The Strangers (4 page)

Morton’s eyes narrowed. “You look strange from
far away.
”

“I hate to interrupt this cheery reunion,” said Horatio, “but we ought to be on our way before Olive’s parents notice our absence.” He headed toward the street, muttering grumpily to himself. “. . . Although why you humans have decided to celebrate all that is dark and wicked by dressing up in ridiculous costumes and gorging yourselves on candy is beyond my comprehension.”

Rutherford darted after the cat. “Well,” he began, “the origins of Halloween, or All Hallows’ Eve, date back to . . .”

The rest of the group hurried after them.

In the downstairs entryway, Olive made sure that every inch of Morton’s paint-streaked skin was cloaked by his costume. She tucked the spectacles on their ribbon back inside her collar and glanced around at her friends. A faint flutter, half fear, half excitement, stirred in the bottom of her stomach.

“Mom! Dad!” she called down the hallway. “We’re leaving!”

Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody’s smiling faces appeared around the edge of the kitchen door.

“Oh, don’t you all look marvelous!” Mrs. Dunwoody exclaimed, bustling closer.

“Very frightening,” Mr. Dunwoody agreed. “Rutherford, are you supposed to be an IRS agent?”

“I’m a professor of medieval history,” said Rutherford.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mr. Dunwoody. “The blazer. I should have known.”

“And this is our friend Morton,” said Olive, gesturing to the hooded ghost. “He lives . . . nearby.”

“Very nice to meet you, Morton,” said Mrs. Dunwoody.

The ghost held out a sheet-covered hand.

“All right, everyone, hold still for a quick photo!” said Mr. Dunwoody, raising the camera. “Move a bit closer together. Morton, turn fifteen degrees to your right. Olive, grab Horatio, would you? He seems to be trying to hide. Now give me your scariest poses. Say ‘supernatural numbers’!”

“Supernatural numbers!”

The camera flashed.

Outside the old stone house, afternoon had dwindled into evening. The porch swing groaned softly on its chains. The ferns whispered to each other like watchful neighbors. Along the street, where the
real
neighbors usually watched and whispered, smiling pumpkins flickered on stoops, and golden lights glowed through open doorways. A few sparse clusters of children—more children than Olive had ever seen on Linden Street—scurried from door to door. As Olive watched from the top of the porch steps, one group of undersized pirates reached the path to the old stone house. They paused, their eyes traveling across the overgrown lawn to the chilly stone walls and darkly glimmering windows, up and up and up to the black peaks of the rooftops, where the branches of the trees rattled and scratched like skeletal hands.

The pirates ran away so fast that one of them lost his clip-on earring.

“Mom and Dad may have overestimated the number of trick-or-treaters they’ll get,” said Olive.

Morton stood beside her on the porch’s worn floorboards. The breeze made his costume shift and shimmer, the painted faces grinning out at the street before hiding themselves again. His eyes traveled left, toward the upper floors of the old Nivens house—still dark, still gray, and still deserted—that loomed above the lilac hedge.

“It changed again,” he said. “Last time, it was summer. Everything keeps changing.” He kicked a dry leaf that had landed on the porch floor. It skittered down the steps and caught a rising draft of wind, sailing away over the lawn and out of sight. With the toe of the white sneakers that Olive had lent him, Morton gave the porch railing a kick. His shoe left a smudge that didn’t fade away. Morton let out a laugh. “Let’s go!” he shouted, hopping down the steps.

“Let’s head to the right, and then loop around and proceed down the street,” said Rutherford, following him. “That way we can visit the greatest number of houses without backtracking.”

“An excellent stratagem, sir,” said Leopold, striding after, with Harvey shuffling and squinting behind.

With her toes poised at the edge of the step, Olive felt a shudder twitch through her body. The hair on the back of her neck started to prickle. Suddenly the purplish sky seemed too dark, the air too chilly, the big house behind her too quiet, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for her to go away. She glanced down at Horatio.

“The house will be safe while we’re gone, won’t it?” she asked.

“This house is secure, Olive,” Horatio answered. “Spells guard it; protection surrounds it. Besides, everything that Annabelle wants is out here.” Olive swallowed hard as the cat’s green eyes traveled from the spectacle-shaped bump under her collar down to the sidewalk, where Leopold and Harvey were marching and lumbering along. “As long as we all stay together, we should be safe.”

Olive nodded. “I want Morton to have a real Halloween,” she said. “I’m not going to let the McMartins take one more thing away.” She watched the glowing ghost bounce impatiently up and down on the sidewalk. A little bit of Morton’s excitement seemed to flutter back to her, like a summer breeze winding through a cool autumn night. “Let’s go trick-or-treating!” she said, rushing down the steps with Horatio beside her.

They wound their way up and down the street, keeping far away from the empty windows of the Nivens house. Mr. Hanniman was giving out candy necklaces. The Butlers had SweeTarts and Skittles. Mr. Fergus was distributing granola bars, but at least they were the kind with chocolate chips. All the neighbors exclaimed over Olive’s creative costume, and Morton’s scary costume, and the cats’ adorable costumes, and then asked what Rutherford was supposed to be.

“Perhaps I should have carried my encyclopedia of the Middle Ages,” Rutherford said to Olive, after explaining the significance of his blazer for the tenth time.

“When we’re done, you can have all of my candy, Olive,” said Morton loudly, bumping Rutherford off the sidewalk.

“Well, we’re not done yet,” said Olive. “Don’t forget about the carnival!”

“The carnival!” Morton exclaimed, running ahead, with Harvey gallumphing at his heels. “The carnival!”

Morton’s anticipation was contagious. Olive could feel it fizzing through her like bubbles in a just-opened bottle of pop, making everything seem lighter. But she couldn’t get careless now, she reminded herself. It was up to her to keep an eye on everyone else. Above them, the purple sky was deepening to black. The moon, like a sliver of sharpened bone, slit the trails of passing clouds. If a living painting was going to creep up on them, now would be its perfect chance—when the night would hide them all, and the familiar houses of Linden Street were dwindling into the distance. Olive cast a glance over her shoulder. For a moment, the rooftop of the old stone house pierced through the net of black-branched trees. Then the group turned a corner, and the last trace of the house disappeared from sight.

“We just need to stay in busy areas,” said Rutherford. Olive gave a little jump, startled that Rutherford had read her thoughts so clearly. “There are witnesses all around us,” he went on. “We’ll be safe.”

Rutherford was right. The closer they got to the junior high, the more crowded and noisy the darkening streets became. By the time they reached the last block, they were being carried along on a steady stream of kids in costumes. The cats hissed at a pack of werewolves. Rutherford was smooshed against a glittery red devil. Olive found herself sandwiched between a headless horseman and a tall gray ghoul.

She glanced up into the ghoul’s tattered hood. Hidden inside was a crumbling pit where a nose should have been, lips that shriveled back from yellowing teeth, and two sagging black sockets with living eyes glimmering in their depths.

Olive looked quickly away again.

Ahead of them, the junior high was lit up like a giant brick jack-o’-lantern. Warm yellow light and bursts of music streamed from its open doors. For the first time ever, the sight of school filled Olive with a rush of comfort.

“Listen, everyone,” she said softly, urging the group into a huddle just outside the front doors. “They don’t usually allow pets inside, so you three cats will have to be careful not to let any grown-ups see you.”

“Don’t worry, Olive,” Horatio murmured. “We can be discreet. At least,
two
of us can.” He shot a look at Harvey, who was sweeping a hunchbacked bow to a girl in a Gypsy costume.

As it turned out, Olive didn’t need to worry about the cats being noticed. The crowd inside the front hall was so dense, three costumed hippopotami could have gone undetected. Strands of spiderweb trailed across the ceiling. Twists of black crepe paper threaded the warm air, where the smells of popcorn and caramel mingled in a sugary fog. Olive was jostled and shoved and bumped along, trying to keep her goggles firmly on her head and her feet firmly beneath her body.

“Remember to stay together!” she called over the noise.

But she was calling to no one.

O
LIVE STARED AROUND
the teeming school hallway. Rutherford, Morton, and the cats had vanished into the crowd like five raindrops into a river.

Olive felt a sickening jolt. They had to stay together. Alone, each one of them would be vulnerable; each one could become a target. She pressed one tent-pegged hand over the lump of the spectacles. At least
they
were still with her. Craning around for any sign of the others, Olive let herself be carried along, through the gymnasium doors.

There, the noise and color of the hall seemed to explode outward, swelling and dimming like a burst firework. The lights hanging from the ceiling had been draped in layers of black and purple tissue, filling the room with a violet haze. The wooden floor gleamed like a mirror. Where the bleachers usually stood, rows of tents and tables flickered with false candlelight. Masked faces shifted around her. Nylon wings poked her in the sides. Robots and aliens bumped past, making muffled zapping noises with their plastic laser guns. And one tall gray ghoul loomed over her shoulder, coming just close enough to catch the corner of her eye.

Olive edged away from the ghoul’s lurking figure. How come she couldn’t find any of her friends, but she couldn’t seem to lose one stranger?

“Rutherford?” she called, her voice useless against the carnival’s roar. “Morton?”

She dodged through the crowd. If she could just find an open spot, or something tall to stand on, maybe she could get a clearer view and—

“Braaaaains?” intoned a low voice in her ear.

Olive whipped around and nearly planted her nose in a platter of pinkish gray goop. The goop looked suspiciously like molded Jell-O, and the zombie holding it looked suspiciously like her science teacher, but Olive’s heart gave a little shiver anyway. It gave another, harder shiver a moment later, when the zombie shuffled to one side, revealing the tall gray ghoul just a few steps away.

Was it
following
her?

With a burst of panic, Olive raced to the left, toward a massive display of carved pumpkins. Safe in their glow, she paused, breathing hard, and squinted into the nearby faces.

There was no one that she recognized . . . No one but the tall gray ghoul that came gliding slowly through the crowd, its hooded face swiveling to find her.

An imaginary hand grabbed Olive by the throat. She dove behind a knot of vampires drinking blood-colored sodas. Crouching close to the floor and keeping one eye fixed over her shoulder, Olive scuttled sideways, not noticing the tall black object in her path until she had crab-walked directly into it.

The tall black object turned around.

“Well, hello there,” said Ms. Teedlebaum, squinting down at Olive. “Happy Halloween!”

“Um . . . happy Halloween,” Olive managed.

The art teacher was dressed in black from head to toe, with rows and rows of silver chains wrapped tightly around her neck. Her kinky red hair had been combed straight up, so that it jutted like a petrified tassel from the top of her head. Its tips were splattered with glossy blots of orange paint.

“I’m a paintbrush,” Ms. Teedlebaum announced. “I think it’s perfectly obvious, but people keep asking.”

“Oh,” said Olive, glancing away just long enough to see that the ghoul had sunk back into the sea of costumes. “How—how did you—”

“Get my hair to stand up like this?” Ms. Teedlebaum supplied. “That’s the other thing people keep asking. I used wood glue.”

“Oh,” said Olive. “Will that wash out?”

Ms. Teedlebaum paused. “To be honest, I didn’t think that far ahead.” She shrugged, smiling again. The rows of silver chains jangled. “I guess we’ll see!”

Olive nodded.

“And what about you? Are you a cockroach?” Ms. Teedlebaum asked, gazing at Olive’s goggles and scaly brown suit.

“I’m a jabberwocky. Like in
Alice in Wonderland.
”

“Ah.” Ms. Teedlebaum nodded. “I think I would prefer a cockroach infestation to a jabberwocky infestation, wouldn’t you, Alice? But I’d prefer a butterfly infestation to either of those. Why are there never infestations of
nice
things, I wonder.” Shaking her head thoughtfully, the red-haired paintbrush wandered away.

Olive turned in a wobbly circle, trying to bring her brain back to the present. The ghoul was still nowhere to be seen—but neither were Rutherford, Morton, or the cats. Shrieks from the Haunted Maze shot through the sugary air, making Olive twitch. She clenched her hands inside the bulky gloves.

Rutherford and the cats could find their own way home. But what if she had lost Morton for good? What if he used this chance to run away from the house, from Elsewhere, and from Olive? Or what if he came too close to those flickering jack-o’-lanterns, and the candle flames caught the edge of this costume, and—

No,
Olive told herself. That wasn’t likely. It was much
more
likely that the McMartins would use this chance to separate them all, to scare and confuse them, and then to spring upon them, like wolves on a scattering herd of sheep. She had to find her friends again, before someone
else
did.

Olive stood on her tiptoes, searching the throng.
Please,
she thought.
Please, please, please.
And as though she had wished it into existence, a delicate greenish light, like the glimmer of a firefly, glowed through a seam in the crowd.

Olive’s heart leaped.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, darting past turtles and space troopers and someone dressed as a dachshund in a hotdog bun. She had to keep that firefly glow in sight. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

Two giggling fairies bounced past, knocking Olive off course. “Hey!” shouted the dark-haired fairy. She squinted at Olive, her glittery green eyeliner sparkling in the dimness. “You came as a
bat!
”

“Ew! Don’t let it get caught in your hair!” squeaked the other fairy, and the two of them fluttered away, shrieking and covering their heads.

Olive spun around, trying to find the green light again, and felt something damp brush the side of her neck. Something slick and soft and almost rotten. She halted, looking up.

The tall gray ghoul loomed above her.

Letting out a gasp that no one heard, Olive stumbled backward through the crowd. The ghoul’s eyes, two glinting black pits in the shade of its hood, glided after her. She dropped to her hands and knees, veering left and then right and then left again, putting as many other bodies as she could between herself and the thing in the rotten gray robes. When she was sure she’d lost it, she bolted toward the greenish glow of Morton’s costume, weaving through the crowd until suddenly she could make out the familiar shapes of Morton, Rutherford, and all three cats, gathered around the mouth of an Egyptian tomb.

Olive skidded to a halt before the tomb’s cardboard walls.

“There you are!” she panted, grabbing Morton’s ghostly arm. “I was so—”

“Mademoiselle!” Harvey bellowed from the corner of his mouth. “You are safe!”

“Shh!” hissed Horatio, giving Harvey a warning swat on the head.

“What did you say?” Harvey bellowed even more loudly. “The cathedral bells have made me deaf!”

“Shh!”
Horatio hissed again, pressing his green nose to Harvey’s splotchy one.

“I thought I wouldn’t find you again,” Olive gasped, gazing around at all of them. “I thought something might already have happened to you.”

“We were right here the whole time,” said Morton, rather grumpily. He nodded at Rutherford. “This boy has been staring at the same display
forever.
”

“I am almost certain that these hieroglyphs are gibberish,” Rutherford observed, glancing up from a painted cardboard column. “And even I—who am
not
an expert on ancient Egypt—know that mummy cases were placed horizontally inside of sarcophagi, not left standing up so that mummies could reach out and attack nearby people,” he added as the case swung open and a bandaged arm reached out to paw at the air.

“Listen, everyone,” said Olive, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I think someone is
following
us.”

“Whom do you mean, miss?” Leopold asked, stiffening.

Horatio’s green eyes sharpened. “What makes you think so?”

Olive huddled against the tomb’s cardboard corner. “I should have known,” she whispered to the others. “It looked too tall and too
real
to be a kid in a costume.” She pointed into the crowd. “Do you see that tall gray ghoul, right—”

But the towering hooded head wasn’t there.

It wasn’t anywhere.

Olive turned back to her friends. “I don’t know where it went,” she said. “It was right behind me when I came into the gym. And then . . .”

The words shriveled in Olive’s throat.

On the silvery wooden floor, just behind the model tomb, lay a tattered slip of gray cloth. Olive’s eyes traveled upward, along the tomb’s wall, and came to rest on a hand—a bony, gray-skinned, rotten hand, with its long fingers wrapped around the wall’s cardboard edge.

“Run!” she screamed.

Olive streaked toward the closest exit, a pair of doors that led not to the crowded front corridor, but to one of the school’s inner halls. She smacked through the doors, their heavy panels creaking open to let out the many running feet that came right behind her. Everyone shot out into the dark corridor, the cats racing protectively around Olive’s ankles, Morton reaching up to grab her gloved hand.

They turned a corner into an even darker hall. Beneath their footsteps and her own gasping breath, Olive could hear the gym doors creaking open, releasing a blast of screams and laughter before whooshing shut again.

. . . Leaving one more pair of footsteps to follow them into the darkness.