The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows Page 12
18
EVENING HAD ENDED. It was night, dark and absolute. No light came in through the basement’s high, small window but the faint white sheen of the moon. Like all cats, Harvey and Horatio could naturally see in the dark, and bounded down the stairs ahead of Olive. She trailed behind more slowly, keeping one hand on the wall, and trying to ignore the feeling of dread that trembled in the pit of her stomach.
The basement was as chilly and damp as usual. Olive’s still-wet clothes clung to her clammily. She wished she were in a warm bathtub, or wrapped up in a blanket in front of a fire—in fact, she wished she were anywhere but a damp, dark basement with a trio of talking cats and a dangerous painted witch.
Horatio and Harvey moved soundlessly around the corner past the stairs. Olive tiptoed behind them as softly as she could, and almost stepped on Horatio’s tail when both cats froze.
The flickering light of a candle broke the shadows in the corner. Olive saw Leopold’s stalwart black bulk sitting at attention on the trapdoor. In front of him stood Annabelle.
Somehow Annabelle looked different already. Her carefully brushed hair had come out of its combs and hung in limp tangles against her back. Her face—or what Olive could see of it—looked sharper edged and cruel, not at all like the soft pink complexion from the portrait.
“Get out of the way, Leopold,” Olive heard Annabelle snap.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, ma’am,” answered Leopold, over a chest puffed out so grandiosely that it nearly eclipsed his chin.
“Very well,” said Annabelle. “You’ll move when I open the door.”
Annabelle bent down to grasp the trapdoor’s iron loop.
“A soldier doesn’t like to hurt a lady, madam, but—” Leopold gave Annabelle a sharp swipe across the cheek.
Annabelle jerked back for a split second, looking annoyed. Then she bent down toward the trapdoor again.
“Don’t make me give you another,” warned Leopold, but Annabelle brushed the cat off of the trapdoor with one powerful sideswipe. Leopold toppled backward, thrown against the stone wall.
Annabelle lifted the door and reached down into the dusty darkness. From inside, she hoisted out a smallish gold container that looked, to Olive, like something between a trophy and a lamp. It was covered with etched scrolls and curlicues, just like the patterns on the necklace around Olive’s neck. Maybe she was imagining it, but Olive thought for a second that she could feel the metal of the necklace growing warm against her skin.
Annabelle turned, holding the urn in both hands, and spotted Horatio, Harvey, and Olive.
“Well, well. The gang’s all here,” said Annabelle, and Olive couldn’t hear a trace of the sweet, polite voice of the Annabelle who had served her tea.
Harvey cleared his throat and puffed out his chest beneath his tin breastplate. “Lady, should you attempt to make away with those ashes, you shall face the righteous wrath of the guardians of this house,” he proclaimed.
“Harvey, you deluded little mongrel,” growled Annabelle. “I’d like to see what three cats and a dimwitted little girl could do to stop me.”
Annabelle’s eyes flicked over to Olive. “I see that you escaped from the lake,” she said. “You must be feeling awfully proud of yourself. But it will only make things worse for you later.” Candlelight flickered against the lifeless veneer of Annabelle’s gold-brown eyes. “Then, I promise you, you’ll wish you had drowned.”
Annabelle lifted one hand from the urn and made a sign in the darkness. The pendant grew hot, burning Olive’s skin. Olive tried to grab the chain, to lift the necklace away from her body, but found that she couldn’t move a muscle. The pendant lay like a lump of burning coal against her chest.
With a twisted smile, Annabelle made a circular motion in the air. Olive spun in place. “There we are,” said Annabelle. She glanced down at the cats. “If you wouldn’t care for the same treatment,” she warned, “I would suggest that you three make yourselves scarce.”
Then, with a whisk of her long, filmy skirts, Annabelle set off for the stairs. Olive trailed behind her involuntarily, like a deflating balloon on a string.
Apparently, this was the last straw.
“Charge!” bellowed a voice from the darkness.
Olive saw a black blur fly through the air and plant itself firmly on Annabelle’s shoulders. Another reddish blur tangled itself around her ankles.
“En garde!” yowled Harvey, before taking a flying leap and attaching himself to Annabelle’s head like a furious Russian hat.
Annabelle gave a rather muffled shriek, since half of Harvey was covering her face. She batted and kicked at the cats, who clung as stubbornly as burs, reattaching their teeth and claws after each swipe. Still, despite the furor of her attackers, Annabelle trudged up the basement stairs with the urn clutched in her hand.
The whole hissing, howling group of them made it through the kitchen and into the hallway. Olive was dragged along behind them, with the necklace singeing a hole in her shirt. Her skin beneath it was blistered and sore. If the necklace had once been a magnet that pulled itself toward Olive, now it was a magnet that pulled Olive toward the urn in Annabelle’s hands.
Annabelle made her way slowly up the stairs to the upper hallway, batting irritably at the cats. Horatio snaked between her ankles, trying to trip her, and Leopold slashed wildly at the urn, attempting to knock it out of Annabelle’s iron grip. Harvey was still wrapped around her head. “Ye have met your match in King Arthur’s knights, sorceress!” he cried. “The righteous shall prevail against evil!”
“Sad little lunatic,” Annabelle muttered. Then she raised one hand and snapped her fingers. The sound shot through the house like a whip-crack. It was followed by another sound: the creaking of a distant door.
“Baltus!” called Annabelle.
Out of the shadows of the attic thundered the gigantic dog. His paws beat the hallway carpet like sledgehammers. His long, yellow teeth were bared. He looked so different from the cheerful, tail-wagging mutt she had rescued from the painting that Olive almost didn’t recognize him.
The three cats turned into hissing, bristled arches. The dog jumped, hallway light glinting on his wet teeth. Before Baltus’s fangs could close around Horatio, who was still grappling with Annabelle’s ankle, all three cats released their grip and zipped away down the staircase. The huge dog thundered after them. The sound of claws scrambling across polished hardwood faded into the distance.
Olive held her breath, listening for hissing, growling, or shouting—anything that would tell her the cats were still safe—but the house had gone silent.
She ached to run down the stairs and throw herself into the battle. But her legs wouldn’t move. She couldn’t even turn her head. The necklace hung, smoldering, against her chest, and Annabelle stood beside her, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes twisting her mouth into a cruel, painted hook.
Annabelle put on the spectacles. “We’re going to visit your little friend,” she said. Then she clamped her hand around Olive’s wrist. Together they climbed into the painting of the dark forest.
19
THE COLD WIND rippled through Olive’s hair. For the first time, she felt thankful for the icy forest air, for the slight relief it gave to her sore skin beneath the searing pendant.
Annabelle darted quickly, almost running, down the white path through the trees. Olive trailed after her, unable even to push away the thorny branches that slashed her face and arms. The moon seemed to grow dimmer and more distant as they followed the path into the heart of the forest.
At last they came to a clearing. Here, the thick trees and underbrush had been swept away, leaving a hole for the pale moonlight to fill. The white path broke into two halves, forming a perfect circle around one stump. Sunk deep into the wood of the stump glittered something that looked, to Olive, like the hilt of a dagger.
There was a soft whimpering from one side of the clearing. Olive couldn’t turn her head, but forced her eyes in the di
rection of the familiar sound. She spotted Morton, still wearing his oversized nightshirt, tied to a small bare tree. Olive’s whole body itched with frustration. She wanted to run to him, but she couldn’t even speak.
Annabelle set the urn gently on the smooth surface of the stump. Now with both hands free, she crossed the clearing and untied Morton, although Olive noticed that Morton’s little ankles were still bound together, so that he nearly had to hop as Annabelle hustled him back to the stump.
Morton’s round, terrified face looked up at Olive. Olive, who couldn’t move anything else, gave Morton the biggest wink she could manage.
Slowly, Annabelle removed the lid from the urn. In the moonlight, her face was twisted and cruel, her eyes like little oil fires. Olive couldn’t believe she’d ever found Annabelle beautiful.
“Hold out your hand, boy,” said Annabelle to Morton.
Morton froze, too terrified to move. Olive thought of the rabbits she had seen in the backyard, who seemed to imagine that motionlessness made them invisible. Unfortunately, this didn’t work for Morton any better than it worked for the rabbits.
Annabelle grabbed Morton’s arm roughly, and he let out a frightened peep. She turned his little hand palm-up over the open urn.
“Come closer, Olive,” Annabelle whispered. Olive’s feet shuffled nearer to the stump, even while her brain commanded them not to.
Annabelle reached out and grasped the pendant that hung around Olive’s neck, dragging Olive down to the urn. Then she yanked the dagger out of the stump. Moonlight flashed on its sharp blade as Annabelle dragged the knife swiftly across Morton’s palm. Drops of blood or paint, black in the darkness, fell over the gold metal of the locket and into the urn’s open mouth. With the point of the dagger, Annabelle wedged open the filigreed halves of the pendant. Olive heard the click of a tiny hinge.
Inside the locket was a portrait. Even though the painting was upside-down, Olive could make out a face—a bony, angular face with deep pits for eyes and a sharp, square jaw. She recognized it instantly. It was the man from the old photograph she found in the back of the chest of drawers.
“Come out, Grandfather,” Annabelle said. Slowly, like smoke, the image in the portrait slithered out of the locket toward the open mouth of the urn. Annabelle bowed her head. “I have kept my promise to you,” she whispered. “This is still our house. It will always be ours, and no one will ever again chase our family away.”
Olive glanced at Morton from the corner of her eye. He was staring down, mouth agape, squeezing his hand. The cut had vanished.
Annabelle lifted the urn above her head. Its gold body flashed in the moonlight. A sudden wind rose, knocking Olive and Morton off of their feet. Olive managed to catch herself, and realized that her body was once again doing what she told it to. The necklace hung cold and heavy against her shirt. Morton scrambled toward her. She wrapped her arms tightly around his skinny shoulders, and this time Morton didn’t shrug her arms away.
The black trees bent wildly in the wind. Bits of dead leaves and twigs whipped through the chilly air. Olive squinted up into the fading light to see that Annabelle was laughing, holding the urn high. A trail of ashes coiled from the urn’s mouth. As Olive watched, the rising ashes grew thicker, darker, spinning through the air. They eclipsed the moon. They filled the sky. They muffled Annabelle’s triumphant laugh with the sound of a swirling, papery storm.
Pulling Morton along beside her, Olive crawled toward the edge of the clearing. The cycling wind sucked at them, trying to pull them back. Head down, Olive fought her way out into the trees, moving into a crouch, and then a run.
“Wait!” called Morton, who was hopping after her as fast as he could, his ankles still bound together. Behind him, the ashes scythed through the trees like the wings of a million black insects. The sound alone made Olive’s skin crawl.
She scrambled back toward Morton. With shaking, freezing hands, she managed to slip one of his bare feet out of the rope. Together they scuttled onto the white path just ahead of the swirling ashes.
“Hurry!” Olive yelled. “Run! If we can get to the picture frame, we can call for help!”
Morton tucked his chin to his chest and pumped his little legs as fast as he possibly could. Olive raced along beside him, holding tight to his hand.
The wind struck at them like leather whips. Olive’s hair flew in every direction, into her mouth, into her eyes. They had come to the end of the path, but the sky was getting darker, colder. Dead grass lashed wildly around their ankles. The frame, with its picture of the hallway, glowed dimly ahead of them.
“Horatio!” Olive screamed. “Leopold! Harvey!”
“Help us!” yelled Morton.
Still running, Olive looked up at the spot where the moon used to be. In the dark clouds of ash, she was sure she could make out a face—an angular face, with pits where eyes should have been. It roiled and spread, blotting out all but the faintest glow of moonlight.
Olive turned back toward the frame a moment too late. A long black tree branch swung out across the path, thwacking her in the stomach. She landed on her back, dragging Morton along with such force that he did a backward somersault.
Olive flipped over onto her hands and knees. “Follow me, and stay low!” she commanded. They scrambled off the path into the thick underbrush. “If we can just wait long enough, I’m sure Horatio will come for us. I’m sure he will.”
Morton nodded, squinting in the wind.
“Here—this is a good spot,” Olive whispered as they crawled into a cluster of massive tree trunks. “Let’s just stay hidden and wait.”
Morton squeezed close to Olive, and they both wriggled down against the roots of the trees. “I told you I was real,” he whispered. “I have blood. You saw it.”
“I know,” Olive answered. “I know.” She thought of the silence where Morton’s heartbeat should have been. The blood that might actually have been paint. You were real once, she thought to herself. Aloud, she only said, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Morton nodded, looking down at his bare toes. Olive smoothed out the rumples in his nightshirt, making sure it covered his legs. Then they were quiet for a moment, leaning against each other.
Olive tried sending out a mental distress signal to Horatio. Sometimes people in stories did that. Come and get us, she thought. Then, just because she knew how much Horatio would hate it, she thought, Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, and had to swallow an insane giggle.
Something behind them moved. Olive could feel it shifting in the ground. It trailed over her arm, and when she looked down, one tree root had snaked out of the dirt and was wrapping itself around her wrist. She gasped, scuttling away. Another branch reached toward her. She dodged before it could coil around her neck. Morton was kicking at the roots that were trying to bind his ankles.
“Get up!” shouted Olive, slapping at the branches. “We have to move! It’s Annabelle—she’s trying to trap us!”
Dodging out of the underbrush, Morton and Olive ran back onto the clear space of the path. “The cats might not hear us. They might not be able to help us,” Olive puffed to Morton. “But if they don’t, nobody will know where we are, and then neither of us will ever see our families . . .” A sob squeezed down on Olive’s voice.
She pictured her parents coming home and finding the house empty. They would panic and cry and call the police, never knowing that their daughter was stuck on the other side of a picture frame at the top of the hallway stairs. Morton’s parents had probably done the very same thing, years and years ago, never guessing that their little boy was right next door, waiting to be found before it was too late. But nobody did find him. And now it was too late.
No.
Olive stopped so suddenly that Morton almost crashed into her.
No. NO. It wasn’t too late. She wouldn’t let it be too late. Morton had been stuck in this painting before, but she wasn’t going to let it happen to him again. She wasn’t going to let it happen to her.
Morton gaped up at her. “What? What? Why are we stopping?”
Olive made her voice as steady as she could. “Morton, we can’t wait for the cats. We have to get those spectacles. If we can take them and get out, then Annabelle will be stuck in here for good.”
Morton cringed, looking past Olive into the trees. “Look,” he whispered, pointing. From where they stood, they could just glimpse Annabelle through the trees, the pastels of her trailing skirts pale against the black silhouettes. They had run almost all the way back to the clearing.
Olive and Morton slunk closer, keeping as quiet as they could while dodging and fighting off the branches that grabbed at them. They stopped at the edge of the clearing and huddled between the trunks.
“We should split up,” Olive whispered to Morton. She jerked her arm away from a persistent branch and glanced toward the sky. The swirling clouds were thickening, pulling together into a huge, spinning funnel. The face Olive had seen—if it was still there, and she felt sure that it was—seemed to be lost in the churning dark. “Something is happening. I’m not sure how much time we’ll have.”
“Right.” Morton nodded, his moony head bouncing like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. “I’ll distract her. You get the spectacles.”
Olive stared hard at Morton for a moment. Something intent and solemn had settled over the fear on his face, like a cloak, hiding everything but its faint outline. “All right,” she whispered. “Be careful.”
Morton nodded once more. Then he tripped on the hem of his nightshirt and stumbled away to the right.
Olive crouched, squinting into the clearing. Annabelle was walking around and around the stump, mumbling something to herself and making signs in the air. Olive could see the spectacles hanging around Annabelle’s neck. Her heart gave a hopeful little bounce.
A thin branch coiled around Olive’s leg and she kicked at it distractedly. The branch snapped, and quickly mended its broken halves. In the clearing, Annabelle froze.