The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows (5 page)

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Authors: Jacqueline West

BOOK: The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows
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“Are you lost?” she asked.
Morton slowly shook his head. “No . . . He brought me here. And then I couldn’t get out.”
“Who brought you here?”
“The bad man,” Morton whispered.
“What do you mean,
the bad man
?”
Morton squinted up at Olive, his round face catching a beam of moonlight. “Everybody knows the bad man.”
“Do you mean the bogeyman?” asked Olive. “Because he’s only in your imagination, you know.”
Morton shook his head so hard, he almost fell down. “
Everybody
knows him.” He looked up at Olive reproachfully.
Olive sighed. “Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so why don’t you tell me?”
Morton crossed his arms over his baggy white nightshirt. “I was in my BED . . .” he said very slowly, as if Olive might not understand simple sentences, “and then I HEARD him—”
“The bad man?” Olive interrupted.
Morton glared at her, then nodded. “He was in the garden,” Morton continued. “And he was talking. And I got out of my bed, and I went across the grass, and I watched him. He was mixing things, and he was talking to a cat. And the cat TALKED BACK.”
Inside Olive’s head, two little puzzle pieces went
click.
She held her breath and waited for Morton to continue.
“I made a noise,” Morton went on. “The man looked up and he saw me. He said,
Come here, boy. I have something special to show you.
He said I could help him. He said I would be the very first one.”
“The very first what?” whispered Olive.
Morton shrugged. “I don’t remember. I didn’t want to go with him. But my feet went anyway. We went into his house, and then . . .” Morton shook his head, like somebody shaking a Magic 8-Ball to make the next words appear. “Then . . . we both went into the forest, I think. And then the man said,
Good-bye, boy. Don’t wait for them to find you.
And then he left.” Morton looked down at the hem of his nightshirt. “And then I was by myself.”
A cold feeling rippled up Olive’s back and across her scalp. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Right now.” She held the branches of the shrubs apart, and Morton crawled through.
They stood up together. In those few minutes, the moon seemed to have moved. Thicker shadows filled the forest, leaving the ground and the path submerged in a deep pool of black.
Olive looked around. “I’m not sure which way to go,” she admitted.
Morton, whose head reached the level of Olive’s elbow, sidled closer. “I
never
know which way to go,” he said.
“Well, all we need to do is find the path,” said Olive. “That should lead us out of here.”
Olive took a few steps in one direction, with Morton trailing after her like a broken kite. There was no path to be seen. Olive turned and headed in the opposite direction. Nothing. Olive squinted into the growing darkness, looking for a spot that she had passed before—a tree, a stone, anything—but nothing looked familiar.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I can’t remember which way I came.”
“He’s watching us,” Morton whispered. “He won’t let us leave.”
The back of Olive’s neck prickled. She spun around, searching the shadows under the shifting branches. She didn’t see anyone, but she felt quite sure that Morton was right. Somebody was watching them. Olive looked down at Morton’s round, terrified face. “We’ll be okay,” she said, hoping her voice sounded surer than she felt. “I promise.”
Nearby, a dry twig snapped. In the silence, the sound traveled like a firework. Olive and Morton froze in their steps. There was another sound—the rustle of something moving through the underbrush. Olive crouched, pulling Morton close, keeping her eyes wide open. In the shadows, she saw the glitter of something green.
“Horatio? Is that you?” she whispered.
A furry shape with green eyes emerged from the darkness. It paused, looking at Morton and then at Olive. Finally it gave a long, aggravated sigh, shook its head, and moved quickly to the left.
“Follow the cat!” cried Olive, bounding after Horatio.
But Morton had planted his feet. “That’s
the
cat!” he hissed. “The one that talked!”
“I know he talks,” said Olive. “I think he’s going to show us the way out of here. Now come on!”
Morton shook his head so hard that this time he did fall down.
“Morton! Hurry!” Olive begged, yanking at Morton’s hand.
But Morton sat on the ground like an anchor. “No,” he said. “I’m not following that cat.”
“His name is
Horatio
, and he said he would be keeping an eye on me. He’s trying to help us. Get up!”
“I don’t have to do everything you say. And you can’t make me.”
“What?” Olive spluttered.
“
You
have to do what
I
say. Because I’m the boy.”
Olive dropped Morton’s hand and put her fists on her hips. “How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“Well, I’m eleven. So come on.”
“I’ll be ten in June.”
“It
is
June!”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is!!”
“It’s April,” said Morton stubbornly.
The last drip of Olive’s patience dried up. “Look,” she growled, dropping to her knees so that her nose nearly touched Morton’s. “I’m going with the cat. You can stay here forever, all by yourself, or you can come with me.
Now
.”
With his mouth squished into a pout, Morton stood up. Olive took his hand. Morton shook her off. This time, Olive grasped his wrist and didn’t let go.
Horatio had paused for them, but the moment Olive and Morton were on their feet, he was flying through the underbrush. They scrambled along behind his furry silhouette, hopping over fallen trunks, pushing through bushes. When they reached the pale stones of the path, the cat broke into a run. Morton and Olive hurried behind. They left the thick cover of the forest, and moonlight fell over them, lighting their way. Olive could see the orange hue of Horatio’s fur glowing ahead of them. Still running, she turned to glance over her shoulder and had to swallow a scream.
They were being followed. And no matter how fast they ran, Olive didn’t see how they could get away.
7
 
A
SHADOW, THICK AND solid as a pool of oil, raced after them from the edge of the forest. It swept up the path, filling the sky. It shut out the moonlight. Olive could feel it turning the air to ice. Goose bumps prickled across her body. A chilly breeze swirled through her hair.
“Hurry!” she shouted to Morton, pulling him along by the arm. With her free hand, she clumsily straightened the spectacles on her face.
Ahead of them, she could see the hanging frame and its picture of the hallway.
“Stay close to me!” Horatio yowled, streaking ahead of them like a furry comet.
Morton pumped his little legs, trying to keep up. Sharp stones jabbed at Olive’s feet, but she could barely feel them. Her heart was thundering. Her lungs ached. Her whole body knew that nothing mattered but getting away from the darkness. And it was coming closer. She could sense it—the thing in the forest, the thing that had been plotting, biding its time, was now just inches away.
 
Horatio shot through the picture frame like a dart from a blowgun. Olive grabbed Morton beneath the arms and half boosted, half tossed him after the cat. “Hey!” Morton piped indignantly. Then Olive grabbed the sides of the frame and hoisted herself, face-first, onto the hallway carpet just as the shadows swooped in around her.
Horatio didn’t waste any time. “This way!” he hissed, streaking down the hall. By the time Olive and Morton had scrambled to their feet, the cat had hopped into the painting outside Olive’s bedroom.
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.

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