For the briefest of moments, I stare in bewilderment at the spot where Patrick just was, amazed and confused at my luck. Apparently, simply wishing something in Aurelia makes it a reality—

Something hard hooks me from behind, entrapping my middle—I scream as my feet leave the ground and I’m hauled backward, flying fast through the air. I jam my eyes shut, anticipating a painful crash into the building next to me—

It never comes.

Instead, I land quite gently on a smooth surface. A crisp woody scent mingled with freshly brewed ale perfumes the air. My eyes pop open. I’m standing before a long, polished counter, which I clutch for support as the grip around my waist disappears. I twist around just in time to see a spiraling, bungie-like cable with a large black hook whiz back outside. The door slams behind it.

“Wha—” I gape at the door.

A loud sneeze erupts beside me, and I turn. Patrick. He looks as startled as I feel. We’re in an empty, cramped tavern with a low, curved ceiling. Round wooden tables with old oak barrels for chairs dot the room, and flames flicker inside a fireplace along the back wall. It might have felt like a cozy cave if not for the savage manner in which we were hauled inside.

“Welcome to Hook Tavern!”

I give a start. A middle-aged man with medium-brown skin, a chubby face, and nut-brown eyes has popped up from beneath the wooden counter, a large tankard in each hand.

“Thank you much for dropping in.” He flashes a smile, revealing two missing front teeth, before pushing breakfast menus toward us. “Now, what’ll it be?”

I stare, dumbfounded.

Patrick finds his voice first. “What was that thing?” He sounds more curious than annoyed.

“Ah yes, forgive the hook.” The man nods toward a narrow set of stairs behind the counter where footsteps can be heard. A second later, a thin, dark-skinned woman with angular features and vivid red hair styled into a pixie emerges in the doorway. “We recently opened the tavern, and the boss told me I needed to do something to boost business—something to hook customers, you know?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “The hook is cheating, dear.”

But Patrick laughs. “Ah, I get it—because this place is called Hook Tavern! Very clever.”

The man blushes.

I glance between them. The words tumble out of me before I can stop them. “You thought dragging people in against their will was a good way to win over customers?” If any business in Scotland tried something like that, there would be a few dozen lawsuits by lunch time.

But then… this isn’t Scotland.

The man’s face falls. The woman’s eyebrows furrow. Patrick looks taken aback, as though he can’t understand why someone who was so friendly that morning is suddenly being so rude.

Eventually the man breaks the silence. “Guess time will tell, eh? Wait till people muck and grime it up over time—then we’ll see the appeal.” I blink. “Besides, it’s not like business can get any worse, can it?” He gestures around the otherwise empty pub.

“It is a bit… shiny in here.” Patrick runs a finger along the polished counter, seemingly disappointed by the lack of dust.

“Exactly. Gotta keep up with the competition, don’t I?” The bartender goes on, defensively. “The Deranged Ghoul next door just installed disappearing chairs, didn’t it? And the Blind Banshee is serving slime monsters with complimentary floating eyeballs, for skeletons’ sake. They had to hire help to keep up with the demand.” Something in his voice suggests he’s rather bitter that he didn’t think of floating eyeballs first.

“Right,” I say weakly, making a mental note to avoid the Blind Banshee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, um, I think the hook’s… very unique. I’m sure people will love—” I break off as the man’s face suddenly pales, his eyes widening, nostrils flaring.

He points a stubby finger at my neck. “That pendant—is that… But it can’t be…”

My hand snaps up to my pendant, which has fallen outside of my shirt—probably when I landed on the ground in Echo Forest.

“What’s your name?” the bartender whispers, eyes returning to my face, as though seeing me in an entirely new light.

“I, uh—sorry, need to go.” I bolt.

“Wait—” The man’s voice is cut off by the slam of the door.

My hands tremble as I hastily shove the pendant beneath my shirt, barely noticing that it’s started to rain. That bartender recognized my pendant… and I have a weird feeling he recognized me, too. He knows who I am.

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Yet… he was surprised to see me here.

My mind races. My parents letter mentioned the Hooks… could they be the owners of Hook Tavern? It certainly fits.

Part of me wants to march back in there and confront them. They’re a direct link to my parents, after all—a way for me to learn about them. Maybe they could help protect me here. I want that. Desperately. I’m very much on my own right now, navigating a world I know nothing about.

But… Clem said he’d gotten the chest from a family friend. Got—as in stolen? Or… given?

If it’s the latter, that means they set me up to be murdered.

The warning in my parents’ letter rings through my mind like a death knell. We didn’t know who to trust.

I scurry around the bend onto Whispering Pine Road, the busiest street yet. Several performers hold those odd S-shaped instruments in hand, shrouding the entire street in thick green haze. The low-pitched melancholic drumming hums in my ears like a stubborn fly. I want nothing more than to escape the crowd, to find somewhere quiet where I can think… like my family’s manor—

“Riley!”

I moan. I forgot about Patrick.

“What was that all about?” asks Patrick, panting as he falls into stride beside me.

“No clue,” I lie.

“He said something about your necklace.” He turns his head for a better look at me, then trips over an uneven stone.

I pretend not to notice. I don’t want him to see the cold sweat creeping down my temples.

“Are you all right?” Patrick asks, catching back up to me.

“Yes, sorry. Um.” I swallow. “If you want to head to your mother’s now, I can manage from here—"

“That’s all right,” says Patrick. “I can show you where to go.”

“No, really, I don’t want you to get into trouble—"

“It’s fine. My mom will understand.”

I inwardly groan. Patrick has an aunt who works in this Birth Registry office. If he discovers I’m not from Aurelia, he might turn me in. And haven’t I already given him too much reason to be suspicious?

Thinking fast, I say, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Patrick blinks. “Oh, well, want to go in here?” He points to a nearby pub.

Glancing up at the sign to make sure it isn’t the Blind Banshee—this one’s the Bottomless Cauldron—I dart to the door.

“Right, I’ll wait out here!” Patrick calls after me.

I step inside and immediately freeze to goggle at the scene before me. Every inch of wall space is tricked out with red skull lanterns and disturbing wall hangings in the form of large spiders and gruesome monsters. A strange strawlike material that looks an awful lot like black human hair hangs from the ceiling. Looming in the center is a giant black cauldron, larger than me, a red vapor rising from the top and engulfing the air.

The pub makes Hook Tavern seem refreshingly normal, even with its demonic hook. Unlike Hook Tavern, every seat is occupied by patrons, most of whom looking as though they’ve been there all night.

I maneuver around clusters of tables toward the back exit, passing straight by the bathrooms—one labeled Ghouls, the other Goblins—and to the back door. Once outside, I creep along a narrow alleyway to the busy street ahead and peer around the corner; Patrick is huddled under the awning to shelter from the rain but is busy fiddling with a small mirror in his hands. While he’s distracted, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and step forward just as a group of people pass, blending into the throng. I feel a tug of guilt for ditching Patrick. After all, he’s done nothing but help me. But he’s asking questions, and I can’t risk him discovering that I’m an outsider.

As I near the top of the street, the crowd starts to thin. Then I find myself standing alone at a dead end, nothing in front of me but a small forest of tightly bunched trees.

Where’s Melody Lane?

I squint through the rain and spot something: a narrow cut of red-brown earth burrowed between the creaking trees. The trail looks as ominous as the one in Echo Forest, with thick white mist cloaking the air, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in. That can’t be it… can it?

Sure enough, as I approach the path, I catch sight of a faded sign nailed to a nearby tree: Melody Lane. My heart sinks, and I find myself wishing I hadn’t ditched Patrick.

Taking a deep breath, I start down the narrow path, tightly knotted trees rising on either side so that the branches form a sort of tunnel over me. I stay on guard, feet at the ready for any sign of danger. But apart from the rain trickling down the leaves, all is still. It isn’t long before the pathway opens into a vast clearing. Nearby, a sign hangs sideways off its hinges. I tip my head to make out the figures: 9 Melody Lane.

A rush of triumph sweeps through me. I’ve found it! Then my gaze lifts beyond the sign. The triumph morphs into heavy dread.

Just beyond a pair of rusted iron gates with skull-shaped finials is a vast estate that looks like something out of an old horror film. Heavy gray fog floods the grounds. Aside from a single thriving willow, clusters of dead trees scatter the property, leaving behind bare branches that reach to the sky like giant, disfigured skeletal hands. The yard—if you can call it that—is overgrown and weedy, as though it hasn’t been disturbed in decades.

At the top of a hill, standing tall and menacing, is the manor itself. It might have once been grand and beautiful, but it now bears all the signs of age and neglect. Dark stains are caked on the walls, and thick wild vines twist along the house, snaking into broken windows. And perhaps it’s my imagination, but the home seems to sag a bit. As though it gave up long ago and is trying to collapse in on itself, but the unyielding walls won’t let it.

I frown. It feels like some horrible joke gone wrong. Were it not for the words James Family Estate emblazoned clearly in gold above the gates, I would be certain I have the wrong house.

Before my imagination can go too far in picturing what awful thing—or things—might be lurking in a family estate that’s been abandoned for nearly two decades, I force myself forward. The gates creak open easily at my touch.

I’ve barely taken two steps when something stops me dead in my tracks. A message appears before my eyes on a wooden welcome sign nearby—a sign that was blank seconds ago—as though being scratched out with an invisible pen:

Enter, fiends and foes,

but better be quick on your toes.

For terror lies in this place,

all things you’d best not face.

I warn: you may never depart.

These grounds are not for the faint of heart.

So enter if you dare,

but, visitor… beware.

Ash gathers in my mouth as I stare at the foreboding message, the dread in my stomach now so thick it feels palpable—a heavy weight crushing my organs. Who—or, better yet, what—just wrote that?