you.”
The boys crouched like frightened animals, saying nothing, eyes spinning, seeming to look everywhere and nowhere.
“What’s wrong with them?” Olive whispered.
Bronwyn hushed her. “Don’t be rude.”
“Can you tell me your names?” Emma said, her voice coaxing and gentle.
“I am Joel and Peter,” the larger boy said.
“Which are you?” Emma said. “Joel or Peter?”
“I am Peter and Joel,” said the smaller boy.
“We don’t have time for games,” said Enoch. “Are there any birds in there with you? Have you seen any fly past?”
“The pigeons like to hide,” said the larger.
“In the attic,” said the smaller.
“What attic?” said Emma. “Where?”
“In our house,” they said together, and raising their arms they pointed down the dark passage. They seemed to speak cooperatively, and if a sentence was more than a few words long, one would start and the other finish, with no detectable pause between. I also noticed that whenever one was speaking and the other wasn’t, the quiet one would mouth the other’s words in perfect synchronicity—as if they shared one mind.
“Could you please show us the way to your house?” asked Emma. “Take us to your attic?”
Joel-and-Peter shook their heads and shrank back into the dark.
“What’s the matter?” Bronwyn said. “Why don’t you want to go?”
“Death and blood!” cried one boy.
“Blood and screaming!” cried the other.
“Screaming and blood and shadows that bite!” they cried together.
“Cheerio!” said Horace, turning on his heels. “I’ll see you all back in the crypt. Hope I don’t get squashed by a bomb!”
