Empty Smiles, page 7
Ollie didn’t. She nodded, trying not to think of the gallery of faces in the doll room.
The two girls darted across the open space, through the front door, past the door that said parts (beware). The stairs led up into blackness. Ollie felt Morgan breathing faster and faster. “It’s so dark in here,” Morgan whispered.
Ollie felt for Morgan’s hand, took it. The older girl’s fingers were deathly cold. “Come on. Just be careful of the steps.”
They crept up the stairs to the door that said scraps. Ollie groped in the dark for the handle, found it, pushed it down. The door opened with a shrill creak. Both girls froze, listening. But there was no one there.
They slipped into the doll room.
The cobwebby windows let in some moonlight, some carnival light. But the light wasn’t stable. It pulsed. It flickered. It washed the room with different colors, it lit the dolls in pieces. Their rigid faces, their open eyes. Their broken limbs. The pieces on the floor. Morgan turned away, a hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Ollie said. “It’s okay. We’re just going to find the key, and then we’ll go up one more floor. Right at the top of the stairs, that’s where I stay. It’s just a room. No dolls. You can sleep on my bed; there’s a couch. It’s safe. He promised me it’s safe.”
Finally Morgan straightened up and nodded.
Ollie looked around the room. Her skin crawled at the dolls’ stiff stares. The light was bad. The room was packed. And she couldn’t help wondering—Those dolls. And parts of dolls. Are they people? Were they people? Are they alive? Dead?
“Let’s get started,” she whispered.
Morgan nodded again. “Maybe start in the far end? And work our way out?”
“Okay,” Ollie said. The only way out of the room was through the door they had come through. If one of the clowns found them, then . . .
We’ll hide, that’s all, Ollie told herself.
They split up and started going through the room. Their hands and faces glowed red, then blue, with the light outside. Shrieks came through the window. They sounded to her quivering imagination like shrieks of terror. Ollie forced herself to calm down. She moved dolls out of the way as gently as she could. Squinting, touching. Looking for anything in the shape of a key.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed. Until Morgan whispered, “Ollie. Ollie! Look.”
Morgan was about ten feet away, near the other side of the room. She was staring at a dark corner by the door. She pointed. Ollie followed her finger. Saw it, in a blue flicker from the window. Another doll. It was a man with glasses. Wearing an expression of insane determination. And in one tiny plastic fist, it held a key . . .
“Yes!” Morgan whispered. She crept across the room, around a pile of junk, eyes on the doll.
And then Ollie saw, cold with horror, one of the shadows detach itself from the unmoving ones on the wall. It was crooked, frizzy-haired. She saw it tiptoeing with exaggerated gestures like a cartoon villain, fingers crooked, straight toward Morgan.
“Morgan!” Ollie shouted.
Everything happened quickly. Morgan whipped around. The clown was right there, reaching for her. Morgan, with a scream, flung her arm up and threw. Something sparkling flashed through the room, straight toward Ollie. She whipped up an arm, snatched the key out of the air, and shoved it into her jeans pocket. Looked up.
Morgan was gone. She was already gone. The clown, very tenderly, was sliding a doll into its huge pocket. Then it turned its smile on her, just as the door creaked open and two more clowns clomped into the room. They waved at her. Maybe that was how they did it. Let you see the key, and then they got you . . .
The clowns put their heads together and giggles filled the night, as though they’d played an excellent joke. Then they began doing their cartoon-villain tiptoe toward Ollie.
The door was no good. She went for the window.
She wasn’t a climber like Coco, but she’d climbed plenty of trees in her life. She picked up the nearest box of doll parts and hurled it through the window. Then she stepped onto the window frame, glass crunching under her feet, cutting her hands. She reached for the gutter and pulled herself onto the roof.
Her hands were bloody. The light from her bedroom skylight glowed above her. She’d left the window open. Just a quick scramble up the sloping roof and she’d drop into her bedroom. She went for it, heedless of the pain from her cut hands. All she had to do was get there . . .
But there was something wrong. Something different. Something missing.
The giant clown skeleton popped over the roofline. Ollie was barely keeping her grip on the slippery roof tiles; the sight sent her rolling. She caught herself on the gutter. Her heart was hammering like a rabbit’s. The clown skeleton was crawling over the roof. Its rotted red hair blew in the wind. It turned its empty eye sockets here and there. It didn’t have lips. Its grinning red mouth was painted right onto the bones of its skull . . .
It still had teeth.
Ollie heaved herself, panting, back onto the roof. Her hands were slick with bloody sweat. The clown skeleton’s empty eye sockets locked on her.
Ollie wondered if touching the skeleton would turn her into a doll too or if it would just flick her off the roof like a bug. It was crouching over her bedroom skylight. Ollie looked down. Clowns were clustered on the ground below the haunted house, grinning up at her. One gave her a thumbs-up. Another was clapping wildly. Two smiling white heads popped out of the broken window.
Give herself even a second to think, and she’d panic. So she ran instead.
Dug in the toes of her sneakers and ran straight up the roof, angling away from the clown skeleton. It swiped at her with a huge hand. She smelled rotten sugar and dust. Her sitting room window was on the attic wall. If she thought about what she was planning even for a second, she’d miss her grip and drop into the dirt and break her legs and then be a doll with broken legs.
But she didn’t think. She got to the edge of the roof just ahead of the clown skeleton’s fingers. She dropped down and let her feet dangle into space with her agonized hands gripping the gutter. And then she swung her feet inward, through her open sitting room window.
Her hands slipped right off, of course, but she’d managed one swing first. Enough to get her feet into the window and fall on the sitting room floor and not the ground below. She lay there, sobbing for air. Listened for clown feet. Waited for one of them to burst into her room. But nothing happened.
The sound of Morgan’s scream still echoed in her ears. The key was heavy in her pocket.
8
BRIAN USUALLY LOVED the drive up from Evansburg to his house at Moose Lodge. The dusty road wound between stands of pine and hemlock. Sometimes you’d get glimpses of meadows between the trees, sloping toward Evansburg, cupped like a marble in the green palm of the mountains.
But Brian wasn’t looking at the scenery. His mind ran frantic-fast over everything Tim had said. Need light? Three keys? What did it mean? Was it all some trick of the smiling man’s? What should they do?
His mom had to repeat herself, raising her voice from the driver’s seat, before he heard her. “Brian—Brian, for God’s sake, what aren’t you kids telling us?”
The phrase So much, Mom, almost popped out. “Nothing.”
His mom’s fingers cramped, visibly, on the wheel. “We both know that’s not true. Why did you insist you needed to talk to Tim Jenkins? Why did you say you aren’t safe? Brian, we want you to be safe.”
Brian had gotten used to ducking questions, but he didn’t think his mom would let him duck this time. Her eyes drilled into his through the rearview mirror. Brian licked his lips. “I can’t tell you.”
He expected his mom to be furious. He did not expect the hurt expression that crossed her face, nor did he expect his dad to reach across and take his mom’s hand in sympathy.
“Honey, why? What have we done to make you not trust us?” Her voice was sad.
If his mom had gotten mad, maybe Brian would have gotten mad right back, like he had by the creek. But her sadness made him feel awful. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said, his voice going scratchy.
“That’s not your job!” his mom retorted. Then she shook her head and went on, quieter. “You’ve got it wrong. It’s my job. And your dad’s. So please, son, I’m begging you. Tell me what we need to know to keep you safe. Please. You can talk to us. What’s going on with you kids?”
But they were swinging into the driveway of Moose Lodge as she spoke, and Brian was saved from having to answer. A crowd of people—the inn’s guests—were standing around outside, looking uneasy. Alarmed. The manager was there too; she was saying, “The police are on their way.”
When Brian’s parents hurried out of the car, a look of relief spread across the manager’s face. Brian was standing plenty near enough to his parents to hear the manager whisper to them, “There’s been a break-in.”
* * *
—
The police looked flummoxed. “Three times today,” said one, shaking his head. “Three kids’ rooms, nothing taken, so far as anyone can tell. What’s going on?”
His partner added, “And all on the same day that Tim Jenkins was found running up the creek. Makes you wonder. Like someone’s got a vendetta against kids or something. Maybe keep your doors locked, ma’am. Sir.” The cops nodded to Brian and his parents. Then they both drove away.
Brian’s parents had to calm down their guests, get the inn settled for the night. His dad started in on it, but his mom, strangely, wasn’t helping. She was on the phone, standing out in the yard. Then she put her phone in her pocket, walked through the front door, and said, “That was Roger. He says that the Egg and the Zintners’ place were broken into, and Ollie’s and Coco’s rooms trashed. Just like yours.”
Heart pounding, Brian pulled out his phone and saw about ten missed calls from Coco. He hadn’t checked his phone. Too busy staring in horror at his room.
“Brian, what is going on?” his mom said.
Brian almost said, Okay, I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but here goes . . .
Then he imagined his mom, who never let suppliers or grumpy guests or black bears in the compost or anything stop her, trying to take on the smiling man. Remembered what happened to other people who’d met the smiling man. Remembered scarecrows that had been people. Hollow-eyed ghosts.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Brian, please.”
He shook his head and, to his horror, saw tears in her eyes. “Okay, have it your way,” she said. “Maybe you think this is a game, or that it doesn’t involve anyone but you kids. You’re wrong, but think what you like. Apparently Coco told Roger everything. I’ll know one way or the other—we’re having supper tomorrow, after the parade. But—I wish you’d trust me.”
“She what?”
His mom just looked at him.
Brian turned away, stumbled upstairs. He started to go to his room, then remembered. Pillows ripped up. His books pulled off the shelves. His favorite hockey stick snapped on the floor. His clothes yanked out of his closet.
He went into the upstairs bathroom instead, shut the door, locked it, and called Coco.
Her voice came breathless over the phone. “Brian—did he—?”
“My room’s torn up,” Brian said. He kept remembering the splinters of his hockey stick, the crumpled spines of his favorite novels, his mom’s face, and wanting to cry. “And you told the grown-ups.” His voice was flat.
Coco hesitated. Then she said, “Yes, I did. And my room’s ripped up too. And Ollie’s. We need to talk about everything. Should we add Phil to the call?”
Brian tried to pull himself together. Getting mad at Coco wouldn’t solve anything. “Yeah,” he said.
Phil answered on the second ring. They told Phil about their smashed-up bedrooms first.
“My room’s okay,” Phil said. He sounded a little put out. “I guess the smiling man knows you don’t like me as much as you like each other.”
Brian’s voice echoed on the tile. “You can’t possibly be mad that your room wasn’t messed up.”
Phil said, “I— No. But I mean I guess I just—sometimes I get tired of being the less-good Ollie. You know? The not-important friend.”
“You’re not,” Coco said. “Phil, you’re not. It’s not about getting to Ollie’s friends at all. He wanted the watch.”
Dead silence.
“The watch?” Phil said.
“Ollie’s mom’s watch?” Brian said. “That’s what they were looking for? Coco, did he—?”
He heard her swallow. “He got it.”
“You didn’t have it with you?”
“No.” Coco’s voice was very small. “No, I—I thought—oh, it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s got it. Brian, I’m scared.”
“You were scared? That’s why you went ahead and told the grown-ups? Coco, I get that, but—”
Phil interrupted, “Coco, you told?”
She said, “Yeah. I told my mom and Mr. Adler.”
“What did you tell them?” Brian said.
“Everything. The whole story.”
Brian let his head fall back, thump, against the cool bathroom tile. “Coco—I don’t—I get why you did it, but how are we going to keep them safe now?”
“It’s not just about being safe. We need help, Brian!” Coco said passionately. “We need help getting Ollie back. We need all the help we can get.”
Brian didn’t say anything. The bathroom felt hot and airless. Everything felt hot and airless, as though their fear had a presence, just like the humid evening. He tried to sound calm. “But what if the smiling man gets your mom? Or Ollie’s dad! Or Phil’s parents—or mine?”
“What if they could help us end this?” Coco retorted.
“You still should have talked to us first. We’re a team. Why didn’t you trust us?”
Now she sounded hurt. “You should trust me! To make a good decision. Even if it isn’t what you’d have done! I’m not Tiny anymore. I make good decisions. I beat him once at chess, remember?”
Coco probably didn’t mean it, but Brian heard the unspoken part anyway: While you just sat there, Brian Battersby. You’ve never beaten the smiling man, never been enough for your friends who needed you . . .
Brian said nothing.
Phil cut into their silence. He sounded a little panicked. “Hey—it would be really something, wouldn’t it, if something bad happened while we are all on the phone fighting over something that is already done?”
Phil was right. Brian heard Coco hesitate and then say in a calmer voice, “Right. Okay, so I think—I think that my mom and Mr. Adler believe me.”
Brian was skeptical. “Really? Everything?”
Coco amended. “Or at least they believe me enough. We’re going to the hospital to try to talk to Tim Jenkins. Tomorrow morning, before the parade. I want to ask him more questions. I wanted to go tonight, but Mom put her foot down.”
“My parents and I were supposed to go to the parade,” Brian said. “But, um, with the weird break-ins, I don’t know if they’ll—”
Coco said, “We should try and meet at the parade if we can. Ollie’s dad is going to call Phil’s parents too. He’s going to suggest that all of us meet either at my house or at the Egg after the parade tomorrow. To talk about what to do.”
Brian was silent, thinking it over.
Coco went on. “At least we’ll all be together. We can talk. We can share ideas. We can figure out what to do. I really think the grown-ups can help.”
Phil was quiet.
Brian wondered if Coco was trying to convince him or Phil or herself. He thought of the people he loved: his parents, Phil, Coco. Ollie. His friends’ families. And he thought of them all under the smiling man’s amused gaze.
Then he thought of their families shaking their heads, laughing a little, telling him that what he remembered couldn’t possibly be real.
He wondered which it would be.
“Okay,” he said. “Parade tomorrow, check. See you there. In the meantime, try and figure out what Tim’s clues mean.”
Phil said, “What do you guys think it means? It’s all confusing.”
Coco said, “Three keys. Ghost, mirror, gate. And need light.”
Phil asked, “Does light mean we need light? Like—flashlights?”
“We can keep lights with us,” Brian said. “At all times. Have them, just in case. That’s easy. I have headlamps. I’ll bring them to the parade tomorrow. I don’t know about keys. I mean—house keys, of course, but—”
“There’s too much we don’t know,” Coco said. “I’ll see if I can get more from Tim.”
“Be careful,” Brian said. “And—um, Coco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad or—act like I didn’t trust you. I do. Trust you.”
Instantly Coco said, “Same. I trust you guys more than anyone. See you tomorrow.”
“Everyone lock their doors,” Phil said. “And how does it go? Sleep with one eye open?”
“Yeah,” Brian said.
9
OLLIE CLUTCHED THE key so tight that it left a scarlet impression in her palm. She paced the floor, trying to remember everything Morgan had said. Wished she’d had more time to ask questions. Tried not to let that sharp, cut-off scream echo in her head, or imagine empty smiles and unblinking eyes. She splashed water on her face, saw her own eyes red and shadowed in the mirror over the sink.
“Three keys,” she said to herself, going back into her bedroom. “This is the first one.” She sat on the narrow brass bed and bent to examine the key in the uncertain light of the old-fashioned bedside lamp. The key was about six inches long. It had three jagged teeth on one end. On the other was a tiny, round convex mirror. Ollie could see her face distorted in it. It made her think of the funhouse. “The first key opens the way to the second key,” she said aloud. “The second key opens the way to the third. Third key opens the gate. Find the second key, then the third. Save everyone. All the dolls . . .”
