The Strangers

by Jacqueline West

  “Werewolves,” said the third mason. “I’m quite sure they were werewolves.”

  “And there was a mummy,” the second mason put in.

  “How many monsters were there?” asked Olive as Baltus shoved his nose under her wrist and began licking her fingers.

  “Three,” said the second mason, his eyes wide.

  “Four,” the third mason argued.

  “Three or four, I think,” said the first mason. His voice was hushed and nervous. “They all walked upright, even the werewolves. Baltus was barking to beat the band.” He glanced at Baltus, who was coating Olive’s arm with a gradually disappearing sheet of slobber. He bent down and grasped a stick. “Fetch, boy!” he shouted, hurling the stick into the distance.

  Baltus took off like a furry freight train. The stick reappeared in its spot beside the wall.

  “Poor fellow never catches it,” said the mason, shaking his head at Baltus’s dwindling backside.

  Olive looked around at the nervous men. Of course they were nervous; they’d just seen three (or four) monsters walk past their picture frame. Olive knew how it felt to see something inhuman lurch out of the corner of your eye, to feel it staring back at you from the sunken pits in a warped, rubbery face . . .

  “Wait,” she said. “Do you think that the monsters could have been people? People in masks and costumes?”

  The masons looked at one another.

  “I suppose they could have been . . .” said the first.

  “When they came into the kitchen, what did they do?” Olive asked urgently.

  “They were struggling with something,” said the third mason. “Some of them were pushing and pulling at the others. And then they all went out through the back door.”

  Olive bit the inside of her cheek while these facts plummeted into place. Of course. How clever . . . and how convenient. If Annabelle had sneaked into the house in a Halloween costume, she would have been welcomed by her smiling victims. Then she could have disguised Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody in costumes too, and smuggled them back out of the place right under the neighbors’ nosy noses. It was just like Olive’s own plan for Morton.

  In Olive’s chest, a drum began to pound.

  “Thank you!” she shouted, wheeling toward the frame.

  “Come and see us anytime!” the masons called after her. “We’ll keep an eye out for you!”

  Olive hit the kitchen tiles with a smack. “They saw three or four creatures that looked like monsters,” she panted, crouching down between the waiting cats. “But they might have been people in costumes. And two of those people could have been my parents!”

  “Clever,” said Horatio.

  “An artful maneuver,” added Leopold.

  “The question is: Was Annabelle acting alone, or—”

  A knock from the front door echoed down the hallway. A split second later, a splotchily colored cat came streaking around the kitchen corner.

  “Agent 1-800, reporting,” Harvey announced in a faintly British accent, bumping his way through their huddle and coming nose to nose with Olive. “Our fellow agents have returned. At this point, I suggest we abandon surveillance in favor of intelligence-gathering, until we are all as intelligent as we can be. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Leopold. Olive nodded. Horatio sighed.

  Harvey spoke into the imaginary transistor watch on his left front paw. “Agent 1-800 to headquarters,” he muttered. “Do you read? Have you read any good books lately?”

  “Who do you think you are talking to, Harvey?” asked Horatio. “Do you have an extra ear growing between your toes?”

  “Agent Orange!” Harvey’s eyes widened, as though he were recognizing Horatio for the first time. “You received my signal. Our ally agents await our appearance at the rendezvous point.”

  “You mean, someone’s at the door?” Olive asked.

  Harvey seemed to struggle with himself. Then, in his smallest, sulkiest voice, he muttered, “. . . Yes.”

  Olive peeped through the front windows. Rutherford, Mrs. Dewey, Walter, Delora, and Doctor Widdecombe were clustered on the porch. After tucking the spectacles safely under her collar, Olive flung the door open.

  “Someone saw what happened last night! Someone Elsewhere!” she said, before anyone else could say Good morning, or Hello, Olive, or Why are your pants covered with dog slobber? “I think Annabelle—and maybe someone else—got inside of the house in Halloween costumes, and then took my parents out the back door, in disguise!”

  “Ah,” said Doctor Widdecombe, tossing his scarf onto the coatrack. “Then we can be certain that they were indeed removed from the house. An important elimination.”

  “Yet we found no sign of them anywhere in the neighborhood,” said Delora, unwrapping a long black velvet cloak to reveal a long black velvet dress beneath. “But I foresaw that our search would not be a simple one.”

  “Well—if we know they’re not in the house, shouldn’t we get back out there again?” Olive asked, grabbing her jacket from the rack and shoving one arm into the wrong sleeve. “Where have you already looked? Maybe we—”

  “Olive,” Doctor Widdecombe interrupted, “we must conduct a search of the house itself before we go any farther.”

  Olive stuffed the proper arm into the sleeve and wriggled the other one free. “But the cats and I already checked the house,” she said, moving toward the open door. “They aren’t here.”

  “It’s not only your parents we must look for,” said Delora.

  “Before we can understand Annabelle’s plans, we must know just what it is that she prizes—what motivates her, what gives her power, what draws her back to this house,” Doctor Widdecombe explained.

  “But—”

  “Olive.” Doctor Widdecombe lowered his voice. He stepped toward her, his hands clasped humbly against his belly. “You’ve seen how powerful Delora’s gifts are . . .”

  A gust of wind swirled through the open door. Olive twisted the doorknob in her hand, recalling the feeling of relief that had swirled through her in the same way when Delora promised that the Dunwoodys were alive.

  “And I assure you, I know a bit about magic myself,” Doctor Widdecombe went on, giving Olive a twinkly little smile and wink. “Letting us examine this house will be anything but a waste of time.”

  Olive took a breath. She glanced around at the faces of her guests all gathered in the entrance, watching her, and felt like one smallish malamute trying to pull a house-sized sled.

  “All right,” she said, forcing her impatience down. “We can search the house first.”

  Doctor Widdecombe beamed.

  Olive pushed the heavy front door shut.

  “Olive dear,” said Mrs. Dewey brightly, “would you mind if I used your kitchen?” She held up a shopping bag full of things that couldn’t have been bought in any store for a thousand miles. “We have some indoor charms to concoct, and my Locksleaf needs to simmer for another ten minutes, at least.”

  Olive nodded. The adults headed down the hall toward the kitchen, Mrs. Dewey tip-tapping in her little high heels, Doctor Widdecombe strolling after her, and Delora drifting behind them both like black velvet smoke.

  “Can I help?” Walter offered. “I could—”

  “No, Walter,” said Delora over one shoulder. “We’ve no need of you.”

  Walter’s shoulders sagged.

  Harvey bumped against Olive’s shin. “Reconnaissance mission under way,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Agent 1-800 is on the move.” With a sharp nod, he slunk after the disappearing guests.

  Olive, Rutherford, and Walter stood together in the entryway. Even without his ghoul costume, there was something strangely out of scale about Walter. Maybe it was that too-deep voice coming from his skinny neck. Maybe it was the long, bony arms that seemed to reach almost to his knees. Maybe it
was the way he towered a full head and shoulders over his aunt and uncle, while they still treated him like a child. None of it made Olive feel any more comfortable around him.

  Olive kept her arms folded tight across her chest. Horatio and Leopold flanked her like fuzzy gargoyles. Walter shifted on his feet, casting occasional sad looks along the hall toward the kitchen. Only Rutherford seemed at ease.

  “Tell me, Walter,” he began brightly, “what was it like to grow up with a world-renowned magical authority like Doctor Widdecombe in your family?”

  “Mmm,” said Walter. “Um . . . He only married my aunt Delora a couple of years ago.” Walter’s bony shoulders began to rise. “And she’s always traveled a lot, so I didn’t see much of either of them until my mother died and Delora took me in. She calls me her apprentice, but it’s not really—I’m not really—I’m not like her.” Walter’s shoulders had risen to his ears at this point. Olive wondered if they would keep rising until they came together above Walter’s head. “I’m grateful for everything Doctor Widdecombe—I mean Doctor Uncle—I mean Uncle Byron has done for me,” Walter went on. “I’d like to show him—show both of them—that I do have promise. That teaching me wouldn’t be a waste. But I’d need to surprise them, or do something really important, or . . .” Walter trailed off. The bony shoulders shrugged. “It’s hard to impress somebody who’s already the best at everything you try.”

  Olive felt a pang of recognition. She felt that very same feeling every time she picked up a calculator to check her math homework, and one of her parents gave the answer faster than Olive could press the equals button. She looked up at Walter, chewing on her lower lip and thinking that he’d probably just said more words in a row than he’d said in all their other conversations put together.

  “Well,” announced Mrs. Dewey from the kitchen door, “the leaves are simmering. I’ll make us all some tea in a bit.” She clicked back down the hallway, followed by Doctor Widdecombe, with Delora on his arm. Harvey skulked behind them like a splotchy shadow. “Olive, have you eaten today?” Mrs. Dewey continued. “Perhaps I’ll make some lunch as well.”

  “Lunch would be delightful,” said Doctor Widdecombe before Olive could answer. “But first, we will whet our appetites with a thorough search.” He gestured toward the library doors. “Shall we begin?”

  “The three of us will guard what ought not to be discovered,” Horatio murmured to Olive as the others headed toward the library. “And Olive,” he added, while Harvey zoomed up the staircase and Leopold marched toward the basement door, “give away as little as is necessary. Even to our allies. Each time a secret is shared, it grows less safe.” With a last sharp look at Olive, he turned to follow Harvey up the stairs.

  A creak echoed through the hallway. Doctor Widdecombe had thrown open the library’s double doors. By the time Olive caught up with them, Doctor Widdecombe had led everyone inside. Light from the tall windows glazed the fireplace’s painted tiles. Oriental rugs stretched across the floor, their patterns paling in the sun. Shelves bearing thousands of books towered to the ceilings, the gilt and leather of their spines glimmering in the grayish daylight.

  Delora gave a delicate gasp.

  “Wow,” Walter murmured.

  Rutherford and Mrs. Dewey, who had seen this room before, kept quiet.

  “What a trove!” Doctor Widdecombe exclaimed, striding to the center of the room. “There must be thousands of volumes here!”

  Olive’s stomach gave a twist. Once, her father had helped her estimate the total number of books in the library, but she couldn’t remember the answer anymore—and these thousands of books seemed small and unimportant now anyway. She hovered beside her mother’s desk, tapping her fingers impatiently on its surface.

  “Wow,” said Walter again, tilting his head sideways to read a row of spines. “Are they all about magic?”

  “No,” said Olive quickly. “None of them are. I’ve looked.”

  “How very odd,” said Doctor Widdecombe. “Perhaps the McMartins hid their grimoires and recipes and bestiaries in a more unexpected location, for safekeeping.”

  Olive scuffed her toes along a curlicue in the faded rug. “Maybe.” She glanced up, meeting Rutherford’s eyes. He stared back at her for a moment, frowning slightly. Please don’t tell them, she thought. Please don’t tell them. Still frowning, Rutherford gave a little nod.

  “And this must be another of Aldous’s artworks,” Doctor Widdecombe went on, approaching the huge painting of several white-gowned girls dancing in a meadow. He gazed up at it in silence for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, his coat buttons straining across his belly. “He was truly a talent, wasn’t he? I might even use the term ‘genius.’” He turned to look at Olive. “I don’t suppose you would permit me to enter one of the paintings, would you, Olive? As a magical academic, I find these living works of the utmost interest, both compositionally and historically . . .”

  Inside of Olive’s collar, the spectacles seemed to flare with a sudden chill. It didn’t feel right to say no to grown-ups—especially to grown-ups who were trying to help her—but the thought of Doctor Widdecombe squishing his body into those frames and strutting through those painted worlds made Olive want to shove him off the porch and send him rolling down Linden Street like a big tweed bowling ball. “Um . . . maybe another time,” she said. “After we’ve finished searching the house.” She turned toward the doors. “Shouldn’t we be—”

  “Doctor Widdecombe,” Rutherford interrupted, “have any other practitioners of magic used paint the way Aldous McMartin did, to create or trap living beings?”

  Olive sent Rutherford an impatient look, but Rutherford was too busy watching Doctor Widdecombe to notice.

  “None so successfully as Aldous McMartin,” said Doctor Widdecombe sagely. “A few have tried and failed. A witch named Fiona Albumblatt experimented with moving ink in the early nineteenth century, but this just meant that all of her spells scrambled themselves after she wrote them down. And of course magicians have worked with living clay for years: golems, dolls, and so forth. But none was an artist like Aldous McMartin. He was in a category of his own.”

  Olive felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. She glanced around. Mrs. Dewey was watching her with a sympathetic expression.

  “Shall we move along?” Mrs. Dewey asked, giving Olive’s shoulder a sweet-scented pat.

  “What do you think, Delora, my love?” asked Doctor Widdecombe.

  Delora flowed to the center of the room. She raised her hands, closed her eyes, and made a series of wobbly turns, like a sleep-deprived ballerina.

  Olive heard Mrs. Dewey give a little sigh.

  “Yes,” Delora whispered. “The secret of their power is not here.”

  “Let’s carry on,” said Doctor Widdecombe. “Olive, lead the way.”

  Olive darted into the hall. The others trailed unhurriedly behind her.

  They dragged through the formal parlor—the cold, frilly room where Annabelle had sat while her grandfather painted her portrait, many decades ago—and then into the high-ceilinged dining room, moving so slowly that Olive thought her skeleton might pop out of her skin and run restlessly ahead. Walter gazed around, silent and bug-eyed. Delora sniffed and pawed at the air. Doctor Widdecombe pressed his nose right up to every shelf and photograph and cabinet and painting, like someone visiting a museum. When they finally reached the kitchen, he even began pulling out the drawers, removing objects and holding them up to the light.

  “How interesting!” he announced, lifting an antique device that might have been a cheese slicer or a comb for someone with extremely thin hair. “And pickle tongs! Fascinating! This is truly a McMartin time capsule!” he exclaimed, while Olive’s toes tapped faster and faster on the floor. “Olive, I’m sure my enthusiasm seems extreme, but for a historian like myself, this is equivalent to a private tour of Windsor Castle—or of Pharaoh
Tutankhamen’s tomb!”

  “His tomb?” Olive repeated, with an unpleasant little wrench in her stomach.

  “If you would permit me, Olive,” said Doctor Widdecombe, picking up what looked like a tiny pizza cutter with ruffled edges, “I would like to write an article about this house for The Abracademic Magicologist. I’m a frequent contributor, and I’m certain that—”

  “Hush!” breathed Delora. Her voice was just a whisper, but everyone obeyed. “Do you hear?”

  “Hear what, Aunt Delora?” Walter prompted, hovering anxiously behind her.

  “Hush!” Delora commanded again.

  “Why ask questions if you don’t want any answers?” asked Mrs. Dewey, sounding slightly annoyed.

  But Delora didn’t seem to hear. With her eyes closed, she sashayed between the countertops, both hands batting the air before her face as if she were being swarmed by invisible bees.

  “Delora’s gift is very sensitive,” Doctor Widdecombe murmured, watching his ladylove swat at the empty air. “It needs silence and patience in which to make itself known.”

  Everyone watched, keeping quiet, as Delora spun slowly around and nearly smacked into the refrigerator.

  “It is near,” she breathed, her eyes still closed. Her hands patted at the refrigerator door. “Darkness. Great, great power.”

  Olive glanced at Rutherford. He was staring at Delora intently, his whole body craning in her direction. Olive knew he was trying to read Delora’s mind, but with her eyes closed, he was finding it very hard. What would the inside of a mind like Delora’s look like, anyway? Olive pictured a cemetery where, instead of graves, there were rows and rows of ringing telephones.

  “Lead us, my love,” whispered Doctor Widdecombe. “Be our guide.”

  Delora hesitated, her body swiveling from side to side like a black velvet satellite dish. Then, with her head turned toward the house’s interior, she froze. Her eyes popped open. “This way,” she announced.

  Delora streaked across the kitchen, sleek black hair flying behind her. The others hurried after. Before any of them could catch up, Delora had thrown open the basement door.