Books Of Elsewhere: The Strangers Part 6

"Morton didn't mean that as an insult, Horatio," said Olive.

"Yes, I did!" said Morton.

"He is only a little boy," Leopold put in.

Morton stomped one foot. "I am not a little boy!"

"Well-" Olive began.

"I'm not!" Morton interrupted. "I may look like I'm nine years old, but I've been alive much longer than you!"

"Not longer than I," Harvey mumbled from the corner of his mouth. "I looked down from the rooftops of the great cathedral of Notre Dame to see the city of Paris built, stone by stone, and to watch-"

"He wasn't talking to you, you ninny," said Horatio. "Why don't you pretend to be deaf again?"

By the time they reached the front porch steps, everyone was arguing.

No one noticed that the jack-o'-lanterns had toppled over and rolled away beneath the creaking swing. No one noticed that although lights still burned behind the closed doors of the library and the parlor, all the entrance lights had been turned off, leaving the hallway in total darkness. Even when Olive opened the front door and led the group-now arguing in whispers-inside, no one noticed that the rug had been rumpled and shoved aside, or that the coat tree had fallen down, leaving a dent in the polished hardwood floor.

Not until Olive switched on the lights, illuminating trails of spilled candy and walls scuffed with the marks of kicking feet and clawing nails, did anyone notice that something in the old stone house had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

"Mom?" Olive called, venturing into the hallway. "Dad?"

Her toes. .h.i.t something that glinted on the floorboards. Olive glanced down. It was a pair of gla.s.ses with thick lenses and bent wire frames. Her father's gla.s.ses. The gla.s.ses he never went anywhere without.

"Mom? Dad?" Olive shouted-though she already knew that there would be no answer.

8.

FOR OLIVE, TIME stopped at that moment. Perhaps it went on for other people, whose watches kept ticking and whose hearts kept beating, but for Olive, the pa.s.sing minutes fell away like links cut out of a chain. She couldn't feel, or see, or remember a thing until suddenly the gears seemed to catch again, and Mrs. Dewey was squeezing her against one silk-robed shoulder, and she was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, with Morton two steps above her, and a pair of wire wings in her lap.

Olive glanced up. Curlers were cl.u.s.tered around Mrs. Dewey's head like a halo of pink mushrooms. Her robe smelled of lavender and several stranger spices, and her face was worried and warm.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to drink this, Olive?" she asked, holding up a small white bottle. "It will help you to feel less upset."

But Olive didn't want to feel less upset. An awful thing had just happened, and she wanted to feel every last bit of its awfulness. Anything else would be pretend.

"No," she said into Mrs. Dewey's squishy shoulder. "No, thank you."

"The cats are searching the house," said Rutherford. His voice sounded strangely slow to Olive, and his wiry body was unusually still. He stood beside the newel post, dressed in his blue dragon pajamas. "If there are any other clues to be found, I am certain that they will find them."

"It doesn't matter," Olive croaked. The lump in her throat seemed to grow larger each time she swallowed, and it hurt to squeeze the words out. "We already know who took my parents. And we know it's my fault."

For once, Rutherford said nothing. For the s.p.a.ce of several seconds, there were only the sounds of Olive sniffling into Mrs. Dewey's soggy shoulder, and the bare trees tapping against the walls outside, stirred by gusts of autumn wind.

The quiet was smashed by a sudden knock at the front door. Rutherford hurried to open it. With a burst of chilly air, Doctor Widdecombe, Delora, and Walter blew through the doorway of the old stone house.

Doctor Widdecombe planted himself in the middle of the entryway, letting the others squeeze in behind him. "Oh my," he said. "Oh my, my, my." From her damp spot on Mrs. Dewey's shoulder, Olive watched his eyes take in the long, dim hallway, the library's carved double doors, the scratched wooden paneling, and the glimmering paintings on each wall. "Oh my, my, my," he breathed.

Delora swayed behind him, wrapped up in a huge black shawl like a cross between a mummy and a vampire. "Yes," she whispered, closing her silvery eyes. "There is danger here. Powerful, deep-rooted darkness." Her eyelids fluttered open. "You poor child," she murmured, reaching out to stroke Olive's hair.

Olive leaned closer to Mrs. Dewey.

Walter towered behind his aunt and uncle. His mussed-up hair had been slicked tight to his skull, making his smallish head look like a pea on a pedestal. "What should we do?" he asked, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up his spindly arms. The sleeves slipped back down again. "Call the police?"

"Certainly not," said Doctor Widdecombe, glancing up from the scratches on the newel post. "These are matters that they would not understand."

"The cats and I shouldn't have left all at once," said Olive, rubbing her stinging eyes with her sweatshirt cuff. "I shouldn't have gone at all. But we thought the house was safe."

"We all thought the house was safe, Olive," Mrs. Dewey a.s.sured her. "I used a charm against uninvited guests, Byron added his protective spells, Delora foresaw no reason to worry-"

Olive shook her head violently. "I should have known Annabelle would find a way inside," she said. "But I thought she would come after me, not my parents. I don't know what she'll do with them." Olive swallowed a sob. "What if we're already too late?"

Delora glided to the foot of the stairs. "I am quite certain that your parents are alive, Olive," she said. Her voice was soft and steady. "If they were not, I would hear them speaking from the other side. But if you have an object that belonged to one of them, something they used frequently, I may be able to tell you more . . ."

Olive sniffled. Slowly, she held out her father's gla.s.ses, which she'd been gripping so tightly that their lenses were white with fog.

Delora closed her eyes again, lifting the gla.s.ses on one palm. "I can see him," she murmured.

Olive held her breath.

"Yes . . ." Delora continued. "A tall, thin man . . . receding brown hair . . . a blue shirt with an ink stain on its sleeve . . ."

Olive's heart performed a pole vault. "That's what he was wearing tonight!" she exclaimed.

"That is all that I can see," said Delora, looking down at Olive. "But I can a.s.sure you, Olive, that he is most definitely alive."

Olive let out a burst of air. "What about my mother?" she asked, jumping to her feet. "Can you make sure about her too?" While everyone stared after her, Olive raced into the library, grabbing the silver pen that always lay at a perfect ninety-degree angle along the side of her mother's desk. She skidded back into the entryway and pressed the pen into Delora's hands.

Delora's eyelids fluttered. "I see the hands that held this pen. No polish on the nails. A wedding ring engraved with an infinity symbol-"

"That's her!" said Olive.

With a little smile, Delora put the pen and the gla.s.ses back into Olive's hands. "She too is still within the realm of the living."

Relief washed over Olive like a warm bath. She sank limply back down onto the step beside Mrs. Dewey. "Thank you," she whispered.

"What puzzles me, Doctor Widdecombe," said Rutherford, "is why Annabelle would have abducted Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody while leaving Olive herself behind. On their own, they don't possess anything that Annabelle would want."

"Ah." Doctor Widdecombe folded his hands over his substantial belly. "But there is one obvious purpose for which she may have taken them."

Olive blinked up at Doctor Widdecombe. Ingredients for spells? suggested the panicky voice in the back of her brain. Food for magical monsters?

"Bargaining," said Doctor Widdecombe. "She will try to exchange them for something of value."

"You mean, 'Something else of value,'" said Mrs. Dewey.

"Yes," said Doctor Widdecombe. He wiped his hands on the front of his jacket. "Yes, of course."

Olive's hands shot to the spectacles tied under her collar. "Well-then-maybe I should just offer her what she wants," she said shakily. The spectacles seemed to p.r.i.c.kle against her skin, like metal hit by a sudden frost. "Because what I want most of all is to have my mom and dad back."

Delora widened her silvery eyes. "Do not be too eager," she warned. "With our help, you may not need to give her anything at all."

"Delora is right, Olive," said Mrs. Dewey, patting Olive's shoulder. "If we can just be patient, Annabelle will eventually come to us."

As the others spoke, Doctor Widdecombe strode slowly away down the hall. He examined each doorway and peered into each open room. The glow of the wall sconces slid over his belly, like acrobats trying to balance on a ball. "It seems likely that Annabelle would take other things while she had the opportunity," he said, staring into the silent parlor. "Is anything else of significance missing from the house, Olive? Any magical tools or objects? A book of family spells, perhaps?"

"I don't know yet," said Olive. "The cats are checking everywhere. Besides, Annabelle wants this whole house back."

"I find it astonishing that Annabelle was able to enter the house in spite of your spells, Doctor Widdecombe," said Rutherford, following the doctor's motions with worshipful eyes.

"As do I," Doctor Widdecombe answered. "As do I." He moved slowly toward the foot of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. "Generally, an opponent must already be aware of the spells that have been cast in order to counteract them. This leaves us with two possibilities: Either Annabelle was expecting these specific spells and came to the house prepared to undo them . . . or her powers are somehow growing stronger."

Under the weight of these words, everyone fell silent.

Olive didn't know what the others were thinking, but her own brain roiled with possibilities. Perhaps simply having her grandfather's portrait was adding to Annabelle's power. Perhaps the McMartins had a spy-someone like Mrs. Nivens or the painted Horatio-pa.s.sing them news of what went on inside the old stone house. Or perhaps something else was happening . . . Something that no one would expect or recognize until it was too late.

Olive glanced up at her new neighbors. What if . . .? she wondered. But Rutherford trusted them. Mrs. Dewey trusted them. And Delora had just described Olive's parents, right down to the ink on Mr. Dunwoody's sleeve. Clearly she had been telling the truth.

Another gust of wind struck the house. The walls groaned softly. A spattering of dead leaves clicked against the front door.

"We will commence a thorough search of the area first thing tomorrow morning," Doctor Widdecombe said, breaking the silence. "But, for now, some of us need our sleep." He gave Olive an authoritative nod. "Under the circ.u.mstances, I think the wisest course of action would be for Olive to leave this house. Delora and I will remain here, keeping watch, and Olive can stay with Mrs. Dewey. Can't she, Lydia?"

"Of course." Mrs. Dewey squeezed Olive's shoulder. "She can stay with us just as long as she likes."

With her body wedged tight against Mrs. Dewey's squishy side, Olive's mind sprang up and raced through the rooms of the old stone house. It climbed up and down staircases and peered through darkened doorways. It counted the treasures that waited everywhere: the painted entrances to Elsewhere, the odd antiques, the hidden attic, the secret tunnel beneath the bas.e.m.e.nt. The strange old house itself.

The cats would never abandon this place. Not if it stood here for centuries to come. And the people of Elsewhere, the always-painted and the once-alive, wouldn't leave it either. They couldn't leave.

They needed her.

"No," said Olive.

Doctor Widdecombe's eyebrows went up. "What was that, Olive?"

"No," said Olive, more clearly. "I'm not leaving."

"Olive . . ." Delora's worried eyes came to rest somewhere in the vicinity of Olive's hairline. "I can sense that trouble will return." Her gaze floated from Olive's head toward the ceiling. "Yes," she whispered. "Grave danger is coming to this place."

"It was already here," said Olive.

Doctor Widdecombe's expression was gentle. "Olive, my dear, you must realize that three adults-one a green witch, one a gifted messenger, and one a world-renowned expert on dark magic-may be better able to handle this situation."

Walter cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Walter," said Doctor Widdecombe. "Four adults."

"No," said Olive. The vehemence in her voice made everyone give a little jump, including Olive herself. "This is my house, and I won't leave it."

"Child-" Delora began, but Mrs. Dewey cut her off.

"Olive has had enough trouble for one night," she said. "I think she should get to do whatever would make her most comfortable."

"Then perhaps she will permit us to remain in the house with her." Doctor Widdecombe looked down at Olive with genuine worry in his eyes. "She cannot stay here alone."

"I'm not alone," said Olive. "I have the cats. And Morton."

"Let me stay," Walter spoke up. "I'll stand guard on the porch. And-mmm-I'll alert everyone if anything happens." He shoved his sleeves to the top of his spindly arms. The sleeves slid straight back down. "I mean, if I'm no good with magic, I can at least provide the muscle."

There was a snort. Everyone turned to look at Doctor Widdecombe, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose.

"What do you think, Olive?" asked Mrs. Dewey. "Would that be all right with you? Or would you like me and Rutherford to stay too?"

Olive glanced around at the people encircling her like a sympathetic cage. She didn't want anyone else taking charge of things-no matter who that anyone else was. This was her house. And what she wanted now was to be alone inside of it, to begin to make sense of everything that had happened without any other voices getting in the way.

"Just Walter can stay," she said. "And just on the porch."

Delora wavered at the foot of the staircase, her pale hands folded over her chest. "I fear for you, Olive," she whispered, staring into the air above Olive's head again. "This place will only bring you harm."

Doctor Widdecombe took Delora gently by the arm. Delora fell silent.

"First thing tomorrow," Doctor Widdecombe said, in a cheerier voice, "we'll complete a search of the area, and then we will return to safeguard the house-if we haven't already found your parents, that is," he added. His eyes flicked once more to the darkness at the other end of the hallway. "Walter will make a perfectly adequate bodyguard, I'm sure. And now, once again, we shall bid you all good night."

With a final seam-straining bow, he guided Delora out the front door.

Walter ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. To Olive, he looked more than ever like a long-legged water bird-but now the bird was watching the water for predators. Or prey. "Mmm . . . I'll be on the porch," he said, in his deep voice. "If you need me." Then he stepped through the door and closed it soundly behind him.

Mrs. Dewey gave Olive a final, sweet-scented hug before getting up to put on her coat. "If you change your mind, just let us know."

Rutherford leaned over the banister. "From what I could hear of their thoughts, both Doctor Widdecombe and Delora were quite certain that you ought to leave the house," he said into Olive's ear. "They may be right about something dangerous approaching."

"I'll be careful," Olive murmured back. "But I'm not leaving."

Rutherford watched Olive for a moment, his eyes wide and solemn behind their smudged lenses. Then he gave a little nod and backed away.

From her spot on the bottom step, Olive listened to Rutherford and Mrs. Dewey telling Walter good night, and to their footsteps thumping across the porch and down the steps before dwindling away into the whispering darkness.

Finally, the house was still.

Several seconds pa.s.sed before Olive heard the rustle of fabric. Morton scooted down the stairs to Olive's step. He pulled back his ghostly hood. Without saying a word, he wrapped one skinny arm around her back, and then, so softly she wasn't sure she felt it at all, he began to pat her on one shoulder. And that was how they sat, not speaking, until Olive was ready to stand up again.