If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late
Copyright © 2008 by Pseudonymous Bosch
Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Gilbert Ford
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. (And you thought getting out of P.E. was hard!)
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
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www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2008
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Similarity to persons in a state of half-life, however, is another story.
The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-04103-4
Contents
FOR
ENIELEDAM,
SACUL,
AND ILLIL
WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO XWP AHSATAN
FOR LETTING ME STEAL HER SOCK-MONSTER
A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE
:
P
LEASE READ THE CONTRACT ON THE FOLLOWING PAGE VERY CAREFULLY
. I
F YOU REFUSE TO SIGN
, I’
M AFRAID YOU MUST CLOSE THIS BOOK IMMEDIATELY
.
P.B.
The flashlight pierced the darkness
The flashlight
slashed through
the darkness
The flashlight
beam sliced
through the darkness
like a sword
The flashlight beam darted —
yes!
— across the dark hall, illuminating a wondrous collection of antique curiosities:
Finely illustrated tarot cards of wizened kings and laughing fools . . . glistening Chinese lacquer boxes concealing spring traps and secret compartments . . . intricately carved cups of wood and ivory designed for making coins and marbles and even fingers disappear . . . shining silver rings that a knowing hand could link and unlink as if they were made of air . . .
A museum of magic.
The circle of light lingered on a luminous crystal ball, as if waiting for some swirling image to appear on the surface. Then it stopped, hesitating on a large bronze lantern — once home, perhaps, to a powerful genie.
Finally, the flashlight beam found its way to a glass display case sitting alone in the middle of the room.
“Ha! At last!” said a woman with a voice like ice.
The man behind the flashlight snickered. “Who was it that said the best place to hide something was in plain sight? What an idiot.” His accent was odd, ominous.
“Just do it!” hissed the woman.
Grasping the heavy flashlight tight in his gloved hand, the man brought it down like an ax. Glass shattered in a cascade, revealing a milky white orb — a giant pearl? — sitting on a bed of black velvet.
Ignoring the sharp, glittering shards, the woman reached with a delicately thin hand — in a delicately thin white glove — and pulled out the orb.
About the size of an ostrich egg, it was translucent and seemed almost to glow from within. The surface had a honeycomb sort of texture comprised of many holes of varying sizes. A thin band of silver circled the orb, dividing it into two equal hemispheres.
The woman pushed aside her white-blonde hair and held the mysterious object to her perfectly shaped ear. As she turned it over, it whispered like an open bottle in the wind.
“I can almost hear him,” she gloated. “That horrid monster!”
“You’re so sure he’s alive? It’s been four, five hundred years . . .”
“A creature like that — so impossible to make — is all the more impossible to kill,” she replied, still listening to the ball in her hand.
A small red bloodstain now marked her white glove where one of the glass shards had cut through; she didn’t seem to notice. “But now he can escape us no longer. The Secret will be mine!”
The flashlight beam fell.
“I mean
ours,
darling.”
Beneath the shattered display a small brass plaque gleamed.
The Sound Prism, origin unknown,
it read —
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!
I’m sorry — I can’t do it.
I can’t write this book. I’m far too frightened.
Not for myself, you understand. As ruthless as they are, Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais will never find me where I am. (You recognized that insidious duo, didn’t you — by their gloves?
*
)
No, it’s for you I fear.
I had hoped the contract would protect you, but now that I look the matter square in the face — it’s just not enough.
What if, say, the wrong people saw you reading this book? They might not believe your claims of innocence. That you really know nothing about the Secret.
I regret to say it, but I can’t vouch for what would happen then.
Honestly, I would feel much better writing about something else. Something safer.
Like, say, penguins! Penguins are popular.
No? You don’t want penguins? You want secrets?
Of course you do. Me, too . . . It’s just, well, what if I were to tell you that, after all, I was just the teensiest bit scared? For my own skin, I mean.
Let me put it this way: the monster Ms. Mauvais spoke of — that wasn’t a figure of speech. She meant
monster.
So how about giving me a break? Just this once.
What’s that — it’s too late? You signed a contract?
Gee. That’s nice. I thought we had a friendly arrangement, and now you’re threatening me.
Oh, sure. I know how it is. You want to laugh at my jokes. Maybe shed a few tears. But when it comes to having real sympathy for a terrified soul like me — forget it, right?
Readers, you’re all the same. Spoiled, every last one of you. Lying there with your feet up, yelling for someone to bring you more cookies. (Don’t tell me they’re chocolate chip because then I’ll be really mad!)
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that — this whole writing business is making me crazy.
Let’s be honest — I’m stalling.
In a word: Procrastinating. Putting off. Postponing.
I’m draaaaggggginnnnnnggggg myyyyyy feeeeeet.
You’re right — it’s only going to make my job harder in the end.
Better to jump back in.
Never mind how cold the water is. Or how deep. Or how many man-eating —
The only way to write is to write and I’m just going to —
Wait! I need a second to settle my mind.
Two seconds.
Three.
There. I’m standing on the edge, pen in hand, ready to take the plunge.
And here I —
HEY, DID YOU JUST
PUSH ME?!?!
WELL, I GUESS IT HAD TO HAPPEN.
BY NOW, WE ALL KNOW I CAN’T KEEP ANYTHING TO MYSELF — NO MATTER HOW DANGEROUS OR ILL-ADVISED.
AND THE TRUTH IS:
A
graveyard at night.
On a mountainside. By a lake.
Our vision is blurred. Rain falls in sheets around us.
Everywhere there is water. Dripping. Dripping.
A strange song starts to play. It sounds far away, yet impossibly close.
Like the singing of fairies or sylphs.
Like the ringing of a thousand tiny voices inside our ears.
Above us, a crow flaps its wings against the rain and, screeching, disappears into the dark.
Lightning briefly illuminates the tombstones at our feet, but they are so old that no trace of name or date remains. They are no longer grave markers; they are just rocks.
What lies beneath is a mystery.
A mouse scurries between the stones, frantic. As if he’s trying to get out of a maze. A deadly trap.
Soon he is joined by others of his kind. They swim against a tide of mud. Clawing at each other in their desperate attempt to escape.
Automatically, we look in the direction they are running from. There is a burial mound with a broken tombstone on top. Its jagged edge silhouetted as lightning strikes a second time.
The strange, eerie song wafts through the wind — until it is drowned out by a crack of thunder.
As we watch, the broken stone topples — and lands with a thud in the mud. A gaping hole is left in the ground. Clods of dirt erupt. A mud volcano.
First one hand, then another — both very, very large — emerge out of the hole, grasping at the mud to find a hold.
And then: a nose.
At least, we think it’s a nose; it could be a cauliflower —
“Cassandra . . . !”
We look down. A lone, stranded mouse is calling to us — as if from a great distance.
“Get up, Cass — it’s late!”
He sounds oddly like our mother —
