Still Life

  Try harder.

  Olive forced her arm forward, straight into the fire. The painted rope slid through the flames. There was a rush of heat followed by a soft sizzle—and then the rope dissolved.

  Olive yanked her arm free.

  She cupped her burned hand to her chest as the flame melted away, its dissipating brightness drifting back up into the night sky.

  Olive’s hand shook with pain. The skin itself seemed to be shrieking. The sounds that came from her mouth were only an echo.

  Aldous leaned over the spot where Olive was huddled. “Once you have turned to paint, you will burn far more easily. But you know all about that, don’t you, Olive Dunwoody?” His voice was a freezing whisper. “Weren’t you surprised at how fast my Annabelle burned?”

  There was a moment of quiet as Aldous straightened up again. Olive rocked in place, gasping through her teeth.

  “You don’t deserve such a quick ending. Not yet,” said Aldous at last. “You deserve a bit more fear. A bit more pain. You deserve to see the lives of those you love destroyed, while you watch, unable to save them.” His craggy face twisted into a smile once again. “You have kept so many secrets, Olive Dunwoody. Now you are desperate to tell the truth . . . and no one will believe you.”

  Olive staggered backward, tumbling over the first step. She caught herself with her uninjured hand just in time to keep from falling down the rest of the flight.

  “Go on,” said the old man. “Try to warn everyone. Find the truth for yourself: You cannot save them, and they will not save you.”

  Whirling dizzily around, Olive stumbled down the attic steps, through the dim and empty bedroom. Aldous’s laughter floated after her.

  OLIVE THUNDERED BACK down the blurry staircase. Her mother and father sat in the library, just where she’d left them. Olive tore across the room.

  “Mom, come on,” she begged, grabbing her mother’s arm with her good hand. “We have to get out of here. Please!”

  Mrs. Dunwoody might as well have been carved out of marble. “Just a minute, Olive,” she murmured. Her cloudy eyes coasted across Olive’s face. “As soon as I get this work done.” She jotted down a row of symbols that quickly erased themselves.

  “Oh, hello, Olive,” said Mr. Dunwoody as Olive streaked past his desk again. “How was school?”

  Olive bolted through the front door and staggered onto the dewy lawn. Tears left itchy trails on her skin. Her hand throbbed with each beat of her heart.

  She raced across the empty street to the house that would someday be Mr. Hanniman’s. “Hello!” she shouted, pounding on the front windows. Her voice dissolved into the twilight. “Is anyone in there? I need help! Please!”

  No one answered.

  Olive charged toward Mr. Fitzroy’s empty porch. His windows were dark, his house hushed. “Mr. Fitzroy!” she yelled, kicking the door. “Mr. Fitzroy, help!”

  Olive wrenched at the doorknob. It didn’t budge. She stared along the row of lightless, silent houses. They seemed to be shutting their eyes and holding their breath, like creatures trying not to be seen.

  Turning back toward the deserted street, Olive felt a tide of despair turn with her. It wound around her, spiraling and pulling, nearly dragging her to the ground.

  No one would help her. No one would believe her. No one would see the truth.

  Olive’s eyes swept up the row of houses, with their locked doors and curtained windows. In the tall gray house, one cheery light still burned.

  Wait. There was someone who would see the truth.

  Olive tore back across the street and up the steps to the Nivenses’ front door. Without knocking, she wrenched it open and lunged inside.

  The living room was empty now, the piano quiet. Olive could hear Morton’s and Harold’s laughter drifting in from another room.

  Mary’s blond head appeared around a hallway corner.

  “Oh, Olive!” she exclaimed. “How lovely! Come and join us for a guessing game!” Her smile faded. “Is something wrong?” She glanced at the hand that Olive held awkwardly to one side. “My goodness. Come to the kitchen, quickly!”

  “Mrs. Nivens,” Olive panted as Mary dipped a cloth in a jug of water, “you know what’s going on here, don’t you? You know the truth?”

  Mary looked faintly puzzled. “Why, Olive, what do you mean?”

  “You know that we’re trapped here!” Olive winced as Mary patted the cloth against her hand. “You know he did it, and he—”

  Mary’s eyes widened. She put a finger to her lips. The sound of Morton’s and Harold’s laughter went on.

  Pulling Olive by the arm, Mary stepped into the corner by the closed pantry door. The damp cloth, already dry, flew from her grip back to its spot by the sink.

  “Now,” she murmured, still holding Olive’s wrist, “calm down, and tell me what you are so upset about.”

  “He’s here!” Olive burst out. “This is Elsewhere, and my friends and my parents are dying, and Aldous is here!”

  A sudden silence swept through the noisy house. Harold and Morton went quiet.

  “He trapped us—all of us,” Olive rushed on. “My parents. Rutherford, Walter, Mrs. Dewey. You. But nobody realizes it. And soon we’re all going to be stuck here forever. You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?” she pleaded, looking up into Mary’s clear blue eyes. “You believe me, right?”

  Mary let out a soft breath. “Yes, Olive,” she whispered. “I know you’re telling the truth.”

  Olive rocked with relief. “So you’ll help me?”

  “No, Olive,” said Mary smoothly. “I won’t help you.”

  For a second, Olive was sure that her ears had malfunctioned. “What?”

  Mary’s blue eyes were clear and bright. “I won’t help you,” she repeated. “Why would I help you to get everyone out? I’m the one who helped get them in here in the first place.”

  “What?” said Olive, a bit more loudly this time.

  “Keep your voice down,” said Mary. “No need to get everyone upset.” She took both of Olive’s hands, making Olive flinch. “There’s no point in trying to fight Aldous McMartin,” she went on, staring straight into Olive’s eyes. “He’s stronger than we are. I know what he can do when he’s angry, and I will not spend another hundred years away from my family.” Her face curved into a smile. “I made a bargain with Aldous instead. I promised to help bring you and your allies here, and he promised that we could all stay together.”

  “So—it was him,” Olive choked. “That night in the snow, he was—”

  “All it took was asking Mrs. Dewey to bring Rutherford and Walter to your house, saying something had gone wrong—which was perfectly true!” Mary interrupted with a little laugh. “In return, Aldous will let us stay here together, in peace. Forever. Don’t you see how wonderful this is, Olive?” she asked, her voice bubbling with stifled happiness. “We have our very own houses. Our very own street, just the way it was. Even our own neighbors! Maybe one day, Aldous will paint a portrait of Lucy to join us.” Her eyes shone. “I know it won’t be exactly the same, but we’re safe. We’re together.” She gave another laugh. “As Aldous said, it is still life!”

  “But—but it isn’t!” Olive spluttered. She shook her head so hard that the dim, painted kitchen became a blur. “It’s not life. It’s fake. You and your family are already paint, but everybody else—they’re dying!”

  Mary pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Olive. You sound just like Morton. Don’t you realize how lucky we are?”

  “No!” Olive clenched her teeth. “If you won’t help me, I’ll keep trying on my own. I’m not just going to let him win!” She took a step toward the kitchen door.

  Mary’s grip on Olive’s hands tightened. “I’m sorry, Olive, but I can’t let you do that.”

  Olive tugged, but Mary’s fingers were lik
e painted handcuffs. “Let go,” she said, trying to sound bold and firm but sounding rather wishful and wobbly instead.

  “Oh, Olive!” Mary sighed. “Don’t spoil it for the rest of us!” With her spare hand, she reached for the hook where a key hung just outside the pantry door.

  Olive made a grab for it, but Mary was stronger. Before Olive could catch her balance, Mary had opened the lock and whipped her through the darkened doorway.

  The painted door slammed, sealing Olive inside.

  TRAPPED IN THE unlit pantry, Olive heard the rasp of the closing lock. There was a click as the key flew back to its spot.

  She hammered at the door. “Let me out! Morton! Harold! Help!”

  Footsteps whispered across the kitchen.

  Olive heard Morton’s high-pitched voice. “What happened, Mama?”

  “Olive was going to do something that would make the Old Man very angry,” Mary’s sunny voice answered. “And then he wouldn’t let us be together anymore.”

  “We don’t want that, do we, son?” asked Harold’s deeper voice.

  “. . . No,” said Morton after a moment. “I just want to stay with you.”

  “Morton, please!” Olive shouted. “Let me out!”

  “Let’s go back to our game, shall we?” Mary asked brightly. “I believe it was Morton’s turn!”

  Three pairs of footsteps moved out of the kitchen and dwindled into the distance.

  Olive grabbed the heavy brass doorknob and wrenched at it so hard she thought her fingers might break. The door didn’t budge.

  Blindly, she pawed through the darkness. The pantry shelves were bare. There were no windows to break, no vents to pry open, and nothing to light on fire, even if she’d had anything to light a fire with. Olive shoved her hands gingerly into her pockets. People in books always picked locks with hairpins, which they seemed to carry with them everywhere they went. Olive didn’t wear hairpins, so the fact that there weren’t any in her pockets wasn’t a surprise. She let out a desperate growl anyway. Time was dwindling, and she was wasting her last living, breathing seconds inside an empty pantry—

  Wait. There was one more person who might help her, even if he didn’t know the whole truth.

  Rutherford. I am locked in the Nivenses’ kitchen pantry. Olive thought the words as clearly as if she were dictating a letter. Mary trapped me here. The key is hanging by the door. Please come and let me out.

  Then she just thought please please please please for several seconds, followed by hurry hurry hurry, and then she heard the most beautiful of sounds: a sharp, clear knock on the far-off front door.

  Olive held her breath, listening.

  The door creaked open.

  “Hello, Mrs. Nivens,” Olive heard Rutherford say in an extremely loud voice.

  “Good evening, Rutherford,” Mary answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I please come inside?” Rutherford blared, as if he were reciting Shakespeare to a crowded auditorium. “I would like to speak with Morton for a minute.”

  “Is that truly why you’ve come here?” Mary asked.

  Olive pressed her ear against the door.

  “Why don’t you look at me, Rutherford?” Mary asked sweetly. “Now, tell me what you were really planning to do.”

  “I was going to go to the kitchen and take down the key and let Olive out of the pantry,” Rutherford announced.

  “That’s what I thought.” Mary clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”

  There was a slam.

  Olive listened, her ear pressed like a suction cup against the painted door.

  Rutherford didn’t knock again. Maybe he was running home to tell Mrs. Dewey and Walter what had happened. Maybe they would believe him.

  And maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe Rutherford hadn’t really believed her himself.

  Olive flexed her fingers. Her burned hand still felt tender, but the raw pain had begun to fade. Tentatively, she ran the fingers of her other hand across her palm. Her skin was perfectly smooth. There were no blisters, no cracks. It was already healing.

  Oh no.

  The repair hadn’t been instantaneous, but it was abnormally fast. She must have already begun to change. Olive wriggled her stinging toes. The transformation always started at the extremities, nibbling patiently inward, like frostbite. If she didn’t get out soon—very soon—it would be too late for everyone.

  She sank down on her knees against the painted door. Rutherford! she thought. Please help me!

  Outside the pantry, the big gray house was silent. Inside, there was only the sound of Olive’s teary, ragged breathing, and the stubborn beating of her heart.

  Mary’s words spiraled in her mind like a firefly caught in a jar. We are safe. We are together. It is still life.

  But for Olive, it wouldn’t be life for long. Once they had all turned to paint and it was too late to save anybody, Mary would hand her over to Aldous. Aldous would form another little orb of fire, and the painted version of Olive would vanish in a quick, quiet burst.

  She could bear this, Olive thought, if she knew that her life had meant anything at all.

  But . . . as much as it made her entire chest ache to think about it . . . Aldous might have been right.

  Her parents were trapped because of her. Walter and the Deweys were stuck here because of her. Even Ms. Teedlebaum—wherever she was—had gotten tangled up in this mess because Olive had made the mess in the first place.

  And the cats . . .

  What if Aldous had spoken the truth about them too?

  What if she had only been a temporary tenant, a caretaker who’d disappointed them and hurt them and wasted their time, while they waited in dread for the real master to return?

  Had she made anyone’s life better at all?

  Olive pressed her face against the wooden door. She could have been better. She could have been smarter, kinder, more loyal, more unselfish. She had tried, and she had failed. She couldn’t undo her mistakes. She couldn’t start over.

  This was where all her trying would end.

  And then, even though she hadn’t turned the doorknob again, Olive heard a tiny click, as delicate as a snapping thread. The door swung open. A band of light fell into the pantry—and in it, she could see the outline of a small, round, worried face.

  “Morton?” she whispered.

  “Shh!” Morton whispered back. Standing on his tiptoes, he slipped the key back onto its hook. “Mama and Papa are upstairs. You can get out, if you run fast.”

  Olive hesitated. “But your mother said—”

  “I know what she said,” Morton interrupted. “But I don’t think it’s fair,” he said. “I don’t think it’s fair to trap you here, when you untrapped all of us. Now, get out of Mama’s pantry.”

  “But I didn’t,” said Olive as Morton grabbed her arm and pulled her out onto the floor. “You’re all right back where you started. I didn’t do anything.”

  Morton gave Olive an are-you-crazy? look. “You found me,” he said. “You found Mama and Papa. You made me a Halloween costume.”

  “But what if there’s no way to beat Aldous?” Olive whispered. “What if just giving up and doing what he wants is the only way your family can be safe?”

  Morton gave Olive a funny look. He shrugged his knobby shoulders. Then he looked down at his toes. “Mama and Papa aren’t my only family,” he said.

  “Here,” he added, still looking down. “You should take this with you.” From somewhere in the folds of his nightshirt, he pulled out a small, slightly battered flashlight.

  “Where did you get that?” Olive asked.

  Morton’s eyebrows rose. “You gave it to me,” he said. “Remember? It was the first time you visited me in here. We drew on the sky.”

  “That’s right . . .” said O
live, remembering whirling with Morton through the mist, their dancing flashlight beams making the darkness withdraw for just a moment. “We wrote our names.”

  “You let me keep it.” Morton pushed the flashlight into Olive’s hand. “I tried not to use it too much. There should still be plenty of batter in it.”

  Olive let out something that was a mix of a laugh and a sob. “Good,” she whispered.

  There was a faint creak from above.

  “Hurry!” Morton breathed. “Run!”

  Olive tried, but her feet wouldn’t take her to the door yet. Instead, they took her closer to Morton. Her knees bent themselves, and her arms threw themselves to either side, and Olive gave Morton a huge, tight hug.

  “Thank you, Morton,” she whispered into his tufty hair.

  Then she spun around and tore down the hall toward the front door. She was already halfway across the lawn when she heard it slam itself behind her.

  Olive flew down the hill. Beneath her feet, the green grass looked black. The mist had turned from silver to lead. Ahead of her, hanging in midair, she could make out the flinty edges of the picture frame.

  Olive skidded to a stop.

  Through the frame, she could see that the house was dark. A whisper of snowy moonlight reached through the windows, revealing the empty hall. Olive smacked her palm against the surface of the painting. It was like pounding on foot-thick glass. There was no way she could get out on her own.

  She had just one chance: That Aldous had been wrong about the cats. That they weren’t merely waiting for him to regain control. That the friendship between Olive and the three of them was stronger than their fear.

  Olive flicked on the flashlight. Aiming it at the painting’s surface, she moved her hand back and forth through the beam, making it flash like a distress signal.