Dead Voices

“I’ve seen you play enough times,” said Brian. “I trust you. Got a better idea, Tiny?” She glared at him by reflex, and it made her feel better. More normal. She realized Brian had called her that on purpose, to annoy her so she wouldn’t be scared.

“Okay,” said Coco, and hoped she hadn’t just decided to do something amazingly stupid. “I’ll get my chess set.”

“No need,” said Seth, and pointed at the table in front of him.

A chessboard was already set up there, its pieces made of perfect, hard, glossy stone, black and white.

Brian let out a low whistle. “You got this, Coco,” he said. “Just like in Harry Potter.”

“I never read it,” said Coco, between gritted teeth. “But if I win and we get out of this, you are never going to call me Tiny ever again.”

“I wouldn’t do that anyway,” said Brian seriously. “And I’m really sorry I kept calling you that.”

“It’s okay,” said Coco. “I’m getting a growth spurt, though. One of these days.”

They smiled at each other; forced smiles, but better than nothing.

Seth cracked his fingers. The fire set points of red light into his eyes. “Let us play.”

* * *

—

Mother Hemlock—at least Ollie thought the gray woman was Mother Hemlock—might have been a ghost. Or she might not have been. How did you tell? Ollie realized how little—how very little she knew about ghosts. Or anything. She and Brian and Coco had come out of the world behind the mist only wanting to forget about it. To go back to school, be normal kids, ride their bikes, do their homework, make scones in the Egg with her dad.

Ollie hadn’t even considered that may

be they’d been making a mistake. That even if they were done with the world behind the mist, it wasn’t done with them.

She wasn’t behind the mist now. She was behind a mirror, and the gray woman was hauling her across the dining room, muttering gleefully.

“Upstairs! Upstairs now! To the closet first! And then straight to bed with you, missy! No supper! I’ll teach you to disobey! I’ll teach you.”

Ollie fought. “I didn’t—disobey—let go of me!” She thrashed in the thing’s grip, head-butted her, bit her horrible-tasting arm, let her legs go limp so that she was dragged across the floor. It was like being a toddler; the woman—the ghost—didn’t even react. Ollie felt panic starting to choke her. If she could not get free . . .

Another dark shape was waiting for them in the archway between the dining room and the lobby. It wore a blue jacket and a ski mask. Ollie couldn’t see very well. The only light in the room was the dull, hellish glow of the fire, the only thing that was the same on both sides of the mirror. His hands hung down by his sides, and he wasn’t wearing gloves. The fingers were black. Not ash, Ollie realized. Frostbite.

Was this Gabriel Bouvier? she wondered.

Or Gabriel Bouvier’s ghost?

He made a horrible garbled sound and raised his hand, palm out. Like he was saying STOP.

Mother Hemlock slowed a little. “I’ve been kind,” she snapped at him, in a voice like old bones crunching. “I’ve given you houseroom here, traveler. But this is still my house. Get out of my way.” And she raised a hand in return, pointing a finger directly at him. The ghost in the ski mask stumbled backward like she’d hit him, even though she hadn’t even touched him.

But to raise her hand and point, Mother Hemlock had to let go of Ollie’s arm. They were close to the fireplace. Close enough for Ollie to pull her hand into the sleeve of her jacket, lunge at the hearth with all her strength, and grab a fistful of hot coals. She shoved them up at Mother Hemlock’s grayish, furious face.

Mother Hemlock fell back, smoldering, screeching. She wiped embers from her eyes. “That was foolish,” she said, in the coldest voice Ollie had ever heard.

But Ollie didn’t wait around to find out why it was foolish. She had bolted for the second archway, running for her life.

But something stood in the other archway too.

It was the bear. The dead, stuffed bear. It was standing on its hind legs, upright on its wooden stand. Blocking her way.

Ollie slowed. The bear’s mouth was open. Huge white teeth showed in a snarl. One stiff paw was upraised to strike.

And a sound was coming from it. A low, soft sound. She didn’t recognize it at first. It was too strange. Then she understood. The dead bear was growling.