“This is going to be noisy,” he warned Mrs. Griffin.
Then, using one stone as a kind of chisel and the other as a hammer, he assaulted the lock. Blue sparks flew as he struck at the metal, but he seemed to be making no impression until, all of a sudden, the lock gave a loud crack and fell to the ground.
He paused for a moment, a feather of doubt brushing his brow. Suppose it was Carna’s coffin? Then he threw the rocks aside and hauled off the lid.
XVIII. The Bitter Truth
He almost shouted out loud, seeing the terrible state that poor Mrs. Griffin was in. She was staring up at him with wild eyes, her hair pulled out in clawfuls, her face purple with bruises. A foul rag had been stuffed into her mouth. Harvey carefully removed it, and she began to speak, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“Thank you, my sweet, thank you,” she said. “But oh, you shouldn’t have come back. It’s too dangerous here.”
“Who did this to you?”
“Jive and Rictus.”
“But he ordered it, didn’t he?” Harvey said, helping her up. “Don’t tell me he’s dead, because I know that doesn’t matter. Hood’s here in the House, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, holding on to him as she climbed up out of the box. “Yes, he’s here. But not in the way you think…” She began to weep, the tears clogging her words.
“It’s all right,” Harvey said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Her fingers went up to her face, and touched the tears. “I thought…I thought I’d never cry again,” she said. “Look what you’ve done!”
“I’m sorry,” said Harvey.
“Oh no, my sweet, don’t be sorry. It’s wonderful.” She smiled through her tears. “You’ve broken his curse on me.”
“What curse?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.”
“I want to hear.”
“I was the first child who ever came to Hood’s House,” she said. “This was many, many years ago. I was nine when I first walked up the front path. I’d run away from home, you see.”
“Why?”
“My cat had died and my father refused to buy me another. And what do you think Rictus gave me the very day I arrived?”
“Three cats,” said Harvey.
“You know how this House works, don’t you?”
Harvey nodded. “It gives you whatever you think you want.”
“And I wanted cats, and a home, and—”
“What?”
“Another father.” She shivered with fear, remembering the horror. “I met Hood that night. At least, I heard his voice.”
Stew-Cat had come to her feet, and she paused to stoop and gather the creature into her arms.
“Where did you hear him?” Harvey asked.
“In the attic at the top of the House. And he said to me: If you stay here, forever and ever, you’ll never die. You’ll grow old, but you’ll live until the end of time, and never weep again.”
“And that’s what you wanted?”
“It was stupid, but yes, I did. I was afraid, you see. Afraid of being put into the ground like my cat.” A new wave of tears came, running down her pale cheeks. “I was running away from Death—”
“—straight into its House,” Harvey said.
“Oh no, child,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Hood isn’t Death.” She wiped away her tears, so as to see Harvey more clearly. “Death is a natural thing. Hood isn’t. I would welcome Death now, like a friend I’d driven away from my door. I’ve seen too much, my sweet. Too many seasons, too many children.
“Why didn’t you try and stop him?”
“I have no power against him. All I could do was give the children who came here as much happiness as I knew how.”
“So how old are you?” Harvey asked her.
“Who knows?” she replied, laying her cheek against Stew-Cat’s fur. “I grew up and old in a matter of days, but then the passage of time seemed to lose its hold on me. Sometimes I’ve wanted to ask one of the children: What year is it in the world outside?”
“I can tell you.”
“Don’t,” she said, putting her finger to her lips. “I don’t want to know how the years have flown. It would hurt too much.”
“What do you want, then?”
“To die,” she said, with a little smile. “To slip out of this skin, and go to the stars.”
“Is that what happens?”
“It’s what I believe,” she said. “But Hood won’t let me die. Not ever. That’ll be his revenge on me, for helping you to escape. He already had Blue-Cat murdered, for showing you the way out.”
“Hood’s going to let you go,” Harvey said. “I promise. I’m going to make him.”
She shook her head. “You’re so brave, my sweet,” she said. “But he won’t let any of us go. There’s such a terrible emptiness inside him. He wants to fill it with souls, but it’s a pit. A bottomless pit—”
“—and you’re both heading for it,” said an oily voice. The speaker was Marr. She was oozing down the stairs. “We’ve been looking for you up and down,” she said to Harvey. “You’d better come with me, child.”
She extended her arms in Harvey’s direction. He remembered all too well her transforming touch. “Come! Come!” she said. “I might still get you out of trouble, if you let me make something humble of you. He likes humble things, does Mr. Hood. Fleas; worms; scabby dogs. Come to me, child! Quickly!”
Harvey looked around the cellar. There were no other ways out. If he was to get Mrs. Griffin up into the sun it had to be by way of the stairs, and Marr was standing in front of them.
He took a step in her direction. She smiled toothlessly.
“Good, child, good,” she said.
“Don’t,” Mrs. Griffin said. “She’ll hurt you.”
“Hush, woman!” Mary said. “We’re going to have to nail that lid down next time !” Her Greasy green eyes swiveled back in Harvey’s direction. “He knows what’s good for him. Don’t you, boy?”
Harvey didn’t reply. He simply kept walking toward Marr, whose fingers seemed to be growing like a snail’s horns, reaching out to fix upon his face.
“You’ve been such an obedient boy,” Marr went on. “Maybe I won’t turn you into a worm after all. What would you like to be? Tell me. tell me what’s in your heart…”
“Never mind my heart,” Harvey said, reaching out toward Marr. “What about yours?”
A puzzled look came over Marr’s face. “Mine?” she said.
“Yes,” said Harvey. “What do you dream of being?”
“I never dream,” she said defiantly.
“You should try it,” Harvey told her. “If you can change me into a worm, or a bat, what could you do for yourself?”
The defiance on her face became bafflement, and the bafflement turned to panic. Her outstretched fingers began to retreat into themselves. Harvey reached for them like lightning, however, interweaving his fingers with hers.
“What do you want to be?” he said to her. “Think!”
She started to struggle, and he felt her magic surging through her fingers into his, attempting to work some change on him. But he didn’t want to be a vampire bat anymore, and he certainly didn’t want to be a worm. He was quite happy to be himself. The magic therefore had no hold on him; instead it flowed back into Marr, who began to shake as though she were being dipped in icy water.
“What…are…you…doing?” she demanded.
“Tell me what’s in your heart,” he said, returning her invitation.
“I’m not telling you!” she replied, still trying to wrest her fingers free of his.
But she was not used to having her victims resist her this way. Her muscles were soft and flabby. She pulled and pulled, but she couldn’t escape him.
“Leave me alone!” she said. “If you harm me Mr. Hood will have your head.”
“I’m not harming you,” Harvey replied. “I’m just letting you have your dreams, the way you let me have mine.?
??
“I don’t want them!” she yelled, struggling more than ever.
He wouldn’t let her go. Instead, he drew closer to her, as if to wrap her up in his arms. She started to spit at him—great gobs of slime—but he wiped them from his face and kept approaching her.
“No…” she began to murmur, “…no…”
But she couldn’t keep the magic she’d intended for him from working on her own skin and bones. Her fat face began to soften and run like melting wax; her body sagged in its ragged coat, and a greenish gruel began to pour out onto the floor.
“Oh…” she sobbed, “…you damnable child…”
What dream was this, Harvey wondered, that was turning Marr to mush? She was growing smaller all the time, her clothes dropping off her as her body shrank, her voice becoming thin. It could only be moments before she disappeared altogether.
“What do you dream about?” Harvey said, as Marrs fingers ran away between his own like brackish water.
“I dream of nothing…” Marr replied, her eyes sinking back into her disintegrating skull, “…and that’s…what…I’ve…become…” She was almost lost in the folds of her clothes…nothing…” she said again. She was no more than a dirty puddle now; a puddle with a fading voice. “…nothing…”
Then she was gone, devoured by her own magic.
“You did it!” Mrs. Griffin said. “Child, you did it!”
“One down, three to go,” Harvey said.
“Three?”
“Rictus, Jive and Hood himself.”
“You’re forgetting Carna.”
“Is it still alive?”
Mrs. Griffin nodded. “I’m afraid I’ve heard its shrieks every night. It wants revenge.”
“And I want my life back,” Harvey said, taking her by the arm and escorting her (still carrying Stew-Cat) to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to get it, Mrs. Griffin. Whatever it takes, I’m going to get it.”
Mrs. Griffin glanced back at the heap of clothes that marked the place where Marr had vanished into thin air.
“Maybe you can” she said, with astonishment in her voice. “Of all the children who’ve come here, maybe you’re the one who can beat Hood at his own game.”
XIX. Dust to Dust
Rictus was waiting at the top of the stairs. His smile was sweet. His words were not.
“You’re a murderer now, my little man,” he said. “Do you like the feel of Marr’s blood on your hands?”
“He didn’t kill her,” Mrs. Griffin said. “She was never alive. None of you are.”
“What are we then?” Rictus asked.
“Illusions,” Harvey replied, ushering Mrs. Griffin and her cat past Rictus to the front door. “It’s all illusions.”
Rictus followed them, giggling insanely.
“What’s so funny?” Harvey said, opening the door to let Mrs. Griffin out into the sun.
“You are!” Rictus replied. “You think you know everything, but you don’t know Mr. Hood.”
“I will in a little while,” said Harvey. “Go and get warm,” he told Mrs. Griffin. “I’ll be back.”
“Be careful, child,” she said.
“I will,” he told her, then closed the door.
“You’re a strange one,” Rictus said, his smile failing a little. His face, when his teeth no longer dazzled, was like a mask made of dough. Two thumb-holes for eyes, and a blob for a nose.
“I could suck out your brains through your ears,” he said, all the music gone from his voice.
“Maybe you could,” said Harvey. “But you’re not going to.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve got an appointment with your master.”
He started toward the bottom of the stairs, but before he reached it a dark figure flitted in front of him. It was Jive, and he was carrying a plate of apple pie and ice cream.
“It’s a long climb,” he said. “Put something in your stomach first.”
Harvey looked down at the plate. The pie was golden brown and dusted with sugar, the ice cream melting in a sweet, white pool! It Certainly looked tempting.
“Go on,” said Jive. “You deserve a treat.”
“No thanks,” Harvey told him.
“Why not?” Jive wanted to know, turning full circle on his heel. “It’s lighter than I am.”
“But I know what it’s made of,” Harvey said.
“Apples and cinnamon and—”
“No,” said Harvey. “I know what it’s really made of.”
He looked back at the pie, and for a moment it seemed he glimpsed the truth of the thing: the gray dust and ashes from which this illusion was made.
“You think it’s poisoned?” Jive said. “Is that it?”
“Maybe,” Harvey replied, still staring at the pie.
“Well, it’s not!” Jive said. “And I’ll prove it!” Harvey heard Rictus make a warning sound behind him, but Jive didn’t catch it. He plunged his fingers into the pie and ice cream and delivered them to his mouth in one swift motion. As he closed his mouth Rictus said: “Don’t swallow it!”
Again, too late. The food went down in one gulp. An instant later, Jive dropped the plate and began to slam his fists against his stomach, as if to force the food up again. But instead of half-chewed pie, a cloud of dust issued from between his teeth. Then another; then another.
Half-blinded, Jive snatched at Harvey’s throat.
“What…have…you…done?” he coughed.
Harvey had no difficulty shaking himself free.
“It’s all dust,” he said. “Dirt and dust and ashes! All the food! All the presents! Everything!”
“Help me!” Jive said, clawing at his mouth. “Somebody help me!”
“There’s no help for you now!” came a solemn voice,
Harvey looked around. It was Rictus who had spoken, and he was retreating across the hallway, his hands clamped to his face. He stared at Jive between his fingers, his teeth chattering as he voiced the horrid truth. “You shouldn’t have eaten that pie,” he said. “It’s reminding your belly of what you’re made of.”
“What’s that?” Jive said.
“What the boy says,” Rictus replied. “Dirt and ashes!”
Jive threw back his head, howling Noooo! at this, but even as he opened his mouth to deny it the truth came pouring forth: dry streams of dust that ran from ms his gullet and flowed over ms angers. It was like a fatal message being passed from one part of his body to another. Touched by the dust his fingers began to crumble in their turn, and as they dropped, the same whisper of decay spread to his thighs and knees and feet.
He started to drop to the ground, but with a final pirouette, swung himself around and grabbed hold of Me banister.
“Save me!” he yelled up the stairs. “Mr. Hood, can you hear me? Please! Please, save me!”
His legs crumbled beneath him now, but he refused to give up. He started to haul himself up the stairs, still yelling for Mr. Hood to heal him: There was no reply from the heights of the House, however, nor any sound now from Rictus. There were only Jive’s pleas and wheezings, and the hiss of dust as it ran away down the stairs from the emptying sack of his body.
“What’s going on?” Wendell said, appearing from the kitchen with ketchup smeared around his mouth.
He stared at the cloud of dust that hung around the stairs, unable to see the creature at its heart. Harvey was closer to the cloud, however, and so was witness to Jive’s last, terrible moments. The dying creature reached up with an almost fingerless hand, still hoping—even as its life drifted away—that its creator would come to save it. Then it sank down upon the stairs, and its last pitiful fragments crumbled.
“Somebody been beating the carpets?” Wendell said, as Jive’s dust settled.
“Two down,” Harvey murmured to himself.
“What did you say?” Wendell wanted to know.
Before he replied, Harvey glanced around the hallway, looking for Rictus. But Hood’s third s
ervant had disappeared. “It doesn’t matter,” Harvey said. “Are you done eating?”
“Yeah.”
“Was the food good?”
Wendell grinned. “Yeah.”
Harvey shook his head. “What does that mean?” Wendell asked.
Harvey was on the verge of saying: It means you can’t help me; it means I have to go up and face Mr. Hood on my own. But what was the use? The House had claimed Wendell entirely. He’d be more of a hindrance than a help in the battle ahead. So instead he said: “Mrs. Griffin’s outside.”
“So we found her?”
“We found her.”
“I’ll go say hi,” Wendell said with a cheery smile.
“Good idea.”
Wendell had his hand on the door when he turned and said: “Where will you be?”
But Harvey didn’t answer. He’d already climbed past the heap of dust that marked Jive’s demise, and was nearing the top of the first flight, on his way to meet the power that lay waiting in the darkness of the attic.
XX. The Thieves Meet
Glimpsing the dusty truth masquerading as pie and ice cream was one thing, but scratching the veneer of deceits that the House had polished to such perfection was quite another. As Harvey climbed the stairs he kept hoping he’d find some little detail in the walls or the carpets that would allow him to get his mind’s fingers beneath the lid of this illusion and lift it up to see what charmless thing lay inside. If Marr had been made of stale mud and spittle, and Jive of dust, what was the House itself made of? But it knew its business too well. However hard Harvey stared, he could not pierce its lies. It delighted his senses with warmth and color and the scents of summer; it cooed softly in his ear and played its gentle airs against his face.
Even when he reached the dark landing at the top of the final flight, the House continued to pretend that this was just another innocent game of hide-and-seek, like the countless games it had seen played in its shadow.