This time, we could go out into the front yard, though it was bare bones and small. Everything beyond the small patch of leaf-covered ground at the base of the tree was gone; just the same darkness that had killed Dream May last time.

  I grabbed Dream Isla by the shoulders and slammed her head into the beehive. She screamed, clawing at the outside of it with her fingers, but she couldn’t get the hive off. She stumbled backward, straight into Dream Jessica, and I lunged forward and shoved her the rest of the way down.

  There was a bellow-like horn being slammed down and then she vanished into the darkness. Instead of flying away like Dream May had, she was pushed backward, downward, beneath the strip of grass.

  I jerked toward it, watching in fascination—horror, it must have been horror—I liked to lie to myself, it seemed—as she was pushed into the shadows.

  Dream Jessica was gone. I leaned even further forward. The ground cut off in a large jagged edge, which hung beneath us. It looked like the ground was just pulled out of the land and left floating there. You could even see where the roots of the tree just dangled into the shadows.

  The ground shifted slightly under me. “Whoa!”

  My arms pinwheeled but right before I went over the edge, Molly grabbed me by the back of the dress and pulled me back onto solid ground.

  “I have you,” she said breathlessly. “You need to be careful, Quinn. I don’t know what’s going to happen if you fall off of there.”

  “Thanks, Molly.” I gave her a grateful smile.

  Two dolls had appeared at the base of the oak tree. I thought about picking them up, but decided there wasn’t any point in it.

  Should I toss them over the edge?

  That seemed pretty pointless, too, and we had a lot of other people we still needed to hunt down.

  It was strange. None of them were as tricky to find this time around. I didn’t see hide nor hair of Harry or Tabitha, and Molly was strangely quiet through the whole thing. She didn’t laugh or giggle or take off dancing.

  I kept getting the distinct impression she was mad at me, though I couldn’t figure out why.

  She was the one who said these people needed to be killed, after all. It’s not like I decided to start doing it all on my own!

  But I didn’t let it get to me.

  I couldn’t.

  This was the exact release I had been looking for, that I had been craving. It sat in my belly, delicious and warm, like a chugged-down mug of perfectly sweet hot cocoa with just enough whipped cream on top.

  We caught them all. The students. The teachers. The people that made fun of me—that made me feel like crap. I could see the truck, sometimes, but only when I looked out through certain windows. A strange shadow figure was constantly getting in and out of it; the ghost of the Gramps drawing I’d started.

  Soon, there was only one of them left: a boy, Dream Stevie, when a thought crossed my mind.

  “Molly,” I asked, as we stalked the last remaining boy. “Why do they all turn into dolls?

  “It’s what was written.” Molly said with a bounce of her shoulders. Her eyes were always so bright. I still couldn’t figure out what color they were. One minute green, and blue the next, with bursts of hazel and gray in between. And stars—they were filled up with the stars, swimming about like her face was the night sky.

  “I didn’t write it,” I argued. “I never said anything about them turning into dolls. She was supposed to use the dolls to keep them here, but then the ghosts were supposed to stay and be friends with her. There wasn’t anything in it about having to turn them into dolls.”

  Molly shook her head. “Not you. The Narrator.”

  We turned the corner, and stepped into a big garden-filled atrium. All of the plants were seemingly alive, their vines curling, their flowers shifting and twisting about, the petals so brilliantly bright, all shades of blue and pink and sparkling yellow.

  And there in the middle of it all was Dream Stevie. He had been written in as a gardener, to help Old Lady with the plants. I hadn’t made the garden this big but then, I hadn’t made a lot of this manor so big and vast and wide.

  I hurried over to him, more interested in learning more about the Narrator than the kill. I made quick work of Dream Stevie. As soon as he hit the ground, the vines lurched toward him and wrapped him up in a great big cocoon. They made sounds like they were sucking a frosty out of too-small straw.

  I grabbed the hem of my skirt and started to clean up the blood from the knife. “Narrator? You’ve mentioned him before, but I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Yeah.” Molly tapped her finger to her chin. “The Narrator is person who created this world—well, not this world. It all started looking like this when the Illustrator—you—showed up. It used to look a lot different.”

  That was a whole lot of jumbled-up words that I had never heard before.

  I frowned, watching a star fade in on my upper arm. It felt ultimate relief after killing. It felt so good. Like all of my worries were melting away.

  And that was only a little concerning.

  The tension from the real world was gone. The fact that everyone was angry with me, the fact that everyone seemed to dislike me, the fact that no one seemed to like anything I did. There were no expectations here. And the people who did have them, well, they were finally going to get their just desserts.

  I dropped the skirt down, taking a moment to admire the way that the light glinted off of the sharp edge of the knife.

  The vines uncurled. There was no body left and not a single droplet of blood. It was just a doll, who looked like a little plushie version of Stevie, with curly yarn hair and big button eyes. He had a flower crown of fake daisies sitting on his head and a little plastic trowel in one hand.

  The vines slithered backward, curling once more around the posts and trellises they normally rested upon. I made a mental note to add something like that into my illustrations; maybe that could be something that Ghost Girl could possess?

  I asked, “It looked different? How so?”

  “Less colorful. There were just as many rooms, but there was nothing really in them. And everyone was unhappy.”

  “Isn’t everyone still unhappy? I haven’t seen Tabitha or Harry at all, and the moon is almost full.”

  “They’ll get happy.” Molly’s tone was clipped.

  I frowned. “The Narrator made a house that looked just like mine?” And, after a moment of thinking, “You called me the Illustrator.”

  “That’s what you are. You’ve drawn so much of the world! I’m glad you’re here,” Molly said, but something in her eyes made me question if she was telling the truth.

  Last time, I would have believed her. But this time… There was just something strange about it.

  There was something strange about a lot of things. With the last person gone and turned into a doll, I was able to have a little bit of free time, and there was one thing that I wanted to check. I had Molly help me find the way up to my room.

  Well, it should have been my room. Hero’s pink cat doll was still sitting on the pillows of the bed, and there were stars all over the room. I looked around, and frowned.

  Molly watched me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was just looking for something,” I told her, not wanting to let her know that there were doll versions of the people I killed in real life. Was that wrong? Should it have been like that? It was hard to tell, but just to be on the safe side…

  It didn’t matter. Recognition flashed into Molly’s eyes, and she said, “Oh, you’re looking for them…they’re here. Their people are here.”

  “Their people?” I asked, but it was too late. The full moon must have finally reached its highest peak, even though outside was still darkness.

  Dizziness washed over me. I staggered, but Molly grabbed my arm. She helped me over to the bed, so I could collapse onto the mattress instead of on the floor. Hopefully, that meant I wouldn’t get hit with another bruise that needed to be covered up.

  The light turned purple. It swam through the air like the Aurora Borealis, fluctuating through the world. It passed over top of Molly, very briefly casting her in lavender glow. It made her eyes go almost silver, and the whites of her teeth stand out.

  And then darkness closed in, and it was gone.

  Thump

  I woke up in my bed, alone, in the middle of the night. I didn’t know how I’d managed to get out of the basement; last time, Grandma had to carry me up to bed. This time, I was lying down as though I had gone to sleep, and the blanket was pulled up over top of me.

  Doll Stevie was tucked into bed beside me. There were rows of new dolls sitting on the window seat off to the side—all of the people that I had killed this last time sitting in their doll forms on the cushion. I was quick to get out of bed, ignoring all of the aches and pains, and shove Doll Stevie into the closet.

  It was empty. A mouse ran out of the blanket that had been on the floor, and darted under the bed. I squealed and flung myself backward, away from the closet.

  The mouse didn’t come back out.

  I stamped my feet and shouted, “I hate mice! Stupid, ugly rodents!”

  My hands slapped up over my mouth. I thought for a moment that I might have been too loud and I might have woken up my grandparents… But there were no sounds of footsteps showing up, and no one seemed to be coming downstairs.

  I let out a relieved breath.

  “Okay. Quieter. I can do quiet.”

  Quiet didn’t mean slow, though. I ran through the room, gathering up all of the dolls from the people that I had killed, and tossing them all into the closet. I had to grab the ones off of the shelf, too; that’s how I knew it was freaky, because Grandma and Gramps wouldn’t have ever come in and gotten them out of my closet.

  It didn’t matter.

  Back into the closet they went, along with their new friends. I grabbed the chair and blocked the handle once more, and then went downstairs, in a hurry. There was a bottle of bleach in the laundry room.

  I grabbed it, and then I grabbed some bread from the kitchen, and some honey, too. I soaked the bread in the bleach until it was drippy and soggy, and then I plopped it in tiny little mouse-sized balls on top of the paper plate.

  With a tightening of my fingers, I squeezed the bottle of honey hard. It squirted out over the bread in bright strips of golden honey. I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, soaking them until they glistened with the sugary golden substance.

  And then I carried it back up.

  The bleach was covered up by the honey. I couldn’t even smell the chemical through all of that syrupy goodness.

  Once I got back up into the bedroom, I shoved the paper plate under the edge of the bed.

  “Have a bit of that, you stupid mouse,” I told him. “And stay out of my room. I know you’re the one who’s putting the dolls up in here.”

  The mouse said nothing, did nothing, and was not visible. Reasonable, seeing as he was a mouse. But it didn’t matter. He might have been a conniving thing in my dream world, but right then, he was just a little mouse. And there weren’t any mice that could resist honey, right?

  Exhaustion from the late hour was starting to hit me. I climbed back up into bed and settled in for the night; I did not dream, but I woke up thinking about blood, and knives, and the sound of blades sinking into flesh.

  I stepped out of the bed—and almost stepped on top of the dead mouse!

  “Gotcha!” I grinned triumphantly as I dropped down to my knees and snatched the rodent up by the tail, holding it at arm's length. It looked just like the mouse from my dreams, with brown fur and big ears. Its muzzle was caked in honey, and its front paws had honey on them, too.

  There was blood in the corner of its mouth.

  “I knew you were stupid,” I told the dead critter, carrying it over to the window. I balanced one knee on the window seat and pushed up the glass. The house was so old that none of the windows had screens in them.

  It was easy as pie to toss the mouse outside.

  It went soaring through the air, pinwheeling over the side yard, and straight into the road. It landed on the tarmac with an inaudible splat. I couldn’t wait for a tire to squash it flat.

  Closing the window, I slid back off of the seat and smacked my hands together, cleaning them off. Then I turned around…and watched a brown mouse dart out from under the bed and straight into the closet.

  I shrieked, throwing myself toward it. Where was the desk chair? It wasn’t even in my room this morning, and the closet door was sitting open.

  I dropped to my knees once more and started to rip at the blankets and the fabrics in there, throwing them out. I threw the dolls out too. Most of them had silicone parts and they hit the ground with a thump. One of the porcelain dolls shattered loudly.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Grandma appeared in my doorway, panting. “Quinn? What’s wrong? I heard you scream and—oh my heavens!” Her hands went up to her chest. “What happened?”

  “There’s a mouse in here,” I told her, grabbing another doll and pitching it over my shoulder.

  “Quinn,” shouted my grandmother. “Stop it!” She rushed into the room and grabbed up one of the dolls—Alice—cradling her toward her chest. “I told you how important these dolls were! What are you doing? You’ve even broken that one!”

  “It’s fine.” I waved a hand dismissively. “The mouse, Grandma, it’s in here. I know it went in here.”

  “Annie? Quinn?” Gramps appeared in the doorway. He went almost bug-eyed at the sight of the dolls strewn across the room, and then an almost stony expression crossed his face. He stepped into the room, hooked a hand around my arm, and hauled me to my feet.

  It didn’t hurt even a little bit, but it startled me out of my mouse-killing haze. I stared back up at him, our eyes equally as wide.

  “Get dressed,” he said, voice more gruff than I had ever heard it before. “And walk yourself to school.”

  “What about…breakfast?” They had never sent me to school without at least offering me breakfast before.

  Then I realized that Grandma was crying. Tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks as she collected the dolls, picking them up one by one and setting them on the bed. She ran her fingers lovingly over their hair, as though she really thought they used to be Aunt Molly’s dolls.

  Couldn’t she see that they weren’t?

  “Just go to school,” Gramps repeated firmly. “Now.”

  I hesitated a moment, first only a little upset—and then angry.

  “Fine,” I spat, grabbing my school uniform and my bag, then storming into the bathroom to get dressed. I hurried through my morning routine, aware of the fact that the clown doll, Harry, had his back toward the sink.

  Toward me.

  That made me mad, too. I grabbed him and turned him so that he was facing forward before I stalked out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. I didn’t say goodbye to either of my grandparents, but I made a point of walking in the direction that I had tossed the mouse.

  It was gone.

  “Stupid rat,” I spat, ignoring the fact that there was very much a difference between the two types of rodents. “You’ll get yours.”

  My mood wasn’t any better by the time that I stalked up to the academy.

  If anything, it was worse. I felt like the whole world was darker than ever.

  Now it was clear this was a pattern. On the full moon, the doorway between my world and Molly’s world opened up. Time would pass there, but not here. I would come back home. If I killed someone, they would show up in my room as dolls.

  And judging by the fact that Mr. Germander was standing out by the front doors of the school and not still squashed flat like an obnoxious bug, I knew there were no consequences.

  He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes watching me as I went.

  At Illustration class, I was quick to start putting all of my new ideas down on paper. Not only did I start with the sketch work for Harry’s circus—the idea being that Old Lady goes with her niece, and Ghost girl tags along—but I started to add other updates. Though I hadn’t met Old Lady in person in the dream world yet, I assumed I would soon.

  I made the yard bigger and more defined, then started to add in a rose garden out back. But the roses—they were massive. They glistened with the light of the moon, silver and white, and their thorns were sharp and large as kitchen knives. There was a little pond, with great big orange and white koi fish in it, and a bench beside it. The name MOLLY was lovingly carved into the bench with cursive.

  I promised her flowers, and flowers she got!

  To keep it in context with the rest of my work, I added several graves along the far wall. I put down the names of people I knew, but were obscure enough no one would question them. Cara. Heather. Thomas. Jake. Normal, everyday names.

  It was only in the margins of the shadows that I scratched down the last names of my classmates, feeling particularly smug and vindictive as I did.

  Mr. Carp looked over my shoulder, humming approvingly at the end of the class.

  “This is coming along great,” said Mr. Carp. “Maybe you should consider creative writing. I know it’s a little late in the semester, but I think that it’s an elective you’ll really get some use out of.”

  “Do you think so?” I looked up at him briefly, then went right back to adding a few more petals to one of the large roses, closest to the bush. I changed colors, and painted some glistening red dewy-looking blood drops on the thorns, and on the dark, glossy leaves.

  “I think you would do great at it, Quinn. And I’m sure that if you showed them these pictures, the teacher would let you use this world that you’ve already made as a base,” said Mr. Carp approvingly.

  It was a good idea, and I liked the fact that my work was finally getting some recognition.

  I liked it a whole lot less when I stepped out of the classroom and heard Alice and May laughing at me.

  Alice pursed her lips together into a stupid-looking kissy face, “You’re so psycho—you can’t even contain yourself to one class.”