The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows

  Olive turned back and got her first good look at Morton under the hallway’s electric lights. What she saw made her freeze in place. Morton’s skin, which had seemed nearly white in the moonlight, was actually a very pale peachy color. But it didn’t look like ordinary skin. Olive glanced down at her own arm. A normal person’s skin was full of tiny details: moles and freckles, fine wrinkles and fuzzy hairs. But Morton’s skin was perfectly smooth, and slightly shiny. It wasn’t skin at all. It was paint.

  She backed uneasily away from Morton toward the painting Horatio had entered. “Here,” she whispered, pushing the shakiness out of her voice. “I’ll help you through.”

  Morton took a step backward. “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Morton! Come on, before my parents hear us!”

  “I don’t want to go in there. I just got out.”

  Olive wanted to scream, but she knew she shouldn’t. Instead, she put both hands in her hair and pulled. “You don’t belong out here, Morton,” she said as quietly as she could manage. “You’re a painting. I don’t know what will happen if my parents see you, but it won’t be good. Now, come on!”

  Morton took another slow, sneaky step backward. Then he pivoted on his heel and took off toward Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody’s bedroom.

  Olive darted after him. Morton raced around the hallway corner and through the bedroom door, with Olive skidding behind. He scurried around the side of the Dunwoodys’ king-size bed and stopped, facing Olive, with the bed as a barricade between them. “Boys are faster than girls,” he said.

  Olive stared at him, incredulous. Then she leaped onto the middle of her parents’ high, puffy bed and glared down at him.

  “Morton, stop it,” she commanded.

  “Morton, stop it,” Morton echoed.

  “I don’t sound like that!”

  “I don’t sound like th—”

  Olive grabbed at him. Morton dodged to the left. Olive mirrored him, her feet sinking deep into the mattress. Morton dodged to the right. Olive bounced after him.

  “Can’t catch me!” Morton sang. Then, using a bed-post for leverage, he launched himself back toward the hall.

  Olive leaped off the bed. In one bound, she was through the door. In another, she was down the hallway. In a final bound, she was planting her foot directly in Morton’s path, and Morton was sliding along the hallway carpet on his stomach, just like a puck on an air hockey table.

  Olive threw herself down on top of Morton, clamping one hand over his mouth. Her fingers nearly slipped off of his smooth skin. “Shhh!” she hissed.

  For a moment, they both listened. But the big stone house was quiet. Her parents hadn’t heard.

  Keeping one hand over Morton’s mouth, Olive yanked him to his feet and dragged him toward the painting outside her bedroom door. After straightening the spectacles on her nose, Olive locked her hands under Morton’s spindly arms and hoisted him toward the painting.

  “Hey! Don’t push me!” Morton complained, but Olive was already stuffing him through the picture frame like a wet quilt into a dryer. She pulled herself in after him and landed with an almost graceful somersault in the soft field. Morton was sprawled, face-first, on the grass beside her.

  It was cool in this painting, but not as chilly as it was in the forest. The air was very still. The sky hung above them like a pale gray canopy, moonless and starless, without a trace of sunset.

  Horatio was pacing impatiently on the grass. “If you two could manage to stop wasting time,” he scolded, “everything would already have been taken care of. Now get up and follow me.”

  Olive and Morton got up and brushed themselves off, each trying very hard not to look at the other.

  “That is not a good cat,” Morton grumbled.

  “Well, I trust him more than I trust you,” snapped Olive. “You certainly haven’t had any good suggestions.”

  Morton tossed his tufty head and stomped off after Horatio.

  The cat guided them across the field toward the row of houses, his giant orange tail twitching like a banner. The grass under Olive’s feet felt soft and dewy. Threads of mist lay across the field, floating in the motionless air.

  Gradually, Morton’s stomping turned to shuffling. He gazed around, nearly tripping on the hem of his nightshirt. “I think I know this place,” he said slowly. “I think I was here once.”

  In single file, they reached the edge of the field. Horatio led Olive and Morton along the row of houses. In the painting, they had looked small and simple, but up close, Olive saw that they were grand old houses, covered with gingerbread trim and sturdy pillars and leaded windows of every shape and size. The row of houses lined a wide, empty street. No one sat on the porches. No one played on the lawns. No one lit a lamp in the windows. And yet, Olive thought she caught a glimpse of faces staring out at them through slats in the shutters, or peeping at them between closed curtains. Whenever she turned to check, though, the faces were gone.

  “I do know this place,” Morton whispered.

  And somehow, Olive had the sense that she knew this place too. It was familiar, but strange, like something from a dream.

  “Horatio,” Olive asked, “where are we?”

  The cat gave a slight shrug. “We’re here,” he said, without looking back. “Elsewhere.”

  Horatio stopped abruptly in front of a three-story wooden house. In the dim light, the house looked gray, but by day it might have been any color. Around the house stood a low wooden fence with a gate that was shut in an unfriendly way. The house was silent, and clearly empty. Its windows stared at them like vacant mirrors.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Olive asked.

  “This is my house,” said Morton softly.

  Horatio watched them both, saying nothing.

  Olive looked at the house again. She had seen this house before. She had seen it many times. It was Mrs. Nivens’s house.

  Olive spun around, examining the street. Yes—there was Mrs. Dewey’s house, one door down, with its wide front porch. And across the street was the brick house with the dormer windows. The big oak tree in its front yard was just a scrawny sapling. There were other houses that looked familiar, just with different colors and different details, and there were houses that she didn’t recognize at all.

  Olive’s eyes came to rest on the plot next to Mrs. Nivens’s house. Where the old stone house—her house—should have been, there was only an empty swath of land. This was Linden Street, but it was the Linden Street of a long, long time ago, or the Linden Street of a time that never really existed.

  “Horatio,” Olive began, staring at the unoccupied plot, “where’s our house? Why isn’t it here?”

  “It wasn’t necessary,” said Horatio brusquely. “Olive, we must be on our way.” He turned back toward the street.

  Morton grasped Olive’s arm. His hand made a warm spot on her mist-chilled skin. “You’re not just going to leave me here, are you?”

  Olive looked down into Morton’s moony, frightened face, and the irritated voice in her brain, the one that kept saying GIRLS are smarter than BOYS, felt a little less sore.

  She looked at Horatio for help.

  The cat cocked his head matter-of-factly. “It’s the closest to home he’s going to get.”

  Olive looked back down at Morton. “I’ll come back and see you soon.” She paused. “If you want me to, I mean.”

  Morton took a step back, the frightened look on his face wrestling with a frown. The frown won. “I don’t care,” he said with a shrug.

  “Fine,” Olive retorted. “Then . . . good-bye.”

  “Bye,” said Morton, looking away.

  Olive let out an angry sigh and turned to hurry after Horatio, who was already moving briskly along the row of houses. Halfway down the street, she glanced back over her shoulder. In the dim gray light, she could see Morton still standing in front of his big empty house, his baggy white nightshirt a pale blotch on the deserted street.

  Silently, Olive followed Hor
atio back across the field to the picture frame.

  “So, you’ve figured out a few more things, have you?” said the cat at last, in the kind of tone that said that this wasn’t really a question.

  “I guess so.”

  “I would be more careful if I were you. Don’t let anyone know how much you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Horatio paused and gave Olive a hard look. “I worded that poorly. Don’t let anyone know how little you know. Now, what you need to do is to stay out of trouble. Perhaps you should find a nice quiet hobby—one that won’t get anyone killed. Like stamp collecting. That’s seldom fatal.” Horatio turned away and flounced toward the frame. “Now hurry up. We can’t stay here for long.”

  “Wait—stop!” begged Olive. “What do you mean, get anyone killed?”

  With a put-upon huff, Horatio plopped on the grass and began to groom his paws. “First, the spectacles. You found them. You used them. You know what they do.”

  “Well, not exactly . . .”

  “Can you normally climb into paintings?” Horatio snapped, mid-lick. “You must be wearing them to get in or to get out. In other words, don’t lose them while you’re inside, or you’ll be trapped. Then your only hope is to be released by a guide. Namely, me. And don’t stay in any of the paintings for too long, or you’ll never get out at all. Not really.”

  “But why don’t you need the spectacles?”

  Horatio hesitated. He gave his back leg some careful attention. “Haven’t you ever heard that cats can see things that others cannot?” he answered at last through a mouthful of his own brilliant orange fur.

  “No,” said Olive, but Horatio was too absorbed in tail maintenance at this point to notice.

  “My coat is simply filthy,” he muttered.

  “I think you look beautiful,” Olive said.

  “Do you?” For a moment, Horatio stopped licking. A tiny, bashful look of pleasure flitted over his face. Horatio shook the look away. “In any case, you’re not making yourself very popular with a certain someone who is watching you. And what you just did . . . it was dangerous.”

  “Well, I didn’t know what would happen when I went into the painting!” cried Olive. “But when I did, I knew I couldn’t just leave Morton there.”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t have done it. I just said it was dangerous.” Horatio got to his feet, looking up at Olive. “You are showing that you won’t be a pushover. You might even put up a fight. You won’t just let him have his way.”

  “Him who?”

  Horatio turned away, trotting the last steps to the picture frame. “You’ll see,” he said. Then he hopped through the frame. Olive clambered after him.

  Back in the comforting gold light of the hallway, Olive looked at the painting of Linden Street. As she watched, one tiny light flickered to life in a distant window, and she knew that Morton was there, waiting.

  8

  WHY DON’T YOU bring this to the table, Olive?” said Mrs. Dunwoody over the last of the dinner preparations as she passed Olive a lighted candle for the centerpiece.

  “I’ve always thought Olive could light up a room,” joked Mr. Dunwoody, making Olive’s face turn the color of her pink kitten cereal.

  Mrs. Dunwoody bustled to the table, kissed Olive and Mr. Dunwoody on the tops of their heads, and settled down in her chair. They all spread their napkins across their laps. Olive dropped hers on the floor.

  “When did Olive start wearing glasses?” asked Mr. Dunwoody over a forkful of meatloaf.

  “Olive doesn’t wear glasses. Do you, Olive?” Mrs. Dunwoody squinted at Olive doubtfully, and then looked even more doubtfully at the spectacles hanging from a chain around Olive’s neck.

  “I just found these upstairs,” said Olive. “In an old chest of drawers.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Dunwoody. “Was that the experiment you asked me about? You wanted to try wearing them?”

  “Yes,” said Olive. “That was it. Exactly.”

  “Well, just don’t keep them on for too long,” said Mr. Dunwoody. “You could end up having to wear something like these.” He tapped one lens of his own thick glasses with the edge of his butter knife. The lens made a loud clunk.

  “Would you like any lima beans, dear?” asked Mrs. Dunwoody, holding up the serving dish to her husband.

  “Yes, forty-six of them, please.”

  Mrs. Dunwoody scooped a large spoonful onto Mr. Dunwoody’s plate. “Forty-six lima beans. How many for you, Olive?”

  “I don’t know. A small helping.”

  “Twenty-four for you, then.” Mrs. Dunwoody put down the beans and sat back in her chair. “You kept yourself busy all afternoon, Olive. I didn’t see you anywhere.”

  Olive swallowed a mouthful of beans whole. “I was just exploring. Upstairs.”

  “That sounds like fun,” said her mother. “Did you discover anything interesting?”

  Olive shrugged. “A few things.”

  The next morning, both Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody went to campus for a meeting. Olive stood in the quiet of the upstairs hallway, staring first at the painting of the dark forest, and then at the painting of Linden Street. From the outside, in daylight, the paintings seemed much less menacing. They were stuck to the wall, after all—they couldn’t tiptoe into her bedroom while she was sleeping, or tap her on the shoulder when she was all alone in the dark. Then again, Horatio said that they were dangerous. And the shadows streaming after her and Morton hadn’t been in her imagination. She was certain of that.

  Part of Olive kept hoping Horatio would appear around a doorway, or slide through an open window. She had so much more to ask him. Another part of her wondered if she should climb back into the painting of Linden Street and talk to Morton. Maybe if she asked him the right questions . . . But as soon as she put her hand on the frame, she remembered his angry face, his shrug. His I don’t care. Olive had heard those words and seen that face before. Year after year, some well-meaning teacher would nudge Olive to join a group of other kids already in the middle of a game. Can Olive play with you? the teacher would wheedle, while Olive shuffled and looked down at her toes. The kids would put down their blocks, or their dice, or their dolls, and look up. They would shrug. I don’t care, one of them would mumble.

  Olive’s hand slid off the picture frame.

  She shuffled down the stairs. Horatio had said someone was watching her. Someone dangerous. Someone who wanted the house. If that someone was the same bad man Morton was talking about, what was he going to do? What could he do? The only place where anything remotely dangerous had happened to Olive (except for that corner above the bathtub) was inside the painting of the forest. As long as she kept the spectacles safe, and as long as she didn’t spend too much time in any one painting, she would be all right. Wasn’t that what Horatio had said? Olive ran her fingers down the long chain and settled the antique spectacles on her nose. A little thrill of excitement tickled her stomach. If she was careful, everything would be fine.

  So, with the house all to herself, Olive charged freely from room to room wearing the antique spectacles and occasionally bumping into blurry things that might or might not have been furniture.

  In the living room, she examined the painting of the man and woman enjoying lunch at a French street café. Through the spectacles, Olive watched the whole scene come to life. Passersby jostled each other. Fat Parisian pigeons hopped. The woman who seemed to be raising her glass in a toast had in fact been frozen in the moment just before she poured her drink into the man’s lap. Olive watched the woman flounce away while the man dabbed at his suit with his napkin.

  In the upstairs guest bathroom, there was a small watercolor painting of a woman wrapped in a bath towel dipping her big toe delicately into a bathtub. When she noticed Olive watching her, the woman gave an indignant squeal and plunked down in the water, leaving just her head in view.

  In the blue bedroom, Olive leaned close to the painting of the fancy ballroom, so close that
she could see the swirls and streaks of paint in the dancers’ clothes. She wasn’t going to climb in, she told herself. She was just going to watch. The painted musicians came to life, clanging and plucking in an out-of-practice fashion at their horns and violins. The dancing couples broke their regal poses and went back to tripping on their hems and stepping on each other’s feet. Olive giggled out loud. The dancers glared at her. One tuba player stuck out his tongue.

  Olive went back downstairs to the library, where the computer stared at her with its big blank eye. Her parents’ work was stacked in carefully planned piles on all of the flat surfaces, and pinned to some of the vertical ones.

  There was a painting between two bookshelves that was one of Olive’s favorites in the whole house. It showed a group of girls in a flowery meadow, holding hands in a wavy circle. They wore wreaths of wild-flowers in their hair and long, soft Grecian dresses. These girls looked cheerful and friendly. They didn’t look like they would frown and shrug their shoulders if Olive tried to talk to them. Besides, they were young, and their Grecian dresses didn’t look that different from Morton’s nightshirt. Maybe they knew something about him.

  Putting on her bravest smile, Olive grasped the painting’s gilded frame and then leaned forward slowly, until her nose touched the painting. With the same feeling of pressing her face through warm Jell-O, Olive fell through the frame and landed in the soft, sweet-smelling meadow.

  The laughing girls stopped laughing. They let go of each other’s hands and stood still, glaring at Olive. One of them nervously demolished a daisy; another glanced over her shoulder at the sky.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the girl in the center of the broken circle.

  Olive shuffled her feet. She dug her fingernails into her palms. “I . . . I just wondered—I mean, I thought you might know a little boy named Morton.”

  “Keep your voice down! He’ll hear you,” hissed a girl with long blond hair.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said the center girl. “You’re going to get us all in trouble. Go away!”