The Strangers (2 page)

A
FTER THE LAST
bell had rung on the final school day of October, Olive made a beeline for the bus. The sooner she got out of this twisting brick building, the sooner she would be on her way back to the old stone house. There were cats to confer with, and rooms to check, and painted people to visit, and she didn’t want to waste one extra minute entangled in the halls of the junior high. Olive careened around a corner and smashed straight into a girl headed in the opposite direction, bumping her so hard with her heavy backpack that the girl spun in a circle. The girl’s armload of bright orange papers fluttered through the air, like strangely rectangular autumn leaves.

“Hey!” the girl shouted. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Oh,” Olive mumbled, stumbling backward. “I’m sorry.”

With a huff, the girl bent down to gather the papers. Olive crouched beside her. Even through her lowered eyelashes, she could see that the girl’s hair was sleek and dark, and her green-brown eyes were framed by eyeliner. Olive looked back at the floor.

“I hope I didn’t wreck anything,” she said, straightening up with the papers in one outstretched hand.

“That’s okay,” the girl sighed. “I’ve got about a billion more to give out anyway.” She crammed the pages back into the stack. “Are you coming?”

Olive blinked. “Coming where?”

“To the
carnival?
” The girl shook the stack of papers, making their edges fan and rustle. “To the Halloween carnival that’s happening
tomorrow,
that’s all over the flyers you were just holding in your hands?”

“Oh.” Olive’s mind took off like a mouse in a maze, bumping its whiskery nose at each turn.
Is this a test? If I say yes, will this girl roll her eyes and say “Oh, great”? If I say no, will she laugh and say “Good”? If I say I don’t know, will she say—

“If you say ‘I don’t know,’ I’ll scream,” said the girl, widening her outlined eyes. “That’s what
everybody’s
been saying. We did all this work getting everything ready, and I’ve gotten about a million paper cuts from these stupid flyers, and somebody had
better
show up
.
”

“Oh,” said Olive again. “I—I don’t know.”

The girl didn’t scream. She just sighed again and ran her hand through her long, sleek hair. Olive caught a glimpse of orange fingernails with tiny black pumpkins perfectly placed on each tip. “Is there some other, cooler party happening that I just haven’t heard about?” the girl asked.

If there was another, cooler party, Olive hadn’t heard about it either. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Are you going trick-or-treating instead of coming to the carnival?” the girl demanded. “Because you can do both, you know.”

“Probably not.”

The girl frowned. “Why not?”

Because two witches made of paint will do terrible things to me if they get the chance.
Olive swallowed. “Um . . .”

“You should come. It’ll be fun. Here.” The girl shoved a flyer into Olive’s hands. “Bring your friends.” With a swish of glossy hair, she strode off around the corner.

Olive looked down at the paper in her hands.

HALLOWEEN CARNIVAL!
Costume Contest!! Haunted Mazes!!
Caramel Apples!! Fabulous Prizes!!!

Too many exclamation points!!!
thought Olive. But she folded the flyer and tucked it into her pocket anyway.

She was still thinking about the carnival when she and Rutherford Dewey climbed off the school bus at the foot of Linden Street.

“You don’t mind staying home on Halloween, do you?” Olive asked as they crunched their way up the leafy sidewalk.

“I understand your hesitation,” said Rutherford, in his rapid, slightly nasal voice. “You are probably right that leaving the house at night would make you vulnerable. My grandmother’s charms are surrounding the place, so as long as you stay inside, they should keep you safe as well.”

“But—” Olive began.

“But then again, the McMartins have found a way around those protections before.”

Olive glanced at Rutherford out of the corner of her eye. Having a friend who could read her thoughts came in handy sometimes. Other times, it was simply irritating. “That’s just what I was going to say,” she said, under her breath.

They had reached the walkway to Mrs. Dewey’s house, which nestled a short distance away from the street, behind a knot of shady birch trees. Mrs. Dewey herself was bent over in front of the house, tending to a cluster of plants. Her wide, round backside glided back and forth above her tiny feet, like a blimp anchored to a pair of high heels. She looked up as Rutherford and Olive approached.

“Hello, you two!” she called in her flute-like voice. She bent down again, making the blimp waver, before straightening up with a small paper package in one hand. “Olive, as I heard you weren’t going trick-or-treating this year, I made you a sample to bring home. They’re my chocolate gingerbread bars and frosted pumpkin-spice drops,” she said, pressing the bag into Olive’s hands.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dewey,” said Olive.

“In return, you can help me gather some leaves.” Mrs. Dewey gestured to the shrubs beside her. “This Matchstick Mallow is about to go dormant for the winter.”

“What are you using Matchstick Mallow for, Grandma?” asked Rutherford, beginning to tug the pale leaves from their twigs.

“I like to keep a small stock on hand.” Mrs. Dewey lowered her voice slightly, in case any neighbors were near enough to hear. “It’s good for easing fears, in infusions and so forth—as long as you don’t use too much. A little fear is a good thing. It can protect you, like a shield.”

Rutherford’s eyes lit up. “A knight’s shield?” he asked. “What type would it be? Pavise? Buckler? Targe?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Rutherford,” said Mrs. Dewey wearily.

Olive snapped a leaf off of its stem. It had a petaled shape, almost like a five-leafed clover, and it felt spongy and smooth against her skin.

“Wouldn’t Martyr’s Hope be a more effective ingredient for eliminating fear?” Rutherford asked.

Mrs. Dewey’s soft, round body turned suddenly stiff. She swiveled toward Rutherford. “Where did you hear of Martyr’s Hope?”

“In the book I’ve been reading, the one about the medieval magician’s herbarium. It was on your bookshelf.”

Mrs. Dewey sighed. She tugged another leaf off of the shrub, placing it in the jar at her feet, before answering. “Martyr’s Hope is a volatile, unpredictable plant. I don’t raise it, and I wouldn’t use it if I did.”

Rutherford straightened his smudgy wire-rimmed glasses, looking puzzled. “But isn’t it one of the ingredients used in creating Calling Candles?”

“
Calling Candles?
RUTHERFORD DEWEY.” Mrs. Dewey’s voice changed from a flute into a trombone. “I don’t use such items, and I expect you to be wise enough never to use them either,” she added more quietly. “Making such a thing—and using it—takes dark and dangerous magic.”

“I see,” said Rutherford calmly. He plucked another leaf. “And what do Calling Candles look like?”

Mrs. Dewey let out a sigh that could have inflated a hot-air balloon.

“If I can’t identify a Calling Candle, isn’t it possible that I could use one by accident?” Rutherford asked, before Mrs. Dewey could speak. “Like sitting down for a picnic in a patch of Poison Oak?”

“Rutherford . . .” Mrs. Dewey pressed one hand to her forehead. “Calling Candles are bluish, and have a powdery silver surface, a bit like frost on a windowpane. They can also be used only
once,
and it’s awfully unlikely that you would happen to find one, light it, and say someone’s name into the flames by
accident.
” Mrs. Dewey halted. She pressed her lips together and stared down at her grandson. “I’ve told you more than enough. And don’t you even
try
to read it out of me. You know I can keep you out.” She examined the glass jar. “I believe that’s enough Mallow to last for the winter—unless either of you is expecting to have an especially frightening one.” Mrs. Dewey gave a little start and turned toward Olive, looking as though she’d like to take those words back. “And I’m sure there’s no reason you
would,
” she added.

Olive nodded at Mrs. Dewey. But she wasn’t nearly so sure.

After waving good-bye to Rutherford and his grandmother, Olive headed up the street, hurrying past the deserted gray hulk of the Nivens house before cutting across her own front yard. She ducked under the canopy of cobwebs and clomped onto the porch. Dead ferns whispered from their hanging baskets. The porch swing creaked softly in the breeze. Olive tested the doorknob, making sure it was still locked, before fitting the key into its slot.

The door opened inward with a groan.

Olive sniffed the now-familiar scents of dust and wax and old wood, and listened to the silence that washed in to erase the sound of the opening door. Along the hall, dust motes glimmered in a beam of faint sunlight, beckoning her onward. For a moment, Olive felt sure that the house wasn’t just watching her, but
recognizing
her. With a last deep breath of crisp autumn air, she stepped over the threshold.

“Hello, Olive,” said a voice from the parlor doorway. Horatio’s wide orange face peered out into the hall.

“Hello, Horatio,” Olive answered, locking the door behind her again. “Anything strange happen today?”

“Not a thing. Unless you call Harvey chaining himself to the upstairs banister ‘strange,’ and I no longer do.”

Olive dropped her backpack to the hardwood floor. “Was he being Hairy Houdini again?”

“He was.”

“And did you rescue him?”

“I did.”

“Thank you, Horatio.” Olive tossed her jacket over the knobby brass coatrack and headed for the staircase. “I’m going to pay Morton a visit before my parents get home.”

“An excellent idea,” said Horatio, stepping back into the parlor with a swish of his plumy tail.

“Oh, by the way,” Olive called over the banister, “what did you mean about us not having to fight alone?”

Horatio didn’t turn around. “Nice try, Olive.”

Olive let out a sigh. Then she jogged the rest of the way up the staircase.

In the upstairs hall, Olive pulled the spectacles out of her collar and settled them on her nose. The paintings along each wall rippled to life. Inside one frame, the silvery lake sent delicate waves toward the shore. In another, bare trees rattled above a moonlit path. In the painting of the Scottish hills, bracken tossed and fluttered like a golden sea.

Olive remembered the taste of that silvery lake water filling her mouth as the rising waves dragged her under. She remembered the darkness swirling behind those bare trees, rushing down to surround her like a swarm of shadowy insects. She remembered the hole waiting in that golden bracken—the hole that had nearly trapped her until her body turned to paint and she was stuck there, not living, not dying, forever.

With a shudder, Olive hurried toward the painting of Linden Street.

The canvas squished around her like a sheet of warm Jell-O. She plunged through the frame, headfirst, and landed with a whump in the misty grass on the other side.

The Linden Street of a century ago wound its way up the hill before her. The houses along the street were sleepy and silent, but here and there, burning candles bobbed behind lace curtains. The wary eyes of painted neighbors peered out at Olive as she raced by.

On the sidewalk before one towering gray house, a small boy in a large white nightshirt was waiting. He straightened up as Olive drew nearer.

“Catch!” he yelled.

Olive ducked.

A rock zoomed straight toward the crown of her head. Just before it could smack her, it arced backward and rolled to a stop near the boy’s bare feet.

“Morton!” Olive shouted. “That was mean!”

“I told you to catch it,” said Morton.

“You know I’m not a good catcher!”

“Yes, but I also knew it would come right back again before it even hit you,” said Morton. “Probably.”

Olive stalked past Morton and plunked down on his front steps, still scowling.

Morton wavered on the walkway in front of her. “I didn’t think you were coming today,” he said, after a moment. “I waited and waited.”

“Keep throwing rocks at my head, and I won’t come
at all,
” said Olive.

Morton dug one toe into the ground and twisted from side to side, his tufty white hair turned translucent by the glow of a neighbor’s candle. Olive watched his head droop lower and lower until she thought it might topple him straight to the ground, like a pumpkin on a skinny stem.

“I’m sorry I was late,” said Olive at last. “I stopped at Mrs. Dewey’s house for a little while.”

Morton didn’t look at her. “You’ve hardly been here all week.”

“I’m sorry,” said Olive again. “I had lots of homework. And it was my birthday last weekend, and I’ve been decorating the house for Halloween.”

From the slump of Morton’s shoulders, Olive could tell that her explanation wasn’t helping. He plopped down on the grass beyond the stoop and wrapped his arms around his knobby knees. “Did you get presents?”

“Yes.”

“What did you get?”

“Rutherford gave me a book about Renaissance paintings. My mom and dad gave me a new coat and some sketchbooks and a locker mirror.”

“A locker mirror?”

“A little mirror to hang in my locker at school. The frame is all made out of numbers, and it says ‘Here’s looking at Euclid!’ on the front.”

Morton frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Me neither.”

Morton rested his chin on his folded arms. “I would have given you a birthday present,” he said.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Morton said, in a clearer, firmer voice, “When it’s my turn with the spectacles, we should have
another
birthday party. For you
and
me. And you should have to give me presents for all the birthdays that I’ve missed.”

Olive’s heart gave a nervous leap—and it wasn’t at the thought of having to buy Morton dozens of presents. She had promised him that if she didn’t find his parents by the end of November, he could have the spectacles in order to search for them himself. Olive had looked everywhere for some sign of Mary and Harold Nivens. She’d searched the house, she’d explored Elsewhere, she’d even questioned her neighbors on Linden Street (one of whom had turned out to be a painting herself), but she’d found no promising clues. For a while, Olive had hoped that by re-creating Morton’s parents in Aldous’s magical paints she could sidestep the problem completely. But her portrait of the Nivenses had turned out all wrong—and now, with only one month to go, she was no closer to finding the
real
Nivenses, either.