Cole and Stella staggered on—the quakes were coming more steadily now. A wall behind them collapsed in a screech of metal and concrete. The lights flickered, and they pulsed on again.
“Don’t look back,” the mouse commanded, and in the next moment, they were there—the transformer lay before them and below, sparks spewing from the center, the deafening howls reverberating through the space. Stella could see Alice on a promontory above, bashing at a panel in the wall with a piece of pipe. Meanwhile, sleek creatures the color of a dream at midnight slavered up the wall toward her.
Chimerath. They looked more solid than before, and Stella could see that they were stuck together, spare parts of people’s horrors—black and terrible fangs, wings of leather, lean wolf body, and all of them changing, twisting as the minds they fed on served up worse and worse terrors. Spuddle flew toward one, but it batted him away. Stella could see what Alice was aiming for: a large black box lit with wires. A Chimerath reached Alice, who threw up her arm to protect her face as vicious eagle talons clamped down on her.
Cole stood, gaping at the churning hole, hypnotized.
“We need to find a door!” Anyway shouted.
“Not yet!” Stella picked up a heavy chunk of concrete the size of a grapefruit and raced to the nearest wall. She mounted a ladder set into the side and hauled herself upward until she reached the remains of a bridge. She hefted the chunk, took aim, and threw, but her footing slipped awkwardly as the transformer rocked with another convulsion. The rock flew wide of the mark, but one of the Chimerath spotted her. Snarling and growling, it galloped across the wall—half Nightmare horse, half spider—as Stella picked up another hunk of concrete and threw it.
The concrete chunk hit the black box squarely in the center, and sparks poured forth in a silver fountain. Alice wailed as the Chimerath crashed into Stella, knocking her backward. Her footing slipped, and she toppled, screaming “Run!” as she fell toward the swirling vortex.
She fell through the blackness for what seemed like days, or weeks, or years. She fell until time had no meaning, and only the darkness existed. She fell until she was not falling anymore—the darkness clung to her, and it was all around her, as if she was floating in deepest space. And then she saw it: a crack, a weak tendril of light.
She moved toward it, and it grew until it was wide enough for her to squeeze through. Stella held her breath and shimmied, and wriggled, and squirmed until she had left the darkness behind.
She stepped out into Nowhere.
There was the Metro stop, and there was the bench. And there, perched on the armrest, was Monseiur Bleu, her blue jay.
Bleu cocked his head at Stella.
“Where have you been?” she asked. And as she watched he grew and changed. His wings became strong arms, and his warm dark eyes flashed above a mischievous grin.
“Dad?” Stella asked.
He smiled.
“Are you safe?” she asked.
Her father sighed deeply. “No one is ever safe in this world,” he said slowly. “Alice will tell you.”
Stella did not know how to reply. She sat down beside him and they watched the sun creep toward the horizon, sending sparkles across the fountain. The lights on the Metro sign flickered on, glowing in the middle of Nowhere.
Stella turned toward her father, to see his face in the golden light, but he had disappeared.
Ding.
Nearby, the elevator doors rattled open.
It had come for her.
The Long Hall
THE FIRST THING STELLA NOTICED was the unmistakable smell of books. She opened her eyes to see Alice staring down at her.
Stella was in the Stringwood library, lying on the particularly filthy carpet. She tried to push herself up on her right arm, fell backward, and then rolled over to her left side. “Are we back?” she asked. And then, without waiting for an answer, “Where’s Cole?”
The library door flew open and Renee shouted, “Stella!”
“This is a library!” Ms. Slaughter warned, but Renee raced between the shelves, calling her friend’s name.
“Here!” Stella shouted as Renee rounded the corner, glasses askew.
Renee stopped and stared. “Why are you on the floor?”
“I dropped my pencil,” Alice said smoothly. “Stella was helping me get it.”
“What’s wrong?” Stella asked.
“Your mom is here.”
Stella scrambled to her feet as her mother walked in through the door. “Mom—” She raced to Tamara, who wrapped her in a hug. “Mom, I can’t find Cole—”
“It’s all right—”
“No! It’s not—he’s not in class, and I think—”
“Stella.” Her mother’s gentle voice made her wince, and for a moment, she was afraid that Tamara would ask, “Who is Cole?” She feared that it was too late, that her brother, even his memory, was gone forever—
“Stella?” Cole said weakly. He stepped out from behind Tamara and put a hand on their mother’s shoulder. Then he put another on Stella’s, and she saw how tired he looked, how pale his face.
“He was in the nurse’s office,” Renee announced.
“Nurse Kendricks called me,” Tamara explained. “I wanted to tell you that I’m taking Cole home.”
Stella gaped at her brother, speechless.
“How do you feel?” Alice asked.
Cole looked at her, and in his eyes was a spark that burst into a small flame. I remember you, his glance said. “I feel . . . better.” He formed his words carefully. “Thank you,” he added, and his gaze fell back onto his sister.
Stella studied her brother’s face. Although he was pale, his expression looked better than he had in days. He was the right mixture of light and shadow, and his eyes were clear.
Did he remember? Did he remember anything about the Dreamway? She would ask him one day. Not right now, not in front of Renee and their mom.
“You’ll be okay,” Alice said, and the silver necklace gleamed at her throat.
“How do you know?” Cole asked her.
“I guess I just have a feeling that you’re like Stella. Stronger than you look.”
Stella hooked her index right finger around Alice’s. Then she hooked her left around Renee’s. Renee reached for Cole. As they sat there linked, each by a single finger, Stella thought about the Dreamway, the horrors of the Nightmare Line, the wonder of falling up, the Green Man, and Alice’s secret life as the Pirate. And she remembered, in her bones, how it felt to have the desperate Chimerath cling to her. But, together, they were strong enough to help her brother pull himself out of his nightmare.
Stella looked at her tired mother, who worked so hard and missed Stella’s father and still managed to take care of them.
It would still be the same world, with the same fears and lurking shadows.
No one can ever be perfectly safe, Stella thought, but somehow she felt that was okay. Right now, right at this moment, things were okay.
She would wait for her father’s call, and she had faith that it would come. And no matter what, they had each other.
“We’re all a lot stronger than we look,” Stella said as outside, beyond the library window, a blue jay fluttered, settling into his nest in the gingko tree.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Kristen Pettit for her unflagging belief in this book. Her faith was the lighthouse that helped me navigate draft after draft. And I would like to thank Rosemary Stimola for her many blunt questions and dubious looks during the initial stages of this novel. When Rosemary finally said, “Well done,” I knew that she meant it. Many thanks to Melissa Telzer, and to Ali, Zara, and Marmie.
Author’s Note
I know what it’s like to be stuck in the Dreamway.
When I was in the fourth grade, I became what used to be called a latchkey kid. A latchkey is the key you use to get into a house from the outside. I had a key to my house that I kept on a string around my neck, hidden under my shi
rt. On days I had to use the key, my parents left shortly before I did. I would lock up the house and walk the quarter mile to school on my own. After school, I would walk home and let myself in. I was supposed to call one of my parents and then do my homework. Usually, what I would do was call one of my parents, and then drink a lot of root beer while watching my favorite television shows.
I never told anyone that being a latchkey kid terrified me.
I wasn’t afraid that a stranger would try to get into the house or kidnap me. In fact, I wasn’t afraid in the afternoons at all. I was afraid in the mornings. I was afraid that I would do something wrong—forget to lock the house or leave on the toaster—something that would cause us to get robbed or make the house burn down. I remember getting halfway to school and then running back home to make sure the house was locked. Sometimes, I would unlock the door and then relock it. Two blocks later, the fear that I had only unlocked it would creep up on me, forcing me to check again. I would spend the day at school spaced out and unable to focus on my work, thinking about the house, worried that I had ruined everything. At the time, I did not know that this is called obsessive-compulsive behavior, or that obsessive thoughts would be something I would struggle with on and off for the rest of my life.
Sometimes my compulsive thoughts would fade into the background. Sometimes they would come roaring back—especially during times of stress. Many years later, when I was an adult, a friend of mine came to visit. I was so ill that I couldn’t eat. I could see the concern on her face as she watched me struggle to nibble on a cracker. “Try to remember that this is a feeling,” she said, “and it will pass.” Others had said similar things to me, but for some reason, that statement helped me realize that the problem was not that something terrible might happen. The problem was not the outer world at all. The problem was inside me, with my thoughts and feelings. Finally, my family was able to convince me to visit a psychiatrist.
And I did get better. It took time, and—even now, after years of cognitive behavioral therapy and medication—I still fall into obsessive thought patterns sometimes. But at least now I know what they are. They are uncomfortable, but I know that the discomfort will, eventually, pass away.
What I learned, through my journey, is that when someone is mentally ill, the ill person’s thoughts and fears feel like reality. It doesn’t occur to them that something is wrong with the way their brain is working. I didn’t realize a doctor could help my fears go away. My ill mind was too busy trying to control the fear all by itself; I didn’t see a way out until my friend assured me that there was one.
When Cole is kidnapped and trapped on the Nightmare Line—that’s what OCD, anxiety, and depression are like. They suck away the youness of you, leaving a shell person filled with fear and, often, anger. And it isn’t always easy to help someone who is trapped like that. Really, the most important thing anyone can do, at first, is let them know that they are trapped. If the ill person can realize that, they have already taken the first step toward becoming free.
If you or someone you know is struggling with fear, or anger, or huge uncomfortable emotions, please let a trusted adult know. When someone’s mind isn’t working right, he or she needs to see a mental health professional. I want to tell you that just the way I found a way out, they can too.
There is a way out of the darkness, I promise.
About the Author
Photo by Ellen Augarten
LISA PAPADEMETRIOU spends most of her time in the Dreamway, even when she’s awake. She is the author of Apartment 1986 and A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic and lives in Massachusetts with her family.
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Books by Lisa Papademetriou:
A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic
Apartment 1986
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Copyright
THE DREAMWAY. Copyright © 2018 by Lisa Papademetriou. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art by Julie McLaughlin
Cover design by Jessie Gang
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933352
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-237113-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-237111-9
1819202122CG/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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