The Strangers

by Jacqueline West

  12

  THAT AFTERNOON, WALTER moved a lumpy brown bag of his things into the old stone house. He and Olive rattled uncomfortably around the empty rooms for the next few hours, each of them keeping an eye on the other while trying to look like they weren’t doing just that. To Olive, it felt almost like having a babysitter—which would have been embarrassing enough—but instead of a chirpy, bossy high-schooler, she had Walter, a slow, seven-foot, sub-par sorcerer with a voice like a congested walrus.

  For dinner that night, Walter made grilled cheese sandwiches that were less grilled than immolated, and less sandwiches than crumbly black lumps. They sat at the kitchen table in awkward quiet, Walter crunching away at his crumbly black lump, and Olive crumbling hers into smaller black lumps that landed with loud clacks on her dinner plate. Their reflections hung in the darkened window, between Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody’s empty chairs.

  “Thank you for dinner, Walter,” Olive said as soon as she’d demolished the last of her food. She tipped its remains down the kitchen sink before sidling toward the hall. “I’m going up to my room. I have some homework to finish for tomorrow.”

  Walter blinked at her from across the table, his long, bony arms braced to bring the burnt sandwich to his mouth. “Okay,” he rumbled.

  “You can read books in the library, if you want,” Olive added, trying to seem less unfriendly. “Or watch TV in the living room.”

  “TV?” Walter’s eyes widened. “I haven’t watched television since—mmm—not since I moved in with Aunt Delora. She says a screen can’t compete with what she sees and hears in her head all the time.” Walter swallowed. “But I like screens.” He straightened up eagerly, his neck stretching up from his collar like a plant in a pot. “Is We Will Wok You still on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Olive, backing into the hall. “Maybe.”

  By the time she’d reached the staircase, she could hear the TV blaring.

  Olive ran up the steps to her bedroom. After grabbing a pack of cards from her dresser drawer, she zipped back out into the hall, put on the spectacles, and dove into the painting of Linden Street.

  “Are we going to dance in the ballroom?” Morton asked as Olive led him hurriedly back down the hill. “Or visit Baltus and the masons?”

  “We can’t go downstairs,” Olive explained, grabbing the picture frame that hung before them in the misty air. “Walter is staying here, and I don’t want him trying to tag along. Besides, there’s somebody else we should visit.”

  • • •

  Inside his painted gazebo, Roberto the Magnificent hopped to his feet.

  “Back for a repeat performance?” he shouted as Olive and Morton climbed through the frame. “Presto!” The bouquet shot all the way out of his sleeve this time, zooming a few feet into the air before flying back toward his arm and disappearing with a noise like a crumpling can.

  “Well, dang,” said the lanky man, peering up his sleeve. “Just when I thought I had it working again . . .”

  Morton stared, wide-eyed, at the magician. “You didn’t live in this neighborhood,” he said. “I would remember.”

  “No sirree,” the man answered. “I came to town with Binkle and Rudd’s World-Wandering Carnival. Roberto the Magnificent,” he added, giving Morton a grand bow. “That’s ‘Robert,’ to you.” With a flourish, he waved one hand past Morton’s ear, then frowned down at his empty fingers. “Now where the heck did that coin go?” he muttered.

  “Aldous McMartin himself trapped both of you here, so you must have been . . . um . . . alive at close to the same time,” said Olive as delicately as she could. “I thought Morton might know something about the ‘others’ you mentioned.”

  “Other weirdos?” Morton asked, watching Robert dig through his many pockets.

  “Other magicians,” said Robert. Triumphantly, he swept a blue handkerchief out of his vest, which led to a red handkerchief, and then an emerald handkerchief, and then zipped itself inward like a mechanical tape measure. Robert sighed.

  “The old man showed up at the fairgrounds, after the carnival was closed down for the night,” he began. “I was in my trailer, and all at once he was there too—that tall, bony body just looming over me. I never even heard the door open.”

  “What did he say to you?” Olive whispered, even though no one was around to hear.

  “He said—he said he was getting rid of all the other magicians. When he was done, there’d be no one left but his own family. I told him, ‘I just do tricks, that’s all,’ but . . .” Robert trailed off with a shrug.

  “Did he say anything else about those other magicians? Where he’d put them, or what their names were, or—”

  Robert was already shaking his head. “I don’t believe so. Sorry.”

  “What do you think, Morton?” Olive asked.

  “I think he needs to practice his tricks some more,” said Morton as Robert finally found the coin in his pants pocket, shouted “Ah-ha!” and promptly dropped it into his pants again.

  “I mean about Aldous trapping other magicians. Do you think there might have been other magicians . . . or witches . . . on your street?”

  “No,” said Morton. His face began to look worried. “And the Old Man trapped lots of good, normal people too. My parents are normal. Your parents are normal. Sort of.”

  “But what if it was a secret?” Olive persisted. “The McMartins tried to keep their powers hidden. I wasn’t supposed to know about Mrs. Dewey, or—”

  Morton balled his fists. “My parents wouldn’t keep secrets from me,” he said angrily.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s not a secret!” Morton shouted. “But you’re not supposed to talk about it!”

  “Morton, wait!” Olive called as Morton stomped off toward the frame. She shoved the pack of playing cards into Robert’s hand. “These aren’t paint, so they might work better in here,” she said, heading after Morton’s billowing nightshirt. “Bye!”

  “Good-bye!” Robert shouted after her. “Come back anytime! All shows are free!”

  Morton was waiting for her by the frame, his chin tucked to his chest.

  Olive took him by the arm. Together, they climbed out of the painting, landing softly on the bedroom floor.

  “What did you mean?” Olive whispered as they slipped back into the hall, Morton leading the way. “That we’re not supposed to talk about it?”

  Morton threw her an exasperated look. “We’re not supposed to talk about it!” he hissed back. His eyes flicked around the darkening hallway. “They’ll hear you!”

  “But the McMartins are gone.”

  Morton halted in front of the painting of Linden Street, refusing to speak until Olive took his arm again and pulled him through the frame.

  “They’re never really gone,” he muttered, once they were safe on the other side, sprawling in the dewy grass. He wriggled his arm out of Olive’s grip.

  “Maybe we could ask your neighbors about magic, just to make sure,” said Olive, getting to her feet.

  “You can ask them,” said Morton. He strode ahead of her up the hillside. “I already know the answer.”

  Candles glowed softly from inside closed windows as Olive and Morton hurried along the street. In dark second-floor bedrooms, curtains twitched as they passed by. Olive glanced up at the house next to Morton’s—the house that belonged to Mrs. Dewey inside the real world—and spotted an old lady in a ruffled nightcap rocking very slowly back and forth in a rocking chair on the porch.

  “Hello,” called Olive.

  “Evening,” said the woman.

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” Olive began, “but we wondered if we could ask you something.”

  “She means if she could ask you something,” Morton corrected.

  The woman went on rocking softly. “You may,” she said.

  �
��Thank you. Um, you wouldn’t happen to be a—I mean, Aldous McMartin didn’t have any reason to think you were a witch, did he?”

  The chair stopped rocking. The woman didn’t answer.

  “I mean,” Olive struggled on, “maybe you used magic, or you knew something about it that—”

  “‘Knew something’?” the woman interrupted in a hushed voice. “The only thing I knew about magic was that it was safest to know nothing about it.” Tugging her shawl around her body, she stood up and went swiftly into her house. The door pulled itself shut behind her.

  “I told you,” Morton muttered.

  “And what are you two up to now?” asked a voice from behind them.

  Olive and Morton spun around.

  An old man with a long, crinkly beard strolled toward them across the deserted street. Mist rippled around the cuffs of his pajamas.

  “Hello, Mr. Fitzroy,” said Olive politely. “We were just asking—”

  “She was just asking,” Morton interrupted.

  “I was asking if anyone else in this neighborhood had . . . powers. Like Aldous McMartin.” Olive swallowed, looking up into the man’s stern face. “If he might have thought that any of you could use magic. If he thought you were a threat.”

  “No,” said the old man. Beneath his bushy eyebrows, his paint-flecked eyes shuttled between Olive and Morton. “None of us were.” He folded his arms. “And I doubt you’ll find anyone here willing to talk to you about magic. We all learned that lesson.”

  “Oh,” said Olive softly, looking away from the old man’s painted eyes.

  “But I will tell you this.” Mr. Fitzroy bent closer, lowering his voice. “Like draws like. More than a few secrets were kept on this street.” He glanced up at the unchanging twilit sky, as though he were still expecting it to flood with the darkness of Aldous’s presence. “Now,” he resumed, firmly changing the subject, “why don’t you two join me for a game of horseshoes?”

  “You have horseshoes?” asked Morton eagerly.

  “I have a horseshoe, and I’ve got a fencepost. Sometimes the horseshoe hits it before it flies back.”

  “Thank you, but I’m going to keep looking,” said Olive. “Bye, Morton,” she called over her shoulder, but Morton was already trotting across the street with Mr. Fitzroy, his long white nightshirt flickering in the dimness.

  Back in the upstairs hallway, Olive took a frustrated look around. The sky beyond the windows was black. It was well past her usual bedtime. The sound of the television rose up the stairs, clicking knives and hissing woks mixing with rumbles of dramatic music. Olive sat down on the top step and joggled both legs impatiently. How could she possibly go into her bedroom and try to fall asleep, as though this was an ordinary night? She had to do something—something that would bring her closer to learning the truth.

  . . . More than a few secrets were kept on this street.

  There were still plenty of secrets on Linden Street, Olive thought angrily. There were the secrets in her own house, and in Mrs. Nivens’s house, and in Mrs. Dewey’s house—

  Olive clamped her hands around her knees to hold them still. She could search Linden Street herself! Mrs. Dewey and the Widdecombes hadn’t found any clues there, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to find. Olive shot to her feet. Maybe she would spot something that they had missed.

  For a moment, she considered asking someone else to go with her—one of the cats, or Morton and his neighbors. Then she pictured Morton’s neighbors set loose on the street, pressing their painted faces to the windows of their own former houses, giving Mr. Fergus and the Butlers and Mr. Hanniman simultaneous heart attacks.

  No. Like Horatio had said, any time a secret is shared, it grows less safe. It would be better if she went alone. But she couldn’t go down the stairs and out the door without explaining herself to Walter. She would have to take another route.

  Inside her own bedroom, Olive lifted the heavy wooden window frame and slipped out onto the balcony. It was a tiny space, no bigger than a fire escape, but the branches of the ash tree enclosed it on all sides, reaching out to Olive with their long, bare arms.

  Olive made sure that her flashlight was secure in her pocket. She buttoned her black sweater all the way to her chin. Then, cautiously, she threw one leg over the wrought iron railing and wrapped both arms around the nearest sturdy branch. Hanging on tight, Olive kicked away from the balcony and swung her right leg up and over, so that she was stretched along the branch like a big, clumsy panther. The branch bounced softly under her.

  Shimmying backward, making sure not to crush the spectacles, Olive moved along the branch to the trunk. From there, it was just two short jumps to the ground.

  Olive landed in a pile of crackling leaves. She brushed her bark-scratched palms together and surveyed the backyard. The lawn was perfectly still. The bluish light of the TV pulsed behind the living room windows, flickering over the withered garden.

  Keeping low, Olive edged around the old stone house. She would save the Dewey and Nivens houses for last, to postpone the chance of being spotted. She darted to the right, to the far side of the old stone house, crawling between the dry ferns and overgrown shrub roses into the front yard.

  The sky was overcast, a sheet of dark gray clouds obscuring the moon. The weak glow of the streetlights outlined the Halloween headstones still scattered across the lawn. The sight of them made Olive catch her breath. She thought of the gravestones in the basement, the freezing shock of her hand against the wall. She thought of the headstones in the painting of the Scottish hills, Mother and Father carved on their silent faces. Shuddering, she darted forward, keeping her eyes fixed on the silent street.

  Before she’d passed the first row of headstones, something lurched out from between the graves. Olive froze, dropping to the ground. The figure lumbered forward. It was tall—so tall that it hardly seemed human—and it headed directly toward her, in long, deliberate steps.

  “Olive?” said a deep voice. “Mmm . . . What are you doing out here?”

  “Walter!” Olive squeaked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” said Olive, inching backward. A foam headstone bumped her in the side. “I was—I was just going to look for my parents.”

  “The S.M.U.D.S. has already checked the whole street.”

  “I know, but I thought I might—”

  Walter’s black silhouette towered over her, moving closer. “This isn’t safe. It’s my job to guard you. And the only places you’re allowed to be are school and home.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry.” The bony shoulders of Walter’s silhouette went up and down. “These are the rules. I have to keep you safe. Now, let’s go back inside.”

  Olive let out a shaky breath. Slowly, she rose to her feet and headed toward the old stone house. Walter’s watchful presence loomed behind her.

  She slumped up the staircase to her room. As she climbed, she could hear Walter turning the locks of the front door, checking the windows, making sure everything was secure. The walls of the stone house loomed around her, solid and watchful. For the first time, Olive realized that being protected and being trapped could feel like the very same thing.

  13

  I knew that Mabel was on her way out, but Dunstan . . .” Ms. Teedlebaum shook her head sadly. Her red hair, still stiff with wood glue, shook too. “Dunstan came as a complete shock. I’d nursed him back to health, played his favorite bagpipe music, read to him from The Joy of Cooking . . . It was his favorite book. And still, last night . . .” Ms. Teedlebaum sighed. “I’ve told myself again and again, ‘This is the last time, Florence. Spider plants are one thing, but you get too attached to ferns. You can’t keep putting yourself through this.’ But then you see another fern just waiting for you in its little pot, and it looks so friendly and hopeful . . .” Ms. Teedlebaum sighed again, brushin
g a tear from the corner of her eye. “I just don’t know how Graciela and Howard are going to pull through.”

  At the front of the classroom, the girl with the eyeliner raised her hand. “Are Graciela and Howard houseplants too?”

  Ms. Teedlebaum waved her paint-flecked fingers dismissively. “Of course not. They’re goldfish. Ooh, that reminds me.” She uncapped one of the pens dangling from cords around her neck and jotted in one of the notepads that hung nearby. “‘Four codfish filets.’”

  Capping the pen again, Ms. Teedlebaum gazed around the classroom of staring students. “Now—what were we working on? Oh, yes. Collages.” She gave a happier sigh. “Aren’t collages marvelous? They’re so relaxing, especially when you’re a highly organized person, like me.” The art teacher slid down from her stool with a clatter of keys and pens and necklaces. “All right, everyone. Find your materials and get started.”

  With the rest of the class, Olive trudged to the cabinets and pulled down her collage. It was supposed to be an almost-finished outdoor scene, but instead it was a far-from-finished mess. Olive couldn’t keep her mind on her work. All week, she had dragged herself through the school days, doing meaningless assignments and gluing meaningless bits of paper to a meaningless art project, while the sadness and guilt that sloshed inside of her boiled down into something dry and volatile, like the powder inside of a firecracker. One spark and she would come flying apart.

  Olive leaned her head on one clenched fist and glared down at her collage. The sliver of her brain that hoped that her parents would return on their own, safe and sound, had been snipped down to nothing. There was no room for patience. There was no room for art class, or homework, or picking at meals alone with Walter in the quiet stone house. In fact, Walter was driving Olive batty. From the moment she got home from school until the moment she went to bed, Walter watched her, lurking around corners, too big to be truly sneaky. At night, after Olive was meant to be asleep, she could hear his steps creaking along the upper hall, pausing outside her closed bedroom door. Listening.