Jilly shivered.
“Now I remember why I don’t like to read Christy’s stuff,” she said. “He can be so sweet on one page, and then on the next he’s taking you on a tour through an abattoir.”
“Just like life,” Bramley said.
“Wonderful. So what are you saying?”
“They’ll be wanting it back,” Bramley said.
Jilly woke some time after midnight with the Professor’s words ringing in her ears.
She glanced at the stone drum where it sat on a crate by the window of her Yoors Street loft in Foxville. From where she lay on her Murphy bed, the streetlights coming in the window wove a haloing effect around the stone artifact. The drum glimmered with magic—or at least with a potential for magic.
And there was something else in the air. A humming sound, like barely audible strains of music. The notes seemed disconnected, drifting randomly through the melody like dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight, but there was still a melody present.
She sat up slowly. Pushing the quilt aside, she padded barefoot across the room. When she reached the drum, the change in perspective made the streetlight halo slide away; the drum’s magic fled. It was just an odd stone artifact once more. She ran her finger along the smoothed indentations that covered the sides of the artifact, but didn’t touch the top. It was still marvelous enough—a hollow stone, a mystery, a puzzle. But ...
She remembered the odd almostbut-notquite music she’d heard when she first woke, and cocked her ear, listening for it. Nothing.
Outside, a light drizzle had wet the pavement, making Yoors Street glisten and sparkle with its sheen.
She knelt down by the windowsill and leaned forward, looking out, feeling lonely. It’d be nice if Geordie were here, even if his brother did write those books that had the Professor so enamoured, but Geordie was out of town this week. Maybe she should get a cat or a dog—just something to keep her company when she got into one of these odd funks—but the problem with pets was that they tied you down. No more gallivanting about whenever and wherever you pleased. Not when the cat needed to be fed. Or the dog had to be walked.
Sighing, she started to turn from the window, then paused. A flicker of uneasiness stole up her spine as she looked more closely at what had caught her attention—there, across the street. Time dissolved into a pattern as random as that faint music she’d heard when she woke earlier. Minutes and seconds marched sideways; the hands of the old Coors clock on her wall stood still.
A figure leaned against the wall, there, just to one side of the display window of the Chinese groceteria across the street, a figure as much a patchwork as the disarray in the shop’s window. Pumpkin head under a widebrimmed hat. A larger pumpkin for the body with what looked like straw spilling out from between the buttons of its toosmall jacket. Arms and legs as thin as broom handles. A wide slit for a mouth; eyes like the sharp yellow slits of a jacko’-lantern with a candle burning inside.
A Halloween creature. And not alone.
There was another, there, in the mouth of that alleyway. A third clinging to the wall of the brownstone beside the groceteria. Four more on the rooftop directly across the street—pumpkinheads lined up along the parapet, all in a row.
Skookin, Jilly thought and she shivered with fear, remembering Christy Riddell’s story.
Damn Christy for tracking the story down, and damn the Professor for reminding her ofit. And damn the job that had sent her down into Old City in the first place to take photos for the background of the painting she was currently working on.
Because there shouldn’t be any such thing as skookin. Because ...
She blinked, then rubbed her eyes. Her gaze darted left and right, up and down, raking the street and the faces of buildings across the way.
Nothing.
No pumpkin goblins watching her loft.
The sound of her clock ticking the seconds away was suddenly loud in her ears. A taxi went by on the street below, spraying a fine sheet of water from its wheels. She waited for it to pass, then studied the street again.
There were no skookin.
Ofcourse there wouldn’t be, she told herself, trying to laugh at how she’d let her imagination run away with itself, but she couldn’t muster up even the first hint ofa smile. She looked at the drum, reached a hand towards it, then let her hand fall to her lap, the drum untouched. She turned her attention back to the street, watching it for long moments before she finally had to accept that there was nothing out there, that she had only peopled it with her own night fears.
Pushing herself up from the sill, she returned to bed and lay down again. The palm of her right hand itched a little, right where she’d managed to poke herself on a small nail or wood sliver while she was down in Old City. She scratched her hand and stared up at the ceiling, trying to go to sleep, but not expecting to have much luck. Surprisingly, she drifted off in moments.
And dreamed.
Of Bramley’s study. Except the Professor wasn’t ensconced behind his desk as usual. Instead, he was setting out a serving of tea for her and Goon, who had taken the Professor’s place behind the tottering stacks of papers and books on the desk.
“Skookin,” Goon said, when the Professor had finished serving them their tea and left the room.
“They’ve never existed, of course.”
Jilly nodded in agreement.
“Though in some ways,” Goon went on, “they’ve always existed. In here—” He tapped his temple with a gnarly, very skookinlike finger. “In our imaginations.”
“But—” Jilly began, wanting to tell him how she’d
“And that’s what makes them real,” he said.
His head suddenly looked very much like a pumpkin. He leaned forward, eyes glittering as though a candle was burning there inside his head, flickering in the wind.
“And if they’re real,” he said.
His voice wound down alarmingly, as though it came from the spiraling groove of a spokenword album that someone had slowed by dragging their finger along on the vinyl.
“Then. You’re. In. A. Lot. Of—”
Jilly awoke with a start to find herself backed up against the frame of the head of her bed, her hands worrying and tangling her quilt into knots.
Just a dream. Cast off thoughts, tossed up by her subconscious. Nothing to worry about. Except ...
She could finish the dreamGoon’s statement.
Never mind being in trouble. If they were real, then she was doomed.
She didn’t get any more sleep that night, and first thing the next morning, she went looking for help.
“Skookin,” Meran said, trying hard not to laugh.
“Oh, I know what it sounds like,” Jilly said, “but what can you do? Christy’s books are Bramley’s pet blind spot and if you listen to him long enough, he’ll have you believing anything.”
“But skookin,” Meran repeated and this time she did giggle. Jilly couldn’t help but laugh with her.
Everything felt very different in the morning light—especially when she had someone to talk it over with whose head wasn’t filled with Christy’s stories.
They were sitting in Kathryn’s Cafe—an hour or so after Jilly had found Meran Kelledy down by the Lake, sitting on the Pier and watching the early morning joggers run across the sand: yuppies from downtown, healthconscious gentry from the Beaches.
It was a short walk up Battersfield Road to where Kathryn’s was nestled in the heart of Lower Crowsea. Like the area itself, with its narrow streets and old stone buildings, the cafe had an old world feel about it—from the dark wood paneling and handcarved chair backs to the small round tables, with checkered tablecloths, fat glass condiment containers and strawwrapped wine bottles used as candleholders. The music piped in over the house sound system was mostly along the lines of Telemann and Vivaldi, Kitaro and old Bob James albums. The
