Chapter 9: In the Box-Shaped Chariot

In the vestibule, there is a mirror, which faithfully duplicates appearances. Men often infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite—if it were, what need would there be for that illusory replication?

-- Jorge Luis Borges, “The Library of Babel”

“What does that even mean?” Fox asked, but it did not seem like she genuinely wanted an answer. “Dunno about Grace, but neither of us” she pointed to Diana, then herself, “have twins.”

“Do my luminous eyes deceive me?” Schrodinger retorted. “Are you not changelings? Beings that, for one reason or another, have one foot in the physical world, the other in the Astral space Grace Grey and I spoke of last evening. Creating illusions out of the elemental stuff of dreams is one of the most basic abilities available to you. And what form do you know better than yourselves?

“Done well, a cloud clone looks exactly like the one who made it. They seem perfectly alive, even having the appearance of weight should anyone touch them. Granted, they’ll wonder why ‘your’ skin is so moist.” Schrodinger shuddered at the last word. “While your proxy is mindless, if you concentrate hard enough, you can see and hear through it. Almost as if you are in two places at once. Clones cannot speak, however, even if you desperately need to convey some bit of information.

“Their movements never exceed the rudimentary, but they’re reliable. While they lack the indefinable ‘spark of life’, this Institute beats that out of people anyway. The place might as well be a regular school, even without the standard lessons. The workers shouldn’t know the difference, as long as your clones follow daily routines. They even appear to eat and drink and… other activities that generally follow.”

Grace and Fox looked at each other awkwardly. Diana did too, but all her looks were awkward.

“This isn’t what I wished for!” Fox started to protest. “I wanted a way out, and you talk about fairytale stuff for babies.”

Schrodinger sighed. “When you’re young, your mind is completely open. No matter how much information’s put in, there’s always room for more. It has to be closed by adults. This is normally done by a terrible group of people called ‘teachers,’ who are actually paid to squeeze passion and creativity out of your brain! Here you are, Tatum Levinson, with the power of a poltergeist, arguing with a talking cat, no less, and you still have room to doubt?”

“Wasn’t at school,” Fox responded, “but I heard if you keep your mind open, your brain will fall out.” Her expression was impassive, but the rain of jagged stones falling around her disclosed her true mental state.

“I think it can work,” Grace broke in. “I’ve seen my friend Bennu hide himself from people around us, like he was invisible. Mr. Aitvaras—a demon we wound up fighting—could disguise himself as a human. Why not these cloud clones?”

Fox pulled up her hood and started trudging towards the door.

Schrodinger did not block her way, but said “This is only part of the boon I offer. Astral is the shortcut we shall take to escape, right enough, but first you should familiarize yourself with what that is. Channeling its power is easy enough. You already spend a third of your life asleep. Simply reach out and touch the stuff of dreams.” The cat also nodded in Grace and Diana’s directions.

His instructions were less than vague, but Grace stuck out her right hand. Having no idea what a dream would feel like, she closed her eyes, and found herself remembering all the impossible things she had seen, heard, even participated in these last few months. A dewy touch like condensation spread across her palm. She opened her eyes, but found she held absolutely nothing.

“When stars fall, people make wishes.” Schrodinger slunk up beside Grace. “When clouds fall, people take them for mirages. You’ve seen fog from a distance, right?” He flicked his tail when Grace nodded.

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. “Whenever I tried to get close enough to touch it, it was never where I thought it’d be!”

Schrodinger nodded. “Fog is hard to find when you look for it head-on. Astral’s much the same. A bit shy. Keep it in your periphery vision: only look out the corner of your eye. Let it get used to your touch.”

“You talk about this Astro stuff like it’s alive.” Fox had yet to leave. Instead, she leaned against a wall, trying to lick away blood from all the scratches received in batting away flints.

Schrodinger paused. “In a way, it is. Dreams wouldn’t exist without life.”

Grace breathed. Schrodinger had explained there were two meanings of the word “dream.” It also meant the things she most hoped for. While in her mind she held clear memories of home, including the number of steps it took to reach the apartment, she tried “fuzzying” up some details. She pictured the porridge her Grandmam cooked feel a bit less blistering, the church pew where she sat with her mother every other Sunday a bit roomier, and being able to keep books her father brought from the library just a bit beyond the two-week due date. Then, she was holding a cloud.

Well, more like mist. Mixed with darkness. Cold at first, it warmed against her flesh. Grace made the deliberate point of looking away, with just the barest peek at this thing she held in first one—now both—hands.

“Now you’ve got it, Grace Grey. What will you shape it into?”

Schrodinger voice took her right out of the moment. Whatever material she had been grasping evaporated. Grace looked around. Diana was also embroiled in the act of reaching for her dreams. For a second, the bag-headed girl even brushed warty fingertips against a wisp of air. Fox refused to participate, keeping arms crossed over her chest.

“It’s getting late,” said Schrodinger. “Try again tomorrow. All of you. Same room.”

Remarkably, Grace did not feel especially tired the next morning. While they were woken at near dawn, the few hours between parting ways with Schrodinger and then granted her the first insomnia-free rest since being taken to the Ambrosius Institute. She had no clue what the cat did during the day, but she, Fox, and Diana only left their chambers for tests and meals.

The latter occurred at a place Agent Grammery called a “canteen”, the orderly called a “mess hall,” but really seemed like more of a cafeteria to Grace. Or part of one, at least. The place was not the full size of, say, a hospital cafeteria, or even half that. It was a quarter-cafeteria, and served only one thing. The woman who spooned out gruel from a speckled pot the size of a man’s torso looked identical to the secretary with all the stamps and forms and the lady who sat at the desk in Ward Nine. They might have been triplets. Or clones.

At their table, with an overseer always present, the three residents ate breakfast. Grace had a spoon, albeit a grimy one. Diana slurped her gruel through a straw. Fox, however, used no utensils. Her face bent over her meal, scooping slop into her mouth with one hand while trying to keep rocks from landing in the bowl with the other.

In taste, Grace thought the gruel was not far from the plain porridge she used to eat at home. What made it disgusting was the consistency, or lack thereof. Some parts were watery thin, others felt solid and gritty. The girl swore she swallowed BB gun pellets at one point.

From conversation, she learned Fox’s daily tests involved trying to hit targets with stones while Mal Grammery yelled for her to aim more accurately. “Guess I’m supposed to assassinate foreign spies,” Fox mentioned nonchalantly. “The pebble would disappear right after, so it couldn’t be traced. I think it’s completely stupid!”

Diana seemed to have limited access to the books they now knew came from the basement. The rare times the squonk was not crying, she liked reading poetry aloud, some borrowed, but others of her own making. Tragic tales about jealous friends and lost love, where the closest thing to a happily-ever-after was when only half the cast died horribly. She tried writing down verses, which inevitably ended in ripped paper and broken pencils, as with the night Grace was first drawn to her.

Director Ambrosius had picked a room on Ward Eight to continue Grace’s bird experiments. While on Ward Nine there was only ever one bird to deal with at a time, in these larger accommodations there was space for several. For the first time, the Director let a bird out of its cage. A red-tailed hawk, easily the largest bird Grace had interacted with, with the sharpest claws and beak. In a second cage sat a pigeon. He, too, was turned loose.

The chase happened immediately. Raptor hunted pigeon in circles around the table where Grace and the Director sat. This bloody whirlwind did not upset the man in any way. In fact, he smiled under his long beard.

“What I’d like you to do, Miss Grey,” the Director paused a moment as the pigeon nearly smacked into his forehead, “is command these birds. Speak—order them back to their cages with no more roughhousing!”

Grace breathed heavy. “I told you. I make friends with birds, but I can’t tell them what to do!”

“Can’t or won’t?” The Director sighed. “Sounds like quitter-talk to me, and one things real Americans are not is quitters!”

Grace tried talking sense into the hawk, but it made no difference. He was a hunter, after all, acting true to his species’ nature. She knew that avenue was hopeless from the start, so she stood on her chair and grabbed at the birds. She succeeded in restraining the hawk, but wound up with deep cuts from her wrists to her elbows. At home, she would normally receive a bandage or ointment. Even just a splash from a cold tap. She was offered nothing in a place meant to be a hospital.

“Tsk tsk.” The Director viewed all this impassively, before whispering “I suppose we’ll have to find other ways to control such savage beasts.”

Grace’s spine came down with a case of goosebumps, but she was not sure why.

***

At first when shaping clouds, Grace tried copying herself from memory. She refused to see what Agent Grammery had done to her hair, so stubbornly kept her back to the mirrored wall. What she created ended up being a crude imitation that would never fool anyone at the Institute. Yes, her clone technically had two legs, two arms, something like a torso, and a lump that could charitably be called a “head.” But the arms were different lengths, one leg was twig-thin while the other better fit an elephant. And the face was less than rough. Two dents for eyes, a wiggly line to stand for a mouth. All-around uneven.

Working with dream-stuff meant consciously willing it to turn from a gaseous state into a liquid, then something at least semi-solid. The work demanded concentration, even before having to recall every detail of one’s appearance. It would seem Diana would have it easy, only having to design a bag for her face, but she kept breaking down for regular “cry breaks.”

Fox mocked the other’s work for a while, but eventually attempted to build her own clone. She claimed it was solely “to deal with boredom.” She attended every session.

“It’d be easier, I think, if you used the mirror,” suggested Schrodinger. Mostly, he was paws-off, letting each girl figure out their own method.

“What, and get seven-to-life years bad luck?” Fox rolled her eyes. “I go near there; my rocks smash the glass to pieces. Any custodian coming by would know we were out!”

Grace was unsure the Institute even had custodians.

“I’m not going anywhere near a mirror, either,” agreed Diana. That was settled. Until a particularly grueling lunch in the quarter-cafeteria.

“Hey, didn’t the pussycat say something about this mold that controls minds?” Fox asked.

“Yeah, why?” said Grace.

“Okay, so crazy thing. Grammery got tired of my crappy performance with the targets earlier today, so she threatened to use those ’schrooms on me!”

“What!” Grace pushed aside her bowl and marched to where her bird experiments took place. The cafeteria’s overseer was distracted by something especially fascinating inside a flask, and so did not stop her. While no tests were planned that afternoon, Director Ambrosius was sitting at the table. Grace hit her palms on the table.

“IsittrueyouhaveMr.Aitvaras’spores? Theonesthatmakeheadsexplode?” That is how fast the words flew from Grace’s mouth.

“Head’s exploding? Oh, a minor setback,” the Director waved Grace away with a hand. The patronizing gesture felt reminiscent of Aitvaras. “It’s true our Institute is in possession of a substance that’ll revolutionize wartime—possibly peacetime, as well. But what you’re worrying your pretty shaved head over is just one kink we’re working out. We’re still only in the animal-testing phase. Results look good, though.” His attention was primarily focused on fiddling with an envelope, so thin and white as to be transparent. Round, green objects bulged from its middle.

The spores? Grace swore in her head. That night, she headed straight to the mirror wall in Schrodinger’s practice room. A terrible crime had happened to her hair, but she ignored that and set to work designing a more realistic cloud clone. She focused on the project till she got a headache, but her creation still would not fool the Director or Agent Grammery.

By the end of each nightly session (where she felt she incrementally improved) her fingertips always felt like pins-and-needles. For some reason this particular evening, she was reminded of her last Christmas spent at home. She had made a snowman with her father. Even through heavy mittens, her hands had gone numb by the time they finished.

Greeting card snowmen are simply not like the ones made in the real world. Instead of something pristine and white, people make do with snow packed with dirt and dead grass.

Hardly “picture perfect,” but Grace’s mother photographed them anyway. They stuck in branches to make the snowman’s arms, and some gravel made eyes and a mouth. Finally, for the nose, Grandmam brought a carrot. At the time, Grace paid no mind to the cold, because of who she was with.

Thinking of what waited beyond the asylum walls, Grace’s duplicate came into exact focus. At first, she observed it out the corner of her eye, willing the solid form back together when it started melting back into the Astral, keeping all parts aligned. She had it!

She looked at it head-on, and it stayed put. The clone really was her spitting image, in full color. Still, her much clammier twin needed clothes. Grace wondered if she would have to remove her gown to dress the copy. If so, what would she wear during the escape?

“You can mold clouds to resemble anything.” Schrodinger seemed to have read her mind. “Not just flesh, but cloth, or cardboard. Even stones. And all should have the illusory appearance of weight.”

Clothing the clone proved easy. Grace felt exuberant, but only wanted to celebrate once the others also finished their work. Fox finished next, putting extra effort so it appeared her double was constantly followed by a cloud of pebbles.

Diana insisted she needed the next night to finish her clone. “If not then, maybe never!” With enough encouragement (or, in the case of Fox, insults) the squonk succeeded as well. She wept, but claimed this time it was out of joy.

Schrodinger purred. “All right. Tomorrow night comes the hard part, but you should all only have to spend one more day here.”

The last Grace felt this nervous, she was trying to traverse a dark hall without knowing it led to Ward Eight. Director Ambrosius attributed it to the day’s new experiment. He had organized a cage holding every bird Grace previously talked with, minus Jackanapes. It was a large cage, but not nearly enough to fit all of them comfortably. Even the parakeet failed to complain, however. The pigeon and red-tailed hawk were there, but unlike when the Director turned them loose, both acted entirely passive. Maybe they’re drugged?

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Director Ambrosius looked unusually somber. None of the rosy-cheeked chuckles from when he first introduced himself to the girl. He demanded—not asked—Grace communicate with the birds, which she duly attempted. No point not to play along. Whatever the grimalkin came up with, she had no intention of staying much longer. She prompted each bird’s favorite subjects, whether the cockatoo’s pompadour or the pigeon’s mailing route, the parakeet’s fruit preferences or the kestrel’s hunting trips.

Nothing.

These birds, always so talkative, had nothing to say to Grace. She was now sure they must be drugged. She asked the Director “Has something happened to them?”

“Miss Grey, you’re already aware of that most peculiar substance I had confiscated from the criminal Mr. Aitvaras.” The Director clutched the same white envelop he had been handling before. No green shapes bulged from the middle. “Now,” he addressed the caged birds, “All of you, at the same time, make your respective calls!”

Where attempts at a back-and-forth conversation failed, the Director’s order for sound brought plenty of it. An ugly, discordant cacophony reverberated through the room. For the first time in her life, Grace listened to what other humans heard when birds opened their beaks. Simple noise, with no obvious meaning behind it.

“Do…does that mean the bird’s heads will explode?” While they were forced into interacting, Grace still considered them all friends.

“Who cares?” Agent Grammery leaned against the open doorway.

***

Come nightfall, Grace constructed her cloud clone in her cell, without having to check details a mirror. She left it behind with the appearance of deep sleep. Fox and Diana were in the hall, showing off their final creations to each other and Schrodinger.

Honestly, it felt creepy seeing the clones move on their own. Walking the same way as their makers, with identical posture and body language. The only difference was that while the clone of Diana went through the motions of crying, with tears even staining her bag’s eyeholes, the volume was noticeably quieter. It and Fox’s clone put up no fuss in entering their chambers.

“The grimalkin way to travel,” Schrodinger gained their attention, “is to think inside the box.” Instead of returning to the mirror room, he led the way back to the basement.

“Hope I don’t get melanoma,” Diana said on the way down.

“How’ll you get skin cancer?” asked Fox. “Your entire body’s covered up. Including your face.”

Diana pouted. “Well then, I might go blind from looking into the sun.”

“A grimalkin thinks in terms of everything being a box,” Schrodinger continued once they made it to the library. “Food comes in boxes. Litter goes in boxes. For you humans, clothes are kept in a box, as are toys, tools, gadgets, and medicine. A book is really a box for ideas. A room’s walls make it a box. A house is made of rooms, so it, too, is a box. Even a body is a box, albeit an irregular-shaped one.

“You can live quite comfortably in a box your whole life. A man named Jack first discovered that, and mimes have done it ever since. A coffin’s usually the last box you need in life. You can fill a box with anything, except, perhaps, the universal solvent. Everything else can be placed in a box. Even a smaller box. But the larger the box that’s doing the containing, the more durable its material must be, otherwise your cube becomes a square. On a different note, an empty box is great for playing in. All that being said, what you need to finally escape this Institute is a box that is both full and empty at the same time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Grace, “How can that be?” This made less sense than even the oddest things she heard from Bennu.

“I sincerely hope you have all received birthday presents at some point. Even something terrible, like socks or the complete works of Walt Whitman.” Schrodinger stuck out his bristly pink tongue. “Think back…consider that prior to opening a present, anything could have been inside the box. Even if you got exactly what you wanted under the wrappings, though, you must have felt a bit disappointed on some level, right?

“The mystery was over. I want everyone to wonder what it might feel like to be that possibility, imagine us blurring the line of existence and nonexistence. Because something that doesn’t exist can’t properly be locked away by Director Ambrosius.”

Grace supposed that nobody could.

“It’s a peculiar feeling, naturally. The state outside life and death’s cycle grants access to all space and time, past and future included. Some magical beings choose to always travel this way—it’s quicker than walking or busing. If only that much shadowboxing didn’t have the minor side-effect of, to use official medical terminology, driving them Absolutely Banana Bonkers.”

Grace and Fox glanced at each other, then quickly looked away. Diana’s attentions were on a bookshelf.

“Focus on the present.” Schrodinger’s tone was almost reassuring. “Not the past or future…and we’ll come back to the world safely. Cloud clones will cover your disappearance, you’re more familiarized with what the Astral’s made of, the next thing we need—is darkness!”

“We’ll turn off the lights.” Grace looked for a switch on the basement walls.

“Not literal darkness, I’m afraid,” Schrodinger responded. “More darkness of spirit. To a grimalkin, all libraries in the world, public or private, are connected. Like highways. But cats navigate best in the dark. I can take us from any earthly spot to another, as long as there’s not too much light.”

“Don’t you need light to read?” Fox asked sarcastically while also making a good point.

“It’s really more the light you bring with you.” Schrodinger’s green eyes began pulsing, brighter and brighter, till Fox turned away. “Night means black, and black is the color which absorbs and holds all others, keeping them safe until they’re ready for use again during daytime. Our next dawn isn’t for a while, but as Henry’s clock over there reminds us, we won’t have forever to find decent darkness.”

“I know plenty of dark poetry that can bring down a room,” Diana offered after a nervous gulp. “The perfect book’s right on this shelf,” she pointed, “but it’s locked like the others! Can you use that claw trick to get it open?”

“Sorry.” Schrodinger began pacing. “I broke most of my nails opening your cells.”

“It’s okay,” said Grace. Inside the body of the cuckoo clock, right where they had tucked the broken metal bird away, she reclaimed her paperclip hidden amongst the twirling gears.

After picking the shelf Diana indicated, the bag-headed girl took out a book that looked rather thin. Closer to a pamphlet than anything. Diana, however, carried the light tome carefully, like it weighed more than gold. Or lead.

Diana paused to adjust her bag, then cleared her throat. “Th…this was written by a friend of mine. I never met her, since she died a hundred years ago. But I’m sure we’d have been friends if she had gotten the chance to know me. At least, I think I’m sure. Anyway, my friend’s name is Emily.” And she started reading:

“Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality”

Grace understood enough of the poem’s words to know it sounded dark, and sad, too, but it was also about moving forward. Even when unsure about what lay ahead. Around the group, the room darkened. Like four black curtains pushing in on them, blocking out anything beyond. She could not see the tall clock, but heard it ticking, and so knew it was still there.

“We passed the school where children played, their lessons scarcely done…” Diana’s voice cracked. She went mute.

“Go on,” Grace encouraged, “you’re doing it, Diana! You’ve got the power to carry us away.”

“Don’t make us stay here, Di,” added Fox. “Not when I bothered making a dumb copy of myself.”

“It’s just, I’m not really sure I want to leave anymore.” Diana fell to her knees, but did not let go of her pamphlet. “Life as a zombie’s probably not so bad. No stress thinking for yourself, or making decisions, like I’d have to in the world.”

“The irony,” said Schrodinger, “is you have to go out before you can garner proof why you should never have wanted to stay in. As I said, picture us inside a box, Diana Hemlock, one dark enough that anything can be here with us. Anything you want.”

“What if it’s not?” Fox tramped over to the cat. She batted away pebbles that would have fallen on him, but wound up getting hit herself. “What if the world outside’s even worse than the Institute? No presents. Just more things to hurt us.”

The longer Diana went without reading, the lighter the room became. What had once been solid black curtains around them turned sheer. The ticking clock was visible.

“There are bad things out there.” Grace had to admit. “But not everyone is stupid or a bully.”

“Oh, whaddayou know, Grace?” Fox shot back. “You’re not twelve, or even ten. How can you think to know anything about the way the world?”

Grace had her retort immediately. “I know there’s more than just this Institute. And…and all these awful tests and experiments. I know there’s more to eat than gruel. I know there’s better places to sleep than a padded cell. I know I love the feel of sunshine on my skin, and breathing air that isn’t stale. I know there are times to be with others, but also that being alone doesn’t always mean you’re lonely. I know there—out in the place we were taken from, there’s always something to see or do.”

She blinked away tears. That felt sharp in her eyes. “I know I’ll never be old as you, Tatum. Maybe that means you know some things I don’t. So what? Every day I try to take things in a big pile called ‘What I Don’t Know’ and move them over to a place named ‘What I Do.’ And you’ll sure as hell never know anything more than what you came in here with as long as you’re under the thumbs of Agent Grammery and the Director.”

“What if I don’t want to learn anything new?” asked Fox. “What if new things intimidate me and I’d rather keep things the way they are, ’cause that’s less of a bother?”

“Then you’re already a zombie.” Grace kneeled to help Diana up from where she still lay on the ground. Even under bandages, the hand she took was slimy, covered in warts, with loose skin. Grace held on, though, and helped the bag-headed girl back onto her feet. “Keep reading, Diana. Block out the light, and together, we’ll see what’s on the other side of Schrodinger’s box. And if either of you,” when she faced Fox again, her eyes were completely dry, “really hate the real world, I guess you can come back here anytime.”

“This is going to be terrible, I’m sure.” Fox grimaced, but took Grace’s free hand. Under goggles, she glared at the stone cloud above her head. For now, the rocks stopped falling.

Schrodinger rubbed himself against Fox’s leg, which eventually led to a place in the crook of her arm. Each of the four was now in direct physical contact.

Diana finished reading:

“Since then ‘tis centuries; but each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses’ heads

Were towards Eternity.”

Grace had not shut her eyes, but it looked as dark as if she had. For a period she could not measure (since she no longer heard the ticking clock) she held something slimy in one hand, and something scabby with the other. Then, her hands were empty. A confused mix of shapes lit across her eyes. Before her was a box.

No, not a box. But something rectangular. With a handle.

“Er, what’s this door?” Grace looked around, realizing she was alone. The door was half-open. Everyone else must have already entered. Why would they leave me out here? From the other side, she could not see Schrodinger, but heard the grimalkin well enough.

“You see a door, Grace Grey, because that’s something you can understand. You’re on the cusp of what’s called ‘the threshold.’ Or Limbus Region, if you want to sound fancy. The boundary to the world of dreams has a unique appearance for each traveler. Mine, for example, comes with a cat flap.”

“I don’t have a door,” the voice of Diana whined. “I got a window! And it’s locked from the other side.”

“That gives away your state of mind,” explained Schrodinger. “Pause to change your attitude, and you can twist it so the lock’s on your side. Or, you know, imagine a door.”

After a pause, Diana said “Okay, I got the lock on my side. But—ugh the catch’s stuck!”

“Just crawl through already!” yelled Fox from somewhere. “Dunno what your problem is. My door works fine.” An echo of stones hitting glass passed along the hall, but from which direction proved impossible to discern.

“What then?” asked Grace, who was already in the hall, but was looking back to where she came from.

“We rendezvous—oh, how I love that word! —to the Croatoan Archives, where the library cats also live.” Schrodinger’s voice sounded fainter. “You should be able to find clothes to replace your asylum garb at our Found and Lost, then we eat. Maybe some sushi, with a side of rat king. Eventually, we search for the gold scroll. Simple enough, but the Astral’s a crowded place. Don’t get sidetracked, or confused…” The cat cut in-and-out, until he was just out.

Grace took in her new surroundings. She stood in a long hallway made of what can only be described as “blankness.” The walls were not even white, because white is still a color. She looked down. No carpet, tile, or even so much as a floor lay beneath her. She might as well have been standing on air. She looked up. There was no ceiling, either. While no lamps existed to illuminate the ever-spanning corridor, sheer blankness made it easy enough to see. The hall was wide enough for her to walk without bumping into anything, yet narrow enough she could only move left or right.

Along both sides of this blank-colored hallway were doors.

Doors with signs saying “Welcome” and doors whose signs read “Keep Out”; doors with knockers and doors with bells; doors with gold keyholes and doors with diamonds knobs; doors with one, two, even three peepholes; doors with windows, some squeaky clean, others stained, broken, or boarded up; painted doors, some with coating fresh enough to smell the wetness, some chipped away to one microscopic flake of color; sliding doors; double doors; revolving doors; doors of stone; doors of plastic; doors of cardboard; doors of metal, whether rusted or chrome; doors of wood, some so newly felled they oozed green sap, others so rotten the actual knob could not be told apart from a mass of sprouting mushrooms; doors of glass in every conceivable color (and some that cannot); doors of cloth, from roughneck camping tents closed with zippers, to fringed curtains of indigo silk fit for sultans; doors cut from bear skins or buffalo hides; doors from luxurious hotels or ramshackle motels, numbered from “Negative 1” to “a Vigintillion”; doors with flimsy screens; doors to airplanes, tightly riveted; doors to submarines, with portholes and verdigris; low doors leading to any number of basements; high doors to attics of people probably wondering what’s making those shuffling noises up there; doors kept locked and steadfastly silent; doors left ajar, with creaky rusted hinges and a harsh voice-without-a-body invited you in; doors for school lockers; doors for bathroom stalls, most saying “Vacant,” but a few “Occupied”; doors tall enough for giants; doors so small only a doll could pass; doors that could only be meant for nurseries, decorated with pastel puppies, smiling faces, and cheerful angels; graven doors fit only for tombs, inscribed with jackal-headed men, skulls, and different, angry angels.

And, if you could believe it, there were doors even stranger: brown paneled doors perfect for an Old West saloon which cowboys swing open-and-shut between their “Pistols at dawn”; jail doors consisting of iron bars with a fat padlock; medieval doors with drawbridges or spiked portcullises that slammed down, then were drawn back up; dungeon doors to oubliettes; doors like cave openings, with stalactites dripping down and stalagmites rising to meet them; doors in the shape of mouths, with well-eroded molars or great sharp fangs, one produced a gargantuan burp, another spewed jets of dragon smoke; waxy doors in the shape of ears; doors in the shape of…other body parts typically not spoken about publicly; doors that were really just photographs of doors; doors on painted canvases with their own frames; doors made from skeletons and doors only made from skulls, doors carved from ice; and doors somehow composed of still-bubbling lava.

If all that description proves overwhelming, imagine how poor Grace felt. She drifted past a door with a gargoyle knocker. It winked at her. She called out to her three friends. If she could not get Schrodinger to guide her, should she guess the door that led to the cat’s library? She could not remember what the door she first entered through looked like. If found, could she really consider returning to the Ambrosius Institute?

Then, as if turning a corner (granted, there were no corners to the hall, it just kept going left) the girl found a door she recognized. It looked identical to the one for the bedroom she once shared with her Grandmam. What time of day was it back home? If Grace passed through, would she find the old woman sleeping? Dreaming?

She reached for the knob, made of clear plastic and shaped like a seashell. If this worked, she would be back home. No reason for any further misadventures.

In life, Grace had three great regrets. Things she cursed herself for failing to do when she had the chance. Her second greatest regret was not checking what lay beyond that look-alike door.

“Help, help!” In the opposite direction, Diana screamed and croaked in equal measures. Along with the familiar weeping, there was also a growling so low it made the nonexistent floor shake.

Grace left the door behind and ran to the right. As she closed in, she smelled something truly terrible, like a marriage between a junkyard and a hill of manure. Diana cowered between a cracked window and wooden door. This section of blank hallway was much wider than the space Grace previously moved along. All the better to accommodate the biggest skunk she had ever seen. He was easily the length of a school bus, and his claws were poised to rip into the bag-headed girl.

“Hey, stinky.” Grace lacked time to think up a good insult. “Leave my friend alone!”

“My name is not ‘stinky!’” The monster skunk’s tone was dead serious. “It is ‘The Aniwye.’ Now, tell me what you know of phoenix eggs, and if it proves useful, I’ll eat you quickly.”

“I don’t think you’d like my taste.” Grace decided to herself it was as good a time as any to try a door.

“Oh, I bet I’d taste terrible, too!” Diana sounded genuinely regretful. Even apologetic.

Grace’s eyes watered, so she could not look straight at the skunk called the—was there really a need for a “the” in his name? —Aniwye. She stuck low to the blank ground. “I don’t know anything about phoenixes, mister skunk, but um…I’ve got a question I’m sure only you can answer!”

“Since you recognize my brilliance, I will answer your question. A last request before I crunch your bones.” The Aniwye pulled aside the claws meant to crush Diana.

“Eh…okay. Are you a creature from the Astral, like a grimalkin?” Grace edged closer to Diana, inches at a time.

“Bah,” the Aniwye raised a foot that could easily crush both girls at once, but instead stomped on the blank floor, causing a tremor that rivaled some earthquakes. “I’m better than all those smarty-pants, goody-two-boots cats put together. See my sinews? Marvel at my muscles.” The skunk tossed his head and flexed his legs. “But yes, I was born from the collected wishes of all skunks.”

“I see,” said Grace, who thought she was going blind from the stench. “You must be very great then, for all the skunks to dream you up.” She had experience dealing with arrogant birds before. Right away, she recognized the Aniwye’s personality as being similar to a duck, and knew he would respond well to compliments. Normally a bunch of crows would then spring a prank on the rude duck, but if the Murder intended to come to her aid now, they had left her waiting.

“Huh?” the Aniwye sounded surprised she would agree with him. “I mean…of course you appreciate my majesty! You’ll make an excellent appetizer.” The skunk opened his mouth, and if he were any other creature, that breath would be the worst odor he made.

Grace had her back to a door. She hoped it was one that opened inwards. Before the giant skunk could strike, she yanked Diana up by the loose skin of her nape and twisted the knob.

Fortunately, it was the type that opened inwards. Unfortunately, the place it opened to was wet and cold. Rain poured down in frigid torrents. They were outside, but the door and its frame floating in air. Through it followed the Aniwye’s chomping jaws! While it might take a while for his whole body to squeeze through, his head was already out, and ready to swallow them down his gullet.

“C’mon, Diana!” Shaking the other girl from a daze, Grace got her to help push against their side of the door. The Aniwye howled in pain, and he was pressed back into the blank hallway. But only by a little bit.

Grace and Diana made that little bit a bit bigger. Even as the latter’s bandaged hands kept slipping, the squonk pushed with her belly. Under their full combined weight, the opening shrunk. They almost had it!

From the other side, the Aniwye’s face started bashing on the wood square, breaking off splinters. “I’ll have you know,” his voice boomed through the slimmest crack, “there’s plenty other ways into your world!”

Then, the girls finished pushing it closed, and it was as if the door had never been there.