Why don’t we just follow the alley out to the street and walk round the other side until we reach the main gates?”
This makes a lot of sense, but Lance isn’t having it. “Ah, but if it was that simple, the police would have found it, yeah? Interdimensional wormholes don’t have ‘other sides’ or ‘main gates.’ This is the door all right.” There’s something mocking about how Lance says this, and a voice in my head says,
Don’t trust him, he’s toying with all of you
. Then something strange happens: My hand decides to press itself hard against the door, and a zap of heat goes through my palm. I let out a yelp of surprise like a trodden-on puppy and the small black iron door opens. Like it was only waiting to be asked. It waits, ajar…
“Bugger me,” says Lance. “Not literally, Axel.”
“Looks like Sal’s got the magic touch,” says Todd.
“It was probably open the whole time,” says Angelica, but I’m so spooked, I don’t even care.
· · ·
We emerge from a shrubbery and stare up a long lawn at a big old stone house. A Virginia creeper, dark crimson in the twilight, grows up one side. Faint stars shine through the gaps in the cloud, but the sky’s still a little lighter and the air’s a little warmer than it was in the alley. “Viewed through my non-psychic eyeballs,” says Fern, “Slade House looks more
Rocky Horror Picture Show
than ‘a membrane between worlds.’ ” Angelica can’t rise to the bait because Fern’s right. We are looking at a student house, mid–Halloween party. “Novocaine for the Soul” by Eels thumps out, Bill Clinton and a nun are canoodling on a bench, and a gorilla, a Grim Reaper and a Wicked Witch of the West are sitting around a sundial thing, smoking. “My, my, you’re a crafty one, Axel,” says Lance.
“Huh?” asks Axel, vaguely; then, sharply, “ ‘Crafty’?”
“You’ve lured your poor disciples to a piss-up, right?”
“I’m not luring anyone anywhere,” snaps Axel.
“Hang on,” says Fern. “Is this the same Slade House that the collective brain of the Thames Valley Police failed to locate?”
Axel mumbles, “Apparently so, but…” His “but” fizzles out.
“Good,” says Fern. “And while this fit of sanity lasts, could we rule out the theory that we just passed through a black hole?”
“Fern?” It’s the Wicked Witch of the West, walking over. “Fern! I thought it was you!” The witch is American and her mask is green. “We met at Professor Marvin’s seminar on Jacobean drama. Kate Childs, Blithewood College exchange student. Though right now,” she gives a twirl, “I’m moonlighting for the forces of evil. Gotta say, Fern, your performance in
The Monkey’s Paw
blew—me—away.”
“Kate!” Fern the future A-lister forgets us, her embarrassing tagger-alongers. “So glad you gave a monkey’s about
Monkey’s
.”
“You kidding?” Kate Childs takes a long drag on her spliff and releases a plume of dope smoke. “I literally died of envy.”
Lance asks, “Are you smoking what I think you’re smoking, you wicked
wick
ed worstest witch?”
“That depends,” the American girl gives Lance a dubious look, “on what exactly it is you think I’m smoking.”
“Shut it a sec, Lance,” says Angelica. “Excuse me—Kate. We’d just like you to settle something: Is that Slade House?”
Kate Childs smiles like it might be a trick question. “Unless they’ve renamed it in, like, the last half hour: yes.”
“Thank you,” Angelica continues. “And who lives here?”
“Me and about fifteen Erasmus exchange scholars. You guys
are
here for the Halloween party, right?”
“Definitely,” says Lance. “We’re six psychic investigators.”
“So just to be clear,” says Angelica, “the university owns Slade House, this building, where you live?”
“Technically, the Erasmus Institute owns it, though a university groundsman mows the grounds on his shit-on mower. There’s a sign round
This makes a lot of sense, but Lance isn’t having it. “Ah, but if it was that simple, the police would have found it, yeah? Interdimensional wormholes don’t have ‘other sides’ or ‘main gates.’ This is the door all right.” There’s something mocking about how Lance says this, and a voice in my head says,
Don’t trust him, he’s toying with all of you
. Then something strange happens: My hand decides to press itself hard against the door, and a zap of heat goes through my palm. I let out a yelp of surprise like a trodden-on puppy and the small black iron door opens. Like it was only waiting to be asked. It waits, ajar…
“Bugger me,” says Lance. “Not literally, Axel.”
“Looks like Sal’s got the magic touch,” says Todd.
“It was probably open the whole time,” says Angelica, but I’m so spooked, I don’t even care.
· · ·
We emerge from a shrubbery and stare up a long lawn at a big old stone house. A Virginia creeper, dark crimson in the twilight, grows up one side. Faint stars shine through the gaps in the cloud, but the sky’s still a little lighter and the air’s a little warmer than it was in the alley. “Viewed through my non-psychic eyeballs,” says Fern, “Slade House looks more
Rocky Horror Picture Show
than ‘a membrane between worlds.’ ” Angelica can’t rise to the bait because Fern’s right. We are looking at a student house, mid–Halloween party. “Novocaine for the Soul” by Eels thumps out, Bill Clinton and a nun are canoodling on a bench, and a gorilla, a Grim Reaper and a Wicked Witch of the West are sitting around a sundial thing, smoking. “My, my, you’re a crafty one, Axel,” says Lance.
“Huh?” asks Axel, vaguely; then, sharply, “ ‘Crafty’?”
“You’ve lured your poor disciples to a piss-up, right?”
“I’m not luring anyone anywhere,” snaps Axel.
“Hang on,” says Fern. “Is this the same Slade House that the collective brain of the Thames Valley Police failed to locate?”
Axel mumbles, “Apparently so, but…” His “but” fizzles out.
“Good,” says Fern. “And while this fit of sanity lasts, could we rule out the theory that we just passed through a black hole?”
“Fern?” It’s the Wicked Witch of the West, walking over. “Fern! I thought it was you!” The witch is American and her mask is green. “We met at Professor Marvin’s seminar on Jacobean drama. Kate Childs, Blithewood College exchange student. Though right now,” she gives a twirl, “I’m moonlighting for the forces of evil. Gotta say, Fern, your performance in
The Monkey’s Paw
blew—me—away.”
“Kate!” Fern the future A-lister forgets us, her embarrassing tagger-alongers. “So glad you gave a monkey’s about
Monkey’s
.”
“You kidding?” Kate Childs takes a long drag on her spliff and releases a plume of dope smoke. “I literally died of envy.”
Lance asks, “Are you smoking what I think you’re smoking, you wicked
wick
ed worstest witch?”
“That depends,” the American girl gives Lance a dubious look, “on what exactly it is you think I’m smoking.”
“Shut it a sec, Lance,” says Angelica. “Excuse me—Kate. We’d just like you to settle something: Is that Slade House?”
Kate Childs smiles like it might be a trick question. “Unless they’ve renamed it in, like, the last half hour: yes.”
“Thank you,” Angelica continues. “And who lives here?”
“Me and about fifteen Erasmus exchange scholars. You guys
are
here for the Halloween party, right?”
“Definitely,” says Lance. “We’re six psychic investigators.”
“So just to be clear,” says Angelica, “the university owns Slade House, this building, where you live?”
“Technically, the Erasmus Institute owns it, though a university groundsman mows the grounds on his shit-on mower. There’s a sign round
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