Peter had a secret friend.
       He had many friends, at school and among his neighbours, but no one was quite like Vangar. Peter had never met anyone as brave, fast or adventurous, even though he suspected Vangar sometimes exaggerated a bit. And most of Peter’s friends were surrounded by parents, siblings, chores and homework, while Vangar stayed in a castle full of secrets, traps, vicious monsters and hidden treasures.
       And, of course, Vangar lived in a book.
       The Secrets of Zot was a special book. Its thick, creamy pages and its covers of brown leather were protected by a plain but thick wooden box, with purple velvet padding inside and the book’s title embossed on its lid. When the book had been discovered in Peter’s grandmother’s attic after she had passed away, Peter’s parents had presented the book as a Christmas gift for Peter. It was the centrepiece of Peter’s bookshelf and always his first choice for bedtime story.
    
His mother and father had a library where they often sat late at night and read. Peter did not need a library–he had his special book–but his parents insisted that Peter read other books as well. On these nights, having sat through tales of silly children doing silly things in obviously dangerous situations, he waited until his parents slept and then padded to his bookshelf, pulled his favourite book out of its box and snuck in under his blankets.
       There, in the weak light of his flashlight, he listened as Vangar told of his fantastic adventures.
       Vangar first talked to him just after midnight the day Peter turned six. Eyes heavy after a day filled with cake, presents and games, Peter had been on the brink of sleep when the hushed voice sounded from his bookshelf.
       “Hey,” it said. “Over here. No, here. Stop staring at your teddy. Where are you going? Come here and take me out. That’s a boy. Now pay attention. I’ve got lots to tell you, every scrap of it true. But we haven’t got all the time in the world.”
    
Vangar was clever, too. He never spoke when Peter’s mother or father read from the book, although sometimes he winked at Peter from the pages. Peter thought about showing his sisters, but Louise was too big for story books and Nina would want more pictures and less text.  Only when Peter opened the book alone did Vangar clear his throat to say hello.
       “They would never understand,” Vangar said. “And some of my quests are on the spooky side. We don’t want to give your dad nightmares, now do we? Now point your light over here, and I’ll tell you how I found Baron Vileheart’s chest of gold…”
    
And so it went for four years. Every night Vangar had a new story ready for Peter. Vangar knew a thousand ways to defeat the dangers that lurked in the castle’s dark cellars or in the moonlit forests beyond the moat. No trap was quick enough to catch (or impale, or behead) him, no riddle too difficult to solve, no beast’s hide too thick for his sword. Vangar, armed with only his blade, his armour and the occasional map or convenient tool, was a master of inventions and narrow escapes.
       All Vangar asked for was for the book to be put back in its box each night. “Never forget to tuck me in,” Vangar said. “It’s very important. Adventuring is hard work, and bad sleep makes me bleary-eyed.” So Peter always slipped the book back in place before he returned to his bed.
       Then, two weeks before Peter’s tenth birthday, things started to go wrong.
    
Mother had taken Peter to the park where he screamed in roller coasters, shot air gun pellets at ugly vases and made faces at weird mirrors. He went to bed late, and Vangar had to snap his fingers to keep Peter alert through a tale of cheating, almost-sleeping dragons. When the story was over, Peter’s head seemed filled with lead. Before he could rise to put the book back in its box, dreams welled in over him and the book fell from his hand.
       The following morning Peter woke with a start. He breathed out as he saw the book on the floor, on top of some books Peter’s sister had left in his room. Peter took his book and put it back in the box, hoping Vangar would not be angry.
    
That evening, Peter endured a story about a hopeless train whose goldfish-like memory always got it into trouble. As soon as his father left the room, Peter went to the bookshelf and then dove in under his blankets with his favourite book.
       “Peter.” He could tell straight away by Vangar’s tone that something was wrong.
       “Yes?” Peter said.
       “You didn’t put the book back last night, did you?”
       Peter swallowed. “I was about to, but I fell asleep.”
       “I’ve told you it’s important.”
       “I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
       “No, I’m fine. It’s just that–Peter, where exactly did you leave me?”
       “On the floor.”
       “Was there something else on the floor? Another book, perhaps?”
       “Yes, one of my sister’s.”
       “And which book was that?”
       Peter thought. “Little Red Riding Hood.”
       “Ah. That makes sense.”
       “Why?” Vangar sighed.
       “Because, my dear, sleepy friend, there’s a wolf here.”
       Peter frowned. “There are wolves everywhere in Zot. Last week you told me–”
       “No, Peter. A new wolf. A big one, too. Inside the castle. That’s a first.”
       “Um. Okay.”
       “You’ve read your sister’s book, right?”
       “Yes,” Peter said.
       Vagnar was silent. Peter knew Vangar waited for something.
       Then he understood.
       “You mean the wolf came from another book?” Peter asked.
       “Aha.”
       “How?”
       “Good stories are never far from real life, Peter. The walls are thin, you might say. The box is there for a reason.”
       “I understand,” Peter lied. “Is it dangerous?”
       “He’s harmless enough, but the poor thing’s confused. He’s been running around the corridors all night yapping about some abusive hunter.”
       “Oh,” Peter said.
       “He’ll be fine, though. This morning the local wolf pack came and talked sense into him. Now they’re all sitting on the cliff, ogling the moon as usual. But don’t let it happen again, all right?”
       “I won’t,” Peter said, and he meant it.
    
That night, Peter giggled and cheered as Vangar told of how he’d tricked a giant with house-sized fists and a fortunate phobia of rodents. When the story was over, Peter made sure the book was safe inside its box and then fell asleep.
    
The following morning he woke to the sun filtering though his curtains. Peter yawned, stretched, and then gasped.
       The book was gone.
       Peter leapt from his bed. Impossible. He looked behind his other books. Nothing. He peered under his furniture. No book.
       Peter’s older sister opened his door and frowned at him.
       “What’s with all the banging? What are you doing on the floor?”
       “My book’s gone,” Peter said, digging among his comics.
       “The old one?”
       “Yes.”
       “It’s in my room.”
       Peter stared at her. “Give it back. Now.”
       “Take it easy. I just borrowed it. It goes with my dried roses.”
     
    
    
(top)

        Peter dashed into her room, snatched his book from her bedside table, hurried back to his own room and put it back in its box.
       The day seemed to last forever.     
    
When he had sat through a tale about two goldfish (which, to be honest, he thought was rather funny), Peter got his book as soon as his mother had left his room.
       “Peter.”
       “I’m really sorry. It wasn’t me this time. My sister took it.”
       “Let me guess,” Vaguar said in a tight voice. “Teenager? Lots of purple clothes, black nail polish? Walls full of scary posters?”
       “Er, yes,” Peter said.
       “And she left me on top of some of her books.” It was not a question.
       “She might have,” Peter admitted.
       Vangar sighed. “At least that explains the vampires.”
       “There’s a new one?”
       “Plural, Peter. There used to be a few in the crypt, now the castle’s packed with them.”
       “Oh, no. Are you in trouble?”
       Vangar chuckled. “Are you serious? One or two are on the sinister side, but most of them can’t even brood properly. I don’t think anyone’s over twenty. All they do is stand in dark corners and try to look threatening. It’s like a Hollyoaks audition with a gothic twist.”
       Peter was not sure what Vangar was talking about. “That sounds strange.”
       “I can think of other words. You have no idea how glad I am I’m not a girl. I’d be under a siege of fanged, scowling boys. Now listen. Do not let this happen again. Things can go horribly wrong.”
       Vangar had to chase a group of morose vampires out of his bedroom, so Peter put the book back and fell asleep without hearing a story.
    
Next morning, Peter sat up in his bed, rubbed his face and looked over at the bookshelf.
       The book was gone.
       “Louise,” Peter screamed. He scrambled out of his bed and ran into the black-and-purple chaos that was his sister’s room. She was not there. Peter felt like tearing out his hair. Or Louise’s. It would take him hours to dig through her mess.
       Peter’s father walked up behind him. “Was that you shouting?”
       “Louise’s stolen my story book again. I told her not to.”
       Peter’s father smiled. “That was me. I moved some of your books downstairs to make space for new ones.”
       Peter groaned. He ran downstairs and into the library and spotted the book straight away, nestled between some of his mother’s large books.
    
The day crawled past. Peter suffered through a dull story, waited for his family to go to sleep and then opened the cover to Vangar.
       The noise nearly made Peter shut the book in surprise. The book trembled to the sound of sirens, distant screams, the drone of airplanes, sharp blasts and bone-rattling explosions. Peter thought it sounded like fireworks, but louder and the wrong way around, as if the rockets came blasting out of the sky and struck earth. His hands were sweating, yet he felt cold.
       “Peter, is that you?” Peter could just make out Vangar frantic voice over the racket. “I can’t hear you well. I’m hiding in the cellar.”
       “Why?”
       “Because the corridors are full of people trying to kill each other, that’s why.”
       “I’m so sorry.” Peter had to stop himself from shouting–if he did, his parents would wonder. “My dad took it.”
       “Do you have kleptomaniacs in your family tree?” Vangar shouted. “What was next to me this time?”
       “World War One in Pictures.”
       “Oh. Right. Okay.”
       Peter thought Vangar sounded frightened. That was impossible. Vangar was daring, quick and smart, but never afraid. “Are you scared?” Peter asked.
       “You have no idea,” Vangar wheezed. “This is—” There was a loud boom and the sound of tumbling rocks. Vangar made a sound as if he’d sneezed. “They’ve blown up the upper corridor. I have to hide somewhere else.”
       “Vangar, I–”
       “There’s a war going on in the castle, Peter.” Vangar’s breathing came in hard puffs. Peter heard the sound of boots running on stone floor. “In the whole forest, I think. With real bullets. It’s chaos. Everyone’s shooting at anyone.”
       “I really—”
       “And there’s a tank in the courtyard, Peter. It destroyed the gates and the dinner hall in seconds. Everyone has fled, even the tower ghost. I hope the wolves got out okay.”
       “I didn’t mean—”
       “Of course you didn’t. But I might not make it this time. There’s only so much you can do with a sword. And it’s me against too many.”
       “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
       “What? I can’t hear you over the shooting.”
       “What can I do to make things right?”
       “Don’t ask me. Hold the book out the window and shake it? No, wait. Your parents won’t like that. Not to mention the rest of your town. And my pages might fall out.”
    
An explosion shook the castle’s walls and made the book quiver in Peter’s hands. Peter heard the rumble of heavy machines and pained screams. They were coming closer. “There must be something I can do,” Peter said.
       Vangar paused. “Perhaps there is. I have an idea. Listen close, then hurry.”
    
Late that evening Peter went to his bookshelf and pulled out the book he had borrowed from his mother. It was light, much thinner than most of his parents’ books, and its pages were crisp and white even though it was old. She was happy Peter showed interest in the classics, she told him.
       Inside it, wedged in the centrefold, was The Secrets of Zot.
       He put his old favourite book back in its box, returned to his bed with his mother’s book and opened the cover.
       “Hey,” Vangar said.
       “It worked.” Peter grinned.
       “Sure did. Quite a change from the old castle.”
       “Do you like it?”
       “I do. The city’s nice and gloomy, and there’s plenty of company. People look funny at my sword, but they’ll get used to it. The name’s got a nice ring to it, too. Lon-don. Like the sound of a gong. Shame about the smog, though. I hope they sort it out. And guess what?”
       “What?” Peter asked.
       “I got a new story.”
       “Really?” “Oh, yes. It’s about this creepy fellow skulking around this city at night. Everyone’s talking about him, even though few have seen him. I guess that’s why they call him Mister Hyde. Are you ready?”  
       “I’m listening,” Peter said. “I always will.” 
    
    
                    About the Author
     
        Swedish journalist Erik Boman lives in the UK, following a three-year stint in northern Australia, where he went to university and worried over snakes or spiders.  He graduated from the University of Oxford’s Creative Writing program and started a PhD in science fiction at the University of London in October 2011.  In addition to science fiction, genres of particular interest to him include magic realism, fantasy, and the plain weird.
       His stories have been published in SFX’s Pulp Idol, The Wry Writer, the BFS’s New Horizons, and Literature in North Queensland. He has finished writing his first novel and is working on a second.