by Clive Barker
“And what do we tell them?” his father said, raising his voice. “That we think there’s a House out there that hides in a mist, and steals children with magic? It’s ridiculous!”
“Calm down, calm down,” Harvey’s mother said. “We’ll talk about this after we’ve eaten.”
They trudged home, ate and discussed the whole problem again, but without finding any solutions. Mr. Hood had laid his traps carefully over the years, protecting himself from the laws of the real world. Safe behind the mists of his illusion, he’d most likely already found two new and unwitting prisoners to replace Harvey and Wendell. It seemed his evil would go on, undiscovered and unpunished.
The following day Harvey’s father made an announcement.
“This search is getting us nowhere,” he said. “We’re going to give it up!”
“Are you going to the police?” his wife asked him.
“Yes. And they’ll want Harvey to tell them everything he knows. It’s going to be difficult.”
“They won’t believe me,” Harvey said.
“That’s why I’m going to talk to them first,” his father said. “I’ll, find somebody who’ll listen.”
He left soon after breakfast, with a worried expression on his face.
“This is all my fault,” Harvey said to his mom. “We lost all that time together, just because I was bored.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “We’re all tempted to do things we regret once in a while. Sometimes we choose badly and make mistake
“I just wish I knew how to unmake it,” Harvey replied.
His mother went out shopping in the middle of the morning, and left Harvey haunted by that thought. Was there some way to undo the damage that had been done? To take back the stolen years, and live them here, with the people who loved him, and whom he loved dearly in return?
He was sitting at his bedroom window, trying to puzzle the problem out, when he saw a forlorn figure at the street corner. He threw open the window and yelled down to him:
“Wendell! Wendell! Over here!”
Then he raced downstairs. By the time he opened the door his friend was on the step, his face red and wet with tears and sweat.
“What happened?” he said. “Everything’s changed.” His words were punctuated by hiccups. “My dad divorced my mom and my mom’s so old, Harvey, and fat as a house.” He wiped his running nose with the back of his hand, and sniffed hard. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” he said. “Well, was it?”
Harvey did his best to explain how the House had deceived them, but Wendell was in no mood for theory. He just wanted the nightmare to be over.
“I want things the way they were,” he wailed.
“My dad’s gone to the police,” Harvey said. “He’s going to tell them everything.”
“That won’t do any good,” Wendell said despairingly. “They’ll never find the House.”
“You’re right,” Harvey said. “I went to look for it with my mom and dad, but it was no use. It’s hiding.”
“Well it’s bound to hide from them, stupid,” Wendell said. “It doesn’t want grown-ups.”
“You’re right,” said Harvey. “It wants children. And I bet it wants you and me more than ever.”
“How’d you reckon that?”
“It almost had us. It almost ate us alive.”
“So you think it’s got a taste for us?”
“I’m sure of it”
Wendell stared at his feet for a moment. “You think we should go back, don’t you?”
“I don’t think any of those grown-ups—my dad, your mom, the police—are ever going to find the House. If we want all those years back, we have to get them for ourselves.”
“I don’t much like the idea,” Wendell confessed.
“Neither do I,” he said, thinking as he spoke that he’d have to leave a note for his mom and dad, so that they wouldn’t think his return had been a dream. “We have to go,” he said. “We don’t have any choice.”
“So when do we start?”
“Now!” said Harvey grimly. “We’ve lost, too much time already.”
XVI. Back to the Happy Land
It was as if the House knew that they were coming back and was calling to them. As soon as they stepped out into the street their feet seemed to know the way. All they had to do was let them lead.
“What do we do when we get there?” Wendell wanted to know. “I mean, we only just escaped with our lives last time—”
“Mrs. Griffin will help us,” Harvey said.
Wendell’s breath quickened. “Suppose Carna bit her head off?” he said.
“Then we’ll have to do it alone.”
“Do what?”
“Find Hood.”
“But you told me he was dead.”
“I don’t think being dead means much to a creature like him,” Harvey said. “He’s in the house somewhere, Wendell, and we have to hunt him down whether we like it or not. He’s the one who stole all those years with our moms and dads. And we won’t get them back until we face him.”
“You make it sound easy,” Wendell said.
“The whole House is a box of tricks,” Harvey reminded him. “The seasons. The presents. They’re all illusions. We have to hold on to that.”
“Harvey? Look.”
Wended pointed ahead of them. Harvey knew the street at a glance. Thirty-three days ago, he’d stood here with Rictus, and listened to the tempter tell him what a fine place lay on the other side of the mist wall up ahead.
“This is it then,” Harvey said.
It was strange, but he didn’t feel afraid, even though he knew they were walking back into their enemy’s arms. It was better to face Hood and his illusions now than to spend the rest of his life wondering about Lulu, and mourning the years he’d lost.
“Are you ready?” he asked Wendell.
“Before we go,” his friend replied, “can we get just one thing s straight? If the House is all illusions, then how come we felt the cold? And how come I got fat from eating Mrs. Griffin’s pies, and—”
“I don’t know,” Harvey cut in, doubt running a cold finger up his spine. “I can’t explain how Hood’s magic works. All I know is, he took all those years away to feed himself.”
“Feed?”
“Yeah. Like…like…like a vampire.” This was the first time Harvey had thought of Hood that way, but it instinctively seemed right. Blood was life, and life was what w Hood fed upon. He was a vampire, sure enough. Maybe a king among vampires.
“So shouldn’t we have a stake, or holy water, or something?”
“That’s just in stories,” Harvey said.
“But if he comes after us—”
“We fight.”
“Fight with what?”
Harvey shrugged. The truth was, he didn’t know. But he was sure that crosses and prayers weren’t going to be any use, in the battle that lay ahead.
“No more talk,” he said to Wendell. “If you don’t want to come, then don’t.”
“I didn’t say that”
“Good,” said Harvey, and started toward the mist.
Wendell followed on his heels, and just as Harvey stepped into the wall he snatched hold of his friend’s sleeve, so that they entered as they had exited: together.
The mist closed around them like a waterlogged blanket, pressing so hard against their faces Harvey half thought it intended to smother them. But it only wished to keep them from changing their minds. A moment later a tremor moved through its folds and spat them out the other side.
It was high summer in Hood’s kingdom: the lazy season. The sun, which had been hidden by rain clouds on the other side of the mist, was beaming down on the House and all that prospered around it. The trees swayed in a balmy breeze, the doors and windows of the House, its porch and chimneys, all gleamed as if newly painted.
There were welcoming songs in the eaves; welcoming smells from the kitchen; welcoming laughter through the open door
. Welcome; everywhere welcome.
“I’d forgotten…” Wendell murmured.
“Forgotten what?”
“How…beautiful it is.”
“Don’t trust it,” Harvey said. “It’s all illusion, remember? All of it.”
Wendell didn’t reply, but wandered away toward the trees. The honeyed breeze gusted around him, as if to pluck him up. He didn’t resist, but went where it led, into the dappled shade.
“Wendell!” Harvey said, following him across the lawn. “We’ve got to stick together.”
“I’d forgotten about the tree house,” Wendell said dreamily, staring up into the canopy. “We had such fun up there, remember?”
“No,’’ said Harvey, determined not to let the past distract him from his mission here. “I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do,” said Wendell, smiling from ear to ear. “We worked so hard up there. I’m going up to see how it looks.”
Harvey grabbed his arm.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am,” he snapped back, wrenching his arm from Harvey’s grip. “I can do whatever I want. You don’t own me.”
Harvey could see by the glazed look in Wendell’s eyes that the House was already working its seductive magic. It could only be a matter of time, he knew, before his own powers of resistance were worn away. And what then? Would he forget his work here entirely, and become an empty-headed boy, laughing like a loon while his soul was sucked away?
“No!” he said aloud, “I’m not going to let you do it!”
“Do what?” said Wendell.
“We’ve got work to do!” Harvey told him.
“Who cares?” Wendell replied.
“I do. And so did you five minutes ago, Remember what it did to us, Wendell.”
The wind in trees seemed to sigh at this.
“Aaahh…” it said, as if it now understood Harvey’s purpose here, and would waft this intelligence to the ears of Mr. Hood.
Harvey didn’t care. In fact, he was pleased,
“Go on,” he said, as the gusts flew toward the House. “Tell him! Tell him!” He turned on Wendell. “Are you coming?” he said. “Or am I going to go in alone?”
“I don’t mind going in,” Wendell said cheerily. “I’m hungry.”
Harvey stared hard at Wendell. “Don’t you remember anything we said out there?” he demanded.
“Of course I do,” Wendell replied. “We said we were going to…” He paused, frowning. “…going…to…”
“This place has stolen time that belonged to us, Wendell.”
“How did it do that?” said Wendell, still frowning deeply. “It’s just…just…” Again he faltered, searching for the words. “…just such a perfect day.” The frown began to fade again, and a broad smile replaced it. “Who cares?” Wendell said. “I mean, on a day like this, who cares? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
Harvey shook his head. He was losing precious time here, which was exactly what Hood and the House wanted. Instead of wasting any further words on Wendell, he turned on his heel and headed toward the front door.
“Wait for me!” Wendell hollered. “Can you smell that pie?”
Harvey could, and wished he’d put some food in his belly before he’d started out on this adventure. Knowing that these tantalizing smells were all part of Hood’s repertoire wasn’t enough to stop his mouth from watering or his stomach from grumbling.
All he could do was think of the dust to which his ark animals had turned when he’d stepped out into the street. The pie on the kitchen table was probably made of the same bitter stuff, concealed beneath a veneer of sweetness. He held on to that thought as best he could, knowing that the House into which he was about to step would be full of such blandishments.
With Wendell again trailing a step behind, he climbed the porch steps and marched into the House. The moment they were both inside, the door slammed behind them. Harvey reeled around, his skin crawling. It was not the wind that had thrown the door shut.
It was Rictus.
XVII. Cook, Cat and Coffin
“Great to have you back, boy,” Rictus said, his smile as wide as ever. “I told everyone you wouldn’t be able to stay away. Nobody believed me. He’s gone, they said, he’s gone. But I knew better.” He started to wander toward Harvey. “I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with a little visit…not with so much fun still to be had.”
“I’m hungry,” Wendell whined.
“Help yourselves!” Rictus grinned.
Wendell was off at a sprint, into the kitchen.
“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” he hollered. “Look at all this food.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Rictus said, raising an eyebrow high above his spectacles. He cupped his hand behind his ear. “That sounds like an empty belly to me.”
“Where’s Mrs. Griffin?” Harvey said.
“Oh…she’s around,” Rictus said mischievously. “But she’s getting old. She takes to her bed a good deal these days, so we laid her down somewhere safe and sound.”
As he spoke there was a mewling sound from the living room, and there at the door stood Stew-Cat. Rictus scowled. “Get out of here, pussy!” he spat. “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation?”
But Stew-Cat wasn’t about to be intimidated. She sauntered over to Harvey, rubbing herself against his legs.
“What do you want?” Harvey said, going down on his haunches to stroke her. She purred loudly.
“Hey, that’s fine and dandy,” Rictus said, putting off his anger in favor of a freshly polished smile. “You like the cat. The cat likes you. Everybody’s happy.”
“I’m not happy,” Harvey said.
“And why’s that?”
“I left all my presents here, and I don’t know where.”
“No problem,” said Rictus. “I’ll find ‘em for you.”
“Would you do that?” Harvey said.
“Sure, kid,” said Rictus, persuaded that his charm was working again. “That’s what we’re all here for: to give you whatever your heart desires.”
“I think maybe I left them up in my bedroom,” Harvey suggested.
“You know I think I saw ‘em up there,” Rictus replied. “You stay right here. I’ll be back.”
He took himself up the stairs two and three at a time, whistling tunelessly through his teeth as he ascended. Harvey waited until he disappeared from sight and then went to check on Wendell, letting Stew-Cat slip away.
“Ah, now, look at this!’ a voice said as he appeared at the kitchen door.
It was Jive. He was standing at the stove, as sinewy as ever, juggling eggs with one hand and tossing pancakes in a pan with the other.
“What do you fancy?” he said. “Sweet or savory?”
“Nothing,” Harvey said.
“It’s all good,” Wendell piped up. He was almost hidden behind a wall of filled plates. “Try the apple turnovers! They’re great!”
Harvey was sorely tempted. The buffet looked wonderfully tempting. But it was dust. He had to keep remembering that.
“Maybe later,” he said, averting his eyes from the heaps of syrup-drenched waffles and bowls of ice cream.
“Where are you going?” Jive wanted to know.
“Mr. Rictus is finding a few presents for me,” Harvey said.
Jive smiled with satisfaction. “So you’re getting back into the swing of things, kiddo!” he said. “Good for you!”
“I’ve missed being here,” Harvey replied.
He didn’t linger, just in case Jive saw the lie in his eyes, but turned and headed back into the hallway. Stew-Cat was still there, staring at him.
“What is it?” he said.
The cat took off toward the stairs, then stopped and cast a backward glance.
“Have you something to show me?” Harvey whispered.
At this, the cat bounded off again. Harvey followed, expecting her to lead the way upstairs. But before she reached the bottom
step she veered off to her left, and led Harvey down a narrow passage to a door he had never even noticed before.
He rattled the handle, but the door was locked. Turning to look for Stew-Cat, he found her rubbing her arched back against the leg of a small table set nearby. On the table was a carved wooden box. In the box was a key.
He went back to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. There was a flight of wooden steps in front of him, leading down into a darkness from which a sour, dank smell rose. He might have declined to descend had Stew-Cat not hurried on past him, down into the murk.
With his fingers trailing on the damp walls to the left and right of him, he followed Stew-Cat to the bottom of the flight, counting the steps as he went. There were fifty-two, and by the time he had descended them all his eyes had become reasonably accustomed to the gloom. The cellar was cavernous but empty, except for a litter of rubble and a large wooden box, which lay in the dust maybe a dozen yards from where he stood.
“What is it?” he hissed to Stew-Cat, knowing the creature had no way of replying, but hoping for some sign nevertheless.
Stew-Cat’s only answer was to run across the floor and leap nimbly up onto the box, where it began to claw at the wood.
Harvey’s curiosity was stronger than his fear, but not so much stronger that he dashed to pull off the lid. He approached as though the box were some sleeping beast, which for all he knew it was. The closer he got the more it resembled a crude coffin; but what kind of coffin was sealed with a padlock? Was this where Carna had been laid, perhaps, after the beast had dragged its wounded body back home? Was it even now listening to Stew-Cat scratch on the lid, waiting for release?
As he came within a yard of the casket, however, he laid eyes on a clue to its contents: an apron string, left hanging out of the box by whoever had locked it. He knew of only one person in the House who wore an apron.
“Mrs. Griffin!” he whispered, digging his fingernails under the lid. “Mrs. Griffin? Are you in there?”
There was a muffled thump from inside.
“I’m going to get you out,” he promised, hauling on the lid as hard as he could.
He didn’t have the strength to break the lock. In desperation he began to search the cellar, looking for some tool or other, and found himself two sizable rocks. Hefting them, he returned to the casket.