The Lost Days

  Rob Reger and Jessica Gruner

  Emily the Strange®

  The Lost Days

  Illustrated by

  Rob Reger and Buzz Parker

  For the world of Emily fans,

  who get lost while never losing their ways

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Appendix A:

  Appendix B:

  Appendix C:

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  OK.

  I think I better take some notes, cuz something super strange is happening to me, and I don’t know

  my name

  anyone else’s name

  where I am

  how I got here

  where I live

  how old I am (am I a kid or just short?)

  anything I’ve done since I was born

  whether I’m a cat person or a dog person

  whether I actually believe people are either cat people or dog people

  what might have been written on the eleven pages that were torn out of this notebook

  why this happened to me

  how long it’s going to last, or

  what I should do next.

  Here’s what I DO know:

  I’m human.

  I’m a girl.

  I’m wearing a black dress.

  I’m wearing black stockings.

  I have long black hair.

  I seem to like the color black.

  I recently stepped in gum.

  My skin is pale, so the bruises on my left arm show up really well.

  I have a notebook, a pencil, and a slingshot, and that’s it.

  I’m left-handed.

  I speak English.

  The Earth is round and travels around the sun.

  I seem to like the number 13.

  What I can see of Myself.

  Later

  I’m in a town called Blackrock, according to the newspaper. I’m not sure whether a town this small even needs a newspaper. Too bad I can’t remember any other towns to compare it to. Here’s what I’ve seen: two streets, maybe fifteen buildings, and then dust plains all around. Almost everything—natural and human-made—is some shade of beige. There’s a bus depot. A couple of stores. One tiny patch of grass that’s passing for a park.

  It seems quiet and peaceful here, but for some reason I prefer to assume it’s crawling with menace and secret abominations.

  Not sure if that says more about Blackrock or about ME.

  Anyway. New things I know:

  Nothing here looks familiar.

  Nobody in Blackrock seems to know me.

  Many people in Blackrock think I’m worth staring at.

  Strange dogs don’t always like to be petted.

  I’m not a dog person.

  There is never an Amnesia Recovery Center around when you need it.

  Someone might be worried about me, but that someone is nowhere to be found.

  I will probably be sleeping on the streets tonight.

  I’m hungry.

  Food costs money.

  I don’t have any money.

  Amnesia sucks rocks: big…black…rocks.

  You can get a ticket in Blackrock for using a slingshot to entertain passersby.

  At least I know what I look like now.

  Later

  Got fed. Here’s how it went down: When the police told me to get out of their sight, I ducked into this café called the El Dungeon. Even though it was el dubious. El dungheap. Asked the chick behind the counter if she happened to have any free food. She said I could sweep the floor. Honk! I needed a shovel! Well, at least in the corners, where people had kicked most of the larger garbage.

  Even taking my total amnesia into account, I think it’s a pretty safe bet to say this is the ugliest building I’ve ever seen. Inside: Peeling paint on some walls, embarrassing wood paneling on others; splintery old furniture; and these dinged-up windows that rattle whenever a car goes past. There’s a rickety staircase that apparently goes upstairs to Filthy Cobweb Land. And the music doesn’t exactly brighten up the ambience—some kind of haunted whispering from the radio that sounds like a ghost town from 100 years ago, harmonizing with the espresso machine giving its death rattle.

  So it’s not the cheeriest place, or even the cleanest. But actually…it suits me just fine. Interesting.

  Outside: The El Dungeon’s worst feature is its unfortunate, and very thick, all-over coat of beige paint. Second-worst feature would have to be the large…SHAPES…on the roof. No telling what they are. Oversized beige sculptures of chewed gum or something. Other than that, hard to say WHAT the building looks like, since the paint is so thick it’s hiding what might have been architectural details.

  I was carrying something like the twenty-third dustpan of kipple to the Dumpster out back when I decided for sure that unless, or until, I could reverse my amnesia with a strategic head bump, I was going to set up camp in the alley behind the El Dungeon. El Dreamland! Multiple fascinating well-stocked Dumpsters! Enough building materials for a lovely lean-to! Animal friends! I made buddy-buddy with the local cats using savory treats found in garbage. Am hoping they repay the favor tonight, especially if it’s nippy. Nothing like a seventeen-cat fur coat when it’s nippy.

  Am now sitting at a table in the café, eating a sandwich and checking out the customers. All seven of them. They look normal enough, aside from not moving the whole time I’ve been here. Anyway, at least I’m not getting stared at quite as much as I was outside. Hope I can tolerate hanging out here for a while.

  Later

  Talked with CounterChick, whose name is Raven.

  COUNTERCHICK:

  Hey, kid.

  ME:

  [Oh. She means me. Guess I AM a kid, and not just short.]…Yeah?

  CC:

  Uhhhhhhhhh. ’Nother sandwich?

  ME:

  Yeah, thanks. [Long period of silent eating.]

  CC:

  Yeah so.

  ME:

  Yeah.

  CC:

  Name’s Raven. What’s yours?

  ME:

  Earwig. [Don’t even know why I said that. Could be all the earwigs I had to sweep up off that floor earlier. Or possibly the way Raven’s ears stuck out funny from under her wig. Pretty sure it’s not my actual name.]

  R:

  Uhhhhhhhhhh huh.

  ME:

  Yeah.

  It went on for a while like this. After a few minutes of not-too-scintillating chitchat, I could see she was mustering up to some kind of pointed question, which ended up going just a little bit like this:

  R:

  Yeah, so, Earwig.

  ME:

  Yeah.

  R:

  Uhhhhhhhhhhh, you live around here?

  [I’d been dreading this question. Luckily I’d had lots of time while shoveling the floor to ponder a perfect response.]

  ME:

  Nah.

  R:

  Uhhhhhhhhhhh, that’s cool.

  Raven

  Then she got all embarrassed and quickly turned to the espresso machine and started making shot after shot that nobody had even ordered. It was kind of a sad display, especially because the machine was rattling and wheezing so badly, when I could tell it just needed a shim and a spot of solder. So I ducked out to the alley, found what I needed in the Dumpster, and came back to take care of business.

  Here’s some new stuff I know: You can do wonders for an ailing espresso machine with a hairpin and some gum. Patrons of the El Dungeon consider me a mechanical genius. Sometimes it’s better to let a few shots of espresso go to waste than to drink nine all by yourself. A refrigerator box makes a very good lean-to.

  The lean—to.
>
  Oh, and here’s what my bruises look like.

  Next Day

  Again with the amnesia. This is getting old.

  Later

  Stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom of the El Dungeon for a while, hoping it would bring something back. No luck.

  Later

  Roamed the streets of Blackrock, looking for clues about why I’m here. Nothing seems familiar. No LOST posters with my face on them, no urgent search parties. Just dirty looks. Makes me wonder if I caused some disgrace to this town before losing my memory.

  I retraced my steps to the first spot I remember. Yesterday, when I came to, I found myself sitting on a park bench—you know, one of those pointless park benches with a plaque that commemorates someone who once did something and is now dead, in one of those tiny, pointless miniparks you see in small towns where the idea is to put a few square feet of grass and trees around a commemorative bench and pretend it’s a park, so that the family of the dead important person isn’t too offended. This one was about a block from the El Dungeon and had a completely pointless ten-foot wrought-iron gate (with no fence to go with it), a tiny patch of grass, and a tree. And the bench was commemorating an Emma LeStrande, Founder of Blackrock and Owner of its First Hotel and Café. Oh boy. Small town indeed!

  Anyway, I went there and sat on the bench to think about what happened. I thought back to that moment—coming out of a muddled kind of daydream and realizing I didn’t have a clue where I was, or WHO I was. Looking down, seeing the notebook in my hands, flipping through it searching for clues. Not even a name written inside. Feeling like I needed to document everything in case there are clues that I’m not able to recognize yet. Feeling the slingshot in my pocket. A slingshot?? I mean—random! Not knowing ANYTHING. I mean, I knew the sky is blue and cats don’t fly—but I didn’t (DON’T) know the first thing about myself.

  As I sat there remembering yesterday, I started to sort of space out just staring at my arms and my hands, which might as well have belonged to someone else. The tiny scars. The little hairs. All those details must have been so familiar to me just a day ago and are now so completely foreign.

  The park—first thing I remember.

  Sat there feeling depressed and frightened and sorry for myself for a while, then cheered up by thinking maybe my life had been really terrible and worth forgetting.

  Anyway. Did some detective work around the minipark. The only semi-interesting items were under the bench: a candy wrapper, a couple of bottle caps, some ABC gum, a lot of round rocks that would be very nice for slingshotting, a pencil stub full of bite marks, 7 cigarette butts, a soda can, 27 cents in change, and yesterday’s newspaper. From which I have learned that they really need to clean up their public parks park in this town. Litterbugs.

  I pocketed the change (OK, yes, and some of the rocks, and also the newspaper) and headed back to the El Dungeon for lunch.

  Later

  Still hanging out at the El Dump. I mean, where else am I supposed to go? At least here no one stares.

  Swept the floor, sorted junk mail, ate sandwiches, fixed broken cash register, eavesdropped on not-too-scintillating conversations, rescued six spiders from being stepped on, and found them homes in the corners of my lean-to. Told the local cats not to eat them. Found a broken Polaroid camera in the Dumpster. It looks newish, full of film, even. Fixed it within minutes. I am pretty sure this is not something most young people can do. I guess I know SOMETHING interesting about myself.

  Hung out in the café for a while using up my film and making customers nervous. Meanwhile, people were coming in off the street for coffee to go, and Raven kept getting asked where Rachel was. She kept answering things like “Gone away.” “Not here.” “Iono.” I guess Rachel used to work here. And Raven’s apparently the brand-new girl, since everyone was asking her name. Man, the owner must have been desperate—I mean, she makes some pretty delicious espresso, but she can barely talk.

  One of these friends of Rachel’s asked who I was, and Raven said I was her assistant. The girl was all, “What are you, thirteen? Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Oh, I’m IN school,” I told her, and Raven blushed and went to steam a bunch of milk no one had ordered. Hey, at least now I know how old I might be.

  Later

  Have read the Blackrock newspaper (all sixteen pages of it). From which I have learned that a town this small really DOESN’T need to have a newspaper.

  Was also surprised to learn that a town this small has a museum. The Old Museum, to be exact. Will check it out later if I am in need of entertainment.

  Later

  Quite an exciting evening it turned out to be at the El Dungeon thanks to this fancy-pants named Ümlaut. He was nothing but trouble for Raven. At first I thought they had crushes on each other, but it turns out they are terrible enemies. But I don’t think Ümlaut knows that.

  He walked in around midnight. He was the most carefully dressed person in the El Dungeon, by a long shot. Lots of styling product in the hair. His accessories and grooming spoke of hours spent getting ready. Same with his eleven friends who piled in behind him. They were loud and had terrible vocabularies. It was all like:

  “Snakebite, I pinked.”

  “Gor. We shoulda never grammed like that.”

  “What you get from a iceblink, huh.” and so on. After pestering Raven for quite a while with their espresso orders, they sat at the biggest table and totally dominated the place with some complicated card play, cackling laughs, and backdrafts of cologne. And then some of them started having this sort of dance contest, which mostly took place on top of the table; and some of them kind of ended up under the table, kicking the furniture with their fancy boots and making a ruckus about hamhocks and ravens, which clearly wasn’t too welcomed by Raven. She was all hunched up under her cape, pretending to ignore them and looking blue.

  A peek at the El Dungeon.

  After a few more espressos they got rowdy and threw a bunch of furniture, broke some windows, did some violence to one another, and handed out stacks of cash to the police and to Raven. Then they all settled down again for another game of Calamity Poker.

  I had been spying on them from behind the counter through a knothole that I had sort of helped along with a drill I found yesterday, all lonely and forlorn in the alley. It made a top-notch spyhole. I was all kind of hunkered down under the counter near Raven’s knees. I’d been shooting coffee beans through the spyhole at the Ümlaut pack for a while. (Note to self: Coffee beans make excellent small-caliber ammo.)

  Turns out I’m pretty good with a slingshot, but winging fashionistas on the ears and cuff links had gotten boring, so I started to talk to Raven.

  ME:

  Hey, Raven.

  RAVEN:

  [Whispering out of the corner of her mouth, like maybe she didn’t want the Ümlauts to notice she was talking to someone crouched under the counter.] Uhhhhhhhh.

  ME:

  Why don’t you kick those people out?

  R:

  Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. They’re, you know?

  GuH! That Raven. It would take forever to write down our conversation, so let me just say that eventually I got it out of her (mostly through charades, and a LOT of fact-checking from customers) that Ümlaut runs a traveling medicine show called Professor Ümlaut’s Prophylactery and Revue, and his old friend Attikol (who is, I guess, the only one of the inner posse not here tonight) runs the gun and doll show that travels with them, and that’s called Uncle Attikol’s Deadly Dollhouse. They just rolled into town two days ago, but they’ve been coming to Blackrock every year for at least ten years. And right now they are camped just outside town in the dust plains, putting on their lurid shows and selling their dubious potions to the townspeople. Also, they’re rich. Good stuff. Will have to go out there tomorrow.

  ÜMLAUT

  Wily

  Day 3

  Seems I’m not bad at cat talk. All the spiders are still alive. Am being slept on by cats
whenever it’s nippy. The four black ones in particular like me a lot, and have pretty much banned the other cats from the fridge box.

  What a pack of characters they are! One is an old lady with a white star around her eye. I think she’s the leader. One of the boys has a missing eye, one has extra toes and white stripes on his tail, and one has a bandaged ear. Who would have bothered to bandage up an alley cat?

  I went and gave them names: McFreely, Wily, Nitzer, and Cabbage. Which they don’t answer to.

  Later

  This town is insane! I just got a $37 ticket for Unauthorized Photography of Historical Landmark. Guhh!! I’d looked up the address of the Old Museum, more accurately the Former Museum, although it is also probably the Ancient Museum, as well as the Startlingly Ugly Museum. What do you know—it’s upstairs from the El Dungeon. Man, this town is small. Also, unfortunately, there is nothing going on there. Not sure what I was hoping for. Some really weird art would be good. Maybe even some kind of exotic insect exhibit. Underwear from Around the World. Tattoos of the Aborigines. I don’t know. I would’ve even settled for Filthy Cobweb Land. Instead, the staircase leads to a pretty normal-looking hallway with a door that says OLD MUSEUM over it. (Um, also, just to kind of ruin any entertainingly spooky feeling I might have been able to muster up, there’s also a door that says SCHNEIDER.) No one answered my knocks. The calendar of events taped to the door lists an exhibit called “The Art of Direct Mail Advertising,” a private party for Blackrock’s government officials (how much government does a town this size need, anyway?), and some lady’s slide show of her trip to Palm Springs. And five screenings of Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot—because the Old Museum is also the movie theater.