“What Mr. Bowditch should have done years ago.”
And why hadn’t he? I think because of the sundial. The bad strain that lives in the hearts of every man and woman, Leah had said.
“Come on, Dad. Let’s go back.”
He stood up, but paused for another look when I held aside the vines. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is now. And it’s going to stay that way.”
We would protect Empis from our world, and also protect our world—at least try—from Empis. Because below Empis is a world of darkness where Gogmagog still lives and rules. It might never escape now that Bella and Arabella have shared a final shattering kiss, but when it comes to such unknowable creatures it’s best to be careful. As careful as one can be, at least.
That spring, my dad and I repaired the hole I’d made in the side of the shed. That summer I worked for Cramer Construction—mostly in the office, because of my arm, but I spent a fair number of hardhat hours as well, learning all I could about concrete. A lot of stuff was on good old YouTube, but when you’ve got an important job to do, there’s nothing like practical experience.
Two weeks before I left for my first semester at NYU, Dad and I placed pieces of sheet steel over the mouth of the well. One week before I left, we poured concrete over them and the entire floor of the shed. While it was still wet, I encouraged Radar to put her pawprints in it.
I’m going to tell you the truth: sealing that well under steel and seven inches of concrete hurt my heart. Somewhere down below it is a world full of magic and people I loved. One person in particular. As the concrete flowed sluggishly out of the mixer I’d borrowed from Cramer to do the job, I kept thinking of Leah standing on the stairs, sword drawn, legs braced in a fighting stance. And of how she had cut open her sealed mouth to cry out her brother’s name.
I lied just now, okay? My heart didn’t just hurt, it cried out no and no and no. It asked how I could leave wonder behind and turn my back on magic. It asked if I really meant to plug the funnel the stars fall through.
I did it because I had to. Dad understood that.
3
Do I dream, you ask? Of course. Some of them are of the thing that came out of the well, and I wake from those with my hands over my mouth to stifle my screams. But as the years pass, those nightmares come less. More often these days I dream of a field blanketed in poppies. I dream of Red Hope.
We did the right thing, I know that. The only thing. And still my dad keeps an eye on the house at 1 Sycamore Street. I come back often and do the same, and eventually I will come back to Sentry for good. I may marry, and if I have children, the house on the hill will go to them. And when they are small, and wonder is all they know, I will read them the old stories, the ones that start once upon a time.
November 25th, 2020–February 7th, 2022
Acknowledgments
I don’t think I could have written this book without the help of Robin Furth, my research assistant. She knows more about Empis （and Charlie Reade） than I do. So thanks to her, and thanks also to my wife, Tabby, who gives me time to do this crazy job and dream my crazy dreams. Thanks to Chuck Verrill and Liz Darhansoff, my agents. Thanks are also due to Gabriel Rodríguez and Nicolas Delort, who dressed up my story with wonderful illustrations and made it look like the classic novels of mystery and adventure in days of old, from Treasure Island to Dracula. Their prodigious talents are on view at the head of each chapter. And I want to thank you, Constant Reader, for investing your time and imagination in my tale. I hope you enjoyed your visit to that other world.
One other thing: I have a Google Alert on my name, and over the last year I’ve seen many obituaries of those lost to COVID who have enjoyed my books. Too many. I mourn the passing of each one and send condolences to the surviving friends and family members.