled it open and peered in at a mass of multicolored plastic dice.

Hello, young man, said the old woman, much closer than he’d expected.

Keith jumped. Uhh, hi.

She took in a breath and let it out, seeming sad. I hope you’re doing all right. That’s a bit of a nasty shiner you’ve got.

Huh?

The woman tapped her cheek about where Kurt Heller had punched him.

Oh. Yeah, it’s okay. He rubbed the bruise. Got into a fight at school.

You don’t look like the sort of young man to start a fight, said the old woman, her expression shifting to concern.

He shrugged one shoulder. Naw, these guys keep picking on my friend’s sister. She’s only in third grade, but they’re my age.

That’s quite gallant of you to stand up for her.

Thanks. Keith looked down at the Crypts and Creepers book. How much do you want for this? And maybe those dice?

Well… The elder rested her hands on the box, and got a long-distance stare. Sarah loved that game.

He scratched his head. She got bored with it?

No. She… The old woman hesitated, pressing a hand to her throat, fighting grief. She’s not here.

After a moment, Keith eased the book back into the box despite wanting it bad. I’m sorry. You don’t look like you really want to sell it.

No… no… I’m being a foolish old woman. She looked down. Sarah’s gone.

Who was she? asked Keith.

My granddaughter. This stuff here—she gestured at the boxes and the model planes—has been in her room for years. I… haven’t had the heart to be rid of it, but, you know, it’s foolish to hold on to grief that long.

Keith looked down. Sorry. She got hurt?

Sarah went missing a long time ago… in 1987, quite a bit before you were even born. She’d be forty-four this year, old enough to be your mother.

Missing, said Keith, staring at the box. He pictured the stuff sitting in a bedroom, untouched for years. The model planes felt kinda weird for a girl’s room, but whatever. Maybe she was a nerd. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it cool that a girl had been into military planes. I’m sorry. That’s really horrible.

Thank you. She and her friends were quite fond of those books. She glanced at the box holding the C&C manual, the dice, and a bunch of spiral-bound notebooks.

The woman’s air of sadness deepened, so Keith leaned closer and lowered his voice so the ‘moms’ didn’t overhear. Is something wrong?

Nothing a young boy like you needs to worry about. She patted the box. I think Sarah would want you to have them. She’s outgrown this stuff.

You think she’s still alive? They never found her? asked Keith.

Well, no. The woman fumbled a tissue out of her sweater pocket and dabbed at her eye.

Keith cringed. Sorry. You looked so sad. I was just hoping she might be okay somewhere.

She forced another smile, not quite looking at him, while making a mmm sound.

It’s not your fault, Mrs… uhh. Sorry. I don’t think I’ve met you before.

Mrs. Norris. You’re Vicky’s son, aren’t you? Croft?

Yeah. Keith nodded. I live down that way, left at the end of the block, then a right on Nellis Ave. Not too far away. Hey do you want me to cut your grass or do these leaves?

That’s quite kind of you. Not many young men your age have time for that anymore. Sarah used to shovel snow out of driveways in the wintertime for a few dollars.

Keith pulled one of his handmade business cards out of his jacket pocket. Here. My number’s on it if you want me to come by and help you with the yard.

Mrs. Norris took the card, holding it close to read.

I have a cart I hook up to the bike. Got a mower and stuff, so it’s okay if you don’t have one.

That’s good. I haven’t been to my shed in years. Bryan used to do that, but he isn’t around anymore. Mrs. Norris scowled.

Is Bryan your son? Kinda lame he doesn’t help you.

Mrs. Norris stared at Keith with an annoyed glower. He leaned away wide-eyed, but she relaxed, sighing. Oh, it’s not your fault. Kids are curious. Bryan is my son. He was Sarah’s father. Right after she disappeared, he swore she ran away, but I know her. Sarah wouldn’t have run away.

I’m really sorry she’s missing, said Keith.

She disappeared before you messed your first diaper. Mrs. Norris chuckled. No sense you getting all sad and mopey like me. She patted the box. "I think she would’ve wanted you to have this stuff. It gave her many hours of fun. Those friends of hers were always in her room. I can still hear ’em yellin’ about ‘naturals twenty’ or some such thing. Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. I still don’t know what the devil that means, but I remember it. Those kids used to all chant ‘critical’ at the top of their lungs."

Keith traced his finger back and forth over the blue book with the dragonscale cover. It looked so 3D he expected to feel the scales, but the surface had a glassy smoothness. Merely a picture. Something made him want to jump headfirst into its secrets, but a missing-probably-dead girl once owned it. Taking it felt like grave robbing. I dunno. Are you sure? It’s making you sad to think about selling it.

Sarah really did love that stuff. I tried to give it to her friends, but they didn’t want it. Too sad I guess—it made them think of her. Mrs. Norris heaved a heavy sigh. Why don’t you take it?

The more he looked at the cover, the more intrigued he became. How much? He stuffed his hand in his pocket.

It’s all right. I’ve put it out every two or three years whenever I get the itch to do this, and no one ever wants it. Honestly, I didn’t expect kids to care about anything that doesn’t buzz, blink, or beep anymore. You look like you’d get some fun out if it.

Keith gazed into the red dragon’s eye on the cover. As silly as it seemed, the book felt like it wanted a new home. He reached out and picked it up. The instant he made contact, a soft breeze stirred the leaves of the giant sycamore overhead. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, but he dismissed it as the work of the wind.

Mrs. Norris, that’s really kind of you, but I can’t just take it. He looked at the model airplanes. This stuff’s from her room? How about I trade you for it? I’ll rake your leaves and mow. Clean up your whole yard, and you can give me this stuff instead of paying?

She stared down, her expression as though she’d been forced to give up a beloved pet for adoption.

If you change your mind and want this stuff back, I’ll return it. He held out a hand. I promise.

Mrs. Norris glanced at his hand.

He whispered, I’m only asking for the planes so no one else buys them and you can get them back if you regret selling them. I live right around the corner.

All right. She shook his hand. You have a deal, young man.

He smiled. I’m Keith.

2

Next Saturday

After dinner that night plus homework, Keith changed into his pajama pants and sat cross-legged on his bed. His room’s powder-blue walls peeked out here and there between Final Fantasy posters, another of an F-22 Raptor, and a pair of Metallica ones. He agreed with his dad and liked the Black Album (and earlier) stuff more.

His arms ached from spending the whole day at Mrs. Norris’ raking up leaves. As soon as she accepted his offer, he’d rushed home to get his bike trailer so he could cart the box and the model planes back to his room. After, he returned with a rake and a bundle of giant plastic bags. The property had to be double (or bigger) than the biggest yard he’d ever dealt with for his ‘business venture.’ Keith had managed to get the leaves bagged before it became too dark to work. He planned to go back there tomorrow—after packing the models away safely—to deal with the mowing.

A promise was a promise.

And hey, bonus points with his parents. He’d told them he’d be at Mrs. Norris’ house, cleaning up the yard of an old woman for basically free. They’d been so proud of him, the dreaded conversation about the almost-black eye didn’t last long.

But that would be tomorrow.

Keith set the Crypts and Creepers book in his lap. He had about an hour before the parents would order lights out. As much as he wanted to admire the cover, that would waste time. The book made a faint, papery creak when he pulled it open. Curly handwriting in silver ink decorated the dark blue lining inside the front cover. It still even smelled a bit like a permanent marker. A few sheets of paper, which he hadn’t noticed before, slipped out from the back of the book.

Whoa.

The writing definitely came from a girl—boys didn’t write that neat. Though, she didn’t do that cute thing of dotting her I’s with little hearts or anything. He thought the writing ‘precise,’ but pretty. Keith touched it, though the shiny silver ink didn’t feel like anything more than paper. He stared at the letters, wondering if the girl who’d written this so long ago had died before he’d been born. It didn’t quite fit into his brain to think of her as an adult, even though, according to her grandmother, she’d be like forty-something years old now. The notebooks, the toys, the models, all of it gathered in his brain and made him feel like she stopped existing at fourteen—or as Mrs. Norris believed, she would forever be fourteen.

A wave of sadness and anger washed over him and faded as fast as it came on. Someone did something to that girl, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, nothing except be nice to her grandmother. Things like that—disappearing kids—never happened in Meadow Grove as far as he knew, but Mrs. Norris couldn’t believe she ran away.

Sarah… He sighed, again tracing his fingertips over the writing. I hope you didn’t get killed.

A glint swept over the silver writing. He looked up for the source of the light that reflected, but no one had snuck up behind him with a flashlight. Squinting, he tilted the book back and forth in the glare from the overhead lamp, but the silver ink didn’t gleam again.

Huh. Weird. Guess I’m tired.

The writing surrounded a ‘From the library of Sarah Norris’ sticker, and had a lot of math-looking stuff like 5d6 or 3d12. It appeared to be notes for traps, custom spells, and a weapon called ‘Silverthorn.’ Under a small paragraph describing an ornate shortsword with a handle carved to resemble leaves, a line read: +3 enchantment, haste on critical (19-20).

Whatever that means.

He flipped in a couple pages and read about campaigns and rules. By the time his mother poked her head in and gave him the ‘you’re not asleep yet’ eyebrow, he understood the mathy stuff to be references to dice. 5d6 meant someone would roll five six-sided dice and add them together.

Okay, Mom. He set the book on his nightstand and hurried to the bathroom.

Tuesday morning, Keith glided up to the bike rack at school and almost flew over the handlebars when the front tire hit it. He caught himself on tiptoe, barely managing to save his crotch from ramming into the frame. His effort in Mrs. Norris’ yard had left every muscle in his arms, legs, and back sore, almost too stiff to ride.

For the first time in years, he grumbled at having to go to school. He couldn’t stop thinking about the game manual, and to a lesser extent, the model planes. The old fighter jets were delicate, certainly not toys meant to be played with, so as soon as he made it home today, he planned on packing them in styrofoam peanuts and asking his dad to put them in the attic. He didn’t understand why he developed this sudden need to protect them. In fact, when he’d first looked them over, he hadn’t felt the tiniest shred of interest in them. But by the end of his conversation with Mrs. Norris, he couldn’t let any old random person come by and take them away from her. The odd possessiveness made him feel like he’d owned them for a long time, even painted them himself.

He didn’t mind the idea of going back there this afternoon. At least mowing wouldn’t bust his back like raking had, even if that strip of grass probably qualified as ‘jungle.’

After locking up his bike, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and trudged along the sidewalk toward the doors of Travis E. Hartford Middle School. No one even seemed to know who the guy had been or why he had a school named after him, but it had been an eighth grade tradition forever to do something to the huge bronze plaque of him in the lobby. It looked like an enormous penny, only with this guy instead of Lincoln on it. Every year, kids pranked it. Sharpie marker mustache, googly eyes… whatever. He figured one of the athletes or the troublemakers would do it, as usual, not an invisible kid like him.

Leave me alone, wailed a young girl some distance away from the front doors on the grassy hill between the building and the athletic fields.

Dammit. Not again. Stupid buttheads!

He lifted his head, peering past his sandy-brown bangs.

The usual three idiots, Kurt Heller, Henry Ames, and William Beattie—all thirteen except for Kurt who trailed by one year despite being the biggest—towered over a super-skinny little girl with long, thick, black hair and brown skin. William had two fistfuls of her pink sweater, and she’d already lost one of her ballet flats trying to kick at him.

Get off me! shouted Tira Zuabi, nine-year-old sister of his best friend Ashur.

Kurt grabbed her other arm and the boys upended her headfirst into an outdoor trashcan while she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Terrorist goes into the trash, yelled Henry.

Hey! shouted Keith. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder and forced his aching body up to a run. Leave her alone!

Kurt spun to face him. Oh, look who it is. Guess you want the other eye painted black, huh Croft?

Henry seized Tira’s kicking legs by