“Yes. Use that to find the story and pull out the words.”
“Lizzie, you write on paper. There’s nothing magical about that, and no matter how special your dad’s parchment or ink, there are no words in this thing.”
“Yes, there are. You’ve just never thought of building a story this way before, that’s all.”
“But—”
“Emma, will you stop thinking so much?” Lizzie rapped, with an air of angry impatience that was, eerily, a bit like Kramer’s: I didn’t say steal. “The others are in trouble, and you’re wasting time! Now shut up and find your story.”
She gave up. The kid was nuttier than she was. No, no, the kid wasn’t real. This was a dream, a blink, or just another illusion conjured up by House. Eventually, she’d pop back into her life, and this would all be nothing more than a hazy memory, a vague uneasiness. She could live with that. Swear to God, she’d take the damn meds, too.
For something that wasn’t real, the scroll freaked her out. That velvety white was the color of the snow and the fog. It was the same color of white that hid Jasper-nightmares. Wait, was white a color? Yes and no: visible light was all wavelengths, all colors, combined. To see them, you had to use a prism, a specially fabricated piece of glass, to separate them into their component parts. Otherwise, white light was … white. It was nothing.
But still full of color, just waiting for you to use a special tool to pull them out. Then: Stop it. White light is white. Jasper slathered his paintings with white paint. This is only a blank parchment scroll. She studied the quilt. And this thing is only bits of cloth and glass sewn into pretty pat—
“Patterns,” she said, her breath suddenly balling midway between her chest and mouth as her eye fell on something she recognized and knew she shouldn’t. This was a quilt that belonged to a strange little girl stuck in an even odder house at the bottom of a valley Emma had the feeling didn’t exist anywhere on earth.
Yet there was no mistaking that glass sphere sparkling in the center of an elaborately embroidered spiderweb.
There, stitched into Lizzie’s memories, was her galaxy pendant.
CASEY
What Killed Tony
CASEY’S BREATH CLAWED in and out of his throat as he staggered and lurched over the snow and away from the ruined church toward the waiting snowcat. His left hand was clamped to Tania’s right arm; in his right, he gripped the shotgun. God, he wished Eric was here. His brother knew weapons; Casey knew … well, the theory. Rack the pump, point, shoot. Pray you hit something. Hope to hell you don’t run out of cartridges before you do.
Rima didn’t recognize him. But how could that be? High above, the roiling sky was still black with crows. This new girl, Tania, someone Rima knew and had a history with, was moaning, nearly doubled over. Rima was murmuring encouragement, telling Tania, Hang on, almost there.
Rima knows her but not me. He had the disorienting sense of walking into a movie already half over. Rima knew what was happening before we even got here. No, that was wrong: before this place made itself out of the fog. Could Rima be doing that? No, that was crazy.
Or was it? This was the nightmare of Tony on the snow, déjà vu all over again. Casey hadn’t told Rima—there’d been no time—but he’d recognized that thing, with its bulbous body of writhing tentacles, that bristly maw, those myriad mad eyes. He had glimpsed it only moments before, not as a living thing but a drawing: a creature that existed on the cover of a paperback. Something by Lovecraft, wasn’t it? Yes. Tony had tossed the well-thumbed novel onto the Camry’s backseat, where Casey had also found some very old vintage comic books.
The reality was this: what had torn Tony apart was something Tony knew well, because he’d read about it, over and over again if that dog-eared paperback was any indication. What killed Tony was a monster that leapt off the pages of a book.
And what about me? What Rima had said about whispers, and his own transformation, a taking-on, taking-in, to become his father when he’d slipped into Big Earl’s shirt … No, that wasn’t exactly right either. Dad wore me, instead of the other way around, like I was the shirt, and he had to fill me out in all the right places. A grab of fear in his gut. So what did that mean? His memories of the last few hours were so hazy they felt as if they belonged to another boy’s dream. Did he even remember if something like this had happened before? God, do I even know what it feels like to be myself? So weird. He wasn’t … sure. But how could he not be?
Stop it. You’re Casey. He was freaked, that was all. This place freaked him out, especially the fog. He lifted his eyes to the crows overhead; thought about the church behind and how Rima seemed to be … slotting herself in? As if the fog was really a … a thing that could spin itself into the intricate web of your personal nightmare.
What are you? He eyed the fog, thick and bunched and viscous, which had peeled back to hover above the distant trees, and he thought of the types of coverings used to protect furniture. Do you read our thoughts? Can you hear—
A loud, hard bang jolted him back. Uh-oh. That sounded like it had come from behind. The church? But it was empty. There was just that body.
“Casey,” Rima suddenly shouted. “Behind you! Look out!”
Something clamped onto his left shoulder, and then Casey let out a startled yelp as his feet left the ground. The world spun in a sudden, drunken whirl. He felt the whip and bite of cold air, heard the whir as he bulleted around, and then whatever held him let go, as if some little kid had gotten bored and flung this toy aside.
Casey went flying. As he hurtled through the air, he heard Rima scream again, a kind of decrescendo wail like the shrill of a passing ambulance siren. Flailing, he plummeted to this strange snow that had no give, no play at all, but was hard as packed earth. At the last second, he managed to twist, taking the brunt on his left shoulder, before turning in a somersault to slam onto his back. The impact jarred air in a great whoosh from his lungs. A streamer of hot pain scorched his spine, then licked down either leg, and he went instantly numb. For a trembling moment, he could only lie and stare at the crows oiling over the sky.
Breathe. His lungs were on fire, no air in them at all. He couldn’t make his chest work. Breathe, got to breathe, got to— With a giant effort, he sucked in a deep, gurgling gasp, felt a violent ripping in his chest, and then he was coughing out a scream of crimson mist. Something wrong with his chest, something broken … His lips were wet; he tried to gulp air but choked on another gush of warm blood.