by TJ Klune
Until he’d looked up to see Lucy crouched on the top of a bookshelf, staring down at him with bright eyes and a twisted smirk on his face.
Linus gasped, heart racing.
Lucy said, “Hello, Mr. Baker. You would do well to remember that human souls are cheap trinkets to one such as me.” He giggled and leapt from the bookshelf, landing on his feet. He looked up at Linus and whispered, “I love cheap trinkets.” And then he’d run from the library. Linus saw him only an hour later munching on an oatmeal raisin cookie in the kitchen, bopping his head along with The Coasters singing about how they were gonna find her, searchin’ every which-a-way.
So, no, Linus wasn’t necessarily jumping on the invitation.
But he had a job to do.
It was why he was here.
And the more he learned about Lucy, the better prepared he’d be when reporting to Extremely Upper Management.
(It had nothing to do with the idea of also getting to know Mr. Parnassus a little better. And even if it did, it was because the file on the master told him next to nothing, and he needed to be thorough. It was outlined as such in the RULES AND REGULATIONS, page 138, paragraph six, and he would follow it to the letter.)
“Does he know I’ll be there?” Linus asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “It was his idea.”
“Oh dear,” Linus said faintly.
“Should I tell him to expect you?”
No. No, he shouldn’t. In fact, he should tell Lucy that Linus had taken ill and would be down for the evening. And then Linus could spend his Friday night in his pajamas listening to the little radio in the living room and pretending he was at home. It wasn’t a record player, but it would do in a pinch. “Yes,” he said. “I will be there.”
Mr. Parnassus smiled widely. Linus felt his skin flush at the sight of it. “Wonderful,” he said. “I think you’ll be surprised. Five o’clock sharp, Mr. Baker.” He whirled on his heel and headed toward the main house, whistling a jaunty tune.
Linus closed the door and slumped against it. “Well, old boy, you’ve stepped into it now, haven’t you?”
Calliope sat in the windowsill, blinking slowly in the sunlight.
* * *
Linus Baker had never been the religious sort. While he didn’t mind if others were, it was never for him. His mother had been … not quite fervent but so close that there was barely a difference. She took him to church on Sundays, and he’d sit in his freshly starched shirt that itched terribly, and would stand when he was supposed to stand, and kneel when he was supposed to kneel. He liked the hymns, though he couldn’t carry a tune if he’d been given a bucket, but that was about it. He thought it preposterous: the idea of fire and brimstone, that sinners went to Hell while everyone else went to Heaven. Sins seemed to be subjective. Oh, murder was bad, and harming others was too, but was that comparable to someone who’d nicked a candy bar from the corner store when they were nine years old? Because if it was, Linus was destined for Hell given the Crunchie bar he’d slipped into his pocket and consumed late at night while hiding under his comforter.
When he’d become old enough to understand the power of the word no, he hadn’t had to go to church after that. No, he’d told Mother, no, I don’t think I want to go.
She’d been upset, of course. She worried about his soul, telling him that he was going to go on a path from which he wouldn’t be able to return. There would be drugs and booze and girls, and she would be there to pick up the pieces because that’s what a mother did (and, he thought, to tell him I told you so).
But, as it turned out, drugs were never a problem, and while Linus did enjoy a glass of wine with dinner once a month, it never turned into more than that.
And as for girls, his mother needn’t have worried. By then, Linus had already noticed how his skin had tingled when his seventeen-year-old neighbor, Timmy Wellington, mowed the lawn without his shirt on. No, girls weren’t going to bring about Linus Baker’s downfall.
So no, Linus hadn’t been of the religious sort at all.
Granted, that was before he knew the Antichrist was a six-year-old on Marsyas Island. For the first time in his life, Linus wished he had a crucifix or a Bible or something with which to protect himself should Lucy decide he needed a sacrifice in order to come into his full powers.
It certainly didn’t help when he passed Phee and Talia in the garden, both of them watching every step he took toward the main house. “Dead man walkin’,” Talia intoned in a flat voice. “We got a dead man walkin’ here.”
Phee covered up her laughter with a cough.
“Good afternoon,” he said stiffly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Baker,” Phee and Talia said sweetly, though Linus knew better.
They whispered behind him as he reached the porch to the main house. He glanced back at them, and they waved cheekily.
Oddly, he found himself struggling against a smile at the sight of them.
He scowled instead.
He walked inside the house. He heard Ms. Chapelwhite singing in the kitchen. She’d warmed up to him considerably ever since their trip to the beach. And by that, he meant she acknowledged his presence with a nod that almost seemed cordial rather than perfunctory.
He closed the door behind him and heard a chirp coming from the couch in front of the fireplace. He looked down to see a scaly tail sticking out from underneath. “Hello, Theodore,” he said.
The tail disappeared, and Theodore stuck his head out, tongue flicking. He chirped again, this time a question. Linus didn’t need to speak wyvern to understand what he was asking for. “I already gave you one this morning. The more you get, the less you appreciate their worth.” He felt a little silly, given that plastic buttons were worth nothing at all, but it still felt important to impart such a lesson.
Theodore sighed morosely and disappeared back under the couch, grumbling to himself.
He walked up the stairs, the wood creaking ominously under his weight. The sconces on the walls appeared to flicker, and Linus told himself it was just because the house was old, and the wiring probably could use some upkeep. He made a mental note to ask in his report about the status of funding to the Marsyas Orphanage. Mr. Parnassus had seemed dismissive at the idea of funding, but Linus thought he had to be mistaken.
The doors to the bedrooms on the second floor were shut on either side of him, with the exception of Chauncey’s. Linus was about to pass his room when he stopped, hearing Chauncey talking inside. He peeked through the slightly open door to see Chauncey standing in saltwater in front of a full-length mirror near the window, a porter’s cap on his head between the stalks of his eyes. “How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington?” Chauncey asked, one of his tentacles lifting the cap as he bowed low. “Welcome back to the Everland Hotel! May I take your luggage? Oh, why thank you for noticing, Mrs. Worthington! Yes, I did get a new uniform. Only the best for Everland. I do hope you enjoy your stay!”
Linus left him to it.
He wondered if it would be too much to get Chauncey a coat to complete his costume. Perhaps he could see if there was something in the village—
No. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to observe and nothing more. He couldn’t influence the orphanage. It wouldn’t be proper. The RULES AND REGULATIONS were specific about such matters.
He thought he heard movement behind Sal’s door, but it was shut tight. Best not to attempt to say hello. He wouldn’t want to frighten the poor boy.
In addition to having never seen inside of Sal’s room, he had yet to go through the last door in the hall. Mr. Parnassus hadn’t invited him before today, though Lucy had on numerous occasions, much to Linus’s chagrin. He knew he’d have to inspect both before he left the island, but he’d been putting it off this first week, something he shouldn’t have done.
He stood in front of the door for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and raising his shaking hand to knock.
Before he could,
the door unlatched and opened just a smidge.
Linus took a step back. There didn’t seem to be any light coming from inside.
He cleared his throat. “Hello?”
No response.
He steeled his nerves and pushed open the door.
The late afternoon sun had been bright when he’d walked inside the house, the sea air warm. But the interior of the room reminded him of being back in the city, dark and cold and dank. He took a step inside. And then another.
And then another.
The door slammed shut behind him.
He spun around, heart in his throat. He was reaching for the door when candles flared to life around him, spouts of fire reaching up two feet or more.
“Welcome to my domain,” a child’s voice rang out behind him. “You have entered here at my invitation.” The voice cackled. “Bear witness to the true depth of my power! I am Lucifer! I am Beelzebub, the prince of devils! I am—”
“—going to find yourself with a loss of privileges if you should decide to continue,” Linus heard Mr. Parnassus say.
The candles snuffed out.
The darkness faded.
Sunlight poured in through the window.
Linus blinked against the bright light.
Mr. Parnassus sat in a high-backed chair near the window, legs crossed, hands in his lap, an amused expression on his face. There was an empty chair across from him, undoubtedly for the boy who lay on his back on the thick rug.
“He heard you coming,” Mr. Parnassus said with a shrug. “I cautioned him against it, but since this is his time to do as he wishes, I thought he shouldn’t be stifled.”
Lucy looked up at Linus, who was plastered against the bedroom door. “I am who I am.”
“Quite,” Linus said, his voice a squeak, barely able to peel himself from the door.
The room itself was large and spacious. There was a four-poster bed set against the far wall, made of dark wood, ornate vines and leaves carved into the posts. There was a desk, far older than the others in the house, covered in reams of paper and stacks of books. An unlit fireplace sat opposite the bed. If Linus hadn’t just been frightened half out of his mind, he would have thought it would be perfect for cold winter nights.
“Would you like to show Mr. Baker your room?” Mr. Parnassus asked Lucy. “He’d probably like to see it very much. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Baker?”
No. No, he wouldn’t. Not very much at all. “Ye-es,” Linus said. “That certainly seems … doable.”
Lucy turned over on his stomach, propping his chin in his hands. “Are you sure, Mr. Baker? You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m sure,” Linus said firmly.
Lucy picked himself up off the ground. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Mr. Parnassus sighed. “Lucy, you’re going to give Mr. Baker the wrong idea.”
“And what idea would that be?”
“You know what.”
Lucy threw his hands up. “I’m just trying to build anticipation. Expect the unexpected! You told me that life is meant to surprise you. I’m trying to surprise him.”
“I think you’re setting yourself up for nothing but disappointment.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “And whose fault is that? If you’d have listened to my decorating ideas, there would be no room for disappointment. There would only be joy.” He glanced at Linus. “Well, for me.”
Mr. Parnassus spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t think having severed human heads is conducive to a good night’s sleep or the health and sanity of Mr. Baker, even if they were to be made of papier-mâché.”
“Severed heads?” Linus asked in a strangled voice.
Lucy sighed. “Just representations of my enemies. The Pope. Evangelicals who attend megachurches. You know, like normal people have.”
Linus didn’t think Lucy quite had the grasp of what was normal, but he managed to keep that to himself. “So, no heads?”
“None,” Lucy said with a scowl. “Not even the skull of an animal from the woods that I didn’t kill and just found.” He shot a glare at Mr. Parnassus.
“What did I say about animals?” Mr. Parnassus said.
Lucy stomped toward a closed door near the chairs. “I’m not supposed to kill them because only serial killers do that, and if they’re already dead, I can’t play with the remains because I’ll smell bad.”
“And?”
“And it’s wrong.”
“Let’s lead with that next time,” Mr. Parnassus said. “It might sound more humane.”
“Stifling my creativity,” Lucy muttered. He put his hand on the doorknob and looked over at Linus. His disgruntled expression disappeared, and that syrupy-sweet smile returned that caused chills to run down Linus’s spine. “Are you coming, Mr. Baker?”
Linus tried to make his feet move, but they remained firmly rooted near the bedroom door. “Is Mr. Parnassus joining us?” he asked.
Mr. Parnassus shook his head. “I’ll let him give you the tour, as the other children did.” He paused. Then, “I’m still working on Sal.”
“Great,” Linus said weakly. “That’s … that’s fine.”
“Why are you sweating?” Lucy asked, smile widening. “Something wrong, Mr. Baker?”
“No, no,” Linus said. “Just … a little overwarm, is all. Temperate climate, you know. Not used to it back in the city.”
“Oh, of course,” Lucy said. “That must be it. Come here, Mr. Baker. I have something to show you.”
Linus swallowed thickly. He told himself he was being foolish, that Mr. Parnassus was right there, and Lucy wouldn’t dare do anything untoward in his presence.
The problem with that was Linus’s brain chose that exact moment to wonder if there had ever been another caseworker to visit the island before, and what became of them. There had to have been, right? He can’t have been the first. Why, the idea was preposterous.
And if there had been others before him, what had become of them? Had they too entered Lucy’s room, only to never be seen again? Would Linus follow Lucy through the door to find the carcasses of his predecessors nailed to the ceiling above the bed? Linus certainly could be firm when he needed to be, but he did have a weak constitution, and the sight of blood tended to cause him to feel woozy. He didn’t know what would happen if he had to see intestines strewn about like wet decorative garlands.
He glanced at Mr. Parnassus, who nodded encouragingly. It did not soothe Linus in the slightest. For all he knew, Mr. Parnassus was just as evil as Lucy, brightly colored socks and wonderful smile be damned.
He nearly tripped at wonderful smile.
He pushed it away.
He could do this.
He could do this.
It was just a child.
He fixed a pleasant look on his face (barely above a grimace) and said, “I would be delighted to see your room, Lucy. I do hope it’s tidy. A disheveled room is the sign of a disheveled mind. It’s best to keep things clean when possible.”
Lucy’s eyes danced. “Is that right, Mr. Baker? Well, let’s see what my mind is like, then.”
Linus was sure this was one of the stressors his physician had warned him of. There was nothing he could do about that now.
He stopped next to Lucy.
He looked down at him.
Lucy grinned. Linus thought he had more teeth than was humanly possible.
He turned the doorknob.
He pushed open the door.
It creaked on its hinges and—
Revealed a small space with a twin bed against one wall, the comforter plaid, the pillowcase white. There was room enough for a bureau, but not much else. Atop the bureau sat a collection of shiny rocks shot with veins of quartz.
On the walls were vinyl records, each hung on a pushpin through the hole in its middle. There was Little Richard, the Big Bopper, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, Ritchie Valens, and Buddy Holly. In fact, there were more Buddy Holly records than any other.
Linus was startled at the sight of them. He recognized most of the records, because he had them back in the city at his own home. Many nights had been spent listening to “Peggy Sue” and “That’ll Be the Day” and “Chantilly Lace.”
But aside from Little Richard and Frankie Lymon, they all had something else in common. It was slightly morbid, when he thought about it. But it made sense.
He hadn’t even noticed Lucy had closed the door behind them. “The day the music died,” Lucy said.
Linus spun around, heart tripping all over itself. Lucy stood at the door, back pressed against it. “What?”
He waved a hand toward the records. “Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.”
“A plane crash,” Linus said quietly.
Lucy nodded and pushed himself off the door. “Ritchie and Bopper weren’t even supposed to be on the plane, did you know that?”
He did. He said, “I think so.”
“Bopper was sick and took someone else’s seat.”
Waylon Jennings, though Linus kept that to himself.
“And Ritchie won his seat in a coin toss. Buddy didn’t want to be stuck in a bus because it was cold, and they had to go to Montana.” Lucy reached up and touched “Chantilly Lace.” He looked almost reverent. “The pilot wasn’t given the correct weather information, and the plane didn’t have the proper instruments needed to fly. Weird, right?” He smiled at Linus. “I like music that makes me happy. And I like death. It’s strange how people can mix the two. They all died by chance, and then people sang about them after. I like those songs, but not as much as the ones sung by dead people.”
Linus coughed roughly. “I—I like music too. I have some of these records at my house.”
Lucy perked up at that. “Dead people music?”
He shrugged. “I … guess? The older the music, the more likely the singer is dead.”
“Yeah,” Lucy breathed. His eyes begin to tinge with red. “That’s true. Death is wonderful to music. It makes the singers sound like ghosts.”
Linus thought it was probably a good time to change the subject to something less morbid. “I like your room.”