Tick rubbed his hands over his arms, standing in the same place where he’d performed the magic-words-and-foot-stomping ritual. He finally realized what he was feeling.
Terror. Absolute, shrill, make-your-hair-stand-on-end terror.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a light come on.
He sucked in a quick intake of air as he turned to see a small spotlight shining on a single tombstone, about thirty yards deeper into the cemetery grounds. Compared to the heavy darkness around him, it seemed like the sun itself had changed its mind and come back for a nighttime visit. Realizing he hadn’t seen a spark of electricity since leaving for his house and returning, Tick felt like he was witnessing some kind of magic trick.
Curious, he walked toward the light, ignoring the fear constricting his chest.
He stepped around several large graves, almost tripping on a stone border around a particularly wide one. He kept his eyes riveted on the bright spot, scared it might be a trap, but not knowing where else to go. As he got closer, he saw that the light came from a large flashlight, sitting alone in front of a grave. He looked around the area, squinting his eyes to see if any monsters or zombies were hiding in the shadows, readying themselves to jump out and eat him.
The light hurt his vision, and he knew if someone was out there, he wouldn’t be able to see them. He focused on the brightly displayed tombstone, now close enough that he could read the etched words, dusty indentations on an old black-gray slab of granite.
Everything in his mind immediately vanished, all fear and thoughts washed away in the disbelief of what he saw before him. Tick fell to his knees, unable to take his eyes away from the words on the grave marker.
Tick looked at the dates.
According to the tombstone, he’d been dead for three years.
Chapter
38
Sitting Down
Before Tick could completely process the fact he was looking at his own grave, he heard a noise behind him. He twisted around, still on his knees, and for a split second thought he saw the reincarnation of Frankenstein’s Monster. A scream formed in the back of Tick’s throat. But it quickly fell mute when he realized the figure was someone very familiar, standing just a few feet away, towering over him.
Mothball.
Tick quickly stood up, relieved to see a familiar face, the questions flying out of his mouth before he had his feet under him. “Mothball, what’s happening? Where am I? How did—”
The tall woman held up a hand. “Best the little sir keep quiet for a moment, let yer tall friend do the talkin’ for a bit.” She stepped forward and bent over to pick up her flashlight, grunting with the effort. “Not every day ya get to see yer own tombstone, now is it? Downright spooky, it is.”
“Mothball, what’s going on?” Tick felt tears forming in his eyes now that the initial shock of seeing his name on the granite slab had settled into a stark reality.
“What’s going on?” Mothball repeated. “I’ll tell ya what’s going on. The little sir did it, he did. Solved Master George’s riddles, made it quite nicely. Got lots of learnin’ to do now, ya do. Hope yer mind’s still got some empty spots.”
Tick couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his stomach. “Mothball, why does this grave have my name on it? Who’s that crazy guy living in my house? Where is my family?” His voice broke on that last word, and he suddenly wondered if he really wanted to know the answer.
“One question at a time, if yer wantin’ any answers.” She pointed down at the tombstone. “There’s a fine reason that there piece of rock has yer name on it.” She paused. “Yer dead here, little sir. Dead as a mouse that’s got no heart, you are. Smell worse than Rutger’s feet I’d wager.” She offered Tick a smile, but he was in no mood to laugh.
“What are you talking about? How can I be . . . dead? I’m standing here talking to you.”
“I take it back, then. Yer Alterant is dead—that’s what I meant.” Mothball sighed and fidgeted, looking as uncomfortable as a vampire in a cathedral.
“An Alter-what? Mothball, please just tell me what’s going on.”
Mothball stepped closer to Tick, put one of her huge arms around his shoulder. Her flashlight was pointed at the ground, but it still illuminated her face enough to show creases of concern in her temples and brow, her eyes full of something indescribable—sorrow or compassion. “Perk yer ears, Master Tick, methinks I need to tell ya something.”
Tick stared up at her, waiting. “What is it?”
“Life’s a bit harder than you’ve ever known, it is. Different, too. When ya finally meet Master George, yer going to learn things that’d be a mighty bit hard for a grown-up to hear, much less a young’un like yourself. How it all works—the whys and hows and whatnot—better be leaving to me boss, I will. But I can tell ya one thing before we shove off.” She paused, looking away from Tick into the darkness of the graveyard.
“Yeah?” Tick prodded.
“This . . . place. If things had been different for you, Tick—if different choices had been chosen, different paths taken—well, that really could be yer little self under this here pile of dirt. This version of the world is fragmented, as Master George calls it. It’s weak, splintering, fading. All words I don’t use much, I’ll admit it. But we wanted ya to see it, to feel what it’s like to see yer own self dead as a stump.”
Tick shook his head. “But I don’t get it, Mothball. Are you saying this is another version of our world? That I did something here that ended up with me dead?”
“No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not saying yer dead because of anything ya did directly—at least, not for sure. Probably never know, we will.” She took her arm away, throwing it up in the air, frustrated. “Oh, this is rubbish—need to get a move on, we do.”
“Wait!” Tick reached out and grabbed Mothball’s shirt. “What about my family. Are they okay?”
Mothball knelt down on the ground, bringing her eyes level with Tick’s. “They’re right as rain, little sir. You don’t have to worry about them at’all. See what I’m tryin’ to tell ya is that the choices we make in this life can lead to things we’d never s’pect to have anything to do with us. Realities can be created and destroyed.” She gestured with her head to Tick’s tombstone. “That little feller might ruddy well be you for sure, he could. But ya just might have the power within yer beatin’ heart to make sure it doesn’t happen. That’s what it’s all about, really.”
Some of Tick’s anxiety and fear had vanished. Though he didn’t have a clue what Mothball was talking about, he felt . . . moved, which made him feel very adult. “Mothball, when do I get to actually understand what it is you’re talking about?”
Mothball smiled as she stood back on her feet. “Not much for speeches, I’ll admit it. By the looks of it, you’d rather listen to a croakin’ toad than hear me go on a bit. Righto, off we go.” She moved away from the tombstone and walked deeper into the scattered graves of the cemetery, the beam of her flashlight bobbing up and down with each step.
Tick fell in line behind her, having to take two steps for every one of hers, adjusting his scarf and backpack as he went. “When you say ‘off we go,’ where exactly are we off-we-going to?”
“Ah, Master Tick,” she said over her shoulder, “glad we got the bologna-and-cheese talk out the way, I am. Now’s time for the fun part. Hope yer excited.”
“I am, trust me. Anything to get away from this place.”
Mothball laughed, a booming chuckle that seemed sure to wake up a few dead people. “Don’t like the deadies, do ya? That’ll change, it will. Most times it takes a place like this to go off winking, it does.”
“Winking? What’s that?”
“Find out soon enough, ya will. Ah, here we are.” Mothball stopped, then turned around to face Tick. She shone her flashlight on a small patch of unmarked grass. “Have a nice sit-down, we will.” When Tick didn’t move, she gestured for him to sit. “Right here, chop-chop.”
“Why do we have to sit down?” Tick asked as he sat cross-legged in the exact spot where she’d shone the light.
Mothball sat across from him, folding up her huge legs underneath her. “No offense, lad, but methinks I’ve had enough of yer questions for now. Save them for Master George, and we’ll all be a mite happier indeed.”
Tick knew something amazing was about to happen, and his insides swelled with butterflies, like the last moment before a roller coaster shoots down its first gigantic hill. “Whatever you say, Mothball. I’ll shut up.”
“Now there’s a line I’d wish old Rutger’d learn to say. That wee little fat man could talk the ears off a mammoth, he could.”
Tick laughed, but didn’t say anything, keeping his promise.
“All right, that about does it, I’d say,” Mothball said to herself as she settled her body, growing still. “Just keep yourself nice and comfy there, lad, and good old Master George will wink us away any minute.”