Happy Birthday, Mattie Rockwell

Ah, Mondays…

The most disliked day of the week.

Some rebuke it outright.

Others deny its existence entirely, carrying on with their poorly planned weekends that cause them to miss their alarms and shout obscenities at the morning light.

But not Mattie Rockwell.

The Sunday Scaries hadn’t spooked him, and he did not shout any colorful curse words this morning, because today wasn’t any ol’ Monday. It was THE Monday.

Not only was it Mattie’s birthday, but it was the Monday that would make him a rich man—better yet, a free man.

Today was the day that he’d sell his childhood home, and finally live the life he’s always dreamed of.

He’d unfortunately lived there for over thirty years—far too long for any grown man. But considering his overdue stay wasn’t by choice, he didn’t feel too bad about it.

“Three o’clock, and right on time,” Mattie said, his upbeat energy lifting his words high into the fresh air as a white minivan pulled into the uneven driveway.

Mrs. Sanders, a hardworking mother and entrepreneur, stepped out with a warm smile—that is, until her high heel caught between a groove in the cracked pavement. She stumbled, but caught herself before he could.

“Whoa, I know she’s a beauty, but let’s not fall to our knees just yet,” Mattie teased as he stepped up to the woman to offer a steady hand.

She gracefully laughed off her embarrassment and thanked him, though her too-cool teenage son had an expression that said—you two are embarrassing. He tossed on his headphones, reviewed the old, two-story house as if it were a landfill, then walked ahead without the owner or his mom.

This worried Mattie, but he didn’t show it. He couldn’t mess this up. This was his only chance.

“Sorry about him,” Mrs. Sanders said, now on stable ground on the paint-chipped patio.

“No problem.” Mattie smiled and extended his hand. “Mattie Rockwell.”

“Martha Sanders. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine.” He clasped his hands, ready to get on with his soon-to-be-freedom. “So—your husband loved the place on Saturday. I certainly hope you’ll feel the same.”

“Yes. He said, it had great character.”

He tilted his head, his smile bright. “Like a rock ‘n roll grandmother,” Mattie said. “Ready to love, and never a dull moment!”

Mrs. Sanders laughed and stepped through the doorway. And once inside, the room’s charm stole her breath, leaving her in awe as she turned in place to take in the pristine 1950s living room frozen in time.

“And you’re sure you want to sell it as is—all furnishings included?”

The price of the old home could easily sell for double.

“Oh, yes. I’ve had my fair share of the place. Been there, done that!” he said with amusement as he pointed to the pale pink sofa first, and then to the bulky television set.

She giggled. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. Let’s start the tour, shall we?” Mattie gestured his hand, welcoming her to explore further.

Her eyes were alive, eager to get started. But as they stepped away from the living room and into the kitchen, her son, Dawson, rounded the corner, casually tossing back and forth a broken snow globe, and taking Mattie a few steps back with surprise.

He felt a pit form in his stomach.

“Oh, Dawson, did you break that?” his mother asked, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

“What? No,” Dawson scoffed defensively. “Just some junk I found lying around.”

His mother was about to correct his rude attitude, but Mattie interjected. “No, he’s right. No harm done. It was already like that. I’ll take it. Wouldn’t want you to get cut.”

The broken glass ball rattled Mattie’s nerves, but his smile disguised it.

“I’ll just let you look around at your own pace. I wouldn’t want you to feel rushed,” he said politely.

“Okay,” she said with an easy smile, then carried on with her son, though he looked annoyed to be near his mom’s watchful eye.

Once the pair was distracted by the home’s quaint personality, Mattie quickly stepped outside. He strode across the creaking patio, leapt down the steps, and moved away from the open front door.

He glanced over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t being watched. He was in the clear—Dawson was giving the rotary phone a nasty once-over while the mom admired the decorative wallpaper.

Mattie stood near a tall, unruly yellow and pink rose bush. The floral scent offered its comfort, but Mattie’s stress remained untouched.

“This can’t be happening. I thought I banished you!” he softly yelled at the replica of his home within the globe.

He examined it carefully, inserting his finger into the hole. There was still some water left, about half an inch. The water inside was near the back of the tiny house. He shook his head knowingly, then whipped around, briskly walking in that direction.

Sure enough—the back of the home was soaked! It hadn’t rained, nor did the sprinklers work. Mattie chewed his lip.

He could hear Mrs. Sanders and Dawson chatting from the window above, then he heard a faint—snap! He flicked his attention to the globe.

Peering inside it with a steady eye, he softly gasped. The upper level of the miniature house was cracked.

“Oh, no.”

Mattie ran.

He burst through the front door and sprinted up the stairs. The groaning floor was more than just aching bones; it was the home’s way of speaking—a warning.

He halted his dash once he almost collided with the woman and her son.

Mrs. Sanders jumped. “Oh! Why were you running? What’s wrong?” she asked with her hand pressed to her chest. Dawson only raised a questioning brow at the strange man.

Mattie’s face was red from embarrassment. He realized he must have come across as a complete wacko, which his stylistic wardrobe was already prompting him as different: hot-pink rimmed eyeglasses, a navy plaid button-up, gold suspenders, red loafers, and burgundy corduroy pants.

He stammered as he smoothed back his sandy-brown hair streaked with gray, then he cleared his throat, composed again.

“I would just love for you to see the backyard. It’s such an expansive space! Come, let me show you,” he said, with his arm suggesting for them to move on toward the exit.

The mom halfheartedly chuckled, but walked on. Her son followed, though he shook his head as his gossiping fingers flew over the screen of his phone.

Mattie paused at the top of the stairs, glancing worriedly at the lumpy rug hiding the uneven floorboards that were splitting at the seams—just like the small model had predicted.

He quickly caught up, ushering them towards the front door.

“So—what do you think of the place?” Mattie asked, though his thudding heartbeat answered before she could.

She smiled then spoke almost bashfully, as if the deal were too good to be true. “It’s quite lovely.”

“I’d say otherwise, but whatever,” Dawson said as he flicked his shaggy brown hair away from his eyes.

She went to get after him, but Mattie surprised them when he agreed. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe this place isn’t quite right for you. I mean, it is going to need a lot of work.”

Mrs. Sanders scrunched her perfect brows and frowned. “What are you saying? You no longer want to sell?”

Mattie stalled. He wasn’t sure what to say. But once he found the words, he had a sudden urge to cough. He glanced at his palm—it was sprinkled with pale orange glitter! The same kind that lived inside the old globe.

His eyes widened. It had him again!

He went to answer, but a shimmer on her shoulder caught his eye. More orange glitter! This alarmed him. It had her too, or at least, it was trying to.

For a moment he thought he’d heard the witch’s voice creep through the breeze—a coo like velvet, but a trap like flypaper. He brushed it away with a wave of his hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m just getting cold feet. You know, with my attachment to the place. But please, carry on with the tour.”

She glanced at her son for input, but he only blew an annoyed breath and walked off, ready to rid himself of the odd man.

“Okay...” she said, but her tone was concerned. She poked around the yard, stealing glances at Mattie when he wasn’t looking, trying to figure out what he was up to.

Mattie moved toward the house. A cold, squishy sensation guided his feet. His socks were wet—cold feet indeed!

He lifted the globe, and to his astonishment, it was flooding! Refilling itself with the stagnant water that had been inside of the glass for years, only now it spilled from the hole and soaked his hand.

“Holy sugar!” he exclaimed.

He quickly rounded the corner, making his way down to the cellar. The worn cement steps led the way. Mattie sucked in a breath, then gave the old, wooden double doors a yank.

His jaw hit the ground.

Deep dark water reflected the horror painted on his face.

“No, no, no!” He quickly shut it.

“Mr. Rockwell? Where have you gone?” Mrs. Sanders called.

He jogged up the narrow steps, but his pace became sluggish, much like he was trying to move through water—because he was. Water poured from the cracked foundation, weeping like it too, wanted relief.

Mattie fumbled with the snow globe. He held it to his face, squinting his eyes. There was a tiny speck struggling near the cellar stairs—it was him! A tiny Mattie Rockwell.

He held his breath. He was in too deep. Dare he shake it to reset the balance? He knew this was only a bandage on a failing dam, and with the globe’s damage, its correction would be weak.

The witch had given him a few resets, and they were strictly there to ensure her arrivals were bone dry.

He groaned, apprehensive of the motion that always made him queasy. But Mrs. Sanders and her son’s footsteps were nearing.

“Oh, misfit-cheese!” He wanted nothing more than to haul the glass orb onto the ground. But that’d get him nowhere, and he didn’t have time to waste. Not with the reflective flashes throwing rainbows and prisms high above the rooftop, a dome of glass was forming, threatening to seal his and their fate.

He shook the globe.

The ground shifted. The earth groaned. And the air tore through the trees as if they were at war. Mattie toppled over as everything swayed off balance. He could hear the flood in the cellar slosh around like a tsunami.

Mrs. Sanders screamed and held her son close as they crouched low, taking cover near the trembling house.

After several nauseating moments, the ground stood still again.

Mattie struggled to his feet, placing a palm over his face, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once steady, he reached for the cellar doors with a hopeful breath. He exhaled slowly, then peeked inside. And what sweet relief it was to see that the barren space was dry once again.

He swiftly returned to the scared duo.

“Are you two alright?”

“Yes, but my goodness,” she said, nearly out of breath. “I can’t believe there was an earthquake. There’s never been an earthquake around these parts, and I’ve lived in Hawthorn for over twenty years.” The shaken blonde was still holding her son close, although he was trying to dislodge himself—trying to be cool again.

Mattie almost wanted to side with her earthquake theory, but once the color of her hair darkened, slowly saturating with water, he knew there was no explanation that could save him now.

Her hand flew to her head, flabbergasted at the sudden wetness. “What on earth?!”

Her son stepped in closer, examining her head too. Then his shirt slowly darkened from red to burgundy, the fabric now dripping like a rain cloud and clinging to his slender frame.

“The hell?!” he exclaimed, tugging at the soggy shirt.

Mattie’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He checked the globe, and now, not only was his minuscule self inside, but theirs were too.

He locked eyes with her. “Follow me!”

She questioned whether she should go with him, but once glitter began softly falling from the sky, she and her son exchanged a glance and quickly listened.

They followed Mattie into the house. He entered the kitchen and flung open the fridge. Upon it opening, a wave of stardust-water spewed out.

Mrs. Sanders shrieked and jumped back. “What is going on?!”

“No time to explain,” Mattie said, collecting two emerald bottles of sparkling river water. He shoved one into each of their hands.

“There’s still food in the fridge?” Dawson voiced.

Mattie answered, “When I say ‘sold as-is’—I mean it!”

A low complaint came from the attic. They looked up.

The ceiling swelled, the pipes rattled, and water trickled from the walls.

“Quickly!” Mattie urged as he made a lunge for the countertop. “Put this in your drink!” He handed them both a sugar cube. “Shake it twice, think of something hot, and then shout, ‘Prancing, Dancing, Dog!’ Go!”

The mother and son only stared.

“Have you gone mad? Just tell us what is happening!” Mrs. Sanders exclaimed.

The vents burst from the pressure, spraying sparkly water that caught in the sunlight, turning the room into a sort of disco party—though it was anything but.

“Do it!” Mattie shouted.

The mom and son stumbled. “What were the words again?!” Dawson asked.

Mattie huffed and yelled with his hands. “PRANCING, DANCING, DOG!”

He barely got the words out before he coughed, choking on glitter that shot from his mouth and dusted the air.

Mrs. Sanders eyes could have jumped from her skull at the sight. She nudged her son, who hurriedly said the words first, and then she quickly copied. A small explosion of fireworks lit up Mattie’s face, then—they were gone.

Mattie ran to the living room and peered out the window. He saw them properly seated in their van with expressions as if none of it had happened. Mrs. Sanders put the van in reverse and drove away.

Mattie exhaled and slumped in place. That was close.

He lifted the globe; it was steadily filling. He glanced around the room—it was also steadily filling.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled.

He trudged through the water that was above his ankles and removed the telephone from the wall. He dialed the number, each rotation laughing at his dignity, then the line rang.

The ceiling in the kitchen finally gave way, an uproar of liquid chaos sending tidal waves in every direction.

The water was now at Mattie’s knees.

“Moonlight and Twigs! This is Terra speaking. How may I direct your call?” the bubbly woman’s voice answered.

“Yeah, I’d like to make a return for a defective product,” Mattie deadpanned, his irritation as heavy as the water that just came down over his head.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that! And what product might that be?”

“Crescent Dash! Remove A Curse In A Flash!”

Terra clicked her tongue, taking pity on him. “Oh dear. Yes, they recalled that product just last week. It simply doesn’t work.”

“Ya think!” Mattie yelled as he slapped the waist-deep water.

“I’m sorry. We’ll get that refunded right away. Would you like that check mailed, or would you like to pick it up from our office?”

“Well, by the looks of it, I won’t be leaving my home anytime soon, so mail it, please. And could you make it waterproof?”

“Certainly! You can expect that in the next three-to-four business days. Bye, now!”

“Bye,” he said, barely getting the words out before his lips bubbled over the water.

He heard the witch’s laughter—a low taunt flowing through the current. He glared, now fully submerged.

He tried to slam the phone down, but the water’s cushion rejected his outburst.

He sighed in defeat, then slowly swam through the surreal water. He set the snow globe on the accent table, flicked on the television, and laid back on the couch, just like old times.

The program on screen displayed bright colors with the audio muffled. A man was showing off beautiful crystals.

“Are you stuck in a rut? Trapped under a dirty-rotten curse? Well, don’t wait! Call today! 1-888-BREAKAWAYSPELL. That’s 1-888-BREAKAWAYSPELL!” the man announced with over-the-top cheer.

Mattie’s lips sputtered, forming small waves and bubbles. “What a joke.”

He flipped to the next channel where his jaw clenched. His temper could have boiled the water!

On the screen was the witch.

Her amber skin glowed with sick amusement, and her eyes were a cackling violet. She pointed her bony finger at him while clutching her ribs, as if they might burst from laughter.

“Not to worry, Mr. Rockwell, another ten-year swim won’t drown you—not on my watch!”

He tried to snap the remote in half—but the water wouldn’t allow that either.

She caught her breath. “Oh—and Mattie.” She held up a plate with a fat slice of confetti cake topped sparkler candles, and gestured it forward in a cheers. “Happy birthday.”

Mattie flicked off the TV. “Son of a birch tree!”