“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—passing 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 circumstances, 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 basement. 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 passed 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.
Everyone stayed in Olive’s room that night. The reading lamp formed a glowing barricade around the bed where Olive lay, still dressed in her jabberwocky sweat suit. Hershel, her worn brown bear, sagged comfortingly against her chest. The three cats positioned themselves around her, Leopold at her feet, Horatio at her side, and Harvey near her head. Morton sprawled on the floor, just beyond the border of the light. Annabelle’s filigreed locket, which had once held her grandfather’s portr
ait, glimmered on Olive’s vanity like a poisonous reminder. Olive could almost see Aldous’s portrait slithering out of it, swelling to fill the house with darkness. With a deep breath, she pulled her eyes away.
Olive set her father’s glasses very carefully on the bedside table, so she would know just where they were when he came back. And he would come back, she told herself. Their lenses looked cold and empty in the yellow light.
“Nothing else appears to have been taken,” said Horatio, his sharp eyes fixed on Olive’s face. “The grimoire is still safely hidden. The paintings and other furnishings are all where they belong.”
“The tunnel is untouched,” said Leopold.
“The attic is undisturbed as well,” added Harvey, wriggling out of his robe and unfastening the pincushion that had formed the Hunchcat’s hump.
Olive nodded. She knew she should feel relieved by this news, but she didn’t. There wasn’t room left inside her to feel anything at all.
“Tomorrow we will continue our search. Against us, with all of our allies on Linden Street, Annabelle will not stand a chance.” Horatio’s tail flicked over Olive’s arm, almost like a soothing hand. “We will find your parents, Olive.”
Olive looked down at Morton. He had curled up in a small white ball in the shadows, with his face tilted up toward hers. He didn’t speak, but Olive knew what he must be thinking. The McMartins had taken his parents too, and they still hadn’t been found.
They might never be found.
Quiet settled throughout the room like raindrops filling an empty cup. Outside, beyond the window, the twigs of the leafless ash tree clattered softly. Olive was sure she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, but her eyelids insisted on sliding shut, and she felt too hollow and heavy to pull them back up. There was a last whispering rush of wind, and then even the darkness disappeared.
9
“OLIVE,” CALLED HER mother’s voice.
The voice was soft and far away, floating toward Olive’s ears through a wall of wispy gray clouds. A hand tapped lightly at her door. “Olive, it’s time to get up,” her mother called again. “You’re already running thirteen point five minutes late for the school bus . . .”
Olive’s eyes slid open.
Her bedroom was lit by gray morning light. A set of wire wings, two rumpled gloves, and a pair of painted goggles lay in a pile on the floor beyond the edge of her bed.
Olive frowned down at the goggles. That’s right—this was the day after Halloween. That meant that this was Sunday. And Sunday meant that she didn’t have to go to school. She didn’t have to go anywhere. She didn’t have a thing to do but pour her haul of candy onto her bedspread and sort the treats into Most Delicious, Semi-Tasty, and Still Better Than Pickled Beets piles. Smiling to herself, Olive snuggled back into her pillows.
The branches of the ash tree tapped gently at the windowpane. That’s what she had heard when she thought someone was knocking at her door. And her mother hadn’t been calling for her to get up, because her mother was—
Her mother was . . .
Olive sat up.
The hollowness of the house seemed to widen around her. She could feel the stillness on every side, filling the rooms and hallways in place of the burbling coffeepot and clicking computer keys. Her heartbeat echoed in the emptiness.
On the pillow beside her, a damp orange cat began to stir.
“I hope we did not wake you,” said Horatio, running a paw over his whiskers. “You needed a good night’s sleep as much as I needed a bath.”
Olive looked blearily around. Morton’s ghost costume lay crumpled on the rug. Leopold’s sash hung neatly over the back of the vanity chair. “Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Harvey took Morton home some time ago. The morning light was making him uncomfortable. Leopold is surveying the grounds.”
“Oh.” Olive pulled her knees to her chest, hugging herself tight. “Should you be guarding your territory too?”
“I’ve been guarding you,” Horatio answered. He stopped brushing his whiskers, and his penetrating green eyes settled on Olive’s face. “You are not alone here, Olive.”
Olive tried to give Horatio a smile, but the best she could manage was a twitchy grimace. “Actually, I’d like to be alone for a few minutes,” she said. “I need to change my clothes.”
Once the cat had padded into the hallway, Olive hauled her legs out of bed and trudged across the room to her dresser. Her body felt as though it had been scooped out and refilled with wet sand. She could barely manage to yank a sweater over her head and wriggle into a pair of jeans.
Once she was dressed, Olive shuffled out into the hall. Each creak of the floorboards seemed to thunder through the house. Sounds that disappeared on an ordinary day—the buzz of the refrigerator, the low breath of the furnace huffing from far below—hung in the air, startling and strange. Even the paintings along the staircase seemed to have noticed the change in the house. A dark glint shifted over their surfaces as Olive passed by, like multiplied shadows gliding after her.
By the time she reached the foot of the staircase, Olive felt too heavy to take another step. She gazed down at the rug, still twisted to one side, and the candy scattered across the floor like colorfully wrapped hailstones.
A board creaked on the front porch. Olive glanced up as Walter’s lanky silhouette paced across the windows. Leopold was out there somewhere, patrolling the lawn. Next door, a pair of odd but kindly witches was waiting to help her, and in the house one door beyond that, a boy and his grandmother were probably just waking up and beginning to collect the ingredients for a new set of spells.
She wasn’t alone.
Olive took a deep breath.
Then she knelt down and began to gather the candy back into its bowl, counting the pieces out loud to herself as she went.
When she’d dropped in the last one (there were eighty-four pieces, she was almost sure), Olive pushed herself back to her feet. She looked around the empty hallway. She’d left the hall lights burning all night long, but in the morning sun, they looked watery and faint, like cellophane wrappers with nothing left inside. She switched them off, watching the paintings on the walls dim from glinting sheets of color into something darker, and a thought struck her so suddenly that it almost knocked her back to the floor.
What if—somehow—Annabelle had been able to trap Olive’s parents Elsewhere? What if they were stuck there right now, watching Olive drift through the empty rooms while their bodies turned slowly into paint?
“Horatio!” Olive screamed.
The cat appeared at the head of the stairs. “What?” he asked. “What did you find?”
Olive darted to the bottom step. “Horatio—the grimoire is safe, isn’t it?”
“It remains in the very spot where I hid it myself.”
Olive clutched the front of her shirt. “And I’ve still got the spectacles—but what if Annabelle found some other way to put my parents Elsewhere?” She wrapped both hands around the banister, clutching it so hard her wrists ached. “Wouldn’t that be the worst thing she could do? Trapping them right here, in their own house, where we wouldn’t even think to look for them?”
“Olive, it is extremely unlikely that Annabelle could have—”
“Stop!” Olive shouted. “You sound like Rutherford! Please, Horatio, I have to make sure. It might already be too late!”
Horatio’s whiskers twitched. “Very well. I’ll tell Leopold to search the paintings on the main floor and Harvey to examine each canvas in the attic. You and I will search upstairs.”
“Yes!” Olive exclaimed, scrambling back up the staircase as Horatio flew down. “And please hurry!”
Olive tore to the left, toward her parents’ end of the hallway. In the small white room on the right, which contained nothing but stacks of unpacked boxes, Olive shoved the spectacles onto her face. The room??
?s only painting depicted a grumpy-looking bird on a fencepost. As Olive plunged through its frame, the bird took off, squeaking and squawking into the sky. The rest of the painting was uninhabited. A few stalks of grass shivered against the fence, and the green field and blue sky loomed around her as solidly as walls.
“Mom!” Olive called. “Dad!” But even the grumpy bird had stopped squawking.
In her parents’ bedroom, Olive swallowed a sob at the familiar sights and smells: her mother’s chalk-dusted brown cardigan hanging over the back of a chair, the minty scent of her father’s aftershave, and the big white bed, with its perfectly symmetrical arrangement of pillows. But there wasn’t time to sprawl on the bed and cry, messing up all of its right angles.
Olive dashed across the room, hanging on tight to the bottom of the picture frame as she pushed her head into the painting of an old-fashioned sailing ship. A blast of salty ocean wind whished through her hair. Below her, the purplish waves rippled and roared.
“Dad! Mom!” she shouted over the sound. “Are you here?”
There was no answer.
Olive waited, watching the ship rock slowly back and forth, never getting closer to its port. Then she pulled herself back through the jelly-ish surface and dropped to the bedroom floor.
In the room’s other painting, a tall, slender man sat reading a book in a gazebo, surrounded by a lush green garden. He bolted to his feet, dropping his book and catching it awkwardly again as Olive clambered through the frame.
“Holy cats!” said the man. “You can climb in here?”
Olive stumbled to her feet. There was no time to answer questions. And there certainly was no time to be shy. Cautious, maybe—but not shy. Keeping her back near the frame, she demanded, “Have you seen my parents?”