Huffing, he stepped forward as he felt a presence at his back. One by one, the others squeezed through the narrow clock, crowding him further into the room.

The same room he’d just exited.

But why wasn’t he running into anyone? Surely he should have clattered straight into Lizzie, if that was the case.

“This is weird,” said Lizzie, stepping past him and examining the mantelpiece. “Even the pictures are the same.”

Popcorn ran over to the window, leaning over the sofa to peek out of the curtains. He gulped. “There’s nothing out there.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” said Lydia, strutting over with a sneer, “and the lights are on. Let me look.”

She shoved him aside, snapping her fingers and producing a bright glare outside the window.

She paled.

“Well, I do believe we’ve transmigrated to hell.”

“Not quite,” said Lord Lost, floating over. “There exist many spaces like this on the edge of reality. Echoes, or mirrors.”

He was followed by his familiars, gurgling and snarling.

When had they gotten there?

Platelet remained attached to his master, but Antibody tottered over to Jack, holding up his arms and cooing.

With a dead stare, Jack said, “I ain’t falling for that.”

Running over to the door, he yanked it open, the thought of Lizzie’s library or armoury filling his insides with electricity. Once, a greater demon named Belial had attacked the house. Greater demons could only be banished with a specific ritual, tucked away in the pages of a dusty old tome forgotten to time.

She had produced that tome from her collection.

If there was anything that could help them, she’d probably have it somewhere.

But there was only a void.

Slamming the door shut, he turned back to the room. Antibody had approached Popcorn in the same way he had him, but the teen was already bending down with a smile.

Crunch.

The demon chomped off his middle finger, blood spurting and staining the carpet.

Jack palmed his face.

Giggling, Antibody ran back to his master’s side, who was floating over to where Hannah was examining the clock.

“What’s so interesting over there?” said Lydia, striding towards her.

Squinting, Hannah turned to them. “It looks like someone left a message.”

Furrowing his brow, Jack moved next to Hannah and noted the red letters scrawled on the side:

Please don’t do this.

Lydia pushed in front of him, and he bristled, his stomach growing hot. She was close enough to feel her hair through his shirt.

“Not just any message,” she said, her tone intrigued. “Look at the colour, and the drip: this is a dying message.”

“I’m sure you’re intimately familiar with what those look like,” said Jack.

“Perhaps it is simply red paint,” said Lord Lost, cupping his chin.

“What’re ye talkin’ aboot?” Lizzie wandered over, pushing Jack’s face aside to look. “Who even wrote this? What’s it supposed to mean?”

Hannah gave them all a solemn look. “I think it should be obvious. A clock that leads to another world? That can only be one thing.”

“Wait,” called Popcorn, slumping on the couch, “are you saying we’re in Narmia?”

“That’s a wardrobe.”

Rubbing his cheeks, Jack exhaled, his gut quivering. “Are you telling me this clock was supposed to take us to Pillory? And that this clunky botch of a rip-off is inflicting direct damage to Kev Bassman himself?”

Hannah nodded.

Rounding the clock, he pulled the door open once more. “Then let’s go back and try again.” He yawned. “I’m already sick of this nonsense.” He stepped into the alluring glow, being bathed in buzzing as he exited on the other side.

Pacing over to the window, he pulled the curtain open. He wouldn’t rejoice until he was sure.

Outside it was daytime, the high noon sun blazing down upon a peculiar village: it looked almost medieval, a smattering of wooden houses with thatched roofs surrounding a bustling central marketplace.

That wasn’t what caught his attention, though.

A few feet from the window, in a spot where Choo-chooin should have been, was a man currently engaged in a deep kiss with a white mare. The mare had a sleek mane, which was being gripped by its partner as it pushed into the kiss.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He closed the curtain, backing away with relief at the fact his stomach was empty.

“Hannah,” he said, turning to see everyone else smushed together next to the clock, “the horses in Pillory can give consent, right?”

“I’m pretty sure they can talk,” she said, fingering the clock’s gnarled wood. “Why, did you see one you like?”

“Nope,” he said, joining them to check the message. “Just curious. How’s Bassman doing?”

She frowned. “It’s not looking good.”

Arriving at their side, he had a small scuffle to get in front of Lydia before his jaw dropped.

No, seriously, please don’t do this.

He rubbed his forehead. “Even if you say that, what are we supposed to do? Our only option is to go through the clock again.”

Popcorn grunted, his face pale as blood leaked from his hand. “I could always-”

“Absolutely not,” said Lizzie, pulling him out of the press and grabbing his wounded hand. “How’re ye gonna make a Gate withoot your hands?”

Pouting, he looked away. “I can at least try.”

She sighed, waving a hand over Popcorn’s. “Then I can at least stop the bleeding.”

Snarling, Popcorn yanked his hand away. “This is a symbol of love!”

She made a face like she’d stepped in dog poo: mouth and nose turned up, eyes fighting to avert themselves. It usually meant ‘oh, joy. Another idiot’. “If you say so.”

Feeling like a half-empty tube of toothpaste, Jack left the scrum, opening the clock’s door again. There was a familiar light and buzzing sensation as he walked through.

As he’d expected, he exited into Lizzie’s living room again; not to be fooled, he immediately checked the side of the clock for Bassman’s dying message.

There is no response. It’s just a corpse.

He gripped his temples. “What’s that supposed to mean? Loto’s not here, dammit!”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Lydia put a hand on his stomach, his skin jolting at her touch as she cut in front of him. “What corpse? Did Gi-Hun just find his mother?”

Jack recoiled, bumping into Hannah as she exited the clock. “Don’t rub salt into fresh wounds!”

“Spoilers,” said Hannah, stumbling. She checked the message and stammered. “Wait, did we do this?”

Popcorn was last out, and pushed the door closed moodily, joining the loose cluster they had gathered in.

“I don’t see any corpses,” said Lord Lost, looking around with four arms crossed. One of the remaining four was stroking his chin, and his familiars were tearing the stuffing out of the sofas with fervor.

“Perhaps it means that this novel is finally dead and buried,” said Lydia.

Making a constipated noise, Jack pulled the door open again. At this point, they had no choice but to keep trying until they returned to their original world.

But there was no tunnel, and no light. Instead, a lump of fabric and flesh fell out onto Jack, his skeleton leaping out of his skin as he caught the body.

It was a tall, skinny man, bald and severe with an expensive suit and spectacles; he was pale and stiff, with splotches on his skin and tongue lolling from his mouth.

Flailing, Jack shoved the corpse back in the clock and hurled the door shut.

“Um,” said Hannah, rubbing her eyes. “Was that what I think it was?”

He whirled around, pressing his back into the clock. “No, obviously not. What did you think it was? The only thing in there’s a robot cat with a time machine!”

Lizzie stepped forward with a pinched expression. “Just get oot the way, this clearly isn’t the right one.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The giant bear head over the fireplace was a clue.”

He looked up at where she was pointing: there was indeed a roaring bear head, its fur dark and bristly and its eyes empty as it screamed. It took up most of the wall.

“Must have been a big bear.”

Nobody said anything.

The silence reigned over them, turning into a wordless syrup of anxiety.

How were they supposed to leave?

***

What was he still doing there?

Popcorn knew the answer, of course: he had kidnapped Lord Lost’s familiar, and he needed to atone.

He didn’t remember doing it, but the fact remained that he had. Somehow, he had created a Gate, wandered into another realm and picked up Anti, dragging him back to his parents.

Who had accepted him as though nothing was wrong.

They had been trying to have another baby for years. Though they kept it from him, he could see it; every failure added another line to their faces, and he must have presented them with the perfect hope.

But it was a false hope. Anti belonged with Lord Lost, in a world completely different from theirs. The things he loved, whatever they were, weren’t things he would find with them; though it twisted Popcorn’s heart in two, he could never be like a human. Eventually, it would end in tragedy.

His parents were disappointed enough by their own failures; they didn’t need to be disappointed by his, too.

Jack still refused to move, even though Lizzie was trying to force him aside.

He looked around. The lights were everywhere, some of them connected, some of them not. If he grasped at one, he could see where it might fit with another.

He had already done it twice.

Focusing only on the lights, Popcorn worked, losing his sense of time. It could have been seconds, or hours. He fit the lights together carefully, like a jigsaw, building further upon the invisible lines between them.

No matter what, he had to get Anti home.

***

“Guys,” called Popcorn, sweat dripping from his brow. “I made a Gate.”

In front of the sofa by the window was a shimmering red square, translucent and shifting.

With a sigh of relief, Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Good job, kid. Now let’s get out of here before we all go insane and start making hats.” Walking over to the shimmer, he went through, taking two steps on the other side before stopping.

The words died in his mouth. All around him was a wicker-work of spider webs, thick and sticky and stringy and extending into the abyss. There was no sun or moon or any other source of light beside the sickly glow of the webs, which even held up his feet. It was eerily silent, and smelled of decay.

Behind him, the others emerged.

“Ugh,” said Lydia, grimacing. “What is this place?”

Lord Lost floated forward, stars escaping from his eyes. “I am finally home.” Antibody and Platelet ran into the distance, whooping.

Hannah made a face. “You actually live here?”

He turned to her. “Demons have a different aesthetic to humans; this is certainly my realm. That said, I haven’t returned in a while, so it could be dangerous.”

Reaching down with a pair of arms, he grabbed something under the space between the fleshy scraps that were his legs.

Snap!

He held out a two foot wooden stick to Hannah. “Here, take this Cypress Stick to protect yourself.”

Her nose crinkled. “Where did you pull that from?”

“What are you calling a Cypress Stick?” asked Jack.

“Don’t worry,” said Lord Lost, “I have enough for everybody.”

“That’s not the point! And how many Cypress Sticks do you need?”

Smirking, Lydia turned her gaze to him. “I bet the lady demons love you.”

“Sorry,” said Popcorn, his breath shaky, “but is that clock supposed to be here?” He pointed over to their right.

They all followed his finger, ignoring the stump beside it. Fifty feet away from them sat the same clock from Lizzie’s living room; the door was open, and the hands racing as though they’d been fast-forwarded.

Stepping back, Jack said, “Lizzie, who did you say sold you that clock?”

She shrouded her palm in frost. “The seller was anonymous.”

Nodding, he looked over the others with consternation before moving towards the Gate.

It snapped shut.

“You fools!” boomed the clock. “Your bumbling has filled me with power, and your efforts with clear purpose!” Mist streamed from the clock’s interior, coalescing itself into a humanoid form.

Everyone was struck dumb. The translucent figure was tall and skinny and bald, with a black suit and spectacles.

He said, “but I must thank you for playing into my hands. You people are the final pieces: my plan is almost complete!”

“Impossible,” said Jack, eyes wide and frenzied. “Kev Bassman?”

“The ghost of,” said Bassman. “And it’s about time I ended this farce.”