The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey

pride withered at the thought of giving up, he began to consider how to manage it without looking like a coward. He was afraid the others would think he was fibbing about his sleepiness — Constance, after all, seemed to be having no trouble staying awake — but even if he came up with a decent excuse, to fetch Reynie or Kate he would have to abandon his post. This seemed entirely too dangerous, for he didn’t feel he could trust Constance to cover both directions. He had already tried talking to Constance to keep himself awake, but she had shushed him at once. “I can’t concentrate if you talk,” she hissed, and he could tell she meant it. Conversation might help him, but it would distract her, which would leave them vulnerable to the north.

Sticky racked his brain. Pinching himself wasn’t working. Hopping in place was too noisy and might distract Constance. What could he do? Sticky’s weary mind, searching for an answer in the best way it knew how, presently settled upon an image from a book. A man had tied burning twigs to his fingers; when the twigs burned down to his skin the pain would wake him. That wasn’t a bad idea, Sticky thought, his eyelids sagging. What book had that been? It was unusual for him not to remember. He certainly remembered where he’d been when he read it, though — safe at home with his parents. It was winter; he was wearing extra socks. Sticky closed his eyes and watched himself turning page after page, engrossed in the story. It was pleasant reading there by the window. Then his father came into the room and asked what he was reading.

“I can’t remember,” Sticky said aloud. His eyes flew open. He’d been dreaming.

“Remember what?” Constance asked. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. Just keep quiet, for crying out loud. You startled the snot out of me.”

Sticky’s breath was coming hard and heavy. He stared out into the night. The meadow seemed oddly bleary, more like an abstract painting of a meadow than an actual one. His spectacles had slipped too low on his nose. Sticky quickly settled them higher and stared out again. Was anything there? No, thank goodness. The meadow was empty. The nearby mountain slope was empty. There was nothing to see, and Sticky felt the overwhelming relief of someone who has made a terrible blunder and gotten away with it.

That can’t happen again, he scolded himself. You’re just lucky they didn’t come. In fact, you’re lucky you didn’t fall off the roof. It would have been a very nasty fall, too. What was it — twenty feet down? Thirty feet? Kate would know. Sticky took a careful step forward and peered down over the edge of the roof.

A Ten Man stood looking up at him.

Sticky gave a strangled cry and leaped back in terror. His leap carried him straight into Constance, who had been turning to see what was the matter, and in horrified disbelief Sticky saw her tumble backward and fall off the roof. She screamed as she went over, then screamed again — though only for a split second, for Kate’s rope, catching her about the middle, cut her off with a jerk. At first Sticky didn’t realize what had happened. He thought Constance had hit the ground. Then he heard her feet banging against the side of the silo, and he scrambled forward to haul her up. Sticky snatched at the rope, forgetting the flare gun in his hand until he had already let it go. No, no, no! he thought as he watched it fall. It landed near the Ten Man, who had come around the silo to look up at them with a bemused expression, as if contemplating two bickering sparrows in the eaves.

The Ten Man picked up the flare gun and slipped it inside his suit coat. He took out a radio and said, “I have activity in the village.” He said something else Sticky couldn’t hear, for Constance (who had just recovered her breath) kept yelling at him to pull her up. The Ten Man put away the radio and began to climb the ladder. He moved elegantly — the briefcase seemed not to impede him in the least — and the scent of his cologne rose up before him.

Constance, smelling the cologne, fell abruptly still. She stared helplessly at Sticky, afraid to look down. Below her, the Ten Man’s shoes made soft tapping sounds on the ladder rungs.

“There, there, chickie,” said the Ten Man. “Let me help you with that.”

Reynie was coming slowly awake. At first he was extremely disoriented. He had been having unpleasant dreams until something had awakened him. Everything was dark and quiet. He didn’t think he was in his own bed, and in the moonlight from the window he could just make out the unfamiliar ceiling above him. No overhead light. He blinked and swiveled his eyes, too sleepy even to move his head. He didn’t see any furniture. Was he still dreaming? Where was he? The bed sagged in the middle and had no footboard, and in the gloom he could make out twin humps at the end of it. His feet. Still in their shoes, for some reason. And behind them, just beyond the end of his bed, Reynie thought he could see . . .

A figure. Crouched in the darkness.

He could see the eyes.

Reynie’s skin prickled — it felt as if ants were swarming over him — and he stopped breathing. He couldn’t move. For a moment his mind was blank with fear, and then it seized desperately upon an explanation. He was dreaming. Not just a dream — a nightmare. The most terrifying, most realistic nightmare of his life. Reynie forced himself to breathe, though all he could manage were shallow gasps. It was Mr. Benedict’s nightmare, he realized suddenly. The figure crouched at the end of the bed — the Old Hag. Reynie had been thinking about Mr. Benedict, and so naturally . . . Yes, that had to be it. Still too scared to move, Reynie tried to wake himself up. A nightmare, he thought. Just a nightmare. Wake up now.

Reynie saw the eyes blink. He shivered. It looked as if the silent creature was trying to make him out in the darkness. Oh, it was no wonder these visions haunted Mr. Benedict so terribly! Wake up, he commanded himself. Wake up! With great effort, Reynie finally managed to sit up.

And when he did, the figure’s eyes widened and it sprang forward with a hiss.

Reality came roaring back. He was in the abandoned village on the island. And now someone, a stranger, was trying to yank him out of the bed. Reynie fought back, but the stranger was far stronger than he was, and after a few grunts and cries and stinging slaps he felt himself heaved out onto the wooden floor, striking it first, and very painfully, with his chin. For a moment he saw pinpoints of lights in the darkness, like fairy dust. He was seeing stars. And he was still trying to clear his head when a brighter light shone into the room and fell on his attacker’s face.

It was Martina Crowe. Her long black hair, mussed from the struggle, fell all about her face, but there was no mistaking that vindictive expression.

There was also no mistaking the bearer of the flashlight.

One moment Kate stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of her friend being held down by Martina Crowe. The next moment the flashlight rose high into the air, almost to the ceiling, and Kate disappeared in darkness. Reynie’s and Martina’s eyes instinctively followed the light (which was exactly why Kate had thrown it) and so